by Simon Parke
‘There’s no way we’re giving up on this,’ she said. ‘I think the Feast of Fools is just the best idea.’
Encouraging.
And Bella’s confidence had proved a daily reassurance to Frances, and she’d worked tirelessly on the preparations. Whatever else Barnabus felt - and he felt a great deal about her arrival - she was a most efficient administrator. But you needed more than efficiency to stir the people of Stormhaven, this was well known, and at the beginning of September there’d even been talk of dropping the idea.
‘You can’t have a Feast of Fools if there are no fools,’ observed Frances glumly.
Barnabus withheld his amusing reply, with Frances not in the mood.
‘God help the good idea conceived in Stormhaven,’ she said in despair, ‘for it shall be aborted before it is born!’
‘We can only do what we can do, Frances,’ said Barnabus gently. Frances was no stranger to self-punishment and he could see her going there now.
‘So what are you doing?’ she asked aggressively.
‘I’m doing what I can do,’ said Barnabus.
‘With your little diploma.’
Barnabus had looked at her in amazement.
And then two things happened. First, Frances contacted the Sussex Silt, the popular if disreputable local paper. On a quiet news day, they’d printed a predictably irreverent piece on the event entitled:
‘Therapy clinic wants to make a fool of you!’
And second, Frances decided to offer the experience free of charge.
‘ ‘‘Loss leaders”,’ that’s what supermarkets call them, Barnabus.’
‘I’m familiar with the idea.’
‘Products sold below cost price, simply to get footfall in the shop. We take the short-term hit to make a long-term splash.’
Within a week, four clients had signed up and a fifth was thinking about it. And then Barnabus had surprised Frances with a remark:
‘Therapy is better when people pay,’ he’d said.
He and Frances had walked together with their coffee from the large kitchen into the hall and then up the slightly misshapen stairs. They stood now in the gallery, surveying their Elizabethan kingdom. They looked down on the large entrance hall, with its striking black and white marble floor in chess board patterns, while behind them was the Long Room, where the Feast of Fools would take place.
‘Much better!’ said Frances. ‘You can’t bank good will.’
‘No, I mean it tends to be more healing.’
‘More healing? What are you talking about, Barnabus? How does parting with cash help anyone therapeutically - apart from yourself?’
‘It’s something someone said to me once and I agree with them. Experience shows that people work harder when they’ve paid money, they value it more.’
‘Oh I see.’
Frances felt strangely reassured.
‘It doesn’t need to be a lot, just something; there’s usually more honesty, more risk taking. They don’t want to waste their money.’
‘And I don’t want us to waste our time, Barney, so let’s keep our eye on the ball here.’
Brisk change of direction.
‘Which particular ball do you have in mind?’
Eighteen
So what did Frances want to say? She wanted to say something and from the locking of her jaw, it was apparently awkward.
‘Well, obviously the clients matter, Barnabus.’
‘They do - it’s a basic principle of therapy, I believe.’
‘So the client is king, the client is queen and all that.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So we’re taking that as read.’
‘I sense a “but” Frances, so shall we save time and make our way there now?’
‘But on this one occasion, more important than all that-.’
‘More important than the client?’
‘More important than the client, yes, is the publicity for Mind Gains.’
There, said it.
‘More important than the client is the publicity?’
‘Spare me the shocked look, you pompous prick!’
Henry House had been acquired cheaply. An alcoholic doctor had retired to Somerset and wanted to make amends for years of misdiagnosing patients.
‘I want to put things right,’ he’d said to them. ‘And I don’t need the money.’
And Henry House was a wonderful space. Downstairs, the house offered a large entrance hall, kitchen, utility space and toilets, two offices, a counselling room and a dark dining room. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, one presently inhabited by Barnabus; a bathroom, another counselling room and the Long Room, the social hub of the old house.
And then there was Bella’s little nook. This was more an alcove than a room, a recess in the entrance hall but large enough for her administrative needs. They’d offered her one of the offices but she’d felt it better to be visible for people who arrived. In fact, she’d been quite insistent about that.
‘It’s best if I see all comings and goings,’ she said, and it did make sense. Mind Gains had an administrator who missed nothing and no one.
‘So you’re ready for the clients?’ said Frances to Barnabus, drain- ing the last dregs of caffeine from her cup.
‘Yes, I see two tomorrow, two the following day and then it’s the Feast on Friday.’
‘For which preparations are well in hand. Bella’s been a marvel.’ She had been very good, there was no argument there.
‘And Bella tells me that we’re all to look alike,’ said Barnabus. Frances nodded knowingly.
‘Very alike indeed.’
‘With clown uniforms and voice disguise?’
‘Thrilling, isn’t it?’
Barnabus was managing to keep his excitement in check.
‘At the heart of the Feast of Fools were three things,’ she said.
‘Disguise, role play and excess. Hopefully we can manage all of those.’
‘We can’t just meet as the people we are? That’s too far-fetched, I presume?’
