Tiếng chim hót trong bụi mận gai (6.1) - Colleen McCullough

 2025-02-08

Tiếng chim hót trong bụi mận gai (6.1)

Colleen McCullough

 

Dịch giả: Trung Dũng

từ bản chuyển ngữ tiếng Pháp “Les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir” (Những con chim ẩn mình chờ chết)

Tiếng Anh:

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough

~

 

1954 - 1965

DANE

6.1

Xong rồi, Justine nói với mẹ, con đã quyết định. Con biết sẽ theo nghề nào.

- Mẹ tưởng rằng chuyện xong lâu rồi chứ. Con sẽ theo học ngành mỹ thuật ở trường Đại học Sydney phải không?

- Không đâu mẹ, con nói dối để mẹ yên tâm khi con chuẩn bị kế hoạch. Bây giờ tất cả đã xong, con có thể tiết lộ hết bí mật với mẹ.

Meggie mệt mỏi nhìn Justine, sốt ruột và bất lực. Trước một đứa con cứng đầu, bướng bỉnh như Justine, Meggie đành chịu thôi.

- Vậy con nói hết bí mật của con đi, mẹ sốt ruột quá. Meggie vừa nói vừa tiếp tục chọn từng cái bánh chuẩn bị nướng.

- Con sẽ trở thành diễn viên.

- Sao?

- Diễn viên.

- Chúa ơi! (Meggie tạm ngưng công việc của mình) Justine con nghe đây, mẹ không thích làm con kỳ đà và cũng không có ý định làm buồn phiền con. Nhưng bộ con tưởng con có được nhan sắc để theo nghề đó?

- Không phải như vậy đâu mẹ! Justine tỏ vẻ hơi nản. Không phải tài tử màn ảnh đâu! Mà là diễn viên! Con không chịu làm những cái trò uống éo mông, phô bày bộ ngực hay nút lưỡi đâu. Con muốn đóng kịch. Con có đủ tiền để theo học bất cứ ngành nào con thích chứ?

- Phải! Nhờ sự giúp đỡ của Hồng Y De Bricassart.

- Vậy thì con không bàn lui nữa. Con sẽ theo học lớp kịch của Alber Jones trên sân khấu Culloden và con viết thư cho viện kịch nghệ Hoàng gia ở Luân Đôn để đăng ký vào danh sách chờ đợi.

- Con đã suy nghĩ kỹ chưa, Justine?

- Vâng, con đã suy nghĩ từ lâu.

- Mẹ vẫn không hiểu, Meggie vừa lắc đầu vừa nói một mình. Diễn viên.

Justine nhún vai.

- Mẹ nghĩ coi, con tìm ra nơi nào cho phép con la hét, gầm lên như trên sân khấu? Ở đây thì không thể được rồi, ở nhà trường hay ở một nơi nào khác cũng thế! Con lại thích la hét, chỉ có thế thôi!

- Nhưng con làm thế nào để được chấp nhận học sân khấu Culloden?

- Con đã qua một kỳ trình diễn thử.

- Và con đã trúng tuyển?

- Đúng là mẹ tin cậy ở con gái mình. Đúng thế, con đã trúng tuyển! Con diễn rất tốt mẹ biết không. Một ngày nào đó con sẽ nổi tiếng.

- Con không định lấy chồng?

- Con chẳng nghĩ đến điều ấy nhưng con không thích cuộc sống lại mất thì giờ vào việc lau mũi, rửa đít cho trẻ con. Hoặc chìu chuộng vuốt ve một thằng đàn ông không ra gì mà cứ tưởng mình ngon lắm. Nhất định không.

- Con nói quá đáng Justine ạ. Ma quỉ nào đã dạy con nói cái giọng đó? Con không khác ba con chút nào!

- Cứ mỗi lần con làm sai ý mẹ là mẹ nói giống hệt ba con. Thế thì con phải đành tin lời mẹ vì rằng con chưa bao giờ được gặp con người hào hoa phong nhã ấy.

- Khi nào con đi? Meggie nói sang chuyện khác. Justine cười.

- Mẹ muốn con đi sớm cho khuất mắt mẹ phải không? Con thông cảm mẹ và không giận mẹ chút nào. Mẹ biết không, con không kìm chế được mình trêu chọc người khác, nhất là với mẹ. Mẹ nghĩ sao nếu con xin mẹ đưa con ra sân bay ngày mai?

- Mẹ đề nghị ngày mốt. Ngày mai, mẹ đưa con ra ngân hàng. Con cần biết con có bao nhiêu tiền. Và, này Justine...

Justine đang phụ mẹ làm bánh. Giọng nói đột ngột thay đổi của Meggie khiến cho Justine ngừng tay lại ngước mắt lên nhìn mẹ.

- Mẹ nói đi...

- Nếu một mai con gặp những chuyện buồn phiền, con hãy quay trở về nhà, đừng do dự con nhé. Ở Drogheda luôn có chỗ dành cho con; mẹ muốn con nhớ điều đó. Dù sau này con có làm chuyện gì tồi tệ mấy đi nữa thì điều đó cũng không cản ngăn con trở về đây.

Ánh mắt Justine dịu xuống.

- Cảm ơn mẹ.

° ° °

... Trở lên Sydney, Justine lo chăm sóc ngay sắc đẹp của mình, trước hết tìm cách phá những vết tàn nhang trên mặt, tiếp đó đi mướn một căn hộ riêng gồm hai phòng ở phố Neutral Bay trong chung cư Bothwell Gardens giá năm bảng mười xu mỗi tuần. Chung cư Bothwell Gardens gồm năm căn tất cả. Anh chàng thanh niên người Anh Peter Wilkins ở sát vách tìm mọi cách chinh phục Justine nhưng không thành công. Một hôm anh ta mời Justine sang phòng anh uống trà, lợi dụng dịp này tấn công Justine. Những năm lao động ở Drogheda đã cho Justine sức mạnh phi thường, hơn nữa cô ta cũng không ngần ngại vi phạm luật lệ của môn quyền Anh dùng những cú đấm dưới thắt lưng để tự bảo vệ mình.

