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“Well… congratulations. “I put as much sincerity into the remark as I could, but it still came out as more of a question than a statement.

My head was cushioned in Clare's still humid lap. Hovering over me, she looked down into my eyes. “This doesn't have to be a final fling, Jonny. Harold's very liberal, very understanding. Also very busy. He travels a lot. So do I. We can still be affectionate friends—provided you don't run off to the crusades with Father Angelotti.”

Good old Clare! She was giving it all she had. “Is that a bribe?” I asked.

“An inducement. I mean everything I said tonight. You've got better ways to spend your life than hunting heretics. I could be one of those ways … at least until another Jeanette comes along.”

Clare was bargaining cutely with me, but I could hear the worry and concern that lay behind her words. “Will you let me think about it?” I asked. “This has been quite a mind-numbing few days, especially the last three hours.”

“I would've hoped the last three hours had blotted out everything
else. They were meant to. If not, we can give it another try—and sleep until tea time.”

“Thanks, but I don't have it in me. Honestly.”

She ran her hand softly down my body. “That's what you always used to say. But I managed to surprise you, didn't I?”

And she did again.

“I have the distinct feeling,” Clare said over late brunch the next morning, “that I have labored in vain.” Her look was both challenging and hurt, meant to make me feel supremely guilty.

“Not in the least,” I hastened to assure her. “My God, I was beginning to feel like a zombie.” And I thanked her and thanked her until she had to tell me I was becoming soppy and would I please cut it out. Even so, she wasn't mollified.

“I had something more than your gonads in mind. Not that the poor neglected little things aren't important. But there's also a minor matter called your life's work. If you get tangled up with Eddy, mark my words, you'll go down the tube professionally. Don't let it happen, please.”

As far as I could remember, Clare had never said “please” to me. Her advice had always come as a quasi-parental command.

“I promise,” I answered.

“Promise what?”

“Not to get tangled up with him.”

“I'd rather have you promise not to talk with him again.”

But on that point, I equivocated until Clare must have sensed my mind was made up and tending away from her wishes. Angelotti's proposition was too enticing to pass up, exactly the sort of once-in-a-lifetime adventure every timid, desk-bound scholar hopes will some day come his way.

“At least promise to call me before you decide to do anything rash,” Clare asked when she was dressed and ready to leave for the day. I said I would, and we kissed at the door. It was a long, loving kiss. It couldn't have been better even if we had known at the time it would be our last.

I met Angelotti one more time before returning to California. Lunch at a restaurant of his choosing, but at my expense. He wanted all the details I could give him about my relations with Brother Justin and Simon. As I went over the ground, he hit upon an idea. “So you were promised an interview with this Brother Marcion.”

“That's what I thought at first. Later Brother Justin said that wasn't possible.”

“But you must insist. Tell him you will not continue with your article on Simon unless he secures a meeting for you with Brother Marcion face to face.”

“That'll never work. Brother Marcion is at Albi. He's one of the Perfect. He lives a cloistered life.”

“Insist!” Angelotti said again. “What have you to lose? If you succeed, you will be inside the inner sanctum.”

I shook my head. “It's not even worth trying.”

“Let us be cunning like the serpents we must deal with,” Angelotti said with a sly wink. “Suppose you revise your article on Simon. Make it highly laudatory. Exactly what Brother Justin would like to see. But say it is not quite finished. This will be the bait, yes? Tell him unless you can have your interview with Brother Marcion, the article will never reach print. Perhaps then …”

This seemed to me a pretty feeble ploy, though it was the best Angelotti could come up with. I took the idea back to Los Angeles with me, feeling certain I'd never have the courage to try what he proposed. But over the next two weeks, he phoned me no fewer than seven times—always collect—to urge me on. At last, if for no other reason than to be able to tell him I'd tried and failed, I made up my mind to approach Brother Justin.

