The Clowns of God (35 page)

She spoke French with a faintly Italian ate lilt. She also had a sense of humour and was obviously prepared to exercise it.

She asked innocently:

“Forgive me, but how do you like to be addressed? It can’t be Holiness. Should it be Eminence or Monseigneur? It cannot possible be Pere Jean.”

Jean Marie laughed.

“I doubt there’s any protocol. Celestine V was forced to abdicate and after his death they canonised him. I’m not dead yet so that doesn’t apply. I’m certainly less than an Eminence. I’ve always thought Monseigneur was an unnecessary relic of monarchy. So, since I’m living as a private person, without a canonical mission, why not just Monsieur?”

“I don’t agree, Jean.” Alain was upset by the suggestion.

“After all …”

“After all, dear brother, I have to live in my skin and I do like to feel comfortable. Now, madame, you were going to explain the mysteries of money.”

“I’m sure,” said Madame Saracini with a smile, “you understand there are no mysteries at all only the problems of maintaining a firm capital base and an income that keeps ahead of inflation. This means that there is need of an active and vigilant administration. Fortunately you have had that, since your brother is a very good banker. The capital, valued at the end of the last financial year, is some eight million Swiss francs. This capital, as you will see, is divided in a fairly stable ratio: thirty per cent real estate, both urban and rural, twenty per cent equities, twenty per cent prime bonds and ten per cent in artworks and antiques and the remaining twenty per cent liquid in gold and short-term money. It’s a reasonable spread. It can be varied at fairly short notice. If you have any comments, of course …”

“I have a question,” said Jean Marie mildly.

“We are threatened with war. How do we protect our possessions?”

“So far as commercial paper is concerned,” said the man from the Chase, “we all have the most modern storage and retrieval systems, triplicated and sometimes quadruplicated in strategically protected areas. We’ve hammered out a common code of inter-bank practice that enables us to protect our clients against document loss. Gold, of course, is a strongroom operation. Rural land is perennial. Urban developments will be reduced to rubble, but, again, war-risk insurance favours the big operators. Artworks and antiques, like gold, are a storage job. It might interest you to know that for years now we’ve been buying up disused mine-workings and converting them for safe deposits.”

“I am comforted,” said Jean Marie Barette with dry irony.

“I wonder why it has not been possible to invest similar money and similar ingenuity for the protection of citizens against fallout and poison gas. I wonder why we are so much concerned with the retrieval of commercial paper and so little with the proposed mass murder of the infirm and the incompetent.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence and then, with cold anger, Alain Hubert answered his brother.

“I will tell you why, brother Jean! It is because we, unlike many others, keep the bargain we have made with our clients of whom you are one. Others may do ill monstrously ill! but you cannot blame us because we do well! I think you owe me and my colleagues an apology!”

“You’re right, Alain.” Jean Marie responded gravely to the reproof.

“I beg your pardon yours, too, madame, gentlemen! .. . But I hope you will permit me to make an explanation. I was shocked yesterday, shocked to the marrow, to learn that in this my homeland there are plans for the elimination of the handicapped, immediately war breaks out.

Do any of you know of this matter?”

The man from the Credit Lyonnais pursed his lips as though someone had put alum on his tongue.

“One hears all sorts of rumours. Some of them are based on fact; but the facts are not fully understood. If you calculate to kill a million people with a single atomic blast, and contaminate a huge peripheral area, then you have to count on some form of mercy killing for survivors beyond hope. In the general chaos, who’s going to draw the lines? You have to leave it to the officer in charge of the area, whoever he turns out to be.”

The man from Barclays was a mite more subtle and urbane.

“Surely, my dear sir, the scenario for chaos which you set down in your own writings is almost the same as that prepared by our secular governments. The difference is that they are called upon to provide practical remedies and they do not have the luxury of moralising about them. Even you cannot moralise about triage in a front-line hospital. The surgeon, walking down the line of wounded, is the sole arbiter of life and death.

“Operate on this one, he will survive!

