Masquerade fk-12

by William X. Kienzle

  But Marie didn’t smile for a moment or two. Then a hesitant grin appeared. “Let’s just say that conversion is good for the soul. Look what it did for Saint Augustine.”

  “That’s true.” For an instant he looked at her in a different light. Even in her middle years she was still most attractive. As a young woman she had undoubtedly been a knockout. It was like seeing actress Loretta Young all dressed up in the traditional nun’s habit and regretting that all that beauty and charm was locked up inside countless yards of wool.

  There was no time for further speculation in any case. The waitresses began wheeling in the food. Sister Janet invited all to dinner, and all responded eagerly.

  Koesler reflected that just twenty-four hours ago, these had been the dramatis personae in Krieg’s little psychodrama. The waitresses, the kitchen crew, Sister Janet-they’d all been in on it.

  Krieg dead. Murdered. A consummation devoutly to be wished? Banish it from your mind, Koesler, he told himself. Certainly not Christian. Hardly humane. But, given all that had happened in just the last two days, a fairly reasonable conclusion.

  Marie did not seem at all surprised when Janet invited her to lead the group in a blessing. Perhaps it had been prearranged.

  “Blessed are you, God of all creation,” Marie prayed. “Through your goodness we have this nourishment to share. May we share ourselves willingly and generously as You have shared yourself with us.”

  There was a pause. And everyone said, “Amen.”

  A nice ecumenical grace, Koesler thought. Yes, that must have been prearranged. No offense to Christian or Jew. Something for everyone.

  He regarded the seating arrangement. The three women again were seated consecutively. Then, clockwise, Winer, Koesler, Benbow, Augustine, and Krieg. Thus Krieg and Winer, this afternoon’s adversaries, were seated opposite each other.

  The fare was simple. A fruit salad in gelatin, beef broth, lamb, red potatoes, steamed vegetables. Simple but well prepared. Everyone partook of everything and all seemed to enjoy the food.

  Conversion was not that enjoyable. Janet and Martha, mostly, attempted to introduce topics, but no verbal balloon stayed aloft. Awkward. It was awkward. But Koesler had expected little else.

  Toward the end of the meal, Krieg spoke. “Praise God! You know,” he said jovially, “there’s one person here we’ve heard precious little from.” Pause. “Father Koesler. Here we were, runnin’ off at the mouth all afternoon, and there’s the good Father just sittin’ there takin’ it all in.”

  If he had intended to embarrass Koesler by singling him out in this less-than-friendly atmosphere, Krieg was succeeding.

  “After all,” Krieg continued, “you are a bona fide member of this panel. So, Praise God! Let’s hear it, Father. Your opinion of religion. Dull or not? I mean basically?” His very tone betrayed flippancy. It was as if the “father of the family” had taken the reins and the conversation was now well in hand.

  Koesler, taken by surprise, swallowed injudiciously and started to cough. Winer and Benbow pounded his back. Benbow was about to apply the Heimlich Maneuver but Koesler waved him off. Things were getting under control.

  Koesler’s complexion was florid. And he was embarrassed not only that he’d been singled out by Krieg like a child forced to recite, but also because he had almost choked to death.

  “Sorry,” he said, as his system returned to normal. “Something got stuck. I’m all right now.”

  “Well,” Krieg declared, “that’s a blessing. Praise God!”

  “Yes. Well, to the point. When you introduced the supposition, the first thought I had was of all the dull homilies, sermons, religion classes I have been forced to sit through. And I was tempted to agree with your hypothesis. But I must confess, I didn’t stay with that thought very long. I can’t think of any book as worthy of study, reading, inspiration, or meditation as the Bible. To those of us for whom God is our beginning and our destiny, there isn’t anything more exciting than religion.

  “So I guess it comes down to what you mean by religion. If you mean religion secondhand, as it’s communicated by very poor communicators, I suppose it can be-and is-pretty dreadful and painfully dull.

  “Or think of it this way: There is no dull religion, just dull religious communicators.”

  Koesler expected Krieg to be peeved or at least annoyed.But Krieg was beaming. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Praise God!”