- Chúa ơi! Justine! Peter hét lên, đau điếng đến chảy nước mắt. Giữ gìn để làm gì cái quái ấy! Trước sau rồi cũng phải mất thôi! Thời đại nữ hoàng Victoria xưa rồi. Đâu cần gìn giữ cái tiết trinh kín bưng như đóng hộp để làm gì!

- Tôi không có ý định đóng hộp chờ ngày cưới, Justine vừa trả lời vừa sửa lại chiếc váy. Nhưng tôi chưa biết phải dành cho ai vinh dự ấy. Chỉ có thế thôi.

Các bạn trai của Justine tò mò hỏi, khi nào và với ai, Justine sẽ quyết định trở thành một người đàn bà thật sự. Nhưng Justine vẫn không hấp tấp.

Cho đến một hôm Justine lọt vào cặp mắt của Arthur Lestrange. Arthur Lestrange, một diễn viên chuyên đóng vai kép mùi của đoàn kịch Alber Jones, hơn bốn mươi tuổi, gương mặt rất đàn ông, mái tóc dợn sóng, luôn gặt hái sự tán thưởng của khán giả mỗi khi xuất hiện trên sân khấu. Arthur Lestrange chú ý Justine khi Justine diễn một đoạn trong vở Lord Jim của Conrad.

Arthur mời Justine đi uống cà phê. Cuộc nói chuyện giữa hai người dẫn đến đề tài vốn sống cần thiết đối với một kịch sĩ. Justine tự cho mình hiểu gần hết các mặt của cuộc sống. Arthur đề cập đến kinh nghiệm sống, Justine trả lời cho đến nay tôi chỉ cần quan sát.

- À! Nhưng nếu là chuyện tình yêu? Arthur hỏi ngược lại, cố tình chuyển giọng nặng xuống ở chữ cuối cùng - thì làm sao cô có thể đóng vai Julliette mà không biết tình yêu là gì?

- Anh đã thắng một điểm. Tôi hoàn toàn đồng ý với anh.

- Cô có yêu bao giờ chưa?

- Chưa?

- Cô có biết điều gì về tình yêu chưa?

Lần này Arthur nhấn mạnh biết điều gì chứ không phải tình yêu.

- Chưa biết điều gì cả.

- Tôi rất muốn giúp cô biết được thế nào là một người đàn bà - Arthur đột ngột nói.

- Tại sao không? Được rồi, anh đừng dông dài nữa, coi chừng tôi đổi ý bây giờ.

Và chuyện biết được thế nào là một người đàn bà đã xảy ra ngay tối hôm đó tại khách sạn Metropole. Giữa hai người không có tình yêu. Với Justine chủ yếu là tò mò và để có vốn sống mà đóng vai Juliette. Trong suốt quá trình tìm hiểu Justine đòi nhờ Arthur hướng dẫn từng động tác một.

Sáng hôm sau Justine gặp Dane. Trong nhiều mặt, Justine gần gũi với Dane nhiều hơn là mẹ cô gần gũi với cô hay Dane. Mối liên hệ mật thiết giữa Justine và Dane hình thành rất sớm và ngày càng được củng cố. Justine thường kể lể dài dòng với Dane chuyện này chuyện nọ, nên cậu ta hiểu chị mình nhiều hơn là Justine hiểu được em mình: Trong chừng mực nào đó, Dane cho rằng Justine hơi bốc đồng về phương diện đạo đức, mình có nhiệm vụ cảnh giác Justine những điều mà người chị không chú ý đến. Thế là cậu ta chấp nhận đóng vai người nghe kiên nhẫn với một thái độ dịu dàng và một tình thương sâu kín dành cho Justine. Nếu Justine khám phá được những suy nghĩ thầm kín của Dane, cô ta có thể nổi khùng lên.

- Em nói xem tối hôm qua chị làm gì?

- Biểu diễn trong một vai chính? Dane đoán mò.

- Đần! Em tưởng chị cần nói chuyện đó để kéo em tới nhà vỗ tay khen chị à? Ráng động não đi.

- Chị nhận lãnh một cú đấm của Bobbie định tặng cho Billie?

- Em thật ngớ ngẩn!

Hai chị em đang ngồi trên thảm cỏ dưới bóng mát của nhà thờ Đức Mẹ đồng trinh. Dane đã gọi điện thoại yêu cầu gặp Justine để báo cho biết mình sắp dự một lễ đặc biệt trong thánh đường.

Dane vừa kết thúc năm học cuối cùng ở Riverview tốt nghiệp thủ khoa toàn trường, là thủ quân của các đội quần vợt, bóng ném, bóng bầu dục và cricket. Mười bảy tuổi và cao một mét tám mươi lăm.

Hôm nay là một ngày đẹp trời, nắng ấm.

- Thế thì chị đã làm gì đêm qua, Justine?

- Chị đã không còn trinh tiết... , hình như thế.

Dane mở to hai mắt.

- Chị điên rồi!

- Hừm! Chị nghĩ cũng đã đến lúc rồi. Làm sao chị có thể trở thành một diễn viên giỏi nếu chị vẫn mù tịt về những chuyện xảy ra giữa người đàn ông và người đàn bà?

- Đáng lý chị nên dành cho người đàn ông mà chị sẽ lấy làm chồng.

Justine nhìn Dane nhăn mặt tỏ vẻ bực bội.

- Chị nói thật Dane nhé, em bảo thủ đến mức chị phải khó chịu. Nói như em, lỡ như chị không gặp người đàn ông ấy trước bốn mươi tuổi thì sao? Em muốn chị phải làm gì? Chị chỉ được dùng cái mông của chị để ngồi thôi trong suốt thời gian ấy? Em muốn thế phải không? Hay giữ cái đó cho đến ngày em lấy vợ?

- Có lẽ em sẽ không bao giờ lấy vợ.

- Vậy thì chị cũng thế. Trong trường hợp này, tại sao lại gói cái đó cẩn thận, thắt ru-băng màu xanh và cất kỹ trong một cái tủ sắt với những hy vọng hão huyền? Chị chẳng muốn chết một cách ngu đần như thế.

Nhưng rồi cái vẻ bất cần đời ấy bỗng mất đi trên gương mặt của Justine.

