The Shoes of the Fisherman

by Morris West

  Then, one heavy and threatening day, hope stepped into her life again. She had wakened late and was dressing listlessly when the telephone rang. It was George Faber. He told her Chiara was out of town. He was feeling lonely and depressed. He would like to take her to dinner. She hesitated a moment, and then accepted.

  The incident was over in two minutes, but it wrenched her out of depression and into an almost normal world. She made a hasty appointment with her hairdresser. She bought herself a new cocktail frock for twice the money she could afford. She bought flowers for her apartment, and a bottle of Scotch whisky for Faber; and when he came to call for her at eight o’clock, she was as nervous as a débutante on her first date.

  He was looking older, she thought, a trifle stooped, a little greyer than at their last meeting. But he was still the dandy, with a carnation in his buttonhole, an engaging smile, and a bunch of Nemi violets for her dressing-table. He kissed her hand in the Roman fashion, and while she mixed his drink he explained himself ruefully:

  ‘I have to go south on this Calitri business. Chiara hates Rome in the summer, and the Antonellis have asked her to go to Venice with them for a month. They’ve taken a house on the Lido…I hope to join them later. Meantime…’ He gave a little uneasy laugh. ‘I’ve lost the habit of living alone…And you did say I could call you.’

  ‘I’m glad you called, George. I don’t like living alone either.’

  ‘You’re not offended?’

  ‘Why should I be? A night on the town with the dean of the foreign press, that’s an event for most women. Here’s your drink.’

  They toasted each other and then fenced their way through the opening gambits of talk.

  ‘Where would you like to dine, Ruth? Do you have any preferences?’

  ‘I’m in your hands, good sir.’

  ‘Would you like to be quiet or gay?’

  ‘Gay, please. Life’s been all too quiet lately.’

  ‘That suits me. Now, would you like to be a Roman or a tourist?’

  ‘A Roman, I think.’

  ‘Good. There’s a little place over in Trastevere. It’s crowded and noisy, but the food’s good. There’s a guitar player, an odd poet or two, and a fellow who draws pictures on the tablecloth.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘I used to like it, but I haven’t been there in a long time. Chiara doesn’t like that sort of thing.’ He blushed and fiddled nervously with his liquor. ‘I’m sorry. That’s the wrong beginning.’

  ‘Let’s make a bargain, George.’

  He gave her a quick, shamefaced glance. ‘What sort of bargain?’

  ‘Tonight nothing is wrong. We say what we feel, do what we like, and then forget it. No strings, no promises, no apologies…I need it like that.’

  ‘I need it too, Ruth. Does that sound like disloyalty?’

  She leaned across and placed a warning finger on his lips. ‘No second thoughts, remember! ’

  ‘I’ll try…Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Working. Working with my juden and wondering why I do it.’

  ‘Don’t you know why?’

  ‘Sometimes. At others it’s pretty meaningless.’

  She got up and switched on the radio-player, and the room was filled with the saccharine tones of a Neapolitan singer. Ruth Lewin laughed. ‘Pretty schmalzy, isn’t it?’

  Faber grinned and lay back in his chair, relaxed for the first time. ‘Now who’s having second thoughts? I like schmalz – and I haven’t heard the word three times since I left New York.’

  ‘It’s the Yiddish in me. It slips out when I’m off my guard.’

  ‘Does that worry you?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘That’s a long story, and it’s not for now. Finish your drink, George. Then take me out and make a Roman of me, just for tonight.’

  At the doorway of the apartment he kissed her lightly on the lips, and then they walked, arm in arm, past the ghostly marbles of the Forum. Then for a final surrender to whimsy, they hailed a carrozza and sat holding hands while the tired horse carried them clippity-clop over the Palatine bridge and into the populous lanes of Trastevere.

