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“Even now, I don't believe most filmmakers know these techniques.”

He shrugged. “If not now, soon. It is only a matter of time. We no longer believe there is any point in trying to keep these tricks to ourselves.”

“Is that all they really are in your eyes? Tricks?”

He turned the question back on me. “But what else? Little devices to enhance a shot, spice up the story. All rather childish, don't you think?”

We were making our way back to Dr. Byx's office. Along the way, we passed a bulletin board in one of the corridors. On it, among several other notices, was a mimeographed sheet listing movies scheduled on the weekends for the next few months. There were German, French, Indian, and Japanese films. I could identify none of them, except a few of the French selections. Louis Feuillade's old silent serials—
Fantômas
and
Les Vampires
—caught my eye at once. Hardly great stuff, but rare. I recalled that Clare had once tried to track these items down and had come up empty-handed. As I ran my eye down the page, I was impressed that all the movies I saw there seemed to be of the same grubby quality, titles that suggested thrillers, melodramas, low comedies. The American entries were no exception. Four Ritz Brothers movies. I knew two of them:
One in a Million
and
The Gorilla.
Clare had once run them at The Classic, only to decide they weren't worth unearthing.

“More work by your alumni?” I asked Dr. Byx as I drew his attention to the film series.

“Yes, for the most part,” he answered casually.

“Louis Feuillade? That goes back a long way, doesn't it?”

“Not Feuillade himself. Perhaps some of his assistants.”

“And the Ritz Brothers?”

“There is some interesting work with the ice in the skating film.”

He meant
One in a Million,
a Sonja Henie clunker from the later thirties. “Ice, water, glass,” I observed, “Max Castle also made the most of them.”

Dr. Byx smiled back. “Vehicles of light.”

There was only one piece of distinguished architecture on the grounds: the school chapel. Though it was as brooding as the rest of
the school, it had a softer Romanesque texture. Dr. Byx would have passed it by, but I politely insisted on stopping for a quick look. Again glancing at his watch, he agreed, but with a note of undisguised impatience.

From outside, the church had seemed a vast, unlit cavern. But as we passed through its imposing stone portal, I very nearly flinched back, thinking the building might be on fire. The interior was alive with dancing shadows. They swirled and spun over the walls and ceiling. It was a spectacular effect produced by the simplest of means. All along the walls were rows of little votive candles. Balanced above each flame was a delicate black metal carousel, its circumference cut open and peeled back at intervals to form a circle of protruding fins. As the fins caught the rising heat of the candles, they gave the carousel a gentle turn, splashing the interior with a dizzy choreography of dark and light. The effect was so distracting I nearly overlooked the artwork that decorated the chapel. There were stained-glass windows and a series of bas-reliefs along the side aisles. Peering more closely through the pulsing darkness, I saw that the work had a single theme. It portrayed atrocities of the most gruesome kind: burnings, beheadings, crucifixions, impalings. Pausing beneath a window that depicted a jarringly graphic disemboweling, I hazarded to comment, “How very grim for a school.”

“The martyrs of our church,” Dr. Byx explained, but would say no more. The only work in the chapel that dealt with something besides bloodshed was a large wall mural behind the altar table. I moved in on this as soon as I caught sight of it. Like everything else in the building, the picture took on an eerie animation in the flickering candlelight.

In the center foreground, the mural presented three bearded old men kneeling in prayer, eyes elevated. At the top of the picture hovered a dark, haloed bird spreading its wings protectively above the men. Rays of light arrowed down from the bird's breast, striking each man on the forehead. Between the bird and the men, a woman floated in midair. Her body was covered at all the strategic locations by a gauzy veil, but even so seemed too sensuously explicit for a religious painting. In her right hand raised high and pointed toward the bird was a gleaming sword with a bloody heart impaled upon it.

The painting was darkened with age, and in the dancing light of the chapel many of its details were obscured. But what I could see
was enough. Not thinking twice, I blurted out, “I've seen this before.”

Dr. Byx lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I don't think so. We have never permitted it to be reproduced.”

“But I have. Max Castle made a sketch of this picture before he died. I have it in my office at school. He wanted to use this scene in
The Maltese Falcon.”

