The Clowns of God (6 page)

“I hope you realise, my friend, that even when you’ve done all that, your evidence will still be incomplete.”

“I don’t see why it need be.”

“Think about it.” Anneliese Meissner speared another gherkin and waved it under his nose.

“How are you going to talk to God? Will you put him on tape, too?”

He was a tidy man by nature and he prepared for his visit to Rome with finical care. He made telephone calls to friends, wrote letters to acquaintances, armed himself with introductions to Vatican officials, made dates far in advance for lunches, dinners and formal interviews. He was careful to stress the overt purpose of his visit: a search in the Vatican Library and the Biblical Institute for fragments of Ebionite literature and a short series of discourses at the Academy on the Apocalyptic Tradition.

He had chosen the subject not only because it provided a cue on which to begin his enquiries about Jean Marie, but because it might elicit from his Evangelical audience some emotional response to the millennial theme. In his younger days he had been deeply stirred by the Jungian idea of the ‘great dreaming’, the persistence of tribal experience in the subconscious, and its perennial influence on the individual and on the group. There was a striking similarity between this notion and that which the theologians called the “Infusion’ and the “Indwelling of the Spirit’. It raised also the question of Anneliese Meissner, his Beisitzer, and her obdurate rejection of any transcendental experience whatsoever. Her gibe about talking to God still rankled the more because he had found no adequate answer to it.

He spent a long time over a letter to the Abbot of Monte Cassino, who was now Jean Marie’s religious superior. This was a most necessary courtesy. Jean Marie had placed himself under obedience, and the exactions of authority could extend to his physical movements and even to his private correspondence. Mendelius, a one-time subject of the system, had a nice perception of religious protocol. His letter told of his long friendship with Jean Marie Barette, his diffidence about intruding upon his present privacy. However, if the Abbot had no objection and the former Pontiff were willing to receive him, Professor Carl Mendelius would like to pay a visit to the monastery at a mutually convenient date.

He enclosed a note which he begged the Abbot to deliver into the hands of Jean Marie Barette. This, too, he had composed with studious discretion.

My dear friend, Please forgive the informality, but I am ignorant of the protocol for correspondence with a retired Pope, who has made himself a humble son of Saint Benedict.

I have always regretted that it was not possible for me to share the burdens of your final days in the Vatican; but German professors are two marks a dozen and their sphere of influence seldom extends beyond the lecture hall.

However, I shall soon be in Rome still researching the Ebionites and giving some lectures on the doctrine of the Parousia at the German Academy and it would give me a great pleasure to see you again, if only for a little while.

I have written to the Father Abbot asking his permission to visit you, provided always that you are in the mood to receive me. If we can meet I shall be grateful and happy. If the time is not opportune, please do not hesitate to say so.

I trust you are well. With the world in such a mess I think you were wise to retire from it. Lotte sends you her most affectionate greetings and my children their respectful salutations. As for myself, I remain always Yours in the Fellowship of the Lord, Carl Mendelius The answer came back in ten days, delivered by a clerical messenger from the Cardinal Archbishop of Munich: the Very Reverend Abbot Andrew would be happy to receive him at Monte Cassino, and, if his health permitted, the Very Reverend Jean Marie Barette, O.S.B.” would be delighted to see his old friend. He should telephone the Abbot immediately upon his arrival in Rome, and an appointment would be arranged.

There was no response at all from Jean Marie.

The evening before he left for Rome with Lotte he asked his son, Johann, to have coffee with him in his study. They had been uneasy together for a long time now. The boy, a brilliant student in economics, was uncomfortable in the shadow of a father who was also a senior member of the faculty. The father was often clumsy in his eagerness to foster so obvious a talent. The result was secrecy on the one side, resentment on the other, with only a rare display of the affection that still existed between them. This time Mendelius was determined to be tactful. As usual he managed only to be heavy-handed. He asked:

“When do you leave on your trip, son?”

“Two days from now.”

“Have you planned a route yet?”

