The Clowns of God

by Morris West

  They were sitting round an old porcelain stove in what had once been the servants’ sitting room in the lodge. The furniture consisted of a small pine table, piled high with books, a wooden stool and three battered armchairs. They were drinking coffee laced with brandy and nibbling on cupcakes, hot from the oven.

  Lotte had aged rapidly in a few short months. The last traces of youth were gone and she was now a silver-haired matron with soft, motherly features and the ready smile of a woman at peace with herself and her world. Mendelius had slimmed down; but he was still a solid, vigorous man. One side of his face was ravaged—scarred and stained by tiny fragments which had ruptured the vesicles; but his black eye-patch gave him a raffish air and there was humour still in his lopsided smile. He professed himself not unhappy with Jean Marie Barette.

  “… The limp is a nothing! It’s just enough to make you look like a distinguished war veteran! The face? Well, I wouldn’t know you’d had a stroke. Would you, Lotte? Anyway, beside me, you look like Donatello’s David!… Still, there’s a lot of life left in us both, old friend! What do you think of this place? Of course, you can’t see a thing with the snowstorm; but it’s all very exciting. We’ve got forty people here now, including four children. You’ll meet them before dinner. And it will be a good dinner, I promise you! Johann and his boys hauled in nearly fifty tons of supplies last month. The woods are full of deer. We’ve got four milch cows in the barn. You’ll smell them tonight, because your room is right over the byres.… You’ll say midnight Mass for us, of course. Not everybody’s Christian. We get over that by what we call ‘a communion of friends’ at the evening meal. Anybody who feels uneasy can avoid it by coming late. The rest of us sit together and hold hands in silence. If anyone feels like saying a public prayer, he or she says it. If someone wants to make a testimony or ask for an accounting of our common day, this is the time to do it. We end with the recitation of the ‘Our Father.’ Most people join in. Then we dine.… It seems to work. There’s something else you should know.” Mendelius straightened up in his chair. His tone was a shade more formal. “The deeds of the valley are in my name and Lotte’s, with reversion to the children. However, we feel that since most of our people are young, I was no longer appropriate as a leader; so, by common consent, Johann is the head of the community.”

  “It works very well,” said Lotte eagerly. “There is no longer a rivalry between Carl and Johann. They respect each other. Johann constantly seeks advice from Carl and me. He listens carefully—but in the end he makes the decisions. However, we’d all like you to take the place of honour, sit at the head of the table, that sort of thing!”

  “No, my dear Lotte!” Jean Marie reached out to touch her cheek. “You have it wrong. I am the servant of the servants of God. I’ll sit with you and Carl—old friends, wise enough to let the young cut their teeth on the barbed wire!”

  Suddenly, as if a fuse had blown, the affectionate talk was over. Mendelius reached out his good hand and gripped Jean Marie’s wrist. He said grimly:

  “This is all too bland, Jean! We both know it. I hear the same kind of chat every day among our people here. Everything’s sweetness and light. God help us! You’d think we were young lovers building our dream houses!”

  “Carl, that’s not fair!” Lotte was indignant. “We talk simple things to take our minds off the terrible ones we can’t control. And why shouldn’t we enjoy what we’re doing here? There’s a lot of sweat going into this place—and a lot of love, too. Only sometimes you’re too crotchety to see it!”

  “I’m sorry, liebchen. I don’t mean to be bad-tempered. But Jean understands what I’m trying to say.”

  “I understand you both,” said Jean Marie. “The short answer is that all the news is bad. The best hope is that hostilities will not begin until spring. The worst prediction, made by my friend Mr. Atha, and half-confirmed by a ‘No comment’ from Pierre Duhamel, is that the Americans might attempt a pre-emptive strike with the big missiles, even before the New Year.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Lotte stretched out her hand to touch her husband.

  Carl Mendelius said, “If that happens, Jean, then everything will be tossed into the witches’ cauldron: nerve gas, germs, lasers, every weird horror in the arsenals of the world.”

  “True,” said Jean Marie. “Even so, you could be safe here for a very long time.”

