by Morris West
“You talk like an Illuminist!” Drexel smiled to take the edge off the allusion. “I’m glad our colleagues in the Congregation can’t hear you.”
“You should tell our colleagues.” There was a ring of steel in Jean Marie’s answer. “They will soon hear the battle cry of Michael the Archangel. ‘Quis sicut Deus?’ Who is like to God? For all their syllogisms I wonder how many will rise to the challenge and confront the Antichrist? Has any of the Friends of Silence denounced the excesses in Tübingen and elsewhere?”
“If they have”—Drexel shrugged—“we haven’t heard of it. But then, they are prudent men. They prefer to let passions cool before they speak.… However, you and I are too old to mourn over the follies of our brethren—and we’re too old to cure them either. Tell me something, Jean. It may sound an impertinent question; but the answer is important to me.”
“Ask it then.”
“You’re sixty-five years old. You’ve risen as high as a man can go. Today you’ve put yourself back to zero. You have no calling, no visible future. What do you really want?”
“Enough light to see a divine sense in this mad world. Enough faith to follow the light. That’s the core of it all, isn’t it? Faith to move mountains, to say to the cripple: ‘Arise and walk!’”
“We also need some love to make the darkness tolerable.”
“Amen to that!” said Jean Marie softly. “I must go, Anton. I’ve kept you up late.”
“Before you leave… how are you placed for money?”
“Well enough, thank you. I have a patrimony, administered by my brother, who is a banker in Paris.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“There’s a pilgrim hostel over by Santa Cecilia. I lodged there when I first came to Rome.”
“Why not stay here? I have a spare room.”
“Thank you, Anton, but no! I don’t belong here anymore. I have to acclimatize myself to the world. I may want to sit late in the piazza and talk to the lonely ones.” He added with an odd humorous pathos: “Perhaps, in the last cold hour before the day-spring, He may want to talk to me.… Please understand and pray for me.”
“I wish I could come with you, Jean.”
“You were made for better company, old friend. I was born under a falling star. Almost, it feels as if I were going home.” He gestured towards the lights that marked the papal apartments.… “Stay close to our friend upstairs. He is named for a lion but he is really a house-trained pussycat. When the bad times come he will need a strong man at his side.…”
A handshake, a brief farewell, and he was gone, a lean, frail figure swallowed up in the shadows of the stairwell. Anton Cardinal Drexel poured himself the last of the wine and pondered wryly on the aphorism of another Illuminist, Louis Claude de Saint-Martin: “All mystics speak the same language because they come from the same country.”
The journey to Tübingen was a lesson in his own inadequacy. For the first time in forty years he wore civilian clothes and it took him half-an-hour to adjust the cravat under his summer shirt. In the monastery he had been cushioned by a familiar routine. In the Vatican his every move had been attended. Now he was totally without privilege. He had to shout for a taxi to take him to the airport, argue with the bustling Roman who claimed to have called it first. He had no small notes for the tip and the driver dismissed him with contempt. There was no one to direct him to the counter where he must pick up his ticket for Stuttgart. The girl had no change for his large bank notes, and he had never owned a credit card in all his clerical life.
In the Vatican the bodily functions of the Pope were carried on in sacred privacy. In the airport urinal he stood in line, while the drunk next to him sprayed his shoes and his trouser leg. At the bar, he was jostled and had coffee spilled on his sleeve; and, for a final indignity, the aircraft was overbooked and he had to argue his way into a seat.
On board he was faced with a question of identity. His neighbour was an elderly woman from the Rhineland, nervous and voluble. Once betrayed into speaking German, he was drowned in the torrent of her talk. Finally, she asked him what he did for a living. It took him a good ten seconds to frame the obvious answer.
“I am retired, dear lady.”
“My husband’s retired. He’s become quite impossible. How does your wife take to having you round the house all the time?”
“I’m a bachelor.”
“Strange that a handsome man like you never married.”
