Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “This home and these gardens must give you great pleasure.”

  “They are an island of calm in a sea of trouble. The world hasn’t changed much since Tiberius’ time.”

  “I agree, sir. Human nature changes little from age to age.”

  “That is because man has not had the ability to remove the causes of his anxiety. War, greed, fear, hatred—do they not stem from the inequalities of life? How can a man be at peace when he can barely feed himself, while his neighbor lives like. . .”

  “Like a Roman emperor?”

  “Exactly”, said the President. He looked about the room. “All people should be able to live like this. And some day they will. In the meantime, a few are given the privilege of developing the pattern. We lead the way. A paradigm, a model of the man of the new age.”

  “Sir, man hardly seems to be entering a new era. The crimes of this century are unprecedented. Unless there is a change of heart in many nations, we can expect more horrible crimes,”

  “Correct. Unless there is a change of heart. But we are working toward the development of this consciousness. We are approaching an omega point in history. During this period, all that is deformed in human nature threatens to erupt and to drag civilization into the abyss. This threat arises at the very moment when all that is best in man is poised for a quantum leap forward. The atavistic instincts in man cannot be permitted to stop this breakthrough into the next stage of evolution.”

  The secretary entered the room carrying a case bound in green leather. He placed it on the coffee table in front of the President. The President opened it and removed an ocher, broad-mouthed clay jar.

  “Please, Father Schäfer. I have a gift to send to His Holiness. Would you accept it in his name?”

  “I would be honored, sir.”

  “Come, look at it. It is a treasure of inestimable worth. I give this unique heritage of the human community into the safekeeping of the Church.”

  He withdrew a parchment roll from the jar.

  “It is Aristotle’s lost dialogue, On Justice.”

  Elijah’s heart quickened.

  “Mr. President, this is extraordinary!”

  “I hope that the Church will accept this gift as a sign of our good will.”

  “In the name of the Church, I thank you, sir. I know that it will become a major treasure in the Vatican Library.”

  “It is a priceless cultural artifact. But it is of even greater value academically—a keystone in the history of human thought. It was long believed that this lost book was a work similar to Plato’s Republic. The Republic, too, discusses justice, and indeed its alternative title is On Justice.”

  “You mean to say that this document may be one of the Great Books of Western man—but an unknown one?”

  “It will soon be well known indeed. It is all that we could hope for, and more. In some aspects it surpasses Plato for the splendor of its vision.”

  “This is overwhelming. How can we thank you?”

  “There is no need for thanks. It is a token of my commitment to our common values.”

  The two men seated themselves as before.

  “May I ask how it was discovered?”

  “Perhaps you are aware that I am a lover of antiquities—strictly an amateur, mind you. My Foundation for the Development of Archeology perceived early on that many of the major lost books of the world might be sequestered in unexamined caches of ancient documents, guarded by the ignorant, unknown by all save a few jealous bibliophiles clinging to outmoded philosophies. It was my theory that by tracing the historical spoor left by falling civilizations we might obtain a narrowing of probabilities.

  “Take this Codex, for example. I knew that Cordoba in the twelfth century was the great seat of Arab learning, and that Arab learning had included the study of Aristotelian treatises, and especially those works which examined psychology, physics, and metaphysics. I discovered, in addition, that the tradition of Aristotle had survived among the Syrians, and I conjectured that the Arabs might have obtained the book when they conquered Syria in the seventh century. This pointed back to an important presupposition: that the lost books had not burned in the Great Fire but had been rescued at the time or at an earlier period. Their subsequent eclipse was due to the necessity of hiding them from fundamentalists, both Islamic and Christian.

  “I next realized that the great Aristotelian commentators, especially Ibn Rushd, known as Averroës, who died in Arabic Spain in 1198, were possessed of an insight into their master that the Latin West did not have. Their exegesis must surely have come from Arabic versions of Aristotle’s books, which in turn derived from Syrian versions of the original texts. The rest was simple detective work. I found a hidden cache of codices in a sealed crypt of a monastery, now abandoned, which had once been a Moorish mosque. It’s clear that the monks, not the Arabs, hid these precious works from Church authorities, for the interpretations of Aristotle’s thought advanced by the Averroësts was considered a dangerous corruption. Among those codices lay the lost book, in addition to a number of previously unknown works by ancient philosophers. The Arabs had brought the lost books to the mountainous deserts of Spain, on an ark of culture, as it were. For some reason buried in the secrets of history, the collection fell into the hands of the Christian monastics, who in turn allowed the knowledge of this treasure to pass out of human memory.”

  “Mr. President, in my limited study of Aristotle, I learned that the works known in the West came by way of Constantinople.”

  “That is correct”, said the President tilting his head reflectively. “But the translations that came from the Greek through Western scholars took on interpretations that were distinctively Latin. At the very least, this altered Aristotle’s intent. The discoveries in Moorish Spain, I believe, will be a healthy counterbalance to the excessive rationalism of the West. These new books breathe with the very soul of the mystical East, but they breathe through a mind that transcends both West and East. This discovery will be a milestone in the history of ideas.”

