The Clowns of God

by Morris West

  “No, I missed it.”

  “The French President arrives here tomorrow, for emergency talks at Downing Street. Your friend Duhamel will be with him.”

  Jean Marie set down his fork with a clatter. “How do you know Duhamel is a friend of mine?”

  “He is mentioned in The Fraud.”

  “Oh!” Jean Marie was embarrassed. “I’ve never read the book.… I wonder if Duhamel would agree with your interpretation of global events.”

  “I hardly think it matters.”

  “It matters to me,” said Jean Marie testily. Then instantly he apologized. “I’m sorry; that was rude. There’s a long story between Duhamel and myself. I don’t want to bore you with it.”

  “I am never bored,” said Mr. Atha. “I am too much in love with this small world. Tell me about Duhamel.”

  It took a long time in the telling, from the moment of his first call from brother Alain’s office, to Duhamel’s resolve to end it all on Rubicon Day and the cosmos cup that was the symbol of the bond between them.

  When the story ended, Mr. Atha added his own footnote. “… So now you’d like it all tidy and tied with a pink ribbon: Duhamel and his wife safe in the arms of Everlasting Mercy. Yes?”

  “Yes!” said Jean Marie flatly. “It would be good to know something was tidy in the economy of salvation.”

  “I’m afraid it never is,” said Mr. Atha. “The mathematics are too complicated for human calculation.… I must leave you now. I’ll pick you up here at ten-thirty in the morning, clothed and in your right mind!”

  It was extraordinary how, in the shadow of Mr. Atha’s prediction, the simplest pleasures became exquisitely precious: the sight of children playing in the park, the faces of women window-shopping, the tinsel and the glitter of Christmas decorations, even the grey drizzle that drove them to seek shelter in the snuggery of an English pub.

  With Mr. Atha he felt the same kind of companionable ease that he had enjoyed in the early years of his friendship with Carl Mendelius. Yet there was a difference. With Mendelius there were always the explosive moments—of anger at an injustice, of excitement at some newly grasped idea, of emotion at a glimpse of hidden beauty. Mr. Atha, on the contrary, was inexorably calm, like a great rock in a turbulent sea. He did not communicate emotion. He understood it. He absorbed it. What he gave back was an almost physical sensation of peace and repose.

  If Jean Marie were surprised, Atha would somehow enlarge the surprise to wonder, the wonder to a serene illumination. If Jean Marie were saddened—as he was by moments—at the sight of a derelict sleeping rough in an alley, a youth soliciting on a street corner, a child with the marks of cruelty or neglect, Mr. Atha would transmute the sadness into a hope which, even under the threat of Armageddon, seemed not incongruous.

  “… In poorer and simpler countries we respect beggars and honour madmen. The beggars remind us of our own good fortune and the madmen are blessed by God with visions denied to others. We experience cataclysms but see them in terms of continuity rather than of termination.… The strange thing is that men who have unlocked the secrets of the atom and of the spiral helix will now use those secrets to destroy themselves.”

  “What is in us that brings us inevitably to the precipice?”

  “You were taught it from a child. Man is made in God’s image.… That means he is a creature of almost unbelievable resources, of frightening potential.”

  “Which he always misuses.”

  “Because he will not come to terms with his mortality. Always he believes he can cheat the hangman.”

  “I thought you told me you were not a believer.”

  “Nor am I,” said Mr. Atha. “Belief is impossible to me.”

  “Relatively or absolutely?” Jean Marie teased him with a theologian’s question.

  “Absolutely,” said Mr. Atha. “Now, let’s take a taxi. Waldo Pearson wants you at the Carlton Club at twelve forty-five precisely.”

  “You were invited, too.”

  “I know. I’m duly flattered; but I’m sure Pearson and Duhamel would like to have you to themselves.”

  “Duhamel? I didn’t know he was going to be there.”

  “I suggested it,” said Mr. Atha amiably. “After all, it is a farewell meal.… I’ll pick you up at two-thirty.”

