by Morris West
“I will tell you why, brother Jean! It is because we, unlike many others, keep the bargain we have made with our clients—of whom you are one. Others may do ill—monstrously ill!—but you cannot blame us because we do well! I think you owe me and my colleagues an apology!”
“You’re right, Alain.” Jean Marie responded gravely to the reproof. “I beg your pardon—yours, too, madame, gentlemen!… But I hope you will permit me to make an explanation. I was shocked yesterday, shocked to the marrow, to learn that, in this my homeland, there are plans for the elimination of the handicapped, immediately war breaks out.… Do any of you know of this matter?”
The man from the Crédit Lyonnais pursed his lips as though someone had put alum on his tongue.
“One hears all sorts of rumours. Some of them are based on fact; but the facts are not fully understood. If you calculate to kill a million people with a single atomic blast, and contaminate a huge peripheral area, then you have to count on some form of mercy killing for survivors beyond hope.… In the general chaos, who’s going to draw the lines? You have to leave it to the officer in charge of the area, whoever he turns out to be.”
The man from Barclays was a mite more subtle and urbane.
“Surely, my dear sir, the scenario for chaos which you set down in your own writings is almost the same as that prepared by our secular governments. The difference is that they are called upon to provide practical remedies and they do not have the luxury of moralizing about them. Even you cannot moralize about triage in a frontline hospital. The surgeon, walking down the line of wounded, is the sole arbiter of life and death. ‘Operate on this one, he will survive! This one is second on the list, he may survive. Give that one a cigarette and a shot of morphine, he will die!’… Now, unless you are under the enormous stress of that adjudication, I submit, sir, that you have no standing in the immediate case.…”
Before Jean Marie had time to rebut the argument, Mme. Saracini came to his rescue. She said with bland humour:
“You see, my dear Monsieur Barette, you have, until this moment, lived a very sheltered life. You must understand that God gave up making land millions of years ago. So, if you’ve got a piece of real estate you hang on to it. The oil’s running out with the rest of the fossil fuels. So, you have to fight to get your share. Rembrandt’s dead and so is Gauguin. So, there aren’t any more of their pictures. But human beings—pouf! There are too many of us already. We’re due for a little genocide; and if the overkill is exaggerated then we can soon start breeding again—with some help from the sperm banks, which are housed in our vaults.”
She made such a black comedy of it that they had to laugh; then, when the tension had relaxed, she pushed straight ahead into the trustees’ report, which showed that Jean Marie Barette could live like a prince on his income. He thanked them for the courtesy, apologized for his lapse of manners and told them that he would draw on them only for his personal needs and let the trust pile up until Judgment Day.
The men of Barclays and the Crédit Lyonnais and the Chase took their leave. Mme. Saracini stayed behind. Alain had invited her to make a foursome at lunch with Odette, Jean Marie and himself. While they were waiting for Odette, Alain served sherry and then left them, while he took a telephone call from London. Mme. Saracini raised her glass in a silent toast and then delivered a cool reproof.
“You really were quite unpleasant to us. Why?”
“I don’t know. Suddenly I was seeing two images on a split screen: all those whirring computers in their underground caverns—and, above, the bodies of children burned in front of an ice-cream parlour.”
“My colleagues won’t forgive you. You have made them feel guilty.”
“Will you?”
“I happen to agree with you,” said Mme. Saracini, “but I can’t make frontal attacks. I’m the girl who makes them laugh first and see sense afterwards—when their manhood isn’t threatened.”
“Is my information right or wrong?”
“About euthanasia for the incompetents? It’s right, of course; but you’ll never prove it; because, in a strange subconscious fashion, all Europe is consenting to the conspiracy. We want an exit for ourselves and our loved ones when things get too horrible to bear.”
“Do you have any children, madame?”
“No.”
“And your husband?”
“He died a year after our marriage.”
“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t distress yourself. I’m glad you were interested enough to ask. As a matter of fact, I believe you know my father.”
