by John Rechy
And when she did, it was again the beloved, handsome visage of Madame Bernice, the woman I have come to trust and love. Still, the earlier impression lingered like a hidden presence. “Madame, are you Cassandra?” The words lost their strangeness the moment I spoke them.
“Grown a few pounds heavier through the centuries?” She laughed.
“Madame, I know so little about you except —”
“— that I’m your neighbor, living in the mansion down the road from yours,” she said.
“Yes.” I remembered this with gratitude: “That day when I was so full of despair —”
“— I appeared,” she said simply.
Waiting for me? I longed to ask. Waiting for centuries and nurturing my essence? Determined to thwart the extension of the design of unjust blame? — unsuccessful until now, very soon, when, during interviews, the truth will finally be told. “Who are you really, Madame? Are you Cassandra?”
Ermenegildo cocked his head at her.
“Ah!” Madame made an undecided movement — she touched her chin, with one finger, and — what significance should I attach to this? — it was only that one finger that did not have a jewel on it. “Why, Lady, of course —” Her smile spread, capturing the only radiance left from the last of the waning candles. She leaned closer to me. “Why, Lady, of course! Of course, you know who I really am. I’m your friend, what else?” She spoke so softly I heard a breeze over her words. “And,” she added, “I’m your fellow conspirator —”
Ermenegildo raised his head proudly.
“— I and Ermenegildo are your fellow conspirators in uncovering buried truths,” she revised, and touched my hand.
The moment possessed such a unique wistfulness that I had to restrain tears.
Now the weariness we had managed to stave off had finally conquered us. That weariness and the approach of dawn accounted for all the strange hallucinated moments of impression, I was now certain. I saw Ermenegildo trying to disguise the fact that he had nodded in a doze; he jerked himself back into stiff alertness, only to nod off again for an instant or two. Gathering him against her, Madame ended our longest tea: “We must leave the rest for tomorrow.”
With that, I made my way back to my château.
Dawn tinted the horizon. The wandering figures hidden by the night were locating sheltering shadows.
I reared back!
One of the wanderers was rushing at me. He halted only inches before me. Behind him, others gathered — three, four — a woman, a child? Others! More! Ten— They all faced me, their shabby carts cluttered with ragged possessions. All were in tatters, their faces gaunt with hunger and grief and pleading. And anger! Yes, defiant anger, seething — I easily detected that, defiance.
I said aloud to them: “I am not to blame.”
And they moved away into the twilight, their carts rattling behind them.
In my chambers now, I yearn for sleep, but time narrows, and so I shall rehearse with you today’s revelations. They are already yesterday’s . . .
There.
I have managed to tell you all that we discovered —
And it’s blasphemous!
What!
Bringing God in like that! And Jesus! And Judas! Turning everything impure, unholy — and even — even —
Your repeated accusation resounds in my quarters. I hear you, yes, you, the same who tries so eagerly to enlist others. I note their silence. They shall hear my rebuttal when you terminate your sputtering reproach.
— and even introducing sexuality where there wasn’t any, couldn’t have been any, mustn’t be any!
Must!
Not!
Be!
Any!
Your extended stutter speaks for itself. I thank those of you who still await my answer, and I shall give it now: I have told the truth. I was there. What is impure here, cruel — unholy? Answer that by answering this: What was the greatest barbarity at Calvary? The slow torture and betrayal of Jesus! And who was finally blamed? Eve — for introducing sin into the world! And ponder this: What was the charge brought against Jesus to assure his murder?
The charge was blasphemy.
I accept your silence.
I wander to my journal and enter an earlier thought into my Pensées: “So puzzling, when things are not what they seem!” I add this: “The world is all sadness, and death is the universal painkiller.”
I reach for the gun I keep near me always, in case of danger. I study it. It’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time, this odd iron cylinder out of which a bullet may be sent hurtling by the touch of a finger — my finger — on this slightly curved protrusion, this trigger, which I feel. My finger warms its initial coldness as it slides on the smooth surface. I hold the weapon to my ear, to discover whether I can hear . . . its sounds. It’s dormant now, this object that can erupt in one second.
In one second.
One second.
I replace the gun on the table.
Night came and went!
Soon I shall be on my way to Madame’s château to continue our quest through my centuries-long odyssey, about to end.
I wait. I wait. How slowly “soon” arrives!
Before I left for tea with Madame Bernice, I entered that into my Pensées: “How slowly ‘soon’ arrives!”
A few minutes earlier than usual, I was walking up the marble steps to Madame’s veranda.
She was eager to resume — and so apparently was Ermenegildo, who had strolled down the road early to greet me. Madame quickly poured our tea, the most savory brew yet. She had dressed resplendency for today’s revelations. Her full skirt, silk, had a sheen that turned gray into silver. She wore a new pendant, a pearl touched with purple, and a gold tiara flecked with gems I could not yet identify. Noticing that I was admiring her appearance, she waited before beginning.
“Madame! You look ravishing!”
“Thank you, Lady.”
