The Clowns of God (42 page)

Adrian Hennessy was there as well, with his folio of illustrations, recordings of the Letters in French and English, and fully orchestrated tapes of the theme for Johnny the Clown, composed by Florent de Basil. He had also brought a certified document from the Banco Ambrogiano all’ Estero, guaranteeing an initial half-million sterling, to be spent on the promotion and exploitation of Last Letters from a Small Planet. Jean Marie ventured the wry comment that perhaps the money was more eloquent than the author. Waldo Pearson uttered a frosty disclaimer:

“We are very close to the time when money will have no meaning any more. In a nuclear conflict, we stand to lose two-thirds of the population of these islands. No government can come to terms with that catastrophe no Church either, as you have found! So they choose, as a matter of policy, to ignore it. In the Letters, you have found a way to discuss the terror that confronts us without creating panic or contention.

You will be judged as a prophet and not as a banker.”

“And glad I am to hear you say it, Waldo!” Hennessy put on his most syrupy brogue.

“Because it’s me that represents the bankers and devil a dollar will you get until you’ve demonstrated the quality of your own publishing and promotion!”

“I’ve told you before.” Pearson was determined to have all his reservations on the record.

“We’re confident of an exceptional distribution. The advance we’re paying reflects that. The newspaper serialisation will help, too and, of course, the advertising funds you’re providing. But you’re still asking me to fight with one hand behind my back! No television, no press interviews, no revelation at all of the author’s identity! I see no sense in that.”

Before Hennessy had time to answer, Jean Marie stepped into the argument.

“Please! There are good reasons. If my identity is known, I may seem to put myself in conflict with the present Pontiff. I do not want that. More: I am writing in response to what I believe to be Divine command. I have to rest on that act of faith and be content that the tree be recognised by its fruits.

Finally, the only thing I can control is the integrity of the published text. I cannot put myself at the mercy of interviewers who may distort my message by false, biased or incompetent report.”

“In short, Waldo,” Hennessy grinned like a happy leprechaun, “no way! No how!”

Waldo Pearson shrugged.

“Well, it was worth a try! When may we expect the finished manuscript?”

“In two weeks.”

“Good! Is the author satisfied with the English translations?”

“I am, yes. They are both fluent and accurate. May we change the subject a moment? There is something else on which I should like your advice.”

“Please!”

“There are several people in England whom I received while I was in office. Could you arrange for me to meet them again and would you permit me to have the meetings here in your house?” Before Pearson had time to answer, he went on to explain.

“I live in a modest hotel under an assumed name. I cannot invite known personages to such a place; but I still believe I can be of service in the crisis that faces us all.

For example, Sergei Petrov has asked me to mediate in the matter of the grain embargo. However, I have no means of knowing whether I am acceptable to any other parties. You have held cabinet rank, Mr. Pearson; how would you react to me?”

“Difficult to say.” Pearson, the politician, was a more prickly animal than Pearson, the publisher. He began to reason aloud.

“Let’s take it by debit and credit. You’re a defeated leader, a Roman Catholic cleric, a Frenchman, a selfstyled prophet all handicaps for a political negotiator in today’s market!”

Jean Marie laughed, but made no comment. Pearson went on with his accounting.

“On the credit side, what do we have? You’re a practised diplomat. You can have no personal ambitions; your good behaviour after the abdication did not pass unnoticed! You’re a free agent. The memorial which Rainer and Mendelius wrote about you took some of the mist out of your mysticism.” He chuckled over his own schoolboy pun.

“So, let’s sum it up. If I were Foreign Secretary I should most certainly receive you. If you told me the Russians had invited you to mediate a case with me, I’d be very sceptical. I’d reason like this. You are, prima facie, an honest broker. Conversely or obversely, I’d wonder whether the Russians had turned you, or why they hadn’t picked someone with more muscle in the market. Then I’d argue that if they were desperate enough to use an outsider like you, we ought to be able to drive a hard bargain. So, all in all yes! I’d receive you with interest and bypass you as soon as possible!”

“That makes good sense,” said Jean Marie.