“Do I?”
“He is called Vittorio Malavolti. He’s serving twenty years in prison for bank fraud. As I remember, he handled a great many transactions for the Vatican—cost you a lot of money, too!…”
“I remember. I hope you have been able to forget.”
“Please! Don’t be facile with me! I don’t want to forget. I love my father. He is a financial genius, and he was manipulated by a lot of men whom he still protects. I worked with him. He taught me all I know about banking. He set me up clean with clean money. I bought the Banco Ambrogiano all’ Estero when it was a hole-in-the-wall in Chiasso. I cleaned it up and built it up and made some strong alliances and every year I pay five percent of my father’s personal debts, so that when he comes out—if he comes out!—he’ll be able to walk down the street like a man.… And that reminds me. Don’t you dare patronize your brother! He helped me get started. He pushed me into situations like this trusteeship. If he sometimes looks like a fool, it’s because he married the wrong woman. But Pope or no Pope, he put you down this morning when you deserved it! That makes for respect!”
He was startled by her vehemence. Her hand was unsteady and a little runnel of liquor slopped over the side of her glass. He gave her the handkerchief from his top pocket to mop it up. He asked mildly, “Why are you so angry with me?”
“Because you don’t know how important you are—especially now that you’re out of office. Those articles in the newspapers made people love you. Even those who didn’t agree respected you and paid attention. Sansom, the Barclays man, quoted your writings back at you this morning—and, believe me, he hardly reads anything but the financial pages!… So, when you do something unpleasant, you disappoint a lot of people.”
“I’ll try to remember it,” said Jean Marie, and added with a grin, “It’s a long time since I’ve had my knuckles rapped.”
She blushed like a schoolgirl and made an awkward apology. “I’ve got a sharp tongue, too—and a sort of proprietory interest.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Way back in the fourteenth century both my husband’s family and mine were friends and correspondents of the Benincasa and of Saint Catherine herself. They supported her in her efforts to get your namesake Gregory the Eleventh back from Avignon.… It’s a long time ago, but we Sienese are jealous of our history—and sometimes a little mystical about it.” She put down the glass, fished in her handbag and brought out a notebook. “Give me your address and telephone number. I want to talk to you again.”
“About anything in particular?”
“Would my immortal soul be important enough?”
“Most certainly.” He acknowledged defeat with a smile and gave her the information.
And that, for the moment, was the end of their talk. Alain came in with Odette, elegant, expensive, dropping names like summer raindrops. Alain gave Jean Marie a conspiratorial wink and then left him to carry the burden of Odette’s monologue until they arrived at the restaurant. Luncheon was an uneasy meal. Odette dominated the talk, while Alain remonstrated feebly against her more obvious snobberies. Mme. Saracini left before the coffee. Odette sniffed and pronounced a disdainful valediction:
“Extraordinary woman! Quite attractive—in an Italian sort of way. One wonders what domestic arrangements she’s made since her husband died.”
“It’s none of your business,” said Alain. “Let�
�s be family for a while. What are your plans from this point, Jean? If you propose to stay in France you’ll need some kind of permanent establishment: an apartment, a housekeeper…”
“It’s too early for that. I’m still too public a figure—and obviously embarrassing to old friends. It’s best I keep moving for a while.”
“You should also keep silent for a while,” said Alain moodily. “You are used to making big pronouncements from the top of the ladder; but, you can’t do that anymore. What you said at our meeting will be all over town by evening. That’s why I attacked you. I can’t afford to be associated with subversive talk.… It’s much more dangerous than you realize.”
Odette chimed in, positive and omniscient as always.
“Alain’s right! I was talking to the Defense Minister the other night. He’s a very attractive man; though his wife is quite impossible. He said that what we needed now was not controversy but sound, businesslike diplomacy and quiet negotiation while the armed forces prepare themselves.”
