The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 52

risk the drink, try endurance. Israel must have intuited this, yet he could not make himself accept sorrow as a meaningful theme. Lost in darkness, he denied the darkness. This might explain his frustration and rage with Grandfather, who could seem the sponsor of the very darkness Grandfather warned against. This might explain more completely Israel’s rage at Grandfather—he must have thought it appalling that Grandfather could seem to be winning me to his way of seeing. Israel must have thought he had to show me, had to show himself, that he was right to believe in laughter and that Grandfather was wrong to sing woe.

That was why I followed Israel so close behind in the gangway. He was murderously determined to disprove, to undo, Grandfather. We missed a turn, another, were some few minutes finding our way. We finally had to follow the sound of Grandfather’s voice.

There was laughter. I opened the cabin door to duck into an austere, shadowy tableau, half a dozen men in sooty robes seated about a bare table, among them Grandfather, his back to me, his hands spread before him as if he were gesturing in conversation. The light was from a cluster of candles. The smell was incense, barely covering the stench from below. Grandfather continued to speak right at a man who was not as old, nor as hairless, nor as thin, nor as agonized as I had thought he would be. Father Saint Stephen seemed, in his soft piety, to be a fair and suggestively anonymous version of the sort of priest the Roman Catholic Church, in my readings, favored as voice and authority. However, he was not an ordinary religionist. Indeed, I can make the good guess now that he was an Englishman—his manner, his accent, his contrived passion. He was certainly not an opposite to Grandfather. They shared egotistical discipleship, bore their burdens with pridefulness and impiety. It was Father Saint Stephen whom we had heard laugh, joined by his brethren; they thought Grandfather’s Lutheranism an amusement.

“What of their empires?” said Grandfather in German, who did not seem to take offense at their laughter—because, I now suppose, he thought them also due condescension.

“That is the reward, isn’t it, Reverend Fiddle?” said Father Saint Stephen, speaking a careful German, looking up to welcome us with a smile. He gestured that we be given benchroom at the table.

Israel marched forward, said, in English, though his German was adequate for the exchange, “We’ll take what we need, and go”

“Tell the Jew what you have told me,” said Grandfather.

“Where are you bound?” said Father Saint Stephen in excellent and aristocratic British-English. He spoke with the care, tact, dispassion, of an accomplished intellectual. I can also guess now that he had never been poor in his life—he was perfect as the mendicant, which I take as meaning he was playing a part he had chosen, that had not fallen to him. Father Saint Stephen held himself like a painting: original, cold, sincere, calculated.

Israel answered flatly, “Mexico.”

Father Saint Stephen continued, “We have heard stories about the Caribbean. The poor souls spoke of their revolution. The Americans are said to have taken a complete vengeance. You are American? I do not reproach. They made slaves to build their towers of Babel. Now that the cities rise over the plains—purple, is it, or golden—they have less need of slaves. I do not condemn. It is the same east and west. Is this news to you? These are the last days.”

Israel reacted oddly to this; he seemed to be talking to himself when he said, “I don’t know what you are.”

Father Saint Stephen said to Israel, “My son, we are servants of God.”

Israel repeated, “I don’t know what you are.”

Grandfather interrupted to say that the Jew was a fool; there was no use telling him anything. Grandfather added that he would appreciate it if Father Saint Stephen could explain the mission of The Free Gift of God to his grandson. He introduced me. Father Saint Stephen began in German. I shook my head no, and he continued in English.

“Your grandfather has set me a difficult task. I introduce myself as did the gospel-writer John, ‘I am a voice, crying out in the wilderness, “Make the Lord’s path straight.” ’ ”

Father Saint Stephen continued in the measured, sonorous tone of a preacher in his pulpit, “When Our Lord returned from Jordan, he was led by the Spirit into the wilderness for forty days, where he was tempted by Satan three times. Jesus carried no food. He grew weak and angry and afraid in his hunger. Satan challenged Jesus to demonstrate his power by turning a stone to bread. Jesus was not a little tempted, because he loved his life. Jesus took courage, and told Satan that he would never be so hungry as to follow a suggestion made by Satan.

“Satan saw that Jesus was a stubborn, soldierly antagonist. Satan conjured up a kingdom on the wasteland, of utter splendor and power on earth, and challenged Jesus that if he just paid the smallest allegiance to Satan, perhaps crush an insect like this creature here”—Father Saint Stephen plucked up a cockroach—“that Satan would make Jesus king of that shimmering realm. Jesus studied the towers and gems and beautiful bodies, and was not a little tempted, because he was a poor man’s son and there had been few pleasures in his life, because he was ambitious for more than he had as a carpenter and pilgrim. Jesus took courage, and told Satan that he had only to worship God, and God alone, and a kingdom the like of which the earth would never see would be his to enjoy.

“Satan saw that Jesus was sly as well as learned, devoted, and trusting in the future as few men are in times of catastrophe. Satan took Jesus by the hand and led him to a precipice that we can suppose hung over the pit of Hell. Satan challenged Jesus to leap into the