- Nhưng bây giờ chị thấy mình xấu xa. Nếu không hiểu rõ em, chị có thể nghĩ rằng em coi thường chị... hay ít ra cũng coi thường động cơ thúc đẩy chị làm chuyện đó.

- Chị rất hiểu em mà. Không khi nào em coi thường chị. Dù cho lý do chị nêu lên quả thật là kỳ cục và ngu ngốc. Em là tiếng nói của lương tâm chị, Justine Ó Neill.

- Nhưng em cũng là một thằng ngốc!

- Ồ, Justine... ! Dane nói giọng buồn bã.

Nhưng Dane chưa kịp kết thúc câu nói thì Justine lại nói tiếp thật nhanh:

- Mãi mãi, mãi mãi, chị sẽ không yêu bất kỳ ai! Nếu mình yêu người khác, người khác sẽ hủy diệt mình. Nếu mình cần người khác, người khác sẽ hủy diệt mình. Đúng thế, chị chắc với em như thế.

° ° °

- Sao mẹ im lặng thế? Dane hỏi. Mẹ đang nghĩ gì? Nghĩ về Drogheda phải không?

- Không, Meggie trả lời lạc giọng. Mẹ nghĩ là mẹ đã già rồi. Sáng nay khi chải đầu mẹ vừa phát hiện nhiều sợi tóc bạc. Các khớp xương của mẹ bắt đầu cứng lại.

- Mẹ sẽ không bao giờ già, Dane khẳng định một cách tự nhiên.

- Mẹ mong con nói đúng, con yêu quí của mẹ. Nhưng tiếc thay sự thật lại không như thế. Mẹ bắt đầu thấy buồn chán, đó là dấu hiệu của tuổi già.

Hai mẹ con đang phơi nắng trên cỏ ở một nơi yên tĩnh.

- Con có nghĩ đến chút nào về phụ nữ không Dane? Meggie hỏi giọng băn khoăn.

Dane mỉm cười.

- Chim và bướm, có phải mẹ muốn nói thế?

- Về chuyện này, con không dốt đâu, nhất là khi có một người chị như Justine! Mỗi khi cô ta khám phá điều gì đó trong quyển sinh lý học thì cô ta la ầm lên. Không phải chuyện đó. Mẹ muốn hỏi con đơn giản thôi, con có từng áp dụng trong thực tế những bài học của Justine.

Dane lắc đầu và trườn lên bãi cỏ đến sát bên mẹ. Cậu ta nhìn thẳng vào mắt:

- Thật cũng lạ khi mẹ hỏi con chuyện này. Lâu rồi con muốn đề cập vấn đề này với mẹ nhưng con không biết phải nói thế nào.

- Con chỉ mới mười tám tuổi. Cũng còn hơi sớm để vận dụng những hiểu biết ấy vào thực tế.

- Đó chính là điều con muốn nói với mẹ. Dứt khoát sẽ không bao giờ con làm như thế!

Gió lạnh như thổi lại từ giữa hai làn nước! Lạ thật, thế mà trước đây không bao giờ Meggie để ý hiện tượng đó. Chiếc áo choàng đâu rồi?

- Không áp dụng lý thuyết vào thực tế. Dứt khoát không áp dụng, Meggie lặp lại bằng một giọng đều đều mà không đặt câu hỏi về ý nghĩa của những lời lẽ ấy.

- Thưa mẹ, đúng như thế. Con không muốn. Không phải vì con không nghĩ tới, hay vì không muốn có vợ. Cũng có lúc con có nghĩ tới đó chứ, nhưng con không thể thực hiện được, vì rằng con không còn chỗ để yêu thương vợ và con cùng một lúc với Chúa. Con nhận ra điều này từ lâu. Con nghĩ rằng con vẫn thấy rõ điều đó và càng đi tới, tình yêu dành cho Chúa càng lớn hơn. Yêu Chúa, đó là một bí ẩn vĩ đại.

Meggie vẫn nằm dài, nhìn chăm chăm vào đôi mắt xanh ấy, đôi mắt bình thản và xa vắng. Đúng là đôi mắt của Ralph không khác một chút nào. Nhưng nó lại ánh lên một thứ lửa hoàn toàn không có ở Ralph. Phải chăng năm mười tám tuổi, đôi mắt của Ralph cũng đã từng ánh lên một thứ lửa ấy. Có phải đây là sự hưng phấn chỉ xuất hiện ở tuổi mười tám? Ngày Meggie bước vào cuộc đời của Ralph thì tuổi mười tám của Ralph đã trôi qua đến mười năm rồi. Nhưng con trai của Meggie là một người sùng tín, Meggie biết rõ điều đó từ lâu.

... Meggie thấy nghẹn ở cổ. Nàng kéo chiếc áo choàng sát vào người.

- Thế là, con đã tự hỏi con có thể làm gì để chứng minh với Chúa rằng con yêu thương Người đến mức nào, Dane nói tiếp. Trước đây con muốn có một cuộc sống của một người đàn ông bình thường. Con rất muốn giữ cuộc sống đó. Nhưng con lại hiểu Chúa chờ đợi gì ở con. Con đã biết... Chỉ có một điều duy nhất mà con có thể hiến dâng cho Người để chứng minh với Người rằng trong trái tim con chỉ có Người mà thôi, ngoài ra không thể có ai khác. Con phải hiến dâng cho Người sự hy sinh mà Người đòi hỏi ở con. Con phải chọn lựa. Người vẫn để cho con hưởng mọi lạc thú, ngoại trừ chuyện ấy. Con cần chứng tỏ với Người rằng con hiểu tại sao Người ưu đãi sự ra đời của con. Con cần chứng tỏ với Người rằng con ý thức về sự vô nghĩa của cuộc sống đàn ông nơi con.

- Không! Con không thể làm thế! Mẹ không bao giờ để cho con làm điều như thế! Meggie kêu lên, bàn tay bấu vào cánh tay con trai.

Làn da của Dane mịn làm sao! Dấu hiệu của một sức lực căng tràn giống như Ralph, hoàn toàn như Ralph! Thế mà từ nay sẽ không có một thiếu nữ nào có thể đặt bàn tay lên làn da ấy.