“Indeed!” Dr. Byx's voice took on an edge. “How could he possibly do that?”

“I'm really not sure. I think he intended to introduce it as part of a flashback. I know for certain that he tried to interest the director, John Huston, in restaging the picture in the movie. Huston didn't like the idea.”

“A wise choice on Mr. Huston's part. What relevance could this work of art have to a tawdry detective story?”

“Perhaps it had to do with the bird. It is a falcon, isn't it?”

Dr. Byx gave a tight-lipped reply. “A raven. An emblem of our faith.”

He was clearly trying to draw me away and out of the chapel, but I stayed put studying the picture. “Who are the three men?”

“Three saints of our church.”

“Would I know their names?”

“I doubt it. They are known as the Survivor Saints. The central figure is St. Arnaud.”

I admitted I didn't recognize the name. Examining the mural more closely, I now saw that it was hardly as tranquil a scene as I'd at first thought. Like the rest of the artwork in the chapel, it too contained elements of violence and suffering. The three saints were posed against a turbulent background of storm-lashed mountains and valleys. The landscape had the dark, convulsive quality of an El Greco canvas. Not as well done, but as disturbing. There was lightning overhead and in the distance I could discern what I took to be tiny representations of towns, about a score of them scattered through the jagged mountains, all in flames with people streaming from their gates. Men on horseback pursued them with sword and fire.

I wanted to know more about the scene, but I could feel Dr. Byx's impatience at my back like a physical pressure. It told me my time was limited. I selected the question I most wished to ask. “And the woman? Who is she?”

He sighed wearily. “It would really take too long to explain the iconography of our faith to you, Professor Gates. If I were to tell you
she symbolizes Sophia, the divine wisdom, would you find that satisfactory?”

“And the sword?”

“The blade of gnosis, as deadly as it is enlightening.”

I failed to catch that one, but, having nothing to lose at this point, I risked an impertinence. “What would it symbolize if the woman and the bird were shown”—I quickly sorted through my inventory of euphemisms—“in sexual congress?” When Dr. Byx seemed not to understand, I added, “Making love.”

He sneered with strong distaste. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Did Herr Kastell make such a sketch?”

“No, no. I have the impression I've seen such a picture … somewhere.”

“If you have, it would be quite sacrilegious.” The tone of offense in his voice was meant to be emphatic and final. He turned and walked off; I followed, judging it would be wise not to mention Olga Tell's account of
Heart of Darkness,
in which I was certain Castle had cast her as the figure called Sophia, lacking the veil but with the sword spectacularly employed.

A brisk five-minute walk and we were back in Dr. Byx's office. He had only one matter to settle before he bade me good-bye. He wished to make arrangements for having Castle's
Judas
copied and sent. He made it clear that this was the return he expected for having escorted me through the school. I was quite willing to offer the film, but I lingered over the details as long as I could. Before leaving, I was determined to find out more about the Orphans of the Storm, their history, their teachings—above all their fascination with the art of film. My questions, I knew, would be ham-handed, but at this point, with my departure only minutes away, I was prepared to blunder ahead.

I began gingerly. “I hope you understand that I'm curious about your church. I've been told it isn't Catholic … exactly …”

Dr. Byx returned an inquisitive stare. “Told by whom?”

“An actress friend of mine. Olga Tell. I believe she contributes rather generously to your orphanage in The Hague.”

“Ah yes, Fräulein Tell. We are most grateful to her. She is correct. We are not Catholic.”

Since he clearly intended to add nothing more, I put out another soft feeler. “Protestant, then?”

He gave me a mildly chastising look. “Those are not the only
possibilities. Our church predates these later and lesser divisions of the faith.”

Another pause. Another feeler. “But you
are
Christian?”

That brought a note of marked irritation into his voice. “Most certainly.”'

“I'm sorry,” I quickly apologized. “It's just that I know so little about religion.”

