Tales From Gavagan's Bar (22 page)

             
Father McConaghy shook his head. "No, thank you. I appreciate the offer and don't let me restrain you, I don't mind in the least. But a little wine with a meal is as far as I go."

             
"Another Martini, Mr. Cohan. How about the story, then?"

             
"Well," said Father McConaghy, thoughtfully. "I should like to set you right, to be sure. On the other hand, my time is
             
rather taken up just now, collecting for the repair fund, and I am due at—"

             
Jeffers said: "May I make a little contribution to your repair fund? I'm sure the Church won't object to Protestant money." He suited the action to the word, and Witherwax also produced his wallet.

             
Father McConaghy produced a bankroll held together by a rubber band and added the contributions to it. "Let me see—I believe the first manifestation occurred here in Gavagan's, so that Mr. Cohan is rather better qualified than I am to describe it. But before he does, I should like you to understand that Father Palladino is a serious-minded man, very studious, and with at least the appearance of piety. If he has any fault at all, it's the lack of a sense of humor. This can hardly be considered a sin; but on the human side, a sense of humor does lighten the load at times. Mr. Cohan, what was your observation?"

             
"Right you are when you say he's serious," said Mr. Cohan. "Never a man more so, and it was on a serious errand he come into Gavagan's that night, for that Tony Grasso was in here, drunk so he could hardly stand. I had refused to sell him anything earlier, knowing about his wife and children and how he sucks up the money that should be feeding them, so he went elsewhere and when he come back, here's a bottle of whiskey in his hand with the cap off and maybe one drink out of it. He sets it on the bar, he does, and says this is a public place, and bedamned to me, but I can't prevent him drinking his own whiskey. I says bedamned to him but we'll see about that, and I'm just looking around for the bung starter when in comes Father Palladino.

             
" 'Tony,' he says, T want you to come home with me now. Your wife is waiting.'

             
" 'Not till I finish my whiskey,' says Tony, and points to the bottle, then turns to face Father Palladino.

             
" 'You aren't going to drink that whiskey,' says the Father, and just as he says it, the bottle on the bar, with Tony's back to it and meself three feet away, falls over flat on the bar and all the whiskey runs out before anyone can lift a hand.

             
"Father Palladino turns as pale as any man you ever saw, but
he just stands there looking at Tony, and Tony looks at the spilled whiskey and then at him and goes out wi
th him, and I do not have to use the bung starter after all. Have I told it right, Father?"

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[Father McConaghy nodded.] I believe that to be correct, as you have told it before. Naturally, I did not learn about it from Father Palladino, as I am not
his confessor, but I know he was gravely disturbed and for some time devoted himself to prayer and penance. But this was followed by the incident of the palimpsest.

             
["Excuse me," said Witherwax, "but what's a palimpsest?"]

             
A palimpsest [continued the priest] is a piece of parchment, usually ancient, that has been used twice. When parchment was the normal writing material, a piece that had been used was not thrown away after the utility of the first writing had passed. The material was too expensive to be wasted. So an effort, usually not very effective, was made to erase the first writing with pumice stone, and the parchment was used for a new piece of communication. It was customary to write the second message with lines at right angles to the first to make it a little more legible.

             
This was the case with the palimpsest that Father Evans, a very able man, was dealing with. The second message was quite legible, but nothing very important, something about some titles to land somewhere in North Africa. But the parchment itself and the few words of the underlying writing that he could make out, indicated that it was very early, possibly from the fifth or sixth century, and that it was some kind of tract, or treatise on theology. This was very exciting and important, because so many points with regard to the Faith came up at that time, and some doctrinal questions haven't been settled yet—not with regard to the Faith itself, but the human vessels through whom it was expressed.

             
Now this evening at supper, while Father Evans was going along about his palimpsest and his troubles with the under-writing, some of us noticed that a curious change had
come over Father Palladino. He had stopped eating and was sitting upright, with his eyes closed, breathing hard, and making peculiar gasps and groans. We spoke to him, and even slapped him on the back and offered water, but he answered none of us.

             
We thought he must be ill and were about to take him away from the table, when he began to speak, in a loud and clear voice. The language he spoke was not English. It took us two or three minutes to recognize that it was Latin, which you might think peculiar, since we all study Latin in training for the priesthood. But on this occasion Father Palladino's Latin had a very peculiar accent.

