Masquerade

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