  “Its importance cannot be exaggerated. I know that the Vatican will be overwhelmed by your generosity.”

  “Then I am content.”

  “Sir,” said Elijah, opening his briefcase, “I too bring a gift. His Holiness is well aware of your love of archeology and history. He has asked me to present to you the report of the Pontifical Commission for Biblical Archeology on the findings at Ephesus and at the new caves by the Dead Sea.”

  “Ah, yes, I have read about the latest discoveries. I have also read your articles on the subject. Most impressive.”

  The President took the brief, fanned through the pages, and placed it carefully on the table beside him.

  “Father Schäfer, you must personally thank His Holiness for me, and tell him that I appreciate this gesture of courtesy. I see it as a first step toward an open dialogue.”

  “His Holiness very much wants this dialogue. Furthermore, he extends to you his warmest personal invitation to meet with him at the earliest mutual convenience. He asks that you advise him regarding the most appropriate site for this meeting. He suggests as his first choices the Vatican City or his summer residence, Castel Gandolfo.”

  The President’s eyes clouded, and he looked out the window. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then inhaled sharply, and sat straighter in his chair.

  “This is a welcome invitation. The dialogue must certainly continue. However, I am sure His Holiness appreciates the immense burdens of responsibility that I am presently bearing. The Europarliament is in disarray, the economy of the world is radically destabilized. I am being asked by the United Nations to go here and there to negotiate between warring tribes of various kinds. Only this morning, for example, the Japanese requested that I mediate in their trade war with the Americans. It is difficult at this stage to arrange even half a day during which to pursue personal interests. I believe that is what His Holiness is suggesting—a personal, not a state visit.”

  “Precise
ly.”

  “Then I am doubly grieved. I regret, it is not possible at this time.”

  “Sir, I am sure he will anticipate the day when it does become possible.”

  The President smiled suddenly. “You have a saying: the Pope is the prisoner of the Vatican. Please tell him that I too am a prisoner—the prisoner of civilization.”

  Elijah floundered in his thoughts, searching for a response, a way to retrieve the conversation, and to direct it toward the development of a continuing dialogue.

  “There is an alternative”, said the President.

  “Sir?”

  “I would be honored if the Holy Father would consider an invitation to Capri. If he accepts, I would dispatch my helicopter to the Vatican, bring him here for an informal meeting, and return him safely to Saint Peter’s, all within a few hours. I have an uncommitted hour on my schedule next week. One of those rare luncheons which no guest has yet claimed.”

  The President observed Elijah with an expectant gaze.

  “I regret that is not possible, considering his upcoming visit to the Far East. He will be in Japan and Korea next week.”

  “But of course! I had forgotten. Forgive me, my mind is spilling over with far too much information. Perhaps at some point in the future, then, at a place and time that is mutually convenient. . .”

  “I’m sure His Holiness looks forward to that.”

  “Very good. We will be in touch.”

  The President rose and extended his hand. “Father Elijah, I have enjoyed our little chat very much. Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “You may be surprised to know that I have followed your career for some years now.”

  This was indeed a surprise.

  “Come, let’s walk together to the helicopter. We can talk on the way.”

  “You say you have followed my career? You must be thinking of someone else. My career is that of every monk at Carmel, to be buried in the hidden life. Careers are the last thing in the world pursued by people such as myself.”

  The President smiled to himself and took Elijah’s arm. The security personnel stood and bowed slightly as the two men passed through the checkpoints.

  “I would be shocked if it were otherwise”, said the President. “Yet your life before conversion to Catholicism was not without notoriety. Your political career was at one time marked by every sign of destiny. It has not escaped my notice that, had you chosen a different path for your life, you might be standing where I am now standing, in the position of maximum influence. In the parlement des nations what good might you have accomplished for mankind!”

  A sadness clouded the President’s face.

  “Life is mysterious, and full of strange turns”, said Elijah.

  “What great good!” the President repeated to himself.

  “God alone sees everything. I believe He is bringing a different good through my life as a monk.”

  “But, still, what a loss; what a pity.”

  “I think you exaggerate my importance, sir.”

  “No”, the President said soberly, shaking his head, “No, I do not. You are an extraordinarily gifted man. You were a zaddik at the age of twelve.”

  “No,” said Elijah in horror, “I was never a zaddik.”

  “No? Then for the sake of your modesty, we will say that you weren’t a holy man, but a wise child. Is that acceptable?”

  “It is inaccurate.”

  “Then let us at least agree that you were a talmudic prodigy at the age of thirteen. You were engaged in scholarly correspondence with the great Dabrova Rev when the Nazis invaded Poland. Admit it”, said the President, amused. “Vestiges of that gift shine through your articles.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  The President did not reply. He merely looked into Elijah’s eyes with warmth and respect. For an instant Elijah’s mind blurred. He felt at once confused and exalted by the praise. It pleased and frightened him, though he could not have explained this curious mixture of emotions.

  “I have also read about your work with the government of Israel. Your dossiers on Eichmann were prescient. Your later career as a prosecutor of war criminals was brilliant, to say the least. Your rise in the party. Your speeches at international conventions. These were a foundation on which a great work might have been built.”

