The Clowns of God (41 page)

There was a message waiting for him. Madame would be late home. He should order whatever he wanted for dinner.

He settled for coffee and a chicken sandwich, to be served in his room. Then he bathed, put on pyjamas and dressing gown and began work on another letter. Now he was dealing with that most contentious of subjects: the divisions on matters of faith between men and women of good-will.

Dear God, If you’re the beginning and the end of it all, why didn’t you give us all an equal chance? In a circus, you know, our lives depend on that. If the riggers make a mistake, the trapeze artists die. If the man with the thunder-flash doesn’t do it right, I lose my eyes.

But, you don’t seem to look at things that way. A circus travels, so we get to see how other people live and I mean good people who love each other and love their children and really deserve a pat on the head from you.

Now, here’s the thing I can’t understand. You know it all. You made it all. But everyone sees you differently.

You’ve even let your children kill each other; just because they each have a different description of your face at the window! .. . Why do we all use different marks to tell us we’re your children? I was sprinkled with water because my parents were Christians. Louis, the lion-tamer, had a little piece cut off his penis because he’s a Jew. Leila, the black girl who handles the snakes, wears an ammonite around her neck, because this is the magical snakestone.

And yet, when the show is over and we all sit at the supper table tired and hungry, do you see much difference between us? Do you care? Are you really very upset when Louis, who is getting old and scared, creeps into Leila’s bed for a little comfort, and Leila, who is really quite ugly, is glad to have him?

I seem to remember that your Son enjoyed eating and drinking and chatting with people like us. He liked children. He seemed to understand women. It’s a pity nobody bothered to record very much of his talk with them a few words with his mother, the rest was mostly with girls who were on the town, one way and another.

What I’m trying to say is that you’re shutting down the world without really giving us a chance to overcome the handicaps you’ve given us. I have to say that. I wouldn’t be honest if I let the matter pass. Somewhere up near the North Pole there’s an old woman sitting on an ice-floe.

She’s not suffering. She’s fading slowly away. Her family have put her there. She’s content, because this is the way death has always been arranged for the old. You know she’s there. I’m sure you’re making it easy more easy perhaps than for some other poor old dear in a very expensive clinic. But you’ve never told us very clearly which situation you prefer. I like to believe it’s one with the more loving in it!

On the other hand, I have to tell you this. I sat today in a cafe. Next to me was a man I know to be truly inhabited by a spirit of evil. He’s treacherous. He’s destructive. He’s a murderer. How will you judge him? How will you make the judgment known to all the rest of us? We do have a right to know. I don’t have children, but if I ever had any they wouldn’t be just play-things would they? Life itself would confer rights on them at least according to our small standards. I’d hate to believe that yours were any lower.

So please I know I’m pushing hard tonight, but I’m tired and I’m scared of that evil man with the happy voice and the sweet smile please tell me how and when you’re going to hear the case of Creator versus Creature or should it be the other way round? Or perhaps you could call the whole thing off and turn it into a love-feast?

That’s strange! I’ve never thought to ask before. Can you, God, change your mind? If not, why not? And if you can, why didn’t you do it before we all got into such a terrible mess? I’m sorry if I sound rude. I don’t mean to be.

Once again, without warning, he was on the high peak, among the black mountains of the dead planet. Once again he was empty, alone, prey to an unendurable sadness, a shame, as if he alone were the author of all the desolation about him.

There was no respite, no appeal, no forgiveness. There would be no rapture, no fiery whirlwind, no exquisite agony of union with the Other. He himself was the dead centre of a dead cosmos. He could not weep. He could not rage. He could only know that this was all there was to know: himself anchored to a barren rock in the desert of eternity.

Suddenly he felt a touch on his flesh, a tug at his dangling fingers. He looked down. It was the little girl from the Institute, the little clown of God, with her vacant, trusting smile. His heart melted to her. He snatched her up and held her close. She was his life-spark. He, her last protection against the vacancy of a cold planet.