  It was strange to be back in the room where he had been stricken, a little embarrassing to exchange nods or greetings with the men who had witnessed his collapse. This luncheon was another moment of testimony, given in the understated English fashion, but trumpet-clear to everyone familiar with the rituals of the realm. Waldo Pearson was saying, “This man is still my friend; the things you have read about him are lies; if any of you thinks otherwise let him raise his voice and tell me so!”

  The presence of Pierre Duhamel was also a potent witness to his good character. The President of the Republic was lunching at Downing Street. His most trusted counsellor was very visible at the Carlton Club, giving the lie to a libel about Jean Marie Barette. But Duhamel dismissed the issue over the soup.

  “… Pouf! A nothing! A graffito on the ruins, with no one left to read it! Don’t you agree, Waldo?”

  “Regrettably I do,” said Waldo Pearson. “We’re facing a grim Christmas and a very dubious New Year. You could be as villainous as the Borgias now, Jean, and no one would give a damn.”

  “I am told,” said Jean Marie carefully, “that we may not see a New Year.”

  Pearson and Duhamel exchanged anxious glances. Duhamel asked with dry irony, “Another vision?”

  “No,” said Jean Marie with a shrug of deprecation. “This time it was Mr. Atha, my therapist.”

  “In that case,” said Waldo Pearson with obvious relief, “we can enjoy lunch. I recommend the rack of lamb and a bottle of the club’s Burgundy. I chose it myself and you won’t get better at the President’s table.”

  Jean Marie was not to be put off so blandly, even by Waldo Pearson. He turned to Pierre Duhamel and put the barbed question, “How far are we from Rubicon Day?”

  “Not very far.” Duhamel answered without hesitation. “Troops of the Warsaw Pact are already mobilized in Europe. Soviet troops are also deployed in depth along the frontiers with China, Iran, Iraq and Turkey. The dispositions and strengths correspond with their known battle order and stage two of combat readiness.”

  “And what is stage two?” asked Jean Marie.

  “Basically it means they’re ready to meet any attack during winter and can be quickly reinforced for an offensive in early spring. Which is what we all expect.”

  “They’re following the textbook,” said Waldo Pearson. “Right down to the small print.”

  “But just suppose there’s a different textbook,” said Jean Marie quietly. “The order of battle is reversed and the big bang comes first.”

  “The way the Russians are disposed indicates they won’t do that.” Waldo Pearson spoke with solid John Bull conviction.

  “What if we are the ones with the different textbook?”

  “No comment,” said Pierre Duhamel.

  The waiter presented the wine, Waldo Pearson sniffed it, tasted it, announced that he was still proud of it and ordered it to be poured. He raised his glass to toast Jean Marie.

  “To your continued good health and the continued success of the book.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I read it.” Pierre Duhamel was eager in his praise. “Paulette, too! She laughed and wept over your little clown. Me? I began by admiring the cunning of your invention and the elegance of your style. Then I found myself arguing with your Jeannot—sometimes for him, sometimes against. In the end—well, how does one say it?—the book didn’t solve the problems of this lousy twentieth century, but it did leave a good taste in my mouth.… Like your wine, Waldo!”

  “My thanks to you both.” Jean Marie raised his own glass. “I am blessed in my friends.”

  “The lamb!” said Waldo Pearson. “We get the first cut! That’s why I like to be here right on
time.”

  Jean Marie was bemused. Pearson’s insistence on the trivia of the meal table seemed odd and out of character for a man so forceful and intelligent. But when Pearson left the table to take a telephone call, Duhamel explained it with a very Parisian aside.

  “So British! He knows this is good-bye. He doesn’t know how to say it. So he talks about the rack of lamb! Dear loving God! What a race!”

  “I’m an idiot,” said Jean Marie; and to cover his embarrassment he asked hastily, “What do you hear of Roberta?”

  “Nothing. She is always away.”

  “If you see her, give her my love.”

  “I will.”

  “And to Paulette, too.”

  “Jean, my friend, let me give you one last piece of advice.”

  “Go ahead!”

  “Think of yourself! Don’t worry about me, Roberta, Paulette, anyone else! We all have a telephone line to our private God—whoever He may be! If He’s there, He’ll talk to us. If not, the whole game’s a blague. Here! Have some more wine!…”

  “… Was it a good lunch?” asked Mr. Atha.

