He scanned the names to get an idea of what was ahead for the day. There was a coffee meeting with the Rev. Thomas Griffith of the First Methodist Church of Boston; in midmorning a session with the University Financial Board to compile budget information for the coming fiscal year; in early afternoon a special seminar on the Crucifixion with Professors Landon and O’Dannis in preparation of a public television taping; in late afternoon a conference with Donald Naughton, one of the younger professors who was also a close personal friend. He thanked his secretary and asked her if she would leave Friday afternoon clear of appointments.
An hour later, he moved back and forth behind his podium, framed by the blackboard that bore his distinguished handwriting tracing the probable lineage of Job, identifying him as Jobab the second king of Edom.
The faces of the students in the amphitheater watched him, dipped as notes were made, watched him again as he emphasized his words with sweeping gestures.
“It was at a very early time,” he was saying, “that man began wondering why he must suffer. Why?” He threw up his hands. “Why me, Lord? I haven’t done anything wrong! So why should it be me? Why not that guy who lives over across the chasm?”
There was a murmur of respectful laughter.
“That’s right!” he continued. “And that’s an attitude and question that lingers today. We cannot understand the type of God who is represented to us as a kind Father yet who does nothing—at least in our limited perception—to turn back the tide of suffering from innocents. Now look at Job, or Jobab. He maintained he was always a moral, upright man, as much a sinner as anyone else but certainly no more so. And yet when he was at the height of his power he was struck with what we believe to be a form of leprosy, complicated also by what was most probably elephantiasis. He was afflicted with swollen flesh that broke and tore with every movement; his herds of camels were stolen by Chaldean thieves; his seven thousand sheep were killed in a thunderstorm, his ten children were wiped out by a cyclone. And yet Job knows himself; he proclaims his innocence. He says, ‘’Til I die I hold fast my integrity.’ Our minds boggle at this vast reserve of faith despite his ordeal.
“The Book of Job,” he said, “is primarily a philosophic meditation on the mysterious ways of God. It is also a book that explores the relationship between God and Satan; God observes as Satan experiments with the strength of Job’s faith. So then this is the question: Does human suffering come about because of an eternal game between God and Satan? Are we simply pawns in a game that would stagger the imagination? Do we exist only as flesh to hold the sores?”
Eyes flickered up from notebooks, then back down again.
He held up a hand. “If this is true then the whole world, the universe, the cosmos, is Job. And we either endure the sores, which are certain to come, crying for help, or we say, like the Biblical Job, integrity. And this is the philosophic core of the book. Integrity. Bravery. Self-knowledge.”
He lunched on a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee in his office while he worked up an outline on the Crucifixion seminar. After his last class he returned and began reading a newly published work entitled The Christians versus The Lions, a lengthy account of early Christianity in Rome, written by a scholarly friend who taught at the College of the Bible. He sat with the afternoon sun glinting through the window over his shoulder, carefully reading page after page and wondering how he’d let his communication with the man grow so lax. He’d heard nothing about the publication of this book and here it had shown up in the morning mails. He made a mental note to telephone the man the following day.
His secretary looked in. “Dr. Virga?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Naughton is here.”
He glanced up from the book. “Oh? Yes. Show him in, please.”
Naughton was in his mid-thirties, a tall lean man with inquisitive blue eyes and fair hair that had begun to retreat farther and farther up his forehead during three years at the university. He was a quiet man who rarely attended faculty luncheons or teas, preferring instead to work alone in his office down the corridor. Virga liked him, seeing in him a conservatism that made a steady, conscientious teacher. The man had been working of late on a history of messianic cults; the research involved was very time-consuming and Virga hadn’t seen much of Naughton in the past few weeks.
“Hello, Donald,” said Virga, motioning toward a chair before his desk. “How is everything?”
“Fine, sir,” he said, taking the seat.