  “I was a shell filled with idealistic passions; I pursued them only to fill my emptiness.”

  “You were much admired.”

  “And much hated.”

  “That too. Yes, that is part of the burden of destiny. Those who make history, small or great, must accept being misunderstood by their contemporaries.”

  “I have found something much greater. The greatest thing in the world. . .”

  But at that moment the President’s attention was distracted by a commotion on the helicopter pad. A second aircraft was landing, a dark blue, two-seat minicopter. A security guard rushed out and yelled something to the pilot.

  Fragments of sentences, faint but intelligible, broke through the glass paneling.

  “You’re an hour early! This is irregular!”

  “Sorry! But he said it was top priority”, yelled the pilot pointing to his passenger.

  A man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie stepped out of the vehicle and strode toward the entrance. The guard caught up to him and bowed to him, speaking rapidly. The man in the black suit ignored him and walked through into the foyer. He stopped short when he saw the President.

  “My apologies. I realize that I’m early, but it’s most urgent. . .” He looked Elijah up and down with unfriendly curiosity.

  “Let’s discuss this in my study”, said the President with an air of calm authority.

  The visitor nodded assent in a mood of cold restraint. He gripped a valise under his arm.

  “And now, I must say good-bye to you, my friend”, the President said, turning to Elijah. “I hope that we shall meet again soon.”

  Once again they shook hands. Then, without another word, the President and his visitor walked back down the hall toward the residence.

  Elijah stared after them, haunted by the certainty that he had seen that face somewhere before. Then it came to him that this was the man in his dream, the face he had seen in Billy’s apartment.

  * * *

  “Well, how was Mister Big?” said Billy sitting up in bed with a grin.

  A nurse reminded Elijah that Monsignor Stangsby was not yet out of danger and needed rest.

  “You have five minutes with him”, she warned. “Five minutes and no more.”

  Billy looked ghostly pale. His eyes were haggard, but the comic light was still in them, as if he had joked with the angel of death and tricked him.

  “Mister Big, as you call him, was not so big that he was overwhelming. Yet I was. . . impressed by him.”

  “Impressed? Why does that make me nervous?”

  “It needn’t. I knew there was danger there too. The spiritual opposition was subtle but very powerful. I felt something unseen trying to bend my mind at certain points. He flatters, but in such a way as to make one feel truly complimented. He exudes sincerity.”

  “Now I am nervous. What did he say?”

  “He expressed the hope that we could work together for world peace. He was open to a continuing dialogue with the Vatican. It was a preliminary exchange of protocol.”

  “Nothing exciting?”

  “He gave us a gift that I think is very exciting. He is donating an original manuscript to the Vatican. One of Aristotle’s lost books, On Justice.”

  “Too intellectual for me. Sorry if I don’t get worked up over it. Now tell me the gory details. Did he have a black cape, and weren’t his incisors just ever so slightly longer than normal?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that he appeared to be a normal human being.”

  “That’s disappointing. If I’d been there with my little Sting, my trusty orc-killer in hand, oooh, just you
believe it, I would have flushed out the demons.”

  “They were there in force, but were quiet.”

  “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “Yes, a little, in the beginning. But it wasn’t like the frightful feeling one has when a possessed person is delivered of an evil spirit or when you narrowly escape some kind of physical danger. It was like a slowly growing pressure, an awareness of black clouds gathering silently, not yet ready to unleash a storm. The man was surrounded by this cloud.”

  “Now you’re getting spooky. The real stuff! More, tell me more!”

  “The cloud was invisible. The coming storm was invisible too, yet it was there all the time on the edge of consciousness.”

  “So he’s a sinister figure after all.”

  “No. He wasn’t personally sinister. At least nothing in his character or temperament gave off the tell-tale signs of evil. He emanates a rather admirable stability, a kindly but firm authority. It was difficult to direct the conversation where the Holy Father hoped it would go—to the subject of conversion. He was definitely in charge of everything that happened this morning, but he controlled it without any of the ordinary apparatus of control. It was most interesting. I will be a long time trying to understand how he did it.”

  “Mesmerism?”

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  “Did he drug your drink?” said Billy eagerly.

  “My single cup of tea was delicious and had no aftereffects.”

  “Then you’re not making sense, old boy. I detect a hesitation in your voice, as if something happened, but didn’t happen. Something that made you nervous, but it was so insignificant that you dismissed it.”

  “Yes, it was like that.”

  “Your conscious perceptions are telling you one thing, but I’ll bet your spirit picked something up on another level. What was it—that’s the question.”

  “Perhaps it was that I felt myself handled by a master of public relations, a man so talented that he puts you at ease and dispels the suspicion that you are being handled. You sense genuine rapport, intimacy, equality.”

  “And that was the master of the world?”

  Elijah nodded. “It was a surprise. But I should have known it would be that way. The apocalypse is not melodrama. If it were, most people would wake up and see the danger they are in. That is our real peril. Our own times, no matter how troubled they may be, are our idea of what is real. It is almost impossible to step outside of it in order to see it for what it is.”