The Assassini (66 page)

“Maybe I was a dope or too sensitive or an adolescent at just the right, or the wrong, time. But the point is I looked back on my own life and it hit me hard that I liked security and faith and—forgive me for sounding like a nerd—I liked doing what can only be called good works. I loved the Church—I was a kid, guilt-ridden and disappointed in my pathetic little attempts at sexuality and I was confused by dope and the long hair and the fuck-the-world attitude I kept seeing all around me.… I look back now and what I see is a girl who watched in the sixties while everything she’d grown up counting on in the fifties got blown to bits without an apparent care. Some kids loved the change, the chance for rebellion, and some didn’t. I just couldn’t get into it … rebellion has never much appealed to me. Working for change is something else and I made little moves toward getting involved in the civil rights movement but Kenilworth wasn’t exactly a hotspot on that score. So rebellion wasn’t my thing, it was Val’s thing, by her very nature.

“Me, I realized I loved the security of the first ten years of my life … what happened from 1963 on scared me. Oh, I’d never have admitted it then, but nothing could get in the way of my belief in the goodness of my parents, the goodness of the Church, the rightness of the way things were supposed to be. So many of my friends
fell away from the Church, lots of them wound up in the drug culture, they ran away, decided all they wanted to do was raise hell and fling it all back in their parents’ faces … but not me. It just wasn’t me.

“What I saw was a world that looked like it was coming apart at the seams. All the values I’d been raised with seemed to be falling into some kind of disrepute, the ‘normal’ paths one traveled were all being closed off.… And then my brother Francis, the idealist in the family who’d gone off to war determined to serve his country, was killed in the Tet offensive and I had a hell of a tough time coping with that. Here again, another kid might have said such a pointless death proved there was no God and would have turned against the Church. But not me. I had to face it and explain it to myself, I couldn’t, wouldn’t, just shriek and scream and blame it on anybody handy or on Lyndon Johnson, I wouldn’t say that Francis’s death was evidence of existence without any purpose or meaning. Life does have meaning, there is right and wrong and there is punishment at the end for those who deserve it.… God gave meaning to life—and I went to the Church for the answers I needed. The Church just seemed to mean more than the available alternatives. And the timelessness of the Church—it just sort of overtook me, everything else seemed so trivial. Does this make me sound like a Jesus freak? I hope not. Because I’m not. But I could take the Church seriously and I just couldn’t take acid rock or tie-dyed jeans
seriously
. I was against the war in Vietnam, I was for the sense of responsibility and the willingness to accept the consequences of your acts. Oh, my God, I listened to the music and bought the records and wore the clothing and my peace badge, but it all seemed to be passing … do you see what I mean? The Church had been there a long time, it
mattered
.

“I knew a couple of very decent priests, one extraordinary old nun, an elderly woman with a mind so inquisitive and bright that I was just in awe … my God, she was an Elvis freak, and she was a truly happy woman, her life made so much sense, she enjoyed her life. She was a teacher, a school administrator, she wasn’t afraid
of being politically active and she was always telling the Vatican where to get off.… She was just great, she inspired me, made me realize that if everything else worked, then maybe I could go on and live without the pleasures of the sexual life and keep from going nuts—can you understand that? It wasn’t going to be perfect, but it would be good.…

“Well, either you understand it or you don’t. The convent was a haven, too, I don’t deny that. What they say about nuns and priests looking for a place to hide, sure, why not? Everybody wants a place to hide, Ben, everybody—and most of us find one place or another. I hid out in the convent for a while. And sure, my parents were proud … you know that mixture of pride and sorrow you see all over the faces of Catholic parents when their daughter chooses the Church rather than husband and kids and mortgage … but they were proud of me, proud, curious, doubtful.
Our little girl, O Mother o’ Mercy, does this mean our little Liz will never get laid?
Or words to that general effect. My God, it’s funny when I look back on it.…

“I wanted to serve God. To serve mankind. And have a life I would enjoy.

“It looked as if the Church was moving toward a new definition of women and their role in the Church, moving toward a more liberal interpretation of things.…

“Well, you can’t have everything can you, Ben?

“You know that, don’t you, Ben?”

