by Gore Vidal
The Rock and Saint were both caught in the subsequent police roundup of known subversives. The Rock was charged with masterminding the fire while Saint's hope of having his appeal re-presented on the correct stationery was shattered. They were both tried, and duly executed. On the same day, we always say, but I think Saint was the first to ascend to Heaven at the Three Fountains, a dismal suburb on the road to Ostia. He was beheaded.
My last meeting with Saint was poignant. After all, we had been sackmates, off and on (in later days more off than on, I am happy to record) for some fifteen years. The letters he wrote me are the basis of what he was the first to call "Christianity," thus parting company not only with the Jews but with the Jesus party of Jews at Jerusalem. We both knew, even without the kibitzers who are now circling me like vultures, that we were historic and, perhaps, unique in religion as we—^well. Saint really—^were able to make so much out of basically what was so little. The Jesus story was never much of anything until Saint cooked up the vision-on-the-road-to-Damascus number and then pulled the whole story together, a story which is now unraveling with horrifying speed as the year 2001 a.d. approaches and Jesus—or who?—^will return in nuclear judgment.
Saint was chained to a wall in a small chamber carved out of the big rock on which the records office is set. He was depressed, as who would not bc>
"Well, Timmy, this is the end of the road," he said. I embraced him. He needed a bath, and his beard was halfway down to his navel.
"The glory road," I said, wanting to console.
"The inevitable martyrdom," Saint sighed. "Of course it was always in the cards, because in time, every day does come, including the last. Try and get my papers away from the magistrates' office. The Holy Rolodex you have, I hope "
"Absolutely safe. In Flavia's pool house."
"Good boy. Remember the importance of the Follow-up Letters. How is the Rock?"
"Sentenced to death, too."
"No great loss. I only hope we won't be martyred on the same day, in which case I shaU have to share my day of
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glory with him until Judgment Day." Saint idly ratdcd the chain attached to his ankle. He could walk about six feet away from the wall, which was the length of his cell or, actually, grotto. Water trickled down the stone walls. Rats stared at us from the comer, rather like kibitzers, I thought—^with that eager overconcentrated look you see in Mary Baker Eddy's eyes.
"I shall get through to you in dreams, of course. As I did when I persuaded you to begin this gospel in the year 96 A.D., if my memory of the ftiture serves."
"Then you aren't dead, really?"
"You heard Mary Baker Eddy from Boston, Spain, back at Philippi: Death's all in the mind." Saint liked his jokes right to the end. Then he ratded his chain thoughtfiilly and the rats withdrew.
"No, I'm dead all right, and you will be too, next year on your tape. But as you recollect me now in the process of writing, what you think are your recollections of Rome are actually something quite different since memory is easily tampered with not only by the Prince of this World and other demons but by a constant exposure to CNN on television. You are being subdy altered every moment, and as you change, so do I, to the extent that you have invented me. That is to say, the Saint Paul of this tape, and soon to be the only Saint Paul that there is."
I have begun to tremble as I write these lines. Who am I.> Who was he.> I concentrate intendy on that cell. I sec it now in my memory. Surely that vivid recollection could not be introduced into what is still very much the active mind of a man alive in Thessalonika in the spring of 96—or is it 97 — A.D. I sec Saint here on the page. I look up. I see Saint here in my study, standing next to the Sony.
"No, Timmy. I didn't come in on the Z Channel. I am being projected for you by a group of technicians at Gulf +
Eastern. You are to disregard what I just said to you in the cell on the eve of my martyrdom. Actually, I made up that story of the vision on the Damascus freeway. Oh, I thought I saw someone very fat, a hologram like me now. But it was a different program entirely. It wasn't really Jesus who died on the cross, which means he was never resurrected which means our gospel has been pretty much of a phony. The original Jesus was the messiah all right, or so he thought, but he was very thin and the time frame was off. ..."