- Con muốn trở thành linh mục, Dane lại nói tiếp. Con biết không dễ dàng nhưng con đã nhất quyết như vậy.

Đôi mắt Meggie biến sắc! Nàng có cảm giác như Dane đã giết chết mình, đã nghiền nát mình dưới gót giày. Dane không ngờ rằng cậu ta phải hy sinh cả mẹ. Trước đó cậu ta tưởng rằng mẹ mình sẽ vô cùng hãnh diện về con trai, về hạnh phúc được hiến dâng đứa con trai cho Chúa. Thực tế trái lại, Meggie coi cái viễn ảnh Dane trở thành linh mục như một bản án tử hình đối với mình.

- Con không ước muốn điều gì khác mẹ ạ. Dane nói trong thất vọng khi nhìn thấy ánh mắt tắt lịm của mẹ. Mẹ ơi, chẳng lẽ mẹ không hiểu? Con đã không muốn gì và chẳng muốn gì hơn là trở thành linh mục! Con không thể khác hơn là linh mục!

Meggie để bàn tay mình buông thả, không đủ sức nắm cánh tay của con nữa; Dane nhìn xuống và thấy những vết tái hình cung nhỏ do móng tay để lại sâu trên da.

Meggie ngước đầu lên và cười điên dại, những tràng cười cuồng loạn, chua chát, mỉa mai.

- Trời ơi, có lẽ nào đó là sự thật! Một lúc khá lâu Meggie mới nói được trong hơi thở dồn dập, một tay run rẩy lau những giọt nước mắt đọng lại trên má. Thật là trơ trẽn không thể tưởng tượng được! Hồng tro! Anh ấy đã gọi như thế chiều tối hôm phi ngựa đến vũng Borehead. Quả thật lúc đó mình không hiểu anh ấy muốn nói gì khi đề cặp hai tiếng ấy. Con chỉ là tro bụi và con hãy trở về tro bụi. Con thuộc về Giáo hội, phải trả con về với Giáo hội. Ôi! Chúa đáng nguyền rủa! Chúa xấu xa! Kẻ thù tệ hại nhất của những người phụ nữ. Chúa là thế đó! Tất cả những gì mình nỗ lực xây dựng, Người làm mọi cách để phá đổ!

- Ôi, không phải thế đâu, không phải thế đâu mẹ ạ. Con van lạy mẹ!

Dane ôm mẹ khóc. Trong sự đau khổ của Meggie cậu ta không hiểu được lý do, cũng như không hiểu được ý nghĩa những gì mà Meggie đã nói. Nước mắt chảy dài xuống, trái tim thắt lại; thế là sự hy sinh đã xảy ra rồi mà cậu ta không hề nghĩ đến. Nhưng, dù khó vì nỗi đau mẹ, cậu ta vẫn không từ bỏ ý nghĩ hiến mình cho Chúa, không thể vì mẹ mà từ bỏ sự chọn lựa của mình. Sự hiến dâng cho Chúa phải được thực hiện, thực hiện càng khó khăn thì nó càng có giá trị trước Người.

Meggie đã làm cho con trai khóc; cho tới nay Dane chưa từng khóc do lỗi lầm của chính cậu ta gây ra. Thật là bất công nếu đổ trút lên con hình phạt mà mình phải gánh chịu. Dane không thể nào khác hơn con người mà những gen của nó đã hình thành hoặc Chúa đã hình thành. Chúa của Ralph. Đứa con trai yêu dấu ấy là ánh sáng của đời nàng. Không thể để nó đau khổ vì nàng, không thể được.

- Dane, con đừng khóc, Meggie thì thầm vừa vuốt ve những vết bầm hằn sâu trên cánh tay đầy lông tơ của Dane, hậu quả của một lúc giận dữ. Mẹ rất ân hận. Mẹ ăn nói lung tung. Mẹ bị bất ngờ quá có thế thôi. Tất nhiên là mẹ vui sướng vì con, vui sướng thật sự. Tại sao mẹ lại không vui nhỉ? Con dội cho mẹ cái tin ấy mà không chuẩn bị trước gì cả, con biết không?

Ánh mắt của Dane sáng lên, nhìn mẹ không chút nghi ngờ. Tại sao Dane lại tưởng tượng một cách vô lý rằng mình đã giết chết mẹ? Bây giờ thì đúng là đôi mắt của mẹ, đôi mắt Dane quen thuộc và tràn đầy yêu thương, đôi mắt thật sinh động. Dane ôm mẹ trong vòng tay khỏe mạnh của cậu, siết mạnh mẹ vào lòng ngực.

- Mẹ nói thật là việc này không làm mẹ ưu phiền chứ?

- Sao lại ưu phiền? Một người mẹ công giáo tốt lại ưu phiền khi hay con mình muốn trở thành linh mục sao? Hoàn toàn không thể có chuyện đó (Meggie đứng phắt lên). Trời lạnh rồi đó! Mẹ con mình về đi.

Hai mẹ con đã đến đây trên chiếc Land Rover; Dane ngồi vào tay lái, Meggie kế bên.

- Con tính sẽ đi học ở đâu? Nuốt nước mắt, Meggie hỏi.

- Có thể ở tu viện Thánh Patrick. Dù sao cũng còn phải chờ lúc con có quyết định dứt khoát. Con cũng thích trở thành tu sĩ dòng Tên, nhưng bây giờ con vẫn chưa thấy thật chắc chắn.

Meggie nhìn đăm đăm những lớp cỏ ngà màu nâu lần lượt rạp xuống trước đầu xe, kính chắn gió trước mặt lấm tấm đầy xác côn trùng.

- Mẹ có một ý kiến rất hay, Dane ạ.

- Ý kiến gì thưa mẹ?

- Mẹ sẽ gởi con đến La Mã, đến Hồng Y De Bricassart. Con nhớ Ngài chứ?

- Con nhớ Ngài không ạ - Sao mẹ lại hỏi lạ lùng vậy? Không thể nào con quên được Ngài. Với con, Ngài là hiện thân của một con người hoàn thiện. Nếu con phấn đấu được theo gương của Ngài thì con mãn nguyện vô cùng.

