“For what?” her husband responded.
“For the Reverend Krieg.”
In view of the just concluded detailed excoriation of Krieg and his communications empire by nearly everyone in the group, this brought a moment of shocked surprise. Then someone snickered. That broke the ice; everyone roared with laughter. They weren’t laughing at or about Krieg; having done everything short of hanging him in effigy, they all found the idea of waiting dinner for him the height of irony.
When the laughter came under more individual control, the group took note that soup and salad had been served. Somewhat more relaxed, they began to eat.
“I have some little experience with writers. .” Sister Janet spoke rather forcefully. She did not want the conversation to revert to Klaus Krieg again; that would be counterproductive to the harmony and good humor she’d hoped would mark this conference. Thus, the effort to steer the table talk along less controversial lines. “So. .” she proceeded, having gained everyone’s attention, “I feel I’m safe in assuming that none of you has a lot of time for reading. In my experience, this seems to be a common complaint of writers.”
She paused, looking around the table. Her guests, spooning soup or passing salad dressing, nodded agreement and/or facially reflected the futility of finding time, particularly for light reading, while pursuing a writing career.
Sister Janet, having established her premise, pushed on. “Well, I enjoy a little more luxury in this than you do. I’ve been able to read some of all your work.” She turned to Father Benbow. “I haven’t read all your books, Father Benbow. You have been productive. But I have read a couple.
“I think it’s marvelous that you all have been able to communicate an authentic religious experience.”
Sister Marie moved her empty soup bowl aside. “You’re right, of course, Sister. I’ve wanted to read something by each of you. Especially since I knew we all would be getting together for this conference. I just haven’t had the time. But I did learn enough about all of you to know that you all did the very same thing I did. It seems we all followed that sage advice to ‘go with what you know.’ Many of the characters in my book, along with the main character, are nuns. And no one needs to tell me about nuns.
“I’m aware that the protagonist in your books, Father Benbow, is an Episcopal priest; in your book, Father Augustine, a Trappist monk; and in yours, Rabbi Winer, the main character is a rabbi and the setting is a synagogue.
“That’s what you had in mind, wasn’t it, Sister Jan? The authentic religious experience?”
“Exactly. And, as I read your books, I marveled at how each of you was able to invite your readers into your particular religious framework. The interesting thing to me was how you all seemed to accomplish so much with anecdotes.
“And this is what I was getting to: I think it would be interesting if each of you would recount an anecdote from one of your books. The ones that you use all seem to have a purpose in the plot.”
Koesler, feeling more completely left out than he had in a very long time, considered this to be a rather elite exercise in show-and-tell.
“Why don’t we start with you, Sister Marie? Would you tell the story of the nun on the train?”
Marie was reluctant to chance having the just-served beef Stroganoff cool off. Nonetheless, it seemed time to sing for her supper.
“It’s not a perfect example by any means,” Marie began, “but, okay, here goes.
“The story involves a nun on a train. It doesn’t matter where the train is going, say, Chicago to Los Angeles. It’s dinnertime the second day out and the nun goes to the dining car. All the seats are taken except one at a table where two well-dressed men are seated. They invite her to join them. The trio have a pleasant time, and, after dinner, the nun makes to return to her stateroom. But the two men urge her to stay. They contend that since they’ve enjoyed each other’s company at dinner, and since the evening is still young, she should accompany them to the club car.
“Reluctantly, she agrees. So they go to the club car. The waiter asks if they’d like to order drinks. The men each order a Manhattan. They ask if she’d like a drink. She declines politely but firmly. They urge that she join them in a drink. She finally agrees, but she must see to it that no scandal is given: She’ll have a martini, but asks that it be served in a coffee cup.
“The waiter tells the bartender, ‘Two Manhattans up, and a martini in a coffee cup.’
“The bartender looks up and says, ‘Is that damn nun still on this train?’”
While the others were laughing at the story, Sister Marie was able to down a couple of bites of dinner. It was delicious, but definitely cooling.
After the laughter died, Marie added, “That story was helpful in my book because after the nun tells it, she is able to point out the flaws. And they are, of course, anachronistic errors. If the nun was wearing a habit which was that easily recognizable, she undoubtedly would belong to the pre-Vatican II Church-which would date the story sometime no later than the early sixties or any time before that. However, if a nun was traveling anywhere in that era, she would certainly be accompanied by another nun. Nuns simply did not travel alone back then.
“On the other hand, if she was traveling alone, it would place her in the post-Conciliar Church and in all probability she would be wearing ordinary lay clothing with probably no more than a small gold cross to denote her religious status, so that it would be unnecessary for her to worry about taking a martini in a coffee cup for appearance’s sake.
“And when my fictional nun gets done explaining all this, the reader has an added insight into the differences between the pre- and post-Conciliar Church.”
“Now, if that incident had been contained in a P.G. book,” Father Benbow said, “there wouldn’t have been that much time spent in the dining car and the threesome would not have repaired to the club car. All three would have. .” He let his thought drift off unuttered. After all that had been said about the P.G. Press, nothing more need be added.
“Your turn, Father Augustine.” Sister Janet did not want the group’s attention to revert to Krieg. Indeed, she was becoming more grateful that the Reverend Krieg had not yet arrived. “Why don’t you tell us that delightful story you have in A Rose by Any Other Name-the one about the Trappist and the bishop?”
Augustine continued to cut his food and eat it. Koesler noticed that the monk’s hand trembled ever so slightly and his enunciation seemed determinedly articulate. Koesler thought the pattern might be described as overspeak.
“Well,” Augustine said finally, “all right; if you wish. It’s an apocryphal story, you see. In it, a group of monks are working in the field. Being of the Strict Order, they are forbidden to speak to each other-or to anyone, for that matter. So they work all day in complete silence. No one can tell what they’re thinking.
“One day, as it happens, a bishop visits the abbey.” He looked around the table. “Now comes time to explain that while the rule forbids the monks from speaking to each other, they are permitted to speak to their Father Abbot or to a ranking prelate-which would have to be at least a bishop.
“Anyway, this one day, a bishop visits the monastery. The monks are working in the fields as usual. The bishop goes for a walk in the field, ostensibly for exercise, though mostly to see what the monks are up to.
“He comes up to one monk who is digging away at the potato crop. Now the bishop considers himself a better-than-average amateur psychologist. So he says to the monk, ‘Brother, you look very, very sad.’
“The monk stops digging and looks at the speaker. He sees the pectoral cross, recognizes him as a bishop, and realizes they may speak to each other. ‘You’re right, bishop,’ he says, ‘I don’t feel at all happy. Not at all, at all.’
“I guess,” Augustine threw in as an aside, “I guess the monk must’ve been Irish.”