Messiah

by Gore Vidal

  "Take it, John," he repeated softly. "Take Cavesway."

  "Not for you." Cave hurled the metal box at Paul's head and Stokharin fired. There was one almost bland moment when we all stood, politely, in a circle and watched Cave, a look of wonder on his face, touch his shoulder where the blood had begun to flow through a hole in the jacket.

  Then Iris turned fiercely on Paul, knocking him off balance, while Cave ran to the door. Stokharin, his hand shaking and his face silver with fear, fired three times, each time hitting Cave who quivered but did not fall; instead, he got through the door and into the study. As Stokharin hurried after him, I threw myself upon him, expecting death at any moment; but it did not come for Stokharin had collapsed. He dropped his gun and hid his face in his hands, rocking back and forth on the floor, sobbing. Paul, free of Iris's fierce grip, got to Cave before I did. By then it was finished.

  Cave lay in the corridor only a few feet from the elevator. He'd fallen on his face and lay now in his own blood, his hands working at the floor as though trying to dig himself a grave in the hard stone. I turned him on his back and he opened his eyes. "Iris?" he asked. His voice was ordinary though his breathing was harsh, uneven.

  "Here I am." She knelt down beside him, ignoring Paul who stood looking down at them, his pistol held at an absurd angle in his inexperienced hand.

  Cave whispered something to Iris; then a flow of blood, like the full moon's tide, poured from his mouth and he was dead.

  "Cavesway," said Paul at last when the silence had been used up: the phrase he had prepared for this moment, inadequate to the reality at our feet.

  "Your way," said Iris as she got to her feet. She looked at Paul calmly, as though they'd met only at that moment. "Your way," she repeated.

  In the other room Stokharin moaned.

  Ten

  1

  Now the work was complete. Cavesword and Cavesway formed a perfect design and all the rest would greatly follow . . . or so Paul assumed. I believe if I had been he I should have killed both Iris and myself the same day, removing at one stroke witnesses and opposition. But he did not have the courage and, too, I think he underestimated us, to his own future sorrow.

  Iris and I were left alone in the penthouse. Paul, after shaking Stokharin into a semblance of calm, bundled Cave's body into a blanket and then, with the doctor's help, put it upon the private elevator.

  The next twenty-four hours were a grim carnival. The body of Cave, beautifully arranged and painted, lay in the central auditorium of the center as thousands filed by to see him. Paul's speech over the corpse was telecast around the world.

  Iris and I kept to our separate rooms, both by choice and from necessity since gentle guards stood before our doors and refused, apologetically, to let us out.

  I watched the services over television while my chief editors visited me one by one unaware of what had happened, ignoring the presence of the guards. It was assumed that I was too shocked by grief to go to the office. Needless to say, I did not mention to any of them what had happened. At first I had thought it best to expose Paul as a murderer and a fraud but, on second thought (the second thought which followed all too swiftly upon the first, as Paul had no doubt assumed it would), I did not want to risk the ruin of our work. Instead, I decided to wait, to study Paul's destruction, an event which I had grimly vowed would take place as soon as possible. He could not now get rid of either Iris or me in the near future and all we needed, I was sure, was but a week or two. I was convinced of this though I had no specific plan. Iris had more influence, more prestige in the Establishment than Paul, and I figured, correctly as later events corroborated, that Cave's death would enhance her position. As for myself, I was not without influence.

  I kept my lines of communication clear the next few days during what was, virtually, a house-arrest. The editors came to me regularly and I continued to compose editorials. The explanation for my confinement to my room was, according to a bulletin signed by Stokharin, a mild heart condition. Everyone was most kind. I was amused when I first heard of the diagnosis: one of Stokharin's pellets in my food and death would be ascribed to coronary occlusion, the result of the strain attendant upon Cave's death. I had less time than I thought. I made plans.