  The restaurant was called ’o Cavalluccio. Its entrance was an old oaken door, studded with rusty nails. Its sign was a prancing stallion, roughly carved into the weathered stone of the lintel and picked out with whitewash. The interior was a large, vaulted cellar, hung with dusty lanterns and set with heavy wooden refectory tables. The clientele was mostly families from the quarter, and the spirit of the place was one of amiable tyranny.

  The proprietor, a dumpy fellow in a white apron, set them down in a dark corner, planked a flask of red and a flask of white wine in front of them, and announced his policy with a flashing smile:

  ‘As much wine as you can drink! Good wine; too, but no fancy labels. Two kinds of pasta only. Two main dishes – a roast of chicken and a stew of veal in Marsala. After that you’re in the hands of God!’

  As Faber had promised, there was a guitar player, a swarthy youth with a red bandana round his neck and a tin cup tied to his belt for an alms-box. There was a bearded poet dressed in blue denims, home-made sandals and a sackcloth shirt, who turned an honest penny by mocking the guests with verses improvised in the Roman dialect. For the rest, the entertainment was provided by the clowning of the guests themselves and an occasional raucous chorus called by the guitar player. The pasta was served in great wooden bowls, and an impudent waiter tied a huge napkin round their necks to protect their noble bosoms from the sauce.

  Ruth Lewin was delighted with the novelty, and Faber, plucked out of his normal ambience, seemed ten years younger and endowed with an unsuspected wit.

  He charmed her with his talk of Roman intrigues and Vatican gossips, and she found herself talking freely of the long and tortuous journey which had brought her at last to the Imperial City. Encouraged by Faber’s sympathy, she exposed her problems more freely than she had ever done, except to an analyst, and found to her surprise that she was no longer ashamed of them. On the contrary they seemed to define themselves more clearly, and the terror they had once held for her was magically diminished.

  ‘…For me everything boiled itself down to a question of security, and the need to put down some kind of roots in a world that had shifted too quickly for my childish understanding. I never seemed to be able to do it. Everything in my life, people, the Church, the happiness I enjoyed – and I did have moments of great happiness – everything seemed to have the look of “here one day and gone the next”…I found that I could not believe in the permanence of the simplest relationship. The worst moments were when I found myself doubting that anything that had happened to me was real at all. It was as if I had been living a dream – as if I, the dreamer, were a dream too. Does that sound strange to you, George?’

  ‘No, not strange. Sad, yes, but rather refreshing too.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  He sipped his wine thoughtfully, and then gave her a long, searching look over the rim of his glass. ‘I suppose because Chiara is just the opposite. In spite of everything that has happened to her, she seems completely certain of what she wants in life, and how she’s going to get it. There’s only one way to be happy – her way. There’s only one way to be amused or content – the way to which she has been bred. Her marriage to Calitri shocked her dreadfully, but basically it didn’t change her view of life…I think in the end you may be more fortunate than she is.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  ‘I think you must. You may not be happy yet. You may never be truly secure. But you’re more flexible, more ready to understand the thousand ways people live, and think, and suffer.’

  ‘I often wonder if that is a good thing – or whether it’s just another illusion on my part. You know, I have the same dream over and over again. I talk to someone. He does not hear me. I reach out for someone. He does not even see me. I am wa
iting to meet someone. He walks right past me. I’m convinced that I don’t exist at all.’

  ‘Take my word for it,’ said George Faber with a rueful smile. ‘You do exist and I find you very disturbing.’

  ‘Why disturbing?’.

  Before he had time to answer, the bearded poet came and took his stand by their table, and declaimed a long rigmarole that sent the diners into roars of laughter. George Faber laughed, too, and handed him a bank note for reward. The poet added another couplet that raised another roar of laughter, then backed away, bowing like a courtier.

  ‘What did he say, George? I missed most of the dialect.’

  ‘He said we weren’t young enough to be single, but we weren’t too old to look like lovers. He wondered if your husband knew what you were doing, and whether the baby would look like him or me. When I gave him the money he said I was rich enough not to care, but if I wanted to keep you I’d better marry you in Mexico.’

