Masquerade Page 7

  “The monk started to nod as a small smile began to form. But gradually his expression changed to one of doubt and then disagreement. He shook his head. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, bishop, but that isn’t it, either.’

  “The bishop was completely baffled. He didn’t mind swinging at this puzzle all day long; it didn’t matter how many strikes he took. The problem now was he couldn’t think of any more afflictions the Trappists faced. Yet this poor monk was clearly troubled. The bishop had set out to free him of his psychological dilemma, whatever it was, but had failed. It wasn’t the hours of sleep and prayer, it wasn’t the impossible mattress, it wasn’t the strictly limited diet, it wasn’t the pervasive silence.

  “‘Brother,’ the bishop said finally, ‘I give up. I can’t figure out what’s depressing you.’

  “The monk thought a bit more and then said, ‘Well, bishop, I’ll tell you: It’s the whole damn thing.’”

  It was a funny story well told, and Augustine’s audience appreciated it, even if at least one of them had heard it before. Still, all, including Father Koesler, enjoyed it.

  Koesler himself was known for his anecdotal homilies. Many of his friends thought of him as a “story man.” A few of his confreres occasionally referred to him as “Inspector Frank Luger, NYPD,” an allusion to a character in the “Barney Miller” TV sitcom, who virtually lived in the past and constantly told stories about “the good old days with Foster and Brownie and Kleiner.”

  And, Koesler thought, why not? It starts when one is a child and discovers that one of life’s greatest pleasures is to listen to adults tell stories. Skilled raconteurs were so generally appreciated that not only did audiences want to hear the same stories over and over—but without having a single cherished word changed. Finally, the Gospels demonstrate that Jesus Himself was an inveterate storyteller. Nearly everything He taught was couched in a parable.

  Koesler noted that even as Augustine told his story, the monk continued to eat his dinner. And, as he did so, his hand shook less and his speech became more steady. Though there had not been all that much amiss to begin with in any case.

  Koesler was the only one in the gathering who gave such attention to detail. From long experience, he did not expect the others to notice what was obvious and of possible interest to him.

  As the laughter died down, Augustine raised his fork to quiet the group, and added, “Don’t anyone bother telling me what P.G. Press would have done with that story. I read one of their books, Ignosce mihi, Domine. I know that if Krieg had had anything to do with it, the monk and his abbot would have had more than words together. And the bishop probably would have been establishing a special relationship with the sheep on the farm.”

  Another round of laughter.

  Sister Janet tapped her glass with a knife.

  A startled Koesler was put in mind of that most gauche of all customs at wedding banquets, when repeatedly tapped glasses urge spousal kisses, over and over. Such was not the case here. For one, the seating arrangement isolated the girls from the boys. For another, one woman was married and the other two were nuns. Some things deserved to remain sacred.

  “Thank you, Father Augustine,” Sister Janet said. “Now, Rabbi Winer. There were so many homey stories in your book, Rabbi. Maybe you could tell the one about the lady who was giving birth for the first time.”

  Now that his attention had been drawn to Winer, Koesler noticed that the rabbi had only toyed with the Stroganoff. Perhaps he was not feeling well. If that was the case, Winer might have been wiser not to consent to this five-day-long conference. However, with the invitation to contribute his anecdote, the rabbi brightened noticeably.

  Winer chuckled. “All right,” he said. “The story takes place in Paris and involves a married couple. The husband is French, his wife is Jewish, and they have a Jewish obstetrician.

  “She has been pregnant a little more than nine months, by someone’s count. And all she and her husband know is that it says in the book that nine months is term. Something should happen now, but they’re unclear as to what. The only one who is calm about this is the doctor. This very definitely is not his first delivery.

  “Suddenly one sunny afternoon, she begins to have pains, severe pains. Her husband remembers reading in the Bible that in pain shall women bring forth children. This pain seems to qualify.

  “So the husband calls the doctor and tells him that his wife is in pain. Should they all meet at the hospital forthwith?

  “‘What is your wife saying?’ the doctor asks.