             
Father Evans was the first one to understand. He asked us not to take Father Palladino away, but to let him go on, and began taking notes like mad. Presently the talking stopped. None of us had gathered very much of it, but we were all sure we had recognized one phrase—
"Aurelio Augustino,"
which is, of course, late Latin for Aurelius Augustinus, or St. Augustine. I don't need to tell you who St. Augustine was, but perhaps you don't know that he lived in North Africa, at Carthage. And Father Evans said that this Latin had a strong Carthaginian accent, that he had understood nearly all of it, then asked to be excused and left the table with his notes.

             
Naturally, that left all of us very excited, and as Father Palladino began rubbing his eyes and looking around, perfectly recovered, we began to discuss it. Father Muller, who has studied some medicine, said Father Palladino must have what the psychologists call a personality dissociation. But our good bishop, who happened to be present, took another and more serious view. He quieted the talk and asked Father Palladino whether he understood the Carthaginian dialect of Latin.

             
Father Palladino had just said he did not, when Father Evans came bursting into the room again, carrying his palimpsest, and almost shouting that he had found the key at last. The few sentences he transcribed from Father Palladino's speech in his trance corresponded almost word for word with some of those in the document. As for the
document itself, it was nothing less than St. Augustine's treatise on the Trinity, which was known to have been written, but of which no other copy has survived into modern times. He added that he couldn't be sure as yet, but it looked very much as though the tract would establish St. Augustine once and for all as having been doctrinally sound on the subject of the Trinity. St. Augustine, you know, was converted from Manicheism to the true doctrine, and it has always been suspected that he retained some of his former beliefs. But this would make it clear he was orthodox.

             
As soon as Father Evans had finished, we all looked at Father Palladino. He groaned, and burying his face in his hands, leaned forward on the table, saying: "God forgive me if this be true. We
—"

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Witherwax said: "Excuse, Father, but would you mind telling us why?"

             
"Why, it would mean a visitation of evil spirits." "But if it was really St. Augustine speaking, with Father Palladino as the voice, would that be an evil spirit?"

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I'm af
raid you don't understand [continued the priest]. The incident did have all the appearances associated with psychic manifestations, as they are called. The teachings of the Church are quite definite in this respect. We hold that the greater part of such manifestations are simply fakery; but there is a small residue that cannot be accounted for by material means. It can be shown on sound theological grounds that the entities responsible for this residue are and must be evil spirits—devils.

             
Now in Father Palladino's case, there could be no question of fakery, of course. He is a sincere man. But that left us with an extremely serious question. For either we had witnessed something approaching a miracle, which cleared the name of a great father of the Church from an unjust accusation, or we had to assume that Father Palladino had been visibly possessed by a demon. The evidence of the palimpsest itself favored the former theory; but the palimpsest may have been
faked at an early date, and in any case it could hardly outweigh the question of this mediumistic practice itself. This was the view our bishop took.

             
He imposed heavy penances on Father Palladino, though no heavier than those Father Palladino imposed upon himself in addition to those awarded to him. The fact that this malevolent entity appeared to be actuated by a kind of genuine affection for Father Palladino, that everything it did could be regarded as a favor to him, something to make his lot easier or more gracious, was not allowed to weigh in the matter. It was arranged for him to go into a long retreat, where by fasting, meditation, and prayer, he hoped to free himself from his difficulties. Yesterday he returned, and I fear it has not been altogether successful.

             
Thank you for your generosity, my friends. I'm afraid I must be off on my fund-raising.
             

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". . . So that elevator fell down the shaft and everyone in it was killed," said Mr. Witherwax, reaching out as Mr. Cohan slid his third Martini across the bar.

             
"It probably didn't make any difference," said Mr. Willison, sadly. "He probably would have slipped on the bathroom floor next week and cut his throat on an old razor blade."

             
"Oh, listen," said Mr. Jeffers, "if everyone felt that way—"

             
He was interrupted by the entrance of a character who plunged through the door so hard as to bang it back on its hinges, almost feverishly clutched at the bar, and said hoarsely: "Brandy. A double."

             
The bartender's eyes opened wide, pushing a couple of rolls of fat aside in the process. "Good evening to you, Mr. Titus," he said, pouring.

             
The man he addressed took a gulp, coughed, looked at the stuffed owl and around as though he were seeing the place for the first time. His clothes had spots of dust and mud, and he was badly in need of a shave. "It's still here," he said, as though talking to himself. "It's all right." He sipped, and seemed to pull himself together. "Mr. Cohan," he said, "have you seen Morrie Rath?"

             
"Not this week now," said the bartender. "Would you be knowing these gentlemen? This is Mr. Gilbert Titus; Mr. Jeffers, Mr. Willison, and Mr. Witherwax, and isn't that a fine name to give a man?"