This one is second on the list, he may survive. Give that one a cigarette and a shot of morphine, he will die!” Now, unless you are under the enormous stress of that adjudication, I submit, sir, that you have no standing in the immediate case.”

Before Jean Marie had time to rebut the argument, Madame Saracini came to his rescue. She said with bland humour:

“You see, my dear Monsieur Barette, you have, until this moment, lived a very sheltered life. You must understand that God gave up making land millions of years ago. So, if you’ve got a piece of real estate you hang on to it. The oil’s running out with the rest of the fossil fuels. So, you have to fight to get your share. Rembrandt’s dead and so is Gauguin. So, there aren’t any more of their pictures. But human beings pouf! There are too many of us already. We’re due for a little genocide; and if the overkill is exaggerated then we can soon start breeding again with some help from the sperm banks, which are housed in our vaults.”

She made such a black comedy of it that they had to laugh;

then, when the tension had relaxed, she pushed straight ahead into the trustees’ report, which showed that Jean Marie Barette could live like a prince on his income. He thanked them for the courtesy, apologised for his lapse of manners and told them that he would draw on them only for his personal needs and let the trust pile up until Judgment Day.

The men from Barclays and the Credit Lyonnais and the Chase took their leave. Madame Saracini stayed behind. Alain had invited her to make a foursome at lunch with Odette, Jean Marie and himself. While they were waiting for Odette, Alain served sherry and then left them, while he took a telephone call from London. Madame Saracini raised her glass in a silent toast and then delivered a cool reproof.

“You really were quite unpleasant to us. Why?”

“I don’t know. Suddenly I was seeing two images on a split screen: all those whirring computers in their underground caverns and, above, the bodies of children burned in front of an ice-cream parlour.”

“My colleagues won’t forgive you. You have made them feel guilty.”

“Will you?”

“I happen to agree with you,” said Madame Saracini, “but I can’t make frontal attacks. I’m the girl who makes them laugh first and see sense afterwards when their manhood isn’t threatened.”

“Is my information right or wrong?”

“About euthanasia for the incompetents? It’s right, of course; but you’ll never prove it; because, in a strange subconscious fashion, all Europe is consenting to the conspiracy. We want an exit for ourselves and our loved ones when things get too horrible to bear.”

“Do you have any children, madame?”

“No.”

“And your husband?”

“He died a year after our marriage.”

“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t distress yourself. I’m glad you were interested enough to ask. As a matter of fact, I believe you know my father.”

“Do I?”

“He is called Vittorio Malavolti. He’s serving twenty years in prison for bank fraud. As I remember, he handled a great many transactions for the Vatican cost you a lot of money, too!”

“I remember. I hope you have been able to forget.”

“Please! Don’t be facile with me! I don’t want to forget. I love my father. He is a financial genius, and he was manipulated by a lot of men whom he still protects. I worked with him. He taught me all I know about banking. He set me up clean with clean money. I bought the Banco Ambrogiano all’ Estero when it was a hole in the wall in Chiasso. I cleaned it up and built it up and made some strong alliances and every year I pay five per cent of my father’s personal debts, so that when he conics out if he comes out! he’ll be able to walk down the street like a man. And that reminds me. Don’t you dare patronise your brother! He helped me get started. He pushed me into situations like this trusteeship. If he sometimes looks like a fool, it’s because he married the wrong woman. But Pope or no Pope, he put you down this morning when you deserved it! That makes for respect!”

He was startled by her vehemence. Her hand was unsteady and a little runnel of liquid slopped over the side of her glass.

He gave her the handkerchief from his top pocket to mop it up. He asked mildly: “Why are you so angry with me?”

“Because you don’t know how important you are especially now that you’re out of office. Those articles in the newspapers made people love you. Even those who didn’t agree respected you and paid attention. Sansom, the Barclays man, quoted your writings back at you this morning and, believe me, he hardly reads anything but the financial pages! So, when you do something unpleasant, you disappoint a lot of people.”

“I’ll try to remember it,” said Jean Marie, and added with a grin: “It’s a long time since I’ve had my knuckles rapped.”

She blushed like a schoolgirl and made an awkward apology.

