Honk If You Are Jesus

by Peter Goldsworthy

  The exterior of the Hollis Schultz Rose Cathedral, while flawed — or worse, flawless — and scaled down, and the wrong colour is, unmistakably, a copy. The interior belongs in a different world altogether. Clean, modern lines prevail, wood panelling, bright, too-white artificial light, electronic organs. Had the money run out before the finishing touches could be put? I hadn’t expected virgins or any of the other cathedral paraphernalia of Europe: the busy clutter of saints, confessionals, candle booths, haut reliefs. But the sparseness of the decor sat oddly inside the fake-Gothic exterior. Even the vast circle of stained glass above the portals and the two rose windows at the intersection of the transept were abstract and minimal in design.

  The service was not so minimal. No processions, of course. No high-church, high-camp robes, no incense, no Latin — Schultz offered a different kind of theatre.

  ‘Do you believe in the Lord!’

  ‘WE BELIEVE IN THE LORD!’

  ‘Do you rejoice in his works?’

  ‘WE REJOICE IN HIS WORKS!’

  Through it all strode the Reverend Doctor Hollis Schultz, lounge-suited, radio-microphone in hand, singing, dancing, waving his hands.

  ‘Are you witness to his ministry?’

  ‘WE ARE WITNESS TO HIS MINISTRY!’

  Sieg Heil! I tried to remain immune, but physiology betrayed me: goosebumps, a prickle of hairs on the back of my neck. Our brief meeting had given no inkling of his power of performance, of the power of his presence. It was difficult to resist the infectious enthusiasm, to prevent losing the self in this new collective self, as in a football crowd.

  ‘Brothers and sisters in Jesus, I want today to show to you the power of faith — the power of the faith to heal. I want to ask any of you who have come here today with afflictions, with illness, to come forth. Come forth now … Sister, what is your name?’

  ‘Jean.’

  ‘Jean — I can feel your pain … Jesus Christ our Lord can feel your pain. Jean, do you love the Lord? Jean, I want you to shut your eyes, screw them up tightly, Jean, shut them so tightly you feel you might burst with love …’

  Half a million widows were living out their last years on the Gold Coast. A reasonable proportion of them were crammed into the Rose Cathedral that morning, waiting to be healed. The question begged itself: why build them a Medical Centre? I hoped I would have the courage — or bad manners — to ask it over lunch, at the White House, later in the day.

  ‘Sinners, the Lord our God is a loving Lord. A healing Lord. There is a purpose in the afflictions He visits upon us. Whatever the pain and suffering we bear, we must search our souls to find that hidden purpose, and draw strength from It …’

  Unable to find a seat, I stood in the back aisle, next to a humming television camera, watching a constant stream of widows, and the occasional bald or greying male, come forward — come forth — for the Doctor’s blessing. Other denominations also promised the reward of eternal life and health to the faithful — but only there, in that church, was it this life. Paradise was offered here on earth, that day, in that place: the Rose Cathedral, Surfers Paradise, Queensland.

  ‘I love the words God gives Isaiah,’ Schultz proclaimed. ‘Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low; and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain …’

  I mouthed Amens and Hallelujahs with the rest, half amused, half transported by this efficient Sunday morning Outpatients.

  ‘Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall sing.’

  After a prolonged benediction, doors were flung open at every corner; but the Church emptied slowly and reluctantly. No one wanted to exit by any other route than the main door. A bottleneck formed of people waiting to shake the Great Man’s hand; I found myself jammed among them, carried along in the slow, thick current.

  He seemed surprised to see me; even — was I imagining it? — a little embarrassed.

  ‘Professor Fox,’ he said with no real warmth. ‘I’m so pleased you found the time.’

  ‘It was very inspiring,’ I said, but the press of bodies had already pushed me past.

  ‘Mrs Schultz and I are expecting you for lunch,’ he called from somewhere behind me. ‘You haven’t forgotten, now? And your — ah, friend.’

  ‘Tad can’t make it.’

  In fact I had forgotten to invite him.

