The Clowns of God (49 page)

Which brought Jean Marie, by a round turn, face to face with the problem of his own future. However much he was improved, however small his residual disabilities, he was still a man of sixty-five, rising sixty-six, victim of a cerebral episode, liable to another at any time.

Whatever the outcome of the court cases, he would emerge discredited more so than if he were guilty of all the misdemeanours and misfeasances attributed to him. The world was fond of rascals; it had no patience with incompetents. On the face of it, therefore, Jean Marie Barette would be exactly what his passport called him: ‘pasteur en retraite’, a retired priest, whose best expectation would be a chaplaincy in a hospital or a cottage in the country, where he could amuse himself with his books and his garden. By evening the black devils were at him again and the doctor had to read him a lecture on manic-depressive swings and how to handle them. The lecture ended with a surprise.

“I’ve ordered an encephalogram for the day after tomorrow. If that reads the way I hope it will, we could think about discharging you within a few days. There’s not too much more we can do for you. You’ll need quarterly check-ups, regular exercise and, for the beginning at least, some reasonable support in your domestic situation. You might care to think about that. We’ll chat again tomorrow, eh?”

When the doctor had gone, he checked the calendar in his notebook. It was the fifteenth of December. In ten days it would be Christmas. He wondered where he would spend it, and how many more Nativity days the world might see, because Petrov had not had his grain and the Soviet armies would move at the first thaw.

He chided himself. Not five minutes ago the doctor had told him he must not sit brooding. It was nearly visiting time.

He tidied himself with great care, changed into fresh pyjamas just to prove that his new skills were not an illusion put on a dressing gown and slippers, picked up his stick and began a careful but ostentatious promenade down the corridor, waving greetings at his companions from the therapy sessions.

What was it Mr. Atha had said? We must have panache!

The English always translated it as style, but it had much more flourish than mere style. Flourish! That was good! Now he was co-ordinating two languages. He should try to get a little practice in German, too, before he met again with Carl Mendelius. Lotte’s last letter when was it dated? What had she said about their plans and movements? He retraced his steps along the corridor, acknowledging the compliment of the night-nurse: “Well! Aren’t you the clever one!” and the salute from the Jamaican orderly: a hop, a step, a shuffle and the invitation “Come dancin, man!”

He rummaged in the drawer of the bureau, found Lotte’s letter a whole sequence of small movements executed without trouble! then sat down in his wheelchair to read it.

The date was December 1st. . Our dear Carl gets stronger every day. He has become very skilful with the prosthetic device which replaces his left hand and there is very little he cannot do for himself.

Unfortunately he has lost the sight of one eye and he now wears a black patch. This, with the other damage to that side of his face, gives him the look of a very sinister pirate.

We have a family joke. When we need money, we can put Papa in a television serial like “Treasure Island’ or The Spanish Main’!

Johann and Katrin and a small party of their friends have been down in the valley for a month now. They are trying to make the main buildings habitable and stock up with essential supplies before winter closes in. Carl and I will go down next week to join them. We have sold our house here, fully furnished; so all we shall have to take with us are Carl’s books and the few personal things that still mean something in our lives. I thought it would be a wrench to leave Tubingen after all these years; but it isn’t. Wherever we go now Bavaria or the South Seas it doesn’t matter too much.

And how are you, dear friend? We have all your cards.

We trace your progress by the handwriting and, of course, we have the messages from your kind friend in England, Waldo Pearson. We can’t wait to get a copy of your book. Carl is dying to talk to you about it but we understand why you are timid about using the telephone. I am always so, especially when foreigners are on the line. I stammer and stutter and shout for Carl.

When will they let you out of hospital? Carl insists, and so do I, that you come straight to us in Bavaria. We are your family and Anneliese Meissner says it is most important that you move directly from hospital into a secure environment. She, too, may spend some of the winter vacation with us in Bavaria. She is very attached to Carl. They are good for each other and I have learned not to be jealous of her, as I learned not to be jealous of you.

As soon as you know when you are to be discharged, send a telegram to the Bavarian address we gave you. Fly straight to Munich and we shall pick you up at the airport and bring you to the valley.