  “It was good-bye,” said Jean Marie Barette. “We walked out. We shook hands. I said, ‘Thank you for a pleasant meal.’ Waldo said, ‘Delighted to have you, my dear chap.’ Duhamel said, ‘What horrible exit lines!’ We laughed and went our separate ways.”

  “It sounds appropriate,” said Mr. Atha. “I’ve picked up our plane tickets and booked a car to take us to the airport. The flight leaves at eleven. Allowing for the normal hour’s delay, we should be in Munich by two in the afternoon. When we get back this evening I’ll get you to sign checks for the medical bills and for staff gratuities. That way you won’t be fussed in the morning.”

  “And then it finishes! Another chapter of my life closed—just like that!”

  Mr. Atha shrugged. “Going away is dying a little and dying is very simple. There is a saying among the desert people: ‘Never wave good-bye to the caravan. You will follow it soon.’… Now, we have to buy you some warm clothes; otherwise you’ll freeze in that Alpine valley.”

  It was snowing hard when they landed in Munich, the last plane in before the airport closed. There was a long queue at passport control. The frontier police were checking meticulously on all foreigners. Jean Marie wondered whether his name was listed in the black book of undesirables; but finally he was waved through the barrier into the customs hall, where there was another pile-up of harassed travellers. Mr. Atha steered him to the exit and then went back to wait for the baggage. A moment later Jean Marie was caught in a bear-hug embrace by Johann Mendelius.

  “Uncle Jean! You made it! You look wonderful! Mother and Father wanted to come in but the roads are bad; so I had to bring the jeep and use chains to get through the pass.”

  Jean Marie held him at arm’s length and looked at him. There was no boy left in him now. He was a man, all muscle and sinew. His face was weather-beaten, his hands hard and calloused. Jean Marie nodded his satisfaction.

  “Yes, you’ll do! You look like a real countryman!”

  “Oh, I am! Peasant to the boot soles! We’ve had a big scramble to make the place habitable for the winter; but we did it! Don’t expect anything too grand though. All we guarantee is country cooking and warm shelter.”

  “You’ll find me easy to please,” said Jean Marie.

  “All your people arrived safely.”

  “My people?”

  “You know; the ones you sent with your password: ‘the cosmos in a wine glass.’ There were three groups, nine people in all. They’ve settled in very well.”

  Some elemental instinct warned Jean Marie not to make a discussion about it. The mystery would explain itself as soon as he arrived in the valley. He simply nodded and said, “I’m glad they caused no trouble.”

  “On the contrary.”

  “How are your mother and father and Katrin?”

  “Oh, they’re fine. Mother’s gone rather grey; but it suits her. Father tramps around like a captain on the quarterdeck, inspecting everything with his one good eye, and learning to hold tools with that mechanical grip of his. Katrin’s two months pregnant. She and Franz decided to wait and ask you to marry them.”

  Mr. Atha pushed through the crowd with a trolley of baggage. Johann stared at him gape-mouthed, and then burst into laughter.

  “I know you! You’re the one who… Uncle Jean, this is quite extraordinary. This man…”

  “Don’t tell him now!” said Mr. Atha. “Save it awhile. Surprises are good for him.”

  “I agree!” Johann laughed again and took Jean Marie’s arm. “It really is worth waiting for.”

  Together they shepherded Jean Marie through the crowd and out to the pickup zone. When Johann hurried off to bring the jeep from the parking area, Jean Marie faced Mr. Atha with a veiled reproof.

  “I think, my friend, there are lots of things about you that need explaining.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Atha in his easy fashion. “But I’m sure we’ll find a better time and place to do it.… That’s a fine young man!”

  “Johann? Yes. He’s matured so much since I last saw him.” A sudden thought struck him. He groaned aloud. “It’s Christmas Eve! I’ve been so preoccupied with myself I forgot to buy any presents for the family—or for you. I feel very bad about that.”