“More or less. We go by train to Munich, then start hiking through the Obersalzburg and over the Tauern into Carinthia.”

“It’s beautiful country. I wish I were coming with you. By the way,” he fished in his breast pocket and brought out a sealed envelope, “this is to help with the expenses.”

“But you’ve already given me my holiday money.”

“That’s something extra. You’ve worked very hard this year. Your mother and I wanted to show our appreciation.”

“Well… thanks.” He was obviously embarrassed.

“But there was no need. You’ve always been generous with me.”

“There’s something I want to say to you, son.” He saw the boy stiffen immediately. The old mulish look came over his face.

“It’s a personal matter. I’d rather you didn’t discuss it with your mother. One of the reasons I’m going to Rome is to investigate what brought about the abdication of Gregory XVII. As you know he was my dear friend.” He gave a small wry smile.

“Yours, too, I suppose, because without his help your mother and I might never have married and you wouldn’t be here. However, the enquiries may take a long time and entail a great deal of travel. There may also be certain risks. If anything happens to me, I want you to know my affairs are in order. Doctor Mahler, our lawyer, holds most of the documents. The rest are in the safe over there.

You’re a man now. You would have to step into my shoes and take care of your mother and sister.”

“I don’t understand. What sort of risks are you talking about? And why do you have to expose yourself to them?”

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“I am your son.” His tone was resentful.

“At least give me a chance to understand.”

“Please! Try to relax with me. I need you now, very much.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that …”

“I know. We rub each other the wrong way. But I love you, son. I wish I could tell you how much.” Emotion welled up in him and he wanted to reach out and embrace the young man, but he was afraid of a rebuff. He went on quietly, “To explain, I have to show you something secret and bind you on your honour not to reveal it to anyone.”

“You have my word, father.”

“Thank you.” Mendelius crossed to the safe, took out the Barette documents and handed them to his son.

“Read those.

They explain everything. When you’re finished, we’ll talk.

I’ve got some notes to write up.”

He settled himself at his desk while Johann sat in the armchair, poring over the documents. In the soft glow of the reading lamp he reminded Mendelius of one of Raphael’s young models, obedient and immobile, while the master made him immortal on canvas. He felt a pang of regret for the wasted years. This was the way it should have been, long ago:

father and son, content and companionable, all childish quarrels long forgotten.

Mendelius got up and refilled Johann’s coffee cup and brandy glass. Johann nodded his thanks and went on with his reading. It was nearly forty minutes before he turned the last page, sat for a long moment in silence, then folded the documents deliberately, got up and laid them on his father’s desk. He said quietly:

“I understand now, father. I think it’s a dangerous nonsense and I hate to see you involved with it; but I do understand.”

“Thank you, son. Would you care to tell me why you think it’s a nonsense?”

“Yes.” He was firm but respectful. He held himself very erect, like a subaltern addressing his commander.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long while. Now seems as good a time as any.”

“Perhaps you’d like to pour me a brandy first.” Mendelius smiled at him.

“Of course.” He refilled the glass and set it on the desk.

“The fact is, father, I’m no longer a believer.”

“In God, or specifically in the Roman Catholic Church?”

“Neither.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, son.” Mendelius was studiously calm.

“I’ve always felt the world must be a bleak place without some hope of a hereafter. But I’m glad you told me. Does your mother know?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll tell her, if you like but later. I’d like her to enjoy this holiday.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Dear God, no!” Mendelius heaved himself out of his chair and clamped his hands on the young man’s shoulders.

“Listen! All my life I’ve taught and written that a man can walk only the path he sees at his own feet. If you cannot honestly assent to a faith then you must not. Rather you should consent to be burned like Bruno in the Field of Flowers. As for your mother and me, we have no more right than anyone else to dictate your conscience… But remember one thing, son. Keep your mind open, so that the light can always come in. Keep your heart open so that love will never be shut out.”

“I - I never thought you’d take it like this.” For the first time his control cracked and he seemed about to burst into tears. Mendelius drew him close and embraced him.

