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I took a deep breath. It carried me over miles of comments I might have made—severe reservations, agonizing doubts, moral qualms. I knew I hadn't been invited to the screening to offer thoughts like these. Nor, in all honesty, could I say I'd come to present them.
Rather, I was an anxious and uncertain guest in a world that aroused my curiosity as much as it repelled me. My pursuit of Max Castle had brought me here; in Simon Dunkle, I'd found one of his soulmates and disciples. I could hardly allow something as minor as moral revulsion to turn me around at this point.

“Critical approval … ? Yes, frankly, I believe it will. Judging from the state of the cultural scene, I think Bobby could be right. This is what the world may be waiting for.”

Brother Justin's face lit up with encouragement. “Then we must talk,” he said, reaching out to give my arm a grateful pat.

It wasn't until Brother Justin had gotten me aside in an upstairs office that he put his proposition to me. Jeanette, who was sticking close to me as if I were the great white hunter leading her through the wilds of the Congo, asked to come along, but Brother Justin made it clear that he wanted a few words with me in private. Reluctantly, she trailed off with Sharkey and the others back to the cabana where we learned that a buffet was to be served.

“Professor Gates, we believe it is time to present Simon to the world,” Brother Justin began, sounding portentous enough to make me feel distinctly uncomfortable. “A young artist with so great a gift, so much to say to his generation … Would you be interested in assisting in this project?”

It wasn't clear to me what he expected. “You're not asking me to become Simon's press agent? That's not my line of work.”

“Of course not.” Irritably, Brother Justin waved the idea aside. “You are an internationally respected film scholar. It is in that capacity that we approach you. We would like to have you treat Simon's work as the subject of a serious critical study, as you have the work of Max Castle—-and we would hope with the same result of introducing his films to a larger public. You see, after
Sub Sub
is released, we expect there will be a great deal of interest in Simon. We would prefer to see him brought into the mainstream by someone whose judgment and taste were mature, well schooled, and, above all, in tune with his work.”

“You assume I would have a favorable opinion of that work. I couldn't guarantee that.”

Brother Justin passed off my reservations with a wave of the hand. “You would of course be free to deal with Simon's films as critically as you might wish. You see, we have every confidence that the more closely you examine his movies, the more merit you will find there.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Indeed, yes. Who would be more likely to bring the right sensibility to the job than someone who has been so deeply immersed in the films of Max Castle? That is precisely why we extend this invitation to you. We feel you are uniquely qualified to be Simon's interpreter.”

I still wasn't certain what this invitation might mean. “What is it exactly you would have me do?”

Brother Justin spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Be our guest here at the school. Come as often as you wish, stay as long as you care to stay. All of Simon's films are here. Screen them. Study them. Above all, Simon is here and at your disposal.”

“I could have an interview with him?”

“As many as you wish. As you can see, he's a shy boy. Not at all the sort who might be able to meet his public or the press. But here, on his own grounds, with someone he can trust, I'm sure you will find him forthcoming.”

I wondered if this was the point at which to put in a good word for Jeanette, who had come much farther than I had to interview Simon. But there was something else on my mind. “I'm certainly curious to know why the sort of films Simon is making should be so popular with his audience. But I think I must explain: just now I'm trying to finish a major piece of writing on Max Castle. As it is, I'm way behind on the book. I really don't have the time to begin a new study now.”

“But there need be no conflict,” Brother Justin insisted. “There must be a great deal about Castle you still want to know, details of his life, insights into his films. We could be of some help with your research in this respect. Studying Simon can be a way of studying Castle, do you see?”

The man was offering me a deal. If I helped with Simon, I would, in turn, be helped with Castle. But how? “That's an attractive offer. But I'm not certain what sort of contribution you might make to my research. Dr. Byx told me all the records that had to do with Castle were lost in the war.”

