The Clowns of God (18 page)

“Does he know you’ve got the documents?”

“Yes. I told him.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t think he might drop a word to have them recovered or diverted to more orthodox hands?”

“Frankly, I can’t see Drexel as a spymaster or a receiver of stolen manuscripts.”

“Then you’re more trusting than I am.” Rainer shrugged.

“I read history, too, and the usages of power don’t change in the Church or anywhere else. However… let’s talk about Gregory XVII. How do you judge him?”

“I believe he’s sane and sincere in his own convictions.”

“There’s nobody more dangerous than a sincere visionary.”

“Jean Marie recognised that. He abdicated to avoid a schism. He is silent because he has no legitimi sing sign to prove his vision authentic.”

“Legitimising sign? I don’t recall the expression.”

“It’s a term that’s become unpopular in modern biblical analysis. Basically it means that when the prophet or the reformer claims to speak in the name of God he needs to show some patent of authority.”

“Neither you nor I can give him that.”

“No; but between us we should be able to guarantee him an honest publication of the facts and an enlightened interpretation of his message. We can set down the events that led to the abdication. The documents will demonstrate the why of the matter. We can record what Jean Marie Barette has told me about his alleged vision.”

“So far so good. But that vision deals with mighty matters:

the end of the world, the Second Coming, the Last Judgment.

What can you and I tell our readers about those things?”

“I can tell them what people in the past believed and wrote about these things. I can direct their attention to the existence of millenarian sects in today’s world.”

“Nothing else?”

“After that, Georg, it’s your turn. You’re the man who writes the bulletins about the state of the nations. How close are we now to Armageddon? The world is full of prophets.

Could any one of them be the One who is to come? If you look at it in concordance with all the crazy social phenomena, Jean Marie’s prediction is far from irrational.”

“I agree.” Rainer was thoughtful.

“But to get this story into readable shape will take a hell of a lot of work. Can you stay on in Rome?”

“I’m afraid not. I have to prepare for the opening of the University.-What’s the chance of your spending a few days in Tubingen? You’d be very welcome to stay in my house. We could work better there. I have all my texts and filing systems.”

“I need to work fast. It’s my training to grab the idea, test the logic and write it for the telex the same day.”

“I’m probably much slower,” said Mendelius, “but I at least am prepared in the subject. Anyway, I’ll leave here Sunday and begin work the next day.”

“I could be with you by Wednesday. I’ll get a stringer to cover for me here. But I don’t want to discuss this story with my editor until you and I have written irtogether and tested every phrase of it. So I’ll have to work up an excuse for a few days’ absence.”

“There’s one thing we should discuss,” said Mendelius.

“You and I have to act jointly. There should be a contract between us. And I’d like to use my agent in New York to arrange our joint contracts with publishers.”

“That’s fine.”

“Then I’ll call him tonight and ask him to meet us both in Tubingen.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice, Mendelius? For God’s sake be careful with those documents. Lodge them in the bank. I know people who’d kill you to get hold of them.”

“Jean Marie warned me of that in his letter. I’m afraid I didn’t take him too seriously.”

“Then you’d better be very serious from now on. This story will make you just as famous or notorious as the shooting on the Corso. Even when you’re back in Tubingen, watch your step. You’re still a key witness against the girl, and you’ve cost the underground four men. These operators have long arms and long memories.”

“The terrorist thing, I understand.” Mendelius was genuinely puzzled.

“But the documents a private letter to me, an unpublished encyclical I can see their news value, but they’re certainly not worth a man’s life.”

“No? Look at it another way. The encyclical brought about a papal abdication. It could equally have brought about a schism or caused Gregory XVII to be certified insane.”

“True, but …”

“So far,” Rainer silenced him brusquely, “all you’ve thought about is your personal reaction to this affair and your concern for your friend. But what about all the thousands of other people with whom Gregory XVII had dealings during his pontificate? How have they reacted? How might they react if they knew the true facts? Some of them must have had very close relationships with him.”

“They did. He sent me a list.”

“What kind of list?” Rainer was instantly alert.

“People in high places all over the world, who he believed would be receptive to his message.”

