The Clowns of God by Morris West

affection that still existed between them. This time Mendelius was determined to be tactful. As usual he managed only to be heavy-handed. He asked:
    “When do you leave on your trip, son?”
    “Two days from now.”
    “Have you planned a route yet?”
    “More or less. We go by train to Munich, then start hiking through the Obersalzburg and over the Tauern into Carinthia.”
    “It’s beautiful country. I wish I were coming with you. By the way,” he fished in his breast pocket and brought out a sealed envelope, “this is to help with the expenses.”
    “But you’ve already given me my holiday money.”
    “That’s something extra. You’ve worked very hard this year. Your mother and I wanted to show our appreciation.”
    “Well… thanks.” He was obviously embarrassed.
    “But there was no need. You’ve always been generous with me.”
    “There’s something I want to say to you, son.” He saw the boy stiffen immediately. The old mulish look came over his face.
    “It’s a personal matter. I’d rather you didn’t discuss it with your mother. One of the reasons I’m going to Rome is to investigate what brought about the abdication of Gregory XVII. As you know he was my dear friend.” He gave a small wry smile.
    “Yours, too, I suppose, because without his help your mother and I might never have married and you wouldn’t be here. However, the enquiries may take a long time and entail a great deal of travel. There may also be certain risks. If anything happens to me, I want you to know my affairs are in order. Doctor Mahler, our lawyer, holds most of the documents. The rest are in the safe over there.
    You’re a man now. You would have to step into my shoes and take care of your mother and sister.”
    “I don’t understand. What sort of risks are you talking about? And why do you have to expose yourself to them?”
    “It’s difficult to explain.”
    “I am your son.” His tone was resentful.
    “At least give me a chance to understand.”
    “Please! Try to relax with me. I need you now, very much.”
    “I’m sorry, it’s just that …”
    “I know. We rub each other the wrong way. But I love you, son. I wish I could tell you how much.” Emotion welled up in him and he wanted to reach out and embrace the young man, but he was afraid of a rebuff. He went on quietly, “To explain, I have to show you something secret and bind you on your honour not to reveal it to anyone.”
    “You have my word, father.”
    “Thank you.” Mendelius crossed to the safe, took out the Barette documents and handed them to his son.
    “Read those.
    They explain everything. When you’re finished, we’ll talk.
    I’ve got some notes to write up.”
    He settled himself at his desk while Johann sat in the armchair, poring over the documents. In the soft glow of the reading lamp he reminded Mendelius of one of Raphael’s young models, obedient and immobile, while the master made him immortal on canvas. He felt a pang of regret for the wasted years. This was the way it should have been, long ago:
    father and son, content and companionable, all childish quarrels long forgotten.
    Mendelius got up and refilled Johann’s coffee cup and brandy glass. Johann nodded his thanks and went on with his reading. It was nearly forty minutes before he turned the last page, sat for a long moment in silence, then folded the documents deliberately, got up and laid them on his father’s desk. He said quietly:
    “I understand now, father. I think it’s a dangerous nonsense and I hate to see you involved with it; but I do understand.”
    “Thank you, son. Would you care to tell me why you think it’s a nonsense?”
    “Yes.” He was firm but respectful. He held himself very erect, like a subaltern addressing his commander.
    “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long while. Now seems as good a time as any.”
    “Perhaps you’d like to pour me a brandy first.” Mendelius smiled at him.
    “Of course.” He refilled