Masquerade

5

Few people had ever heard of the Trappist Order. Even fewer would know who the Trappists are had it not been for Thomas Merton.

Merton joined the Trappists in 1941 and he wrote The Seven Storey Mountain, a book that sold over a million copies and is read even to this day.

As a Trappist, Merton wrote many books, articles, and poems extolling the importance of silence, solitude, and prayer. In 1968, he met a tragic, almost ludicrous, accidental death-electrocuted by a defective fan. He lies buried in characteristic simplicity at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in central Kentucky. His grave is marked with a plain cross bearing his Trappist name, Father Louis.

Father Augustine May, O.C.S.O, was thinking about that as he sat in the modest room assigned him in the Madame Cadillac Building.

Tom Merton, he thought, as he slowly swirled a water glass one-quarter filled with Jack Daniel’s Tennessee whiskey, Tom Merton did an awful lot for us Trappists. He brought in a lot of dough and a lot of vocations.

In the 1950s, a bumper crop of young applicants came to the Trappists, many of them attracted by the writings of one monk, Father Louis. At the peak there were more than two hundred at Gethsemani Abbey alone. Father Augustine knew the statistics well. Entering in the early sixties, he had been among the last of that bumper crop. Now, hell, the Kentucky abbey would be lucky to have eighty monks. And his own monastery in Wellesley, Massachusetts, would feel successful if it had half that number.

Father Augustine-Gus, as he was known to his confreres-hoped he wasn’t being too vain in thinking he could make a difference. He was convinced the world was more than ready for another Thomas Merton. Was it just possible the next Merton could be himself?

He swished the whiskey around in his mouth. The familiar tart taste made him grimace. Somehow he found the pungency pleasant.

He had tried the Merton approach-writing for scholarly and, mostly, contemplative periodicals. But the articles brought in little money and, as far as anyone could tell, no appreciable vocations. Then came the mystery novel, A Rose by Any Other Name. The money was better, appreciably better. Of course, it all went to his abbey; that was taken for granted. What had caught his abbot off guard was the publisher’s insistence on an author tour to a few major cities, for TV, radio, and newspaper interviews. Only with the greatest reluctance did the abbot grant permission.

Father Augustine had to agree that such trips were not what Benedict, Bernard or, especially, Rance had had in mind.

Benedict, of course, started the whole thing in the sixth century. He was not the first, but he surely was one of the founders of Western monasticism. The key to it all was the community of men living together with vows designed by Saint Benedict’s rule of life.

In the ninth and tenth centuries, reforms were made as monasticism grew away from Benedict’s concept. But these reforms at the Synod of Auchen and at Cluny were overshadowed by those of Saint Bernard in the twelfth century and the beginning of the Cistercian order.

Bernard’s interpretation of the monastic ideal endured virtually unchanged for five hundred years. Then, in 1664, at the monastery of La Trappe in Normandy, Abbot Rance made an extremely tight right turn, and the Trappists emerged with a negative appreciation of mankind and an emphasis on penance unknown to the earlier reformers.

Throughout fourteen centuries, then, one might view the rule of life set down by Saint Benedict as an inspired document. Even now, it remains the foundation of Western civilization’s monastic life.

That way of life was, perhaps, perfected by Saint Bernard at the beginning of the Cistercian order. Then Rance added a spartan rigidity to his reorganization of the Trappists.

It was into the Trappist religious order according to Rance that Thomas Merton and Augustine May entered. But it was not Rance’s version of the Cistercians that Father Louis left when he died. As was the case with so much else in Catholicism, the Second Vatican Council helped change all that.

The religious order that Merton and May entered, among many other stiff structures, forbade talking at any time to anyone but one’s superiors without explicit permission from the abbot. Of course, communication was necessary, so a sign language peculiar to the Trappists evolved. Stories are still told illustrating the inflexibility of the “Trappist way of life,” such as that of the monk who ran from cell to cell rousing the other monks and giving the sign for fire because the abbey was burning down around their ears.

Benedict’s rule called for “ora et labora”-prayer and work. The preconciliar Trappists interpreted that so inflexibly that at any given time when they were neither sleeping nor eating, they were either chanting prayers in chapel, or working, usually in the fields. Which led to the expression, “either in the [choir] stalls or the stables.”

