The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [45]
“But,” I started.
He waved me aside. “Do you actually believe in any of this stuff?”
I am generally reluctant to talk about my personal beliefs in final things, mostly because I find it difficult to separate the eschatological from a species of the scatological, as used in a figurative sense. But in this case I thought it incumbent upon me to defend the Judeo-Christian legacy of which I consider myself a beneficiary.
Speaking slowly and deliberately, I said, “Unlike many of my contemporaries, Alphus, I do not have any difficulty in believing in God. Rather, I fear that God does not believe in us. If we are indeed made in the image and likeness of the Almighty, as the Good Book tells us, we may well be something of a disappointment. I wonder at times if we and the world, in the grand scheme of things, may be little more than a petri dish gone bad.”
Alphus nodded. “Certainly for the rest of life on the planet.” Then, “Yet still you pray?”
His incredulity, as expressed in the emphatic way he moved his hands, daunted me. I nodded as though admitting to some embarrassing personal habit.
“What do you pray for?”
I took a moment to cast back to the last time I had been in church. I had been half sitting, half kneeling toward the back of St. Cecilia’s on that Sunday. I go there for solace and to dwell on the larger imponderables of life and because I take pleasure in the restrained, High Church grandeur of the stained-glass windows that surmount and light the altar beneath the vaulting web of age-darkened beams.
On that occasion I’d had much to pray for. I asked the Lord to keep Diantha and Elsie safe, healthy, and happy. Dear God, I had prayed, grant me the grace to forgive Heinie von Grümh whom I continue to despise, even in death. I know I should hate the sin and not the sinner, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten it backward. Please let me know with moral certainty that I did not murder that wretch, that poor excuse for … Forgive me. And help me forgive all who may have trespassed against me.
I said to Alphus, “I prayed for the power of forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness,” he signed and shook his head. “That is too human for me.”
9
Little has changed at work, except for Feidhlimidh de Buitliér, who has begun to act like he’s about to take over. The man, always tireless in his committee work, especially on the Council of Curators, has just been elected the Executive Moderator of that body for a second term. I will admit he has the courage of his small ambitions. No peak is too insignificant for him to climb.
It’s an evolving situation. I exist in a fog of rumors, most of them about me, about the Board of Governors, about moves Wainscott might make. It’s true I’m still the boss. But you can tell, in a dozen subtle ways, who is for you and who against.
It was certainly that way at the meeting of the Oversight Committee, which I felt compelled to attend, if only to defend myself. Indeed there seemed to be surprise that I should deign to show up at all in my fallen state.
Chair Brattle lost little time in making her own view known regarding my legal status. She had scarcely gaveled the meeting to order when she said, “I mean this in no way personally, Mr. de Ratour, but I wonder, under the circumstances, just how appropriate your presence here is at this time.”
I asked, “Are you suggesting I leave?”
“I think that may be best for all concerned.”
Izzy Landes, the dear man, stood up, his face flushed with anger. “If Norman is made to leave, I will leave as well. And I won’t come back. Indeed, I will start a committee to investigate this committee. And put it out of business.”
Father O’Gould also rose to signify his agreement. Then the Reverend Lopes and Corny Chard. Then Bertha Schanke, who said in an aside, “Let’s face it, half of Wainscott