  Paul's funeral oration was competent though less than inspiring. The Chief Resident of Dallas, one of the great new figures of the Establishment, made an even finer speech over the corpse. I listened attentively, judging from what was said and what was not said the wind's direction: it was quite obvious that Cavesway was to be the heart of the doctrine. Death was to be embraced with passion; life was the criminal; death the better reality; consciousness was an evil which, in death's oblivion, met its true fate . . . man's one perfect virtuous act was the sacrifice of his own consciousness to the pure nothing from which, by grim accident, it had come, a malignancy in creation. The Chief Resident of Dallas was most eloquent, and chilling.

  Even sequestered in my room, I caught some of the excitement which circled the globe like a lightning storm. Thirty-five hundred suicides were reported within forty-eight hours of Cave's death. The statisticians lost count of the number of people who fought to get inside the building to see Cave in death. From my window, however, I could see that Park Avenue had been roped off for a dozen blocks. People, like ants, swarmed toward the gates of the tower.

  I sent messages to Iris but received none, nor, for that matter, did I have any assurance that she had got mine. Paul's adventures I followed on television and from the reports of my editors who visited me regularly, despite Stokharin's orders.

  On the third day, I was allowed to go to my office: Paul having decided that it would be thought odd if I were to die so soon after Cave and, too, he was no doubt relieved to discover that I had not revealed to my friends what actually had happened. Having established the fact of my weak heart, my death could be engineered most plausibly at any time.

  I did not see him face to face until the fourth day, when John Cave's ashes were to be distributed over the United States. Stokharin, Paul and I sat in the back seat of a limousine at the head of a motorcade which, beginning at the tower, terminated at the airport where the jet-plane which would sprinkle the ashes over New York, Seattle, Chicago and Los Angeles was waiting, along with a vast crowd and the President of the United States, an official Christian but known to incline, as Presidents do, toward the majority . . . Cavites were the majority and had been for almost two years.

  I was startled to find Paul and Stokharin in the same automobile. It had been my understanding that we were to travel separately in the motorcade. They were most cordial.

  "Sorry to hear you've been sick, Gene," Paul grinned ingenuously. "Mustn't strain the old ticker."

  "I'm sure the good doctor will be able to cure me," I said cheerfully.

  They both laughed loudly; then the car pulled away from the tower and drove down Park Avenue at the head of a long procession. Crowds lined the street as we drove slowly by. They were curiously still, as though they hardly knew how to react: this was a funeral yet Cavesway was glorious. Some cheered; most simply stared and pointed at our car, recognizing Paul. I suddenly realized why they were so interested in this particular car: on the floor, at Paul's feet, was what looked like a large flower pot covered with gold foil.

  "Are those the ashes?"

  Paul nodded. "Did an extra quick job, too, I'm glad to say. We didn't want any slip up."

  "Where's Iris?"

  "I was going to ask you that." Paul looked at me sharply. "She disappeared yesterday and it's very embarrassing for all of us, very inconsiderate too: she knew I especially wanted her at the ceremony. She knows that everyone will expect to see her."

  "I think she took the idea of Cavesway most illogically," said Stokharin, his usual sang-froid had returned, his breakdown forgotten. "She should be grateful to us for making all this possible, despite Cave's weakness."

  I ignored Stokharin. I looked at Paul who was beaming at the crowd, acknowledging th
eir waves with nods of his head. "What will you do now?"

  "You heard the ceremony?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, just that. Cavesway has become universal. Even the economists in Washington have privately thanked us for what we're doing to reduce the population. There's a theory that by numerous voluntary deaths wars might decrease since . . . or so the proposition goes . . . they are nature's way of checking population."

  "Perhaps you're right." I assumed a troubled expression as I made the first move of my counter-offensive.

  Paul looked away from the crowd to regard me briefly, shrewdly. "You don't think I trust you, do you?"

  I shrugged, "Why not? I can't change Cavesway now."