  “‘Wait!’ the husband says, ‘I didn’t know I was supposed to pay attention to that.’

  “He leaves the phone, listens to his wife for a minute, then returns to the phone. ‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘she is saying, “Mon Dieu!”’

  “‘Not quite time yet,’ the doctor advises.

  “Time passes, but the pain doesn’t let up. In fact, it gets worse. The husband does not want to become a pest, but feels he has to do something. The only thing he can think of is to call again.

  “‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘it’s worse, much worse. Is it time to go to the hospital yet?’

  “Patiently, the doctor asks again, ‘What is she saying?’ Once more the husband checks.

  “‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘she’s saying, “Sacre bleu!”’

  “With a smile in his voice, the doctor says, ‘Not quite yet, my friend.’

  “In no time, the man is back on the phone. ‘Doctor, I’m sure this must be it. I’ve never seen anyone in such pain.’

  “‘What is your wife saying now?’

  “‘She’s saying—’

  “‘Oy, gevalt!’” A strong voice from the dining room door completed the sentence.

  In a suddenly flat voice, the rabbi concluded his story: “‘It’s time,’ the doctor said.”

  “Praise God!” the newcomer proclaimed.

  While it was a funny story, only the stranger in the doorway laughed. And he laughed heartily, completely oblivious to the fact that he laughed alone. Anyone else, thought Koesler, might well have been embarrassed.

  Again relying on the process of elimination, Koesler identified the newcomer as Klaus Krieg. Amazing how much Krieg physically resembled Rabbi Winer. They were approximately the same height and build. And yet how different their physiognomy. Winer was nearly bald while Krieg had a full head of dark sculpted hair . . . or was it a toupee? Koesler leaned toward the rug hypothesis. Though if it were, it would be one of the better, more expensive ones. Also, Krieg’s attire appeared to be many times more expensive than Winer’s.

  But by far the greatest difference between the two men was in their facial expression.

  There really wasn’t much to say about Winer’s visage. Not only did his features constitute what some would consider a typical Jewish face, but there was an aspect of sadness that never seemed to leave him, even when, as he had just done, relating a humorous anecdote.

  Krieg, on the other hand, exuded nothing less than complete confidence and self-satisfaction. When Koesler first saw him, Krieg, having stolen Winer’s thunder, was laughing at Winer’s joke, which he, Krieg, had just completed. Now he had stopped laughing, but a smug smile still played at his mouth—a smile that put Koesler in mind of all the ads he had seen for any of the televangelists. They, as well as their entire entourage, always oozed that same smug, self-satisfied smile. The only exceptions Koesler could think of offhand were the Jimmies—Bakker and Swaggart—when caught at good old moral turpitude. When you came right down to it, a tearful televangelist was refreshing if rare.

  Sister Janet almost knocked over the chair in her haste to greet the newcomer. “Reverend Krieg,” she said, “welcome to Marygrove. I hope you don’t mind that we started without you.”

  “Not at all, Sister.” Krieg spoke without looking at her. He was keenly and confidently studying the others at table. “We’ll just make ourselves to home.”

  With that, Krieg nodded to a companion Koesler had not hitherto noticed. The
man, evidently an assistant, responded immediately to his employer’s casual gesture. He went directly to one of the waitresses and quietly conferred with her. The young women seemed cowed as the man shook his head vigorously. The two then left the dining area, presumably headed for the kitchen.

  For no reason Koesler could imagine, Sister Janet seemed embarrassed. “I’m sure you know the other participants in the workshop, Reverend,” she said, after a slight hesitation.

  “I have met Father Benbow . . . and Father Augustine”—he inclined his head in each cleric’s respective direction—“but, my loss I’m sure”— with a smiling hint of a bow—“I’ve never met the other authors in person. However, I’m well aware of who they all are and what they’ve done.” He emphasized the final few words, seeming to invest them with a meaning that eluded Koesler.

  The empty chair obviously was his, so Krieg made his way to it. As he did so, he greeted each of the others without introduction, correctly as it turned out.