He fixed me with a firm, intimidating gaze. “That is obvious enough, Professor. It is why I am reluctant to speak with you about our beliefs. The modern intellect has lost its receptivity for religious discourse. Consequently, these matters are easily misunderstood. You see, theology is a subtle science. Its nuances and shadings require a trained mind to be fully appreciated. For example, if I were to tell you that our church preceded the Christian revelation, what would you make of that, I wonder? Could there be a Christian church
before
Christ, a state of grace
before
the Mystery of Golgotha? Ah, but perhaps that is what guarantees the purity of our doctrine. That we—our forebears—were primed to hear the gospel when at last it arrived. We were the ear prepared, the eye made ready. As you see, we have here what is surely a paradox. Truly Christian because
older
than Christian. How can we expect this to be understood?”

“Yes … I see. I think I …”

He could see that his answer was more than I was able to take in, but he continued without waiting for my response, still holding me with his eyes. “There is another reason for my reticence. You come to us out of your interest in Max Kastell. I assure you we would be quite willing to offer you whatever information we might have about his early years, if such material still existed. As I have told you, it does not. Still, it would be a great mistake to associate Kastell's later aesthetic work with our religious teachings, though I'm sure you are tempted to do this. But believe me, Herr Kastell very rapidly grew away from our faith, especially after he traveled to your Hollywood. He then became part of another, more worldly, cultural milieu. As was perhaps inevitable. We continue to respect his craftsmanship as a filmmaker. This is why I will so value having the copy of
Judas Jedermann
that you offer. But I would not be eager to see the content of Kastell's films connected with our doctrines. That would be most improper.”

“Are your doctrines … secret? I mean, would you prefer that I not ask … ?”

“Secret?” He lingered judiciously over the word. “I would prefer to say … veiled. Yes, veiled, as you saw that the person of Sophia was veiled in the blessed mural. As one might veil a precious manuscript to protect it from the deleterious effects of the sunlight. We are not a proselytizing order, Professor. We do not even seek scholarly study. There are subjects which can be as distorted by well-meaning objectivity as by outright prejudice.”

I felt myself blushing defensively under his steady gaze. “I assure you, Doctor, I would want to treat your teachings with the utmost respect.”

Again he continued as if I hadn't spoken. “Fortunately, because of its very materialism, the age we live in is a latitudinarian one. So it is no longer necessary, as it once was, to keep one's beliefs ‘secret.' Indeed, secrecy might only draw more prying eyes. In this democratic age, everything must be in full public view, isn't that so? Even though the public scarcely understands a fraction of what it presumes it has the right to inspect. If I were to tell you that we are Katari, I wonder if you would appreciate what secrecy once meant to us and why, even now, we prefer to remain veiled.”

“Katari …” I almost went on to ask him to spell the word for me.

He searched my face closely. “I assume the name means little to you.”

I felt the blood burning in my cheeks. I'd never felt so stupid in my life. “I believe I remember something … well, quite honestly … no, I …” And then it clicked in my mind. He was using the word in the plural and giving it its Latin pronunciation. Katari. He meant Cathars, the heretics against whom Father Rosenzweig had fulminated so wildly in his frenzied little pamphlet. Like someone begging for an intellectual crutch, I asked “Do you mean Cathars?”

He nodded condescendingly. “Cathars, yes.”

Of course I knew nearly nothing about Katari even when they were called Cathars. I was way out of my depth and floundering. But one point stuck in my recollection, something that might explain Dr. Byx's reticence. Trying to angle the question as tactfully as possible, I asked, “Weren't they once regarded as heretics? In the Middle Ages, that is. The Templars got involved with them, I recall.”

“Regarded as heretics by
whom?”
he asked back stiffly.

“By the church.”

“The Church of
Rome,
you mean.” He made the correction as if its enormous significance should come down on me like ten tons of
bricks. “And we are so regarded still. Heresy does not simply fade away with time. Once a heretic, always a heretic. The brand endures. In the medieval period, that brand was literal. Here!” He pointed to his forehead so forcefully that I almost saw a flame sear his flesh where his finger pressed at his brow, pressed, held, and twisted. “Those who were not burned—
burned alive
—were marked on the brow for life. Mainly these were children, branded with the mark of Cain. Outcasts condemned to wander the roads of a persecuting world. Most of these would have starved, or been beaten to death by angry folk along the way.”