“Let’s all understand something,” said Jean Marie Barette firmly. “I became a priest to preach the word, to tell the good news of salvation. That’s not something I can be prudent about, or safe, or even kind! And I have to give you the same message as I preach to the rest of the world. The battle between good and evil is already joined; but the good man looks like a fool, while evil wears a wise man’s face and justifies murder by impeccable statistics!”
“Our Cardinal doesn’t say that.” Odette was ready, as always, for an argument. “Last Sunday he gave the television sermon on the coin of the tribute. He said it’s a matter of priorities. We obey the law as a means of serving God—and even if we make mistakes in good faith, God understands.”
“I’m sure he does, my dear,” said Jean Marie. “And I’m sure the Cardinal has his own reasons for being so bland—but it isn’t enough! It isn’t half enough!”
“We should go,” said Alain diplomatically. “I have a two-thirty appointment with the Finance Minister. He’s seeking our advice on the best way of launching a defense bond issue!”
He had promised himself an afternoon of simple and private pleasures—an hour of book hunting along the quais, a stroll among the artists in the Place du Tertre. He had been away so long, and this was home. Even if the family were difficult he should be able to take his ease in his own natal place.
The book hunt was rewarding. He found a first edition of Verlaine’s Fêtes galantes with an autographed quatrain pasted inside the cover. Verlaine had always haunted him: the sad, lost drunk who wrote angel songs and lived in hell with Rimbaud, and who, if there were any justice in the universe, must be singing canticles of joy at the footstool of the Almighty.
The Place du Tertre was at first a disappointment The painters had to eat and the tourists had to take home a piece of Paris and the canvases were cynically vulgar. But, in the least-favoured corner of the Place, he came upon a curiosity: a twisted, dwarfish girl, hardly more than twenty, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, etching on a glass plate with a diamond point. On the table beside her were specimens of her work: a goblet, a mirror, a punch bowl. Jean Marie picked up the goblet to examine it. The girl cautioned him roughly:
“If you drop it you pay for it!”
“I’ll be very careful. It’s beautiful. What does the design represent?”
She hesitated for a moment, as if afraid of mockery, then explained, “I call it a cosmos cup. The goblet’s a circle, the sign of perfection. The lower part is the sea, waves and fishes. The upper is the land, wheat and vines. It’s a representation of the cosmos.…”
“And where are the humans in the cosmos?”
“They drink from the cup.”
The conceit pleased him. He wondered how far she would embellish it. He asked again, “Does God figure in the design?”
She gave him a swift, suspicious look. “Is it important?”
“It’s interesting, at least.”
“Are you a Christian?”
Jean Marie chuckled. “I am, even if I don’t look like one.”
“Then you’ll know that the fish and the vine and the wheat are symbols of Christ and the Eucharist.”
“How much is the piece?”
“Six hundred francs.” Then she added defensively, “There’s a lot of work in it.”
“I can see that. I’ll take it. Can you pack it safely for me?”
“Yes. It won’t be elegant, but it will be safe.”
She set down the work she was doing and began packing the goblet in a stained cardboard box filled with plastic pellets. Watching her, Jean Marie noticed how thin she was, and how, with the small effort, the sweat broke out on her forehead, and her hands fumbled unsteadily with the fragile piece. As he counted out the money he said:
“I’m a sentimental collector. I always like to celebrate with the artist. Will you join me for a drink and a sandwich?”
Again she gave him that wary sidelong look and said curtly, “Thanks, but you paid a good price. You don’t have to do me favours.”
“I was asking you to do me one,” said Jean Marie Barette. “I’ve had a rough morning and a nervous lunch. I’d be glad of someone to talk to. Besides, it’s only three steps from here to the café.”
“Oh, very well.”
She shoved the parcel into his hands, called to a nearby painter to watch her table, then walked with Jean Marie to the café at the comer of the Place. She had a curious, hoppity gait which slewed her almost in a half-circle with every pace. The spinal curvature was grossly pronounced, and her head, elfishly beautiful, was comically mismatched, as if set askew by a drunken sculptor.