- Sự hoàn thiện cũng chỉ là tương đối con ạ. Meggie nhận xét không giấu được chút cay đắng. Nhưng mẹ giao con cho Ngài vì mẹ biết rằng Ngài sẽ chăm sóc con chu đáo, như thế đủ cho mẹ vui lòng. Con có thể vào một tu viện ở La Mã.

- Có thật không mẹ? Thật chứ? Ánh mắt Dane rực sáng niềm vui mờ nhạt tất cả nỗi âu lo. Nhưng mà nhà mình có đủ tiền cho con vào tu viện ở La Mã không? Sẽ tốn kém hơn nhiều so với việc học tại Úc.

- Tiền bạc cũng lại nhờ vào chính Đức Hồng Y De Bricassart. Con yêu thương của mẹ, con không bao giờ thiếu tiền đâu.

Về đến nhà, người đầu tiên Meggie gặp là bà Anne.

Từ mười tám năm nay, vợ chồng Luddie hàng năm đều đến nghỉ hè ở Drogheda và họ nghĩ rằng sẽ còn rất lâu như thế. Nhưng vào mùa thu năm trước Luddie Mueller đột ngột qua đời. Meggie đã viết thư đề nghị Anne đến sống hẳn ở Drogheda; ở đây thật sự có thể đùm bọc cùng một lúc cả ngàn người khách. Nhưng để tránh cho Anne tự ái, Meggie gợi ý nếu bà muốn có thể góp một số tiền nào đó. Thật tâm, Meggie muốn trả ơn gia đình Mueller về những năm nàng sống cô độc ở miền Bắc Queensland.

- Có chuyện gì đó Meggie, Anne hỏi.

Meggie ngồi phịch xuống ghế.

- Em có cảm tưởng như vừa bị quật ngã bởi một tia chớp xử tội em.

- Sao?

- Chị và mẹ em, hai người đều có lý. Hai người đã tiên toán rằng mình sẽ mất nó. Em đã không tin. Em thật sự tưởng rằng em mạnh hơn Chúa, nhưng không bao giờ một người phụ nữ lại có thể đối đầu với Chúa được. Chúa là một người đàn ông.

Fiona rót một tách trà cho con gái.

- Con uống đi, bà nói như ra lệnh. Con đã mất nó như thế nào?

- Dane muốn trở thành linh mục.

Một tiếng cười gằn chen lẫn trong những tiếng khóc. Anne với lấy hai cây gậy, đi khập khiễng đến chiếc ghế bành của Meggie, vụng về ngồi lên trên tay ghế và vuốt mái tóc vàng hung óng ả của nàng.

- Ồ, em của chị! Như thế có gì là ghê gớm đâu!

- Cô có biết chuyện của Dane không? Fiona quay qua Anne hỏi.

- Cháu biết từ lâu, Anne đáp.

Meggie dịu xuống:

- Không có gì ghê gớm lắm phải không mẹ? Đây là điểm khởi đầu của một sự kết thúc. Con đã cướp Ralph của Chúa và bây giờ con phải trả lại cho Chúa chính đứa con trai của con. Mẹ đã nói với con rằng đó là sự cướp đoạt, mẹ có nhớ không? Lúc đó con không chịu tin mẹ nhưng bây giờ mẹ có lý, luôn luôn là như vậy.

- Nó sẽ vào tu viện Thánh Patrick? Fiona hỏi, bà luôn luôn thực tế.

Meggie cười vang, mẹ ạ. Không, con sẽ gởi Dane cho Ralph. Phân nửa con người Dane là của Ralph. Nó có thể dựa vào Ralph. Đối với con, Dane quan trọng hơn Ralph. Con biết Dane muốn đến La Mã.

- Em có thú nhận cho Ralph biết ông ấy là cha của Dane không? Lần đầu Anne đề cập đến vấn đề này.

- Không, không bao giờ em nói cho Ralph biết điều đó. Không bao giờ chị ạ.

- Hai người rất giống nhau đến mức không thể không nhận ra.

- Ai? Ralph à? Ông ấy chẳng hề hay biết gì cả! Em sẽ giữ bí mật của em. Em gởi đến cho ông ấy đứa con của em. Chứ không phải đứa con của ông ấy.

- Coi chừng, đó lại là sự ghen tuông với thánh thần, Meggie - Anne nói thật nhỏ. Thánh thần chưa để em yên đâu.

- Em còn phải chịu hành phạt nào khác nữa? Meggie hỏi lại trong tiếng thở dài.

Chiếc xe hơi của Vatican đến rước Dane tại sân bay và đưa Dane đi qua các con đường ngập nắng đông đúc những người đi dạo.

Vừa ăn kem Dane vừa thích thú tò mò khám phá những bức tượng mà trước đây cậu ta chỉ nhìn thấy trong ảnh, những cột thời La Mã, những lâu đài xưa, Thánh đường Saint Peter niệm tự hào của phục hưng.

Và tại đây, Ralph đón Dane, lần này từ đầu đến chân ông mặc toàn màu đỏ thắm. Ralph chìa bàn tay ra, chiếc nhẫn lấp lánh. Dane sụp quỳ xuống, hôn viên hồng ngọc.

- Con hãy đứng lên, để cha ngắm nhìn con một chút nào?

Dane đứng dậy, nụ cười trên môi, nhìn con người to lớn, có chiều cao như mình. Cả hai có thể nhìn nhau trong mắt. Với Dane, ở Hồng Y De Bricassart tỏa ra vầng hào quang chứa đựng một quyền lực tinh thần đặt ông vào tư thế một giáo chủ hơn là một vị thánh. Thế nhưng, đôi mắt ấy lại ngập tràn một nỗi buồn u uẩn, lại càng không phải là đôi mắt của một người giáo chủ. Ôi, ông đã trải qua biết bao đau khổ khiến cho đôi mắt còn đọng lại nỗi buồn ấy, nhưng ông đã vượt lên sự đau khổ một cách cao thượng để trở thành vị linh mục hoàn toàn giữa chúng ta.

