“That’s right, Beatitude,” drawled Felder, slipping into another identity. “Felder just another son trying tuh do a job for ole mama. Shucks, Felder jes a happy fly-ah. Come ovah to lotus lan’ of Angolah, gaze at de flo-rah.”
The generals were whispering to themselves; the driver’s eyes shifted back and forth from the road to the mirror. Felder caught his glance and waved, babylike, into the mirror.
Willie watched Felder but did not care so much, thinking only that he had come all this way to make words on television.
“You and ah,” said Felder to no one, “we gonnah settle down and cahve us a new simian.”
“So amusing,” said Cardinal Torres.
One of the generals wrote furiously in a tablet.
The city began to form around them and Willie now saw the lesson plan—the barbed wire and the tanks and the gun placements and the soldiers looking gray and powdery as shadows.
Luanda had been shelled for a week, and it was now like that part of Baltimore near the Edgar Allan Poe Motor Lodge that he had just left. Once they burned and exploded, he thought, all cities looked alike, the final conclusion of the lesson always being the same.
He saw then the fleeting faces of children, black and small, and for a moment he was with them and not with the people in the car.
At the elegant Hotel Christopher, preserved among the ruins, Governor Borges summarized conditions for Willie.
The rebels (counter-counterrevolutionaries), mounting their insurrection six months ago, had managed to seize about a third of the country. They had support, Governor Borges said, among two classes of people, the illiterate poor and the overeducated university types, “many of whom we have jailed.” Lately, the rebels had got new arms.
“The shelling,” the governor said, “is quite sophisticated. You saw the results on the way in from the airport. The arms come from monist or Marxist factions in the Orient and Latin America.”
Borges stood near a map of the long country, pointing now and then to rebel strongholds. He was a swarthy thick-set man in a green and gold uniform.
“Who are the rebels?” Willie asked.
The governor turned to General Sunglasses, who took up the briefing.
“As the governor has just said, the raw material, so to say, is the poor people of Angola, but the leaders are coming from the outside. Some come from China, some from districts of Latin America as the Governor said. They wish to make this a monist state, understand Excellency? They wish to make this ancient domain of Mother Portugal into a separate country, slave atheist state.”
“Bloody cheek!” said Felder from his chair in the back of the room.
“Excuse me, Senhor Felder?” said Governor Borges. The generals whispered something into his ear.
“Please go on with the sermon, your highness,” said Felder. “Ah was just agreein’ with the point of view being expressed so—elahquently.”
Governor Borges, Cardinal Torres, the generals and a CIA agent named Harvey L. Cooter spoke quietly among themselves.
Joto went to Felder, said something to him, and Felder got up.
“I’ll be back, Bishop Will,” said Felder bowing. “Ah got to bathe and anoint mah-self for de ordeal ahead. Y’all proceed with de acquisition of de ape. Don’t succumb to the first biddah.”
Willie started to go, but Joto waved him back. Truman sat down beside Willie and gave him the stay sign.
Meanwhile Cardinal Torres had summoned several black bellboys to his side.
“Go prepare the Vasco da Gama Suite for Mr. Felder so that he might rest.”
Felder turned around. “Why, that’s exceedin’ kind of Yoah Holiness. Ah’m gonnah summon mah counsel an cut you intuh mah will.”
The cardinal turned to Willie, eyes glinting. “Such a funny, funny gentleman.”
General Sunglasses resumed the briefing.
“The message we hope you will be able to give the people tonight is peace. We mean especially those people who are confused and are wavering in their allegiance to Mother Portugal. Many, many thousands of people have been killed—slain by the vermin, that is, the rebels. The people are bewildered by events. The JERCUS nations do not wish to act in the crisis. The United Nations, as Your Excellency surely knows, has not been able to intervene because of the veto of the United States and China in the Security Council. Therefore, our only hope for peace lies in moral persuasion. That is what we hope you can provide.” With this, the young general held out his hands like a small boy praying before a shrine.
Then Mr. Cooter of the CIA took the floor.
“Most of the people in your rebel section of the country are Catholic,” said Mr. Cooter, a cum laude graduate of Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. “They are very strong, devout, obedient Catholics. If they knew the leaders of the counter-counterrevolutionary movement were atheistic monists, devoted to the overthrow of the church, the Virgin of Fatima and all the angels and saints of God, then of course they would have no dealing with them. But they are your ignorant poor.
“Now,” said Cooter, glancing at a note he had written himself earlier that day in the consulate, “now this faith aspect should be appealed to. It should be stressed that to join the monist rebels is in fact to leave the church. Not that we in the CIA would presume to tell you, Your Excellency, what to say—and not that the CIA would ever meddle in the internal affairs of another country. No,” said Mr. Cooter very sincerely, “we do not presume any of that. But we do think that it is our duty to our country and to our faith as well to point out this religious dimension of the problem. I believe Monsignor Nervi has more to say on that. Thank you and good hunting.”
Monsignor Nervi, a very frail man with blue lips, came from Rome, where for forty years he had written many documents for the pope and had long ago dropped from his vocabulary the first person singular pronoun.
“We anguish over the thought of so much bloodshed and carnage. Our spirit is cast into deep sorrow at the spectacle of this war that has brought to our beloved Angola so much needless suffering. We pray to the eternal Father that peace may be speedily restored and that the ancient and honorable ties between our august see and our African flower might soon be renewed.”
Willie could hear guns booming far away. He could hear the words that were spoken, too, but not so well as the guns. The shells were exploding somewhere on the edge of the city. He could see the children again.
The cardinal ushered the group to the Magellan Room, a magnificent glassed-in banquet room at the top of the hotel that overlooked the city of Luanda and the blue hills.
Champagne was served and Cardinal Torres proposed a toast.
“To peace and prosperity among all nations and to the arts, without which we are ever at war and ever in poverty.”
The group turned to Willie for a return toast but he could think of nothing to say.
As they sat down to dinner—breast of pheasant, lobster, roast of lamb—Willie could see the evening coming down on the hills, and the guns firing now were like tongues of flame.
He could not eat.
“Tell me, Excellency,” said Cardinal Torres. “What of the new mime liturgies at Woodstock? Are they successful, do you think?”
The mouths opened quickly, speaking words of flame, then vanished into night.
“Would you be interested in seeing one of our fado ballet liturgies? Very charming in my opinion, though of course Monsignor Nervi would think them suggestive.”
Monsignor Nervi, seated across from Willie, worked at the breast of pheasant with his blue hands, and Willie saw that his face was blue and had the translucence of paper, and it came to his mind that this man was made of paper—were not the veins like the watery veinlike markings found on paper?
Suddenly Willie remembered the name of the priest Archbishop Looshagger had sent to Angola long ago. He turned to Cardinal Torres.
“Father Rafferty—where is he now?”
Cardinal Torres put down his fork. His face was suddenly
pale.
“What do you know about him?” he said in a whisper.
“Archbishop Looshagger in Baltimore wanted to know about him. They are old friends.”
“He was with them,” the cardinal said, indicating the hills with a rolling movement of his eyes. “He chose violence and terrorism. And now violence and terror have chosen him.”
“He is dead?”
“Executed last month for treason.” The cardinal smiled brightly as the governor raised a glass. He said through the smile, “Do not mention the name again.”
There were more toasts but the guns spoke again so that the words could not be heard, and the politicians and the generals were laughing and Willie could not eat, hearing the other words and the other thoughts in the hills.
Chapter four
In the Vasco da Gama Suite Willie found Herman Felder in much worse condition than before. Walking about with staring eyes, Felder was like a zombie, appearing neither to see nor hear anyone around him.
“Two strong hypos,” said Joto. “Nothing happen.”
Truman, Willie noticed, was whimpering.
Willie gave him the sign of brotherly love and Truman returned it but continued to whimper.
“Guns,” said Joto. “Since Indochina war, gun sound cause him to weep.”
Willie took Truman’s huge hands in his own.
“Nothing harms those who love,” he said softly. Truman seemed to take little solace from these words.
Felder passed through the room again. Joto shook his head sadly.
“Doctor come earlier,” said Joto. “Say nothing to be done except stop drinking.”
Willie called to Felder but he did not hear. He paced the room like a man in a cell, blind and dumb. Neither Willie nor Joto could know that Felder was watching a movie about men being shot. They could not see the men falling in rows and they could not hear the bullets clipping through the leaves. The movie had started in the afternoon and Felder then had known it was a movie, but now he was not sure and it had come to him that he was watching the execution of his father. If he kept silent and did nothing to interfere, his father would give him the final, important message.
When Willie, Truman and Joto formed a little triangle and stood in long silence looking at the bare black cross that Truman carried with him, and prayed in the listening fashion, Felder paid no attention to them.
The focus of the prayer was the evening telecast, but the dona of Truman and Joto gave Willie little to go on.
All three dona were specific in imagery. The men exchanged them in sign tongue.
Truman:
Man—maybe Servant—standing in street in Paris saying, All commitments lies. God say, Beginning lesson—A plus.
Joto:
Horse in stable. Much straw. Horse have magical speech men do not understand. Horse say, It not better light one candle.
Willie:
Man or bird flying. Cannot come down. God reach out his finger and bird land. Bird land in small town in Midwest America.
Then the church leaders and the politicians were at the door. With them was a lean, olive-skinned man with black-olive eyes who had not been at the dinner earlier in the evening.
“Cardinal Profacci,” said Cardinal Torres, “the Vatican secretary of state. Just arrived.”
“His Holiness sends kind personal wishes,” said Cardinal Profacci. “I understand Monsignor Nervi has already conveyed to you the essence of what the Holy Father wishes to say on this occasion?”
“They merely chatted, Ernesto,” said Cardinal Torres. “Don’t be so solemn. Ah, Mr. Felder. I trust you enjoy the suite?”
Felder, passing through the room, gave the cardinal a baleful glance. General Sunglasses made an entry in his notebook.
“That man is surely Signor Felder, no?” said Cardinal Profacci.
“Yes,” said Willie. “He brought us here.”
Profacci pursed his lips. As he watched Felder pass into the next room, he appeared to suppress a comment.