  “But, this afternoon. .”Koesler began.

  “This afternoon,” Krieg repeated, “this afternoon was salesmanship.”

  “Salesmanship!” Winer exclaimed.

  “Indeed, salesmanship. You must have sensed it. .” Krieg looked around the table at the others. “Each of us told the students, in the most gracious and benign manner, what we intended to cover during the coming week. We were so benevolent and ingratiating the audience was drifting off to sleep. They needed to be awakened, made eager to get into these workshops. That’s the function I served. Woke ’em up.”

  “Then you didn’t really mean it? About religion being dull?” Koesler asked.

  “’Course not.” Krieg smiled. “Just like our friend the rabbi here said this afternoon. ‘Greatest Story Ever Told!’”

  Did the man ever say what was really on his mind, Koesler wondered. Yet Krieg had just provided an autobiographical footnote. He was in essence a salesman. Probably missed his calling. Should have been a salesman, not an evangelist. On the other hand, Krieg probably wouldn’t see a lot of difference between the two.

  “Then,” Koesler said, “what about the topics of sex and violence and the like? Did you mean what you said about that?”

  “Well, now that’s another question. Lemmee take your own words, Padre, spoken just a moment ago. As I ’member, you said somethin’ about, ‘There is no dull religion, just dull religious commentators.’ That about right?”

  Koesler nodded. He was pretty sure where Krieg was headed.

  “Well,” Krieg said, “some people were just born boring, poor souls. They’re gonna be boring all their blessed lives. Nothin’ for it. They’re gonna be boring bus drivers or boring sewer workers. They’re gonna be boring lovers, husbands, wives, parents. So we can forget them ever bein’ a big success at anything, including evangelism.

  “But even people with a knack for communication aren’t successful just by rollin’ out of bed each morning. The salesperson has to have a pitch, a tool-a way of making his service or product attractive to the buyer. And the tool, if it’s gonna work, isn’t necessarily something the salesman prizes. It’s something the buyer finds appealing, attractive, compelling, irresistible!”

  Krieg paused. His glance moved from one to another of those present as if expecting someone to complete his premise.

  Koesler tried supplying a conclusion. “And you believe that what the audience, the viewer, the reader finds compelling and irresistible is violence and sex.”

  “Graphic violence, explicit sex,” Winer added.

  Smiling broadly, Krieg turned both palms upward, indicating a self-evident truth. “What sells? Ladies and gentlemen, what does the American public shell out its cash for?”

  “Not always,” Marie protested, avoiding a direct answer to Krieg’s almost rhetorical question. “The public appreciates things done tastefully.”

  “Such as. .?” Krieg challenged.

  “In entertainment, information, education?” Winer said. “Lots of things. The classics. Music: Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Gershwin, Copland. They still fill concert halls and will till the end of time. The theater: Shakespeare, O’Neill, O’Casey, Miller. Literature: Chaucer, Cooper, Poe, Dickens, James, Wolfe. Television, for God’s sake: some of the fine series produced by the BBC. You know the names as well as I. Not all of them lost in the mists of history either. Contemporaries. Lots of them.”

  It was doubtful that Winer had shaken Krieg. In any case, no one could tell from his continuing smile.

  Nearly everyone had finished eating.
Dishes were being cleared away. However, because he’d been talking steadily, Krieg was well behind the others. But when the waitress reached him, he indicated he was finished, and his dishes, still containing considerable food, were removed. Dessert and coffee were then served. All the women, none of the men, accepted the apple pie. Only Janet took cream with her coffee.

  “You’re quite right, Rabbi. .” Krieg, stirring his coffee in an attempt to cool it, returned to the fray. “I do know the familiar names. But I’m not talking about literature or art that lasts forever. We are dealing with a pop culture.” His expression altered to one of sympathy. “Sad as it is to say, still, realistically, we cannot hope that all the books you have written are going to be on people’s shelves as long as, say, Shakespeare.” A small, consoling chuckle.