  “But that’s not the point, is it, Jean? That’s not where all this began—as a plan for mere survival. If it were, I don’t think Lotte and I would have taken the trouble. I don’t think you would either. We’ve both become familiar with Brother Death; and he’s not half the terrifying fellow he’s made out to be. All this began with your vision and the message they wouldn’t let you proclaim: centers of hope, centers of charity for the aftermath. Well, now that you’re here, what do we do?”

  “Carl, he’s only just arrived!” Clearly Carl Mendelius’ frustrations were no new thing to Lotte. “But we can tell him what we’ve been doing. You said it yourself: you can’t give water from an empty bucket. So we’re all preparing ourselves for the services we can best offer—in no matter how small a way. Anneliese Meissner is training some of the young men and the girls in practical medicine—even in homeopathic remedies which are available from local plants. She has them fired with enthusiasm by the example of the barefoot doctors in Chinese rural areas. One of the people Johann brought in is a young engineer who is working on a scheme to use the waterfall for generating power.… I’ve started classes for the children, and Carl is working on an idea for preserving a record of what we do here and the problems we encounter.… I know it’s all small and elementary but it’s… it’s shareable! Even if the world does fall apart, sooner or later we’ll have to try to make contact with the remnants near us. When we do, we must have something to offer; otherwise hope’s dead and charity’s empty!”

  It was the longest speech Jean Marie had ever heard her make, and the finest affirmation of all she had learned as a woman.

  “Bravo, Lotte! You should be proud of this girl, Carl!”

  “I am.” Carl Mendelius was good-humoured again. “I just get jealous because she’s so much more useful than I am. I mean it! I’m a very learned fellow. But what’s it worth beside a woman who can make medicine from herbs or a man who can make electricity from a waterfall?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s some use we can make of you.” Lotte stood up and kissed Mendelius on the forehead. “I’m going to see what progress they’re making in the kitchen.”

  When she had left, Jean Marie asked him a question.

  “Where would you say the name Atha comes from?”

  “Atha?” Mendelius repeated the word a few times and then shook his head. “Truly, I’ve no idea. This is the friend who came with you?”

  “Yes. He’s very vague about himself—and a lot of other things as well. He says he comes from the Middle East. He was brought up in the Jewish tradition and he’s a nonbeliever.… But, Carl, he’s a unique man. He’s young, as you see. He can’t be older than the mid-thirties. Yet he has so much maturity, so much inner endurance. When I was at my lowest, I clung to him like a drowning man. I felt he was carrying me to safety on his back. It was very strange. He slipped so easily into my life that it was as if I had known him forever. One gets the impression of immense knowledge and most varied experience. Yet he never exposes any of it. I’ll be very interested to see how you react to him.”

  “Atha… Atha…” Carl Mendelius was still toying with the name. “It certainly isn’t Hebrew. But it does ring a faint bell somewhere.… I don’t know why; but ever since I’ve been in hospital, my memory isn’t nearly as good as it used to be.”

  “Mine isn’t either,” said Jean Marie. “The only consolation is that there are lots of things we need to forget!”

  Mendelius pushed himself out of his chair and held out a hand to pull Jean Marie to his feet.

  “Let’s take a stroll and see who’s around. Then you won’
t have to face a long line of new faces at dinnertime.”

  In what had once been the dining room of the lodge, a big log fire was blazing and Advent candles in their sprays of greenery were set at the windows. In one corner there was the traditional Nativity tableau: wooden figures of the Virgin, Joseph and the Christ Child with the shepherds and the animals watching about the manger. Opposite was a large Christmas tree dressed with tinsel and baubles. The rest of the room was taken up by benches and trestle tables where bustling young men and women were setting places for dinner. Mendelius, fumbling for names, settled for an offhand introduction:

  “Friends, this is Father Jean Marie Barette.… He’ll be available later for confessions, counsel—or just agreeable company! You’ll have plenty of time to get to know him.…” In an aside to Jean he added, “I know it’s a comedown; but we’re too small to afford a Pope or even a bishop! And we don’t want to frighten off the customers!”

  Jean Marie finished the old, clerical joke for him: “Not before we collect the Christmas offerings!”