They could not stay here on the peak. There must be caves to shelter them. He began to walk, stumbling down the dark, stony slope. He felt the child’s cheek against his own, her warm breath, like a tiny wind, ruffling his hair. As he walked, the well-spring of emotion began to flow again. He was aware of pity and terror and tenderness and a fierce rage against the Other who had dared to desert this tiny helpless creature in a place which was no-place.

Finally he came to the mouth of a cave, within which, most strangely, he could see a tiny light, like a star reflected in the black water of a tarn. He held the child closer and closer, as if to cover her with the armour of his own skin, and strode towards the light. It grew larger and brighter until it dazzled him and he was forced to close his eyes and stand quite still like a blind man in a new place. Then he heard the voice, strong and calm and gentle.

“Open your eyes.”

He did so and saw, seated on an outcrop of rock, beside a small fire, a young man of the most extraordinary comeliness.

He was naked except for a breech-cloth and sandals. His hair, golden and abundant, was caught back with a linen band.

Beside him on the rock was a platter of bread and a cup of water. He held out his arms and said:

“I’ll take the child.”

“No!” Jean Marie felt a sudden lurch of fear and stepped back against the farther wall. He eased himself down into a sitting position and cradled the child in his arms. The young man stood up and offered the bread and the cup. When Jean Marie refused he began feeding the child morsels of the loaf and tiny sips of liquid. From time to time he stroked her cheek and smoothed the hair away from her eyes. He asked again:

“Please, let me hold her. She will come to no harm.”

He took the child and made a little dance with her, until she laughed and fondled his face and kissed him. Then suddenly she was not a mongol any more, but perfect and beautiful like a princess doll.

The young man held her up to be admired. He smiled at Jean Marie and told him:

“You see! I make all things new!”

“Where are all the rest? The flowers, the animals, the people?”

“Here!”

He held the child up above his head. She stretched out her hands. The walls of the cave dissolved into a prospect of meadows and orchards and streams, silver in the sun. The young man said chidingly:

“You have to understand. The beginning and the end are one. The living and the dying are a single act because life is renewed by death.”

“Then why must the dying be so terrible?”

“Man makes his own terrors, not I.”

“Who are you?”

“I am who I am.”

“I’ve never understood that.”

“You should not try. Does the flower contend with the sun, or the fish with the sea? That’s why you’re a clown and you break things and I have to put them together again.”

“I’m sorry. I know I make a mess. I’ll go now.”

“Don’t you want to kiss your daughter?”

“Please! May I?”

But when he reached out his arms to take the beautiful child, she was not there. The man and the girl and the cave and the magical meadows were all gone. He was back in his own room. Roberta Saracini was standing by the desk with a tray in her hand.

“I saw the light under your door. I thought you’d like some hot chocolate before you went to bed. When I came in you were asleep at your desk.”

“I had a big day one way and another. What time is it?”

“Just after ten.”

“Thank you for the chocolate. How was your evening?”

“Most interesting! We’ve been invited to share in the financing of a new industrial project in Shanghai. The Chinese financial delegation entertained us at the embassy. Ours is a mixed group: British, Swiss, American and, of course, a consortium of bankers from the European Economic Community. The Chinese are very shrewd. They want as wide a spread of investment as possible. They also believe that war is inevitable and they have crash programmes for enterprises that can make military materials. Your name came up in the war talk.”

“How?”

“Let me see if I can remember exactly. Oh, yes. The Americans were talking about danger periods and trigger incidents that could set off a war Rubicon Day in fact! They make no secret of the fact that they regard the Chinese as their natural allies. In fact, I’m sure one or two of their delegation were intelligence people. Anyway, a man named Morrow, who used to be Secretary of State but is now with Morgan Guaranty, mentioned your prophecies and the articles about your abdication. He asked the Chinese how accurate they thought you were. One of them a director of the Bank of China laughed and said, “If he is a friend of the Jesuits he is very accurate indeed.” He reminded us that it was the Jesuit Matteo Ricci who first introduced into China the sundial, the astrolabe and the method of extracting square and cube roots from whole numbers and fractions. He was very interested when I told him that I knew you and was, in fact, a trustee of your estate.”

