by Morris West
When the celebrant raised the host and the chalice after the Consecration. Mendelius bowed his head and made a silent, heartfelt prayer: “O God, give me light enough to know the truth, courage enough to do what will be asked of me!” Suddenly he found himself weeping, uncontrollably. Lotte reached out and took his hand. He held to her, mute and desperate, until the Mass was ended and they walked out into the sunlight of the rose arbour.
Early on Monday morning, while Lotte was taking her bath, Mendelius telephoned the Salvator Mundi hospital and enquired about the progress of Senator Malagordo. He was passed, as before, from reception to the ward sister, to the security man. Finally he was told that the Senator was much improved and would like to see him as soon as possible. He made an appointment for three that same afternoon.
He was getting restless now—more and more convinced that his Wednesday meeting with Jean Marie would be some kind of turning point in his life. If he could not accept Jean Marie’s revelation, their relationship would change irrevocably. If he did accept it, then he must accept the mission as well, no matter what form it might take. Either way, he must soon be gone and he wanted as few social encumbrances as possible.
He had done some research, but he was too preoccupied to concentrate on the new material, which, in any case, was fragmentary and of little importance. Tuesday would see him out with the Evangelicals. He was still irritated by the leaking of conference material to the press; but he needed to test the reaction of a Protestant audience to certain of Jean Marie’s propositions. He still had to make good his promise of a news story for Georg Rainer. So far, he had no idea in the world what he would tell him.
Lotte was still bathing, so he gathered up his notes and walked out to breakfast on the terrace. Herman had left early for the Academy. Hilde was alone at the table. She poured his coffee and then announced firmly:
“Now, you and I can have a little talk. Something’s bothering you, Carlo mio. What is it?”
“Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“Herman looks at pictures. I read people. And there’s trouble written all over your face. Is everything all right with you and Lotte?”
“Of course.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“It’s a long story, Hilde.”
“I’m a good listener. Tell me!”
He told her, haltingly at first, then in a rush of vivid words, the story of his friendship with Jean Marie Barette and the strange pass to which it had led him. She listened in silence; and he found it a relief to express himself without the burden of reasoning or polemic. When he had finished he said simply, “So that’s it, my love. I won’t know anything more until I meet Jean Marie on Wednesday.”
Hilde Frank laid a soft hand on his cheek and said gently, “That’s a hell of a load to carry around—even for the great Mendelius. It helps to explain some other things, too.”
“What things?”
“Herman’s romantic idea of living on beans and broccoli and goat cheese up in the mountains.”
“Herman doesn’t know what I’ve just told you about Jean Marie.”
“Then what the devil is he talking about?”
“He’s scared of a new war. We all are. He worries about you.”
“And how he worries! You know his latest idea? He wants to rush off to Zurich for a hormone implant, to improve our sex life. I told him not to bother. I’m perfectly happy the way we are.”
“And are you happy, Hilde?”
“Would you believe, yes! Herman’s a dear and I love him. As for the sex part, the fact is I’m not really good at it myself—never have been. Oh, I love the warm snuggly part, but the rest of it—I’m not frigid but I’m slow and hard to rouse, and what I get at the end is hardly worth the bother. So you see, Herman’s really got nothing to worry about.”
“Then you’d better tell him as often as you can.” Mendelius tried to be casual about it. “He’s feeling very uncertain of himself just now.”
“Forget about us, Carl. We’ll work it out. I’ve been managing Herman ever since we married.… Let’s get back to your story.”
“I’d like to hear your reaction to it, Hilde.”
“Well, first, I’ve lived in Italy a long time so I’m skeptical about saints and miracles and weeping virgins and friars who levitate at Mass. Second, I’m a pretty contented woman, so I’ve never been drawn to fortune tellers or séances or encounter groups. I’d much rather be doing fun things. Finally, I’m pretty self-centered. So long as my little corner of the universe makes sense, I put the rest out of my mind. There’s nothing I can do to change it anyway.”
“Let’s put it another way then. Suppose I come back on Thursday from Monte Cassino and say: ‘Hilde, I’ve just seen Jean Marie. I believe he’s had a true revelation, that the world is going to end soon and the Second Coming of Christ will occur.’ What will you do?”
“Hard to say. I certainly wouldn’t go rushing off to church, or hoarding food or climbing the Apennines to wait for the Saviour or watch the last sunrise. And you, Carl? How will you react?”
“I don’t know, Hilde my love. I’ve thought about it every day, every night, since I read Jean’s letter; but I still don’t know.”
“There’s one way to look at it, of course…”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if somebody’s really going to shut down the world, everything becomes pointless. Rather than wait for the last big bang, why not buy a bottle of whisky and a big bottle of barbiturates and put ourselves to sleep? I think a lot of people would decide to do just that.”
“Would you?” asked Mendelius softly. “Could you?”
She refilled their cups and began calmly buttering a croissant.
“You’re damn right I could, Carl! And I wouldn’t want to wake up and meet a God who incinerated His own children.”
She said it with a smile; but Carl Mendelius knew that she meant every word.
