The Clowns of God (12 page)

“They need another twelve months,” said Madame Barakat.

“I keep telling you, Enrico. Nothing before twelve months. After that

…”

“Nothing ever again,” said Salamone.

“Pour me the rest of the wine, Carl! I think we could use another bottle!”

The bloom was already off the evening; but they had to sit it out to the end. As they drove home through the sleeping city, they sat close and talked softly, for fear of rousing Francone to another oration.

Lotte asked: “What was the meaning of all that, Carl?”

“I don’t know. Salamone was trying to be smart.”

“And Madame Barakat is a bitch!”

“He does collect some odd ones, doesn’t he?”

“Old friends and new bed-mates don’t mix.”

“I agree. Enrico should have known better.”

“Do you think it was true about Jean Marie and the Israelis?”

“Probably. But who knows? Rome’s always been a whispering gallery. The hard thing is to put the right names to the voices.”

“I hate that kind of mystery-making.”

“I, too, my dear.”

He was too tired to tell her how he truly felt: a man caught in toils of gossamer, the trailing wisps of a nightmare from which he could neither flee nor wake.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” asked Lotte drowsily.

“If you don’t mind, I thought we’d go to Mass in the Catacombs; then we’ll go out to Frascati for lunch. Just the two of us.”

“Couldn’t we hire a car and drive ourselves?”

Mendelius gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, darling. That’s another lesson you learn in Rome.

There’s no escape from the Hounds of God.”

Garrulous he might be, but Domenico Francone was a very good watchdog. He drove twice around the block before dropping them at the Franks’ apartment, then stood watch until the ancient door closed behind them, sealing out the dangers of the night.

In the garden of San Callisto the bougainvillaea was in flame, the rose-gardens in first flush and the doves still fluttered in their cote behind the chapel, all just as he remembered it from his first visit, long years before. Even the guides still looked the same: old devotees from a dozen countries, who dedicated their services as translators to the pilgrim groups who came to pay homage at the tombs of ancient martyrs.

There were no ghosts in the tiny chapel, only an extraordinary tranquillity. There were no baroque horrors, no mediaeval grotesques. Even the symbols were simple and full of grace: the anchor of faith, the dove carrying the olive twig of deliverance, the fish that bore the loaves of the Eucharist on its back. The inscriptions all spoke of hope and peace:

“Vivas in Christo’. “In pace Christi’. The word “Vale’ farewell was never used. Even the dim labyrinths below held no terrors. The loculi, the wall-niches where the dead were laid, held only shards and dusty fragments.

In the Chapel of the Popes, they attended a Mass said by a German priest for a group of Bavarian pilgrims. The chapel was a large, vaulted chamber, where, in 1854, Count de Rossi had discovered the resting place of five of the earliest Pontiffs.

One had been deported as a mine-slave to Sardinia and died in captivity. His body was brought back and buried in this place. Another had been executed in the persecution of Decius, yet another was put to the sword at the entrance to the burial place. Now, the violence in which they had perished was almost forgotten. They slept here in peace.

Their memory was celebrated in a tongue they never knew.

As he knelt with Lotte on the tufa floor, responding to the familiar liturgy, Mendelius remembered his own priesthood and felt a pang of resentment that he should now be debarred from its exercise. It had not been so in the early Church. Even now, the Uniats were permitted a married clergy; while the Romans clung obstinately to their celibate rule, and reinforced it with myth and historic legend and canonical legislation. He had written copious argument about it, still fought it in debate; but, married himself, he was a discredited witness, and the law-makers paid no heed to him.

But what of the future the near future when the supply of celibate candidates would dry up, and the flock would cry out for ministry by man or woman, married or single, it made no matter, just so they heard the Word and shared the Bread of Life in charity? Their Eminences at the Vatican still ducked the issue, hiding behind a carefully edited tradition.

Even Drexel ducked it, because he was too old to fight and too well drilled a soldier to challenge the high command. Jean Marie had faced the question in his encyclical and this was yet another reason for suppressing it. Now the dark days were coming again. The shepherd would be struck down, the flock scattered. Who would bring them together again and hold them in love, while the rose-trees of the world toppled about them?