  Martha greeted him politely. The others’ response was stony silence. At most there was an almost imperceptible nod. Father Koesler was puzzled by the measure of animosity that seemed to be projected toward Krieg. It struck Koesler as inordinate, even from people with a basic difference of opinion over religion. True, their differences were radical. Still, he was surprised at the intensity of their reaction.

  Krieg then caught Koesler off guard by recognizing him. “And last, but by no means least,” Krieg said, “we have the formidable Father Koesler.”

  It was one of those rare occasions when Koesler was at a loss for words. He did not share in whatever it was that the others felt with regard to Krieg. Until this moment, Koesler had been enjoying his spectator role.

  “Well, really, I . . .” Koesler faltered.

  “No false modesty now, Father,” said Krieg. “You may think that only Detroiters are aware of your amazingly successful periodic forays into murder cases. But your reputation extends far outside this city, I assure you.”

  “Thank you.” It was not a particularly apt sequitur, but it was all Koesler could come up with in response.

  As Krieg seated himself, Sister Janet spoke. “Reverend Krieg, before you came, we were in the midst of having each of our writers share with us a favorite anecdote. I think it was proving an excellent means of getting acquainted. I was just about to ask Father Benbow to tell us a story. Father, why don’t you tell us the one about the bishop and confirmation?”

  Benbow hesitated, then said, “I think it’s gone. I’m afraid I’m going to have to beg off. The atmosphere just isn’t right for any more funny little stories.”

  From their silence, the others seemed to concur. But not Krieg. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure we regret your decision, Father Benbow. I’ve read all your books—in point of fact, I’ve read all of all your books,” he said, regarding each of the others, “but”—returning to Benbow—“I agree with Sister: The story of the bishop at confirmation is a masterpiece, a little gem. Sorry you don’t feel up to it. I’ll just recommend it to everyone here just in case any of you don’t know the story. And”—Krieg began to chuckle—“I’m not going to tell which of Father Benbow’s books has that particular story. You’ll have to read them all and find it for yourselves. But I will say this: You’ll have a fine time hunting it down.”

  Koesler could not get over Krieg’s ebullience. It was as if there were an underlying joke at the funeral and Krieg was the only one who was getting the point.

  Followed by Krieg’s assistant, the young waitress reentered the dining room bearing a tray containing Krieg’s delayed dinner. Nervously, she set the dishes before him. He glanced at each, smiled, and nodded to his aide, who then positioned himself alongside a cabinet near the door. His stance was one the military would term “at ease.”

  As Krieg began toying with his food—it was steaming hot—Sister Janet said as genially as possible, “We’ll forgive you, Father Benbow, just this once. But how about you, Reverend Krieg: Would you honor us with an anecdote?”

  Krieg waved a forkful of food. It seemed a means of cooling the food, as much as a gesture of response. “Now, Sister, I’m not as talented as these good writers. I’m just a minor publisher who preaches some.”

  Everything about the man belied that statement, from the cut and quality of his attire, to the manservant who anticipated every need, to the immediate preparation of an alternate dinner. Koesler took note of what had been served Krieg. The salad and vegetable seemed identical to that which had been served the others. The major substitution was the piece de resistance, which appeared to be a cheese omelet and milk, along with coffee and cream. Koesler wondered if the substitution and the fuss and bother it caused was not just another statement Krieg used to reinforce his own importance.

  Sister Janet was nearly pleading as she implored Krieg for a story from his vast reservoir of experience as publisher and preacher.

  Krieg granted her plea, while continuing to pick at his food. “Far as I know,” he began, “this is a true story. Billy Graham tells it. Seems Billy was preaching in one of those humongous cathedrals in England. He was up in a high, ornate pulpit, goin’ after sin and the sinner, Praise God!

  “Well, Billy was gettin’ pretty worked up, in that way of his. He started hammerin’ on the pulpit and swayin’ to and fro and shoutin’ and yellin’ and wavin’ his fists in the air. About the time he had the crowd as scared as they was ever gonna be, he stopped dead—just froze. You could have heard a pin drop. He had that bunch of sinners in the palm of his hand.

