Дональд Уэстлейк - Brothers Keepers

“Because of the building they intend to put up.” Brother Dexter did some crisp but unintelligible things with his hands on the tabletop, the while saying, “If they were to buy the land on either side of this monastery, for instance, but then didn’t buy the monastery, they wouldn’t be able to put up one large office building spreading over all their land.”

“I don’t like large office buildings anyway,” Brother Oliver said.

“Nobody likes them,” Brother Dexter said, “but they do intend to build one, and unfortunately we are on part of the land they intend to use.”

Usually I preferred to keep my own two cents’ worth out of these discussions, but an issue had been raised a minute ago and I wanted to explore it a little further, so I said, “Brother Dexter, are you saying that if they don’t get options on every piece of land the deal is off? They won’t buy the monastery after all, and they won’t put up their office building?”

The light of hope shone in several faces around the table, but not for long. Smiling sadly at me and shaking his head, Brother Dexter said, “I’m afraid it’s too late, Brother Benedict. They already have all the options they need. They don’t intend to close before January, but unless something unforeseen happens there’s no chance that the deal won’t go through.” Turning back to Brother Oliver, he said, “Now you see why I said not exactly when you asked me if the Flatterys still owned the land. In a sense, they do, but the Dimp people have taken an option and will complete the purchase in January.”

“I understand enough of it now,” Brother Oliver said, “to know there’s little comfort in it. The more I understand, in fact, the more depressing it becomes. It might be best not to explain anything to me from now on.”

“There are a few thin rays of sunshine,” Brother Dexter said. “When I told the Dimp man, Snopes, that Brother Benedict here was in communication with Ada Louise Huxtable, he assured—”

“Brother Dexter !” I said. I was truly shocked.

Brother Dexter gave me the crystal-clear glance of the true sophist and said, “You do read her column, don’t you? You’ve written to her, haven’t you? If that isn’t being in communication I’d like to know what is.”

Patting the table impatiently, Brother Clemence said, “We’ll leave that to you and Father Banzolini to work out, Brother Dexter. What did this Dimp person assure you, after you’d name-dropped at him?”

“That the Dwarfmann organization,” Brother Dexter said, “would make every effort to help us find satisfactory new quarters, and would also help to allay the expense of our moving.”

“Sunshine?” Brother Oliver’s voice was nearly a squeak. “You call that a ray of sunshine ? How can there be satisfactory new quarters? If the quarters are new, they won’t be satisfactory! Look around you, look around just simply this one room — where on the face of God’s Earth would we find its counterpart?”

“Nowhere,” Brother Dexter said promptly.

Brother Hilarius said, “And you forget the question of Travel. The process of Moving, the permanent relocation of not only one’s self but also all of one’s possessions from point A to point B, is the profoundest form of Travel.”

“It’s just impossible,” Brother Oliver said. “The more one thinks about it, the more one sees we simply can’t leave this monastery.”

Brother Hilarius said, “But if they tear it down?”

“They must not, that’s all there is to it.” Brother Oliver had clearly brought himself back from the edge of despair and helplessness, and had determined to fight back. “Through the forest of your not exactlys ,” he said to Brother Dexter, “I seem to discern one tree. The land is promised to Dwarfmann or Dimp or whatever those tools of Satan call themselves, but until January first the owner of the land is Daniel Flattery.”

“Technically,” Brother Dexter said, “yes.”

“Technically is good enough for me,” Brother Oliver said. “Tonight I will continue to look for that missing lease, though I can’t think what corners there are left to search in, and tomorrow I shall Travel.”

We all looked at him. Brother Hilarius said, “Travel? You, Brother?”

“To Long Island,” Brother Oliver said. “To the Flattery estate. Daniel Flattery was embarrassed to tell me the truth on the telephone. In person, perhaps I can turn that embarrassment to honest shame and put an end to this sale.”

Brother Clemence said, “If there’s already a signed option agreement, I don’t see what we can do.”

“I know very little about rich men,” Brother Oliver said, “but one of the few things I believe about them is that they became rich by knowing how to renege on their promises. If Daniel Flattery wants to void that option agreement, he’ll void it.”

Smiling slightly, Brother Clemence said, “Remembering my days on the Street, Brother Oliver, I must say I think you have something there.”

Brother Dexter said, “Would you want us to go with you? You wouldn’t want to Travel alone.”

“I would prefer a companion,” Brother Oliver admitted, but then he looked around doubtfully and said, “But if I were to arrive with an ex-banker or an ex-lawyer we might very well degrade ourselves to a business level, when the effect I intend to strive for is one of good strong Catholic guilt.” He mused aloud, saying, “On the other hand, we five are the only ones in the monastery who know about this, and I still don’t want to alarm the others.” His eye lit on me. “Ah,” he said.

Travel. The world is insane, it really is. I’d forgotten, during my ten years inside our monastery walls, just how lunatic they all are out there, and my weekly stroll to the Lexington Avenue newsstand had not been exposure enough to remind me. I had come to think of the world as colorful, exciting, variegated and even dangerous, but I had forgotten about the craziness.

Brother Oliver and I, our cowls up protectively about our heads, left the monastery at eight-fifteen Thursday morning, after Mass and breakfast and morning prayer, and turned our faces south. And the city struck us head on, with noise and color and motion and confusion beyond description. Large ramshackle delivery trucks rounded corners continuously, always too fast, always jouncing a rear tire against the curb, always changing gears with terrifying clash-grind-snarls in the middle of the operation. Taxis, all of them as yellow and speedy as a school of demented fish, were incessantly either honking their horns or squealing their brakes, the meantime jockeying for position like children hoping for the largest piece of birthday cake. Pedestrians of all sizes and shapes and sexes (including the dubious), but of one uniform facial expression — scowling urgency — elbowed along the sidewalks and raced in front of speeding cabs and shook their fists at any driver who had the temerity to sound his horn.

Why was everybody Traveling so much? Where was the need? Was it even remotely possible that so very many people had just discovered they were in the wrong place? What if everyone in the world were to call up everyone else in the world some morning and say, “Look, instead of you coming here and me going there why don’t I stay here and you stay there,” wouldn’t that be saner? Not to speak of quieter.

Like babes in a boiler factory, Brother Oliver and I huddled close to one another as we set off, Traveling south along Park Avenue. Scrupulously we obeyed the intersection signs that alternately said WALK and DON’T WALK, though no one else did. Slowly we made progress.