One of the demands made of religious orders by Vatican II was that the orders reexamine their present status against the purpose for which they had been founded and that they return to those roots.

For the Trappists, that meant erasing much of what Rance had introduced and restoring the monastic precepts of Benedict and Bernard.

No longer are monasteries carbon copies of one another. The Trappists-the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance-have found unity in diversity. Sign language is gone. And, in an order founded for the contemplative life, finally, time has been allocated for contemplation.

Almost thirty years ago, Harold May had abandoned a promising advertising career and entered what he considered to be a little bit of heaven on earth-Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey. Rigorous but heavenly. And then, with the overwhelming changes-resisted at first-Father Augustine May, O.C.S.O, found a more profound and sensible heaven. This was what he was eager to share with today’s men, young and older.

He looked at the glass he was holding as if he had never seen it before. Was this his second or third drink? He couldn’t remember. Amazing how one could build a tolerance for the stuff. But, whichever number this was, it would be his last. For now. In a few minutes, he’d be going down to dinner. Food would take the edge off the alcohol.

He had arrived at the college wearing a business suit, but of course he had packed his Cistercian habit. Now he took it from the closet. The white tunic covered its wearer from neck to foot. A black scapular, much like a burial shroud, fitted over the head, falling to the floor fore and aft. A hood was attached to the scapular, but was pulled over the head only at specified times. Finally, a wide, heavy leather belt. This simple, ancient habit he wanted to share with others.

He knew he could not hope for enormous numbers of new applicants. Monasticism never had been attractive to a multitude. Always it had been a very specialized vocation. But it certainly ought to be more appealing now.

He began to don his habit.

Look at all those gurus roaming the country, advocating Transcendental Meditation, Zen Buddhism; there were the Maharishi, the Baghwan, Moonies. The East evangelizing, as it were, the West. The first time in history. Augustine recalled Saint Francis Xavier, who brought the Gospel to India and Japan, and died on his way to China. And the thousands of Christian missionaries who had followed Xavier. Always the West to the East.

Until now.

Augustine May was only one of many who were concerned about and wondered at this present phenomenon. Neither he nor his colleagues had much doubt concerning the motives of these largely successful gurus. Most of them became far more financially secure here than they could be in their respective homelands. And, while some undoubtedly were sincere, one could not ignore the economic rewards.

The larger question concerned their followers. Charges of brainwashing led to the innovative reaction called deprogramming.

But beyond the fringe groups and their immature needs that responded to the blandishments of the mystic East, there were quite normal young adults who recognized in themselves something missing, a psychic glue that could hold together the varied facets of their lives.

These, Augustine and his colleagues realized, were legitimate needs that were being met at least partially by the gurus with their versions of ancient Oriental religions. The hypothesis was that these seekers, completely beyond their power to change things, were products of Western civilization. Thus, whatever they might discover in the East, they would always remain foreigners to that culture.

The idea, then, was to introduce them to the contemplative heritage of Western civilization. For it existed, to be sure. The West would not have survived without it. Only at about the time of the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution, did this contemplative approach to reality begin to fade, to eventually be ground under and virtually disappear in retreat from materialism and capitalism.

It was here, at this point, that Augustine May saw himself stepping into the picture. In mystery he had found a popular genre. Rose would be only the first of many novels he would write. His abbot had almost no alternative but to permit-nay, encourage-him to write. Each monastery had to be independently financially solvent. God, and the abbot, knew that Saint Francis Abbey, an expansion abbey to which he’d been assigned, regularly moved from thin ice to open water. Gethsemani, for example, did very well with cheese and fruitcakes. But Gethsemani was not about to bail out Saint Francis. Nothing personal, just against the rules.

With his expected success, no bailout would be necessary: Augustine May would singlehandedly save Saint Francis Abbey. He would then become the toast of the Trappists. Coincidentally-and perhaps of equal or greater importance-his fame would spread and redound throughout this country and-why not? — the world.

This, Augustine assured himself, was not idle pride. He would accomplish all this for God and the Cistercian Order. Was there all that much difference between the two?