  “I don’t need presents and you pay me to remember! I bought some things before we left. They’re wrapped. All you have to do is write on the cards.” He smiled and added, “I hope I chose the right things.”

  “I’m sure you did; but this time I’d rather not have any surprises. What did you buy?”

  “For Frau Mendelius, head scarves and lace handkerchiefs; for the young man, a ski sweater; for the girl, perfume; for the professor, a prismatic magnifier for easy reading. Did I do right?”

  “Magnificently. You have my eternal gratitude. But you are still not dispensed from explanations.”

  “I promise you will get them. I hope you will understand,” said Mr. Atha. “Here’s Johann.”

  They helped Jean Marie into the jeep, bundled him up in a blanket and a sheepskin pelisse and set off along the autobahn to Garmisch.

  Johann talked eagerly about the small community in the valley. “… Our intentions were vague. Papa had this idea of founding a postgraduate academy. I thought of it as a place where my friends and I could hide out, if we got into trouble with the authorities. You’ll remember that was in the days when we were buying arms from Dolman and setting up an underground at the University.… Then, of course, everything changed. We had to help Papa rebuild his life and this seemed a good place to do it.

  “Eight of us came down to start making the buildings habitable. We camped in the lodge and worked from sunup to sunset. The place is far off the trunk routes as you will see. So we didn’t expect many visitors. But they started dribbling through—young people mostly, but some older ones. We put it down to the fact that Bavaria is full of tourists in the fall. There’s the Bierfest and the opera and all the fashion shows. So we got all sorts of callers: Italians, Greeks, Yugoslavs, Vietnamese, Poles, Americans, Japanese. They said they’d like to stay and help. That was great. We were terribly short of labour. We made a simple rule: work and share. It’s amazing! So far we’ve held together and we’re quite a mixed community, as you’ll see!”

  “Did people offer any special reason for joining you?” asked Jean Marie.

  “We didn’t enquire,” said Johann. “If they want to talk, we listen. I suppose it would be true to say that most of them have some hidden scars.”

  “And they’d like to be born again without them,” said Mr. Atha.

  “Yes, you might put it like that,” said Johann thoughtfully.

  When they reached the first Alpine foothills, Johann turned south and began a long, winding ascent along a country road already deep in snow. Just before the road ran out and became a rutted timber-track through the pinewoods, there was a small wayside shrine, the usual carved wo
oden crucifix with a gabled canopy above it. Johann slowed the car.

  “That’s where we first met Mr. Atha, when we were hiking through here on our way to Austria. We asked him if he knew a good camping spot. He pointed us up the track we’re taking now.… Hang on, Uncle Jean! It gets rough from now on!”

  It was, in fact, fifteen minutes of jolting and jerking that threatened to shake the teeth loose from their heads; but when they broke out of the timber, they saw a high black wall of rock, with snow piled white in the crevices, and through it a defile, cut clean as if with a giant axe. The defile was perhaps a hundred meters long. The far end was closed with a palisade of split logs hung on huge hinges of hand-forged iron. Johann got out of the jeep, swung the palisade open and drove through it into a large saucer-shaped depression fringed with black crags that gave place, tier by tier, to pinewoods and the wilder growth of the lowlands round the lake. Johann stopped the jeep. Mr. Atha got out to close the barrier. Johann pointed down through the snow swirls.

  “You can’t see much in this murk. The lake is bigger than it looks from up here. The lights you can see through the trees come from the main lodge and the cabins which are strung out on either side of it. The waterfall is on the far side and the old mine entrance about fifty yards to the left.… There’s such a lot to show you. But let’s get you home. Father and Mother will be biting their fingernails!…”

  Mr. Atha climbed into the jeep and they jolted down a deer track towards the sparse yellow lights.

  “We have you to ourselves until dinnertime,” Lotte told him happily. “Carl laid it down like the laws of the Medes and Persians! No reception committee! No visitors! No interruptions until we had had our own time with our own Jean Marie! Johann promised to entertain your Mr. Atha. The others are busy decorating the Christmas tree, cooking for the dinner tonight.… We’ve all had to get used to less house-room and less privacy; but, at Christmas, it’s rather pleasant and tribal.”