God's Dog (9 page)

Salazar went off through the flickering lamplight, peering over his shoulder as he did so, trying to collect his thoughts. He had now lost contact with his superiors; in order to get back in touch, he would have to put himself in the hands of the Swiss Guards, and that was a tricky business. They were always extremely thorough: they would detain him, then interrogate him and check his fingerprints. It would be a few days before he could continue his enquiries. The Piazza Karol Wojtyla Barracks were the nearest, but perhaps it would be better to go straight to the Porta Angelica. He stopped at a fountain in a small square to wash off the blood from his clothes and hands. Perhaps he should not have left the convent in such a hurry; perhaps he should have looked around more thoroughly. Where had the nuns gone? Had they been locked away somewhere? Kidnapped, even? At all events, the whole thing had been badly managed; there was no need for such high-octane action, such hullabaloo. He could have been caught and done away with much more discreetly. Thinking back to the empty rooms, it struck him that the place must have been suddenly evacuated. Then he saw why: it wasn't a convent at all! He remembered that he had never seen more than three nuns at any one time, had never heard any noise, smelled any cooking. The place was too empty to have been really lived in. So, it had been nothing more than a stage-set. Why had it taken so long for the penny to drop? But then nothing made sense any more. Who was the man in the confessional? Who had set that trap for him? Salazar moved off from the fountain, horror-struck. So the Vicar was a spy? He ran off, taking the darkest alley he could find.

He watched them as they met up, emerging from porches and alleyways. There were four of them; at first he thought they were just passers-by, people coming out to smoke a cigarette. One had a dog on a lead; another was taking a lighter out of his pocket. Salazar began to run, but the four men behind him were on his trail. Incredible though it seemed, at that hour the streets around Campo Marzio were all empty. Coming to a place where the street widened out, he tried to hide behind some parked cars, but his pursuers were on his trail. They dragged him out and stood him up in front of a street door, opened up their jackets and brought out their guns. Salazar lifted his hands slowly above his head and let himself be disarmed. He tried to look them in the eye, to memorise their faces; before he could do so, he felt a sharp stab of pain in the nape of his neck and lost consciousness.

The Vicar felt a macabre relish in slipping it into his mouth before placing it in his eye socket. That slippery sphere gave him a dizzy sense of power. He could eat the eye he had not got. He imagined himself swallowing his organ of sight and seeing inside himself, he who could not see outside himself. What effect would that have? He spat his prosthesis out into his hand, put it in the empty ashtray and took two little bottles out of a drawer. He sprinkled the lubricant on to the silicone eye and put it in, then washed out his mouth with the strawberry-scented mouthwash. Now he was whole again. He put the bottles back into the drawer and opened the envelope on the table. He took a black exercise-book out of it and started to read Salazar's diary, which his agents had just brought to him from Amsterdam.