She ordered coffee and a Cognac and a ham roll and a hard-boiled egg. She ate ravenously, while Jean Marie toyed with a glass of Vichy water and tried to keep the conversation alive.
“I had another piece of luck this afternoon: a first edition of Verlaine’s Fêtes galantes.”
“You collect books, too?”
“I love beautiful things; but these are gifts for other people. Your goblet will go to a lady near Versailles who has multiple sclerosis. I’ll write and explain the symbolism to her.…”
“I can save you the trouble. I typed up a little piece about it. I’ll give it to you before you go.… Strange you should ask me where God came in.”
“Why strange?”
“Most people find the subject embarrassing.”
“And you?”
“I gave up being embarrassed a long time ago. I accept that I’m a freak. It’s easier for me, it’s easier for people if I take my oddity for granted. Sometimes it’s hard though. Up here on the Place you get all types. There are some weird ones who want to sleep with crippled women. That’s why I was a bit sharp with you. Some of the weird ones are even older than you.”
Jean Marie threw back his head and laughed till the tears ran down his face. Finally he managed to splutter, “Dear God! And to think I had to come back to France to hear it!”
“Please! Don’t make fun of me! Things can get very rough up here, believe me!”
“I do believe you.” Jean Marie recovered himself slowly. “Now, would you mind telling me your name?”
“It’s signed on the piece—Judith.”
“Judith what?”
“Just that. In the community we use only first names.”
“The community? You mean you’re a nun?”
“Not exactly. There are about a dozen of us women who live together. We’re all handicapped in one way or another—not all physically! We share what we earn. We look after each other. We’re also a kind of refuge for young girls of the quarter who get into bother. It sounds primitive, and it is; but it’s very satisfying and we feel it puts us close to the early Christian idea. After what you paid for the cosmos cup, you deserve to be remembered tonight at the meal prayer! What’s your name? I like to keep a list of people who’ve bought my work.”
“Jean Marie Barette.”
“Are you anybody impo
rtant?”
“Just remember me in the meal prayer,” said Jean Marie. “But tell me one thing. How did this—this community of yours start?”
“That was strange. You remember some months ago the Pope abdicated and a new one was elected. Normally it wouldn’t have meant very much. I’ve never met anyone higher than a parish priest. But that was a bad time for me. Nothing seemed to be going right. There seemed to be a connection between that event and my life. You know what I mean?”
“I know very well,” said Jean Marie with feeling.
“A little while afterwards I was working in my studio. I had a little mansard apartment down the road from here. A girl I know, a model who works for some of the painters, staggered in. She was drunk and she’d been raped and punched about and her concierge had thrown her out. I sobered her up and took her to the clinic to be patched up, then I brought her back to my place. That night she turned very strange—remote and hostile and—how do I say it?—disconnected. I was frightened to be near her and yet I didn’t dare to leave her. So, just to get her interested in something, I started carving a little doll out of a clothes peg. I made three altogether; then we sat down and made dresses for them, as though I were the mother and she the child.… That night she slept quietly in my bed, holding my hand. Next day I got two friends to share the day with her; and so it went on until she came back to normal. By then we had a little group and it seemed a pity to break it up. We worked out that we could save money and live more comfortably if we lodged as a family.… The religious part? Well, that seemed to come in quite naturally. One girl had been in India and had learned meditation techniques. I’d been brought up in a convent and I rather liked the idea of meeting for family prayer. Then one of the girls brought home a worker priest she’d met in a brasserie. He talked to us, lent us books. Also, if we were bothered at night we’d telephone him and he’d arrive with a couple of his friends from the factory. That was a help, I promise you! Well, after a while, we managed to work out a pattern of living that suited us. Few of us were virgins. None of us is sure whether we’re ready for a long-term relationship with a man. Some of us may get married. But we’re all believers and we work at trying to live by the Book.… So there we are! I’m sure it doesn’t mean too much to you, but for us, it’s a peace-giving thing.…”