When the celebrant raised the host and the chalice after the Consecration, Mendelius bowed his head and made a silent, heartfelt prayer: “O God, give me light enough to know the truth, courage enough to do what will be asked of me!”

Suddenly he found himself weeping, uncontrollably. Lotte reached out and took his hand. He held to her, mute and desperate, until the Mass was ended and they walked out into the sunlight of the rose-arbour.

Early on Monday morning, while Lotte was taking her bath, Mendelius telephoned the Salvator Mundi hospital and enquired about the progress of Senator Malagordo. He was passed, as before, from reception to the ward sister, to the security man. Finally he was told that the Senator was much improved and would like to see him as soon as possible. He made an appointment for three that same afternoon.

He was getting restless now more and more convinced that his Wednesday meeting with Jean Marie would be some kind of turning point in his life. If he could not accept Jean Marie’s revelation, their relationship would change irrevocably. If he did accept it, then he must accept the mission as well, no matter what form it might take. Either way, he must soon be gone and he wanted as few social encumbrances as possible.

He had done some research, but he was too preoccupied to concentrate on the new material, which, in any case, was fragmentary and of little importance. Tuesday would see him out with the Evangelicals. He was still irritated by the leaking of conference material to the press; but he needed to test the reaction of a Protestant audience to certain of Jean Marie’s propositions. He still had to make good his promise of a news story for Georg Rainer. So far, he had no idea in the world what he would tell him.

Lotte was still bathing, so he gathered up his notes and walked out to breakfast on the terrace. Herman had left early for the Academy. Hilde was alone at the table. She poured his coffee and then announced firmly:

“Now, you and I can have a little talk. Something’s bothering you, Carlo mio. What is it?”

“Nothing I can’t deal with.”

“Herman looks at pictures. I read people. And there’s trouble written all over your face. Is everything all right with you and Lotte?”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s a long story, Hilde.”

“I’m a good listener. Tell me!”

He told her, haltingly at first, then in a rush of vivid words, the story of his friendship with Jean Marie Barette and the strange pass to which it had led him. She listened in silence;

and he found it a relief to express himself without the burden of reasoning or polemic. When he had finished he said simply: “So that’s it, my love. I won’t know anything more until I meet Jean Marie on Wednesday.”

Hilde Frank laid a soft hand on his cheek and said gently:

“That’s a hell of a load to carry around even for the great Mendelius! It helps to explain some other things too.”

“What things?”

“Herman’s romantic idea of living on beans and broccoli and goat cheese up in the mountains.”

“Herman doesn’t know what I’ve just told you about Jean Marie.”

“Then what the devil is he talking on about?”

“He’s scared of a new war. We all are. He worries about you.”

“And how he worries! You know his latest idea? He wants to rush off to Zurich for a hormone implant, to improve our sex life. I told him not to bother. I’m perfectly happy the way we are.”

“And are you happy, Hilde?”

“Would you believe, yes! Herman’s a dear and I love him.

As for the sex part, the fact is I’m not really good at it myself never have been. Oh, I love the warm snuggly part, but the rest of it I’m not frigid but I’m slow and hard to rouse, and what I get at the end is hardly worth the bother. So you see, Herman’s really got nothing to worry about.”

“Then you’d better tell him as often as you can.” Mendelius tried to be casual about it.

“He’s feeling very uncertain of himself just now.”

“Forget about us, Carl. We’ll work it out. I’ve been managing Herman ever since we married. Let’s get back to your story.”

“I’d like to hear your reaction to it, Hilde.”

“Well, first, I’ve lived in Italy a long time so I’m sceptical about saints and miracles and weeping virgins and friars who levitate at Mass. Second, I’m a pretty contented woman, so I’ve never been drawn to fortune-tellers or seances or encounter groups. I’d much rather be doing fun things.

Finally, I’m pretty self-centred. So long as my little corner of the universe makes sense, I put the rest out of my mind.

There’s nothing I can do to change it anyway.”