If I did not know her better, I would be tempted to say she primped. She smoothed the folds of her skirt to display even more silver highlights. Ermenegildo carefully straightened a fold that had eluded her. Now Madame took a piece of shortbread and dabbed it with bramble jelly, a delicacy she had presented with no introduction other than a hugely satisfied smile, which waited for my comment.
“Delicious,” I complimented.
“Yes, isn’t it? Now! We must move on. First we must deal with the last entry in that vile ‘Account.’” She reached for the pages I had already placed at the center of the table, under the vase, which today hosted a cluster of red-dabbed white carnations. Madame’s fingers prepared to leaf through the pages. “May I?”
“Yes.” But I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn how this “Final Installment” ended.
Madame’s eyes raked each page. “The usual malicious accusations.” As she neared the last page, she read intently, until the end.
She held out those sheets for me to read. I did. Then she showed the pages to Ermenegildo. He looked up at me, to gauge my reaction.
Madame and I spoke, words, just words.
I said to Madame —
Madame said —
Oh, the matter was too numbing to discuss further.
I pushed the pages of the “Account” away. I would consider their meaning later.
Madame set the vase firmly on the pages, indicating she would honor my decision to discuss them no further than we had. Then, like a grand detective with a bejeweled tiara, she announced: “Now on to God’s motivations. Why really did God despise Eve?”
Ermenegildo was particularly attentive, even ignoring a magnificent blue butterfly that was floating about us.
“And He did despise Eve — you,” Madame extended, “from the very first moment you sprang —”
“— to life — out of Adam’s longing . . . And I stood on a bed of orchids, near the flower so glorious it did not need the decoration of leaves.” I spoke that warming memory.
“Out of Adam’s longing you sprang,” M
adame echoed my words slowly. She leaned over and repeated them to Ermenegildo: “Out of Adam’s longing —”
Did Ermenegildo peck her dazzling earring gently, or did he whisper into her ear?
Madame sat up. “That’s it! Oh, Lady, how could it have evaded us?” She was wildly excited. “God intended no such longing in Adam. It came from the spurt of life that had spun into the Garden in the very beginning and on which Adam woke. When Adam located the yearning in his heart — and it was a longing for completion, Lady —”
“— God thought the yearning was in his rib —” I fully trusted that Madame’s recapitulation was leading to a startling revelation.
“— and He plucked it out, to end Adam’s longing. Lady, Lady, Lady!” Madame’s jubilant words tumbled out exultantly: “God’s wrath at you was aroused because He had not counted on you.” She surged on: “His wrath increased when He tantalized you with the forbidden berries He connived to use to separate you from Adam. When you ate them — oh, Lady, Lady — it was you, Lady — you, Eve! — who first expressed free will!”
I was yanked powerfully — almost violently — by a sudden perception of something known but not known, something always there and visible but seen only now, revealed now, something found beyond the known, the unknown finally known.
Madame added proudly: “And that was the ‘abomination’ He could not forgive, the assertion of free will. So He called it the original sin, the sin He loudly claimed brought about the fall of all mankind because you ate the forbidden berries.”
Ermenegildo shook his head in renewed amazement at such mysterious ways.
“Now God was sure that Adam would not risk being accursed — that he would separate himself from you. God even offered him a servile creature to replace you, but—” Madame waited for me to finish.
I did, victoriously: “But my beloved Adam chose me!”
“— and so he asserted both his love and his own free will!”
Oh, I longed to share again with him the delectable berries that Adam’s tongue had tasted in my mouth.
“God never granted anyone free will — not the angels, not Adam, and certainly not you,” Madame extended her discoveries.
“Yet He claimed that He donated it.”
“After the fact. What else could He do?”
Why in this heady moment on the veranda showered by brilliant sunlight were my eyes drawn to the powerful odd new lilies along the ledges of the garden, those flowers that evoked, yet distorted with their rancid beauty, the special leafless ones in Eden? I turned away from their overwhelming scent. My aversion seemed to cause the drench of perfume to evaporate. Of course, it was only a warm breeze easing past palm fronds that had smothered the aggressive scent.
Madame’s voice was hushed: “Ah, but, Lady — for all the horrors we’ll soon expose — think of this and assert it during interviews: Adam, your beloved, chose you and your defiance instead of accepting God’s offer of paradise and a servile creature. Dear Lady, what a miraculous love, yours and his. A love story never before acknowledged.”
I whisper to my memories: Adam, my beloved, soon, at interviews, the whole world shall know our great love story, and that we are always together, Adam and Eve, Eve and Adam.
Ermenegildo’s gaze alerted us to the direction of agitated sounds.
Madame fixed her opera glasses on the château of the new tenant. “There’s hectic activity. More people about the mansion. Lady, I believe they know we’ve neared our goal. So we must hurry preparations for formal interviews.”
“I will be ready, Madame,” I said with certainty.
“Are you sure? You really want to proceed with this?” Her eyes were on me, steadfast; I might even say, relentless.
No, I did not mind her startling words. “Madame,” I said, “throughout all our teas, from the moment we met and you explained my essence to me, I’ve grown strong, as strong as my memories, as strong as my determination to speak at last . . . Oh, yes, Madame, I’m sure I shall be ready when interviews begin.”