  The kitchen boasted a large, ancient wood oven and a half-dozen eager cooks preparing poultry, vegetables and sweetmeats. One of them was Katrin, covered in flour to her elbows. She held up her face to be kissed and made a joke of her condition.

  “Would you believe it! Me of all people! At first I was panic-stricken but now I’m really happy. So is Franz. You’ll see him later. He’s sawing logs in the barn. You will marry us, Uncle Jean?”

  “Who else is there?”

  “Well, if you hadn’t come, we were going to have a kind of public binding.”

  “It’s the same thing,” said Jean Marie, “except mine comes with benefit of clergy.”

  In the far corner, Anneliese Meissner was mixing a concoction in a large copper pot. Jean Marie said his greetings and then stuck his fingers in the pot.

  “Punch!” she told him. “My own recipe. Not to be served to anyone under eighteen or persons not covered by life insurance.” She held the ladle up for him to taste. “Well? What do you think?”

  “Lethal!” said Jean Marie.

  “You get one small glass, no more. I hope you’re doing all the things you were told.” She fixed him with a shrewd professional eye. “You look pretty good.… Only the tiniest touch of facial paresis. Give me your left hand. Grip hard!… You’ll do. I’ll check you over tomorrow, when I’ve recovered from the hangover I shall undoubtedly have. It’s good to see you!”

  It was still snowing but Carl Mendelius was eager to keep moving. He handed Jean Marie a sheepskin coat and a pair of snow boots, then took him out to give him a quick look at the contours of the tiny settlement: the lake frozen and snow-covered, with an upturned boat on the strand, the waterfall still flowing but festooned with icicles, the mouth of the ancient mine tunnel.

  “It goes in a long way,” Mendelius explained. “There are still some large outcrops of bloodstone. We’ve got all our stores in there: canned foods, seed stocks, tools. It’s the best possible protection against blast or direct radiation.… The fall-out, of course, depends on the winds. I would guess Munich must be the nearest big target.… Would you like to meet the children? They’re in this cabin. Some of the women are looking after them. We don’t want to spoil the surprise of the Christmas tree.”

  But when Mendelius pushed open the door and stood aside to let him enter the cabin, Jean Marie had his own big surprise. Mr. Atha was seated in a chair with his back to the door. He had a small child on his lap. Three others were seated on the floor in front of them and behind the children were four women, all absorbed in the story. One of them made a hushing signal with her hand. Mendelius and Jean Marie crept in on tiptoe and closed the door silently. Mr. Atha went on with his story.

  “… You haven’t been there; but I have. This place where the shepherds were watching their sheep is a hillside, very bare and cold. It didn’t have trees like you have here, just stones and coarse grass, hardly enough to feed the sheep. The shepherds were lonely. I’ve spent a lot of time in the desert and I can tell you it is very frightening at night. So, one shepherd sang a little, and the one farther away picked up the song, and then another one, until they were all singing together like angel voices. Then they saw the star. It was big—big as a melon!—and it hung so low that they could almost reach up and pick it out of the sky. It was bright too; but soft-bright, so that it didn’t hurt their eyes. And it hung right over the cave where the baby had just been born. So the shepherds walked towards the star, still singing, and they were the first visitors that little family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph ever had in Bethlehem of Judah.…”

  There was a momentary hush and a big “Ah!…” from the children as the story ended. Then Mr. Atha stood up and turned to greet the newcomers. The child in his arms was the little mongol from the Institute at Versailles. One of the women was the patronne of the Hostellerie des Chevaliers; another was Judith, the little twisted one who made the cosmos cup.

  Jean Marie was struck dumb with shock. He stammered and stuttered, as he had after the palsy.

  “How… How did you get here?”

  “You sent for us,” said Judith. “Mr. Atha brought the message.”

  Jean Marie turned to Mr. Atha. “How did you know the password? I told it to no one except Johann.”

  “Take the child,” said Mr. Atha. “She wants you.”

  He handed the little girl to Jean Marie and immediately she began fondling him, gurgling with pleasure. He found voice again as he crooned to her. “Eh, my little clown!”