His problem, to this point, was that he had gotten it all backwards. Merton had written his magnum opus, the classic Seven Storey Mountain, first. After gaining popular fame, he had gone on to write more substantial religious wisdom. Merton’s contemplative work scarcely would have achieved the acceptance it had without that best seller. Seven Storey Mountain had given Merton entree to the mass public. A goodly number of that vast readership had stayed with Merton throughout the rest of his life. So he had been the cause-not merely the instrument-of a large proportion of popularity that the Trappists enjoy to this day.

Granted Augustine had published-no mean accomplishment in this day and age. But who had read him? A few monks, even fewer erudite professors of arcane subjects. By no means the reading public Merton had attracted.

Augustine counted on A Rose by Any Other Name to turn things around. Of course, it was no Seven Storey Mountain. How many books are? But Merton had written one-and only one-million-seller. Augustine would make up in quantity what was lacking in quality. Rose would be but the first of a series of popular novels with monastic settings. He was certain he could achieve this goal. Then, after having made a solid name for himself, he would produce the scholarly, profound, contemplative, Mertonesque writings.

And there it was: Augustine’s formula for his personal-and the order’s corporate-success.

He checked his reflection in a full-length mirror. Nice. The habit gave him the immediate cachet of poverty, antiquity, simplicity, cleanliness, and yes, even holiness.

He finished his drink, set the glass firmly on the dresser-top and headed for downstairs, where he would meet the others in this workshop.

He gave momentary thought to taking the elevator but decided on the stairs. He could use the exercise. It would clear his mind.

He would need a clear mind, and everything else he could muster, including God’s providence and presence, to deal with Klaus Krieg.

Funny, before the publication of A Rose by Any Other Name, Augustine had never heard of Klaus Krieg. Or at least he’d paid so little attention to the televangelist/publisher as to be completely unmindful of his celebrity. No Krieg-type book would be found in the monastery, nor did Saint Francis Abbey have television.

Of course, Augustine did not spend his entire life behind cloister doors. Oh, he had in the beginning, when he would blow on his finger and wiggle his hand to indicate air conditioning. But after Vatican II and his move to Massachusetts, he was sent outside the monastery with some regularity. He was a better than average speaker and what with the priest shortage, pastors frequently were desperate for weekend help. Supply and demand. He was sent to these parishes on condition that he be allowed to address issues at the core of Cistercian existence: solitude, silence, self-denial, the centering prayer, the contemplative life and, occasionally, donations to the order.

Still, even on the “outside,” he had been spared exposure to Krieg and the Praise God Network. To a man, priests loathed televangelists-and at the very top of their aversion list was the “Reverend” Klaus Krieg. Thus, with no exposure to Krieg whatsoever, not even having been afforded the luxury of selecting what he and the pastor would watch on TV of an evening, Augustine could not have picked Krieg out of a lineup of two people.

Until Augustine’s book was published.

Shortly thereafter, he was bombarded by mailings and phone messages from P.G. Press proposing contract talks.

At first, the abbot leaned toward looking into the Krieg propositions. However, not for nothing had Augustine spent years in the advertising business. He smelled a con.

On a mission to Framingham, he stopped in a large bookstore, browsed and searched until he found several books bearing the P.G. logo, all in the religion section of the store, as he had expected. The tide and dust jacket of one book promised a monastic setting. A few scanned pages confirmed his initial diagnosis: It had something to do with a monastery. And there was something peculiar about it. He bought the book.

Later that evening, eschewing the pastor’s offer of before-bed drinks and the TV news, Augustine retired. He propped himself in bed and opened Their Secret Solitude. It was bad, but he persevered. He forced himself to finish the book. Actually, after about page 25, he had to force himself to read each page. It was that bad.

The fictional “Monastery of the Blessed Spirit”-fictional to the extreme; it resembled no monastery he’d ever heard of-was replete with spurious monks.

The story began almost innocently with Brother Gregory fighting vainly an overwhelming urge to masturbate. In no time, the reader learned that the procurator, Brother Louis, had no sooner hired a young village maiden as cook than he raped her, several times in several ways. Throughout the book, he periodically found new occasions and new ways to rape her. Naturally, Abbot Rufus, by this time, was found to be a sadistic homosexual. The sex was kinky, kinkier, kinkiest.

