that this would relieve him of the necessity of confessing to the thoughts he had held, of Helen, with the breasts like clouds, Lurine, with the skin like milk, Fay, with the mouth like honey, of the paint he had diverted to his own use, of the blocks of stone he had stolen to sculpt.
What would Dr. Abernathy say? Oh, hell! He would counsel him, give him a catechism to study, test him later, baptize him, admit him as a communicant.
What was it then that broke the morning?
The night before, he had dreamed of his mural. Carl Lufteufel was a vacuum in the middle, crying out to be filled. The face in the repro which Dominus McComas had shown him always looked slightly past him. Not really at him. Not yet. Once he saw the man and captured the eyes—not hidden like those of a Rembrandt, no!—but the eyes of the God of Wrath, actually focused upon him, and all the slack/tightened/flaccid muscles of That Face, the bags or black smudges under the eyes, the parallelograms of the brow—all these things—once they were turned upon him, if only for a morning’s instant, then that vacuum would be filled. Once he saw it, all the world would see it—by his seeing and the six fingers of his steel hand.
He spat, licked his lips, and coughed. The morning was too much with him.
The Holstein—Darlin’ Corey—turned the corner, and then about a mile remained.
He moved slowly into the study and regarded the priest.
“Thank you,” Tibor said, accepting a cup of coffee and manipulating it slowly into a position allowing two quick, scalding sips.
Dr. Abernathy added cream and sugar to his own and stirred noisily.
They sat awhile in silence, then Dr. Abernathy said, “You want to become a Christian.” Whatever question mark may have followed the sentence was a thing implied only, by a slight raising of the eyebrows.
“I am—interested. Yes. As I said last night—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Needless to say, I am pleased that our example has impressed you in this fashion.” He turned away then and stared out his window and said, “Can you believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in his only begotten son Jesus Christ our Lord, born of the virgin Mary, who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried, and on the third day rose again?”
“I think so,” said Tibor. “Yes, I think so.”
“Do you believe He will come to judge the living and the dead?”
“I can, if I try,” Tibor said.
“You’re an honest man, anyhow,” Dr. Abernathy said. “Now, despite the rumor that we’re looking for business, we’re not. I’d love to welcome you to the fold, but only if you’re sure that you know what you’re doing. For one thing, we’re poorer than the Servants of Wrath. So, if you’re looking for business here, forget it We can’t afford murals or even illuminated manuscripts.”
“That was the farthest thing from my mind, Father,” said Tibor.
“All right,” said Dr. Abernathy. “I just wanted to be sure that we were meeting on the same ground.”
“I’m certain that we are,” said Tibor.
“You’re in the employ of the SOWs,” said Dr. Abernathy, pronouncing each letter.
“I’ve taken their money,” said Tibor. “I’ve a job to do for them.”
“What do you think of Lufteufel, really?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“A difficult subject,” said Tibor, “since I’ve never seen him. I have a need to paint from experience. A photograph—such as the one they furnished me—it would do only if I could also lay eyes on the man himself, if but for an instant.”
“What do you think of him as God?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“I don’t know,” said Tibor.
“… As man?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“I don’t know.”
“If you have doubts, then why do you wish to switch at thispoint in the game?” Dr. Abernathy asked. “Perhaps it would be better to resolve them within the context where they arose.”
“Your religion has
What would Dr. Abernathy say? Oh, hell! He would counsel him, give him a catechism to study, test him later, baptize him, admit him as a communicant.
What was it then that broke the morning?
The night before, he had dreamed of his mural. Carl Lufteufel was a vacuum in the middle, crying out to be filled. The face in the repro which Dominus McComas had shown him always looked slightly past him. Not really at him. Not yet. Once he saw the man and captured the eyes—not hidden like those of a Rembrandt, no!—but the eyes of the God of Wrath, actually focused upon him, and all the slack/tightened/flaccid muscles of That Face, the bags or black smudges under the eyes, the parallelograms of the brow—all these things—once they were turned upon him, if only for a morning’s instant, then that vacuum would be filled. Once he saw it, all the world would see it—by his seeing and the six fingers of his steel hand.
He spat, licked his lips, and coughed. The morning was too much with him.
The Holstein—Darlin’ Corey—turned the corner, and then about a mile remained.
He moved slowly into the study and regarded the priest.
“Thank you,” Tibor said, accepting a cup of coffee and manipulating it slowly into a position allowing two quick, scalding sips.
Dr. Abernathy added cream and sugar to his own and stirred noisily.
They sat awhile in silence, then Dr. Abernathy said, “You want to become a Christian.” Whatever question mark may have followed the sentence was a thing implied only, by a slight raising of the eyebrows.
“I am—interested. Yes. As I said last night—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Needless to say, I am pleased that our example has impressed you in this fashion.” He turned away then and stared out his window and said, “Can you believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in his only begotten son Jesus Christ our Lord, born of the virgin Mary, who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried, and on the third day rose again?”
“I think so,” said Tibor. “Yes, I think so.”
“Do you believe He will come to judge the living and the dead?”
“I can, if I try,” Tibor said.
“You’re an honest man, anyhow,” Dr. Abernathy said. “Now, despite the rumor that we’re looking for business, we’re not. I’d love to welcome you to the fold, but only if you’re sure that you know what you’re doing. For one thing, we’re poorer than the Servants of Wrath. So, if you’re looking for business here, forget it We can’t afford murals or even illuminated manuscripts.”
“That was the farthest thing from my mind, Father,” said Tibor.
“All right,” said Dr. Abernathy. “I just wanted to be sure that we were meeting on the same ground.”
“I’m certain that we are,” said Tibor.
“You’re in the employ of the SOWs,” said Dr. Abernathy, pronouncing each letter.
“I’ve taken their money,” said Tibor. “I’ve a job to do for them.”
“What do you think of Lufteufel, really?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“A difficult subject,” said Tibor, “since I’ve never seen him. I have a need to paint from experience. A photograph—such as the one they furnished me—it would do only if I could also lay eyes on the man himself, if but for an instant.”
“What do you think of him as God?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“I don’t know,” said Tibor.
“… As man?” asked Dr. Abernathy.
“I don’t know.”
“If you have doubts, then why do you wish to switch at thispoint in the game?” Dr. Abernathy asked. “Perhaps it would be better to resolve them within the context where they arose.”
“Your religion has
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