  “We all know,” Krieg continued, “the Bible is the all-time best-seller in the history of the world. I dare say it would be difficult to find an American home-almost impossible to find a hotel room-without one.” One more chuckle for the Gideon Society. “And in all these homes and rooms, how many of these Bibles are read?” He left that truly rhetorical question hanging.

  “Meanwhile,” he went on, “what sort of book does the great unwashed American public buy? Ever see people selecting a book in a supermarket, book chain, airport newsstand? Not War and Peace.

  “Ever notice the general run of covers publishers put on paperbacks, the type of dustjacket on hardcovers?” Pause-a dramatic pause.

  “It all tells us something,” he continued. “And we all, deep down, know what it tells us. These are the books publishers count on selling. And this is the packaging they hope will sell them. And that’s the market P.G. Press is in, friends. Praise God!”

  There was no echo from his listeners.

  “And as you four know by this time, I’m sure,” Krieg’s tone became almost conspiratorial, “it’s the market I’ve invited each and every one of you to join me in.”

  Marie gasped as if she’d been trapped by Krieg’s discourse. Benbow and Augustine seemed embarrassed.

  It was Winer who spoke, and spoke calmly, forcefully and personally. As if, of a sudden, he and Krieg were alone in the room.

  “That’s right. We’ve already discovered that each of us was offered a contract with you. And that each of us, after mature consideration and professional advice, has decided not to be associated with you. Our connection with each other, aside from the fact that we share a clerical or religious calling, is that each of us has been approached by you and each of us has rejected your offer.

  “It requires no genius to guess this is the reason why you stipulated as a condition of your acceptance that each of us be invited to this workshop. What you have in mind isn’t completely clear. But you’ve got something in mind. Of that there can be little doubt. If I had to guess, it would be that you are going to make one last effort to change our minds and sign us up with you.

  “How am I doing?”

  Krieg chuckled, and stroked his chin. “Well, Rabbi, you certainly don’t write mystery stories for nothing. The only problem is, you make it seem this whole thing was my idea. Not so. I was planning nothing of the sort. No thought of this at all.

  “Out of the blue, a man I’d never met, never heard of before, phoned me. Jack Regan had this idea for a writers’ conference, a very specialized workshop in mystery novels with a religious setting. Was it so extraordinary, unexpected, that you four should come to mind? Praise God! It was a heaven-sent opportunity to meet you in person and-what else? — give it one more shot. And when heaven sends me an opportunity, I assure you, I take it.

  “Now, fortunately, Mr. Regan was very strong on having me participate in this conference. So set on me was he that I was able to establish a few prerequisites. The first, and nonnegotiable, condition was that he secure your presence. And, praise God, he did. And, praise God, here you all are.”

  Koesler studied the four writers. Something was going on between them and Krieg. Some sort of perceptible bad chemistry. What could it be?

  Krieg spread his hands, palms up, on the tabletop. “But there’s no harm in this. It’s what the American business world labels ‘the bottom line.’ It’s a free country. You don’t have to sign with me.”

  “Right,” Winer said. “A free country. We don’t have to sign with you. And that’s what we’ve told you. We are not-let me speak as forcefully as I can for one-I am not signing with P.G. Press. How much more clear can I be?”

  The smile lost none of its self-assurance. “It’s a free country, all right. You have the right to decline, but I have the right to give it another go. Who knows. .” Krieg spoke slowly and softly, emphasizing each word as he enunciated it. “Who knows? I may just make each of you an offer you cannot refuse!”

  There was a protracted, electric silence as the writers and the publisher studied each other. Koesler sensed that Krieg had just thrown down a challenge that the writers at least understood, whether or not they would accept it.

  Who would break the silence?

  It was David Benbow who spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you dead and in-”

  “David!” Martha Benbow almost shrieked his name. Her tone not only interrupted, but silenced her husband.

  But everyone in the room well understood what was left unsaid. What David Benbow had been going to say was that he would see Krieg dead and in hell before ever signing a contract with Krieg’s empire.

  Koesler took stock. Kreig’s smile had disappeared. In its place was a look of shocked surprise, even, oddly, fear. None of the writers had backed down. Each seemed tacitly to be in general agreement with Benbow. Martha, Janet, and, Koesler presumed, Benbow himself, were deeply shaken.

