The Clowns of God (33 page)

“Can you do that?”

“I do it all the time for people on special assignment. You are not on assignment but you are most certainly a special case. Do you have any recent photographs of yourself?”

“I have a dozen copies of the one in my present passport. I was told some countries require them for visa applications.”

“Give me three of them. I’ll have your passport delivered here tomorrow.”

“You’re a good friend, Pierre. Thank you.”

“Please!” Pierre Duhamel gave him a sudden boyish grin.

“My master, the President, wants you out of the country. I am instructed to do everything possible to set you on your way.”

“Why should he care so much?”

“He understands theatre,” said Pierre Duhamel drily.

“One man walking on the water is a miracle. Two is quite ridiculous.”

The image amused them both. They laughed and the tension was broken. Pierre Duhamel dropped his pose of defensive irony and began to talk more freely.

“When you see the battle plans laid out, it is like a vision of the inferno. No horror is absent. There are neutron bombs, poison gas, spray-borne deadly diseases. In theory of course it is all based on limited action; so that the greatest horrors are held as deterrents in reserve. But, in fact, once the first shots are fired, there will be no limit to the escalation. Once you’ve done one murder, the rest are easy, because you have only one life in jeopardy to the hangman.”

“Enough!” Jean Marie Barette stopped the conversation abruptly.

“You have talked yourself and your wife into a suicide pact with a surfeit of horrors! I refuse to surrender this whole planet to evil. If we can hold one corner of it for hoping and loving then we’ll do it. Pierre, you hate what is being plotted.

You hate your impotence in the face of the vast unreason.

Why not make one last act of faith and step up to the firing line with me?”

“To do what?” asked Pierre Duhamel.

“Let’s shock the world into listening to us. Let’s tell them first about God’s little clowns and what will happen to them on Rubicon Day. You get hold of the document. I’ll get Georg Rainer to arrange the press conference and we’ll face it together.”

“And then?”

“Dear God! We’ll rouse the conscience of the world!

People always rise up against the evil done to children.”

“Do they? We’re nearly at the end of the century and there’s still child labour in Europe, not to mention the rest of the world. There’s still no effective legislation against child abuse; and women are still fighting each other and their legislators over the killing of the near-term foetus. No, my dear Jean! Trust in God if you must, but never, never in man.

If I did what you suggest, the press would black us out and the police would have us in the deepest cachot in the country inside half an hour. I’m sorry. I am a servant of what is.

When what is becomes unbearable, I make my exit. La come die est finie. Give me those photographs. You’ll have a new passport and a new identity tomorrow.”

Jean Marie took the photographs out of his wallet and handed them over. As he did so he grasped Duhamel’s hand and held it firmly.

“I won’t let you go like this! You’re doing a terrible thing.

You’re closing your ears and your heart to a clear call. It may be the last one you get.”

Duhamel disengaged himself from the grip.

“You have it wrong, Monseigneur.” There was a remote wraith-like sadness in his voice.

“I answered my call a long time ago. When my wife fell ill and the doctor gave me the prognosis, I walked to Notre Dame and sat all alone in front of the sanctuary. I didn’t pray. I gave the Almighty an ultimatum. I said: “Eh hienl Because she’s got to wear it, I’ll wear it too. I’ll make her as happy as I can for as long as she’s alive. But understand, enough is enough! If you push us any more, I’ll hand back the keys to the house of life and we’ll both walk out.” Well, He’s done it, hasn’t He? Even to you He didn’t say: “Tell them to reform the world or else!” You got the same message as I get every day in the presidential despatches. Judgment Day is round the corner. There’s no hope! There’s no way out! So, for me, all bets are off. I’m sorry for my little clowns; but I didn’t beget them and I wasn’t around on creation day. I didn’t mix the whole bloody explosive mess of the universe. Do you understand, Monseigneur?”

“Everything,” said Jean Marie Barette, “except one item.

Why are you taking all this trouble over me?”

“God knows! Probably because I admire the courage of a man who can take life and all the filth of it without any conditions at all. My little clowns are like that; but only because they haven’t the brains to know better. At least they’ll die happy.” He scribbled a number on the pad beside the phone.

