the end, a clamorous prelude to the final silence, a marriage bed to engender dust, a universe for microbes, microbes that strive to circumnavigate us? We are as unfathomable, as inscrutable as That which brought us into being, and we choke on our own enigma…”
“You hear that?” came a whisper behind me. Out of the comer of my eye I saw the sweaty, pale face of a Corporal Brother. “Choking, yet—and that’s supposed to be a provocation sermon! He doesn’t know how to slip anything in!”
“Seek not the key to the mystery, for surely it will never fit! Thou shalt not penetrate the impenetrable! Humble thyself!” the voice boomed.
“Father Orfini’s finished now, I’ll call him over. He can be of use, you know—a good man to third-degree!” the pale monk hissed, burning my neck with his foul breath. Some of the worshipers began to turn around and look at us.
“No, don’t!” I whispered. Too late—he was already making for the altar by a side passage. I tried to leave unobtrusively, but the exit was too crowded; the monk was already returning with the priest (now back in uniform), pulling him by the sleeve. Then with a conspiratorial wink he disappeared behind a column, leaving the priest and me alone in the empty chapel.
“You wish to make confession, my son?” he asked in a melodious voice, presenting me with the stem face of an ascetic, gray at the temples, and with a gold tooth. The gold reminded me of the little old man.
“No, that’s all right,” I said. Then a thought occurred to me, and I added:
“I am in need of certain … information.”
The father confessor nodded.
“Very well, follow me.”
Behind the altar was a low door, which led into an almost black corridor. On each side stood the robed figures of saints, their faces turned to the wall. We entered a painfully bright room with an enormous safe, a black enamel cross inlaid on its stainless steel. The priest offered me a chair and went over to a table cluttered with old papers and books. Even in uniform he looked very much a priest: the white, expressive hands like those of a concert pianist, the delicate blue veins about the forehead, the dry skin that stretched across the bones. Everything about him bespoke a stem serenity.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Do you know the man in charge of the Department of Instructions?” I asked. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Major Erms? Yes, I know him.”
“And the number of his office?”
The priest became confused; he fingered the buttons of his uniform as if it were a cassock.
“Did anything—” he began, but I interrupted.
“Now Father, let’s have the number.”
“Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine … but I don’t understand why I—”
“Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine,” I repeated slowly, certain that this was one number I would not forget.
The priest was clearly taken aback.
“Excuse me, I… Brother Persuasion gave me to understand that—”
“Brother Persuasion? The monk who brought you over to me? What’s your opinion of him, Father?”
“I really don’t know what you mean,” the priest said, still standing behind his desk. “Brother Persuasion heads our Handicrafts Unit.”
“Handicrafts?”
“Ecclesiastical attire, vestments, pontificals, various liturgical paraphernalia, aspergers, thuribles, censers, etc.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, on special order … for Department S.D. I believe we made a number of bugged percolators, and I know our Gerontophile Section produces earmuffs and miscellaneous items for our suffering senior citizens, for example polygraph mittens.”
“Polygraph mittens?”
“The galvanic skin response, you know—records their hidden moments of excitement… Then there are microphone pillows for those who talk in their sleep, and so on. But, you couldn’t tell me…? Did Brother Persuasion … say anything about me?”
“He spoke of various things…” I let it hang there.
“The people in the
“You hear that?” came a whisper behind me. Out of the comer of my eye I saw the sweaty, pale face of a Corporal Brother. “Choking, yet—and that’s supposed to be a provocation sermon! He doesn’t know how to slip anything in!”
“Seek not the key to the mystery, for surely it will never fit! Thou shalt not penetrate the impenetrable! Humble thyself!” the voice boomed.
“Father Orfini’s finished now, I’ll call him over. He can be of use, you know—a good man to third-degree!” the pale monk hissed, burning my neck with his foul breath. Some of the worshipers began to turn around and look at us.
“No, don’t!” I whispered. Too late—he was already making for the altar by a side passage. I tried to leave unobtrusively, but the exit was too crowded; the monk was already returning with the priest (now back in uniform), pulling him by the sleeve. Then with a conspiratorial wink he disappeared behind a column, leaving the priest and me alone in the empty chapel.
“You wish to make confession, my son?” he asked in a melodious voice, presenting me with the stem face of an ascetic, gray at the temples, and with a gold tooth. The gold reminded me of the little old man.
“No, that’s all right,” I said. Then a thought occurred to me, and I added:
“I am in need of certain … information.”
The father confessor nodded.
“Very well, follow me.”
Behind the altar was a low door, which led into an almost black corridor. On each side stood the robed figures of saints, their faces turned to the wall. We entered a painfully bright room with an enormous safe, a black enamel cross inlaid on its stainless steel. The priest offered me a chair and went over to a table cluttered with old papers and books. Even in uniform he looked very much a priest: the white, expressive hands like those of a concert pianist, the delicate blue veins about the forehead, the dry skin that stretched across the bones. Everything about him bespoke a stem serenity.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Do you know the man in charge of the Department of Instructions?” I asked. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Major Erms? Yes, I know him.”
“And the number of his office?”
The priest became confused; he fingered the buttons of his uniform as if it were a cassock.
“Did anything—” he began, but I interrupted.
“Now Father, let’s have the number.”
“Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine … but I don’t understand why I—”
“Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine,” I repeated slowly, certain that this was one number I would not forget.
The priest was clearly taken aback.
“Excuse me, I… Brother Persuasion gave me to understand that—”
“Brother Persuasion? The monk who brought you over to me? What’s your opinion of him, Father?”
“I really don’t know what you mean,” the priest said, still standing behind his desk. “Brother Persuasion heads our Handicrafts Unit.”
“Handicrafts?”
“Ecclesiastical attire, vestments, pontificals, various liturgical paraphernalia, aspergers, thuribles, censers, etc.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, on special order … for Department S.D. I believe we made a number of bugged percolators, and I know our Gerontophile Section produces earmuffs and miscellaneous items for our suffering senior citizens, for example polygraph mittens.”
“Polygraph mittens?”
“The galvanic skin response, you know—records their hidden moments of excitement… Then there are microphone pillows for those who talk in their sleep, and so on. But, you couldn’t tell me…? Did Brother Persuasion … say anything about me?”
“He spoke of various things…” I let it hang there.
“The people in the
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