  “Just at that moment, a small child in the front row said, just loud enough to be heard in that vast, silent church, he said, ‘Mama, what are we gonna do if he gets out of that cage?’”

  Krieg threw his head back and roared. “Praise God!” he shouted through the laughter that he shared with Sister Janet, Martha Benbow, the man at the cupboard, and Father Koesler, who cut short his mirth when he saw the four writers accord the story no more than a brief smile.

  However, their near deadpan response to a genuinely funny anecdote did nothing to faze Krieg’s appreciation of his own joke. He was still wiping tears from his eyes after all other laughter ceased. At the end of it all, once again, he proclaimed, “Praise God!”

  Koesler concluded that the phrase could become a bit wearisome.

  Krieg touched napkin to lips. He’d finished his meal without a touch of dessert. He’d eaten very little. Koesler wondered how, if this were a representative meal, Krieg maintained his roly-poly shape. No exercise, probably—and undoubtedly this was not a typical intake.

  At a nod from Krieg, his assistant unlocked and opened the cabinet, whence he extracted a variety of bottles, which he placed on the serving ledge.

  Koesler took note. These were not the inexpensive liquors served before the meal. Even a casual glance at the labels revealed these to be among the highest quality and cost.

  “I’d like to invite you all to join me in an after-dinner drink, if you would. It would be a nice ending to a delicious meal, and a pleasant warming for the evening ahead.”

  It was one of life’s embarrassing moments. No one did or said anything.

  Whatever chemistry was going on here, a goodly portion of it was escaping Koesler. Yet he thought it uncivil, if not ungodly or un-Christian, to give no response whatsoever to an invitation that, to all appearances, seemed sincerely offered.

  So Koesler responded. And in doing so, he thawed the antipathy of the others. He was followed to the array of liquors and liqueurs by Janet and Martha, then by Benbow, Winer, Augustine, and Marie. Last came Krieg, looking pleased that the logjam of opposition was at least showing some movement.

  Koesler, first to arrive at the cupboard, inspected the display. None of the bottles was small. In some cases the booze was in full gallon containers. There were no price tags, but a gallon of Chivas Regal, twelve years old, did not come cheap. The same could be said for Cutty Sark, Dewar’s White Label, Glenmorangie ten years
old, Canadian Club, Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7 Tennessee, Bushmills, and Bombay Dry Gin. Then there were the liqueurs: Solignac Cognac, Frangelico, Grand Marnier, Galliano, Benedictine, B and B, Amaretto di Saronno, Chartreuse, and E& J Brandy.

  The quantity and variety were overwhelming.

  In honor of that half of his heritage which was Irish, Koesler poured a shot of Bushmills into a snifter. He rolled the amber liquid around the base of the glass, occasionally inhaling the sweet-smelling bouquet.

  Standing off to one side, Koesler, between occasional sips, checked out what the others were doing. Krieg’s assistant/companion stood nearby. At six-foot-three he and Koesler were of equal height. There the comparison pretty much ended. The associate was built like a brick armory, with no discernible neck, just a granite-like head that melded into massive shoulders.

  Extending his hand, the priest introduced himself. “Hi. Father Koesler.”

  The associate snorted, looked impassively at the priest, and said, “No. Guido Taliafero.”

  Hand still extended, Koesler hesitated. Then he understood. “No, I’m Father Koesler.”

  “Oh.” Guido nodded and took the outstretched hand. Koesler was prepared; he slipped his hand as deeply into Taliafero’s as possible. Koesler knew, from the school of hard handshakes, that the greeting would hurt less if his palm were wrung than if his fingers were squeezed. Still, there was pain, Koesler swallowed it. “Worked for Reverend Krieg long?” he said, finally.

  “No.”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . what did you do before you came to work for Reverend Krieg?”

  “Played football.”

  “That figures. But I don’t place the name. Wait a minute; yes, I do. There was a Taliafero. But wasn’t he a quarterback?”