“That’s my home telephone. If you need me, call.

If I’m not available ask for Chariot. He’s my major-domo and very good at improvising tactical operations. However, you should be safe here for a day or two. After that, please be very careful. People don’t see them; but the dagger-men are already in the streets!”

When Duhamel had gone he fell prey to a winter fear: the prickling dread of the lone traveller who hears the wolf-howls from the timber-line. He could not bear the solitude of his room; so he went down to the restaurant, where the patron found him a table in a quiet angle, from which he could survey the rest of the company. He ordered a piece of melon, a small entre cote a half-bottle of the house wine, then settled down to enjoy the meal.

At least there was no menace here. The lighting was restful;

there were fresh flowers on every table. The napery was spotless, the service discreet. The clients, at first glance, were affluent business men and bureaucrats with their assorted women-folk. Even as he made the judgment, he caught sight of himself in a wall-mirror, and realised that he, who had once worn the red of a Cardinal and the white of a Pope, was now just one more grey-haired fellow in the uniform of the bourgeoisie.

The very ordinariness of his own image reminded him of one of Carl Mendelius’ earliest lectures at the Gregorian. He was explaining the nature of the gospel parables. Many of them, he said, were records of Jesus’ table-talk. Their metaphors of masters and servants and meals were prompted by immediate and commonplace surroundings. Then he added a rider to the proposition: “However, the familiar stories are like a minefield, full of traps and tripwires. They all contain contradictions, alienating elements, which bring the listener up short and make him see a new potential, for good or evil, in the most banal event.”

In his own encounter with Pierre Duhamel, he had been quite unprepared for the finality of the man’s despair. It was the more terrible because it was quite passionless. It could compass, without a tremor, the most monstrous perversities;

but it would not find room for the smallest hope or the simplest joy. It was so rational a madness that one could neither cure it nor argue against it. And yet, and yet there was more than one tripwire in the minefield! Pierre Duhamel might despair of himself; but Jean Marie Barette must never despair of him. He must still believe that so long as life lasted, Pierre Duhamel was still within the reach of Everlasting Mercy. Jean Marie must still make prayer for his soul, must still reach out warm hands to unfreeze his stubborn heart.

The steak was tender and the wine was smooth; but even as he savoured them, Jean Marie was preoccupied by the challenge that now presented itself. His credibility was at stake not as a visionary, but as a simple bearer of God’s good news to man. He had accused Duhamel of rejecting the good news; but was it not rather Jean Marie Barette once a Pope and servant of the servants of God who had failed to present it with faith and love enough? Once again, he was urged imperatively to open himself to a new in pouring of strength and authority. His reverie was interrupted by the patron who paused at his table to ask how he was enjoying the food. He complimented her with a smile.

“I’ve been fed like a king, madame.”

“In Gascony we would say ‘fed like the Pope’s mule’.”

There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes, but Jean Marie was in no mood to embroider the joke. He asked: “Can you tell me, is it far from here to Monsieur Duhamel’s house?”

“About ten minutes by car. If you want to go there in the morning I can have one of the staff drive you. But you should telephone first. The place is guarded like a fortress by security men and dogs.”

“I am sure Monsieur Duhamel will receive me. I should like to go there immediately after dinner.”

“In that case, let me call a taxi. The driver can wait and bring you back.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“Please! It is my pleasure.” She made a show of brushing a few crumbs from the cloth and said softly: “Of course, I would much rather be feeding the Pope than his mule.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to visit you, madame once I can assure him of your absolute discretion.”

“As to that,” said madame sweetly, “all our clients trust us.

We learned very quickly from Monsieur Duhamel that silence is golden! .. . For dessert may I recommend the raspberries.

They come from our own garden.”

He finished the meal without haste. It was almost as if he were an athlete, running with a pace-maker who would, at a given moment, hand the race over to him. His conscious attention began to shift from Duhamel to his invalid wife. It was as if she were stretching out her hand to reach him. He finished his coffee, walked to the booth and telephoned Duhamel’s private number. A male voice answered.

“Who is speaking, please?”

“This is Monsieur Gregoire. I should like to speak to Monsieur Duhamel.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible.”