‘Not interesting enough, not for the publicity. You’ve got to think of the stunt-value.’
‘One of Freud’s lesser known sayings.’
‘Lighten up, Barney! We’ll meet not as the people we are but as the people we’d like to be! We’ll live out our dangerous fantasies!’
‘None of mine include a clown suit.’
‘So what do they include?’
‘A confidentiality clause.’
‘Shame. But imagine if the inner monster was released!’
‘That’s a genuine health and safety issue.’
It was at this point that Jung suddenly came to life, chirping merrily. The Mind Gains budgie, constant resident in the hall, was thought by Frances to be therapeutically helpful.
‘Budgerigars are relaxing,’ she’d declared, and that was very much that.
Bella had taken to feeding Jung, which was probably just as well, as Frances thought only of the Feast and was presently proclaiming the importance of anonymity, absolutely crucial, Barney, absolutely crucial to the liberation of people from old repressed patterns of relating, do you see that, you must see that?
Barnabus: ‘You’re beginning to sound like a sociology lecturer from the 1970s.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
‘I won’t let you be a wet blanket, Barnabus, I really won’t!’ She was telling him, someone had to. ‘Get on board or get out!’
Nineteen
There was a pause as they stood with their empty coffee cups in the gallery of Henry House.
Barnabus: ‘I think we both know that my “getting out” would have a significant impact on the cl
inic.’
‘Not as significant as you imagine.’
Barnabus took a deep breath; Frances looked flushed.
‘This is perhaps for another time,’ he said.
‘Another time, yes.’
‘For now, we do it - and I will give it my best.’
It was a declaration of peace, after which Frances excitedly declared:
‘And as the flier says, “At the Feast of Fools, there are no rules!”. ’ She sounded like a naughty little girl which explained Barnabus’s next remark:
‘Rules must oppress you very much, Frances.’
‘Well, it is rather fun to break them occasionally - I can be a great rule-breaker, believe me!’
Barnabus did believe her.
‘And God knows how these voice-altering pills work,’ she said, speeding on. ‘Bella’s got them from somewhere and they’re effective for up to four hours apparently.’
Barnabus did his best with a ‘Fancy that!’ expression as Frances continued:
‘Yes, if what I’m told is true, you and I won’t be able to recognise each other!’
‘How will we survive?’
‘The clown costumes will re-shape us and who knows what we’ll sound like?’
‘So we’ll be able to speak - but sound different?’ says Barnabus, seeking clarification.
‘That’s the shape of it, guys!’
Bella had appeared in her flirty skirt and clickety shoes from the Long Room.
‘And height?’ asked Barnabus, now the organiser was here and available for questions. ‘How on earth do you disguise height, apart from beheading?’
‘We did contemplate that,’ said Frances, with a knowing smile towards Bella. ‘But then we thought we’d give you one last chance!’
‘Part equipment, part luck,’ said Bella, with a bright-eyed, clever girl smile. ‘There’s an online store called Show Shoes - they sell shoes that enable you to play with people’s heights. And from what I’ve seen, there’s no great height difference among those coming anyway.’
‘You know people’s heights?’
‘I know more than that, Barnabus, which, if it’s helpful, I’ll be passing on to you for your sessions. I’ve got all their personal details.’
‘Shoe size doesn’t matter hugely in therapy.’
Frances leaps in playfully: ‘Oh, everything’s material, Barney boy, everything’s material. Or didn’t they tell you that on your little diploma course?’
His little diploma course?
‘I’m not sure the Buddha had any letters after his name,’ said Barnabus, trying to stay calm, though he’d like to hit her, knock her over the balcony and watch her fall and shatter on the cold marble below.
Why did he feel so uncomfortable? Because there was no safe ground here and if it wasn’t Frances, it was Bella. Why couldn’t he just get over his issues with her and accept what was? Wasn’t that what he encouraged his clients to do? Embrace the moment, lean into the pain, walk through your fears?
‘And I mean look at us,’ said Frances. ‘Here’s the three of us looking each other in the eye.’
Bella was a couple of inches shorter than the other two, but not in her noisy shoes.
‘In disguise, we are free!’
‘In disguise, we are dangerous.’
‘Don’t worry, guys,’ said Bella, with a mischievous smile. ‘I’ll try and behave myself!’
Twenty
Hafiz walked as one in a daze.
In the few weeks since their first encounter, he’d written twenty-one poems about Shakh-e Nabat; twenty one poems of love and intoxication and he knew it was twenty-one because he’d counted them and kept copies, which took a bit of time, but what else was time for?
And it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice, because he’d had to write them, just as he’d had to deliver them, each one taken personally to her house on twenty-one separate visits, not including the visits which weren’t visits, times when he was merely passing, when he just found himself in the rich quarter of Shiraz and ever-ready with the line, ‘I was just passing, fancy meeting you, did you see my poems?’ should they meet.
