Did Erasmus have the scar of a removed tattoo on his left cheekbone? Might John have had one?
There must have been some organization behind the Fools movement. Where were the original Fools? Someone must have known Erasmus.
Who was the David Sawyer whose notes were marked as a personal communication from 1983? A Fool?
Kate wanted more details on the crimes committed by Fools, both misdemeanors and felonies, primarily the names of those arrested for attempted kidnapping (later dropped) and the murder of the bystander in Los Angeles.
The sun had moved, and Kate scooted the pillow across the wooden floor so as to be fully in it again, then opened Professor Whitlaw’s folder, the one with the loose scraps and notes. She picked up one page at random, and read:
It used to be thought that only through the prayers of aescetic monks did the world maintain itself against the forces of evil, that monks were on the front lines of the battle against evil. Now, we are willing to grant monastic orders their place, for those of excessive sensitivity as well as a place of retreat and spiritual renewal for normal people. However, when a monk comes out of his monastery, we are baffled, and when confronted with a Saint Francis making mischief and behaving without a shred of decorum, we call him mad, not holy, and threaten him with iron bars and tranquillisers.
Christianity is, by its core nature, more akin to folly than it is to the Pope’s massive corporation. The central dictate of Christian doctrine is humility, in imitation of Christ’s ultimate self-humbling. Christians are mocked, persecuted, smalclass="underline" The powerful so-called Christian empires are the real perversion of the Gospel, not the Holy 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?”