Earthly Powers (108 page)

       Manning preached a fiery sermon in the course of which he stated that he had received an angelic visitation in sleep. The angel had prophesied the destruction of the world by a nuclear holocaust. Fire and fallout. The seven places on the earth's surface which the disaster would not touch included the fringe of the Mojave Desert in California. There the Children of God might find their ultimate haven. And so it was to be. On May 17, 1956, Manning signed state papers making the Children of God a nonprofit California corporation. He kept in with the Californians. He founded an orphanage. He served on charitable committees. He started a fund for the families of cops slain in the line of duty. God, in both interpretations of the name, knew where the money came from, but the money was there. Manning, preaching at the Temple of the Children on Sunset Boulevard, brought local politics into his harangues as an aspect of the amelioration of a Christian society; he could sway, he could command votes. He was an admirable television performer. Bank managers and businessmen, disc jockeys and sheriffs believed in him. His choir sang and later gained a reputation nearly as great as that of the Mormon one in Salt Lake City. The coastal newspapers publicised his work. Manning went on the road with selected members of his congregation. They drove in their buses labelled GOD IS EVERYWHERE, EVEN HERE to the Fillmore and Bayview districts of San Francisco. Leaflets were like an autumn in the streets: GOD MANNING ... the Wonderful ... the Incredible ... the Beloved DiscipleÉ See the work of God in miraculous cures which in no way contradict the teachings of modern medical science. The power of the healing hand is the rarest power in the world but it is acknowledged by medical practitioners everywhere. No man's healing hand is like unto God Manning'sÉ God Manning brings you not only Christ's message—he brings you Christ's own miraculous presence. Come and see. Come and believe. Come and join, all ye that are weary and heavily laden and he will give you rest. He will give you peace, love, assurance, satisfaction ... Bands, dancing, gospel singing, the Heavenly Choir, sermons of divine inspiration!

       And, of course, donations.

       Stories leaked out not altogether to Mannning's credit. He alone was periflitted to eat meat. Liquor was banned but Manning had a well-stocked liquor cabinet He was on pills of various kinds. Like the prophet Abraham he took Unto himself handmaidens. Some of the disciples ran away, and some were brought back. Those who were not brought back got away from Redfern Valley as far as they could, but still feared the knock at the door in the night. The perimeter of the Home of the Children of God was guarded by armed men and fierce dogs. Manning had an escort of knuckledustered bullyboys. But those who heard him preach in public, or talk reasonably but eloquently on radio and television, were mostly convinced that here was a Saviour Rarer than Radium. Some, listening to his repeated warnings of the imminence of the End of the World, said he was a nut, like folks that lunched off yoghurt, but none could deny that Christ too had warned of the impending consummation of all things. Okay, that had been two thousand years ago, right?, and it hadn't happened yet. Right, all the more reason why it might happen now. They had no nuclear fallout in those days, right? To tell people to be pure and honest and diligent and love the Lord was hardly to be construed as fanaticism. Jesus, the Pope of Rome was saying the same thing and he was real hardheaded.

       I was not happy about the gist of a sermon that was reproduced among all these clippings and handouts. Manning's text was "Fear not them that kill the body." It was man's duty to live as long in the flesh as he could, since the Divine Being had constructed that flesh and the instincts and appetites that went with it, but the true life, as the Son of the Divine Being taught, was the life of the spirit, and the spirit was what was left when the body was taken away. When it came to the crunch, like with persecution and Armageddon, the true Christian martyr rejoiced in the coming loss of the body, since now the life of the spirit could truly begin. So all Children of God must be ready any time to put off this corruptible body and endue an immortal body which was made of the stuff of the spirit.

       There was a lot of stuff in the thick folder, but my eyes hurt with the attempt at reading it in the dark. When Melvin Withers, preceded by his metabolism, came back in again and signalled for brandy at one of the cat-eyed waitresses, I said, "It's pretty well what I expected. A very American phenomenon. And I don't like it, Melv."

       "Your little black friend stripped off his shirt and showed marks which looked like they might have come from a whip. He goes on swearing that his brother disappeared one night, just like that. But he can't get any place."

       "Can't anybody investigate? A state governor's commission? The appropriate state senator or congressman?"

       "You need real proof of irregularity or crime. With witnesses all lined upLook, Ken, this is a religious organisation and it's very very privileged. There's plenty of crime in the streets before the very eyes of the cops without them going to look for what might not be there. Leave God Manning alone and he shows his gratitude in-a very tangible way. He causes no trouble to the community at large."