“Now back to my first question. Would you be willing to arrange a few meetings for me here in your house?”

“Of course! You tell me whom you want and I’ll invite them down. Please remember that you yourself are welcome here at any time.”

“There’s something else to remember.” Hennessy was uneasy.

“If you don’t want to reveal yourself as the author of Last Letters, how are you going to explain your presence in the house of a prominent British publisher?”

“We explain nothing.” Pearson cut in briskly.

“I let drop the information that we’re discussing a possible book. I’d certainly like to raise the question of an autobiography.”

“I’m afraid,” said Jean Marie, “that’s a project for which I should have neither the taste nor the time.”

“There are others that may interest you. I’ve been trying for years to find someone who can do me a clear and un rhetorical book on the nature of religious experience.

We’re seeing a phenomenon in England which deserves more notice than it’s getting. While the traditional churches are losing clergy and congregations at an alarming rate, the cults are flourishing. Let me show you something.” He walked them round the corner of the house to where the woodland opened on to a vista of hill pasture, at the end of which, perched on a rounded knoll, was a large mansion in the Palladian style. Pearson’s commentary was spirited but unhappy.

“That place for instance! It used to belong to a good friend of mine. Now, it’s the headquarters of a group who call themselves the Family of the Holy Ones. They’re a cult like the Moonies, the Soka Gakkai, the Hare Krishna. They proselytise actively. They have a very strong conditioning regimen, based on excessive labour and constant surveillance of the neophyte. Lots of young people are attracted to them.

They’re very rich. Like some of the other groups they are now arming themselves, stock-piling food, medicines and weapons against Armageddon Day. If they survive, they and others like them could be the warring barons of the post nuclear age. That’s what the Catholic hierarchy were afraid of when you wanted to publish your encyclical. Matt Hewlett brought back a copy from Rome. He came down especially to talk to me about it. He stood just where you’re standing now and said: “That’s where Gregory XVII is going to lead us, whether he understands it or not. Cromwellian Christianity, pikes, muskets and all!”” “And did you believe him?” asked Jean Marie quietly.

“At the time, yes.”

“What has happened to change your mind?”

“Several things. Having been in politics and seen how hard it is to make democracy work, I’ve often been tempted towards dictatorships of one kind or another. As a publisher I’ve seen how people can be conditioned to habits and points of view. To my regret I’ve often been seduced into manipulative exercises in politics and commerce. Then Hennessy brought me your first letters. There’s a passage in the fourth one which I learned by heart… “When a man becomes a clown he makes a free gift of himself to the audience. To endow them with the saving grace of laughter, he submits to be mocked, drenched, clouted, crossed in love. Your Son made the same submission when He was crowned as a mock king, and the troops spat wine and water in his face… My hope is that when He comes again, He will still be human enough to shed a clown’s gentle tears over the broken toys that once were women and children.”” Pearson broke off as if-embarrassed and stood a long time staring across the green folds of the land towards the Palladian mansion. Finally he admitted with odd emotion:

“I suppose you could say that was the moment of my conversion. I’ve always been a communicating Christian but only because I kept my mind resolutely shut against some of the more horrifying consequences of belief: like a universe where the animals devour each other to live, and torturers are public servants, and the best offer to agonised mankind is, “Take up your Cross!” .. . But somehow your words managed to release me from that credal despair and set me wondering again, looking with new eyes at an upside-down world!”

Adrian Hennessy said nothing. He reached for a handkerchief and began to polish his spectacles vigorously.

Jean Marie Barette said with grave gentleness: “I know what you feel; but it’s a very fragile joy. Don’t lean on it too hard; otherwise it may snap under your weight.”

Pearson gave him a swift, probing look.

“You surprise me!

I should have thought you’d want to share the joy, however fragile.”

Jean Marie held up a hand in deprecation.

“Please don’t misunderstand me! I am truly happy when anyone is granted the kind of insight that gives new meaning to his profession of faith. I was simply warning you, out of my own experience, that the comfort you now feel may not last. Faith is not a matter of logic; and the moment of intuition does not always repeat itself. One has to expect long periods of darkness and, often, a destructive confusion!”