As they drove out to the Salvator Mundi hospital, Domenico Francone, the garrulous one, was taciturn and snappish. When Mendelius pointed out that they seemed to be taking a complicated route, Francone told him bluntly:
“I know my business, Professor. I promise you will not be late.”
Mendelius digested the snub in silence. He himself was feeling none too happy. His talk with Hilde Frank had raised more and deeper questions on the veracity of Jean Marie and the wisdom of his encyclical. It had also cast new light on the attitude of the Cardinals who deposed him.
All through the literature of apocalyptic, in the Old and the New Testament, in Essene and Gnostic documents, one special theme persisted: the elect, the chosen, the children of light, the good seed, the sheep, beloved by the shepherd, who would be separated forever from the goats. Salvation was exclusive to them. Only they would endure through the horrors of the last time, and be found worthy of a merciful judgment.
It was a perilous doctrine, full of paradoxes and pitfalls, easily appropriated by fanatics and charlatans and the wildest of sectaries. A thousand of the elect had committed ritual suicide in Guyana. Ten million of the elect made up the Soka Gakkai in Japan. Another three million were chosen to salvation in the Unification Church of the Reverend Moon.… All of them and other millions, in ten thousand exotic cults, believed themselves the chosen, practiced an intense indoctrination, a fierce, exclusive and fanatical bonding.…
In the event of a universal panic, such as the publication of Jean Marie’s encyclical might raise, how would such sectaries perform? The history of every great religion offered only the gloomiest forecast. It was not so long ago that Mahdist Moslems had occupied the Kaaba in Mecca and held hostages and spilled blood in the holiest place of Islam. It was a nightmare possibility that the Parousia might be preceded by a vast and bloody crusade of the insiders against the outsiders. Against such a horror, a swift and painless suicide might seem to many the most rational alternative.
This was the nub of the problem he must thresh out with Jean Marie.
Once you invoked private revelation, reason was out the window. To which the rationalists would reply that once you invoked any kind of revelation—however hallowed by tradition—you were committed to an ultimate insanity.
Francone swung the car into the circular drive of the Salvator Mundi and stopped immediately outside the entrance. He did not get out, but simply said, “Go straight inside, Professor. Move fast.”
Mendelius hesitated a split second, then opened the nearside door and went straight into the reception area. When he looked out, he saw Francone park the car in the space reserved for medical staff, get out and walk briskly to the entrance. Mendelius waited until he was inside, then asked, “What was all that about?”
Francone shrugged. “Just a precaution. We’re in an enclosed space, nowhere to run. You go upstairs and see the Senator. I have a phone call to make.”
An elderly nun with a Swabian accent escorted him to the elevator. On the fifth floor a security man checked his papers and passed him to the ward sister, a very brusque lady who clearly believed that the sick were best healed by the firm hands of authority. She told him he might spend fifteen minutes, no more, with the patient, who must not, in any case, be excited. Mendelius bowed his head in meekness. He, too, had suffered under the handmaidens of the Lord and knew better than to argue against their resolute virtue.
He found Malagordo propped up on his pillows, with a glucose drip strapped to his left arm. His lean, handsome face lit up with pleasure at the sight of his visitor.
“My dear Professor! Thank you for coming. I wanted so much to see you.”
“You seem to be making a good recovery.” Mendelius pulled a chair to the bedside. “How do you feel?”
“Better each day, thank God. I owe you my life. I understand you are now in danger because of me. What can I say? The newspapers can be so irresponsible. May I order you some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I had a late lunch.”
“What do you think of my sad country, Professor?”
“It was mine, too, for a number of years, Senator. At least I understand it better than most foreigners.”
“We have gone back four centuries, to the bandits and the condottieri! I see small hope for betterment. Like all the other Mediterraneans, we are lost tribes, squabbling on the shores of a putrid lake.”
The threnody had a familiar ring to Mendelius. The Latins were great mourners of a past that never existed. He tried to lighten the conversation.
“You may be right, Senator; but I must tell you the wines are still good in Castelli, and Zia Rosa’s spaghetti alla carbonara is magnificent as always. My wife and I lunched there on Sunday. The nice thing was she remembered me from my clerical days. She seemed to approve the change.”
The Senator brightened immediately. ‘I’m told she used to be a great beauty.”
“Not any longer. But she’s a great cook and she rules that place with an iron fist.”
“Have you been to the Pappagallo?”
“No.”
“That’s another very good place.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Malagordo said with wry humour, “We talk banalities. I wonder why we waste so much life on them.”
“It’s a precaution.” Mendelius grinned. “Wine and women are safe topics. Money and politics lead to broken heads.”
“I’m retiring from politics,” said Malagordo. “As soon as I get out of here my wife and I are emigrating to Australia. Our two sons are there, doing very well in business. Besides, it’s the last stop before the penguins. I don’t want to be in Europe for the great collapse.”
“Do you think it will collapse?” asked Mendelius.