  Ruth Lewin blushed. ‘A very uncomfortable poet, but I like him, George.’

  ‘I like him too. I wish I could afford to be his patron.’

  They were silent a while, listening to the clatter and the muted, melancholy music of the guitar. Then, casually enough, Faber asked:

  ‘What will you do with yourself during the summer?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just now I’m dreading it. In the end I’ll probably take one of those CIT tours. They can be pretty dull, I know, but at least one isn’t alone.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think of joining me for a few days? Positano first, then Ischia.’

  She did not shrink away from the question, but faced it in her forthright fashion. ‘On what terms, George?’

  ‘The same as tonight. No strings, no promises, no apologies.’

  ‘What about Chiara?’

  He gave her a shrugging, uneasy answer. ‘I won’t question what she does in Venice. I don’t think she’ll question me. Besides, what harm is there? I’ll be working for Chiara. You and I are both grown up. I’d like you to think about it.’

  She smiled and refused him gently. ‘I mustn’t think about it, George. You’re finding it hard enough to cope with the woman you have. I doubt you could handle me as well.’ She reached out and took his hand between her palms. ‘You have a rough fight ahead of you, but you can’t win it if you split down the middle. I can’t divide myself, either…Please don’t be angry with me. I know myself too well.’

  He was instantly penitent. ‘I’m sorry. I guess it sounded pretty crude, but I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, and if I try to tell you how grateful I am I’ll cry. Now will you please take me home?’

  Their driver was still waiting for them, patient and knowing, in the darkened alley. He roused his dozing horse and set him on the long way home: the Margherita bridge, the Villa Borghese, the Quirinale Piazza, and down past the Colosseum to the Street of St Gregory. Ruth Lewin laid her head on Faber’s shoulder and dozed fitfully while he listened to the clip-clop of the ancient nag and searched his troubled heart.

  When they reached Ruth Lewin’s apartment, he helped her alight and held her for a moment in the shadow of the doorway.

  ‘May I come up for a little while?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  She was too sleepy to protest, and too jealous of the little that was left of the evening. She made him coffee, and they sat together listening to music, each waiting for the other to break the dangerous spell. Impulsively, George Faber took her in his arms and kissed her, and she clung to him in a long and passionate embrace. Then he held her away from him and pleaded without reserve:

  ‘I want to stay with you, Ruth. Please, please let me stay.’

  ‘I want you to stay too, George. I want it more than anything in the world…But I’m going to send you home.’

  ‘Don’t tease me, Ruth. You’re not a girl like that. For God’s sake don’t tease me!’

  All the needs of the years welled up in her and forced her towards surrender, but she drew away from him and pleaded in her turn. ‘Go home, George. I can’t have you like this. I’m not strong enough for it. You’ll wake in the morning and feel guilty about Chiara. You’ll thank me and slip away. And because you feel disloyal I won’t see you again. I do want to see you. I could be in love with you if I let myself, but I don’t want half a heart and half a man…Please, please go!’

  He shook himself like a man waking out of a dream. ‘I will come back, you know that.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘You don’t hate me?’

  ‘How can I hate you? But I don’t want you to hate yourself because of me.’

  ‘If it doesn’t work out with Chiara…’

  She closed his lips with a last light kiss. ‘Don’t say it, George! You’ll know soon enough…Perhaps too soon for both of us.’

  She walked with him to the portico, watched him climb into the carrozza, and waited until the fading hoof-beats had died into the murmur of the city. Then she went to bed, and for the first time in months she slept dreamlessly.

  In the Great Hall of the Gregorian University, Jean Télémond stood facing his audience.

  His address lay before him on the rostrum, translated into impeccable Latin by a colleague of the Society. His back was straight. His hands were steady. His mind was clear. Now that the moment of crisis had come, he felt strangely calm, even elated by this final and resolute commitment of a lifetime’s work to the risk of open judgement.

