William Kienzle - Masquerade

“Yes,” a hitherto silent student cut in. “Even if we want to communicate some sort of religious message or truth, we want to reach the maximum number of people. P.G. Press does that. I don’t think you’d deny that, Rabbi.”

Winer sighed deeply. “No, my dear young woman, no one could deny that some of the writers under contract to P.G. sell a lot of books-many more than any of the writers on this panel. Some of them appear more regularly on various so-called best-seller lists. What sort of effect they have on the reader is a question we must address in greater depth. Obviously, we have much to discuss in the coming days. It should make for an interesting conference.”

Sister Janet glanced at Krieg to see if he wished to add anything at this time. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. The beatific plastic smile had returned. No one else on the panel seemed inclined to further comment. Nor were any more hands raised in the audience.

Sister Janet thanked-with relief-everyone, and declared the session concluded.

She then noted that although the schedule called for a movie to be shown after dinner that evening, the name of the film hadn’t been listed.

“Well,” she said, “I think we have a treat for you, especially in light of the nature of this workshop. We have the 1954 British movie, Father Brown. This film stars Alec Guinness as G. K. Chesterton’s very perceptive priest-detective, and Peter Finch as the thief, Flambeau. It also features Joan Greenwood. I think you will all enjoy it very much.”

Judging from the smiles of most everyone in the room, Sister was guilty of understatement.

Koesler was pleased. He had seen the movie, but so very long ago he could scarcely remember it. Mostly he recalled having enjoyed it greatly.

He had read-or thought he had-all of Chesterton’s stories about the adventures of Father Brown. They surely were among the most popular works of the great writer. Yet Chesterton himself had considered them merely avocational. An indication of how lightly he regarded the series was his treatment of the characters. In the first of the series, Flambeau was the villain. But Chesterton liked the character so much that in the sequel he brought Flambeau back as an ally of Father Brown.

Koesler was grateful to anticipate the movie. He was not all that keen about the prospects for dinner.

On the one hand, he was very hungry. On the other hand, his appetite diminished markedly when he considered partaking of nourishment with his fellow “faculty” members. The relationship between the writers and the publisher was akin to that of an impending tribal war. Scalps would be taken.

He had never before been on a panel quite like this. Of course he had experienced times when panelists disagreed with each other. That was to be expected, at least occasionally. The unique character of the present panel was that it had been preprogrammed as hopelessly irreconcilable.

And who was to blame? Regan, the absent host? In a way. He should have rejected Krieg’s preconditions, even if it meant starting from scratch in setting up the workshop.

And yet, in the end, all roads led back to Krieg. He was the linchpin around whom this conference was built. The underlying question was why he had insisted on the presence of these specific writers.

So far it was evident that Krieg wanted these writers in his stable. It was also evident he had failed to corral them, at least up to the present. Was this a last-ditch effort? Did he think that a face-to-face meeting would convince them to join him?

If so, that would contribute to the explanation of his response to those questions this afternoon. Was he trying to convince the writers that they were missing a very desirable larger readership by not signing with P.G. Press? If that was the case, thought Koesler, he had failed completely. Would there be still more overtures? Probably.

While he could make some sort of sense of Krieg’s behavior in light of what he appeared to be trying to accomplish, the question that more deeply stumped Koesler was the unexpected intensity of hostility the writers exhibited toward Krieg.

So, all right, each of them had been courted by Krieg to sign with him. If anything, Koesler thought, the normal response to such an overture would be to feel flattered. However, after further thought and some helpful advice, each of them learns more about the intricacies of publishing and feels that he or she would be entrapped and, in a sense, enslaved within P.G. Press. At which point, they would be forced either to prostitute their talent or expend a lot of time and money getting out of the contract.

So each of the writers decides against signing with P.G. What’s the big deal in that, Koesler wondered. Every day, millions of people routinely refuse invitations to join book clubs, accept another credit card, subscribe to an insurance policy, and so on, ad infinitum.

In like manner, the writers refuse Krieg’s offer. Why does this upset them so? Each of these writers is a religious person. Each of them is a traditionally civil person. Why should they react so uncivilly to Krieg?

On second thought, Koesler recalled the hurtful words flung at David Benbow by Augustine in the sacristy this morning. Not all the writers were paragons of civility.

Koesler had assumed that each of the writers was a kindly and understanding soul. Augustine had proved him in error. Could any of the others be masking a nasty disposition under the veneer of a religious title and/or habit?

The answers to these questions would possibly be revealed in time, Koesler concluded, as long as he remained alert, curious, receptive, attentive, thoughtful, and sober.

In keeping with that final condition, he declined Sister Janet’s offer of a predinner cocktail. In this abstemious decision he was alone. From Sister Marie’s innocuous white wine to Father Augustine’s potent Scotch-on-the-rocks, the others seemed to feel they either needed or deserved a drink. And after this afternoon’s session, Koesler thought they might very well need one.

Sipping at his tonic water and lime, Koesler studied the liquor tray. Same as yesterday, a meager selection of pedestrian brands.

He smiled when Rabbi Winer tried the cabinet door, behind which were ensconced Krieg’s far more pricey labels, and found it locked.

Winer shrugged and, when he found the others observing what he’d done, he grinned self-consciously, half embarrassed, half amused. “The Reverend runs a tight ship,” he commented. It was clear that Winer would use Krieg’s religious title only sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” Sister Janet said. “We have a very limited budget. There is an extra key to that cabinet hanging in the pantry”-she pointed-“just through that door. The liquor does belong to Reverend Krieg, but I’m sure. .”

Winer had not intended to disparage the liquor supplied by the college. “Please, Sister,” he hastily interrupted, “I intended no commentary on what you’ve offered. It’s fine. As much as anything, I was interested in whether he’d had the cabinet locked.”

“It was,” Sister Janet began to explain, “part of the arrangement Reverend Krieg had with. .”

“. . with Mr. Regan. We know,” Benbow said.

“Strange,” Sister Marie said, “for a. person who hasn’t been here for months to have such an impact on what we’re doing.”

“I guess Regan was the straight man in this scenario,” Benbow said. “The one with all the punch lines is Krieg.” He took the empty glass from his wife. “Here, dear, let me freshen this for you.” He dropped a small ice cube in both his and his wife’s empty glasses, nearly filled each glass with Mohawk Gin, then added vermouth as if he were using an eyedropper.