Virga relit his pipe. “I’ve been meaning to take you and Judith to lunch sometime soon, but it seems you’re so busy these days even your own wife can’t keep track of you.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid the research has kept me tied up. I’ve been spending so much time in libraries I’m beginning to feel like a fixture.”
“I know the feeling.” Virga looked across the desk into the man’s eyes. “But I know it’s worth it. When can I see a first draft?”
“Sometime soon, I hope. I also hope that after you’ve read it you’ll still feel it’s academically justified.”
“Oh?”
“Well,” he said, leaning forward fractionally, “I’ve gathered a great deal of information on latter-day cults, those originating toward the end of the eighteenth century up until the present. Almost without fail these cults are based not on the deeds of the messianic figure, but instead on his personality, his ability to attract converts into his flock. The mass worshiped his talent for domination instead of any true God-given vision. So the more recent cults evolved around strong-willed fanatics who were adept at impressing their beliefs onto others.”
Virga grunted. “And you’ve stumbled into a religious viper’s nest?”
“Viper is the correct term,” Naughton said. “The ‘messiahs’ shared two common motives: money and sexual power. In Great Britain in the early nineteenth century the Rev. Henry Prince announced he was the prophet Elijah and became the master of a religious movement that regarded all female disciples as members of a huge harem; Aleister Crowley built a castle on Loch Ness and proclaimed himself ‘The Great Beast,’ converting hundreds of women into his concubines; Francis Pencovic, Krishna Venta, established the Fountain of the World in the San Fernando Valley and was later blown up by a rebellious disciple; Paul Baumann, Grand Master of Methernitha, a cult based in Switzerland, advocated the purification of female converts by sexual intercourse; Charles Manson held his Family on a threat of sexuality and murder. The list, unbelievably, goes on and on.”
A line of blue smoke rose from the bowl of Virga’s pipe. Naughton continued: “It might interest you to know that on one occasion Crowley pulled down his trousers and defecated in the midst of a formal dinner; then he urged the guests to preserve his excreta because, he said, it was divine.”
“Mankind under the direction of madmen,” Virga mused. “Well, Donald, it’s a book that needs to be written. I’m afraid men are only too willing to be led by those who proclaim themselves divine but who are, in essence, only as divine as Mr. Crowley’s…offerings.”
Naughton nodded. Virga’s cool gray eyes were sharp and intelligent through a thin curtain of smoke. Naughton was amazed, as always, at how little Virga reflected his advancing age. There were heavy lines around the eyes; a fringe of white was all that was left of his hair. But the expression on the face, the way the man carried himself, the way he expressed himself, all these were controlled and precise. There was none of the confusion, both mental and physical, that plagued many other men his age. Naughton respected him greatly. Virga smiled faintly and placed his hands on the desk before him. “Did you want to see me this afternoon about anything in particular? Anything pressing?”
Naughton said, “Yes there is. A mutual friend of ours, Dr. Deagan of the Holy Catholic Center, has been helping me compile information in the last few weeks.”
“Has he? How is Raymond?”
“Fine. And he wishes you’d call him. But I received a message from him two days ago concerning a repor
t from a missionary family in Iran. It seems they understand a new messianic figure is being financed by oil money in Kuwait. They weren’t able to supply details, but Dr. Deagan tells me a great number of people are making pilgrimages into Kuwait City.”
“I hadn’t heard anything about that,” Virga said, “but I suppose it’s because I have my nose in a book all the time.”
“So far the missionary family believes it to be an underground movement,” Naughton said, “with little or no publicity. They only learned of it when they discovered the members of their own village were leaving for Kuwait. These people simply left their belongings and that was it.”
“Throughout history, as you well know,” Virga said, “that sort of thing has gone on. A powerful man gains financial backing and converts the unfortunately ignorant to a religious fervor. It’s not new. What’s this one teaching?”
“No information,” Naughton said. “The missionaries can’t even supply a name or nationality. Evidently, though, the movement involves children in some way.”
“How do you know?”
