Messiah

by Gore Vidal

  I let it go. Paul was at best not the ideal partner in the perennial conversation. "There is no doubt but that Cave's the man," I said, neutrally. "Not the last of the line but at least the most effective, considering the shortness of the mission so far."

  "We have the means. The old people didn't. Every man, woman, and child in this country can see Cave for themselves, and at the same moment. I don't suppose ten thousand people saw Christ in action . . . it took a generation for news of him to travel from one country to the next."

  "Parallels break down," I agreed. "It's the reason I wonder so continually about Cave and ourselves and what we are doing in the world."

  "We're doing good. The people are losing their fear of death. Last month there were twelve hundred suicides in this country directly attributable to Cavesword. And these people didn't kill themselves just because they were unhappy, they killed themselves because he had made it easy, even desirable. Now you know there's never been anybody like that before in history, anywhere."

  "I'll say not." I was startled by the figure he had quoted.

  In our Journal we were always reporting various prominent suicides and, though I had given orders to minimize these voluntary deaths, I had been forced every now and then to record the details of one or another of them. But I'd had no idea there had been so many. I asked Paul if he was quite sure of the number.

  "Oh yes." He was blithe. "At least that many we know of."

  "I wonder if it's wise."

  "Wise? What's that got to do with it? It's logical. It's the proof of Cavesword. Death is fine so why not die?"

  "Why not live?"

  "It's the same thing."

  "I would say not."

  "Well, you ought to play it up a little more anyway. I meant to talk about it at the last directors' meeting but there wasn't time."

  "Does Cave know about this? About the extent . . ."

  "Sure does." Paul headed for the door. "He thinks it's fine. Proves what he says and it gives other people nerve. This thing is working."

  There was no doubt about that of course. It is hard, precisely, to give the sense of those two years when the main work got done in a series of toppling waves which swept into history the remaining edifices of other faiths and institutions. I had no real first-hand impressions of the country for I seldom stirred from our headquarters.

  I'd sold the house on the river. I had cut off all contacts with old friends and my life, simply, was Cave. I edited the Journal, or rather presided over the editors. I discussed points of doctrine with the various Residents who came to see me in the yellow tower. They were devoted men and their enthusiasm was heartening, if not always communicable to me. Each week was published further commentaries on Cavesword and I found my time grew short if I tried to read them all. I contented myself, finally, with synopses prepared for me by the Journal's staff and I felt like a television emperor keeping abreast of contemporary letters, but there was not enough time, as it was, in which to contemplate the great things. Once a week we all dined with Cave. Except for that informal occasion we seldom saw him; though he complained continually about his captivity (and it was exactly that; we were all captives to some degree), he was cheerful enough. Paul saw to it that he was kept busy all day addressing Residents and Communicators, answering their questions, firing them by the mere fact of his presence. It was quite common for strangers to faint upon seeing him for the first time, as a man and not as a figure on a bit of film. He was good-natured, though occasionally embarrassed by the chosen groups which were admitted to him. He seldom talked privately to any of them, however, and he showed not the faintest interest in their problems, not even bothering to learn their names. He was only interested in where they were from and Paul, aware of this, as an added inducement to keep Cave amenable, took to including each group at least one Cavite from some far place like Malaya or Ceylon.

  Iris was busiest of all. She had become, without design or preparation, the head of all the Cavite schools throughout the country where the various Communicators of Cavesword were trained, thousands of them each year, in a course which included not only Cavesword but history and psychology as well. There were also special classes in television-producing and acting. Television, finally, was the key. It was the primary instrument of communication. Later, with a subservient government and the aid of mental therapists and new drugs, television became less necessary but, in the beginning, it was everything.

  Clarissa's role was, as always, enigmatic. She appeared when she pleased and she disappeared when she pleased. I discovered that her position among the directors was due to her possession of the largest single block of stock, dating back to the first days. During the crucial two or three years, however, she was often with us merely for protection since all our lives had been proscribed by the last remnants of the old churches who, as their dominion shrank, fought more and more recklessly to destroy us.

