Gene Wolfe - The Land Across

“Oh, no! No one knows where you are, and certainly I did not.” He paused for a second to let me chew on that. “I came because His Excellency the Archbishop wishes to speak with me.”

I wanted to ask him about Kleon and Martya then, but I did not dare to.

Naala rescued me for the time being. “This is most interesting, and I hope to persuade you to tell us about it. I have seen His Excellency in the cathedral a score of times, it might be. Still I have never spoken to him. My Amerikan friend has never spoken to him either, of that I feel most sure. You must drink more coffee now—and eat something, too, if you wish it—and tell us of this. What is he like in private? What is it he says to you? There is trouble at your church in Puraustays?”

“No, none at all.” Papa Zenon looked deadly serious for a change. “I have written a book. It is a great mistake, I find, to write a book, because everyone looks upon you as an expert.”

Still sweating bullets I said, “I know what you mean.”

“As for His Excellency, it is far beyond my modest skill to capture his personality in mere words. He is a venerable priest, enfeebled in body though not in mind, a man of great kindness and great penetration.” Papa Zenon sighed. “A man who guards his tongue, and has a tongue to be feared. I am happy to say that I have escaped it thus far. But only thus far.”

“I am not one who pries.” Naala held her hand to her chest and did her best to look innocent. “If I pry now, you will tell me, I hope. Yet thousands must know. What is it, this book you have written? I might like to read. Has the library copies?”

Papa Zenon nodded. “I believe it does. I must look. There is a store below the cathedral. You will know it, I am sure. Crucifixes and icons, also religious books. We priests may write books, you understand.”

She nodded. “With the approval of the State, yes.”

“Of course. The archbishop must approve as well. This means he reads all the books we write while he sits on the throne. Mine, for example. May I for a moment boast? He congratulated me upon it.”

Naala signaled to the waiter that he was to bring Papa Zenon something.

“Its title is A Manual of Exorcism for Those in Holy Orders. May I explain?”

I said, “Yeah, I wish you would.”

“You must know that although small parishes have only a single priest, the pastor, larger ones have a pastor and an assistant, or several assistants. In your country it is different, perhaps. But in ours every pastor must appoint an exorcist. A pastor who has several assistants, as I do, appoints one of them in most cases. He may hold the office himself, however, if he chooses.”

The waiter brought more coffee, with a clean cup for Papa Zenon and a little plate of kolacky .

“I had been appointed exorcist while I was an assistant and had performed exorcisms, some successful, others less so. When I myself became a pastor, I quizzed my assistants on the subject. None knew anything beyond what is taught at the seminary. What seminarians learn concerning exorcism is quite perfunctory, I am sorry to say, and these scarcely knew that.” He sipped.

“In any event, I decided to retain the post myself. Since that time I have gained a certain fame, at least in Puraustays. Other exorcists visit me for advice and so on. As I have indicated, I decided to write a book. It was the labor of four years, but I am vain enough to believe that it contains much of value and some things of value that are not to be found elsewhere.”

“This is a large city,” Naala remarked.

“It is, and there must be many possessions here, fifty or sixty a year, I would imagine. Possibly His Excellency wishes me to treat such a case.” Papa Zenon picked up one of the little cakes, examined it, and returned it to the plate. “That is entirely possible, although he has not said so.”

I asked, “What does he say?”

Papa Zenon shook his head. “You can scarcely expect me to make His Excellency’s confidences a part of my table talk, my son.”

When he had gone, Naala asked, “Why did he come to you, and why did he join us so readily?”

I quoted, “‘I don’t trust that conductor. Why is he so short?’”

“And you mean by that…?”

“Nothing. It’s from a cartoon I watched one time, that’s all. Papa Zenon’s pretty short, and it popped into my head.”

“Those cakes.” Naala pointed to them. “Why did the waiter bring them?”

“Beats me. Maybe he was just being hospitable.”

“No. This priest of yours enters this café and does not look at the menu. He orders. It is not much, because he talks little to the waiter. Soon he sees you, and at once comes to our table. The waiter sees him there when I point to him. He brings more coffee and the little cakes, because the priest has ordered them.”

I said, “Maybe.”

“Not it may be. It is. Those things are so. The priest picks up a little cake, but his stomach is now tight. He does not eat. I, too, know this tightness of the stomach. When I see it in others, I know what it is I see.”

“Maybe he’s worried about me.”

“He is worried by you. Possibly me, also, but mostly by you. So it appeared. He talks to you without result. Then he is more worried. He leaves, fearing we may see his concern. He makes the funeral for you? He blesses the burial? So he said.”

I nodded.

“Who is buried? A relative? A friend?”

“Just a body.” I told her about the Willows. “We didn’t want to put it back behind that mirror, and Martya thought it would be less likely to bother us if a priest buried it.”

Naala looked thoughtful. “You did not see her in the mirror, you say. It is this girl.”

“Yes, it was. I never saw it until I took down the mirror.”

“Then it is this Martya the priest should fear, no? She has the second sight. Is she here, in this city?”

I shook my head. “She’s still back in Puraustays, as far as I know.”

“She is your cousin? Says she is?”

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“In a bar you met her?”

“No, but we went to some clubs together afterward. We’d wait until Kleon—that’s her husband—was asleep, then go to a club and dance for an hour or so.” I stopped, thinking how weird it must have sounded to Naala. “I was his prisoner, or supposed to be.”

She chuckled. “This they do in the provinces. With what were you charged?”

“I don’t know. They never told me.”

“The charges have been dropped? You have left this Kleon’s house before you are taken?”

I tried to explain.

“If what you say is so, he has been shot. Your Martya is now become a widow lady.” Naala laughed. “She is good for you between the sheets? You liked her?”

I shrugged. “She was okay.”

“You think I do not understand your English word, but I do. It is as I say. Your Martya has come here to look for you. So it seems. The priest has seen her here. This I also believe. Should we let her find you?”

I said, “I don’t know.”

“No more do I. How old do you think me?”

I made the best guess I could, then knocked off ten years. “About twenty-seven.”

She smiled. “Never again, and this you know. There are things I can show, and I will. Martya I cannot show. Not yet. But we will find her.” She waved the waiter over and asked for more coffee.

When he had gone, I said, “Aren’t we about finished here?”

“Where will we go if we leave as you wish?”

I shrugged. “Up to you.”

“So. We leave, then stand in the street discussing where we go. To the art museum, I say. You say to the concert. A passerby stops to say the zoo. I shake my head, fearing the keepers there will never let you leave.” Naala laughed. “Let us discuss here instead. They will not force us to go, I have not paid our bill. Let us rationally consider what it is we do. You knew Rathaus in Puraustays?”