“Our missionary friends report that the influx of children into the area from Iran, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia is phenomenal. But they’re at a loss to explain how the children are involved. Anyway, the missionaries are traveling to Kuwait themselves in order to report further.”
“Well,” said Virga, shrugging, “in the past these men have thrust children up as the vanguard of their flock in imitation of Christ. The pattern seems the same.”
“But intriguing, nonetheless, due to the utter lack of publicity. You’ll recall that one of the most recent messianic figures purchased a full-page advertisement in the New York Times. In this case the man, if it is indeed a man, prefers secrecy.”
“Yes,” Virga said. He struck a match and held it above the bowl of his pipe. “Yes, that’s intriguing. That doesn’t quite follow the usual outburst of ‘spiritual resurgence’ when a ‘messiah’ begins to take some sort of control over the mass. Usually the name is shouted from the lips of poor followers who find out too late they’re being used.”
Naughton cleared his throat. “Up until now I’ve buried myself in libraries, digging through books for the observations of others on messianic cults. Up until now I’ve only been able to compile secondhand information. Now I feel this is an excellent opportunity to document a gathering of this nature personally. So I’d like to request from you a leave of absence.”
“Oh?”
“Yes sir. I want to go to Kuwait myself. I’d like to request a leave now in order to make the arrangements.”
Virga had leaned forward, his eyes shining. He wished he could be undertaking the trip himself. “Can you afford it?”
“Well,” Naughton said, “Judith wanted to go as well but I told her no. I can afford myself.”
Virga smiled and turned his chair around slightly so the afternoon sun streaked across his face. Beyond the window the sky was a muted blue that held pink-edged clouds. “I’ll arrange a leave for you,” he said after a moment. “Off into the sky.”
“Sir?”
“I’m thinking aloud. I’d go with you if I could. I need some foreign air. But someone’s got to mind the store.” He swung back around to face Naughton. “Can I ask that you keep me informed of your progress? I’ll be very interested in your findings.”
“I will,” said the other man, rising from his seat. “Thank you.”
“Just remember me in your acknowledgments,” Virga said. “I’d like for my name to appear in print again one last time. And I still want to take you and Judith to lunch one day before you leave.”
“All right,” Naughton said. “I’ll be in touch.” He moved toward the door and reached for the knob. Virga reopened the book and leaned back in his chair.
Naughton turned again and Virga looked up. “You know, sir, I find myself puzzling over the same question that men have asked themselves ever since the time of Jesus Christ. What if this one is…different? What if this one isn’t false? What then?”
“If this is a false messiah,” Virga said after a moment, “you’ll be there to see how men can be tricked. If this is not a false messiah, then,” he smiled, “you’ll have a fascinating last chapter for your book, won’t you?”
Naughton stood at the door for a few seconds. He nodded and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 12
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IN THE DIRTY desert city with its fringe of tin-walled tenements Naughton thought he was still asleep, that perhaps when he had imagined awakening at the rude kiss of rubber tires on concrete runway he had been sleeping and that was part of the nightmare as well. But no. The blazing white sun in a diamond-blue sky told him no. This was not a nightmare from which he could struggle away through the watery folds of sleep. This was real. Very real.
His cab, driven by a middle-aged man with blackened front teeth and dark sunken circles beneath the eyes, had stopped on a suburban street where traffic was snarled by an accident up ahead. Someone had been run off the road into a gully and voices were raised in a frantic Arabic chatter. Hands waved in the air. The two drivers involved, both as burly as black slabs of meat, squared off in an argument that bordered on hysteria. But Naughton was not concerned by all that. He was staring fixedly out the back window at something on the side of the street, a patchwork of broken concrete and sand that, beyond the stinking sores of tenements, became a dark ribbon through the towers of Kuwait City proper.