  Stokharin spent his days much like Iris, instructing the Communicators and Center-therapists in psychology. His power over Paul had fortunately waned and he was far more likeable: Paul was "freed," Stokharin would say with some satisfaction, due to therapy . . . and a new father-image.

  Less than two years after the Congressional hearings, Paul, in his devious way, entered politics and in the following Congressional elections, without much overt campaigning on our part, the majority of those elected to both Houses of the Congress were either Cavite or sympathetic.

  3

  At last I have met him. Early this evening I went downstairs to see the manager about an item on my bill which was incorrect. I had thought that I should be safe for this was the time when most of the hotel guests are bathing and preparing for dinner. Unfortunately, I encountered Butler and his newly arrived colleague in the center of the lobby. I suddenly found myself attempting, by an effort of will, very simply to vanish into smoke like one of those magicians in a child's book. But I remained all too visible. I stopped halfway across the lobby and waited for them.

  They came toward me. Butler murmuring greetings and introductions to Communicator Jessup (soon to be Resident of Luxor "when we get underway"): "And this, Jack, is the Mr Hudson I told you about."

  The Resident-to-be shook my hand firmly. He was not more than thirty, a lean, dark-eyed mulatto whose features and coloring appealed to me, used as I now am to the Arabs; beside him, Butler looked more red and gross than ever.

  "Butler has told me how useful you've been to us," said Jessup. His voice was a little high but he did not have the trick of over-articulation which used to be so common among educated Negroes in earlier times, a peculiarity they shared with Baptist clergymen and professional poets.

  "I've done what I could, little as it is," I said ceremoniously. Then, without protest, I allowed them to lead me out onto the terrace which overlooked the setting sun and the muddy river.

  "We planned to see you when Jack, here, arrived," said Butler expansively when we were seated, a tray of gin and ice and tonic water set before us by a waiter who was used now to American ways. "But you had the sign on your door so I told Jack we'd better wait, till Mr Hudson is feeling better. You are okay now, aren't you?"

  "Somewhat better," I said, enjoying the British gin: I'd had none since I left Cairo. "At my age one is either dead or all right. I seem not to be dead."

  "How I envy you!" said Jessup solemnly. His voice though high was strong.

  "Envy me?" For a moment I did not quite understand.

  "To be so near the blessed state! Not to see the sun again and feel the body quivering with corrupt life . . . oh, what I should give to be as old as you!"

  "You could always commit suicide," I said irritably, forgetting my role as an amiable soft-headed old cretin.

  This stopped him for only the space of a single surprised breath. "Cavesway is not possible for his servants," he said at last, patiently. "You have not perhaps followed his logic as carefully as you might had you been living in the civilized world." He looked at me with his brigh
t dark eyes inscrutably focused.

  Why are you here? I wanted to ask furiously, finally, but I only nodded my head meekly and said, "So much has changed since I came out here. I do recall, though, that Cavesway was considered desirable for all."

  "It is . . . but not for his servants who must, through living, sacrifice their comfort . . . it is our humiliation, our martyrdom in his behalf. Even the humblest man or woman can avail themselves of Cavesway unlike us, his servants, who must live, disgusting as the prospect is, made bearable only by the knowledge that we are doing his work, communicating his word."

  "What courage it must take to give up Cavesway!" I intoned with reverent awe.

  "It is the least we can do for him."

  The bright sun resembled that red-gold disk which sits on the brow of Horus. A hot wind of Numidia stirred the dry foliage about us. I could smell the metallic odor of the Nile's water. A muezzin called, high and toneless in the evening.

  "Before I slip off into the better state," I said at last, emboldened by gin, "I should like to know as much as possible about the new world the Cavites have made. I left the United States shortly after Cave took his way. I have never been back."