Trong khi đó Hồng Y De Bricassart nhìn đứa con trai mà ông không biết đó là con mình. Ông yêu thương Dane vì ông nghĩ rằng đó là con của Meggie yêu dấu. Nếu ông có một đứa con trai, ông rất muốn nó giống như chàng trai đứng trước mặt ông, cũng cao lớn, có một nét đẹp thu hút và có duyên.

Nhưng ông bằng lòng hơn tất cả là những nét hấp dẫn về thể hình, ở Dane hiện rõ cái đẹp và sự giản dị của tâm hồn. Dane có sức mạnh của những thiên thần và phần nào đó là sự cao cả của họ. Bản thân ông có được như thế ở tuổi mười tám không? Ralph cố nhớ lại và khơi dậy trong trí nhớ biết bao sự kiện của mọt cuộc đời đã về chiều... Không. Ông không hề có những gì như Dane hôm nay. Phải chăng vì con người này đã thật sự đến với Chúa do sự chọn lựa của chính mình. Còn với ông, thì không phải như thế, dù cho ông có thiên hướng. Về điều này ông nhớ rất kỹ.

- Con hãy ngồi xuống, Dane. Con có làm theo lời cha căn dặn, đã bắt đầu học tiếng Ý chưa?

- Con đã đạt trình độ có thể nói trôi chảy nhưng chưa sử dụng thành thạo các thành ngữ. Con đọc rất dễ dàng, vì đây là sinh ngữ thứ tư của con nên việc học cũng thuận lợi. Vài tuần lễ ở Ý sẽ giúp con làm quen với ngôn ngữ bình dân.

Em giao cho anh trách nhiệm chăm sóc Dane - thư của Meggie viết. - Cuộc sống yên vui và hạnh phúc của nó tùy thuộc vào anh. Em đã lấy cắp cái gì, em xin trả lại cái đó. Người ta buộc em như thế. Chỉ xin anh hứa với em hai điều để em yên tâm là anh hết lòng lo cho Dane. Thứ nhất, anh hứa với em trước khi Dane có một sự chọn lựa dứt khoát chính anh phải hiểu rõ một cách chắn chắn thiên hướng thật sự của Dane. Thứ hai, nếu thiên hướng của Dane là đúng như vậy, anh hãy trông nom làm sao cho sự lựa chọn ấy không bị chao đảo. Còn ngược lại, em muốn Dane trở về với em. Vì trước hết, nó thuộc về em. Chính em đã trao nó vào tay anh.

- Dane, con có tin chắc vào thiên hướng của con?

- Chắc chắn thưa Đức cha.

- Tại sao?

- Vì tình yêu mà con dành cho Chúa; con muốn được phục vụ Chúa, suốt đời là người chăn dắt con chiên cho Chúa.

- Con có hiểu điều gì đòi hỏi ở người làm tôi tớ của Chúa?

- Con hiểu.

- Rằng không có một tình yêu nào khác được chen vào giữa Chúa và con? Con hoàn toàn thuộc về Chúa và từ bỏ tất cả?

- Thưa vâng.

- Rằng mọi việc đều hành xử theo ý muốn của Người; khi trở thành tôi tớ của Người, con phải từ bỏ nhân cách, cá nhân của con, từ bỏ ý nghĩ cho rằng bản thân con là quan trọng?

- Thưa vâng.

- Rằng con sẵn sàng đối đầu với cái chết, tù tội, cái đói nhân danh Người? Rằng con sẽ không sở hữu bất cứ cái gì, không để cho bất cứ cái gì ảnh hưởng xấu đến tình yêu của con hiến dâng cho Người?

- Thưa vâng.

- Con có nghị lực không Dane?

- Con là một người đàn ông. Con biết rằng sẽ rất khó khăn nhưng con cầu nguyện Người giúp con.

- Con có thật sự tin ở con không Dane? Không có điều gì khác có thể làm con sa ngã?

- Thưa vâng.

- Và nếu sau này, con thấy cần thay đổi ý kiến con sẽ làm thế nào?

- Con sẽ xin rời khỏi nơi đây, Dane trả lời, vẻ ngạc nhiên. Nếu con thay đổi ý kiến, duy nhất chỉ vì con sai lầm khi định ra thiên hướng của mình, chứ không do một nguyên nhân nào khác. Trong trường hợp này, con sẽ xin rời khỏi nơi đây. Con sẽ tiếp tục yêu Người nhưng con hiểu ra rằng không phải bằng cách này Người muốn con phục vụ cho Giáo hội.

- Nhưng khi con đã phát nguyện và đã được thụ phong con phải biết rằng con không trở lui lại được nữa, con sẽ không có cách nào để giành lại sự tự do của con.

- Thưa Đức cha con hiểu, Dane kiên trì khẳng định. Nhưng nếu phải lấy một quyết định thì con sẽ làm việc đó trước khi con phát nguyện.

Hồng Y De Bricassart ngả lưng vào ghế bành, thở ra. Xưa kia ông đã từng có một quyết tâm như thế. Có bao giờ ông đã chứng tỏ một nghị lực như thế?

- Tại sao con tìm đến ta hở Dane? Tại sao con lại mong muốn đến La Mã? Tại sao không ở Úc?

- Mẹ con đã có ý nghĩ đưa con đến La Mã nơi mà chính con cũng mơ ước từ lâu. Nhưng trước kia con không tin rằng gia đình có đủ tiền gửi con đến đây.

- Mẹ con rất sáng suốt. Và mẹ con đã nói cho con biết rõ chứ?

- Biết chuyện gì thưa Đức cha?

- Biết rằng hằng năm con có một khoản tiền năm ngàn bảng và hiện trong ngân hàng con có một số tiền dành dụm lên đến vài chục ngàn.

Dane giật mình.

- Không, mẹ con chưa bao giờ nói với con điều đó.

- Đúng là mẹ con rất thận trọng. Nhưng bây giờ con đã biết con có sẵn một số tiền như thế, vậy con có muốn ở lại La Mã không?

- Thưa vâng.

Điện thoại reo, Hồng y thản nhiên nhấc ống và trả lời bằng tiếng Ý.