  Paul grunted. I could see that he did not believe this spurious volte-face; nevertheless, an end to my active opposition would force him to revise his plans; this would, I hoped, give me the time I needed. I pressed on: "I think we can compromise. Short of rigging my death which would cause suspicion, you must continue to put up with me for a while. You've nothing to fear from me since you control the Establishment and since the one weapon I have against you I will not use."

  "You mean . . ."

  "My having witnessed the murder of Cave. If I had wanted to I could have revealed this before the cremation. An autopsy would certainly have ruined everything for you."

  "Why didn't you?" I could see that Paul was genuinely interested in my motives.

  "Because it would have meant the end of the work. I saw no reason to avenge Cave at such a cost: you must remember he was not a god to me, any more than you are."

  This twist of a blunt knife had the calculated effect: "What a cold devil you are!" said Paul, almost admiringly. "I wish I could believe you."

  "There's no reason not to. I was opposed to the principle of suicide. It is now firmly established. We must go on from there."

  "Then tell me where Iris is."

  "I haven't any idea. As you know, I've been trying to get in touch with her for days; your people intercepted everything. How did she manage to get away?"

  "One of the guards let her out. I thought he was one of our boys but it seems she worked on him and he left with her. I've alerted all the Centers; so far no one's seen her."

  Just before Grand Central Station, the crowd began to roar with excitement and Paul held up the jar of ashes which glittered in his hands; the crowd went wild and tried to break through the police lines. The cortege drove a bit faster and Paul set the ashes down; he looked triumphant but tired, as though he'd not slept in a month: one eyelid, I saw, was twitching with fatigue.

  "When are we to have a directors' meeting?" I asked as we crossed the bridge which spanned the Hudson. We're still legally a company. We must elect a new board chairman."

  "As soon as we find Iris," said Paul. "I think we should all be there, don't you? Two to two."

  "Perhaps three to one on the main things," I said, allowing this to penetrate, aware that his quick mind would study all the possibilities and arrive at a position so subtle and unexpected as to be of use to me if I, in turn, were quick enough to seize my opportunity.

  At the airport, a detachment of airborne troops were drawn up before a festooned reviewing stand. Near by the Marine Band played incongruous marches while in the center of the stand, surrounded by cameras and dignitaries, stood the smiling President of the United States.

  2

  The next day while I was examining the various accounts of the last ceremony, the chief editor came into my office, his face blazing with excitement: "Iris Mortimer!" was all he could say.

  "Iris? Where?"

  "Dallas." He exploded the name in exhalation; then he told me: word had come from our office there that Iris had, a few hours before, denounced Paul for having ignored Cave's last wishes to be embalmed and that, as a result of this and other infidelities to Cavesword, she, as ranking director and with the full concurrence of the Chief Resident of Dallas, was calling a Council of Residents to be held the following week at Dallas to determine the future course of the Establishment.

  I almost laughed aloud with pleasure. I had not believed she would show such vigor and daring. I had feared that she might choose to vanish into obscurity, her life ended with Cave . . . even at my most optimistic, I had not dreamed she would act with such realism, exploiting a rivalry between Paul and the Chief Resident of Dallas, the premier member of the Council of Residents, a group that, until now, had existed for purely ceremonial reasons, exerting no influence upon the administration of the Establishment which, while Cave lived, was by Paul directed. Now with one stroke Iris had undermined Paul by going directly to the Establishment.

  I moved swiftly. The Journal was at that moment going to press. I scribbled a brief announcement of the coming Council of Residents, naming Iris as Cave's spiritual heir and custodian of the Establishment. By telephone, I ordered a box to be cut out of the first page. I had not acted a moment too soon for a few minutes after my telephone call to the compositor, Paul came to my office, furious. He slammed the door behind him. We were alone for the first time in weeks.

  "You knew this was going to happen."

  "I wish I had."

  He paced the floor quickly, eyes shining. "I've sent out an order countermanding Iris. I've also removed the Resident at Dallas. I'm still in charge of the Establishment. I control the funds and I've told every damned Resident in this country that if he goes to Dallas I'll cut off his Center without a penny."

