The Clowns of God by Morris West Page A

the glass and set it on the desk.
    “The fact is, father, I’m no longer a believer.”
    “In God, or specifically in the Roman Catholic Church?”
    “Neither.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it, son.” Mendelius was studiously calm.
    “I’ve always felt the world must be a bleak place without some hope of a hereafter. But I’m glad you told me. Does your mother know?”
    “Not yet.”
    “I’ll tell her, if you like but later. I’d like her to enjoy this holiday.”
    “Are you angry with me?”
    “Dear God, no!” Mendelius heaved himself out of his chair and clamped his hands on the young man’s shoulders.
    “Listen! All my life I’ve taught and written that a man can walk only the path he sees at his own feet. If you cannot honestly assent to a faith then you must not. Rather you should consent to be burned like Bruno in the Field of Flowers. As for your mother and me, we have no more right than anyone else to dictate your conscience… But remember one thing, son. Keep your mind open, so that the light can always come in. Keep your heart open so that love will never be shut out.”
    “I - I never thought you’d take it like this.” For the first time his control cracked and he seemed about to burst into tears. Mendelius drew him close and embraced him.
    “I love you, boy! Nothing changes that. Besides…
    you’re in a new country now. You won’t really know whether you like it until you’ve spent a winter there. Let’s not fight each other any more, eh?”
    “Right!” Johann disengaged himself from the embrace and reached for his brandy glass.
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    “Prosit,” said Carl Mendelius.
    “About the other thing, father.”
    “Yes?”
    “I can see the risks. I know what Jean Marie’s friendship means to you. But I think you have to get the priorities right.
    Mother has to come first; and, well, Katrin and I need you, too.”
    “I’m trying to keep things in their right order, son.”
    Mendelius gave a small, rueful chuckle.
    “You may not believe in the Second Coming, but if it happens, it will change the priorities somewhat… no?”
    From the air the Italian countryside was a pastoral paradise, the orchards in full bloom, the meadows with wild flowers, the farmland flush with new green, the old fortress towns placid as pictures from a fairy tale.
    By contrast, Fiumicino airport looked like a rehearsal for final chaos. The traffic controllers were working to rule; the baggage handlers were on strike. There were long queues at every passport barrier. The air was filled with a babel of voices shouting in a dozen languages. Police with sniffer dogs moved among the harassed crowd looking for drug carriers;
    while young conscripts, armed with machine-guns, stood guard at every exit, watchful and uneasy.
    Lotte was near to tears and Mendelius was sweating with anger and frustration. It took them an hour and a half to barge their way through to the Customs room, and out into the reception area, where Herman Frank was waiting, dapper and solicitous as always. He had a limousine, a vast Mercedes borrowed from the German Embassy. He had flowers for Lotte, an effusive welcome for the Herr Professor and champagne to drink during the long ride back to town. The traffic would be hell as always; but he wanted to offer them a small foretaste of heavenly peace.
    The peace was granted to them at last in the Franks’ apartment, the top floor of a seventeenth-century palazzo with high frescoed ceilings, marble floors, bathrooms large enough to float a navy and a stunning view over the roof-tops of old Rome. Two hours later, bathed, changed and restored to sanity, they were drinking cocktails on the terrace, listening to the last bells and watching the swifts wheeling around the cupolas and attics, russet in the sunset glow.
    “Down there it’s murder.” Hilde Frank pointed at the cluttered thoroughfares jammed with automobiles and pedestrians.
    “Sometimes real murder, because the