But they never did. She seemed to have taken against the veranda of late, she never appeared there, though on one occasion, he did believe she’d pulled back the curtain, a slight but perceptible movement as he turned to leave after placing a poem on the table - a desire to catch a glimpse of the mysterious poet perhaps? It was possible. He’d like her to wonder about the mysterious poet, he’d like that very much, like her to be losing sleep over him, asking around, ‘Who is this man?’ And he had heard, in a second-hand manner, possibly third, that she’d received each of his poems and was not entirely unfavourable towards them. She’d held his poems and quite liked them! If that was so, then he could die.
But he also wanted to live, which was why he now walked away.
Knowing what he must do, he walked away from beauty and away from Shiraz. The promise of Baha Kuhi, the promise first spoken of by Muhammed Attar, was also revealed by the same, a promise now etched in his mind like engraving on a tomb; and the words shaped each step of the way, as he left behind everything he knew.
He’d discovered the promise more easily than anticipated. He’d expected a battle with Muhammed, a war of attrition, for in his experience, the enlightened do not like telling you anything - they prefer you to find it yourself. Muhammed released knowledge with extreme reluctance, as though you were asking him to cut off his arm. He believed most people were unready for knowledge and if given it, would only ruin it, twisting it to suit themselves.
But not always: for when Hafiz had approached him the following day, he’d pushed at an open door.
‘So tell me the promise of Baha Kuhi.’ Muhammed was unloading melons.
‘The promise of Baha Kuhi?’
‘It’s a simple request.’
‘Help me with the melons and I will tell you the promise.’
Hafiz could not believe his luck. Here was a fair exchange, melons for a promise, and as he sweated with the large fruit, too full of water to be light, Mohammed kept his word:
‘The promise is this: ‘If anyone can remain awake for forty consecutive nights at my tomb,’ said Baha Kuhi, ‘then I will grant you three gifts: the gift of poetry, the gift of immortality and the gift of your heart’s desire.’
The three gifts were quickly and securely remembered. Memory was not a problem for Hafiz in those days; if you can learn the Koran you can learn anything and with the words repeated and established in his mind, he’d finished with the melons and taken his leave, knowing what he must do.
And so here he was now, doing it - leaving the woman and leaving Shiraz, to walk the four miles to the tomb of Baha Kuhi, with the three gifts on his mind. Well, this was not entirely true. The first two gifts of poetry and immortality were of no consequence. After all, he was a poet already with little to learn there; and as for immortality, it was too far away to concern one so young. But the third gift, the gift of his heart’s desire, this could not wait. Hafiz walked towards the tomb of Baha Kuhi with a mind focused on one thing and one thing alone: the possession of that vision of beauty, the beauty that had been killing him daily since he’d delivered Barbari bread to the rich part of town; the beauty expressed in the body and soul of Shakh-e Nabat.
He would keep this vigil, no matter what the cost. He would draw a circle in the dust and remain there for forty days without sleep. This was all perfectly fine, this he would do. Someone said it would send him mad, but how could that be so? Hafiz was mad already.
He remembered the words of Muhammed Attar: ‘Like a moth dying in the flame, much of us is lost in pursuit of the light.’
And if that included his sanity, then so be it.
Twenty One
Monday 3 November<
br />
Three days after the Feast of Fools
‘So this is Henry House?’
‘Yes, rather fine really.’
Tamsin and Abbot Peter stood in the cold-stone entrance hall, polished black and white marble beneath their feet. They were overlooked by a first floor gallery, criss-crossed now by blue-coated forensics tidying up and readying to leave, cutting edge modernity on sixteenth-century floors.
‘The body’s in the office, Ma’am,’ said a young officer. Tamsin ignored him.
‘Thank you,’ said Peter, on her behalf.
‘And your friend Barnabus both lived and worked here?’ she said.
‘Friend is a bit strong.’
‘Why are you so frightened of the word ‘friend’, Abbot?’
‘I’m not aware that I am.’
‘You should see a therapist.’
‘I believe I’m about to.’
Tamsin laughed in shock. Her uncle could still surprise her sometimes.
‘But he did live here?’ she said.
‘Temporarily, yes. He had use of one of the bedrooms.’
‘And the run of an Elizabethan manor after dark?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, don’t sound so mealy-mouthed. It’s not a bad bachelor pad, is it?’ Tamsin was aware that the small flat she’d left that morning would fit comfortably into the hallway of Henry House.
‘Possibly,’ said Peter. ‘But Barnabus wasn’t that type of bachelor.’
‘So what type of bachelor was he?’
‘Strange.’
‘Why was he strange?’
‘No, I was just thinking... it’s strange how a bachelor sounds so much more fun than a spinster.’
‘I sense he was gay.’
‘Barnabus? Oh, I wouldn’t know. He had been married of course.’
‘And look what happened there.’
‘Marriages do end for other reasons.’
‘But you’re saying he wasn’t happy here?’
‘He might have changed his mind, but when I last saw him - which is a couple of months back - he was looking for somewhere else to lay his head; he had no desire to live above the shop.’