Brother Justin nodded. “Yes, that is doubtless true. But there are other matters. For example, you asked about Castle's visits to our school. As I said, that was largely before my time. Still, I'm sure I could remember a bit more, if I set my mind to it. And then there is Brother Marcion. I'm sure he could fill in many details.”

“Your predecessor? But you said he was dead.”

“No, no. Simply retired … some twelve years ago.”

“He must be quite along in years.”

“It is characteristic of our church: many of our members live to a ripe old age. Brother Marcion must be … oh, nearly one hundred. But his mind is as sharp as ever.”

“I see. Well, I would of course value an interview with him. But I don't see that this need involve me with Simon's work.”

“As to that … there are bound to be certain instructive parallels between Castle and Simon, coming as they do from the same religious background. Such early influences would surely be worth your attention.”

I flashed at once on the phrase. “As a matter of fact, I asked Dr. Byx about such influences. He was not at all hospitable to the idea. He assured me there was no connection whatever between Castle's education and his later work. He was absolutely firm on that point.”

Brother Justin chuckled. “That is very like Dr. Byx, to be so impatient with such a question. He's a busy man with many responsibilities in all parts of the world. You were most fortunate to have as much time with him as you did. I suspect he simply didn't wish to be troubled. Matters of doctrine and education are rather outside his scope.”

I squinted hard at Brother Justin, letting him see my bewilderment. “I find that odd. I should think that, as head of your church, Dr. Byx would be exactly the person … ”

I was stopped by the expression of surprise that came over Brother Justin's face. “Head of our church? Excuse me, Professor. You have that quite wrong. Dr. Byx is not the head of our church. Oh my, no. He is our chief administrator, but his duties are strictly secular. Matters of finance, personnel, international diplomacy. Strictly speaking, our faith has no ‘head' except the Saviour Himself. We do have our spiritual authorities. Our elders. They reside in Albi.”

“Albi?”

“Near Toulouse, in southern France. A city that has some historical importance for us.”

“Dr. Byx never mentioned that to me. I wish he had. I would have arranged a visit.”

Brother Justin wagged his head dismissively. “I doubt that would have been possible. The elders live a cloistered life. They rarely meet with people from the outside. Their role is purely inspirational and
doctrinal. To set an example of purity, to defend the teachings of our faith.”

A small, sharp ripple of irritation ran through me, the same feeling I'd experienced when Dr. Byx mentioned the “veiled” character of his church. Of course, it was really none of my business if the orphans wanted to keep their religion to themselves. But once again their air of secrecy was interfering with my study of Max Castle.

“I wish I could learn something more about these teachings,” I told Brother Justin. “That might be necessary if I'm to understand Simon's work. You see, beyond knowing that you are Cathars … ” I paused to see what effect the word might produce. Nothing special. Brother Justin simply nodded as if to say, yes, you've got that much right. “… I really don't have much to go on when it comes to understanding the influences under which Castle worked, and now Simon.”

Brother Justin dismissed the problem. “Fortunately, we have a very full library. You can find all the books you need right here.”

“Oh? Dr. Byx told me in no uncertain terms that there were no reliable books I could turn to. He said I'd be better off reading nothing.”

Brother Justin assumed an indulgent smile. “There are purists in our order—like Dr. Byx—who take such a position. And of course there is a certain truth to what they say. It is difficult for those who are not of our faith to do full justice to our teachings. But I assure you there are many excellent books I can recommend—some by our own scholars. Works you may not find elsewhere. And we are here, myself and my colleagues, to answer any questions you may have.”

Once again, Brother Justin was contradicting Dr. Byx, offering me what the doctor had withheld, and offering it eagerly. In Zurich, I'd felt like a beggar turned away at the door. Now, I had the altogether uneasy feeling that I was being enticed, the way a fish is enticed by the angler. I didn't believe Brother Justin had taken it upon himself to initiate so friendly and open a relationship. Clearly, some consultation with Dr. Byx had taken place, and there had been a change of policy. I had no idea why, but I could see no reason to refuse what was offered. “What would you expect to come of my study of Simon?” I asked. “Not a book, I hope.”