“Let’s put it another way, then. Suppose I come back on Thursday from Monte Cassino and say: “Hilde, I’ve just seen Jean Marie. I believe he’s had a true revelation, that the world is going to end soon and the Second Coming of Christ will occur.” What will you do?”

“Hard to say. I certainly wouldn’t go rushing off to church, or hoarding food or climbing the Apennines to wait for the Saviour or watch the last sunrise. And you, Carl?

How will you react?”

“I don’t know, Hilde my love. I’ve thought about it every day, every night, since I read Jean’s letter; but I still don’t know.”

“There’s one way to look at it, of course …”

“What’s that?”

“Well, if somebody’s really going to shut down the world, everything becomes pointless. Rather than wait for the last big bang, why not buy a bottle of whisky and a big bottle of barbiturates and put ourselves to sleep? I think a lot of people would decide to do just that.”

“Would you?” asked Mendelius softly.

“Could you?”

She refilled their cups and began calmly buttering a croissant.

“You’re damn right I could, Carl! And I wouldn’t want to wake up and meet a God who incinerated His own children.”

She said it with a smile; but Carl Mendelius knew that she meant every word.

As they drove out to the Salvator Mundi hospital, Domenico Francone, the garrulous one, was taciturn and snappish. When Mendelius pointed out that they seemed to be taking a complicated route, Francone told him bluntly:

“I know my business, Professor. I promise you will not be late.”

Mendelius digested the snub in silence. He himself was feeling none too happy. His talk with Hilde Frank had raised more and deeper questions on the veracity of Jean Marie and the wisdom of his encyclical. It had also cast new light on the attitude of the Cardinals who deposed him.

All through the literature of the apocalyptic, in the Old and the New Testament, in Essene and Gnostic documents, one special theme persisted: the elect, the chosen, the children of light, the good seed, the sheep beloved by the shepherd who would be separated for ever from the goats. Salvation was exclusive to them. Only they would endure through the horrors of the last time, and be found worthy of a merciful judgment.

It was a perilous doctrine, full of paradoxes and pitfalls, easily appropriated by fanatics and charlatans and the wildest of sectaries. A thousand of the elect had committed ritual suicide in Guyana. Ten million of the elect made up the Soka Gakkai in Japan. Another three million were chosen for salvation in the Unification Church of the Reverend Moon.

All of them and other millions, in ten thousand exotic cults, believed themselves the chosen, practised an intense indoctrination, a fierce, exclusive and fanatical bonding.

In the event of a universal panic, such as the publication of Jean Marie’s encyclical might raise, how would such sectaries perform? The history of every great religion offered only the gloomiest forecast. It was not so long ago that Mahdist Moslems had occupied the Kaaba in Mecca and held hostages and spilt blood in the holiest place of Islam. It was a nightmare possibility that the Parousia might be preceded by a vast and bloody crusade of the insiders against the outlanders. Against such a horror, a swift and painless suicide might seem to many the most rational alternative.

This was the nub of the problem he must thresh out with Jean Marie. Once you invoked private revelation, reason was out the window. To which the rationalists would reply that once you invoked any kind of revelation however hallowed by tradition you were committed to an ultimate insanity.

Francone swung the car into the circular drive of the Salvator Mundi and stopped immediately outside the entrance. He did not get out, but simply said: “Go straight inside, Professor. Move fast.”

Mendelius hesitated a split second then opened the near side door and went straight into the reception area. When he looked out, he saw Francone park the car in the space reserved for medical staff, get out and walk briskly to the entrance. Mendelius waited until he was inside, then asked:

“What was all that about?”

Francone shrugged.

“Just a precaution. We’re in an enclosed space, nowhere to run. You go upstairs and see the Senator. I have a phone call to make.”

An elderly nun with a Swabian accent escorted him to the elevator. On the fifth floor a security man checked his papers and passed him to the ward sister, a very brusque lady who clearly believed that the sick were best healed by the firm hands of authority. She told him he might spend fifteen minutes, no more, with the patient, who must not, in any case, be excited. Mendelius bowed his head in meekness. He, too, had suffered under the hand-maidens of the Lord and knew better than to argue against their resolute virtue.