  The stream of worshippers widened as it emerged from the pink marble portals; began to eddy and swirl. People-clumps formed, broke apart, re-formed; everyone was smiling, laughing, touching. Strangers, ageing widows mostly, seized my hands — ‘Bless you’ — then dropped them to seize the hands of others.

  I walked slowly away through the packed rows of cars: small cars mostly, hatchbacks, urban runabouts. Widows’ cars. My mother owned one in the south: a car with just enough room for one other widow, and a set of golf clubs or lawn bowls in the back. Bumper stickers decorated many of the cars: fish logos, crucifixes, HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS.

  Lunch was still an hour away; I wandered down to the lake and sat for a time on a bench at the water’s edge. The sun poured its golden honey through the trees, ducks dabbed and quacked in the water below. Across the lake the Ferris wheel was slowly turning; tiny figures were walking across water to the ark. I felt more content than I had felt for years. The church service had amused me, and also, despite myself, exhilarated me. But it was more than that; far more. My life had changed enormously in the last few months. Doors that had been closed for years were opening up to me again, chinks of light were appearing at the edges of my closed and lonely world. My work was going well, I was enjoying the space of living away from my mother again, being my own boss, having to think of no one but myself. New routines had replaced the old; work routines, yes, but also a little play: Saturday afternoon walks, Sunday night meals with an exhausted, recovering Tad. I was beginning to catch up on a vast backlog of reading: the research journals, of course, but also, for the first time in years, I was finding the time and energy to dip into the books I had read and loved, books I had escaped into, as a bedridden girl. Not Being and Nothingness and Truth and Reason, so much as Vanity Fair and Wuthering Heights …

  And there was Scanlon: still a background figure, but slowly growing larger. Looming.

  I arrived late at the White House. A uniformed guard waved me through the main gate; a black-haired, olive-skinned waif wearing a maid’s uniform of a vestigial, stylised apron and cap opened the front door and led me through a large entrance hall. Her accent revealed her as yet another American: ‘Dr and Mrs Schultz are in the Morning Room.’

  Eight or ten people were gathered together, chatting and sipping drinks. Hollis Schultz was there, centrally; and Richard Pfitzner. Of the others I recognised none. I felt a slight disappointment not to find Scanlon among them.

  A blonde teenager — she looked no more than sixteen or seventeen — in high heels and a costume of parachute silk detached herself from the group and floated towards me, smiling. She walked as though she were on a catwalk, like some sort of quest winner, someone who should have been wearing a silk sash: a Miss Queensland, perhaps, even a Miss Charity Queen. I try not to pigeonhole people, but so often they demand it, so often they thrust themselves into categories.

  ‘Professor Fox?’

  This was a Miss Tennessee or Miss South Carolina, not a Miss Queensland. The accent was pure American belle, southern-fried.

  ‘I’m Mary-Beth Schultz. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  The name was too improbable, at least to my ears: another cartoon name. She held out a manicured hand and smiled: a hundred-watt smile, the kind that women who know they are beautiful switch on and off at will. Ridiculous that I still felt envious of such women, or contemptuous, which is probably another form of envy. I used to rehearse such smiles myself in the mirror, thirty years ago.

  Was she a wife? Or a daughter? There were no daught
ers; the marriage was barren. As she approached I raised my initial age-estimate to mid-twenties. Which was still less than half her husband’s age, perhaps even as low as a third. Her self-assurance made her seem older, or more mature … And her clothes. My new Sunday Best was not quite up to Miss Tennessee’s: an elegant, silken balloon, gathered here and there to hint at the perfect size ten beneath. I felt instantly dowdy beside her: mid-forties, bespectacled, my new shoes expensive but still far too sensible, my clothes suddenly middle-aged.

  She linked her arm in mine and leaned into me, conspiratorially: ‘I’ve been looking forward to talking with you, Mara. May I call you Mara?’

  Her features were sharply pointed; even when facing me, she somehow still seemed to be in profile. I glanced past her towards the gathering: ‘Am I late?’

  She laughed; softly, collusively, but a laugh of such virtuoso precision that it must have been practised as much as her smile, even perhaps — was the thought too absurd? — recorded and played back, like a piece of music for performance.

  ‘Not at all. I’ll introduce you to some other friends of ours.’