  It was only then that he was able to greet the others, and he embraced them like a father parted too long from his family. To the patronne he said, “Now, madame, you really have the silly mule and not the Pope!”

  Mr. Atha’s voice steadied him against the rush of emotion.

  “These folk are my Christmas gifts to you. I invited others, too, in the same way. You’ll meet them later, but you won’t know them. They were clients of mine who needed special help. I hope you don’t mind my small stratagem, Professor Mendelius.”

  “It’s Christmas.” Mendelius was laughing at Jean Marie’s happy discomfiture. “It’s always been open house at our place!”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Your name interests me, Mr. Atha. It’s not Hebrew. What is its origin?”

  “Syriac,” said Mr. Atha.

  “Oh,” said Carl Mendelius, and was too polite to ask any more questions of so laconic a guest.

  Dinner began with a ceremony of children. Jean Marie carried the little clown girl in his arms to show her the Christmas tree and the Nativity stable and the sparks dancing from the big pine logs. She would not leave him; so, before the meal could begin, her high chair had to be placed next to him.

  Johann stood at the head of the table with his mother on his right and Anneliese Meissner on his left. Carl Mendelius was next to Lotte; Jean Marie sat next to Anneliese with the child beside him. Opposite him on the other side of the table was Mr. Atha, with Judith on one side and Katrin Mendelius on the other. Johann opened the proceedings with a formal request.

  “Will you give us a blessing, please, Uncle Jean.”

  Jean Marie crossed himself and recited the grace, noting as he did so that Mr. Atha did not make the sign of the cross, as some did; though he did chime in with the “Amen” at the end of the prayer.

  Then the feast began, ample, cheerful and noisy, with everyone primed on Anneliese’s punch and fuelled with Rhine wine. It was arranged, Johann had told Jean Marie, to come to the coffee by ten-thirty, so that the children could be got to bed and the adults have a chance to sober themselves before the Christmas Mass at midnight. By ten the assembly had settled into a sentimental mood. Johann Mendelius stood up and rapped on his glass for attention. Even in the afterglow of the wine he had an air of confidence and authority. He said:

  “My friends, my family. This won’t be a long speech. I want first to wish you all the best of good things for Christmas and our life a
fterwards in this valley. I thank you all for the hard work you did to get us ready for winter. Next, I want to welcome Uncle Jean and tell him how glad we are to have him. When I saw him last, months ago, I had reservations about all the things he stood for. Now, I’d like him to know I have fewer reservations and a lot more convictions about what makes a good man. Finally, I’d like to say thank you to Mr. Atha, who first pointed me up the track to this place and now has brought us not only our most distinguished but also our most beloved citizen.” He gestured toward Jean Marie and the child in the high chair beside him. There was a small burst of applause. He went on, “From a chance remark which he made while we were chatting this afternoon, I gather that Mr. Atha is one of those unfortunate people whose birthday falls on Christmas Day. Normally he gets only one present instead of two. Well, this time, we’ll make sure he gets two presents!” He held up a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white and passed them down the table with a greeting. “Happy birthday, Mr. Atha!”

  There was cheering and clapping and calls for a speech. Mr. Atha stood up. In the glow of the candles and the firelight he looked like a figure from some ancient mosaic, revealed in a sudden splendour of bronze and gold. Abruptly there was silence. He spoke not at all loudly; but his voice filled the room. Even the little buffoon child was still, as if she understood every word.

  “First I have thanks to give. Tomorrow is indeed my birthday and I am happy to celebrate it here with you tonight. I have promised explanations to my friend Jean Marie, and it is proper that you should hear them, too, because you are sharers in the same mystery.… First, you should know that you are not here by your own design. You were led here, step by step, on different roads, through many apparent accidents; but, always, it was the finger of God that beckoned you.

  “You are not the only community thus brought together. There are many others, all over the world: in the forests of Russia, in the jungles of Brazil, in places you would never dream. They are all different; because men’s needs and habits are different. Yet they are all the same; because they have followed the same beckoning finger, and bonded themselves by the same love. They did not do this of themselves. They could not, just as you could not, without a special prompting of grace.