“The entire nation will be watching,” said Governor Borges. “Your Excellency, you do understand that we expect you to convince the rebels to cease firing?”
Willie looked at the governor, then Cardinal Torres, then Cardinal Profacci. He said slowly, “I will do my best.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Cardinal Torres genially. “Perhaps, Ernesto, you would like a Strega?”
“Of course,” said Willie, “you too will be expected to cease firing.”
“Naturally,” said the governor. Then to Torres, “Eminence, we should really be going.”
General Sunglasses said to Willie, “We are willing to discuss peace at any time with these lice. The fact that they started the war—well, we shall try to be Christian about that.”
“One thing to keep in mind,” said Mr. Cooter, the CIA agent. “These revolutionaries are really just a lot of show. They haven’t got your morale and your purpose to stick it through. So it shouldn’t be hard to get them to see reason.”
The guns seemed to get closer.
“We have lived with that poor poetry so long, it no longer affects us,” said Cardinal Torres.
At that moment a shell hit the department store across the street from the hotel. The room shook, the hotel shook. Truman became more agitated. They all turned to look at him.
Cooter said, “Get hold of yourself, man. Aren’t you an American?”
Truman drew himself up to his full height of six feet, seven inches. With his thick beard and heavy brows he looked very fierce but he was weeping openly.
“Cowardice is something I just can’t bear to see in a man,” said Cooter.
“Who asked you to bear anything?” said Willie.
“I intended no disrespect, Your Excellency,” said Cooter.
“You disrespect my friend,” said Willie.
Joto placed a hand on Cooter’s shoulder. “Go find spy, why not?” he said softly. “Hate to forget way of Servant. Hate to break back four, maybe six time.”
“Is that a threat, you Orient—?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interjected Cardinal Torres. “Please, let us remember we are all Christians.”
“Great inconvenience at times,” said Joto.
Truman was still crying, but without making any sound.
“It is truly time to leave,” said Governor Borges. “The nation waits.”
They went to the station through the dark streets, past many barricades guarded by soldiers, and Willie could see the faces of the soldiers sliding past the window. Felder sat beside him seeing other faces. On the other side of Felder sat Cardinal Profacci, remarking upon the bloodshed and the folly of war.
“One thing I do not understand about the situation,” said Willie.
The governor said from the front seat, “What is that, Excellency?”
“The argument that the young general made earlier was that the revolutionaries are from the outside, from China and Latin America.”
“This is true—foreign dogs all,” said the governor. “Begging Your Excellency’s pardon; it is an emotional matter.”
“But are you not outsiders also, all of you who are from Portugal?” said Willie.
The governor laughed. “His Excellency jests.”
“I know little about these matters,” said Willie. “There is; a simple answer?”
“Most simple, simple as one, two, three,” said the governor, holding up three fingers. “Portugal owns Angola. That is the simple truth.”
The car drove on another block. Willie said, “That is the question I guess I am asking then. How can one country own another?”
The governor drummed his fingers on the dashboard, then said something in French to Cardinal Profacci.
Cardinal Profacci said something in French to Willie.
“I did not hear what you said; I am sorry,” said Willie.
In his confident smooth baritone, Cardinal Profacci said, “Your Excellency asks a truly simple question, much like a child a
sking why the sky is blue—please do not take offense. Like the child’s simple question, however, it does require much explaining. It raises many questions of culture and history and political realities. Now, Excellency,” Profacci leaned forward, speaking across the immobile Felder, who was staring still at the execution movie, “now, consider cur role here. This role is not one of reviewing history or analyzing complex political relationships. Our role, your role tonight, is much different. This is to bring peace to the people, to stop the fighting and the killing. Is this comprehended?”
Willie gazed at a tenement or apartment building that had been shelled. He could see people standing about, turning to look at the official cars. How many were homeless here, how many needed warmth and food?
“Still,” he said hesitantly, “to stop the killing—does not this sometimes demand new political relationships? I mean, please forgive my slowness, one cannot have true peace without justice?”
Governor Borges, turning all the way around now, said, “Certainly His Excellency does not imply that Portugal has been unjust to Angola?”
“I only want to know,” said Willie, “if it’s possible for the people to be happy and to have peace when the country they are living in does not belong to them. I have wanted to know this for a long time. It was never explained to me in school.”
The governor and Cardinal Profacci spoke in French, the governor a little excitedly. From time to time Cardinal Profacci would pat the governor on the shoulder as if to say it would be ail right. Willie was thinking of something that had happened a long time ago in the Einstein seminary, only they had talked in English there.
Felder moved suddenly. “He isn’t one of them,” he whispered. “Some other execution entirely.”
Cardinal Profacci and the governor broke off.
“It’s all right, Brother Herman,” said Willie.
“What does he speak?” said the cardinal.
“He is not well, he is like a man dreaming,” said Willie.
The screen had gone black in Felder’s mind, the last man had been shot. He turned to Willie, showing the face of a very old man.
“We are in a car. We are in California. Maybella and Lawson Thebes are having us up for dinner and a movie. Those are true facts?”
The Last Western Page 30