Carl gets anxious sometimes. He is afraid the frontiers may be closed before you are ready to come to us. There is great tension everywhere. More and more British and American troops are being moved into the Rhineland. One sees many military convoys. The tone of the press is frankly chauvinist and the atmosphere at the University is very strange. There is a constant recruitment of specialists and, of course, all the security surveillance which Carl and Anneliese so feared. The extraordinary thing is that so few students object. They too are affected by the war-fever, in a way one would never have expected. It is a shock to hear all the old cliches and slogans! I thank God every day Johann and Katrin are out and away. The madness infects us all.

Even Carl and I find ourselves using phrases we have heard on radio or television. It is as if all the old dark Teuton deities were being called up from their caverns; but then I suppose every nation has its underground galleries of war gods…

A raw, transatlantic voice interrupted his reading.

“Good evening, Your Holiness!”

He looked up to see Alvin Dolman, leaning against the door-jamb and grinning down at him. Dolman, too, was dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown and he carried a package wrapped in brown paper.

For a moment Jean Marie was stunned by the sardonic insolence of the man. Then he felt a wild rage boiling up inside him. He fought it down with a brief, desperate prayer that his tongue would not fail him and leave him shamed before the enemy. Dolman moved into the room and perched himself jauntily on the edge of the bed. Jean Marie said nothing. He was in command now. He would wait for Dolman to declare himself.

“You look well,” said Dolman amiably.

“The ward nurse tells me you’ll be discharged very soon.”

Jean Marie was still silent.

“I came to bring you a bound copy of The Fraud,” said Dolman.

“Inside it you’ll find a list of the people who were really happy to sell you out. I thought you might get a kick out of that. It won’t help you in court; but then nothing helps in a case like this. Whatever verdicts you get, the mud will stick.” He laid the package on the bedside table; then, he picked it up again and partially unwrapped it.

“Just to prove it isn’t booby-trapped, like the one I sent to Mendelius.

There’s no need for that in your case, is there? You’re out of the game for good.”

“Why have you come?” Jean Marie’s voice was cold as hoar-frost.

“To share a joke with you,” said Alvin Dolman.

“I thought you’d appreciate it. The fact is, I go into surgery tomorrow morning. This was the only hospital in London that could take me in a hurry. I’ve got a cancer on the large bowel; so, they’re going to cut out a part of my gut and give me a little bag to carry around for the rest of my life. I’m just tossing up whether it’s really worth the sweat. I’ve got all the tools for a quick, painless exit. Don’t you think it’s funny?”

“I ask myself why you hesitate,” said Jean Marie.

“What is there in your life or in yourself that you find so valuable?”

“Not too much,” said Dolman with a grin, “but we’re building up to one hell of a drama the big bang that wipes out all our past and maybe the future, too! It might be worth waiting around for a grandstand seat. I can still opt out afterwards. You’re the man who prophesied it. What do you think?”

“For the little my opinion is worth,” said Jean Marie, “this is what I think. You are scared so scared that you need to play this silly game of mockery! You want me to be afraid with you of you! I am not! Rather I am sad; because I know how you are feeling, how pointless everything looks how useless a man can seem to himself! This is only the second time we have met. I know nothing about the rest of your life or what you have done to other people. But how do you feel about what you did to Mendelius and to me?”

“Indifferent!” The answer was prompt and definite.

“That’s line-of-duty stuff. It’s what I’m trained for; it’s what I do. I don’t question the orders I get. I make no judgments about them good or bad, sane or insane. If I did, I’d be in the loony-bin! Mankind is a mad tribe. There’s no hope for it.

I found a profession in which I could profit from the madness. I work for what is, with what is. I deliver on every contract. The only things I don’t deal in are love and resurrection! But in the end, I’m at least as well off as you are.

You’ve been peddling salvation through the Lord Jesus for two thousand years and look at where it’s got you!”

“You are here, too,” said Jean Marie mildly.

“And you came by your own choice. That argues more than indifference. ” “Curiosity,” said Alvin Dolman.

