Fool.
One cannot be a Fool for Christ’s sake and be truly insane. Holy Foolishness is a cultivated state, a deliberate choice.However,themovement’sgreatest strength, its simplicity, is also its greatest weakness, for it cannot protect itself against the mad or the vicious. The innocent Fool is as helpless as a child before the folly of willful evil. Hence the absolute catastrophe of the Los Angeles shooting.
The Fool is the mirror image of the shaman. The shaman’s mythic voyage takes him from insanity into control of the basic stuff of the universe,- the Fool goes in the other direction, from normality into apparent lunacy, where he then lives, forever at the mercy of universal chaos. Both remain burdened by their identities: the shaman paying for his control by personal sacrifice, and the Fool being in the grip of what Saward calls “the rare and terrible charism of holy folly.”
Kate came to the end of the file without feeling much further along in her understanding. She set the folders on the table by the door, ate a breakfast of pear and a toasted bagel, and went to dress for her encounter with tourism.
¦
Given a sunny Saturday, even in February there will be a decent crowd in the Fishermen’s Wharf area, meandering with children and cameras along the three-quarters of a mile between the glitzy Pier 39 and Ghirardelli Square, that grandfather of all factory-into-shopping-mall conversions. Kate parked in the garage beneath the former chocolate factory and made her way to the street that fronted Aquatic Park, but there was no sign of a six- foot-two elderly bearded clown. She went up the stairs back into Ghirardelli Square proper and found a puppet show in progress, but no Erasmus.
Back on the street, she crossed over to run the gauntlet of sidewalk vendors selling sweatshirts, tie-dyed infant’s overalls, images of the Golden Gate Bridge painted onto rocks and bits of redwood, bead necklaces, toilet- roll holders in the shape of frogs and palm trees, crystal light-catchers, crystal earrings, crystal necklaces, and crystals to sew into the back seam of your trousers to center your energy. She was tempted to get one of those for Al, just to see his face, but moved on instead to the next stall, where a graying gypsy sold polished stones on thongs. Kate fingered a teardrop-shaped stone, dark blue with an interesting silvery line running through it.
“That’s lapis lazuli, good for physical healing, psychic protection, and stimulating mental powers,” the woman rattled off, adding, “The color would look good on you.”
God knows, I could use some mental stimulation, thought Kate, although she told her, “I’m looking for a gift, for a blond woman.”
The woman gave her a brief lecture on stone auras and personality enhancements, and Kate ended up buying a small necklace of intense lapis lazuli that was set in a delicate silver band. As the woman looked for a suitable box, Kate ran her eyes over the park again.
“Do you come here often?” she asked the woman.
“Seven years,” was the laconic answer.
“There’s a performer here I was hoping to see, an old guy, tall, does a clown act.”
“You a cop?” Kate was surprised, as she had made an effort and dressed like half the women on the street.
“Yes. Why?”
“Just like to know who I’m talking to. That’s eighteen bucks.” Kate handed her a twenty,- she gave her back two ones and the small white box. “I’ve got nothing against cops. My sister used to be married to one,- he was okay. You’re talkin‘ about Erasmus?”
“That’s right. Have you seen him?”
“Not today. He usually comes down in the afternoon,-mornings, he starts in front of the Cannery.”
“I’ll try down there, then. Thanks.”
“Sure. It’s the eyes,” she said unexpectedly.
“What eyes?”
“Cops. Your eyes are never still, not if you’ve been on the streets. Flip-flip-flip, always looking into peoples’ pockets, watchin‘ how they stand. Wear your sunglasses. And relax, sister. It’s a beautiful day.”
Kate laughed aloud, then sauntered off, feeling good. This was not a bad city, sometimes. She tended to forget that, what with one thing and another.
She made her way past the crowded cable-car turntable and turned downhill at the cart selling hot pretzels, strolling along the waterfront with her hands in her pockets and her eyes scanning the streets from behind the black lenses, humming a tune she did not recognize as coming from the silly musical video she had watched two nights ago. (“When constabulary duty’s to be done, to be done, a policeman’s lot is not an ‘appy one, ”appy one.“) She saw two drug scores and a cruising hooker, then a familiar face. She walked over and leaned against the wall next to the pickpocket and sometime informant.
“Hey, Battles,” she murmured. “How’s doing?”
“Inspector Martinelli. Looking good. I’m clean.”
“I’m sure you are, Bartles, and how about we stay that way? Such a pretty day, let’s not spoil it for the folks from Nebraska, huh?”
“I’m not working, I told you. I’m just waiting for the wife.”
“ ‘His capacity for innocent enjoyment is just as great as any honest man’s,”“ she sang, out of tune, startling a passing young couple from Visalia.
“What’re you going on about?”
“Just something I heard on the tube the other night. Bar-ties, I think when your wife’s finished her shopping you should take her home. I’m in a good mood and if you spoil it, I might break one of your fingers getting the cuffs on you.”
“I’m not working today,” he insisted.
“Good. Neither am I. Have you seen a tall old man with a beard doing some kind of a clown act?”
“First she threatens me, then she asks me a favor.”
“No threat, and it’s not a favor. Just asking a civil question.
“You wouldn’t know a—oh Christ, it’s my wife. Get lost, will you?”
“Have you seen him?”
“Two blocks down, across the street. Now go!” he hissed.
Kate moved off, but not before she had seen the light of suspicion come on in the face of a thin woman in shorts and spike heels. She whistled softly to herself and turned into one of the nearby clothing shops, where she chose a hot pink nylon baseball cap that was embroidered with a truncated Golden Gate Bridge and the words SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, buying it and a package of chewing gum. She paused at the tiny mirror beside a display of abalone earrings to put her hair up under the hat, then unpeeled the gum and took out a piece, which she never chewed by choice, but it rendered her infinitely more harmless than all the makeup in a theater. Chewing and humming and slouching behind her shades, she went to see the act of Brother Erasmus.
¦
THIRTEEN
¦
It really was a stunningly beautiful morning, Kate thought with pleasure, the kind of day that tempts people from New York and Boise to move to California. It is easy to brave the earthquakes and the unemployment and the killing mortgages when a person can eat lunch outside wearing only a cotton shirt, knowing that much of the country is up to its backside in snow. Strolling along in the carnival atmosphere, kites dipping out over the water, the air smelling of fish and aftershave, the waters of the Golden Gate sparkling, with the bridge, Mount Tamalpais, and the island fortress of Alcatraz looking on benevolently, Kate could forget for a few minutes that she was here on business. She paused to examine the odd wares of the shop that sold live oysters complete with pearls, stopped again to watch a young black kid standing on a box playing robot while his buddy made sure everyone had the hat held under their noses, and then she bought an ice cream cone—for camouflage, of course. By then she had spotted Erasmus. She went up casually, hiding behind hat and cone and the large crowd he had attracted.
He was dressed as Rosalyn Hall had described him, in khaki trousers, a too-small blue-and-white-striped T- shirt, and running shoes that were just a bit too long. He also had a Raiders cap perched on the back of his head and an exaggeratedly garish gold watch on his wrist. His face, as Rosalyn had said, was very lightly shaded. From