And so it went. It was almost an afterthought that the local antediluvian archbishop had been swindling everyone in and out of sight for years.

Augustine, revolted by this raunchy insult to legitimate monastic life, had a difficult time getting to sleep that night.

When he returned from Framingham, he told his shocked abbot what he had discovered. He then had to caution Father Abbot, who was close to hyperventilating at the thought of what P.G. Press might perpetrate against Saint Francis Abbey, that, just as a book should not be judged by its cover, so a publishing house should not necessarily be judged by one book. Even a book this execrable. So, Augustine received permission to make several long distance calls.

The third call hit pay dirt. It was to Dick Ryan, with whom Augustine had once worked in a New York advertising firm. Ryan was still at the same firm, but had risen to a position in management.

It took a few moments for Ryan to place him. It wouldn’t have taken that long had the caller not identified himself as Augustine. Realizing the problem, he immediately gave the befuddled Ryan the name Harold May, and the connection was made.

Ryan was unaware that Harold had had a book published. Then, as the conversation proceeded, Ryan recalled having heard about A Rose by Any Other Name. But he hadn’t linked Harold to the Father Augustine who had authored it. “Well, congratulations, Harold. Son of a gun, I didn’t know that was you. Yeah, sincere congratulations.”

“Thanks. Yes, it was I.” After the two exchanged small talk bringing each other up-to-date on their separate and very different lives, Augustine recounted his past publishing experience, the bombardment by the P.G. empire, and his grossly negative reaction to the one and only P.G. book he had read or was likely to read.

Ryan whistled softly. “So Krieg wants you, eh? Well-how is it you monks put it? — resist him, strong in the faith.”

“Tu autem, Domine, miserere nobis. I’m surprised you know that antiphon, Dick. You must be a better Catholic now than when I knew you.”

“That’s true. But then, you’re a better Catholic now, yourself.”

Augustine chuckled. “It’s good to know we’re both working at it.

“But Dick, I didn’t really call to ask your opinion about my linking up with Krieg. My question is: What is he up to? Why in God’s green world would he want me? What possible interest could he have in me?”

“Authenticity.”

“Authenticity?”

“You’re a real, live monk, my friend,” Ryan replied. “I must admit I’ve never had the misfortune of reading anything put out by P.G. Press. But I know their reputation. Everybody in the business knows what Krieg is doing.”

“Well, I’m no longer ‘in the business,’ Dick. Could you fill me in?”

There was a pause marked by the sound of deep inhaling. Ryan had just lit a cigarette. Instantaneously, Augustine recalled the pressure-packed days in the advertising world. He himself had smoked like a chimney; with few exceptions, they all had. It got so one could not imagine having a phone at one’s ear without the attendant cigarette between one’s lips.

“Okay,” Ryan said. “I won’t get into the TV scam for the moment. That’s a long story all by itself. But Krieg didn’t ask you to fake a miracle for his TV viewers. He wants your pen, not your crutches.”

Augustine snorted.

“Part of it works this way,” Ryan said. “Krieg maintains offices in Los Angeles for budding writers. Haven’t you ever seen the ads in magazines, trade papers?”

“’Fraid not.”

“Damn, that’s right; you don’t read the trades anymore.”

Augustine shook his head, a motion that could not be heard over the phone. Reading the trades was just one of many, many things he no longer did.

Ryan continued. “Say you’re an amateur writer, know in your heart you’re good, and that sooner or later you’ll get published. All you need is a chance, a break.”

Millions of them, thought Augustine.

“Well,” Ryan said, “you look at the ad from P.G. Press-”

“Excuse, Dick: Whatinhell does P.G. stand for?”

“‘Praise God,’ P.G.-get it?” It was Ryan’s turn to snort. “Krieg is doing God no favor.

“Anyway, you see this ad. It says, ‘You haven’t been published? Not to worry. Send us your manuscript. Either we’ll publish you or we’ll tell you what little more you need to get published. Of course this uses up a lot of our time, and time is money. So if you want us to read you, help you, publish you, counsel you, it only stands to reason that you should reimburse us for our time. Depending on the length and complexity of the script, $100 and $500 for a reading. A guaranteed response. This is your big chance. Don’t let it slip by.’”