Madame seemed to speak to herself, quietly: “And you shall convince everyone — because — because — because —”
Madame seldom hesitates to speak her mind. Why now? “Because, Madame?”
“Because you have convinced me.”
“What!”
“I finally do believe you. You’ve convinced me that you are telling the truth.”
How could I give words to my disorientation? I found only these: “You weren’t sure?” Should I feel victorious or despondent? I stood up, ready to run away, to —
She held my hand, easing me back down.
“Oh, Madame, Madame, again you were being an interviewer. Weren’t you? Weren’t you?” I wasn’t begging. I laughed away this distressing moment. “I see, of course. I understand! Even now, you’re preparing me for interviews, aren’t you, Madame? Aren’t you? You were playing converted interviewer!”
“Converted, yes — the most resistant one.” Madame retained her serious tone: “I have no doubt now that you’re the bearer of the essence of all women unjustly blamed for great catastrophes — and that you will redeem them.”
How well she played her roles! How solemn she looked in her “confession,” as if, yes, as if truly I had only now convinced her of my truth. I acknowledged all that with a smile, just a smile.
I must not linger, I must return immediately to my château, to rehearse the very last details. Madame agreed. I grasped the installments of the vilifying “Account” and hurried along the road.
I approached my gates cautiously. A leaf there . . .? Just a leaf. Nothing else? I looked around. No, nothing! Was that a further message?
When I rushed into my quarters, I realized how short today’s tea had been; sun spattered into my quarters. I shall not miss my lavish surroundings when I surrender my wealth to the poor. I shall always carry beauty with me.
I enter this hurriedly into my Pensées: “The power to convert the drab and the ugly into beauty, to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary — only magicians, dreamers, and the insane possess it.”
I shall rush to rehearse with you what occurred just minutes earlier before I left Madame’s garden, before the urgent activity at the château of the new tenant intruded.
Read us what you so carefully avoided telling about earlier, what’s contained in the last pages of the “Final Installment.”
Oh, but I shall!
And so the noble Count du Muir is dead, murdered at the very altar of the Grand Cathedral by the vile Whore, who fled into hiding but shall be located (as sure as God is powerful). Now the upright Twin Brother of the Count du Muir is murdered, too, by his very Mother, the Contessa. The Renegade Nun has been hastened to her reward (if any). And the dissolute Contessa is dead, by her own hand. All silenced in this giant trap set by the Whore.
Still, there is hope that out of all this depravity, now that the Whore’s villainy has been exposed in these pages (but not fully, there is more that the Writer promised to reveal but veered away from at the last, overwhelmed by horror; abominations that evolving circumstances may yet expose). As sure as God is powerful, the Whore shall not be rewarded in any way, including by an unjust inheritance.
Surely the Count’s beneficent Sister is clearly the only rightful heir to both the spiritual and actual wealth accrued by this great dynasty. Surely — there is no doubt of this, none whatever — the honorable Sister shall turn for divine guidance to the Mighty Lord’s representative on earth, the Holiest of Prelates, the Pope. Upon her death, which all good people pray will be long, long, long delayed (but who can predict life’s sudden ambushes?), her inherited beneficence shall shower the Holy Defender of the Grand Cathedral.
“Irena’s next,” Madame had interjected when we reached that point. “The Pope has been pulling all the strings from the beginning, allowing her to think she’s in control. But she’s cunning, and may yet get him first.”
Now the Writer as recorder of these nefarious dee
ds tires exceedingly, having dutifully and honorably produced this True Account of baseness. Having done so, he ends like this:
What punishment befits the vile Whore who set into motion all this corruption by attempting to change the course of Destiny on its intended righteous path? Only God shall determine that punishment, and He will. And if the Whore should dare attempt to claim —
The “Account” ends there. Abruptly. Unfinished —?
It was then that I pushed the contaminated sheets away and Madame honored my intention.
Jagged pieces of the sun flash into my quarters.
Reflections from Madame’s château! I look outside. When did dusk fall?
I see Madame at her window. I read her signal for urgent attention. I adjust the panes of my window, preparing to respond — I shall augment reflections with a mirror. I signal her that we are in touch.
She begins to spell words:
L —!
E —!
A —!
V —!
E —!
LEAVE!
Another word begins:
M —! I —?
S —!
I —!
O —!
N —!
LEAVE MISSION? — in her urgency she missed a letter. Abandon our mission? Abandon interviews?
Never! I flash anxiously that she must repeat the second word.
She does.
M —!
A —! . . . Not an “I” — I missed the downward slope. No, that belongs to another letter. No, it begins another —
N —!
S —!
I —!
O —!
N —!
LEAVE MANSION!
Letters follow rapidly:
N —!
O —!
W —!
LEAVE MANSION NOW!
Reflections stop!
Did Madame have to run out?
Shall I rush out?
Furtive motions outside the gates of my château stop me. Figures rushing onto my grounds? I must retreat from sight. I hide quickly beside the drapes.