“I love you, boy! Nothing changes that. Besides…

you’re in a new country now. You won’t really know whether you like it until you’ve spent a winter there. Let’s not fight each other any more, eh?”

“Right!” Johann disengaged himself from the embrace and reached for his brandy glass.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Prosit,” said Carl Mendelius.

“About the other thing, father.”

“Yes?”

“I can see the risks. I know what Jean Marie’s friendship means to you. But I think you have to get the priorities right.

Mother has to come first; and, well, Katrin and I need you, too.”

“I’m trying to keep things in their right order, son.”

Mendelius gave a small, rueful chuckle.

“You may not believe in the Second Coming, but if it happens, it will change the priorities somewhat… no?”

From the air the Italian countryside was a pastoral paradise, the orchards in full bloom, the meadows with wild flowers, the farmland flush with new green, the old fortress towns placid as pictures from a fairy tale.

By contrast, Fiumicino airport looked like a rehearsal for final chaos. The traffic controllers were working to rule; the baggage handlers were on strike. There were long queues at every passport barrier. The air was filled with a babel of voices shouting in a dozen languages. Police with sniffer dogs moved among the harassed crowd looking for drug carriers;

while young conscripts, armed with machine-guns, stood guard at every exit, watchful and uneasy.

Lotte was near to tears and Mendelius was sweating with anger and frustration. It took them an hour and a half to barge their way through to the Customs room, and out into the reception area, where Herman Frank was waiting, dapper and solicitous as always. He had a limousine, a vast Mercedes borrowed from the German Embassy. He had flowers for Lotte, an effusive welcome for the Herr Professor and champagne to drink during the long ride back to town. The traffic would be hell as always; but he wanted to offer them a small foretaste of heavenly peace.

The peace was granted to them at last in the Franks’ apartment, the top floor of a seventeenth-century palazzo with high frescoed ceilings, marble floors, bathrooms large enough to float a navy and a stunning view over the roof-tops of old Rome. Two hours later, bathed, changed and restored to sanity, they were drinking cocktails on the terrace, listening to the last bells and watching the swifts wheeling around the cupolas and attics, russet in the sunset glow.

“Down there it’s murder.” Hilde Frank pointed at the cluttered thoroughfares jammed with automobiles and pedestrians.

“Sometimes real murder, because the terrorists are very bold now and the crust of law and order has worn thin. Kidnapping is the biggest private industry. We don’t go out at night as we used, because there’s always danger from purse-snatchers and motorcycle gangs. But up here,” her gesture embraced the whole ancient skyline, “it’s still the same’ as it’s been for centuries: the washing on the lines, the birds, the music that comes and goes, and the calls of the women to their neighbours. Without it I don’t think we could bear to stay any longer.”

She was a small dark woman, bubbly with talk, elegant as a mannequin, twenty years younger than the white-haired husband who followed her every movement with adoration.

She was affectionate too, cuddlesome as a kitten. Mendelius caught the flash of jealousy in Lotte’s eyes, when Hilde took his hand and led him to the corner of the terrace to point out the distant dome of Saint Peter’s and the Castle of Sant’Angelo. She told him in a loud stage whisper:

“Herman’s so happy you’ve agreed to lecture for him. He’s getting near to retirement and he hates the idea. His whole life has been wrapped up in the Academy both our lives really, because we’ve never had any children. Lotte looks very well.

I hope she likes shopping. I thought I’d take her to the Condotti tomorrow while you and Herman are at the Academy. The seminar people haven’t arrived yet but he’s dying to show you the place.”

“And we’ve got fine things to show this year!” Herman Frank, with Lotte on his arm, walked into their talk.

“We’re giving the first comprehensive exhibition of Van Wittel ever held in this country, and Piero Falcone has lent us his collection of antique Florentine jewellery. That’s an expensive venture because we need armed guards all the time. Now let me tell you who’s coming to dinner tonight. There’s Bill Utley and his wife, Sonia. He’s the British Envoy to the Holy See. Bill’s a dry old stick but he really knows what’s going on.