He had no idea I'd been away. And if he did, so what? But with my usual total lack of self-assurance, I quickly gave away the fact that I was hiding something. Some secret agent I was going to make! “You seem nervous,” Brother Justin observed with concern when we met, and he fixed me with a stare that made me even more unsettled. “Is there something you would care to talk about?”

Taking a deep breath, I put Angelotti's plan of attack into operation.
“In fact, there is,” I answered. “This.” And I deposited on his desk a not-quite-finished article on the films of Simon Dunkle. It was an almost absurdly glowing tribute to the boy's work, expressing none of my doubts or reservations, exactly the sort of puff piece Angelotti had suggested I dangle before Brother Justin as an inducement. After he'd rapidly scanned the manuscript, he looked up, an expression of surprised delight on his face.

“But this is excellent,” he said. “I had no idea your view of Simon's work was so unexceptionably positive.”

“As you see,” I said, “the article lacks a conclusion. It will remain that way until you fulfill your end of the bargain.”

He seemed frankly puzzled. “Which is?”

“You do remember that I requested some information from Brother Marcion.”

“Oh yes.”

“About Max Castle.”

“Yes.”

“I gather there still hasn't been a response.”

Brother Justin began combing abstractly through the papers on his desk. “Let me see now …”he mused, as if I should expect him to discover a letter there from Brother Marcion.

Impatiently, I pressed my advantage. “You realize that my main interest all along has been Castle. That's what brought me here in the first place. I've delayed finishing my book because you led me to believe that Brother Marcion might be able to provide me with some valuable material about his relations with Castle. Well, I've been waiting now for …”

Brother Justin plucked an envelope from his desk and held it up. “A letter arrived just a few weeks ago. It slipped my mind. I tried to call you when it came, but you were apparently away.”

“A letter from whom?”

“Brother Marcion. Actually Father Marcion now; that is how we refer to our elders.” He drew out the letter and skimmed it. “Yes … he apologizes for taking so long to reply. He has been on a hermetical retreat. He says he would be pleased to pass along what he knows about Max Castle. Only …”

“Yes?” I waited to hear his excuse for telling me precisely nothing, as usual.

Brother Justin's eyes were still on the letter. “He says there is so
very much to tell, more than he will have time to set down in writing just now.”

As I expected, another evasion. But it was also the perfect opening for Angelotti's stratagem. Why not suggest that I visit Father Marcion at Albi to spare him the trouble of writing? Not that it would work. But Angelotti was right: What did I have to lose? I began to speak just as Brother Justin looked up from the letter. “He wonders if you would care to visit him at Albi.”

Brother Justin gazed at me. I gazed at Brother Justin. A questioning pause on both sides. “He wants me to come to Albi?”

“At your convenience.”

“But I thought visitors weren't welcome.”

“Why did you think so?”

“Isn't it cloistered? Doesn't that mean … ?”

“Yes, but there are accommodations for meetings. It isn't a prison, after all.” He studied me for a moment. “You seem surprised.”

“Well, I assumed … I mean, would Father Marcion actually be free to see me, free to talk?”

“If he chooses, yes.” His face was taking on a progressively more puzzled expression as I stared back at him incredulously. Finally he said, “Of course, if you have no interest in meeting him, he may find time to write at some point in the future. I realize it would be a long trip for you.”

That brought me up short. One more question and I might talk myself out of what I most wanted. Of course I would go. But when? How? Brother Justin agreed to consult with Dr. Byx about all that.

“Dr. Byx would be willing to have me visit Albi?” I asked.

Brother Justin cocked his head at me inquisitively. “Byx? What has it to do with him? If Father Marcion wishes to see you, the matter is settled. But it would be convenient to coordinate through Zurich.”

A few days later Brother Justin phoned to confirm my travel arrangements. We decided on a date at the beginning of my summer vacation. I was to book my flight to Zurich. From there, Dr. Byx would provide my transport to Albi. The orphanage, I learned, kept its own plane at the airport.