  Assured beyond her years, certainly. I allowed her to lead me gently across the room.

  ‘Of course you know Hollis. But have you met Thomas Grossman?’

  I remembered the name: the medieval historian. The expert in biblical relics, curator of the Bible Museum. He looked like a relic himself: an old man in a funeral suit, tall and pale and cadaverous. His thinness made him look even older. His skin had the shrivelled, wrinkled look of a jockey. Or a cancer patient.

  ‘Delighted,’ he murmured, the accent faintly German.

  The maid appeared again in her token apron, whispered something to Mary-Beth, who clapped her hands: ‘Graçias, Isabella. Lunch is served, everyone.’

  We moved from one large, ornately furnished room into another. A long table with elaborate place settings occupied the centre, antique-looking chairs surrounded it, matching sideboards lined the walls. Mary-Beth led me to one end of the table, and lightly touched a chair at her side: ‘We girls should stick together.’

  One other woman was present: another peach-cheeked young beauty who seemed attached to Richard Pfitzner at the far end of the table. A second wife, I guessed. Perhaps even a third. The man was entirely predictable.

  Grossman sat opposite, on Mary-Beth’s right; on my left a stranger introduced himself — another blurred, caramel-edged American voice, another improbable name. Erskin D. Brubaker. Dwight J. Zimmerman, junior. Whatever.

  ‘Shall we pray?’

  The words came from Mary-Beth; they were not a question. Heads drooped about the table, eyes slid shut; our girl-hostess brightly — cutely is the unavoidable word — recited one of the usual versions of grace. There is a kind of righteous bullying in grace I’ve resented since childhood. I vowed then to refuse ever to lower my gaze again. I was more than happy to thank my hosts for the food they had provided, or the staff in the kitchen, or even — at a stretch — Mother Earth, but no one else. At the far end of the table, Hollis Schultz, curiously, seemed likewise inclined: his head was high, his eyes open, gazing absently into the middle distance.

  ‘Amen.’

  Heads lifted, vessels of food began to arrive in the hands of Isabella, the maid. She moved back and forth, fetching a seemingly endless array of plates, bowls, tureens. I had seen nothing like it before. No feeding of the multitude with a handful of loaves and fishes — this was a far harder miracle: stuffing into the mouths of a handful enough food for thousands.

  I ate too much — but who could blame me? There was little else to do: talking was out of the question; talking was the prerogative of Mary-Beth Schultz. She was barely twenty, yet maintained the effortless monologue of a society hostess. I began to wonder if she had taken lessons, if she had taken some sort of diploma at Dinner Party University (they surely had such places in South Carolina). Perhaps she had a selection of cue cards hidden up those loose silken sleeves.

  1–1.15 p.m. Our Last Overseas Trip.

  1.15–1.30 p.m. Some Recent Acquisitions.

  1.30–1.45 p.m. Impressions of Australia So Far.

  ‘It’s so hard to find reliable help in Australia. We brought Isabella with us. She’s a treasure.’

  Watching her delicate bird face and bird hands I also wondered if she talked so much to prevent herself from eating, as a method of dieting. Grossman and I were required only to nod or shake our heads, or murmur the occasional syllable of agreement. The courses came and went as she spoke: soups, sorbets, strangely-scented roast birds, elaborate dishes of vegetables or salads.

  ‘Packing was such a headache. I don’t think Hollis has ever thrown anything away in his life.’

  2–2.15 p.m. Moving Halfway Across the World.

  Hollis sat at the far end of the table, chatting quietly with his neighbours. There was no sign of the charismatic preacher; he had reverted into the softly-spoken man I had first met a few days before. Perhaps charisma also was a role, something learnt, something taken as a diploma. Elmer Gantry University. I glanced his way from time to time, having trouble matching the private man with the public. Was this the cause of his embarrassment at spotting me in his congregation: he liked to keep his two worlds separate? Two compartments: one for friends and scientists, one for paying customers? Sitting quietly at the head of the table, he reminded me a little of my father: someone who didn’t trust the zealots. He was prepared to take their money, he was prepared to act like one, but he wanted them at arm’s length.