       "I told you what he did to me. My great-or grandniece was evidently scared out of her pants-well, no, those are the only things she wasn't scared out of. Look at it from my angle elderly author of international reputation lashed out of there with very opprobrious language. I don't like it especially when I was only doing my duty. That man is bad. I fear for my grand-or great-niece."

       "She asked for it. Nobody asked her to join."

       "She's just a kid. She knows no better. I saw a lot like her. Is there nothing that can be done?"

       "I've done pieces before. I don't like the bastard and never did and I'm always glad to stick the rapier in. Only one of those pieces ever saw print, and then Manning fires broadside on with a libel suit. Settled out of court. What they call substantial damages. The big nicotine-stained finger was wagged at me." Strangely, Melvin's fingers were not nicotine-stained. Something to do with the way he held the weed. "You have to let it go, Ken."

       "I used to know your state governor pretty well in the old days. That's when he was in Hollywood and I with him. He should have been in one of my things but wasn't. If I saw him?"

       "He wouldn't do a damned thing. The cousin of his wife's sister is in there, praising the Lord. And there are certain times in our governor's life when Mr Manning comes in very very useful. Election time, for instance. And if our governor, which he's always threatening to do, decides to aspire to the office of president—no, it won't do."

       "Where the hell does all that money come from?"

       "Astonishing how little bits mount up. Especially when there are no taxes to be paid. As they say, the Lord looks after his own. Ken, I've no spare cash. Your little black friend is literally and I mean literally spraying his pants. He has what he calls a uncle and a aunt in Arkansas. I think we ought to get him on a bus pretty soon. Can you help?"

       I stayed the night at the Beverly Wilshire. It brought Ralph back to me and reminded me of my present loneliness. I telephoned Geoffrey Enright in San Jaime. Could he meet me in the Algonquin tomorrow, ready to accompany me back to Tangier?

       "My dear, you'll never regret it. My only immediate problem is finding the money for an air ticket. No, wait. No sweat, no problem. Lubricious Labrick drew five hundred dollars from the bank this morning. I'll just take enough from his roll to get palpitant me to Fun City or the Big Apple or whatever they call it. No hurry to get to Tangier, is there? There are all sorts of things I can show you in the dirtier portions of Manhattan. My dear, we shall have a riotous time."

       It was, after the Children of God, a breath of moral sanity.

CHAPTER 76

"Your old pal Pope Buggery," Geoffrey said, "looks to me to be getting premonitions of his Latter End."

       We were at breakfast under the oleanders in the garden. Geoffrey, who regarded himself as a growing boy, insisted daily on eggs and rashers. I watched him indulgently tuck in, as I toyed with toast and Cooper's marmalade. He had yesterday's Daily Telegraph propped against the outsize coffeepot. Ali was no longer cooking for us. He had never much cared for cooking, and his repertoire had always been small. Now we had Hamid, who had been kicked out of the kitchens of the Miramar, while Ali had been promoted to majordomo.

       "In Moscow?" I asked.

       "In bloody Moscow. Poisoning his borshch, I shouldn't wonder. Insinuating rare Siberian toxics into his red caviar. Addressing the Praesidium in immaculate Russian," Geoffrey improvised from the paper, "His Ballsiness was overtaken by a series of sharp stabs in the kishkas. He begged to be excused and everybody said Da da da ochin khoroslio. Kremlin medicos were summoned and begged him to go easy on the brotherhood of man stuff for a bit. Taking too much out of the old bastard. Very hard work, the brotherhood of man. Heart, my dear," he said, looking up. "He has nobody to watch his heart, as I am so assiduous or is it insidious in watching yours."

       "He has Dr. Leopardi. He had Leopardi back in Moneta. He's always sworn by the skills of Leopardi."

       "Ah, but skills are not the same as love. He has nobody, poor old bar steward, to lerve him."

       "If by watching my heart you mean the kind of excursion you took me on into the ah heart of the Casbah last night—"

       "But, angelic Kenneth, you are fitter than you have ever been. You have been reawakened. You are engaging life."

       That was true. Little brown boys, kif, cantharides. A good day's work at the long novel I swore would be my last, a stiff gin and tonic before dinner, after dinner some little sexual adventure not untinged with danger. In bed the company of Geoffrey, who had taught my aging body new paths of rejuvenation.