I aimed my remote control at the vision and pressed the tracking button. He was gone. I am sweating, my heart palpitating wildly. I could be dying—except I shall be killed by a mob of pagans next year at the Katagogia, a festival of the pagan god Dionysos, held in the theater. What I have just witnessed was an apparition from the lab at Gulf -h Eastern where resides, I am confident, the Prince of this World himself, the Son of Morning, the Lord of the Flies, Satan.
I return now to the cell. Saint embraces me for a second time. "I am so proud of you. So very, very proud. I don't know what Gulf + Eastern—and you are correct that whatever they do is Satan's work—^intends to do, but I am to be entirely changed in your gospel and Christianity is to be dismantled because without the Crucifixion and the Resurrection there is—and has been—no religion at all for two thousand years. So the cross is yours to carry, in triumph, into the third millennium and straight up to the Day of Judgment. Glory, glory Hallelujah! Now get in touch with Chet. He can be trusted. Get him to explain to you how the VCR works."
Those were the last words said to me by Saint Paul. The jailer ordered me to leave. I did not attend Saint's execution because Flavia insisted that I supervise the rebuilding of her loggia, luckily the only part of her sumptuous home on the Aventine that was burned in the Great Fire.
they could have gone on location some place and shot this, but if what Dr. Cuder has been saying is true, our man—as of yesterday— W2is able to film back then, using the Cuder Effect. . . . Who's diat?"
On screen there v^as a medium shot of a man lying face down, hands clasped before him. Very distincdy we heard him say, "Let somebody else drink out of this cup."
I was awed. "It is Jesus. The night He was arrested."
"How do we know.> We can't see his face. Cuder may be a whiz with the camera but he has no idea how to handle actors, much less script. You must always establish your star at the top, with a close shot."
"Maybe," I said, "he couldn't get a close shot because, if this is really what happened, it's at night. Also, it's sometimes more dramatic to pick up your star like this, back to the camera, then let him turn into a very close shot."
Chet grudgingly agreed that this might be effective. But then he had gone to the USC film school. "Anyway we'll have all this in 3-D by next year, so it will seem just like the viewer is right there, the way I seem to you."
Chet frowned at the set. "I must say I don't think much of the editing. It's not very dramatic just to keep watching Jesus's back while he's mumbling prayers to His Father who is—"
"Art," I corrected automatically, "in Heaven."
Then things start to happen. A dozen Roman soldiers appear in the woods, swords drawn. They are led by a large man with a cloak covering his face. Camera cuts to another angle where the young Rock and a number of disciples are cowering behind a ruined olive-press. There are also cactuses, which suggest that this could have been shot in Arizona though I am absolutely certain we are watching the real thing. The disciple Judas is leading the Romans to Jesus in order to
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arrest Him, as Jesus had predicted he—or rather a disciple unnamed—^would do. So far, the sacred story conforms to Mark.
Camera pans to Peter and the others. When they realize what is about to happen, they bolt. Camera pans back to the cloak-shrouded Judas and the Romans. Next, a close shot of a mysterious black obelisk close to where Jesus is lying on the ground. Then a door to the obelisk opens and there, in the moonlight, stands Cuder One, smiling.
"The son of a bitch," whispered Chet. "He did all this on GE time."
"I think he'll see the light once he's at Gulf -h Eastern."
On th
e screen, Jesus is stirring. He has heard the Romans. Slowly He gets to his feet, back to camera.
Judas drops his cloak, and points his finger at Jesus. "There he is. . . ."
At that moment, Jesus rushes toward Judas and kisses him full on the lips. "Master, you have come at last! You, Jesus, are the King of the Jews, and your kingdom is at hand."
Judas stands there, amazed, while Jesus turns fiercely on the Romans. "To your knees, uncircumcised Gentile dogs. nis is the messiah, come to judge the world."
Judas is hyperventilating now and so cannot speak. The famous plot is backfiring on him. The Roman captain turns to Judas. "Why you double-crossing bastard! Getting us out here in the middle of the night when you're the creep we're supposed to arrest."
Jesus raises His hand. "Please, centurion. Your tone lacks reverence. He is the King of us all—^Jews and goyim alike."