“Can you give me some of the names on it?”

Mendelius thought for a moment and then recited half a dozen names which Rainer wrote in his notebook. Then he asked: “Has any one of these tried to contact him in Monte Cassino?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. However, they’d certainly be thoroughly screened before they got through. I was. In fact I never did speak to Jean Marie on the telephone. There were moments when I thought I was being carefully steered away from him; but Drexel was definite. There were no impediments to my visit, just a lot of official interest.”

“Which is hardly likely to wane, now that they know you’ve talked to me.”

“Let’s be fair, Georg. Drexel didn’t enquire what I proposed to do. He didn’t make any further mention of the documents and he took some very rough talk from me.”

“So what does that prove? Nothing except that he’s a patient man. And, remember, he was the one the Cardinals chose to be their messenger. Think about that! As for other friends or acquaintances of Gregory XVII, I’m going to be doing some digging on my own account before I come to Tubingen… No! No! I’m paying for lunch. I’m going to make so much money out of you it’s almost obscene!”

“You’ll work for it, my friend.” Mendelius laughed.

“Two things I learned from the Jesuits were the rules of evidence and a respect for stylish writing. I want this to be the best story you’ve ever delivered!”

As soon as he reached the apartment, Mendelius made a guarded telephone call to his agent, Lars Larsen, in New York. Larsen’s immediate reaction was a whistle of excitement and then a howl of anguish. The idea was wonderful. It was worth a mint of money but why the hell did Mendelius have to share it with a journalist? Rainer had nothing to contribute but his connection with a ‘big German news empire. This story should be launched from America.

And so on, and so on, for ten minutes of impassioned pleading, after which Mendelius explained patiently that the whole purpose of the exercise was to present a sober account of recent events and direct serious attention to the core of Jean Marie’s last message. Therefore, would Lars please come to Tubingen and discuss the matter with the gravity it deserved?

Lotte, listening to the one-sided conversation, tut-tutted unhappily.

“I warned you, Carl! All these people have personal concerns that must conflict with yours. The agent smells big money. Georg Rainer’s reputation as a newsman will be enormously enhanced. But you… You’re writing about a friend. You’re treating a subject which you know has haunted man through his history. You can’t let yourself be treated like an overnight film star. You hold the trump card: the documents. Don’t display them to anyone until you’ve got all the terms you need to protect yourself and Jean Marie.”

Later, cradled in his arms in the big baroque bed, she mused drowsily:

“It’s ironic really. In spite of all your scepticism, you’ve given Jean exactly what he asked in the first place. Because you’re his friend you can’t fail to give him sympathetic treatment. Because you’re a scholar of world repute, your commentaries will protect him from the clowns. If Anneliese Meissner is willing to go into print with you, she’ll at least be clinically honest. All in all, my love, you’re making a handsome payment on our debts to Jean Marie… By the way, I bought a gift today for Herman and Hilde. It was rather expensive but I knew you wouldn’t mind. They’ve been so generous with us.”

“What is it, darling?”

“A piece of old Capo di monte, Cupid and Psyche. The dealer said it was quite rare. I’ll show it to you in the morning. I hope they’ll like it.”

“I’m sure they will.” He was grateful for the quiet aimless talk.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Katrin sent us a card from Paris. It doesn’t say much except: “Love is wonderful. Thanks to you both from both of us.” There’s also a long letter and some colour prints from Johann.”

“That’s a surprise! I thought he’d be the one to send the postcard.”

“I know. Funny, isn’t it? He’s quite lyrical about his vacation. They didn’t get very far, though not even into Austria. He and his friend discovered a little valley high up the Bavarian Alps. It has a lake and a few ruined cabins…

not a soul for miles around. They’ve been camping there ever since, just going into town for supplies.”

“It sounds wonderful. I wouldn’t mind changing places with him. I don’t want to see Rome again for a long, long time. I’ll write to Jean Marie as soon as we get back to Tubingen. By the way, we must do something for Francone.

I think a gift of money would be best. I don’t imagine he gets paid too much. Remind me, will you, my dear?”

“I will. Close your eyes now and try to sleep.”