Augustine interrupted. “Don’t tell me: The writers don’t have a chance. It’s stacked against them.”

“You got it. Krieg maintains a large office full of people who read these manuscripts. They’ve got one job and one job alone: to reject and return every manuscript they get. No exceptions.”

“Then why do they have to read the scripts? They’re just going to turn them down anyway.”

“They’ve got a boilerplate introduction and conclusion for their rejects. The opening theme is: ‘You’ve come so close. You’re not far from best-seller fame.’ Stuff like that goes on for maybe three, four pages. The conclusion goes: “We are genuinely interested in your talent. We want to see your work again. So make sure you keep in touch and should you turn out another manuscript. .’ But the middle of the rejection has to evidence that they actually read your script. The reader has to get specific about some of the things in the script. That’s the only reason anyone there reads the submission.”

It was Augustine’s turn to whistle softly. “Is that legal?”

“Legal? Yeah, I think so. And definitely not unique. They said they’d read your submission and they did. They didn’t promise they’d do any more than read and critique. They didn’t say they had no plan other than to reject your work. Moral? Hardly. Legal? I think so. One thing you learn quickly when you study Krieg: Morality has nothing to do with his entire operation.”

“Amazing! Frightening, really. But what’s it got to do with me? Why is he so interested in me? I’m published. Just once, so far, but published anyway.”

“Like I said in the beginning, old buddy: authenticity. Anybody can write that crap that Krieg publishes. Anybody. It’s formula. They give the writer a plot-some of those writers can think up their own, some can’t-anyway, P.G. sets the pace: After the plot, the publisher sets a frequency of moral turpitude. Every three pages, straight sex; every ten pages, kinky sex; every seven pages, group sex. If the background is a convent, you get lesbians. If it’s a parish or a diocese-or, in your case, a monastery-you get every kind of sex imaginable. If your imagination needs help, they’ll help you.”

“Am I getting thick in my moderate age?” Augustine asked. “I still don’t get it. Why me?”

“I was getting to that. As I said, anybody can write this stuff. And it sells pretty good. Actually, it sells damn good. The thing is, it would sell one helluva lot better even than it does now if the author were on the inside. Nothing titillates the reader like having the genuine article tell the story: ‘How can an innocent, celibate monk like Father Augustine know so much about forbidden sex?’”

“I’m beginning to get it.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not surprised that Krieg’s laying on you to climb aboard. I’d be surprised if he weren’t leaning on every man or woman of the cloth who writes to join his stable.”

“Still,” Augustine objected, “it doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t write that stuff.”

“He’s willing to take the gamble. But not till he narrows the odds.”

“Pardon?”

“I haven’t seen his pitch personally. But I’ll bet the first wave of persuasion is lots and lots of assurance that he’ll keep all the annoyances out of your quiet life. P.G. Press will shield you from all the mess attendant on publication of a book. Leaving you to quiet contemplation within the secure walls of your monastery.”

“He’s already mentioned that.”

“I was right then. The next step I’m pretty sure about. He’ll offer you a contract with a very handsome advance. That’s what all those readers of his are working for: The money those poor suckers shell out to have their scripts read goes in part to pay the meager salary of the readers, but mostly it goes to offer people like you a sizable advance. . sound good so far?”

Augustine thought for a few moments. “Well, yes. . I suppose. But what good does all that do him? I’m still not going to write the kind of junk he wants.”

“Wait. You get a lot of money on signing, but if P.G. doesn’t find your manuscript acceptable-which they inevitably won’t-you’ll have to pay it back. And they tie you up in an option on your next book. Most authors-who’ve already spent the money just to live on-eventually capitulate-either to writing the kind of trash they want, or letting them do it.”

“But. .” Augustine was puzzled. “Is one lousy book by me worth all the trouble they’re going to?”

“Oh, yeah, Harold; if they could get a real live monk, religious habit and all, belonging to the Trappists-one of the biggies; if they could get you to write one of the T amp;A books-don’t ask what that stands for. .”

Augustine hadn’t been out of the world that long. He remembered tits and ass.