Jean Marie mourned silently over the indiscretion. He wanted to say something but he was tired and the milk was already spilt anyway.

Roberta Saracini went on: “Morrow said he would like to see you again. Apparently you had dealings together at the Vatican. I told him you were in touch with me from time to time and I would pass the message.”

“My dear Roberta!” He had to speak now and he could not temper the words.

“I’m deeply grateful for all your help; but you have just committed a monumental folly. The French want me under surveillance. This afternoon I stood within a pace of the C.I.A. man who tried to kill Mendelius. I still don’t know whether he recognised me. Now you, at a diplomatic gathering, announce that you are my trustee and I am I quote! in touch with you from time to time. From tomorrow your phone will be tapped and your house watched. I have to move! Tonight! How long will it take to get to the airport?”

“At this hour forty minutes. But where?”

“I don’t know and it’s better you don’t either. First thing in the morning get in touch with Hennessy and my brother Alain. Tell them I’ll make contact as soon as I can. I’ve got to pack.”

“But the letters, the whole project …”

“Depend on me! So I need a safe place and secure communications. Will you drive me to the airport? Taxi calls can be traced.”

“At least let me say I’m sorry.”

She was near to tears. He took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“I know you didn’t mean it. I’ve put you in a dangerous game and you can’t be expected to know all the rules. When I’m settled we’ll find a safe way to communicate. I still need your help.”

“I’ll get the car out. Hurry with your packing; the last planes leave at midnight.”

On the face of it, a midnight flight to London was a folly of desperation, but if he could arrive without detection he could be safe while he worked on the Letters and cast about among old friends for any who might believe in his mission and be prepared to cooperate in it.

He had always admired the British, though he had never wholly understood them. The subtleties of their humour often escaped him. Their snobberies always irritated him.

Their dilatory habits in commerce never failed to amaze him.

Yet they were tenacious of friendships and fealties. They had a sense of history and a tolerant eye for fools and eccentrics.

They could be land-greedy and money-mean and capable of extraordinary social cruelties; yet they supported great charities; they were humane to fugitives; and they counted privacy a right and not a privilege. Give them a cause they understood, put liberties they valued at risk, and they would take to the streets by thousands or walk in solitary dignity to the headsman’s block.

On the other hand and he admitted it with wry humour as Gregory XVII he had never been a great success with the British. They had, over the centuries, developed a working relationship with the Italians, whose arts they bought, whose fashions they aped, whose talent for high rhetoric and lowkeyed compromise was akin to their own. On the other hand, they looked on the French as a prickly lot, stiff-necked, uppish and politically immoral, who lived too close by for comfort, had an uncomfortable taste for grandeur and a cynical skill in pursuing it.

So, to his singular regret and occasional irritation, Jean Marie had made good friends but exercised small influence in the British Isles. In the end, he had been happy to leave the conduct of the local Church to Matthew, Cardinal Hewlett, who, as one of his Curial colleagues put it, ‘is probably the least risky man for the job. He has zeal without fire, intelligence without talent, never makes an argument if he can avoid one, and has no redeeming vices at all.” Hewlett had never joined the Friends of Silence; but at the fateful consistory he had cast his vote for abdication and justified it with a characteristic quip.

“If our Pontiff is a madman we’re well rid of him. If he’s a saint we won’t lose him. I see no problem at all. The sooner he’s out, the better!”

All in all, Matthew Cardinal Hewlett was not quite the man to call at two in the morning and ask for bed and breakfast.

So, with the help of a taxi driver, Jean Marie Barette found lodging in a reasonable hotel in Knightsbridge and slept dreamlessly until noon.

There were peacocks on the lawn and swans on the lake and the gold of early autumn in the woodlands as Jean Marie Barette walked in the manor garden with a man in whom he had confided much during his papacy, and who now was to be his first publisher in the English language: Waldo Pearson, old-time Catholic, one-time Foreign Secretary in the Conservative Cabinet, now Chairman of the Greenwood Press.