“I’m certain of it. The armaments are nearly all ready. The latest prototypes will be operational in a year. There’s not enough oil to go round. More and more governments are in the hands of gamblers or fanatics. It’s the old story: if you’re faced with riots at home, start a crusade abroad. Man is a mad animal, and the madness is incurable. Do you know where I was going when I got shot? To plead for the release of a woman terrorist who is dying of cancer in a Palermo jail!”
“God Almighty!” Mendelius swore softly.
“I think He’ll be happy to see this race of imbeciles eliminate itself.…” Malagordo made a wry mouth as a sudden pain took hold of him. “I know! From a Jew that’s blasphemy. But I don’t believe in the Messiah anymore. He’s delayed too long. And who needs this bloody mess of a world anyway?”
“Take it easy,” said Mendelius. “If you get excited, they’ll have me thrown out. That ward sister is a real dragon.”
“A missed vocation.” Malagordo was good-humoured again. “She’s got quite a good body under all that drapery. Before you go…” He reached under his pillow and brought out a small package wrapped in bright paper and tied with a gold ribbon. “I have a gift for you.”
“It wasn’t necessary.” Mendelius was embarrassed. “But thank you. May I open it?”
“Please!”
The gift was a small gilt box with a glass lid. Inside the box was a shard of pottery inscribed with Hebrew characters. Mendelius took it out and examined it carefully.
“Do you know what it is, Professor?”
“It looks like an ostracon.”
“It is. Can you read the words?”
Mendelius traced them slowly with his fingertip. “I think it spells Aharon ben Ezra.”
“Right! It came from Masada. I am told it is probably one of the shards which were used to draw lots when the Jewish garrison killed each other, rather than fall into the hands of the Romans.”
Mendelius was deeply moved. He shook his head. “I can’t take this. Truly, I can’t.”
“You must,” said Malagordo. “It’s the nearest I can get to a proper thank-you—all that’s left of a Jewish hero, for the life of a lousy Senator, who isn’t even a man anymore.… Go now, Professor, before I make a fool of myself!”
When he reached the ground floor he found Francone waiting for him. As he moved towards the exit Francone laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“We’ll wait here for a few minutes, Professor.”
“Why?”
Francone pointed out through the glass doors. There were two police cars parked in the driveway and four more outside in the road. Two orderlies were loading a stretcher into an ambulance under the eyes of a curious crowd. Mendelius gaped at the scene. Francone explained tersely.
“We were followed here, Professor. One car. Then a second one arrived and parked just outside the gates. They had both entrances covered. Fortunately I spotted the tail just after we left town. I telephoned the Squadra Mobile as soon as we arrived. They blocked both ends of the street and caught four of the bastards. One’s dead.”
“For God’s sake, Domenico! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It would have spoiled your visit. Besides, what could you have done? Like I told you, Professor, I know how these mascalzoni work.…”
“Thanks!” Mendelius held out a damp and unsteady hand. “I hope you won’t tell my wife.”
“When you work for a Cardinal,” said Francone with grave condescension, “you learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“Dear colleagues!” Carl Mendelius, smiling and benign, adjusted his spectacles and surveyed his audience. “I begin today with a mild censure on person or persons unknown.…
“I know that travel is expensive. I know that ministers of the gospel are paid very little. I know that it is a common practice to supplement one’s income, or one’s travel allowance, by supplying conference reports to the press. I have no objection to the practice, provided it is open and declared; but I think it is an abridgment of academic courtesy to file press reports in secret and without notice to colleagues. One of our members has caused me considerable embarrassment by reporting to a senior journalist that I believed the end of the world could be imminent. True, I said so in this room; but, out of the context of our assembly and its specialist discussions, the statement cou
ld be interpreted as frivolous or tendentious. I do not ask for a confession from the reporter. I do, however, seek an assurance that what is said here today will be reported only with our full knowledge.… Will all those who agree please raise their hands?… Thank you. Any dissenters? None. Apparently we understand each other. So let us begin.…
“We have talked about the Doctrine of Last Things: consummation or continuity. We have expressed differing views on the subject. Now let us accept, as hypothesis, that the consummation is possible and imminent: that the world will end soon. How should the Christian respond to that event?… You, sir, in the third row.”
“Wilhelm Adler, Rosenheim. The answer is that the Christian—or anyone else for that matter—cannot respond to a hypothesis, only to an event. This was the mistake of the schoolmen and the casuists. They tried to prescribe moral formulae for every situation. Impossible! Man lives in the here and the now, not in the perhaps.”
“Good!… But does not human prudence dictate that he should prepare for the perhaps?”
“Could you give an example, Herr Professor?”
“Certainly. The earliest followers of Christ were Jews. They continued to live a Jewish life. They practiced circumcision. They observed the dietary laws. They frequented the synagogues and read the Scriptures.… Now Paul—Saul that was—of Tarsus embarks on his mission to the Gentiles, the non-Jews, to whom circumcision is unacceptable and the dietary laws are unexplainable. They see no point in bodily mutilation. They have to eat what they can get. Suddenly they are out of theory into practice.… The question simplifies itself. Surely salvation does not hang on a man’s foreskin; nor does it depend on his starving himself to death.…”