“. . if they could get you, they’d make a quantum leap out of and above their regular sales level. Might even garner a little bit of respectability. And as far as getting one book and one book alone from you, they’d figure you; you and your abbot; you, your abbot and your order would be so overwhelmed with the royalties that you’d write some more garbage for them.”

“Fat chance!”

“Harold, it’s a gamble. The whole thing is a gamble. The table stakes are just the dollars they offer you as an advance for signing the contract. If you didn’t produce, or if you produced what in their lexicon was an unacceptable manuscript, they’d demand the advance back. It’s well worth their time and money.”

Augustine grimaced. “I think I’ve got the whole picture, Dick. I thank you mightily. Now that you’ve shown me the pitfalls so clearly, I’ll be careful where I step.”

“Okay, buddy. Just watch very carefully where you step. Krieg does not give up easily. He’ll use everything he’s got, everything he can get. So, cover your a-uh, watch out behind you.”

Augustine smiled now, recalling his conversation with Dick Ryan. Funny how when one becomes a monk, erstwhile acquaintances feel they must clean up a language that once you shared.

But his smile quickly faded. Dick Ryan had been more prophetic than he possibly could have suspected. In a little while Augustine would meet Krieg again face to face. They would sup together. Then, in the words of John F. Kennedy, they would see who ate what.

Koesler was running late. Not like him. But his tardiness truly was due to unforeseeable circumstances.

He’d taken care of the Saturday evening and Sunday morning liturgies. After which he had been bone-tired-his usual state of a Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t offering Mass that was so draining. It was preaching. The three Masses he said over the weekend were no particular problem. But trying to deliver a meaty, thoughtful, and thought-provoking homily was quite another thing.

There had been a Detroit Tigers game on TV that afternoon. Surrounding himself with the Sunday newspapers, he’d settled into an easy chair. In no time he’d drifted off to sleep. Nothing wrong with the Tigers; baseball was such a slow game of odds and percentages that, in his exhausted state, it pitched him into dreamland.

He’d awakened with a start. It was 3:30 and he was supposed to be at Marygrove at 5:00. The Jesuit who was to cover for him during the coming week had not arrived. A call to the University of Detroit revealed that the Jesuits had forgotten, but would send a man right over.

Koesler gave brief consideration to calling Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary and general factotum, to greet and brief the pinch-hitting priest. God knew Mary easily could take good care of the parish by herself. But Rome was not into ordaining women just yet. And in addition to the transfer of keys, the substitute would have to be apprised of the minimum obligations that would require his attention during the week.

In the end, he decided to wait for the visiting priest. If nothing else, protocol dictated that the keys of the kingdom be passed from one sacerdotal hand to another.

By the time the Jesuit had arrived, keys were entrusted, and necessary instructions given, it was 4:30. Koesler drove posthaste to Marygrove, and was shown to his room. It was too late to bother unpacking. The few things he’d brought could wait for a more leisurely time to be put away.

It was almost 5:15 as Father Koesler took the stairs toward the main floor.

When would he ever learn, he wondered, as he hurried down the stairs; when would he ever learn to say no to invitations he did not really wish to accept. To begin, he should have refused-politely, of course- the overture to participate in this writers’ workshop. Although he enjoyed reading mystery novels, particularly those with a religious milieu, he was sure he was not qualified to contribute to this conference.

Secondly, having failed to turn down the initial invitation, he surely should have declined the added proposal that he stay at the college during the conference. He easily could have commuted the few miles between his parish and Marygrove. But Sister Janet had been so unrelentingly and respectfully insistent that he had accepted.

At that point the commitment had been made and there was no getting around it. When would he ever learn? Reluctantly, he had to admit that at his age and with his track record, probably never.

There were several dining rooms on the main floor. The end of the corridor resembled a Saint Andrews Cross. At the end of the building was the large kitchen. The wing to the right of the kitchen was a large cafeteria, the wing to the left was the main dining room. As he walked down the hall, his eye caught a note taped to the door of a smaller dining room on the left.

The note read, “Conference Faculty Dining Room.”

This, thought Koesler, had to be it. As he put his hand on the doorknob, the thought crossed his mind that no matter how distasteful this week might prove, at least he would not be dragged into an investigation of a real murder.

He turned the knob and entered the room.