“I’m afraid I was married to my career.”
“What were you? A doctor? A lawyer?”
“Both,” Jean Marie assured her solemnly—and solaced his conscience with a casuist’s logic. He had indeed been a doctor of souls; and there was law enough in the Vatican to choke Justinian.
When he arived in Stuttgart, he was met by Johann Mendelius, eager to welcome him, but somehow dour and strained like a junior officer, come from his first battlefield. He called Jean Marie “sir,” avoiding all clerical titles. He drove carefully round the hill roads, taking the longer route into Tübingen because, as he put it, there were things to be explained before they arrived.
“… Father is still desperately ill. The explosive in the letter bomb was sandwiched between wafers of aluminum and impregnated with tiny ball-bearings. Some of these are embedded in one eye socket, very close to the brain. We know he has lost the sight of that eye and may lose the other. We haven’t seen his face; but it is obviously much mutilated, and, of course, he has lost his left hand. Other operations will be necessary, but not until he is much stronger. There is still a dangerous infection in the arm and the eye socket and the range of antibiotics that he can tolerate is very limited.… So we wait. Mother, Katrin and I visit the hospital by turns.… Mother is holding up extraordinarily well.… She has courage for all of us; but don’t be surprised if she gets very emotional when she sees you.… We’ve told no one else you are coming except Professor Meissner. She’s Father’s closest friend on the faculty.… The way things are now, everyone in Tübingen is peddling some gossip or other. As soon as Father recovers—if he does—I’m moving him far away.”
The undertone of anger and bitterness was not lost on Jean Marie Barette. He said, “I heard about the demonstrations. Georg Rainer sent photographs to the Vatican. Apparently feelings are running high.”
“Too high!” The rejoinder was abrupt. “My father was well known and respected, yes! But he was never a very public man. These parades and demonstrations were not spontaneous; they were subtly and carefully organized.”
“In so short a time?” Jean Marie was dubious. “By whom? And for what reasons?”
“As a propaganda piece to hide the real authors of the attempt on my father’s life.”
“If you will kindly pull in to the next parking bay,” said Jean Marie Barette firmly, “we’ll talk this out before we get to Tübingen. Unlike your father I have been a very public man—and I do not want to walk into any surprises!”
Half a mile farther on they parked between a meadow and a pinewood and Johann Mendelius gave his reading of the attempted assassination.
“… We begin in Rome. By pure accident, Father is a witness to a terrorist killing. Big headlines, big warnings: there may be attempts to silence him or exact reprisals on him and his family. All that is clear, simple and logical.… Father and Mother come back to Tübingen. The criminal police contact them with renewed warnings. A drawing of my father is found in the pocket of a man killed in a bar brawl. More words of caution.… Meantime, the President of the University tells his senior faculty to expect a military call-up, to be ready to supply scientific specialists for the armed services and to cooperate in security surveillance of the student body. My father objects very strongly to the surveillance. He threatens to resign if it is enforced.… On top of that he writes the account of your abdication and is suddenly known all over the world. There is a smell of politics about the question which is not lost on our German ministries.… My father is no longer simply an ac
ademic—he is an international figure. In a time when the men at the top are gearing up to sell a war to the unwary public, my father could be considered dangerous.…”
“And as he is already under threat from an underground group, there is splendid cover for an officially sanctioned assassination!”
“Exactly,” said Johann Mendelius. “And when the attempt is made, the whole town is manipulated into a protest. There’s a bonus, too! Demonstrations against the guest-workers hasten the day when they can be shipped home or turned to forced labour in a wartime situation!”
“You’ve read me the hypothesis,” said Jean Marie Barette calmly. “Now show me the proof!”
“I don’t have proof, only grounds for very deep suspicion.”
“For instance?”
“You say you saw photographs of student demonstrations. I saw the demonstrators themselves—and I’m certain most of them never saw the inside of a lecture hall. The newspapers published a diagram of the letter bomb, supposedly supplied by the police forensic department. The real bomb was something quite different—a highly sophisticated device fabricated with laboratory precision.”