Two weeks before I was to leave, I phoned Clare. I'd been rehearsing what I would tell her during every free hour for days. I got no answer, not even her machine. I tried several times more before somebody at last picked up the phone. The voice at the other end
wasn't Clare. It was Angelotti. He explained that he was staying in Clare's apartment while she was away. Away where? Hadn't I heard? She'd gotten married the previous week. “All very quick and private,” Angelotti explained. “A stockbroker. I forget his name. She did not inform you?”

“She mentioned the possibility… . I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Where is she now?”

“On the high seas, would you believe it? He is an avid yachtsman, this husband of hers. The honeymoon is a world cruise.”

When I was off the phone, I turned to a weeks-old stack of correspondence on my kitchen table. Junk mail I assumed. I dug through and found a formal-looking envelope which looked like better than junk. It had a printed return address I didn't recognize. Inside was a very tasteful little notice embossed on plush lavender paper.

Clarissa Swann and Harold C. Dumbarton Jr. announce their marriage, June 12, 1976

On the back I found Clare's scribble.

As I warned you … Off to see the world. Back in the fall maybe. Hope the crusade can wait till then. Must talk more. As ever … no, make that, as of our last meeting. C.

I believe I can honestly say I felt glad for Clare. Good old Harold might finally give her the opportunity she deserved in life to do the sort of writing she wanted to do, even get in on producing a daring little film or two. And liberal as the man was (if Clare could be believed) there was every good chance I'd be seeing her again for intimate advice.

But meanwhile, I felt odd undertaking the trip ahead of me without anyone knowing what I was up to. Yet whom could I tell, besides Angelotti, who, for all the phone calls we'd exchanged, was still a stranger in my life? No one in the Film Studies department would understand why I should be on my way to a monastery in southern France. My colleagues still hadn't come to grips with what little they knew of my research on Castle. I realized with some regret how cloistered my work had become over the last few years. I'd systematically isolated myself, waiting to amaze the scholarly world with my
magnum opus. Now didn't seem to be the time to start making lengthy explanations. There was, of course, Faustus Carstad, who knew at least half of the story. But the last I'd heard, the poor man was on indefinite sick leave following his recent surgery. Not the best time to begin mending fences in that quarter.

I considered letting Jeanette know my plans, but she was bound to ask more questions than I cared to answer at this point. Well, as a last resort, there was Sharkey. He'd have to do. It took three days of playing telephone tag to get through to him, and when I did, it was hardly encouraging. He was so strung out I had to tell him twice who I was. As for explaining about my trip, that proved to be a Herculean effort.

“You're goin' to South America? Far out!”

“No, Sharkey. The south of France. First Zurich, then Albi. Near Toulouse.”

“Right. Yeah. Where that little crippled painter came from.”

“That's got nothing to do with it. I'm visiting the orphans there. They have a monastery. In Albi.”

“Right. What orphans are these, pal?”

“Simon's people, remember?”

“Oh, hey, you seen Dunky's latest flick?
They Came from Toxage Seepy.
Wild, man!”

“Toxic Seepage,
Sharkey. Yes, I've seen it.”

“Wild.”

“We're not talking about that.”

“We're not?”

“No. We're talking about my trip to southern France, remember?”

“Yeah, right. To Albuquerque.”

“Albi.”

“Albi. Right. Hey, when'm I gonna get to see little old little Jeanette again? Huh?”

“Forget about that now. Listen, while I'm away, I'd like to leave my manuscript with you. Okay?”

“Sure. But, hey, where're you goin'?”

Poor Sharkey. His short-term memory had shrunk to the last three words he managed to hear. I decided to give up on everything beyond saying goodbye, but even that was a struggle. “I'll be in touch with you when I get back,” I told him. “In about four or five weeks. I'll have quite a story to tell you, old man. It looks as if you were right about everything.”

“No kidding? Well, congratulations to me.”

Hopeless.

I was relieved when, in the week before I left, Angelotti asked if he might see my Max Castle manuscript while I was away. “Of course,” I told him. “Fact is, I'd appreciate leaving it in sympathetic hands … just in case.”