“Then will you please tell him I shall be at his house in fifteen minutes.”

“That will not be convenient. Madame is very ill. The doctor is with her now; and Monsieur Duhamel is in conference with an overseas visitor.”

“What is your name, please?”

“Chariot.”

“Chariot, two hours ago Monsieur Duhamel named you to me as a man of confidence to whom I should turn in an emergency. This is an emergency, so will you please do exactly as I ask and let Monsieur Duhamel decide whether my visit is opportune or not? I shall be with you in fifteen minutes.”

The taxi arrived in the middle of a thunderstorm. The driver was a laconic fellow who announced his contract terms for this sort of job and, once they were accepted, lapsed into silence. Jean Marie Barette closed his eyes and disposed himself to what would be demanded of him in the coming encounters.

The house of Pierre Duhamel was a large country mansion in the style of the Second Empire, set in a small park, behind a tall fence of iron spikes. The front gate was closed and a police car with two men in it was parked outside. Immediate dilemma! On the telephone he had identified himself as Monsieur Gregoire. If the police demanded his papers he would be revealed as Jean Marie Barette, a most compromising visitor. He decided to bluff it out. He rolled down the window and spoke to the nearer police officer.

“I am Monsieur Gregoire. I have an appointment with Monsieur Duhamel.”

‘ “Wait a moment!” The policeman picked up a pocket radio and called the house.

“A certain Gregoire. He says he has an appointment.”

Jean Marie could not make out the answer but apparently it satisfied the policeman, who nodded and said:

“You’re expected. Identification, please!”

“I was instructed not to carry it on this occasion. You may check that with Monsieur Duhamel.”

The policeman called again. This time there was a longish interval before clearance was given. Then, the gates opened electrically, the policeman waved him through and the gates closed again. The taxi had hardly reached the portal when the front door was opened by Pierre Duhamel himself. He was shaking with anger.

“For God’s sake, man! What is this? Paulette has collapsed.

There’s a man from Moscow in my drawing-room. What the hell do you want?”

“Where is your wife?”

“Upstairs. The doctor’s with her.”

“Take me to her!”

“Look! She’s desperately ill.”

“Take me to her.”

Pierre Duhamel stared at him as if he were a stranger, then he made a small shrugging gesture of surrender.

“Very well!

Follow me, please.”

He led the way upstairs and pushed open the door of the bedroom. Paulette Duhamel, a pale, shrunken figure, was lying propped about with pillows in the big four-poster bed.

The doctor stood holding her limp wrist in his hand counting the pulse-beats.

Duhamel asked: “Any change?”

The doctor shook his head.

“The paraplegia has extended itself. The reflexes are weaker. There is fluid in both lungs, because the muscles of the respiratory system are beginning to fail. We may do a little better for her in hospital but not much. Who is this gentleman?”

“An old friend. A priest.”

“Ah!” The doctor was obviously surprised but tactful.

“Then I shall leave you with her for a while. She drifts in and out of consciousness. If there is any marked change, please call me instantly. I shall be just outside.”

He went out.

Pierre Duhamel said with cold anger: “I want no rites, no mumbo-jumbo. If she could speak she would refuse them, too.”

“There will be no rites,” said Jean Marie Barette gently.

“I

will sit and hold her hand. You can wait if you wish unless your visitor is impatient.”

“He’ll be patient,” said Pierre Duhamel harshly.

“He needs me. He’s got famine on his hands this winter.”

Jean Marie said nothing. He drew a chair to the bedside, sat down, picked up the woman’s slack wasted hand and held it between his own. Pierre Duhamel, standing at the foot of the bed, saw a curious transformation. Jean Marie’s body became quite rigid; the muscles of his face tightened, so that, in the half-light of the sickroom, his features looked as though they had been carved from wood. Something else was happening too, which he could not put into words. It was as if all the life inside the man were draining away from the peripheries of his body into some secret well at the centre of himself. All the while Paulette lay there, a sad, shrunken wax doll, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and full of rales, so that Duhamel wished with all his heart it would stop and she that special and essential she whom he had loved for a lifetime might be released like a song-bird from its cage.