“Who told you that?”
“Dieter Lorenz. He was my father’s contact in the Kriminalamt. Two days after the event, he was promoted and transferred to Stuttgart—off the case!”
“Anything else?”
“Lots of small things; but they only make sense in the context of this special town of ours. I’m not the only one who thinks like this. Professor Meissner agrees with me—and she’s a very bright lady. You’ll meet her at our house this evening.…”
“One more question. Have you said anything of this to your mother?”
“No. She has enough to worry about; and the sympathy of the townspeople helps her.”
“Your father, of course, knows nothing?”
“We have no idea how much he knows.” The young man made a weary gesture. “He can make sounds of recognition; he squeezes our hands to acknowledge what we say; but that’s all. Sometimes I think death would be a mercy for him.”
“He will survive. His real work has not begun yet.”
“I wish I could believe that, sir.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“No.”
“That does make life difficult.”
“On the contrary, it simplifies it very much. However brutal the facts may be, you don’t complicate them with religious fiction.”
“You’ve just told me a story which, if it is true, is as near to pure evil as it is possible to get. Your father is mutilated, may yet die, in an assassination attempt by agents of your own country. What is your remedy against those who treat murder as a simple political expedient?”
“If you really want the answer to that, sir, I’ll show it to you tomorrow.… May we go now?”
“Before we do, I want a favour from you, Johann.”
“Ask it, please!”
“You are the son of my dear friend. Please don’t call me sir. My name is Jean Marie.”
For the first time the young man relaxed and his taut features twitched into a smile. He shook his head. “That won’t work, I’m afraid. Mother and Father would be shocked if I used your Christian name.”
“How about Uncle Jean? It will save a lot of unnecessary explanations when you introduce me to your friends.”
“Uncle Jean…” He tested the phrase once and again, then he grinned and nodded agreement. “So, Uncle Jean, let me get you home. We are to have an early lunch because Mother wants to take you to the hospital at three this afternoon.” Johann eased the car out onto the highway and slipped ahead of a big hauler with a load of pine logs. “How long will you be able to stay with us?”
“Only a day or two; but long enough, I hope, to be of some use to your father and your mother—perhaps also to make the acquaintance of the noonday devil who has come to live in your town.”
“The noonday devil!” Johann Mendelius gave him a sidelong tolerant smile. “I haven’t heard that since Bible class.”
“But you’re not afraid of him?”
“Yes, I’m afraid.” His answer was swift and simple. “But not of devils and spirit adversaries. I’m frightened of us—men and women—and the terrible destructive madness that takes hold of us all.… If I knew for certain who did this to my father I would kill him without a second thought.”
“To what end?”
“Justice—to set the balance straight again, deter the future adversary.”
“It’s your father who is the victim. Would he approve?”
“Wrong, Uncle Jean! Father’s not the only victim. What about Mother, Katrin, me—all the folk in the town who have been infected by this single act? Nothing will ever be the same again—for any of us.”
“It seems to me,” said Jean Marie deliberately, “you have a very clear idea of the nature of evil—and of the evil one as adversary.… But what about good? How does that present itself to you?”
“Very simply!” His voice was suddenly tight and hard. “My mother is good. She’s brave and she’s not a woman who finds it easy to be so. She thinks of us and Father before she thinks of herself.… By me that’s goodness. Father is good, too. You look in his face and you see a Mensch, and there’s always enough love to get you through the bad times.… But you’ll see what’s happened to these good people!… And I’m glad you’re coming as plain Uncle Jean; because I don’t think I’d have wanted to know you as Pope.…”
“That’s the worst piece of logic I’ve ever heard.” Jean Marie gave a wry chuckle. “You’d have been very flattered to know me. I was a much more agreeable fellow then than I am now. When I was elected one journalist called me the most personable of modern princes! Remember, it isn’t always the prince who is the evildoer. Generally he’s not clever enough to be a Satan. The real adversary is the one who whispers malice in his ear and offers to do his dirty work and keep him immune from bad report…”
“But whichever is the evil one, we get him because we deserve him.” Johann drove with deliberate care, as if he feared the discussion might excite him to some dangerous maneuver. “We want to be always innocent and out of the reach of malice. Father took the precautions he was told to take, but no more. An excessive care was beneath his dignity. He saw it as a triumph for terror. I don’t see it that way. I walk very softly. I watch, I listen—and I carry a gun that I’m not afraid to use. Does that shock you, Uncle Jean?”