"Tell that to the governor." The centurion takes Jesus's arm. "You're coming with us, too."
"Sorry, I have other fish to fty." Jesus strikes down the centurion's arm. "I must now be about my father's business." Jesus indicates Cutler One. "He's in the wholesale fig and date business."
Before the Romans can stop Jesus, He has run over to the black obelisk and the smiling Cuder One. Astonished by the strangeness of what they are witnessing, the Romans do not move; they are also encumbered by the enormously fat Judas, who has fainted dead away.
Suddenly the moon comes out fi-om behind a cloud, and there in the moonlight, in a very tight shot indeed, is the face of Jesus, at last ftiUy visible.
"Jesus Christ!" Chet shouted.
"No," I said, as stunned as he but perhaps more pre-, cisc, "it is Marvin Wasserstein."
Chet and I sat in silence, as the credits rolled. Cuder One was listed as both producer and director. He also took a writer's credit even though there was no script, only impromptu dialogue. But then it is typical of today's filmmakers to try and take as much credit as possible for everything. At the end of the film a tide card thanked the Roman government of Palestine for its cooperation, which was nonsense, since the film's producer had, illegally, got off widi what the Romans thought was Judas, an all-important witness in the upcoming trial of what they will think is Jesus but really is Judas.
"Well," said Chet, switching on the Z Channel. We could see the interior of his office where his secretary, a very pretty girl, was waving her arms around and around in order to enlarge her breasts.
"We have a problem," I said.
"We have a disaster," Chet said.
"How—^when—did you meet Marvin Wasserstein.>"
"A month ago. Hard guy to catch up with. We took a
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short meeting. In Cutier One's office. I diought he was very savvy. Computer whiz. Graduate of City College. Doctorate at MIT . . ."
"Stop!" I was beginning to detect criminality of the white-collar sort. "It's plain that Jesus is posing as the real Marvin Wasserstein in your time firame, and his records have been forged by Cutler One in order to make Jesus into a plausible citizen of the United States in the last decade of the twentieth century as well as an employee of General Electric with a Penta0on clearance. The impersonation of someone else and the forging of a curriculum vitae are criminal offenses, according to L.A. Law and other programs of a legal nature."
Chet nodded. "You're on to something, something big," he said. "Also, one mystery is solved: why Marvin is not a hologram but a real person when he comes back here to what is actually his home time fi-ame."
"Or was. After all, it's been more than sixty years since he was crucified."
"ijf he was crucified." Chet's voice trembled. I must say I felt a cold chill. Is our entire religion based on a non-event?
"If he wasn't crucified, then who was.>" As I spoke, I knew. Judas, fat Judas, had been crucified by the Romans, who thought that he was Jesus. But Jesus had, thanks to Cutier One, been brought firom Gethsemane to General Electric as a computer analyst with a made-up resume. The daring of it all made my head swim.
Chet had got the point, too. He was blunt. "As far as Christianity goes, it doesn't make much difference who ended up on the cross as long as everyone thinks it was Jesus, which they do now, and did then, obviously."
I suddenly saw, in my mind's eye, the cunning face of
•w
James. Of course he and the whole Jerusalem gang had known it wasn't Jesus on the cross but they had gone along with the story for reasons of their own, which must, somehow, involve the Resurrection, Saint's specialty and the basis of Christianity.
"The question now," I said, "isn't who ended up on the cross but who rose from the dead on the third day."
Chet nodded. "If it was Judas, then he's the Son of God and so on."
"That's blasphemy. But that also explains why Saint, when he had his vision of what he thought was Jesus, saw fat Judas instead, since he has been standing in for Marvin—I mean the real Jesus—for two millennia, on this tape, anyway."
As a Mormon, Chet was not interested in these fine theological points. "No matter who was up there, NBC will have the highest-rated program in TV history." But though Chet is a loyal GE man, he did not seem all that pleased with the thought of those high Nielsen numbers in the November sweeps. Perhaps, there is some truth in the story that GE is trying to dump NBC. The network's performance, rating-wise, has not been of the sort to gladden the heart of your average shareholder, whose eye is not on the sparrow but on the bottom line.
