But the tipoff was the clothing. It bordered on the nondescript. A blue pinstripe suit, vested, unpressed; a gold watch chain across the round tummy; and scuffed black oxfords. All in all, not the garb of one as reputedly wealthy as Klaus Krieg.
So, Koesler concluded in a tentative way, this man is Rabbi Irving Winer.
Or, not.
In any case, it seemed time to test his skill at amateur detection. He approached the least certain of his guesses. “Rabbi Winer?”
“You must be Father Koesler.” The rabbi took the priest’s outstretched hand.
Success.
Now Koesler moved from one to the other with far greater assurance. “Father Benbow.”
“Father Koesler.”
“Mrs. Benbow.”
“Please, call me Martha.”
“Certainly.
“Father May.”
“Father Augustine, really.”
“Certainly.
“Sister Marie.”
“Father Koesler.”
“And last but not least, our hostess, as it were, Sister Janet.”
“So glad you are here, Father Koesler. I was beginning to worry.”
Sister Marie glanced at her watch. “Jan, for goodness’ sake, it’s only 5:20!”
“You don’t understand, Marie. Father Koesler has a reputation for being early, not to mention on time.”
Koesler smiled as he reddened. “I’m afraid that’s true. Today was the exception that proves the rule.” He wasn’t going to go into his Tigers-induced nap nor even the forgetful Jesuits.
In response to Janet’s invitation, Koesler requested tonic water. It was delivered on the rocks with a thin slice of lemon. He scanned the sideboard containing the liquor bottles. Ordinary selection; none of the various bottles bore an expensive label. In keeping, he thought, with Marygrove: never really wealthy and now leaning toward serving the poor.
Koesler turned back to the assembled group. Everyone seemed ill at ease. Strangers to one another, none appeared confident enough to get the verbal ball rolling. Well, at least everyone had a drink. But . . . “Uh, isn’t someone missing?” Koesler gave voice to the obvious, something at which he excelled.
“The Reverend Krieg,” Sister Janet said. “He’ll be here shortly, I’m sure.”
The mention of Krieg seemed to unplug the floodgates. “With any luck,” Benbow remarked, “his plane went down.”
“David!” Martha Benbow exclaimed. “What a dreadful thing to say! That’s not very Christian.”
“Nonetheless—” Benbow began.
“Nonetheless,” Augustine interrupted, “I’d have to agree, with one proviso. I’m sure none of us would want it to cost the lives of innocent people, but I certainly would not mourn the demise of that man.”
“Of course, no innocent lives . . .” Benbow corrected himself.
“Life is precious,” Winer stated. “That is why we salute ‘L’chayim.’ But I will join you two gentlemen: If there is one person on this earth today who would do the world a favor by leaving, it is Klaus Krieg.”
“My God! I can’t believe it!” Sister Marie exclaimed. “Is it possible we’ve all had the same experience with that man?”
“Why, Sister,” Martha said, “you mean you feel the same as the men?”
“It comes in the form of a confession, I’m afraid—but, yes, I do. Even though each of us writes murder mysteries, I have no doubt we all have a special reverence for life. So it comes as a shock to face up to the truth. And the truth, it seems evident, is that we all have been touched by Klaus Krieg and we all have concluded that the world would be better off without him. And I cannot think of another single human being I feel that way about.”
Though Sister Janet appeared troubled by this outpouring, she said nothing.
It was Koesler who spoke. “This is impressive. I’m on the outside looking in. I’m no writer. I have no idea what you’ve gone through with this man. I’ve never even seen his TV program, and I’ve just read one book his company published.”
“Which one?” Benbow asked.
Koesler was at a loss. “For the life of me, I can’t recall the title. It had something to do with priests.” He glanced at Benbow and was reminded that there was more than one variety of priest at this conference. “Roman Catholic priests,” he added.