  Coffee and pastries were arriving: pastries so light they seemed to rise off the dish to meet the hand, pastries that melted instantly in the mouth, a single vanishing point of sweetness.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Mara?’ Mary-Beth said to my right.

  I nodded, prepared to agree with anything, keeping my mouth shut, chewing safely.

  Grossman, a smile on his corpse lips, came to my rescue: ‘Our hostess suspects that many of my new acquisitions are counterfeit.’

  ‘Only the nails,’ Mary-Beth put in. ‘And not all of them.’

  I chewed on, awaiting further clues.

  ‘How can there be thirty nails?’ she pressed, loudly. ‘That’s ridiculous. Don’t you agree, Mara?’

  ‘Thirty-two,’ Grossman corrected. ‘At the most recent count.’

  Mary-Beth waved a dismissive arm: ‘Whichever. It only takes four nails to crucify someone.’

  Grossman quibbled: ‘Three, in point of fact. Most modern authorities believe that the Feet were nailed together.’

  ‘Then twenty-nine of the nails must be phoney.’

  Grossman shrugged: ‘You are presuming that three are genuine? Perhaps they are all spurious. The exact number is precisely what we hope to establish. Which are the authentic nails. If any.’

  I asked a non-specific question: ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘Carbon dating,’ Mary-Beth said, turning briefly in my direction, then back again to Grossman. ‘Isn’t that right, Thomas? You used carbon dating on the fragments of Cross.’

  Grossman shook his head: ‘Out of the question, good lady. On wood, yes, but nails are metallic. We are working on certain other methods.’

  Mary-Beth laughed: ‘More cloak and dagger.’

  She smiled back across her shoulder towards me. ‘You can tell us girls,’ she urged Grossman, but gave him no space in which to answer. ‘It’s so exciting, don’t you think, Mara? Even if the relics are mostly phoney, some must be genuine.’

  I wanted to make sure I was fully synchronised with the conversation:

  3–3.15 p.m. The Holy Relics.

  I asked another vague question: ‘You have some of the crucifixion nails?’

  Mary-Beth feigned astonishment: ‘You mean he hasn’t shown you yet? Thomas hasn’t dragged you over there and pushed your nose into his precious security boxes? I thought it was compulsory.’

  ‘I visited the Museum,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember any nails.’

&
nbsp; Grossman smiled again; a slight flickering of the corners of his lips. ‘The important pieces in the collection are too valuable to display,’ he said.

  ‘You must show Mara,’ Mary-Beth said. ‘A guided tour. I insist.’

  He smiled, unenthusiastically: ‘With pleasure. Perhaps you could ring my secretary next week, Professor Fox.’

  Mary-Beth was not so easily deflected: ‘Maya doesn’t want to wait that long, Thomas. I’ve a wonderful idea: we’ll go today. All of us. After lunch.’

  Grossman inclined his skull, acceding to the request: ‘If that is your wish, good lady.’

  But Mary-Beth was seeking permission over his head: ‘Honey!’ she called to the far end of the table. ‘Honey! I’ve had an idea …’

  8

  Two long white cars were waiting in the drive as we emerged from the White House a few minutes later. Hollis Schultz farewelled us from the steps, quietly but firmly overruling his wife’s protests with the excuse of ‘pressure of work’. He had said little through lunch; I might have thought him shy and withdrawn if I hadn’t seen a different version of the man on the pulpit that morning. He seemed preoccupied; his thoughts elsewhere. Two uniformed chauffeurs held open the doors; Mary-Beth supervised the loading. The lunch party was split according to table seating: each end of the table into a different car. I found myself sandwiched between Grossman and the merchant banker; Mary-Beth, in the front passenger seat, half-turned to face us. The liqueurs that had followed the pastries seemed to have freed up Grossman’s tongue, dissolved some of his reserve. He had become more talkative, almost boastful; he wanted suddenly to show us ‘his’ collection of holy relics.

  His words had a seductive ‘Come up and see my etchings’ feel to them yet were also more, or less, than that. ‘Come up and see me’, was implicit. Listening to him I realised that these relics, this collection of morbid fragments, were somehow an extension of him, part of his self image.