  The whole authority of the Church was here, summed up in the person of the Pontif, who sat, lean, dark, and oddly youthful, with the Father General on one side of him, and Cardinal Leone on the other. The best minds of the Church were here: six Cardinals of the Curia; the theologians and philosophers, dressed in their diverse habits – Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans, and men of the ancient order of St Benedict. The future of the Church was here: in the students with scrubbed and eager faces, who had been chosen from every country in the world to study at the seat of Christendom. The diversity of the Church was here, too, expressed in himself, the exile, the solitary seeker, the exotic who yet wore the black tunic of brotherhood and shared the ministry of the servants of the Word.

  He waited a moment, gathering himself. Then he made the sign of the Cross, delivered the opening allocution to the Pontiff and the Curia, and began his address:

  ‘It has taken a journey of twenty years to bring me to this place. I must therefore beg your patience while I explain myself, and the motives which prompted this long and often painful pilgrimage. I am a man and a priest. I became a priest because I believed that the primary and the only perfectly sustaining relationship was that between the Creator and the creature, and because I wished to affirm this relationship in a special fashion by a life of service. But I have never ceased to be a man, and as a man I have found myself committed, without recourse, to the world in which I live.

  ‘As a man, my deepest conviction – confirmed by all my experience – is that I am one person. I who think, I who feel, I who fear, I who know and believe, am a unity. But this unity of myself is part of a greater unity. I am separate from the world, but I belong to it because I have grown out of its growth just as the world has grown out of the unity of God as the issue of a single creative act.

  ‘I, therefore, the one, am destined to participate in the oneness of the world, as I am destined to participate in the oneness of God. I cannot set myself in isolation from creation any more than I can, without destroying myself, set myself in isolation from the Creator.

  ‘From the moment that this conviction became clear to me, another followed it by inevitable consequence. If God is one, and the world is one issue of His eternal act, and I am a single person spawned out of this complex unity, then all knowledge – of myself, of creation, of the Creator – is one knowledge. That I do not have all knowledge, that it presents itself to me by fragments and in diversity, means nothing except that I am finite, limited by time and space and the capacity of my brain.


  ‘Every discovery I make points in the same direction. No matter how contradictory the fragments of knowledge may appear, they can never truly contradict one another. I have spent a lifetime in one small branch of science, palaeontology. But I am committed to all sciences, to biology, to physics, to the chemistry of inorganic matter, to philosophy, and to theology, because all are branches of the same tree, and the tree grows upwards towards the same sun. Never, therefore, can we risk too much or dare too boldly in the search for knowledge, since every step forward is a step towards unity – of man with man, of men with the universe, of the universe with God…’

  He glanced up, trying to read in the faces of his audience a reaction to his words. But there was nothing to. read. They wanted to hear his whole case before they committed themselves to a verdict. He turned back to the typescript and read on.

  ‘Today I want to share with you a part of the journey which I have made for the past twenty years. Before we begin it, however, there are two things I want to say. The first is this. An exploration is a very special kind of journey. You do not make it like a trip from Rome to Paris. You must never demand to arrive on time and with all your baggage intact. You walk slowly with open eyes and open minds. When the mountains are too high to climb you march around them and try to measure them from the lowlands. When the jungle is thick you have to cut your way through it, and not resent too much the labour or the frustration.

  ‘The second thing is this: When you come to record the journey, the new contours, the new plants; the strangeness and the mystery, you find often that your vocabulary is inadequate. Inevitably your narrative will fall far short of the reality. If you find this defect in my record, then I beg you to tolerate it and let it not discourage you from contemplation of strange landscapes which, nevertheless, bear the imprint of the creative finger of God.

  ‘Now to begin…’

  He paused, twitched his cassock over his thin shoulders, and lifted his lined face to them in a kind of challenge.

  ‘I want you to come with me, not as theologians or philosophers, but as scientists – men whose knowing begins with seeing. What I want you to see is man: a special kind of being who exists in a visible ambience at a determinable point in time and space.