“I wanted to see how you were looking. I must say you’ve worn pretty well!”

“Still not enough!”

“O.K. Here it is!” Dolman cocked his head to one side like a predatory bird surveying its victim.

“When all this started, I was the one who recommended killing you. I put up a dozen simple plans. Everybody shied away, except the French.

They’ve always believed in quick, painless solutions. However, Duhamel intervened. He gave you a special passport and put the word about that he’d chop anyone who tried to chop you. Once you were in England liquidation seemed a less profitable solution. When you had your stroke it was clearly unnecessary. The argument was that it would be better to discredit you than to make you a martyr.

“I never thought so. When I got the news yesterday that I’d have to have surgery and that I’d be carrying around my own excrement for the rest of my life, I thought, why not kill two birds with the one stone you first, me afterwards?

“I remembered that evening in Tubingen when you said you knew me and the spirit that dwelt in me. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone so much as I hated you at that moment.” He fished in the pocket of his dressing gown and brought out a gold pen. He displayed it to Jean Marie.

“This is death in one of his more elegant dresses a capsule of lethal gas sufficient to carry us both off unless I cover my nose like this while I blow the stuff at you.”

He covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and extended the pen, point forward, towards Jean Marie’s face.

Jean Marie sat very still, watching him. He said quietly, “I came to terms with death a long time ago. You are doing me a kindness, Alvin Dolman.”

“I know.” Dolman stuffed the handkerchief and the pen back in his pocket and made a comic gesture of resignation.

“I

guess I just needed to prove it to myself!” He reached out and picked up the half-opened packet from the table. He said with a shrug, “It was a bad joke anyway. I’ll be getting back to my room.”

“Wait!” Jean Marie heaved himself slowly out of his chair and stood up.

“I’ll walk to the elevator with you.”

“Don’t bother! I can find my own way.”

“You lost your way a long time ago.” Jean Marie’s tone was sombre.

“You will never find it by yourself.”

Dolman’s face was suddenly transformed into a pale mask of rage.

“I said I’d find my own way back!”

“Why are you so angry over a courtesy?”

“You should know that!” Dolman was grinning now, a rictus of silent glee that was more terrible than the laughter.

“You told me in Tubingen you knew the name of the spirit that dwelt in me!”

“I do know it.” Jean Marie spoke with calm authority and an odd quirky humour.

“His name is Legion. But let’s not overplay the drama, Mr. Dolman. You are not possessed by devils. You are a habitat of evils too many evils for one ageing man to carry inside himself!”

The taut grinning mask crumpled into a tired, middle-aged face the face of an ageing clochard who had used up all his chances and now had no place to go.

“Sit down, Mr. Dolman,” said Jean Marie gently.

“Let’s treat with each other like simple human beings.”

“You miss the point,” said Alvin Dolman wearily.

“We call up our own devils because we can’t live with ourselves.”

“You’re still alive. You are still open to change and to God’s mercy.”

“You’re not hearing me!” The tight, twisted grin was back again.

“I may look like everyone else; but I’m not. I’m of a different breed. We’re killer dogs. Try to change us, try to domesticate us, we go mad and tear you to pieces. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you tonight.”

He walked out without a word of farewell. Jean Marie went to the door and watched him limping down the long corridor with the brown paper parcel under his arm. He was reminded of the old tale of the lame devil who roamed the city at night, lifting the roofs off houses, to display the evil that dwelt there. So far as he could remember, the lame devil never found any good anywhere. Jean Marie wondered sadly whether the lame devil was purblind or just too clear-sighted to be happy. Unless one believed in a beneficent creator and some kind of saving grace, the world was a good place to be out of especially if you were a middle-aged killer with a cancer in the gut.

That night he offered his comp line prayer for Alvin Dolman. Next midday he telephoned Dolman’s ward nurse, only to be told that Mr. Dolman had died during the night of an unexplained cardiac arrest and that an autopsy was being arranged to establish the cause of death. His papers and his personal effects had already been retrieved by an official from the United States Embassy.