William Kienzle - Masquerade

The preludial white wine gave way to a fine red with the meat. Coffee was served, and a bottle of cognac placed on the table.

Krieg lit a cigar and contentedly exhaled a thick cloud of aromatic smoke. As far as Benbow was able to tell, Krieg smoked cigars at every opportunity except when someone present would be offended. Although he was not a smoker, David enjoyed the aroma of both pipe and cigar. Krieg apparently knew that. Not once did he ask David; somehow he knew.

Krieg seemed to examine the cigar as he spoke. “Have you enjoyed the weekend?”

David smiled. “That has to be a rhetorical question.”

Krieg returned the smile. “Good, good. I was hoping it would be restful. It pays to get away from the grind from time to time.”

“How about yourself, Klaus?” They had been on a first-name basis from the moment David arrived. He knew some referred to Krieg as “Blitz” but this privilege of so addressing him had not been extended.

“Me?”

“Yes, there’s no sign that you ever take a break.”

“This. .” Krieg’s expansive gesture seemed to encompass the entire P.G. kingdom, “. . this is my vacation. It’s all I wanted. All I ever aimed for.”

If this is the whole ball of wax, David thought; if this is everything you want, why have you been bugging me to work for you? But, to remain the gracious visitor, he said only, “Well, it does seem to have just about everything a man could want.” He drained his coffee cup.

“More?” Krieg leaned toward the coffee pot.

“No, that’s plenty. What a marvelous dinner!”

“Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?” Without asking, Krieg filled the bottom curve of two snifters with cognac and offered one to Benbow. “Come. .”Krieg stood. “Let’s go to the gallery.”

Taking their glasses with them, the two moved out onto an arcaded balcony three stories above the grounds. P.G. Enterprises was built on elevated terrain. From this vantage, they could easily view the countryside. The evening lights of Mission Viejo, largely residential, were beginning to go on.

It was a cool, pleasant evening; the view was tranquil, a perfect dinner was being serenely digested; the cognac generated an agreeable burning sensation in his throat. “God’s in His heaven; all’s right with the world,” came to mind. But somehow, God seemed to have very little to do with any of this. Strange; the place was named for Him. P.G.: Praise God. Ostensibly, God’s work was being done here. The two standing on this balcony were men of God. But there was no denying David’s conviction that God was at best a secondary figure in P.G. Enterprises.

After a prolonged silence, Krieg spoke. “It’s not the panorama of Chicago-your country-or for that matter the hills of San Francisco, or the skyline of New York, but it is restful, peaceful. . don’t you think?”

Benbow nodded wordlessly.

“You know, David,” Krieg went on, “there is one thing that hasn’t been mentioned once during your stay here.”

Benbow very well knew what had been missing: the point of it all-his signing a contract to write for P.G. Press. However, he kept silent.

“This is a beautiful site,” Krieg went on, “in a beautiful corner of the world, where the weather is always beautiful. Don’t you feel it, David? Isn’t this a bit of heaven on earth?”

Benbow gave this a few moments’ thought, then said, “I’d have to agree: It’s all you say it is.”

“Then you can understand why we want to share it with everyone we can. It’s like wanting every human soul to be admitted to the eternal presence of God in that heavenly land where there are many mansions.”

Benbow recognized the familiar tone that he’d heard so often while watching the messianic presence of the Reverend Klaus Krieg on television. Does he turn himself on, David wondered. Is it a self-fulfilling wish? “Wait a minute, Klaus. I thought we were only indulging in figures of speech. This place may be ‘a bit of heaven on earth’ metaphorically, but it’s not literally heaven. We’ve got to go some before we get there. And I’m confident that the real heaven will be beyond the wildest dreams of even P.G. Enterprises.”

Krieg guffawed. “Of course, David. . of course. You gotta pardon an old war-horse who’s never quite left tent revival meetings behind him. Bit of an exaggeration there, I’m afraid.

“But seriously, you know, if you were to become a member of the team, so to speak, this would be a second home to you. We’d put it right in the contract.” His expansive gesture included everything within the horizon, the greensward, the sky, Mission Viejo with its twinkling fairytale lights and superb climate. “All of this, David-all of this would be yours.” Pause. “Praise God!”

Krieg’s words struck a resounding chord in Benbow’s memory. Didn’t he know, David wondered; wasn’t he aware of what he’d just said? It was right out of the Synoptic Gospels. The classic scene of the devil tempting Jesus. David had used the text so often he knew it verbatim: “Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; and saith unto him, ‘All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.’”

The parallel was so striking, at least to David, that he thought it incredible that it might not have occurred to Krieg. Krieg promising him all of Mission Viejo and a slice of P.G. Enterprises if David would fall off his high horse and sign the blasted contract. He felt like borrowing the words of Scripture: “Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, ‘Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.’”

Benbow regarded Krieg intently. Apparently, he was oblivious to the similarity of his statement to that famous passage of the Gospel. Still, David harbored doubts. Krieg, after all, was a preacher. Who should be more familiar with Scripture? Did he have some sort of defense mechanism that blocked any comparison between him and Satan? David thought the latter supposition more probable.

Neither of them had spoken for nearly five minutes. While David pondered this singular proposition, Krieg appeared simply to be enjoying the evening: the food, the drink, the weather; the comfort and security of his P.G. empire.

“Well?” Krieg said at length.

David responded with a wordless, quizzical look.

“See here, David,” Krieg said, “P.G. Press has been romancin’ you for quite a spell now. You had to know that’s what this weekend was all about. We want you. I want you. When you gonna sign that contract?”

David’s quizzical look turned to one of wonderment. “But Klaus, I’ve given you my answer-many times more than once.”

“You haven’t given the right answer yet.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”

“You got somethin’ against money, wealth?”

“Of course not, Klaus. I’m a priest. I know what it is to stretch a meager salary. But we’re doing all right now, between Martha’s income and my salary. . and, of course, the books.”

“You could make more with me, a lot more.”

“Maybe”-a noticeably more resolute tone crept in-“maybe not. Maybe I would not be able to deliver what you would demand of me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Advice from a friend.”

“Sales reps don’t know everything there is to know about the publishing business. They’re just out there beatin’ the pavement and talkin’ to bookstore owners and the chains.”

“How did you-?” David didn’t complete the question. He wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t been so startled: How did Krieg know the advice came from a sales representative in his parish?