“Touché yourself,” Michael said good-humoredly. “No, I was speechless out of ignorance, not embarrassment. I just don’t know. That’s as honest an answer as I can give.”
Andrea nodded. Her face was grave, and not without a certain dignity.
“Fair enough. Let’s avoid the embarrassing word, then. Do you believe in the existence of Good?”
“Philosophically, theologically, or historically?”
“Cut that out.”
“All right,” Michael said resignedly. “But you’ll accuse me of equivocating again. Sometimes I do believe. Sometimes I have serious doubts.”
Gordon leaned forward.
“No one who has studied history can believe in a benevolent creator,” he said.
Michael looked at him curiously. Andrea ignored him.
“All right, Mr. Collins,” she said. “You’ve already answered the next question, but I’ll put it anyhow. Do you believe in the existence of Evil?”
Gordon, sensing his guest’s discomfort, started to protest.
“Andrea, this is a ridiculous conversation. Can’t we-”
“No,” Linda interrupted. She had not meant to speak. The sound of her own voice startled her; it was harsh and peremptory, unlike her usual tones. “No. Let him answer.”
“Of course,” Michael said easily. “I’m enjoying this, Gordon. I’m just afraid of sounding like a fool. Philosophy was never one of my subjects.”
“Philosophy be damned,” Andrea said rudely. “I’m not interested in quibbles about Kant’s categories of whatever the hell they are. Evil is a living, conscious force, operating in this world and the next. Anyone who denies that does sound like a fool.”
“Evil deeds,” Michael said. “Even evil men. “But-Evil, with a capital E? An impersonal, active power?”
“There is nothing impersonal about Lucifer,” said Briggs’s soft voice.
The ensuing silence was broken by Gordon.
“Jack is inclined to be dogmatic about his faith.”
He spoke to Michael, who smiled politely. Briggs laughed aloud.
“You needn’t apologize for me, Gordon. The orthodox believer must walk softly these days, it is true. But I feel sure that Mr. Collins is not offended by any expression of honest faith.”
“That depends on the faith,” Michael said drily. “Some beliefs are no less pernicious for being honest. But I don’t see why I should be offended at an admission of belief in the devil.”
Briggs chuckled again. His pudgy hand waved his half-full glass in a mocking salute. Linda realized that no one had offered her anything to drink. For once the thought did not preoccupy her. She was too engrossed in the greater need. Ask him, she begged silently, focusing her demand on Andrea. Ask him, I can’t. And I’ve got to know.
“Then you don’t believe in Satan-the powers of evil,” Andrea persisted.
Gordon groaned, half humorously.
“Andrea, you have the subtlety of a pile driver. And the mindless persistence.”
“And the directness,” Michael said, smiling. “After the double-entendres of the literary world I find it refreshing. No, Miss Baker-Andrea, then, if you insist-I do not believe in Satan.”
“Then how do you explain the existence of evil?”
“Do I have to explain it? I’ve got problems enough.”
“Don’t be frivolous.”
“I beg your pardon.” Michael sobered. “A number of explanations have been offered, have they not?”
“None make any sense.” Andrea dismissed the garnered wisdom, philosophy, and theology of the world with a shrug. “Given the omnipotence of God and His complete unshadowed benevolence, you can’t account for evil.”
“The finite mind of man,” Michael said, with the air of someone who is quoting, “cannot comprehend the eon-long plans of the Infinite.”
“Baloney,” Andrea said. Michael started at the word. “If our kindness is only a weak imitation of the supreme benevolence of God, and we gag at cruelty, how can He endure it, or condone it-much less perpetrate it, as He does, by your definitions?”
“Now wait a minute,” Michael protested. “They aren’t my definitions. I only said-”
“Baloney,” Andrea repeated. The light was merciless on her face as she leaned forward. The wrinkled, cosmetic-caked skin looked like lava that had coincidentally congealed into the simulacrum of a human face. “The only hypothesis that accounts for evil is the existence of another Power, equal to the power of good and unalterably opposed to it.”
“Manichaeism,” Michael muttered. He glanced at Gordon. “Odd. We were talking about it earlier today.”
If he was looking for help in changing the subject, he didn’t get it. Gordon simply nodded.
“You’re trying to snow me with words,” Andrea said. “Think I’m a dumb old woman, don’t you? Well, I know what Manichaeism is, it just so happens. They were on the right track; but they were wrong, just the same. Evil is! It exists! And you’ve got to fight it!”
Even Linda, tense and involved, had to admit that the choice of words was unfortunate; they sounded like a parody of a football cheer, and the muffled thud of Andrea’s fist, pounding the arm of the sofa, was equally anticlimactic. Linda was the only one who didn’t smile. Even Andrea looked, momentarily, as if her mouth might relax. But Briggs’s oily chuckle tightened it again.
“You’re the worst of the bunch,” she said obscurely, glaring at the secretary. “You and your damned Lucifer!”
Briggs chortled again, and Michael’s laugh echoed his.
“A singularly appropriate adjective,” he said, grinning.
Linda couldn’t stand it any longer. It was no use. Now she would have to try the other way. She jumped to her feet.
“Isn’t it time for dinner?” she demanded; and without waiting for Gordon’s answer, she went on wildly, “Of all the stupid, idiotic conversations…Let’s talk about heroin, or the crime rate, or something pleasant. And someone get me a drink!”
By the time dinner was over, Linda felt better, except for the bad taste in her mouth, which no variety of food or drink was able to remove. They talked about heroin and the crime rate; about massacres in Iraq and starvation in India and poverty in Appalachia. Briggs gobbled and Andrea ate sloppily, scattering crumbs. Gordon ate almost nothing.
When they went back to the living room for coffee, Andrea lingered, touching Linda’s arm as if she wanted to exchange a word in private. Linda brushed past her. There was no use talking now. Andrea was a fool, like the others, a loud-mouthed, bragging fool. She had done more harm than good. No, there was nothing for it now but to try the only remaining means of approach.
It wasn’t easy to arrange, though. Everyone seemed relaxed and lethargic after a heavy meal and an abundance of wine. Andrea flung herself down in her favorite corner of the sofa. Michael had chosen a chair by the fire; only his long legs and the top of his head were visible. Linda sat on the edge of her chair, nerves prickling. She didn’t see how she was going to manage it. Unless, later…But that was dangerous, roaming the halls alone in the night. And it had to be tonight. He was leaving the next morning.
The fire crackled in the vast stone hearth, but its light was diffused and lost in the brightness of the lamps scattered around the room. The paneled walls and lovely stuccoed moldings of the beamed ceiling were another successful copy of an old English original. She had been unfair, of course, to attribute this artistic servility to Gordon. The house had been built by his grandfather, after his first trip abroad. He had been a parvenu, and nouveau riche, and all the other offensive French snob terms; but Linda supposed she ought to give the old man credit for realizing his own lack of taste. Rather than make a mistake, he had simply copied what he knew to be beyond criticism. It was a fault and a weakness in herself that she preferred to make her own mistakes.