24 April

First I should say how I first met Guntur, who he is, what he does. But I'm in such a hurry to tell the story of Django that I don't know where to start: thoughts are piling up in my head and the words are getting all tangled up on the page. This whole business is a bombshell, indeed it may even portend the death of the Church as we know it. But it's better that no one in Rome should hear about it; they would overreact, as usual, and only make things worse. Until I've thought of some way out, I'll keep it to myself. Guntur is older than me by some ten years, but he seems very young; his face too is strangely youthful, he's got no spare flesh on his frame, he is self-disciplined and unassuming. His high cheek-bones and narrow eyes add a touch of mystery. He survived the tsunami which struck Indonesia in 2004 and, like me, he grew up in an orphanage, run by a Dutch Muslim charitable body. He likes to say that only orphans can be good Muslims, because the Prophet was an orphan too. Normal people, who grow up in a family, don't know what it means not to be able to call any woman mother, nor any man father. Guntur is a neuro-psychiatrist, he is doing research at the University of Amsterdam and in his spare time he helps out in a madrassa in Slotervaart. We first met a couple of months ago, and immediately clicked; we're both survivors, after all. We both regard our existence as a joke played by providence, and this helps us not to become attached to people, or to things, and to realise that one day we will lose everything. Guntur is a scientist, but he is also a sincere believer. His is the science of Avicenna, that is, a science which proves the existence of God and uses faith to cast light on reason. Guntur had agreed to talk about the Gospels in the madrassa, and it was with him that I organised the first Biblical-Koranist groups. I have set the missionary priests they send me from Rome to praying along with the imams; that way, they will be more useful than saying mass for a handful of senile old women in the church of Sint Nicolaas. Let's hope that the people in Rome won't be too quick to notice what's going on. There is a lot at stake for me. I should have sought protection in the curia before embarking on such a risky venture. Anyway, it's too late now. Perhaps there is still someone in Bologna who knows me, some fellow student from the Patriarchal Monastery. I should make a visit sometime. But I'm so happy here. This year spring has been particularly lovely in Amsterdam, with the sky a constantly changing shade of blue, and the wind bringing a smell of earth, tearing the clouds into a thousand tatters the moment they form. The canals seem deeper, and below the surface another city teems with life, a city of fish on bicycles. In the evening it often rains, but it's like fine spray, light as a watering hose, prolonging the lives of the tulips and keeping the grass green. Guntur and I often meet up in a coffee shop on the Oudezijds. We talk about philosophy and faith, helped along by a pipeful of good Himalaya Cream.

28 April

This morning we woke up to thick mist, which is unusual at this time of year. I could tell it was misty because of the bicycle bells: when it's misty, they sound as though they're ringing underwater. The mist didn't rise until midday, but even then the sun didn't come out. And I had various irritating problems: that business with the money raised its head again. I had to go to the bank to explain. Rome sends me too much at a time, and I can't invest it all immediately; money laundering takes time. I can't start buying diamonds! I've tried to explain things to the Papal Nuncio, and he always promises that he'll talk it over with the Secretary of State. Meanwhile, I'm in danger of being accused of money laundering by the Dutch Customs Service. If they think I'm going to start going all over Europe with suitcases full of banknotes, they'll have to think again! They'll have to take on a mafioso to do that for them. I don't understand their strategy here either. If we must engage in money laundering, let's do it properly. With a good investment plan we'd run fewer risks and do better business. For example, how about them setting me up with a nice slush fund! It works like that here too. Why not pay some newspaper to write what we want, instead of insisting that we sell our own, which no one reads? Or why not invest in marine insurance, or armaments or container ships? That would mean sure-fire profit and less snooping. I keep on sending reports to Rome with details from firms which are up for sale, but I might as well not bother.

2 May

Today Guntur took me to his madrassa again. Some of the old men still mutter when they see the crucifix in my lapel, but they all hear me out, and when I read the psalms, some of them recite them with me. It is clear that we are all praying to the same God. Guntur pointed out that the Koran almost always speaks of believers, very rarely of Muslims, and in his view this is proof that Mohammed's first followers made no distinction between themselves and the Christians or Jews. They felt that they were all part of the one single faith; the real difference was with the others, the pagans and above all the atheists. The Slotervaart Muslims are well-organised. They have their own schools, which are better than those run by the state, their own social security system, their own doctors. They send their children to Arab universities, but then have them come back here. Holland is their country, and Muslims are in the majority in the cities; only the provinces are Protestant, though there are still a few Catholics in the south. The people in Rome would like me to spend time among them, to go to Maastricht to distribute catechisms in the schools; they fail to understand the game that is being played around these parts.

8 May

Sometimes I am puzzled by Guntur's attitude to science, and I think that even in his own world he is regarded as an oddity. For Muslims the only aim of science is to explain, to transmit, never to query or investigate. Guntur on the other hand has no qualms about discovering things which might put God's truth in doubt, indeed he maintains that one should never hesitate to follow the path along which doubt leads us. Yesterday evening in the Coffee Shop we had a disagreement. My view was that scientific discoveries are our own miracles: they are inexplicable, they can lead only to further wonderment. However far man may push himself, even in tinkering with life itself, the result will never be his own creation; at most, it will be mere rejigging. But Guntur disagreed.

