the people forget that the essence of Christianity is humility, not magnificence, that in weakness lies our strength.
(This page was marked: “Taken from personal communication, 12 October 1983, David Sawyer.”)
The three thinkers of Deventes—Thomas a Kempis, Nicholas of Cusa, and Desiderius Erasmus—all based their thought on Foolishness.
The craving for security leads modern people to images of God that are powerful, demanding, and, above all, serious. We have lost the absolute certainty in God (God existing and God benevolent) which allows us to express religious ideas in freedom and good humour. In the twentieth century, God does not laugh.
Foolishness can be a hazardous business, and not only to one’s mind and spirit. After all, one of the Fool’s main activities is to make a fool out of others, to throw doubt on cherished wisdoms and accepted behaviours: in a word, to shock. If this is done too aggressively, without caution, the result is more likely to be rage than enlightenment. Foolishness does not usually coincide with caution. Even the less flamboyant Fools courted danger: The half-and-half extremists seemed almost to glory in it. I know of twenty-two cases of violence against Fools, all but one of them a direct result of some inflammatory word or action on the part of the Fool. One Fool spent three days unconscious in hospital, put there by a motorcycle gang member who became enraged when the Fool made fun of the motorcycle’s role in the man’s sexual identity. Another Fool had one foot amputated following a particularly aggressive mocking episode which began when a young man came out of a Liverpool pub with his girlfriend literally in tow, bullying and abusing her. The Fool stepped in and soon had a crowd gathered, all ridiculing the young man. A more experienced Fool would have then turned the barrage of criticism into a more long-term solution—some pointed suggestion perhaps, that real men do not slap women around—but this Fool was new to street work and lost control of his mob. The man stormed off, got into his car, came back to the pub, and ran the Fool down.
St. Francis wished his followers to become
How can a movement embodying the antithesis of organisation possibly deal with the modern world? When I wished to interview a certain Brother Stultus about the early days in England, he was not to be found. One of the brothers told me he had gone to Mexico (we were then in San Diego), but that was some weeks before. Stultus was not a young man, and I was concerned, but there was not much I could do. Some weeks passed, and a rumour reached me of a “crazy Anglo” who had taken up residence near the border patrol offices in Tijuana. I immediately drove down, and there found Stultus, living behind a garage, fed by the generous Mexican women, and waiting for rescue with sweet patience (in between periodic arrests for vagrancy by the frustrated police). Stultus, of course, carried no identification papers, and without them the U.S. Immigration Service would not allow him back in.
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ELEVEN
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Kate closed the folder, unable to read any more. She felt as if she’d just finished Thanksgiving dinner: packed with more than she could possibly digest and experiencing the onset of severe mental dyspepsia. This wasn’t cop business,- this was tea-and-sherry-with-the-tutor business, Oxbridge-in-Berkeley business, Greek-verbs-and-the- nuances-of-meaning business, worse than memorizing the latest departmental regulations concerning the security of evidence and treatment of suspects. That at least was of personal interest, but this—she couldn’t even convince herself it had anything to do with one charred corpse in Golden Gate Park. She thought it did, feared it might not, and all in all she had the urge to strap on her club and go rousting a few drunks, just to taste the grittier side of reality again. She scratched her scalp vigorously with the nails of both hands, knowing that there was no way she would be going back to continue her interview with Professor Whitlaw, certainly not tonight, and possibly not tomorrow.
She reached for the telephone.
“Al? Kate here. I had an interesting time with Professor Whitlaw.” Hawkin listened without interrupting while she told him about the interview with the English professor and gave him a brief synopsis of the papers she had waded through, ending with, “Anyway, I thought I’d check and see if you still thought we needed to interview Beatrice Jankowski. I could do it tonight.”
“We definitely have to see her again. She knows more about the victim than she was willing to tell us last week. However, if you want to go tonight you’ll have to take someone else—Tom called in sick, I have to stand in for him on a stakeout.”
“Hell. If this flu goes on we’ll have to put out a white flag, ask the bad guys for a cease fire.”
“We could make it another time, or I can ask around here for somebody to go with you. What’s your preference?”
Kate thought for a moment. “Would you mind if I went by myself?”
“Martinelli, you’re not asking my permission, are you?”
“No. I just wondered if you had any objections. It might be better anyway if I went alone,- she might talk more easily.”
“That’s fine, whatever you like.”
“Where’s your stake-out?”
“The far end of China Basin.”
“The scenic part of town. Dress warmly. We don’t want you coming down with this flu, too.”
“Yes, mother. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Kate sat for a while staring at Lee’s books until gradually she became aware that the voices she had been hearing for some time now were not electronic, but indicated a visitor. She wandered downstairs in hopes of distraction and found Rosalyn Hall, wearing not her dog collar but an ordinary T-shirt with jeans and looking to Kate’s eyes eerily like a defrocked priest. She was standing in the hallway at the foot of the stairs, putting her jacket on, and Kate greeted her.
“Kate, good to see you again. As you can see, I took you at your word that Lee might be interested in the project, and wasted no time.”
“I’m happy to do it, Rosalyn,” said Lee.
“It’s been tremendously helpful. I didn’t know how I was going to pull that section together. I’m so grateful I ran into Kate the other day,- I’d never have had the nerve to ask otherwise. So what did you think of Brother Erasmus?” she asked Kate, her eyes crinkling in humor.
“He’s an experience,” Kate agreed.
“I’ve never really talked with him, but I’ve heard a couple of conversations, if you can call them that. It’s sort of like listening to a foreign language; you get a general sense of what people are talking about, but none of the details.”
“It’s a challenge for an interviewer all right.”
“I can imagine. I saw him again the other day,- he sure manages to get around.”
“In Berkeley, you mean. Yes, I knew he was back there.”
“Well, actually it was over here, down on Fishermen’s Wharf last weekend. At least, I assumed it was him, though honestly I hardly recognized him, he looked so different.”
“Why, what was he doing? Why did he look different?”
“He was performing, like that juggling act he does sometimes, but a lot more of it, and other things. Sort of clowning, and some mime, but weird, a little bit creepy, and his face was painted—not heavily, like a clown’s, just a really light layer of white on one side and a slight darkening of the other half—he looked like he was standing with a shadow across half of his face. And he wasn’t wearing his cassock—he had on this strange outfit. Well, it wasn’t strange, just sort of not right. He was wearing those sort of dressy khaki Levi’s, but they were too short for him, and a striped T-shirt that had shrunk up and showed a little wedge of his stomach, and a pair of white athletic shoes so big, he kept tripping over them. Oh, and a watch. I’ve never seen him with a watch before.”
“What day was this?”
“Saturday. I had a friend visiting, and you know how you only do the touristy things when friends and family come. I thought she’d like Ghirardelli Square.”
“And that’s where you saw him?”
“Across the street—you know that park where the vendors set up? Necklaces and sweatshirts? Lots of times