There in the gutter, held by sticks planted into firm sand, the skinned carcass of a dog rotated over and over, over and over above a fire of newspaper and rags. Two half-naked children watched the meat turn, choosing a spot at which to rip when the feast was done, and the eyes of the dog stared back, popping from their sockets like white marbles. The smell of it reached Naughton and he instinctively recoiled. He would have rolled up the window but the heat was too much and the smell would have finally reached him anyway through the cab’s broken windshield.
A loud crack! like the backfiring of a car very near made him start violently. Up ahead there was a haze of smoke in the air.
The driver muttered an oath and pulled out of the line of traffic and up over the curb. As they swept around the accident Naughton looked out to see what had happened. One of the drivers lay on the concrete, bleeding profusely from a stomach wound. The other stood over him, one foot on each side of the body, and in his right hand was a smoking pistol. The man on the ground clutched out weakly for the tires of the cab as it passed him to regain the street.
Naughton said over the howl of the engine, “That man was shot back there!”
The driver half-turned his squat head.
“Shot! Do you understand? Can’t you stop and help him?”
The driver laughed harshly. “Ha! You Americans!”
Naughton looked back and saw that the man with the gun was still standing over his fallen victim. Cars pulled around the accident to continue down the street and their movement whirled smoke around the man’s head in a lazy blue circle.
The cab moved over gouged concrete toward the outskirts of the city, through a maze of makeshift dwellings. There were people everywhere, dark people in flowing rags who grinned at him and tried to reach him through the open window before he could slide away. They sprawled in gutters, their eyes open and cautious but their faces already dead They stepped out into the street from between the tenement houses and eagerly watched the approach of the cab, as if he rode the engine of destruction and destruction here was the guest of honor.
Naughton had been prepared for the poverty but not quite enough. This land bothered him greatly; he felt as if something were about to crash down on his head without warning. He seemed to sense it in the acid pall over the city. The smoke began to drift in during the early-morning hours, out of the west where the desert (lipped and swayed like a lissome brown woman. And during the night he stood on the mosaic-tiled terrace of his hotel room and saw them there; the thousands of blin
king fire eyes that matched the cold silver starlids above. He was amazed at their number, he was awestruck. Some of the reports had counted upward of three thousand and that had been days before. Now Naughton felt certain that over five thousand people crowded together there between the walls of sand.
He had immediately, on viewing the great sprawling assembly, written to both Dr. Virga and Judith.
To Dr. Virga he had written of the horrible paradox of this country: on one side the beggars pulled and cried on the garments of tourists, on the other the thin spires of oil derricks shot up from the desert and dishdashah-clad sheiks drove gleaming Ferraris on palm-lined avenues. Here the line dividing the rich and poor was so sharp as to be utterly appalling. He had written Dr. Virga of the gathering people and the still-nameless messiah figure, a man who was completely unreachable; Naughton had still not even been able to learn his nationality. But there on the desert they waited for him. Each day saw them kneeling toward the sun and shrieking out lamentations because he had not seen fit to address them yet.
To Judith he had written of the country itself, its mysterious facelessness and the colors of the desert, the gold shimmering waves of midday and the thick black snake shadows cast by the setting sun.
But there was something he’d kept to himself. The number of violent incidents he’d witnessed since his arrival two weeks before unnerved him; it seemed that this country seethed with growing hatred. There was the smoke of guns and fires in the air; this was a land at war with itself.
He realized he was being affected as well. He was being hardened by the unconcern with poverty and violent death; at one time he would have demanded that the cabdriver stop to call an ambulance for the wounded man they’d left behind. Now—and he wondered why—he really didn’t give a damn and felt no shame about it. It had shocked him, yes, as any raw act of violence would shock him, but he rationalized that there was nothing he could do and left it at that. This land breeds violence, he told himself. This was a hard land, so different from America that it made him feel truly alien, cold, and detached. Perhaps the natives lived in poverty and died by the gun or knife because it was their destiny; to order anything else would cause a disharmony, a disorder in the world like ripples spreading across a pond. People died here because they got in the way. Their way of life nursed violence until it was as prevalent and bitter as the hot overhead sun.
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