“Celibates!” Winer exclaimed. “That would mean they were all in bed with uncounted numbers of women.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“No, I haven’t read the book,” Winer quickly declared. “The literary—if one can use that term in connection with Krieg’s efforts—the literary device is unvarying. The parish priest—the celibate—is in his rectory all day. Meanwhile, all those housewives are in their homes all day. Everyone is bored, so . . . If it had been about a rabbi, he likely would be charging usurious interest, indulging in ‘creative’ bookkeeping, and carrying on with the wife of the president of the synagogue—just for spite.” Winer shook his head.
There was a pause, as if no one had anything to add.
Father Augustine cleared his throat hesitantly. “Did any of you . . .”
Koesler noted a slight slur in his speech.
Augustine began again. “Have any of you been contacted by P.G. Press to write for them?”
Now the floodgates were opened wide. In reinforcing testimony, each of the writers told of Krieg’s invitation, the persistent pursuit—unrelenting assault, really—that Krieg’s organization had engaged in. There was no particular order in their narratives. Details spilled out as one’s experiences reminded another of a similar ordeal. Each had been romanced with extravagant promises.
Fortunately, in each instance, the writer had bothered to check into P.G.’s publication history. The sleaze factor was so obvious it was unmistakable. In keeping with Father Augustine’s information from his friend in the ad agency, each writer had received the good advice from one or another source to have nothing to do with P.G. Press.
And yet, even with the effusiveness of their testimony, Koesler got a nebulous impression that something was being held back.
It was as if these writers were eager to share their individual dealings with Krieg, that they experienced some relief, some catharsis in getting off their chest what had been a miserable episode in each of their lives. Yet each seemed to stop short of complete revelation.
Koesler could not in any way testify to this impression he harbored. He could not substantiate it.
His ponderings were interrupted by Sister Janet’s announcement that dinner was ready and all should take their places at the table. The announcement was almost a command—less an invitation to dine than a direction to cease this trend in the conversation.
Koesler found Sister’s attitude understandable. After all, even though she hadn’t planned or instigated this event—that had been the brain child of her predecessor—she was the hostess for this workshop. If all did not go smoothly, the buck would stop at her desk. And things were not unruffled when four members of the “faculty” wished the fifth speaker dead.
But, willy-nilly, dinner was going to be served. So the writers who had been so animated in describing their battles with Krieg now filed passively to the table. Koesler noticed that Augustine and Benbow freshened their drinks before being seated.
Sister Janet led a traditional before-meal blessing.
There was no particular seating arrangement; each took a place at random. The Benbows sat together. Sister Janet took a place next to Martha Benbow; Sister Marie sat next to Janet. This left the four men together. No boy-girl-boy-girl at this table. There was, of course, one unoccupied seat.
“We’re not going to wait?” Martha Benbow asked.
“For what?” her husband responded.
“For the Reverend Krieg.”
In view of the just concluded detailed excoriation of Krieg and his communications empire by nearly everyone in the group, this brought a moment of shocked surprise. Then someone snickered. Th
at broke the ice; everyone roared with laughter. They weren’t laughing at or about Krieg; having done everything short of hanging him in effigy, they all found the idea of waiting dinner for him the height of irony.
When the laughter came under more individual control, the group took note that soup and salad had been served. Somewhat more relaxed, they began to eat.
“I have some little experience with writers . . .” Sister Janet spoke rather forcefully. She did not want the conversation to revert to Klaus Krieg again; that would be counterproductive to the harmony and good humor she’d hoped would mark this conference. Thus, the effort to steer the table talk along less controversial lines. “So . . .” she proceeded, having gained everyone’s attention, “I feel I’m safe in assuming that none of you has a lot of time for reading. In my experience, this seems to be a common complaint of writers.”
She paused, looking around the table. Her guests, spooning soup or passing salad dressing, nodded agreement and/or facially reflected the futility of finding time, particularly for light reading, while pursuing a writing career.
Sister Janet, having established her premise, pushed on. “Well, I enjoy a little more luxury in this than you do. I’ve been able to read some of all your work.” She turned to Father Benbow. “I haven’t read all your books, Father Benbow. You have been productive. But I have read a couple.