- Vâng cảm ơn. Chúng tôi sẽ đến ngay (Hồng Y đứng lên). Đã đến giờ uống trà, chúng ta sẽ uống trà với một trong những người bạn già thân nhất của cha. Sau Đức Thánh cha ông ấy là người quan trọng nhất trong Giáo hội. Cha đã báo cáo với Đức ngài về sự có mặt của con và Ngài có ý muốn gặp con.

Vittorio Scarbanza tức Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese đã sáu mươi sáu tuổi, bị phong thấp nặng nhưng đầu óc vẫn bén nhạy như ngày nào. Con mèo cái của ông - Natasha - đang nằm ngủ trên đùi. Ông không thể đứng lên chào khách nhưng tươi cười và dùng đầu ra dấu mời khách đến gần. Đôi mắt ông nhìn bắt gặp vẻ gì đó rất quen thuộc. Đôi mắt ông mở to rồi nhíu lại. Ông cảm thấy tim ông như ngừng lại và đưa tay lên ngực với một cử chỉ có vẻ tự trấn an. Một lúc sau miệng há hốc và ánh mắt vẫn nhìn thẳng anh thanh niên có gương mặt giống hệt De Bricassart như một bản sao.

- Vittorio, có sao không? Hồng Y De Bricassart vừa âu lo vừa cầm lấy tay của Di Contini Verchese để xem mạch.

- Không sao. Một cơn đau nhẹ thoáng qua, thế thôi. Hai người ngồi xuống đi, xin mời.

Dane quỳ xuống, áp mạnh môi lên chiếc nhẫn.

- Con hãy ngồi. Một lát nữa hãy pha trà. À, ông bạn thanh niên, con muốn trở thành linh mục phải không và con tự đặt mình dưới sự che chở của Hồng Y De Bricassart?

- Thưa Đức cha, vâng.

- Sự chọn lựa của con thật đúng. Được Hồng Y De Bricassart bảo trợ con khỏi phải e ngại điều gì không hay xảy ra. Nhưng sao cha thấy con có vẻ âu lo, phải chăng vì con chưa quen nơi này.

Dane mỉm cười, cũng lại nụ cười duyên dáng của Ralph mà chính anh không hề biết. Nụ cười ấy giống Ralph đến đỗi khiến cho trái tim già nua và mệt mỏi nhói lên như vừa bị một mũi nhọn kẽm gai đâm vào.

- Con bối rối, thưa Đức cha. Con hoàn toàn bất ngờ và xúc động vì đứng trước các Hồng Y. Con không bao giờ dám mơ ước được có người đón ở phi trường và càng không dám nghĩ được uống trà với Đức cha.

- Đúng thế, đây là chuyện bất thường. À, đã có trà... Ông theo dõi bằng ánh mắt vui vẻ vị nữ tu đang đặt tách đĩa, rồi đưa ngón tay lên để ngăn Ralph lại. À, không! Hãy để cho tôi đóng vai chủ nhà. Dane, con thích uống trà thế nào?

- Thưa cũng như Ralph, trả lời xong cậu đỏ mặt. Xin lỗi Đức cha, con không có ý định gọi như thế...

- Không sao Dane à, Ralph cắt ngang. Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese không bắt lỗi con đâu. Chúng ta đã gặp và quen nhau bằng cách gọi nhau Dane và Ralph. Và như thế chúng ta sẽ thân thiết nhau hơn nhiều, phải không? Nghi thức chỉ tạo sự xa lạ hoàn toàn trong các quan hệ giữa chúng ta. Tôi muốn chúng ta vẫn là Dane và Ralph trong thân tình; Đức cha không thấy gì bất tiện chứ?

- Không. Ralph là người ủng hộ việc gọi nhau bằng tên. Nhưng, trở lại chuyện đang nói dở dang lúc nãy cha nghĩ đến việc con có những người bạn có chức vị cao - chẳng hạn như mối quan hệ tình bạn lâu ngày với Ralph - sẽ gây phiền phức cho con khi con đặt chân vào tu viện nào đó mà Ralph sẽ chọn lựa cho con. Thật là bực bội nếu phải luôn luôn giải thích dài dòng mỗi khi mối quan hệ giữa hai người gây nên sự chú ý. Đôi khi, Chúa của chúng ta cho phép nói láo một cách thành khẩn. Vì lợi ích chung, ta thấy tốt hơn nên bẻ cong một chút sự thật. Do rất khó giải thích cho suôn sẻ các mối quan hệ tình cảm riêng tư, tốt hơn là nên nêu ra mối liên hệ dòng họ. Như thế chúng ta có thể nói với mọi người rằng Hồng y De Bricassart là cậu của con, Dane và chúng ta dừng lại ở mối quan hệ đó. Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese kết thúc bằng một giọng ngọt ngào.

Dane hơi bị khó chịu về những điều vị Hồng Y nói, còn Ralph thì cúi đầu im lặng.

Hồng Y Di Contini Verchese dịu dàng nói tiếp:

- Con đừng thất vọng vì các tên tuổi nổi tiếng cũng có những đôi chân bằng đất sét và có khi họ cũng cần nói láo để giữ được một sự yên ổn nào đó. Con vừa học được một bài học rất bổ ích. Tuy nhiên con phải hiểu, các Hồng Y là những nhà ngoại giao rất sâu sắc. Thật ra, ta chỉ nghĩ đến con, chỉ vì con thôi, Dane ạ. Lòng ghen tị và sự thù ghét cũng phổ biến trong các tu viện chẳng khác nào các trường học ngoài đời. Con sẽ phải chịu đựng một chút vì người ta cho rằng Ralph là cậu của con, anh của mẹ con, nhưng con sẽ phải chịu đựng nhiều hơn nếu người ta nghĩ rằng giữa hai người không có một mối liên hệ bà con nào cả. Chúng ta trước hết là những con người vì thế mà phải đối đầu với con người trong môi trường này hoặc môi trường khác.

Dane cúi đầu, rồi chồm ra phía trước định đưa tay vuốt ve con mèo cái nhưng anh kịp dừng lại.

- Con xin phép... Con rất yêu mèo, thưa Đức cha.

Thái độ của Dane khiến tấm lòng trung thực của Hồng Y Di Contini rộng mở:

- Vâng. Ta phải thú nhận rằng bây giờ nó hơi nặng ký vì ăn hơi nhiều... Phải không Natasha? Con qua Dane đi, hãy đến với thế hệ mới.