“I’ve got a sharp tongue, too and a sort of proprietary interest.”

“Have you indeed?”

“Way back in the fourteenth century both my husband’s family and mine were friends and correspondents of the Benincasa and of Saint Catherine herself. They supported her in her efforts to get your namesake, Gregory XI, back from Avignon. It’s a long time ago, but we Sienese are jealous of our history and sometimes a little mystical about it.” She put down the glass, fished in her handbag and brought out a notebook.

“Give me your address and telephone number. I want to talk to you again.”

“About anything in particular?”

“Would my immortal soul be important enough?”

“Most certainly.” He acknowledged defeat with a smile and gave her the information.

And that, for the moment, was the end of their talk.. Alain came in with Odette, elegant, expensive, dropping names like summer raindrops. Alain gave Jean Marie a conspiratorial wink and then left him to carry the burden of Odette’s monologue until they arrived at the restaurant. Luncheon was an uneasy meal. Odette dominated the talk, while Alain remonstrated feebly against her more obvious snobberies.

Madame Saracini left before the coffee. Odette sniffed and pronounced a disdainful valediction:

“Extraordinary woman! Quite attractive in an Italian sort of way. One wonders what domestic arrangements she’s made since her husband died.”

“It’s none of your business,” said Alain.

“Let’s be family for a while. What are your plans from this point, Jean? If you propose to stay in France you’ll need some kind of permanent establishment: an apartment, a housekeeper …”

“It’s too early for that. I’m still too public a figure and obviously embarrassing to old friends. It’s best I keep moving for a while.”

“You should also keep silent for a while,” said Alain moodily.

“You are used to making big pronouncements from the top of the ladder; but, you can’t do that any more. What you said at our meeting will be all over town by evening.

That’s why I attacked you. I can’t afford to be associated with subversive talk… It’s much more dangerous than you realise.”

Odette chimed in, positive and omniscient as always.

“Alain’s right! I was talking to the Defence Minister the other night. He’s a very attractive man; though his wife is quite impossible. He said that what we needed now was not controversy but sound, businesslike diplomacy and quiet negotiation while the armed forces prepare themselves.”

“Let’s all understand something,” said Jean Marie Barette firmly.

“I became a priest to preach the word, to tell the good news of salvation. That’s not something I can be prudent about, or safe, or even kind! And I have to give you the same message as I preach to the rest of the world. The battle between good and evil is already joined; but the good man looks like a fool, while evil wears a wise man’s face and justifies murder by impeccable statistics!”

“Our Cardinal doesn’t say that.” Odette was ready, as always, for an argument.

“Last Sunday he gave the television sermon on the Coin of the Tribute. He said it’s a matter of priorities. We obey the law as a means of serving God and even if we make mistakes in good faith, God understands.”

“I’m sure He does, my dear,” said Jean Marie.

“And I’m sure the Cardinal has his own reasons for being so bland but it isn’t enough! It isn’t half enough!”

“We should go,” said Alain diplomatically.

“I have a two thirty appointment with the Finance Minister. He’s seeking our advice on the best way of launching a Defence Bond Issue!

He had promised himself an afternoon of simple and private pleasures an hour of book hunting along the qua is a stroll among the artists in the Place du Tertre. He had been away so long, and this was home. Even if the family were difficult he should be able to take his ease in his own natal place.

The book hunt was rewarding. He found a first edition of Verlaine’s Fetes Galantes with an autographed quatrain pasted inside the cover. Verlaine had always haunted him: the sad, lost drunk who wrote angel songs and lived in hell with Rimbaud, and who, if there were any justice in the universe, must be singing canticles of joy at the footstool of the Almighty.

The Place du Tertre was at first a disappointment. The painters had to eat and the tourists had to take home a piece of Paris and the canvases were cynically vulgar. But, in the least favoured corner of the Place, he came upon a curiosity: a twisted, dwarfish girl, hardly more than twenty, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, etching on a glass plate with a diamond point. On the table beside her were specimens of her work: a goblet, a mirror, a punchbowl. Jean Marie picked up the goblet to examine it. The girl cautioned him roughly: