The Last Western

by Thomas S. Klise

  “We are in a car,” said Willie. “We are in Angola. I am making a television speech soon. This is Cardinal Profacci from Rome.”

  “It is—good—to see you again, Mr. Felder,” said Profacci. The cardinal sat very still, looking ahead.

  Felder squinted at the rubble on the streets ahead of them.

  “A war? A riot? What is going on?”

  “You remember, Herman, we came here to speak to them about the trouble,” said Willie.

  “Do you have a drink?”

  “I’m afraid not, Brother Herman.”

  Then Felder came to a little. “Willie,” he said “Oh God, Willie.” He rubbed his eyes. “Fact number one, I’m stoned. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn,” Felder began to moan, holding his head.

  “He should have stayed at the hotel,” said the governor from the front seat.

  “Where did you meet Mr. Felder?” said Profacci.

  Before Willie could answer, Felder said, “Profacci—Rome—ten, eleven years ago.”

  “I remember, Mr. Felder,” said Profacci.

  “I need a drink,” Felder announced.

  “Brother Herman, we—”

  “Stop the car,” said Felder.

  The driver actually braked the car, but the governor said, “Drive on.”

  “We’ll get something for you at the station,” said Willie.

  “I can’t wait,” said Felder. “Really.”

  “Joto will be there.”

  Felder quivered and lay back against the seat and closed his eyes. Willie took hold of his arm.

  When they reached the station, Felder broke out of the car and began running. Joto, alighting from the car behind, stopped him. Willie started after them but Profacci held him back.

  “There is not time, Bishop.”

  Governor Borges said something in very rapid French to the cardinal.

  Willie could see Joto leading Herman Felder into the side entrance of the studio. Truman was with them.

  “It is twelve minutes, even less,” said General Sunglasses, coming up from the second car.

  They all went into the studio.

  Cardinal Profacci again spoke French to Governor Borges. General Sunglasses asked a question. He seemed angry. Profacci turned and signaled to Willie. Then he led Willie into a small office off the lobby of the studio.

  “Signor Felder—you know very much about him?”

  “He is my friend and brother.”

  Profacci looked at him with grave eyes. “You know his background surely?”

  “I do not care about anyone’s background,” said Willie.

  Profacci hesitated. “We have only a few minutes. Perhaps later we can talk about Signor Felder. There are things—”

  “I do not care to know them,” said Willie.

  Profacci smiled, then frowned, then smiled again. His face was an instrument he had learned to control over long years of practice. Whatever was on it bore no relation to what he felt or thought but was designed by its possessor to communicate only the impression that one was dealing with an official, a spokesman, a representative.

  “Governor Borges and the others are concerned about your speech,” said the voice, which was confident and official-sounding. “The Holy See, of course, must always be sensitive to the political structure.”

  Overhead, there was a tiny circular speaker and through it suddenly came the voice of the old-time American singer, Frank Sinatra.

  If you’re feeling sad and lonely,

  There’s a service I can render.

  Tell the one who loves you only.

  I can he so warm and tender.

  “Let me put the matter very simply, bishop,” said Cardinal Profacci, “the Holy See does not, indeed cannot, interfere with the political life of a country. The exact relationship of the church to the temporal order is one that—”

  When it seems your friends desert you,

  There’s somebody thinking of you.

  I’m the one who’ll never hurt you.

  Willie could hear the guns over the song and over the voice of the cardinal, and then he heard the voice of the old man in Baltimore asking of Rafferty.

  “Who killed Father Rafferty?” he said.

  “The affair of Father Rafferty must absolutely not be discussed.”

  “He was killed by the present government?”

  Profacci’s face remained calm. Only the hands, frozen, gave any evidence of tension.

  “We have less than ten minutes,” he said. “It is a delicate situation with Rafferty. He was killed because he joined the revolutionists. That is all we know.”

  Willie tried to think. Before Profacci could continue, he said, “Is this government treating the people right? Is it feeding them and helping them find good houses? Is it taking care of the health of the children? Or is it just being—powerful?”

  “The temporal affairs of—”

  “Please,” said Willie, “I have to have an answer to this question. Is it a just government or not?”

  Profacci rubbed his eyes. Now he spoke as a professor from a lectern.

  “The Holy See appointed you to your present post not to meddle in the internal political affairs of nations but to bring peace—peace to all these countries that have known nothing but war for so long.”

  “But how can I, or anyone, bring peace without going into the internal affairs, or whatever you call them?”

  “Ah,” said Profacci, holding up a finger. “Permit me to explain.” The cardinal leaned forward. He paused and pointed to the ceiling. “You make your appeal, Excellency, not to the temporalities, over which neither you nor I have any control in any event, but rather you make your appeal to the spiritualities. Politics and politicians come and go, but the spiritualities—they are changeless. That is what the church signifies for men—the spiritual principles which are the foundation of human salvation.” He spoke passionately, as if he had been preparing this quick speech all his life.

  The guns made the night air tremble. The building where they sat shook. Willie looked at the cardinal’s upward-pointing finger.

  Maybe it’s late but just call me,

  Tell me and I’ll be around.

  “I’ll try,” said Willie standing up. “I’ll try to say something.”

  “I’m afraid, Bishop, I must insist upon a pledge.”

  “Of what kind?”

  “Not to discuss the temporal political situation.”

  The sad eyes that were blue and brown-flecked narrowed, opened wide, then fell in a sort of weariness.

  “Peace,” Willie said. “Isn’t peace a part of the temporal political situation?”

  “We mean you should not criticize the government,” said Profacci briskly.

  “I’m supposed to take sides?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the cardinal said, putting on his patient smile now, a little like a teacher trying to establish the correct order of the alphabet for a very poor first grade student. “We wish you to deplore violence on both sides, to call for an end to fighting and to remind all parties of the,” finger up, “spiritualities.”

  Willie sighed. “It seems to me that I should ask the heads of both sides to come together, to discuss the causes of the situation,” he said.

  “Ah,” said the Vatican secretary of state, “now that is an excellent plan.”

  “The government people here—the governor and the military men—they will talk to the rebels?”

  The cardinal smiled and shook his head as if to say, Do you think they are all monsters? Then he went to the door and asked Governor Borges, Cardinal Torres and the military men to come in.

  “His Excellency wants to propose on television that the rebel leaders come to the city to discuss the situation with your honors.”

  “Splendid,” said Governor Borges.

  “Magnificent,” said General Sunglasses.

  “Marvelous,” said Cardinal Torres.

  “Truly viable,” said Mr. Cooter of the CIA.


  “Of course,” said Willie, “the rebels would be given safe passage.”

  All laughed good-humoredly.

  “His Excellency,” said Governor Borges, “does not know it, but he insults us. That is because of his compassion.”

  All laughed good-humoredly.

  “I can promise the leaders of the revolution that if they come to the city to confer with you, no harm will befall them, even if your talks come to nothing?”

  More good-humored, good-natured laughter. The slant-eyed black-brown-red-gold bishop was a wonderful, innocent, crazy man, who insulted you and did not even know it, and, well, what could be done with such a child?

  So Willie went on the air, sitting at a plain wooden table with Cardinal Torres on one side and Governor Borges on the other, and made his plea for peace.

  The lights were bright and hot, and Willie tried to see the faces of the people of Angola but he could not see faces, not even the faces of the officials before him or of his friends, Joto and Truman, who stood a little to the side, supporting Herman Felder by the shoulders as Felder gazed dumbly at the show, trying to fit it into the show that had just turned off in his mind.

  In his speech Willie asked both sides to put down their arms.

  Nothing, he said, could be gained by violence.

  If representatives of both sides would come together tomorrow morning to discuss their differences, that would be the start of something, maybe justice, at least an end to the fighting.

  “The men here, the people in charge, have promised safe passage to all of you who lead this uprising. They have given me their word that you will have safe passage into the city tomorrow morning. They have shown their good will. Now it is up to you.”

  Cardinal Torres nodded approvingly with a smile. Governor Borges nodded approvingly with a fine smile also.

  “So,” said Willie, “isn’t it worth it—at least to try to talk it out? If the dispute cannot be settled, then you will have safe passage back to the hill country, though I am sure if both sides have good will, that will not be necessary.”

  Going inside himself, Willie spoke most urgently now.

  “Please, my brothers and sisters, for the sake of all the children, for the old people and the sick people, for the people who will lose everything no matter who wins, whatever it is that is to be won, please put the guns away, and each side come to the other as true brothers and sisters.

  “Remember, do not be afraid to trust. Do not fear being open even if it means giving in a little bit.

  “Do not be stubborn, but rather try to see the other person’s viewpoint.

  “And above all, remember that no viewpoint in Angola or anyplace in the world is worth the price of a child’s life.

  “Lord Jesus come into your hearts,” Willie said, and then he blessed the people of Angola, and his blessing went out to them in the hills, and the blessing came down on bloodied faces and on the bones of the dead and on old people who could not think any more and on the blind and the starving and on listless children, moving dimly in man-created wilds.

  The camera’s red eye closed then, and the studio burst with applause.

  “A simple, eloquent plea!” sang Cardinal Torres.

  “They cannot resist!” shouted Governor Borges, pumping Willie’s hand.

  “Truly viable,” said Mr. Cooter of the CIA.

  The cardinal had arranged a party at the episcopal palace. There would be a paraliturgical peace ballet, which would scandalize Giorgio and Ernesto, according to the cardinal, but which Willie, the cardinal thought, would certainly enjoy.

  “The truth is,” Willie said, “I am very tired.”

  He looked around for Joto, Truman and Felder but they had gone. So he left the officials, congratulations ringing in his ears, and went down to the streets.

  It was quiet now. The guns had stopped firing. Only a few patrols moved about.

  There was the fragrance of flowers in the air, and the sky was salted with cold, clear stars. Looking at them, Willie felt a bubbling joy in spite of his fatigue and in spite of his lack of faith in speeches.