Chet turned back to the Z Channel. "I'm going to have a conference with Cuder One and Wasserstein. I've got to get to the bottom of this before the special."
"If Marvin is really Jesus, how did he get to be such a whiz computer scientist?"
"Same way he got to be messiah. If you have the knack, it's easy." Chet frowned. "But who knows what he's really been doing in Cuder One's lab?" Then a very grim Chet embarked for Westport.
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I have just hidden the Gospel According to Saint Mark in the mop room. I shall then conclude my own gospel, which will throw new light on the whole mission of Saint Paul. I am tempted to take the Z Channel to see what exactly happens when the great event is televised. But, of course, as I am anchor, I cannot be both on the air and in the audience. Perhaps after the telecast, I shall go fast-forward and see the result of—^what.> Do we tell the viewers that Jesus escaped, and that it was Judas who was crucified? I think this requires a conference call at the very highest level of General Electric and NBC.
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poisoning going around. My wife cooks only with bronze." I gave him my keen bishop's stare. "Changes of heart are rare, you know. I speak now as a bishop and saint-to-be. The only change that I can truly attest to was the one that Saint Paul had when he quit Mossad and the Zionist cause after seeing a vision of Jesus on the Damascus freeway."
"From his description, it was the overweight Judas that he glimpsed."
"In which case, for all practical purposes"—I was now at the bottom line—"Judas is Jesus since he was the one crucified and resurrected."
Cuder Two smiled; the eyes practically vanished when he did, two slits to either side of the button nose. "My earlier self perfected the Cuder Effect and got Jesus safely to GE. As a result, the image that the channelers are now getting is that of Judas the Overweight. But that can always change back."
I recognized the ominousness of Cuder Two's words. "Change to what?"
"Why not crucify Jesus instead of Judas, thus undoing the evil work of my earlier self?"
"Would Marvin consent to being crucified.^"
Cuder Two chuckled. "I should think it most unlikely. But since Marvin plans to take time from his busy schedule to visit Golgotha with the GE team, someone could always . . . well, finger him. You know? I'm sure that if they did, the Romans would do their historic duty and the true Jesus would go to his reward in Heaven, returning in the year 2001, as Marvin insists he will, with a fantastic Day of Judgment."
; The tavernkeeper brought us bread and dried fish. Cutler Two covered his nose with a handkerchief until I'd finished the offered dish. It was delicious. I wonder how things in TV-land would smell to me. By and large, it is probably not
a good idea to travel in the flesh; after all, Cutler Two could become terminally ill from our cooking, while Marvin Was-serstein may very well end up deftinct back here on a cross. All in all, holograms are safer and tidier, particularly for sending messengers from God or even the Devil.
Outside the tavern, in the street, looking just like the real thing in the full light of noon, stood the hologram of Cuder One.
The wonders of modem surgery never cease to astonish me even though I'm never apt to be able to get to Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat to have my glaucoma attended to. No point, really, since I am to be killed next year at a pagan festival, according to the Oxford Dictionary of Saints, which Chet, reluctantly, brought me because "knowing when you'll die could affect your performance." Of course the entries about the saints that I have known are so haphazard it is quite possible I might die at—say—Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat, during anesthesia.
Atalanta thinks I should take a sabbatical next year. "We've really got to visit Alexander in Egypt." Our son is doing well in textiles and he's married a Pontusine woman, not at all like Priscilla I am happy to say.
I often wonder what became of Priscilla. The last edition—or rewrite—of her diary was done more than ten years ago. Glaucon continues to write plays but he is considered somewhat old hat or "Neronian," the word that bright young people nowadays use to describe, derisively, what for me—religion to one side, of course—^was a golden age at Rome. Except for the memoir of Nero, no one reads Pe-tronius today. It hardly seems possible diat a writer once so popular and admired should simply vanish without a trace. But fashions come and go, and I suspect that he will be revived one day—before the Seventh Seal, of course.