“I think it’s marvelous that you all have been able to communicate an authentic religious experience.”
Sister Marie moved her empty soup bowl aside. “You’re right, of course, Sister. I’ve wanted to read something by each of you. Especially since I knew we all would be getting together for this conference. I just haven’t had the time. But I did learn enough about all of you to know that you all did the very same thing I did. It seems we all followed that sage advice to ‘go with what you know.’ Many of the characters in my book, along with the main character, are nuns. And no one needs to tell me about nuns.
“I’m aware that the protagonist in your books, Father Benbow, is an Episcopal priest; in your book, Father Augustine, a Trappist monk; and in yours, Rabbi Winer, the main character is a rabbi and the setting is a synagogue.
“That’s what you had in mind, wasn’t it, Sister Jan? The authentic religious experience?”
“Exactly. And, as I read your books, I marveled at how each of you was able to invite your readers into your particular religious framework. The interesting thing to me was how you all seemed to accomplish so much with anecdotes.
“And this is what I was getting to: I think it would be interesting if each of you would recount an anecdote from one of your books. The ones that you use all seem to have a purpose in the plot.”
Koesler, feeling more completely left out than he had in a very long time, considered this to be a rather elite exercise in show-and-tell.
“Why don’t we start with you, Sister Marie? Would you tell the story of the nun on the train?”
Marie was reluctant to chance having the just-served beef Stroganoff cool off. Nonetheless, it seemed time to sing for her supper.
“It’s not a perfect example by any means,” Marie began, “but, okay, here goes.
“The story involves a nun on a train. It doesn’t matter where the train is going, say, Chicago to Los Angeles. It’s dinnertime the second day out and the nun goes to the dining car. All the seats are taken except one at a table where two well-dressed men are seated. They invite her to join them. The trio have a pleasant time, and, after dinner, the nun makes to return to her stateroom. But the two men urge her to stay. They contend that since they’ve enjoyed each other’s company at dinner, and since the evening is still young, she should accompany them to the club car.
“Reluctantly, she agrees. So they go to the club car. The waiter asks if they’d like to order drinks. The men each order a Manhattan. They ask if she’d like a drink. She declines politely but firmly. They urge that she join them in a drink. She finally agrees, but she must see to it that no scandal is given: She’ll have a martini, but asks that it be served in a coffee cup.
“The waiter tells the bartender, ‘Two Manhattans up, and a martini in a coffee cup.’
“The bartender looks up and says, ‘Is that damn nun still on this train?’”
While the others were laughing at the story, Sister Marie was able to down a couple of bites of dinner. It was delicious, but definitely cooling.
After the laughter died, Marie added, “That story was helpful in my book because after the nun tells it, she is able to point out the flaws. And they are, of course, anachronistic errors. If the nun was wearing a habit which was that easily recognizable, she undoubtedly would belong to the pre-Vatican II Church—which would date the story sometime no later than the early sixties or any time before that. However, if a nun was traveling anywhere in that era, she would certainly be accompanied by another nun. Nuns simply did not travel alone back then.
“On the other hand, if she was traveling alone, it would place her in the post-Conciliar Church and in all probability she would be wearing ordinary lay clothing with probably no more than a small gold cross to denote her religious status, so that it would be unnecessary for her to worry about taking a martini in a coffee cup for appearance’s sake.
“And when my fictional nun gets done explaining all this, the reader has an added insight into the differences between the pre- and post-Conciliar Church.”
“Now, if that incident had been contained in a P.G. book,” Father Benbow said, “there wouldn’t have been that much time spent in the dining car and the threesome would not have repaired to the club car. All three would have . . .” He let his thought drift off unuttered. After all that had been said about the P.G. Press, nothing more need be added.
