He looked to the audience as if he expected a challenge or question. There was none. He drank more water.
“And then there are specific moralities,” he went on. “Christian morality and Nazi morality differ at their very core conceptions.
“Nazi morality was based on simple principles, monstrous principles. Aryans were superior beings. Because they were superior, they deserved to rule. All others are inferior. Because they are inferior, they do not deserve to exist. This was a given, a supposedly undisputable truth. What is Christian morality based on? Doing good, following the golden rule because it is just and moral and obvious? No, the basis of Christian morality is not that people will behave with a benevolent God-given moral sense, but that they will display a moral sense because there is a reward for doing so.”
A hand shot up in the audience. Welles ignored or didn’t see it. He went on.
“The reward: eternal life, heaven. Christianity is not built on the principle that moral behavior is to be engaged in simply because it is right, but because God wills it and will reward those who practice it. And when one fails to do what the community and they agree is right, they can still gain entry to heaven by a quick repentance and a belief in salvation through Jesus.”
The hand shot up in the audience again. This time Welles saw it and wearily paused, nodding at the young woman, who stood and said, “In your book you say-”
“Forget the book,” Welles said, waving away the young woman, his stack of books on the table below him, the past. “A. A. Milne, in addition to creating Winnie the Pooh, once said that if Jack the Ripper was ever caught, his defense would be that he was only behaving according to the human nature dealt to him.”
“I don’t see-” the young woman said loudly.
“No,” Welles said. “You do not see. Morality is based on the assumption that he who commits an immoral act will be aware of and troubled or plagued by his own guilt. But what if he doesn’t recognize his act, the rape, slaughter or torture, as immoral? Is there such a thing as a moral monster?”
He paused for the young woman to answer, but she was clearly confused and sat down.
“What’s he talkin’ about?” Darrell asked me.
“His conscience,” said Ames.
“All of our consciences,” said one of the women in front of us, turning to face Ames.
“No, ma’am,” said Ames. “Just his own.”
“Exemplo quodcumque malo committitur, ipsi Disclicet auctori. Prima est haec ultio, quod se Judice nemo nocensabsolvitur, ” said Welles. “Juvenal in the Satires. Whatever guilt is perpetrated by some evil prompting is grievous to the author of the crime. This is the first punishment of guilt, that no one who is guilty is acquitted at the judgment seat of his own conscience.”
“But,” came the shout of a young man in the audience, “what if the guilty person is a sociopath or a psychopath and doesn’t believe he is guilty of anything?”
“Then he is fortunate,” said Welles. “He is protected by his own madness. Punishment will never come, only retribution.”
“Do you believe in the death penalty?” someone shouted.
“I’m living it,” Welles said.
“What does that mean?” asked the man who had shouted.
“What does that mean?” Welles repeated, as if asking himself the question for the first time. “It means that the consequence to a person with Judeo-Christian moral principles who violates those principles knowingly is accepting his inevitable punishment.”
“And,” called another voice from the audience, “are there times when a person should knowingly violate those principles, break the law?”
“Yes, if he is willing to accept the consequences,” said Welles.
There was murmuring in the audience. Welles drank some more water and looked around the audience for the first time. His eyes met mine as he scanned. His eyes held mine as he said, “The guilty, those with a conscience, very often seek their own punishment. But sometimes, not often, but sometimes, something transcends simple morality, simple guilt.”
“What?” asked a young woman.
Welles was still looking at me.
“Responsibility for others,” he said.
He forced his eyes from my face, sighed deeply, closed his eyes and said, “Ladies, gentlemen, I’ve been speaking nonsense from the same kind of heat-oppressed brain as that of the Bard’s Macbeth. I’ll stop here and had you paid to enter this theater, I would gladly refund your money. As it is, I suggest that those of you who were considering the purchase of my book, keep your checks and cash in your pockets and handbags and go out and buy yourself a trinket or a good dinner.”
Welles turned to his right and headed offstage. The audience was murmuring in confusion. The woman who had introduced Welles stood up, bewildered.
“He’s drunk,” said one of the women in front of us.
“Let’s go,” said Ames.
The three of us rose and sidled down across the seats to the aisle. We moved to an exit door near the stage and pushed through in time to see Welles go through a courtyard next to the Opera House and turn right.
“I’ll get him,” said Darrell.
Ames grabbed Darrell’s shirt and pulled him back. “Man’s got a gun,” Ames said.
“You sure about that?” asked Darrell.
“Sure enough,” said Ames.
“How we gonna stop him then?” asked Darrell.
Ames pulled back his slicker, showed his sawed-off shotgun and said, “I’, ve got a bigger one.”
“You gonna shoot it out with him?”
“If I have to.”
It was a strange chase. We ran across the street, got into my rental car and I pulled out of the space with a screech of tires, almost colliding with a very large white Cadillac.
I tore out of the entrance, made a right and ran a light going in the direction Welles had run. I made another right but didn’t see him or his damaged Taurus.
“Lost him,” said Darrell. “I knew I should have chased him. I would’ve tackled him like Warren Sapp.”
I slowed down.
“What’re you slowing down for?” asked Darrell. “Let’s find him.”
“I know where to find him,” I said. Dixie had given me Welles’s address. “I’m taking you home.”
“No way,” said Darrell from the backseat. “I’m goin’ with you.”
“Not this time,” I said.
“This is shit, man,” Darrell said, leaning back in the seat, arms folded, scowl on his face. “This is shit.”
Darrell and his mother didn’t live far away, and it was on our way to Bradenton. The building was a low-rent public housing building that had once been middle-class apartments and was now a step up from the streets.
Darrell got out of the car at the door. A quartet of old black men sat in front of the building in folding chairs, talking. They watched as Darrell said, “You gonna shoot the sucker?”
“Not if we can help it,” I said.
“He’s some kind of crazy. You know that?”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Ames or Welles.
“Yes,” I said.
“Hell,” said Darrell, who turned and started to walk toward the old men.
“Next Saturday?” I called through the open window.
“Yeah,” said Darrell, his back turned. “Whatever.”
We drove away.
“What do you think of Darrell?” I asked.
“Like the boy,” said Ames.
After that speech, we drove in silence up Tamiami Trail toward Bradenton.
17
The house was about two blocks south of the Manatee River, old, small, wood frame, painted white. The paint was old, streaked with dark stains. The roof was covered with decaying brown leaves from the tall oak whose branches hung over it. The lawn was dappled with clumps of moist leaves, which matched the ones on the roof.
The house had a tiny porch with a wooden railing and just enough room for a pair of lawn chairs. The surrounding houses were similar but there was no consistent design on the block and there were no people in sight.