Gore Vidal - Messiah

I nodded. Even in Egypt I had heard of massacres and persecutions. I could still recall the morning when I opened the Cairo paper and saw a large photograph of St Peter's Cathedral smoldering in its ruins, a fitting tomb for the last Pope and martyr who had perished there when a mob of Cavites had fired the Vatican. The Cairo paper took an obvious delight in these barbarities and I had not the heart to read of the wanton destruction of Michelangelo's and Bernini's works, the looting of the art galleries, the bonfire which was made in the Papal gardens of the entire Vatican library. Later, word came of a certain assistant-Resident of Topeka who, with a group of demolition experts and Cavite enthusiasts, ranged across France and Italy destroying the cathedrals with the approval of the local governments, and to the cheers of Cavite crowds who gathered in great numbers to watch, delightedly, the crumbling of these last monuments to superstition. Fortunately, the tourist bureaus were able to save a few of the lesser churches.

"The edict of Washington which outlawed idolatrous schools did the trick. The Atlantic government has always believed in toleration: even to this day it is possible for a man to be a Christian, though unlikely since the truth is so well known."

"But he has no churches left and no clergy."

"True, and if that discourages him he's not likely to remain too long in error. As I've told you, though, we have our ways of making people see the truth."

"The calculable percentage."

"Exactly."

I looked at Osiris in the green shade. His diorite face smiled secretly back at me. "Did you have much trouble in the Latin countries?"

"Less than you might think. The ignorant were the big problem because, since they didn't know English, we weren't able to use the telecasts. Fortunately, we had some able Residents and after a little showmanship, a few miracles (or what they took to be miracles) they came around, especially when many of their ex-priests told them about Cavesword. Nearly all of the older Residents in the Mediterranean countries were once Catholic priests."

"Renegades?"

"They saw the truth; not without some indoctrination, I suspect. We've had to adapt a good many of our procedural methods to fit local customs. The old Christmas has become Cavesday and what was Easter is now Irisday."

"Iris Mortimer?"

"Of course; who else? And then certain festivals which…"

"I suppose she's dead now."

"Why, yes. She died six years ago. She was the last of the original five."

"Ah, yes, the five: Paul Himmell, Iris Mortimer, Ivan Stokharin, Clarissa Lessing and…"

"And Edward Hastings. We still use his introduction even though it's been largely obsoleted by later texts. His dialogues will of course be the basis for that final book of Cave which our best scholars have been at work on for over twenty years."

Hastings, of all people! I nearly laughed aloud. Poor feckless Hastings was now the author of my dialogues with Cave: I marveled at the ease with which the innumerable references to myself had been deleted. I began to doubt of my own existence. I asked if Hastings were still alive and was told that he too was long dead.

I then asked again about Iris.

"Some very exciting things have come to light," said Butler. "Certain historians at the Dallas Center feel that there is some proof that she was Cave's sister."

I was startled by this. "How could that be? Wasn't she from Detroit? and wasn't he from Seattle? and didn't they meet for the first time in southern California at the beginning of his mission?"

"I see you know more Cavite history than you pretend," said Butler amiably. "That of course has been the traditional point of view. Yet as her influence increased in the world (in Italy, you know, one sees her picture nearly as often as Cave's) our historians became suspicious. It was all perfectly simple, really: if she could exert nearly the same power as Cave himself then she must, in some way, be related to him. I suppose you know about the Miami business. No? Well, their Resident, some years ago, openly promulgated the theory that Cave and Iris Mortimer were man and wife. A great many people believed him and though the Chief Resident at Dallas issued a statement denying the truth of all this, Miami continued in error and it took our indoctrination team several years to get the situation back to normal. But the whole business did get everyone to thinking and, with the concurrence of Dallas himself, investigations have been made. I don't know many of the details but my colleague probably will. He keeps track of that kind of thing."

"If she is proven to be Cave's sister will she have equal rank with him?"

"Certainly not. Cavesword is everything; but she will be equal to him on the human level though his inferior in truth: at least that appears to be the Dallas interpretation."

"She was very active, I suppose?"

"Right until the end. She traveled all over the world with Cavesword and, when she grew too old to travel, she took over the Residency of New York City which she held until she died. As a matter of fact, I have a picture of her which I always carry. It was taken in the last years." He pulled out a steel-mesh wallet in which, protected by cellophane, was a photograph of Iris: the first I had seen in many many years. My hand shook as I held the picture up to the light.

For a split second I felt her presence, saw in the saddened face, framed by white hair, my summer love which had never been except in my own dreaming where I was whole and loved this creature whose luminous eyes had not altered with age, their expression the same as that night beside the western sea… but then my fingers froze; the wallet fell to the ground; I fainted into what I supposed with my last vestiges of consciousness to be death, to be nothing.

I awakened in my own bed with my old friend Doctor Hussein beside me. He looked much concerned while, at the foot of the bed, stood Butler, very solemn and still. I resolved not to die with him in the room.

"My apologies, Mr Butler," I said, surprised that I could speak at all. "I'm afraid I dropped your picture." I had no difficulty in remembering what had happened. It was as if I had suddenly shut my eyes and opened them again, several hours having passed instead of as many seconds. Time, I decided, was all nonsense.

"Think nothing of it; I'm only…"

"You must not strain yourself, Mr Hudson," said the doctor: a touch of sun, a few days in bed, plenty of liquids, a pill or two, and I was left alone with a buzzer beside my bed which would summon the houseboy if I should have a coherent moment before taking a last turn for the worse. The next time, I think, will be the final one and though I detest the thought, these little rehearsals over the last few years, the brief strokes, the sudden flooding of parts of the brain with the blood of capillaries in preparation for that last arterial deluge, have got me used to the idea. My only complaint is that odd things are done to my memory by these strokes which, light as they have been, tend to alter parts of the brain, those parts which hold the secrets of the past. I have found this week, while convalescing from Tuesday's collapse, that most of my childhood has been washed clean out of my memory. I knew of course that I was born on the banks of the Hudson but I cannot for the life of me recall what schools I attended; yet my memories from my college days on seem unimpaired though I have had to reread this memoir attentively to resume my train of thought, to refresh a dying memory. It is strange indeed to have lost some twenty years as though they'd never been and, worse still, to be unable to find out about oneself in any case, since the will of others has effectively abolished one. I do not exist to the world and very soon (how soon I wonder?), I shall not exist even to myself, only this record a fragile proof that I once lived.