‘If God leads me to make discoveries which put my faith in doubt, it is because He wants to point me down another road to come to Him. Religion is like science. Without free and open debate, it withers and dies, leaving the road open to atheism. It is rational proof that thwarts attempts at undermining faith. The greatest discovery that science constantly presents us with is our own ignorance, and that is why the believer should have no fear of it. Today neither Christianity nor Islam can provide answers to mankind's problems. Christ and Mohammed are but remote memories: it is so long since God sent us a sign. We are like a vessel wandering through space which has lost all contact with its base. If for thousands of years man has been getting no nearer to God, it must be because we have taken a wrong path. Science may help us find the right one.'

12 May

I sense that Guntur wants to tell me something, but he can't quite bring himself to do so. Perhaps he does not trust me, and this upsets me. Today he told me what he is working on at the university, namely, mirror neurons. Apparently he knew Neil Corrigan; he has read all his books. He cannot know that I was responsible for the suicide of his colleague at Imperial College. But Guntur is a scientist of another kind.

14 May

Guntur has gone to Zeeland for a few days, for a conference. He left only yesterday, but we have been e-mailing each other constantly: in the form of letters, which is what we like to do. I tell him about what I have been reading, about my various battle plans; he sends me little drawings of conference life, a sort of real time chronicle of his day, meetings with old windbags and a visit to the dike on the Scheldt. I feel as if I am there with him. I didn't know about the old wool trade between Holland and Scotland which he mentions. I should really travel a bit more: I have been in Holland for years, but I have never been to Zeeland, nor to Friesland.

18 May

Today Guntur and I took the ferry to Enkhuizen and went for a trip on the Markermeer. It was a gloriously sunny day, the kind you don't often get in this part of the world. Along the coast we saw fields of tulips and old windmills, just like in a Dutch landscape! On the boat there were fishing-rods for hire, and you could buy live bait. So we started to fish, without catching anything, of course. Even the little boys beside us were reeling in one herring after another, whereas all we did was lose our bait. But Guntur seemed to enjoy it enormously, laughing amidst the spray, and smiling that disarming smile of his which makes everything seem like a small miracle. At times, when I'm alone, I too try to be amazed by little things, I try to wonder at the clouds, driven by the wind, at a flower closing its petals as evening approaches, at the fire burning in the fireplace. But I never succeed; all I do is get bored. Clearly, I am not the meditative type!

On the beach at Enkhuizen we ate
poffertjes
in a bar that was raised on piles. Everything in it smelled of fried food, even the gardenias on the windowsills. For some reason, it was full of English, the kind who wear trainers and baseball caps; they walked as though they were drunk, dazed by too much sun. The dunes were covered with such rich, green vegetation that the effect was almost Mediterranean. At a certain point a group of horsemen came galloping across the beach. Guntur rushed up to them to have a closer look. He said he remembered horses from his early childhood, galloping along beaches just like this. Then his mood darkened.

‘Have you ever been back to Banda Aceh?' I asked him.

‘No, never.'

‘Would you like to?'

‘No. I'm afraid.'

‘What of?'

‘Of meeting someone who knows me. Of knowing. Perhaps they are still there…'

‘Who?'

‘Father and mother.'

I would have liked to ask him to tell me more, to find out something about his childhood. But then my own fear of remembering flooded back into my mind. It's like a safety valve which kicks in whenever I start to delve into my memories, and find myself staring at the only certain image I have of Haiti, though it isn't even mine; it's a newspaper cutting with a photo of a child crying amidst the rubble. I still have it, in my missal. Secretly, I have always wanted to believe that that child was me, and I have often tried to recognise myself in that weeping face. But I don't cry like that, I have never cried like that. It was dusk when we got back to Amsterdam, and all in all we were glad to see its tangle of lights, to hear its raucous din. We'd had enough of the bucolic emptiness of the Markermeer.