  When he got to the Vasco da Gama Suite at the Christopher Hotel, he found Joto ministering to the prone Herman Felder.

  “At least he feel nothing now,” said Joto. “His pulse okay and he seem resting.”

  Willie felt his brow. “What are we going to do, Joto?”

  “Just before he go out, he seem halfway sane. Said we fly out tomorrow and hope mission go well.”

  “Maybe he will be better then.”

  “Maybe he hit bottom,” said Joto. “But hit bottom often before and crash through.”

  “At least he is sleeping and seems calm in his head.”

  “This is consolation.”

  “I’m going to sleep awhile myself,” said Willie. “Let us praise God that the guns have stopped and that maybe peace is on the way.”

  “Sleep well, Brother Willie. I praise God while watching Brother Herman. Then I, too, rest.”

  “Where is Brother Truman?”

  “Walking and thanking.”

  Then Willie sprawled upon a bed and fell into a deep slumber and he dreamed his dream of the long, lone flight and he was above the earth and out among the stars, which were not cold anymore but were like fine, clear, true eyes of many old friends who loved the world even when it was crazy.

  At nine o’clock in the morning the rebel leaders came to the capital city of Luanda, driving jeeps. They came up the long driveway of the governor’s mansion, six of them in all, the general of the rebel army and his five top officers.

  Governor Borges himself met them, cordially inviting them to breakfast on the sun-drenched terrace that overlooked the fields where the yellow flowers were blooming.

  As the rebel leaders took their places at the table, General Sunglasses appeared with a company of twenty-four officers, all dressed in their splendid white and gold formal dress uniforms.

  A photographer was summoned.

  Many pictures were taken that showed the government officials and the military men shaking hands with the rebels. Everyone was smiling.

  When the photographer was finished, a platoon of government soldiers came through the wide French doors of Governor Borges’ mansion and moved quickly onto the terrace with machine guns drawn.

  The rebels were too astonished to move.

  They were permitted a cup of coffee while the governor read the indictments against them.

  The attorney general of the republic and six justices of the national court were then summoned.

  On the terrace in the harsh yellow light, the trial took twelve minutes.

  The rebels were condemned to death on charges of counter-counterinsurgency, terrorism, sedition, theft, arson, murder and treason.

  A priest was called to hear the confessions of the condemned men. Four of the six, weeping, told the priest of all the sins they had committed.

  The revolutionary general also said he wished to confess his sins, but when the priest came to his side, he spat into his face.

  A soldier then struck the revolutionary general in the genitals with the butt of his rifle.

  Five of the rebel leaders were led into a grove of lemon trees and shot.

  Their bodies were sacked, loaded into an army van, driven to a garbage dump that had been abandoned, and burned.

  In one hour and forty minutes an extra edition of the Angolese New Day was on the streets.

  The paper carried many splendid full-color pictures of the happy revolutionaries shaking hands with the leaders of the government.

  BLESSED PEACE! said the headline of the Angolese New Day.

  In exchange for his life, one of the rebel colonels had promised full cooperation with the government.

  This man went on television at midday to announce that reforms were underway and that all the men and women fighting in the mountains should put down their arms and surrender to the government.

  The colonel made several versions of the spee
ch, in several dresses of uniform and against several different backgrounds, so that the tape of his talk could be replayed and no one would become bored with it.

  Governor Borges congratulated the colonel for his sense of practicality and recommended him for the Fatima Courage Medal.

  Then the colonel was driven to the garbage dump where the bodies of his brother rebels were still smoldering and he too was shot.

  As Willie left Angola late that afternoon, 18,000 people came to the airport to bid him farewell.

  The international press gave extensive coverage to his leave-taking, and Willie’s picture appeared in newspapers and on TV screens across the world.

  Singlehandedly he had brought peace to a war-torn nation.

  Men of all faiths hailed it as a miracle.

  That night as the plane flew into the continent toward the model nation of Etherea, where 300,000 people were starving, Herman Felder sipped tomato juice that was purple. He looked young and he spoke reasonably and he told Willie and Joto what he knew of the land they were flying to, where he had once made a film about a humanitarian who was in fact possessed by the devil.

  “It was a comedy,” said Felder, “made at a time when nobody knew the funny from the sad.”

  He spoke cheerfully, and Willie thought that perhaps he had hit bottom, as Joto said, and Joto rejoiced to see Herman Felder take the tomato juice, even if it had been doctored with the blue fluid.

  It was the first time they had been even a little relaxed together, and they all wanted to believe that something fine had happened in Angola. They kidded Willie about the pictures in the New Day and the things that were said of him in the printed stories.

  They had not seen Truman board the plane and they had not seen Truman prior to the takeoff and they did not know he was weeping again without making any sound and in exactly the same way as when the guns were firing except a little worse, because now it was the weeping of true shock.

  Truman had not gone to bed the night before but had walked under the quiet sky, praying in the thanking manner and rejoicing that the guns had stopped firing.