“The truth is you’re something like aliens. Creatures from Jupiter or thereabouts. You look like the rest of us now, and you move around in the real world, you seem to be one of us.… But it’s all an illusion, it’s a lie, and you play it for all it’s worth. You’re like an odorless, colorless gas that numbs the brain and dulls the senses of the rest of us.

“It’s an illusion because as soon as life comes close to you, you jump back and start putting the seven veils back on, you hide behind your sanctimonious bullshit, you use it to excuse anything, any kind of betrayal.… I’m a nun, you say, had you forgotten I’m a nun? The
Church is my savior and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll think for myself, that’s what you say.… I’m a nun, I’m made of purer and finer stuff, and I also know which side my bread is buttered on … and lucky me, you say, I don’t have to deal with men! What a relief that is!

“Sister, you’re afraid, you’re a liar and a fake and a bullshitter—”

“And Val? Was she a fake and a liar and a bullshitter?”

“No, she wasn’t. She was up to her ears in life, soaking it up, making her own judgments, risking her life—”

“If I’d died, if he’d pushed me off the bloody terrace, would that make me as wonderful as Val? Is that the problem? You hate me because I didn’t die? How incredibly petty—”

“I don’t hate you—”

“You’ve got some real problems, Ben. It sounds to me like you hate me because you hate the Church and you hate the Church because you hate yourself and you hate yourself because you think you failed the Church, failed your father, failed and failed and failed.… Well, you’re nuts, far nuttier than I am.… You didn’t fail yourself or the Church! It just wasn’t for you.… But you’ve let it drive you crazy. And you take it out on me—why? Val was a nun, I was her best friend. Our styles were different, but we were on the same side.… What is it with you? Why can’t you just give me a break? I’ve admitted I was wrong—so forget the last conversation in Princeton, for God’s sake! Val … me … what’s the difference? What’s the big deal here? Grow up, it’s not a black and white world!”

“I love you, that’s what’s wrong … I saw enough to fall in love with you.… You’re right, Sister. I am crazy. And you’re just not worth it.… You heard what I said that other time. You and Sandanato—
there’s
the love interest. You sort of deserve each other, don’t you?”

Furiously she stood up, knocked over the chair, glared down at me, her lips drawn back, whitened. “Fine! You’re making a mistake and you’re going to have to live with it for the rest of your life! You’ve earned your
mistake about me, you’ve been a real bastard. And you’re welcome to it—you can dry up and die with your mistakes and your hatred … but you will have been wrong! Wrong about the Church, wrong about me, and saddest of all, wrong about yourself.…”

She whirled away from me, pushed her way blindly through the crowd which was applauding the commedia troupe. I could still see the back of her head when she stopped abruptly and screamed, trying to turn away from something or someone. I was helpless. The throng had closed between us.

Then Arlecchino, the harlequin from the commedia troupe, leapt out in front of her, posed wildly, grotesquely, his pelvis jerking, grinning lasciviously from beneath his masque. She turned away again, trying to push past him as he thrust at her. Finally, realizing she wasn’t interested in playing, he made an obscene noise into her face. While the crowd laughed, taunting her, she pushed past into the darkness and was quickly gone.

Things were going fast, speeding up all around me, but I sat there like a statue, wondering if what she’d said about me was right. For all I knew she was dead on the money. Maybe I owed myself a damned hard looking-over, but psychological introspection can take you only so far. I could worry about what was going on in my head later, if I survived. As she’d said, I’d have the rest of my life to tighten my chain.

The commedia characters were working their way back toward the stage, where a brightly painted wagon of a sort used by such troupes centuries before had been drawn into place. Some of the lights illuminating the crowds were dimming and the clatter of conversation from the tourists, scholars, kids, townsfolk, and drunks began lessening. I looked out over the sea of berets and caps and clapping hands and popping flashbulbs. Spotlights were coming up softly on the wagon, and music came from somewhere. The next performance was about to begin.