“Nothing so ambitious at this point. But perhaps something like your very fine article on Castle in
The New York Times.
A critical analysis, but intended for the general public.”

It was a realistic enough goal, except in one important respect.
“You understand that the
Times
commissioned me to write my piece on Castle? Nobody's asked me to write about Simon.”

Brother Justin wasn't concerned. “I feel certain anything you write on Simon will find its way into print quite promptly, especially after
Sub Sub
is released.”

So I agreed to come visiting again, the next time primarily to talk with Simon. I made a point of insisting that I bring Jeanette with me, characterizing her as a serious film student with a deep interest in Simon's work. Brother Justin raised no objections. He was, in fact, being so ingratiating that I was emboldened to raise a challenging issue. “I think I should let you know, Brother Justin, that I have some serious doubts about Simon's work. Not about its technical side. He's a very clever young man, even—or perhaps especially—when he's affecting a primitive style. But, quite honestly, I find the content of his movies … well, let's say in dubious taste.”

I checked to see how Brother Justin might react to the remark. He sat listening patiently, waiting for more. So I pushed a little farther. “Even in
very bad
taste. Frankly, that leaves me puzzled. I can't see why a church, any church, should be associated with films that are filled with such violence, obscenity, cynicism. To put it bluntly,
Sub Sub
is a chamber of horrors. Many, many people wouldn't have the stomach to sit through it. It may very well be a popular success. But please tell me why your church should want to pour material like this into the minds of young people.”

When I finished, I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for some angry or hurt response from Brother Justin. It didn't come. Instead, he answered quietly, in measured phrases, as if he might have expected the question. As he spoke, his eyes never left my face. “Professor, have you ever read the books of the prophets in the Old Testament? Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah … ”

“Well, long ago. In Sunday school … I think.”

“Then possibly you remember. Most of what the prophets preached had to do with sin, fornication, abominations. Not a very pleasant view of life, but true, all too true. And what were they saying? That we live in hell. That we are damned souls. Is that not true?”

I've never heard the prophets interpreted that way, at least within my limited religious background. But who was I to dispute the point with a priest? “I suppose you could read the books that way,” I agreed.

“What a picture of the world they painted with their words! But now those words are
mere
words in an old book. Who reads them
today with any care? Something more penetrating is required. A new kind of prophecy, appropriate to our time.“

I recalled what the little boy had said as he led us from the parking lot to the cabana. “Is that how you see Simon's work, as prophecy?”

He shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps one day … Remember, Simon is still very young, too young to be numbered among the prophets of our faith. But already he has found a way to speak to his peers. He has such a keen eye—and ear—for the spiritual malaise of our time. It is not unthinkable that some day the images that fill his films will become as memorable as those that fill St. John's Revelation. The great beast, the whore of Babylon. For example, this Bobby Pox and his friends, these unfortunate young people who are with us today, would you not describe them as the perfect example of damned souls?” He pressed the point. “Would you?”

“That seems very harsh to say.”

Brother Justin rolled right along. “Damned souls, knowing they are damned. Knowing! Wallowing in their depravity, advertising it. Could there be a more vivid image of our condition than that our young people should confabulate with their own damnation, turn it into their art? You may wonder how Sister Helena and I can sit by while they cavort before us. We see them as spiritual cripples, objects of pathos. We view them with pity. Simon has made the only good use that can be made of such wretched human material. He has given them a place in his vision.”

There was a smugness to what Brother Justin was saying that I might have found offensive if the words hadn't been tempered with a genuine sorrow. A greater sorrow than I could muster for Pox and his crew, all of whom seemed to me a batch of degenerate bums. It was actually quite charitable of Brother Justin to see them as spiritual cripples. “But Simon's films … they're so filled with negativity, with despair. Is that the role of prophecy?”