  The silence that followed Benbow’s cut-off statement seemed as if it would never be broken. It was as if a gauntlet in the form of a threat had been thrown and it simply lay there with no one willing to either accept or retract the challenge.

  Then Martha, clearly mortified, said, “I’m sure. . I’m certain David did not mean that. He would never. . could never. . oh, dear. .” She was near tears.

  Janet cleared her throat. “This has been a long day. There’s been a lot of tension. .” (A lot of tension I did not anticipate or expect, she added to herself. And why should I have to carry this load? I didn’t arrange for any of this to happen.) “I think we just need some time to calm down,” she continued. She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the movie. I’m sorry, but there seems to be no time for after-dinner drinks. The students will be gathering about now. Why don’t we go and relax a bit? That should help us wind down. Tomorrow we can start fresh.”

  She was grateful there were no general sessions scheduled for tomorrow. The faculty would not convene except for meals. She resolved to be on her guard lest another altercation break out during mealtime. Maybe she’d be able to enlist Marie’s help in peacemaking. But after this evening she could not be certain. About anything.

  There was no immediate response to Janet’s invitation that they take in the movie.

  Then Martha, somewhat more composed, said, “I think that’s a fine idea, Sister. Come on, David, let’s go see the film.”

  Benbow shook his head. “Not in the mood, I’m afraid, dear. You go ahead. I think I’ll take a bit of a walk. I’ll see you in our room later.”

  “Reverend?” Janet addressed Krieg.

  “What?” Krieg had been lost in his own thoughts.

  “The movie. Would you like to join us at the movie?” Janet explained.

  “Oh, no, I think not. I’ll just wander up to my room. A bit tired. Suddenly a bit tired.”

  “Up to your room?” Janet repeated. “You’re not returning to the hotel for the night?”

  “Think not. Not worth the trouble. I’ll stay here tonight. But no, no movie. Thanks just the same.”

  “Father?” Janet addressed Augustine.

  “Not tonight. I’m sort of sleepy.”

  “Rabbi?”

 
“I want to go over my notes for tomorrow’s classes. I’d better do that before I get too tired.”

  “Marie?” Janet had hoped that she could get at least a few to join her. She knew the students would be pleased if the faculty were to join in some of the extracurricular events.

  “I’ve got some correspondence I’ve got to catch up on, Jan. Sorry.”

  “Father?” With Koesler, Janet was down to her last chance.

  “Matter of fact I’d like that. It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Koesler glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Benbow go ahead? I’d like to finish my coffee. Would that be all right?”

  “Certainly, Father.” Janet was grateful for some company no matter the delay. “Martha, why don’t we go now? Father Koesler can join us in a few minutes.”

  With that the group went its separate ways. Left seated at the table, while the waitresses cleared dishes, were Koesler and Krieg. Each had about half a cup of coffee left.

  Koesler went to the hot plate where the pot of coffee was kept. He brought the pot to the table, filled his cup, and gestured toward Krieg, who nodded; Koesler filled the other cup as well.

  “That was a bit of a surprise,” Koesler said.

  “Father Benbow? I’m sure he spoke only in the heat of the moment. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said literally.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking it that way,” Koesler said. “I agree: He didn’t mean it.”

  “I must confess he surprised me though … I mean, an Episcopal priest!”

  “Violence!” Koesler said.

  “Hmmm?” Krieg missed the point.

  “Religion, violence, sex.” Koesler could not suppress a grin.

  Krieg smiled in return. It was the first time Koesler had seen a genuine, as opposed to a plastic, smile from Krieg.

  “Ah, yes,” Krieg said. “Religion, violence, sex. Seems there been a lot of talk about that lately.”

  “For some reason, I hate to say this, but I kind of anticipated that would be a prominent topic of conversation. Having read one of the books you published and then reading up on stories about you and your philosophy of publishing, I just guessed, what with the writers who were invited, I guessed we’d be talking a bit about the subject.”