  "How soon after?" The question came too fast. I gripped the arms of my chair tightly.

  "Two years after, I think," I said. "I came to Cairo for the digging out in El Abul."

  "How could you have missed those exciting years?" Jessup's voice became zealous. I remained on guard. "I was not even born then . . . and I've always cursed my bad luck. I used to go about talking to complete strangers who had been alive in those great years. Of course most were laymen and knew little about the things I had studied but they could tell me how the sky looked the day he took his way. And, every now and then, it was possible to meet someone who had seen him."

  "Not many laymen ever saw him," I said. "I remember with what secrecy all his movements were enveloped. I was in New York much of the time when he was there."

  "In New York!" Jessup sighed voluptuously.

  "You saw him too, didn't you, Mr Hudson?" Butler was obviously eager that I make a good impression.

  "Oh yes, I saw him the day he was in Washington. One of his few public appearances! I was very devout in those days. I am now too, of course," I added hastily. "But in those days when it was all new one was, well, exalted by Cavesword. I made a special trip to Washington just to get a glimpse of him." I played as resolutely as possible upon their passionate faith.

  "Did you really see him?"

  I shook my head sadly. "Only a quick blur as he drove away. The crowd was too big and the police were all around him."

  "I have of course relived that moment in the library, watching the films, but actually to have been there that day . . ."

  Jessup's voice trailed off as he contemplated the extent of my good fortune.

  "Then afterwards, after his death, I left for Egypt and I've never been back."

  "You missed great days."

  "I'm sure of that. Yet I feel the best days were before, when I was in New York and each week there would be a new revelation of his wisdom."

  "You are quite right," said Jessup, pouring himself more gin. "Yours was the finer time even though those of us who feel drawn to the mother must declare that later days possessed some virtue too, on her account."

  "Mother?" I knew of course before he answered what had happened.

  "As Cave was the father of our knowledge, so Iris is its mother," said Jessup. He looked at Butler with a half-smile. "Of course there are some, the majority in fact, of the Communicators who deprecate our allegiance to the mother, not realizing that it enhances rather than detracts from Cave. After all, the Word and the Way are entirely his."

  Butler chuckled. "There's been a little family dispute," he said. "We keep it out of the press because it really isn't the concern of anybody but us, Cave's servants. Don't mind talking to you about it since you'll be dead soon anyway and up here we're all in the same boat, all Cavites. Anyway, some of the younger fellows, the bright ones like Jessup, have got attached to Iris . . . not that we don't all love her equally. It's just that they've got in the habit of talking about death being the womb again, all that kind of stuff without any real basis in Cave."

  "It runs all through his work, Bill. It's implicit in all that he said." Jessup was amiable but I sensed a hardness in his tone. It had come to this, I thought.

  "Well, we won't argue about it," said Butler, turning to me with a smile. "You should see what these Irisians can do with a Cavite text. By the time they finish you don't know whether you're coming or going."

  "Were you at all active in the Mission?" asked Jessup, abruptly changing the subject.

  I shook my head. "I was one of the early admirers of Cave but I'm afraid I had very little contact with any of his people. I tried once or twice to get in to see him . . . when they were in the yellow tower, but it was impossible. Only the Residents and people like that ever got to see him personally."

  "He was busy those days," said Jessup, nodding. "He must have dictated nearly two million words in the last three years of his life."

  "You think he wrote all those books and dialogues himself?"

  "Of course he did." Jessup sounded surprised. "Haven't you read Iris's accounts of the way he worked? The way he would dictate for hours at a time, oblivious of everything but Cavesword."

  "I suppose I missed all that," I mumbled. "In those days it was always assumed that he had a staff who did the work for him."

  "The lutherists," said Jessup, nodding. "They were extremely subtle in their methods but of course they couldn't distort the truth for very long . . ."

  "Oh," said Butler. "Mr Hudson asked me the other day if I knew what the word lutherist came from and I said I didn't know. I must have forgotten for I have a feeling it was taught us, back in the old days when we primitives were turned out, before you bright young fellows came along to show us how to do Caveswork."