       "And now," Geoffrey said, having drained the coffeepot, "let us lash ourselves to labour."

       We went in together. Ali was wailing some lovesong of the Atlas slopes as he polished the furniture. Geoffrey's workroom was neat and the sunlight was allayed by nylon curtains newly washed. His electric typewriter squatted ready, a pack of Effacil erasers stuck to its side. "This," Geoffrey said, "is what I wrote to that tiresome woman. Listen. 'Madam, I note your somewhat fanciful allegation that in my novel The Affairs 0f Men I have based a minor female character on your defunct sister. I never knew your sister, living, moribund, or defunct. Are you quite sure your defunct sister did not base her personality on that of my character? I have far too much serious work to do to engage myself in frivolities of the kind that seem to beguile what appears to me to be an excessive leisure. Get stuffed. Yours et cetera.'

       "I should cut out the Get stuffed."

       "I didn't put it in, my dear."

       "Fine then, fine."

       We were really doing very well together. Too well, caution and a life of betrayals should have taught me. I was right to be scared of overmuch felicity. Still, my raddled old muse forbade complacency. She threw the most worn tropes and situations at me. The reviewers would say: "Toomey offers this bulky but overpriced novel as an elected swan song. One hears the cackling of the goose more often than the unlocking of the cygnic throat." To hell with them, as always. I worked. He worked. We worked. We lunched lightly off a herb omelette and a bottle of Vichy and a couple of peaches. We took the siesta together, and then tea, and worked until sunset. At sunset we walked the esplanade. Juanito, a boy who sold foreign newspapers, offered Times, Mail, Express, Mirror. Geoffrey, as he always did, said, "No gracias. No se leer."

       "Wait," I said. "You seem to be right about the Latter End." I handed dirhams over and read the front page of The Times. The Pope had been rushed back to Rome by Aeroflot. He was far from well. Prayers prayers and prayers. Massive heart attack. "For God's sake, look at this." We sat at an outdoor table of the Papagayo and read that His Holiness, who was well known as an orphan of unknown parentage adopted by the Campanati family of Milan (to be more specific and say Gorgonzola might have seemed irreverent), had no adoptive relatives living. Domenico Campanati, the noted light composer, had died earlier this year of thrombosis. Campanati's widow, sister of the noted British author Kenneth M. Toomey, had been summoned from her home in Bronxville, New York, to attend the papal bedside.

       "Why?" I asked, and Geoffrey: "Will she go? You always told me she hated the old bastard."

       "But why? Why Hortense? What can they possibly have to say to each other?"

       William Sawyer Abernethy, who idolised Father Rolfe and had written a book on him, shuffled toward us in his whites and panama, sat down uninvited, made a two-finger gesture to the waiter which meant raw Ricard with ice, and said, "It looks as if he's on his way. He was a great Pope." Abernethy had no religion. "He's done more than anyone to restore universal confidence in the Catholic Church. His Ignis Cibi Inopiae is a great humanitarian document. He has given back to humanity a long lost confidence in itself. The Kampala innovation was a stroke of genius. What's all this about your sister going to see him?"

       "She may not."

       "On the radio it said she would. Reporters on to her. She's taking a plane at Vatican expense. Travelling with the Archbishop of New York."

       "That," Geoffrey said prissily, "is surely jumping the gun. The old bastard isn't dead yet."

       "He's sinking fast," Abernethy said, and sank fast his Ricard. "Nice to see you chaps again. He was a great Pope."

       Hortense, called mystery woman from New York by the Daily Mirror and, less gallantly, the piratical enigma by the commentator at the end of the BBC's European News Service the morning after her arrival at Fiumicino, was with Carlo from the moment of her admission to his bedchamber until his death less than two hours later. For over an hour of that time she was alone with him. Then the Cardinal Dean, the Cardinal Vicar of Rome and the sostituto came in. Hortense tried to withdraw, but the dying man frantically waved that she stay. The Cardinal Secretary of State anointed him. Carlo clutched that prelate's hand all through the oiling and prayed, to the slight disgust of the surrounding dignitaries, in the tongue of his adoptive mother. His last words were "Lord hear my prayer and let thy cry come unto me"—a transposition of pronouns that made sense. Hortense, leaving the chamber after his death, would tell no reporter what they had talked about.