“No, it doesn’t. It just makes me wonder how you will feel when you kill your first human being.”
“I hope I never have to do it.”
“Yet you go constantly prepared for that sole act. The man who tried to kill your father did it at a distance, mechanically, like blasting rock in a quarry. But with a pistol you will kill face to face. You will hear the cry of the victim in agony. You will see death in his eyes. You will smell blood.… Are you ready for that?”
“As I told you,” said Johann Mendelius with wintry simplicity, “I hope the moment never comes; but, yes, I am ready for it.”
Jean Marie Barette said nothing. The matter was beyond argument. He hoped it was not beyond the saving power of grace. He remembered the stark empty landscape of the vision, the planet from which mankind had obliterated itself, so that there was nothing and no one left to love.
His meeting with Lotte was strange at first. There was a moment of shock, almost of disappointment, when she saw him dressed in a layman’s clothes. A sudden embarrassment held her back even from a hand’s touch. He had to take her arms and draw her to him. For a split second it seemed that she would reject the embrace; then her control snapped and she clung to him, sobbing quietly, while he soothed her like a child, with small and tender words.
Katrin came home at that moment. Johann presented her to Uncle Jean, and after the first flurry of embarrassed talk, they were able to be calm together. Katrin had the morning’s report on her father.
“… I saw Dr. Pelzer. He’s not very happy. T
he fever has flared up again. Papa doesn’t respond to talk as well as he did yesterday. You know how he presses your hand when he understands something? Well, this morning I could only get an occasional response. The rest of the time he seemed to be unconscious.… Dr. Pelzer said I could leave. If there’s any sudden change, we’ll be called.”
Lotte nodded and turned away to busy herself with the luncheon preparations. Katrin followed her out to the kitchen.
Johann said brusquely, “This is what it’s like. We’re all on a seesaw: up one moment, down the next. That’s why I don’t want to build up false hopes for Mother or Katrin. I don’t want them clutching at cobwebs.”
“You’re afraid I may try to give them false hope?”
“You told me Father would live.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“I am not sure; so I’d rather Mother and Katrin learned to live with uncertainty. There’ll be grief enough whether Father lives or dies.”
“I’m your guest. Of course I’ll respect your wishes.”
At that moment Lotte came in carrying a linen cloth and napkins. She handed them to Johann and asked him to lay the table. She took Jean Marie’s arm and led him into the next room.
“… Katrin’s doing the lunch. We can be quiet for a few minutes.… It’s funny I can’t get used to seeing you like this. You always looked so grand in Rome. It’s strange to hear the children calling you Uncle Jean!…”
“I’m afraid Johann doesn’t entirely approve of me.”
“He’s trying so hard to be the man of the house that he gets mixed up sometimes. He can’t get it out of his head that you were somehow responsible for what has happened to his father.”
“He’s right. I am responsible.”
“On the other hand, he knows how much Carl loves you and respects you, but he can’t walk on that sacred ground until you or Carl invites him in.… That’s difficult. I understand, because it was difficult for me, too, at first.… Add to all that the fear of war, the resentment that he, like so many millions, will be called to fight for a cause already lost.… Be patient with him, Jean! Be patient with us all. Our little world is tumbling round our ears and we are groping for something solid to hold.”