  Jessup smiled. "We're not that bumptious," he said. "As for lutherist, it's a word based on the name of one of the first followers of Cave. I don't know his other name or even much about him. All that I know I've been told . . . as far as I remember, the episode was never even recorded. Much too disagreeable . . . and of course we don't like to dwell on our failures."

  "I wonder what it was that he did," I asked, my voice trembling despite all efforts to control it.

  "He was a nonconformist of some kind. He quarreled with Iris, they say."

  "Wonder what happened to him?" asked Butler. "Did they send him through indoctrination?"

  "No, as far as I know." Jessup paused. When he spoke again his voice was thoughtful. "According to the story I heard . . . legend really . . . he disappeared. They never found him and though we've wisely removed all record of him, his name is still used to describe our failures: those among us, that is, who refuse Cavesword without indoctrination. Somewhere, they say, he is living, in hiding, waiting to undo Caveswork. As Cave was the anti-Christ so he, or rather another like him, will attempt to destroy us."

  "Not much chance of that." Butler's voice was confident. "Anyway, if he was a contemporary of Cave he must be dead by now."

  "Not necessarily. After all Mr Hudson was a contemporary and he is still alive." Jessup looked at me then; his eyes, in a burst of obsidian light, caught the sun's last rays. I think he knows.

  4

  There's not much time left and I must proceed as swiftly as possible to the death of Cave and my own exile.

  The year of Cave's death was not only a year of triumph but one of terror as well. The counter-offensive reached its peak in those busy months, and we were all in danger of our lives.

  In the South, groups of Baptists stormed the new Centers, demolishing them and killing, in several instances, the Residents. Despite our protests and threats of reprisal, many state governments refused to protect the Cavite Centers and Paul was forced to enlist a small army to defend our establishments in those areas which were still
dominated by the old religions. Several attempts were made to destroy our New York headquarters; fortunately, they were all apprehended before any damage could be done though one fanatic, a Catholic, got as far as Paul's office where he threw a grenade into a wastebasket, killing himself and slightly scratching Paul who had, in his usual fashion, been traveling nervously about the room, getting out of range at the proper moment. The election of a Cavite-dominated Congress eased things for us considerably, though it made our enemies all the more desperate.

  Paul fought back. Bishop Winston, the most eloquent of the Christian prelates and the most dangerous to us, had died, giving rise to the rumor, soon afterwards confirmed by Cavite authority to be a fact, that he had killed himself and that, therefore, he had finally renounced Christ and taken to himself Cavesword.

  Many of the clergy of the Protestant sects, aware that their parishioners and authority were falling away, became, quietly, without gloating on our part, Cavite Residents and Communicators.

  The bloodiest persecutions, however, did not occur in North America. The Latin countries, the seat of the old Catholic power which was itself the shadow of the Roman Empire, provided the world with a series of massacres remarkable even in that murderous century. Yet it was a fact that in the year of Cave's death, Italy was half-Cavite while France, England and Germany were nearly all Cavite while only Spain and parts of Latin America held out, imprisoning, executing, deporting Cavites against the inevitable day when our Communicators, undismayed, proud in their martyrdom, would succeed in their assaults upon these last citadels of paganism.

  On a hot day in August, our third and last autumn in the yellow tower, we dined on the terrace of Cave's penthouse overlooking the city. The bright sky shuddered with heat. Clarissa, who had just come from abroad where she had been enjoying several seasons under the guise of an official tour of reconnaissance, was entirely the guest of honor. She sat wearing a large picture hat beneath the striped awning which sheltered our glass-topped table from the sun's rays. Cave insisted on eating out-of-doors as often as possible even though the rest of us preferred the cool interior where we were not disturbed by either heat or by the clouds of soot which floated above the imperial city, impartially lighting upon all who ventured out into the open.