Gore Vidal - Messiah

"What…" I began; he was only too eager to explain the what and the why.

"And so," he ended, breathlessly, "the Star has authorized me to advance you not only that money but expenses, too, for an exclusive feature on Cave and the Cavites."

"I wish," I said, very gentle in the presence of such enthusiasm, "that you would go away. It's five in the morning…"

"You're our only hope," the boy wailed. "Every paper and news service has been trying to get past the gate out on Long Island for three weeks and failed. They couldn't even shoot him at long range."

"Shoot him."

"Get a picture. Now please…"

"Paul Himmell is your man. He's authorized to speak for Cave. He has an office in the Empire State Building and he keeps respectable hours; so why don't you…"

"We haven't been able to get even a release out of him for three days now. It's censorship, that's what it is."

I had to smile. "We're not the government. Cave is a private citizen and this is a private organization. If we choose not to give interviews you have no right to pester us."

"Oh, come off it." The young man was at an age where the needs of ambition were often less strong than the desire for true expression; for a moment he forgot that he needed my forbearance and I liked him better. "This is the biggest news that's hit town since the war. You guys have got the whole country asking questions and the big one is: who is Cave?"

"There'll be an announcement today, I think, about the company. As for Cave, I suggest you read a little book called 'An Introduction to…'"

"Of course I've read it. That's why I'm here. Now, please, Mr Luther, give me an exclusive even if you won't take the Star's generous offer. At least tell me something I can use."

I sat down heavily; a bit of coffee splattered from cup to saucer to the back of my hand: it dried stickily. I felt worn-out already, the day only just begun. "What do you want me to tell you? What would you most like to hear? What do you expect me to say since, being a good journalist, that is what you'll write no matter what I tell you?"

"Oh, that's not true. I want to know what Cave's all about as a person, as a teacher."

"Well, what do you think he's up to?"

"Me? Why… I don't know. I never heard him on the air until last night. It was strong stuff."

"Were you convinced?"

"In a way, yes. He said a lot of things I agreed with but I was a little surprised at his going after the churches. Not that I like anything about them, but still it's some stunt to get up and talk like that in front of millions of people. I mean you just don't say those things any more, even if you do think them… can't offend minorities; that's what we learn first in journalism school."

"There's part of your answer then: Cave is a man who, unlike others, says what he thinks is true even if it makes him unpopular. There's some virtue in that."

"I guess he can afford to in his position," said the boy vaguely. "You know we got Bishop Winston to answer him for the Star . Signed him last night after Cave went off the air. I'm sure he'll do a good job. Now…"

We wrestled across the room; since I was the stronger, I won my privacy though muffled threats of exposure were hurled at me from behind the now-bolted door.

Acting on an impulse, I left the apartment as soon as I was sure my recent visitor had gone. I was afraid that others would try to find me if I stayed home; fears which were justified: according to the elevator man, he had turned away several men already. The one who did get through had come up the fire escape.

I walked quickly out into the quiet street, the snow now gone to slush as dingy as the morning sky. Fortunately, the day was neither windy nor cold and I walked to a Times Square automat for an early breakfast.

I was reassured by anonymity. All around me sleepy men and women clutching newspapers, briefcases and lunch pails sat sullenly chewing their breakfast, sleep not yet departed. I bought a roll, more coffee, hominy grits which I detested in the North but occasionally tried in the hope that, by accident, I might stumble upon the real thing. These were not the real thing and I left them untouched while I read my paper.

Cave was on the front page. Not prominent, but still he was there. The now-standard photograph looked darkly from the page. The headline announced that: "Prophet Flays Churches as Millions Listen." There followed a paraphrase of the telecast which began with those fateful and soon to be famous words: "Our quarrel is not with Christ but with his keepers." I wondered, as I read, if anyone had ever taken one of the telecasts down in shorthand and made a transcript of it. I, for one, should have been curious to see in cold print one of those sermons. Cave himself knew that without his presence they would not stand up and, consequently, he allowed none of them to be transcribed; the result was that whenever there was a report of one of his talks it was, necessarily, paraphrased which gave a curious protean flavor to his doctrine, since the recorded style was never consistent, changing always with each paraphraser just as the original meaning was invariably altered by each separate listener as he adapted the incantation to his private needs.

A fat yellow-faced woman sat down with a groan beside me and began to ravish a plate of assorted cakes. Her jaws grinding, the only visible sign of life, for her eyes were glazed from sleep and her body, incorrectly buttoned into a cigarette-ash-dusted dress, was as still as a mountain, even the work of lungs was obscured by the torpid flesh.

I watched her above the newspaper, fascinated by the regularity with which her jaws ground the bits of cake. Her eyes looked past me into some invisible world of pastry. Then, having finished the report on Cave's telecast, I put the newspaper down and ate with deliberate finesse my own biscuit. The rustling of the newspaper as it was folded and placed on the table disturbed my companion and, beneath the fat, her will slowly sent out instructions to the extremities. She cleared her throat. Her head lowered. Her chewing stopped; a bit of cake was temporarily lodged in one cheek, held firmly in place by a gaudy plate. Her eyes squinted at the newspaper. She spoke: "Something about that preacher fellow last night?"

"Yes. Would you like to see it?" I pushed the paper toward her.

She looked at the picture, carefully spelling out the words of the headlines with heavy lips and deep irregular breaths.

"Did you see him last night?" she asked when her eye finally got to the small print where it stopped, as though halted by a dense jungle.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I did."

"He sure gave it to them bastards, didn't he?" Her face lit up joyously; I thought of ça ira .

"You mean the clergy?"

"That's just what I mean. They had it too good, too long. People afraid to say anything. Takes somebody like him to tell us what we know and tell them where to head-in."

"Do you like what he said about dying?"

"About there being nothing? Why, hell, mister, I knew it all along."

"But it's good to hear someone else say it?"

"Don't do no harm." She belched softly. "I expect they're going to be on his tail," she added with gloomy pleasure, spearing a fragment of eclair which she had missed on her first circuit of her crowded dish.

I spent that morning in the street buying newspapers, eavesdropping. I heard several arguments about Cave: the religiously orthodox were outraged but clearly interested; the others were triumphant though all seemed to feel that they , as the automat woman had said, would soon be on his tail. Ours was no longer a country where the nonconformist could escape disaster if he unwisely showed a strange face to the multitude.