Waldo Pearson was silent for a moment; then, with surprising bluntness, he said to Hennessy: “Adrian, I want to talk privately with our friend. Why don’t you leave us for a while?”

“No problem!” Hennessy seemed unperturbed.

“I’ll take the car and drive down to the Nag’s Head for a drink with the locals! Talk anything you like except contracts. That’s my business!”

Waldo Pearson led Jean Marie down to the edge of the lake, where a pair of white swans floated serenely in and out of the reed beds. He explained himself haltingly:

“We’re at the beginning of well a fairly intimate relationship. Author and publisher can never live satisfactorily at arm’s length at least not an author like you and a publisher like me. Just now I felt rightly or wrongly that something important was being left unsaid between us. It seemed strange that you felt the need to utter a warning about my my spiritual health.”

“I was equally concerned with my own,” said Jean Marie.

“It would not take much at this moment to convince me that I am suffering from a monstrous delusion.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’ve been so adamant in your convictions. You’ve given up so much. You write with such deep emotion.”

“Nevertheless, it is true.” Jean Marie plucked a reed from the lakeside and began to shred it restlessly as he talked.

“I

have been in England three weeks now. I live in a comfortable hotel that looks out on an old-fashioned square, with a garden in the middle where children play and young mothers bring their babies. I work in the mornings. In the afternoon, I walk. In the evenings I read and pray and go to bed early. I am very free, very relaxed. I have even made friends. There is an elderly Jewish gentleman who brings his grandson to play ball in the garden. He is a fine scholar in the Rabbinical tradition. When he found that I knew Hebrew he was ready to dance with joy. Last Friday I went to a Sabbath supper in his house. Then there is the concierge, who is Italian and talkative and always ready for a little gossip. So you see, my life is pleasant and I am almost converted to this extraordinary equanimity of the British… some of whom really do believe that God is an Englishman of impeccable taste who never lets any mess get quite out of hand. But, suddenly, I have realised that this is a quite insidious temptation. I can be silenced, not by enemies, not by authority but by my own comfortable indifference! I can believe that just because I have written a few pages which will be widely published, I have given full witness and earned the right to dream out the rest of time until Judgment Day. That’s one side of the medal. The other is equally sinister, though in a different way. As I write the Last Letters from a Small Planet, I am expressing myself, my relationships with God and the human family. I am not teaching a body of doctrine. I am not proposing a theological argument. I am not a pastor concerned for the well-being of his flock. I am out of office you see; I am half-laicised; I even celebrate the Eucharist for myself alone; which really makes little sense of the sacramental act… Now, without warning, a pit opens under my feet. Even as I wrote the lines that so moved you I was thinking: “Is this true? Is that what I really believe?” .. . The end of civilisation I do see as possible and proximate. But the Parousia, the Second Coming, that will make all things new? I do not know how to come to terms with the concept of a God-Man, risen and glorified, presiding in eternal calm over the agonising dissolution of our earthly dwelling-place. Whenever, now, I try to reason about it, I smell blood and see demon-faces from the frescoes of ancient temples. I wish, sometimes, I could forget it all and talk to my old Rabbi while we watch the children play…”

“And yet,” said Waldo Pearson quietly, “that isn’t what you write. What appears on the page is the talk of a confident child with a loving father.”

“So which am I?” asked Jean Marie with an odd half humorous pathos.

“The equable Englishman, doubting Thomas, the deluded prophet, or the clown who is himself a child at heart? .. . Or, perhaps, I am none of these, but something quite different.”

“What, for instance?”

Jean Marie crumpled the last shreds of the reed in his fist, tossed them into the water and watched them bobbing in the wake of the regal swans. It was a long moment before he answered the question.

“I set out to make myself a thinking reed, pliant to the wind of the Spirit; but a reed is also a hollow tube through which other men may pipe a music alien to me.”

Waldo Pearson took his arm and guided him away from the lake towards an old-fashioned hot-house set against the weathered brick wall of the garden.