“Your turn, Father Augustine.” Sister Janet did not want the group’s attention to revert to Krieg. Indeed, she was becoming more grateful that the Reverend Krieg had not yet arrived. “Why don’t you tell us that delightful story you have in A Rose by Any Other Name—the one about the Trappist and the bishop?”
Augustine continued to cut his food and eat it. Koesler noticed that the monk’s hand trembled ever so slightly and his enunciation seemed determinedly articulate. Koesler thought the pattern might be described as overspeak.
“Well,” Augustine said finally, “all right; if you wish. It’s an apocryphal story, you see. In it, a group of monks are working in the field. Being of the Strict Order, they are forbidden to speak to each other—or to anyone, for that matter. So they work all day in complete silence. No one can tell what they’re thinking.
“One day, as it happens, a bishop visits the abbey.” He looked around the table. “Now comes time to explain that while the rule forbids the monks from speaking to each other, they are permitted to speak to their Father Abbot or to a ranking prelate—which would have to be at least a bishop.
“Anyway, this one day, a bishop visits the monastery. The monks are working in the fields as usual. The bishop goes for a walk in the field, ostensibly for exercise, though mostly to see what the monks are up to.
“He comes up to one monk who is digging away at the potato crop. Now the bishop considers himself a better-than-average amateur psychologist. So he says to the monk, ‘Brother, you look very, very sad.’
“The monk stops digging and looks at the speaker. He sees the pectoral cross, recognizes him as a bishop, and realizes they may speak to each other. ‘You’re right, bishop,’ he says, ‘I don’t feel at all happy. Not at all, at all.’
“I guess,” Augustine threw in as an aside, “I guess the monk must’ve been Irish.”
The others chuckled their appreciation.
“Anyway,” Augustine continued, “the bishop becomes interested in the monk and decides to analyze him and free him of his depression. ‘Don’t tell me, brother; let me guess,’ he says to the monk, ‘it’s the hours you keep. In bed by 6:00 or 7:00 in the evening, up at 2:00 or 3:00 to sing Matins. Up again at 6:00 for Lauds. Those hours could wear any
one out in time. That’s it, eh, Brother—the hours?’
“The monk thought that over and said, ‘Not really, bishop. I couldn’t say that was it. No, not really’
“Undaunted, the bishop tried again. ‘Well, Brother, if it’s not the hours, it’s probably your vehicle of sleep. After all, a lumpy straw mattress on bare boards. I meant to mention that to Father Abbot; how can anyone expect you to function when you have to try to get your rest on such a machine of torture? It’s the mattress, isn’t it, Brother?’ The monk thought about that for a while and finally he said, ‘No, bishop. No, I don’t think it’s the mattress.’
“The bishop considered this for a while. It was unlike him to take two straight strikes. So he said, ‘Brother, I think I have it. It’s the food. No meat, no eggs, strictly vegetarian diet, day in and day out. All the while preparing meat from scratch on your farm and serving dandy cuts of meat to your guests. That’s an exquisite kind of torture. It’s like the forbidden fruit: You can’t have it and yet it’s dangled before you. No one could take that endlessly. I don’t blame you for your depression. It’s the meals, isn’t it?’
“The monk leaned on his shovel and thought quite seriously. Then he said, ‘Sorry, bishop, but I don’t think so. You have a good point, but— no, I don’t think it’s the menu.’
“Now the bishop has had his three guesses and he has struck out. But bishops get to play by their own rules. So he gave the matter some deep critical thought. After all, no one was going anywhere; they had all the time in the world. At length, he snapped his fingers; he’d solved the question.
“‘I have it, Brother’—the bishop fairly bounced—‘how could I have been so blind? It’s right here before me. I’ve been walking around in the middle of it all this time and haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to it. It’s the silence! Here you are, working, praying, eating, living shoulder to shoulder with your fellow monks, and you don’t even know what their speaking voices sound like. How can anyone expect a man to live so close to his fellow man—probably, all things considered, his closest friends on earth. Men you will bury. Men who will bury you. And you never speak to them. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s the silence!’
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