“I’ll drowse off in a little while. Oh, that’s another thing. I have to send Cardinal Drexel a thank-you note for the use of the car and of Francone.”

“I’ll remind you. Now go to sleep. You looked absolutely worn out tonight. I want you around for a long while yet.”

“I’m fine, dear, truly. You mustn’t worry about me.”

“I do worry. I can’t help it. Carl, if Jean Marie is right, if there is a last great war, what will we do? What will become of the children? I’m not being foolish. I just want to know what you think.”

There was no way he could qualify the answer and he knew it. He heaved himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, glad of the dark that hid the pain in his eyes.

“This time, my love, there will be no banners and no trumpets. The campaign will be short and terrible; and afterwards no one will care where the frontiers used to be. If we survive, we’ll try to hold together as a family; but you have to remember we can’t dictate what our children do. If we’re separated from them, then we gather some good souls together and do what we can to hold out against the assassins in the streets! That’s all I can tell you.”

“It’s strange!” Lotte reached up to touch his cheek.

“When we first talked about this, before we came away, I was afraid all the time. Sometimes I wanted to sit in a corner and cry about nothing at all. Then, while you were in Monte Cassino, I took out that little piece of pottery the Senator gave you and held it in my hands. I traced the name that was written on it. I remembered how the lots were drawn to see who would die, and who would perform the act of execution, on Masada.

Suddenly I felt very calm fortunate somehow. I understood that if you hold too tightly to anything even to life you become a captive. So you see, you mustn’t worry about me either. Kiss me good night and let’s go to sleep.”

As he lay wakeful through the small, cold hours, he wondered at the change in her: the air of new confidence, the curious calm with which she seemed to accept an unspeakable prospect. Had Aharon ben Ezra bequeathed a last magical courage to the potsherd which bore his name? Or was it perhaps a small wind of grace blown from the desert, where Jean Marie Barette communed with his Creator?

It was good to be home. In the countryside the harvest was safely gathered; the blackbirds were pecking contentedly over the brown stubble. The Neckar flowed silver under a summer sky. Traffic was sparse in the city, because the holiday makers had not yet returned from their sojourn in the sun.

The halls and cloisters of the University were almost empty.

The rare footfalls of janitor or colleague sounded hollow in the hush. It was possible to believe provided one read no newspapers, switched off radio and television that nothing would ever change in this quiet backwater, that the old Dukes of Wurttemberg would sleep for ever in peace under the floor-stones of the Stiftskirche.

But the peace was an illusion, like the painted back-drop of a pastorale. From Pilsen to Rostock the armies of the Warsaw Pact were arrayed in depth: shock troops and heavy tank formations and, behind them, the rocket launchers with tactical atomic warheads. Facing them were the thin lines of the NATO forces, prepared for a fall-back under the first onslaught, trusting, but none too confidently, that their own tactical warheads would hold up the advance until the big bombers came in from the British Isles and the I.B.M.“s were launched from their silos on mainland United States.

There was no mobilisation yet, no call-up of reserves, because the crisis had not matured to the point where democratic governments could rely on their depressed and uneasy populations to answer a call to arms, or respond to the rhetoric of the propaganda machine. German industry still depended on guest-workers, who, deprived of tenure and citizenship, could hardly be expected to render liege service in a lost cause. At the other side of the world a new axis had been formed: industrial Japan was pouring plant and technical experts into China, in return for oil from the northern fields and the new wells in the Spratleys. Islam was in ferment from Morocco to the high passes of Afghanistan. South Africa was an armed camp, beleaguered by the black republics. No leader, no junta, no parliamentary assembly could compass or control the complex geo-polity of a world haunted by depletion and the debasement of every currency of human intercourse. Reason rocked under the barrage of contradictions. The corporate will seemed frozen in a syncope of impotence.

After the first relief of homecoming, Carl Mendelius found himself tempted to the same despair. Who would hear one small voice above the babel-cry of millions? What was the point of propagating ideas which would immediately be swept away like sand-motes in a tempest? What was the profit in expounding a past that would soon be as irrelevant as the magical animals of the cavemen?