I stood up and moved away from the little table, skirting the crowd, paying as much attention to my interior monologue as I was to finding Elizabeth. What
an imbecile, blurting out my feelings,
I love you
 … what idiotic blithering! And what a remarkably gallant fellow I’d been! There she was, taking me into her confidence in a remarkably intimate and unexpected way, telling me about how she’d chosen to become a nun, and I decided it was the perfect moment of vulnerability to blast my way forward, overrun her positions, score a point or two.… She was right. I was crazy. I had to find her and apologize and get her out of my mind. Give it up, old Ben, she’s a nun, for Christ’s sake.…

Such were my reflections as I circled the crowd, heard its braying and the yakety-yak of the actors, heard the breeze off the Rhône whistling damply in the naked trees. Somewhere, up above me in the palace another play was being performed, and the faint punctuations of laughter drifted down upon us. Where the devil had she gone?

At first I didn’t realize what I was seeing, maybe because it was so utterly unexpected. I was looking for Elizabeth but …

Across the glut of people I saw Drew Summerhays!

It made no sense. What was he doing in Avignon? Summerhays should have been dividing his winter between that elegant house off lower Fifth Avenue, with his cats and his clutch of Catholic friends and the splashing fountains and the trays of perfect drinks, and his place in the Bahamas which over the years had earned its spot in the history books. Presidents had come on yachts to call on Summerhays.

But here he was, ramrod straight, in Avignon.

He turned his noble head and spoke to another man, shorter, wearing one of those Tyrolean green felt hats with a feather on the side, which was all I could see of him, that and a trench-coat collar turned up.

Drew Summerhays …

I was sorting out the possibilities of this being only a coincidence, and the odds were ridiculous. Summerhays didn’t just happen to be in Avignon with Dunn and Erich Kessler and me. Coincidence was for the birds. So what was the point?

I began working my way through the crowd, wanting to get a closer look. What good did I think that would do
me? And why didn’t I want to reach him, speak to him, join him? Don’t ask. Maybe I was hoping I’d see that it wasn’t Summerhays after all, that I’d made a mistake, that it really wasn’t getting more complicated.

Everybody was laughing and applauding, and I kept pushing past them and stepping on their feet and getting dirty looks. I got to within twenty feet of Summerhays and his companion and there wasn’t any doubt. Summerhays was wearing a charcoal-gray chesterfield with a velvet collar. He wasn’t laughing and he wasn’t applauding. He was dry and cool and calm, as if deep within him lay the essence of death, eternal repose. He looked as if he’d gone beyond age and had become something other than a man. The guy with the hat was slowly, meticulously, scanning the crowd looking for something or someone, maybe a trail of broken twigs and moccasin tracks. On the spur of the moment, not wanting to question the impulse, I decided to speak with him. Hell, it was Summerhays, my trusted mentor.…

I’d drawn to within maybe ten feet of packed humanity, approaching from behind, when I stopped short, held my breath, and felt my determination sputter and die. The questions came to life again. What the hell was he doing here? Why should I trust Drew Summerhays? Why should I trust anybody anymore? There was just no end to the surprises. I felt as if I were standing in a tunnel watching a flood rushing and frothing at me, the sewer rats one step ahead, squeaking, and I couldn’t move.

The man with the feathered hat was flicking it back and forth, fanning himself. The woolly metronome was moving at about the height of Summerhays’s shoulder. I couldn’t take my eyes off the feather splayed out against the dark green wool. Then the man turned and I saw his face. He wore glasses and had a mustache, an olive complexion. One cheek looked like it had been used long ago as a dart board. But you had to notice his throat, the horrible ragged splash of scar tissue puckered between his chin and his necktie’s knot. Maybe the dart board had been a warm-up for the throat cutting. Jesus, Drew … This guy was standing there, pals with Summerhays, one of the lay princes of the Church.

Watching them from the end of my private nightmare tunnel, I felt again something of what had shaken me so badly on the beach in Ireland. A kind of preserved, freeze-dried fear injected into my veins. But something beyond fear. The beckoning arm of the old man … the flickering feather in the silly hat.… I couldn’t see the sense of it, I couldn’t see where it had been and where it might lead, but I didn’t want to go there.…

I waited too long.

Summerhays turned. I saw his face head-on. And he saw me.

Our eyes locked in recognition. I saw the hat stop in midair, Summerhays’s hand on his sleeve, his eyes still fixed on me. It all seemed to take forever. I was caught in no-man’s-land again, watching the hand on the sleeve, the nod, while I tried to understand. But I couldn’t. Something was going on but I didn’t know what. Had Summerhays called my name? I couldn’t hear. But I knew I had to get away.