  "It won't work." I smiled amiably at Paul. "Your only hold over the Establishment is legal. You are the vice president of the corporation and now, at least for the interim, you're in charge. Fine. But since you've become so devoted to the letter of the law you can't act without consulting your directors and two of them will be in Dallas, reorganizing."

  He cursed me for some minutes: then abruptly he stopped. "You won't go to Dallas. You're going to be here for the directors' meeting which cuts off every Resident who attends that circus without a penny. We own the damned Centers; we can appoint whom we like. You're going to help ratify my new appointments."

  I pressed the buzzer in my chair: a secretary came in. I told her to get me a reservation on the next plane to Dallas; then, before she had closed the door behind her, I was halfway through it. I turned to look back at Paul who stood now quite alone in the office. "You had better come too," I said. "It's all over."

  3

  The new Establishment was many months in the making. The Council of seven hundred Residents from all parts of the world sat in general session once a week and in various committees the rest of the time. Iris was everywhere at once, advising, encouraging, proposing. We had adjoining suites in the huge white marble Center which had now become (and was to remain) the capitol of the Cavite Establishment.

  The Residents were an extraordinary crew, ranging from zealous maniacs to urbane, thoughtful men. None had been in the least disturbed by Paul's threats and with Iris and myself as chief stockholders (Clarissa had turned her voting shares over to Iris, I discovered), we dissolved the old company and a new organization was fashioned, one governed by the Council of Residents who, in turn, chose an heir to Cave and an administrative assistant to direct the affairs of the Establishment. Iris was unanimously appointed Guardian of Cavesword while the Chief Resident of Dallas undertook Paul's old administrative duties. From a constitutional point of view the Council was in perfect agreement, accepting Iris's guidance without demur.

  I, myself, was something of a hero for having committed the Journal at a crucial moment to the Dallas synod. I was made an honorary Resident (Dubuque, Iowa, was given me as a titular Center) and appointed to the Executive Committee which was composed of Iris, Dallas, two elected Residents and myself.

  We worked harmoniously for some weeks. Each day we would issue bulletins to the news-services which had congregated in the city, reporting our progress zealously, devotedly. Paul arrived in the second week. He came secretly and unannounced. I have no idea what it was that he said
to Iris or what she said to him; all I know is that a few hours after their meeting in the Center, he took Cavesway of his own free will and to my astonishment.

  I hadn't believed it possible, I said, when Iris told me, shortly after the Center announced the presence of Paul Himmell among the dead for that week (regular lists were published of those who had used the Center's facilities to take Cavesway); in fact, so quietly was it handled that very little was made of it in the press which did not even report the event until ten days after it had taken place.

  "We may have misunderstood Paul," Iris was serene. Her figure had become in the last year thick and maternal while her hair was streaked with premature white. We were alone in the Committee Room, waiting for our fellow committeemen who were not due for another half hour. The August sun shone gold upon the mahogany table, illuminating warmly, like a Byzantine mosaic, the painting of Cave which hung behind her chair.

  "He really did do it himself?" I looked at her suspiciously. She smiled softly, with amusement.

  "He was persuaded," she said. "But he did it himself, of his own free will."

  "Not forced?"

  "I swear not. He was more sincere than I'd ever thought. He believed in Cavesway." How naturally she said that word which she had so desperately tried to keep from ever existing. We had not once alone referred to the murder of Cave, both acting, for different reasons, as though his death had been, as the world now thought, his own doing.

  "You had really planned to go away?" I asked.

  She looked at me, suddenly alert, impersonal: "That's all finished, Gene. We must keep on in the present. I never think now of anything but Cavesword and Cavesway. It does no good to think of what might have been."

  And that was the most we were ever to say to one another about the crisis in our lives. We talked of the present; we made plans. Stokharin had disappeared at the same time Paul flew to Dallas and we both decided it was wisest to forget him: certainly he would not trouble us again. There was no talk of vengeance.