° ° °

➖➖➖

Phần tiếng Anh

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough

---

SIX

1954-1965 Dane

6.1

 

“Well,” said Justine to her mother, “I've decided what I'm going to do.” “I thought it was already decided. Arts at Sydney University, isn't that right?”

“Oh, that was just a red herring to lull you into a false sense of security while I made my plans. But now it's all set, so I can tell you.” Meggie's head came up from her task, cutting fir-tree shapes in cookie dough; Mrs. Smith was ill and they were helping out in the cookhouse. She regarded her daughter wearily, impatiently, helplessly. What could one do with someone like Justine? If she announced she was going off to train as a whore in a Sydney bordello, Meggie very much doubted whether she could be turned aside. Dear, horrible Justine, queen among juggernauts.

“Go on, I'm all agog,” she said, and went back to producing cookies. “I'm going to be an actress.”

“A what?”

“An actress.”

“Good Lord!” The fir trees were abandoned again. “Look, Justine, I hate to be a spoilsport and truly I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but do you think you're-well, quite physically equipped to be an actress?” “Oh, Mum!” said Justine, disgusted. “Not a film star; an actress! I don't want to wiggle my hips and stick out my breasts and pout my wet lips! I want to act.” She was pushing chunks of defatted beef into the corning barrel. “I have enough money to support myself during whatever sort of training I choose, isn't that right?”

“Yes, thanks to Cardinal de Bricassart.”

“Then it's all settled. I'm going to study acting with Albert Jones at the Culloden Theater, and I've written to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, asking that I be put on their waiting list.”

“Are you quite sure, Jussy?”

“Quite sure. I've known for a long time.” The last piece of bloody beef was tucked down under the surface of the corning solution; Justine put the lid on the barrel with a thump. “There! I hope I never see another bit of corned beef as long as I live.”

Meggie handed her a completed tray of cookies. “Put these in the oven, would you? Four hundred degrees. I must say this comes as something of a surprise. I thought little girls who wanted to be actresses roleplayed constantly, but the only person I've ever seen you play has been yourself.” “Oh, Mum! There you go again, confusing film stars with actresses. Honestly, you're hopeless.”

“Well, aren't film stars actresses?”

“Of a very inferior sort. Unless they've been on the stage first, that is. I mean, even Laurence Olivier does an occasional film.”

There was an autographed picture of Laurence Olivier on Justine's dressing table; Meggie had simply deemed it juvenile crush stuff, though at the time she remembered thinking at least Justine had taste. The friends she sometimes brought home with her to stay a few days usually treasured pictures of Tab Hunter and Rory Calhoun. “I still don't understand,” said Meggie, shaking her head. “An actress!” Justine shrugged. “Well, where else can I scream and yell and howl but on a stage? I'm not allowed to do any of those here, or at school, or anywhere! I like screaming and yelling and howling, dammit!” “But you're so good at art, Jussy! Why not be an artist?” Meggie persevered.

Justine turned from the huge gas stove, flicked her finger against a cylinder gauge. “I must tell the kitchen rouseabout to change bottles; we're low. It'll do for today, though.” The light eyes surveyed Meggie with pity. “You're so impractical, Mum, really. I thought it was supposed to be the children who didn't stop to consider a career's practical aspects. Let me tell you, I don't want to starve to death in a garret and be famous after I'm dead. I want to enjoy a bit of fame while I'm still alive, and be very comfortable financially. So I'll paint as a hobby and act for a living. How's that?”

“You've got an income from Drogheda, Jussy,” Meggie said desperately, breaking her vow to remain silent no matter what. “It would never come to starving in a garret. If you'd rather paint, it's all right. You can.” Justine looked alert, interested. “How much have I got, Mum?” “Enough that if you preferred, you need never work at anything.” “What a bore! I'd end up talking on the telephone and playing bridge; at least that's what the mothers of most of my school friends do. Because I'd be living in Sydney, not on Drogheda. I like Sydney much better than Drogheda.” A gleam of hope entered her eye. “Do I have enough to pay to have my freckles removed with this new electrical treatment?”

“I should think so. But why?”

“Because then someone might see my face, that's why.”

I thought looks didn't matter to an actress?”

“Enough's enough, Mum. My freckles are a pain.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather be an artist?” “Quite sure, thank you.” She did a little dance. “I'm going to tread the boards, Mrs. Worthington!”

“How did you get yourself into the Culloden?” “I auditioned.”

“And they took you?”

“Your faith in your daughter is touching, Mum. Of course they took me! I'm superb, you know. One day I shall be very famous.”

Meggie beat green food coloring into a bowl of runny icing and began to drizzle it over already baked fir trees. “Is it important to you, Justine? Fame?”

“I should say so.” She tipped sugar in on top of butter so soft it had molded itself to the inner contours of the bowl; in spite of the gas stove instead of the wood stove, the cookhouse was very hot. “I'm absolutely iron-bound determined to be famous.”

“Don't you want to get married?”

Justine looked scornful. “Not bloody likely! Spend my life wiping snotty noses and cacky bums? Salaaming to some man not half my equal even though he thinks he's better? Ho ho ho, not me!”

“Honestly, you're the dizzy limit! Where do you pick up your language?” Justine began cracking eggs rapidly and deftly into a basin, using one hand. “At my exclusive ladies” college, of course.” She drubbed the eggs unmercifully with a French whisk. “We were quite a decent bunch of girls, actually. Very cultured. It isn't every gaggle of silly adolescent females can appreciate the delicacy of a Latin limerick:

There was a Roman from Vinidium Whose shirt was made of iridium;

When asked why the vest, He replied, “Id est Bonum sanguinem praesidium.”

Meggie's lips twitched. “I'm going to hate myself for asking, but what did the Roman say?” was “It's a bloody good protection.”

“Is that all? I thought it was going to be a lot worse. You surprise me. But getting back to what we were saying, dear girl, in spite of your neat effort to change the subject, what's wrong with marriage?” Justine imitated her grandmother's rare snort of ironic laughter. “Mum! Really! You're a fine one to ask that, I must say.”

Meggie felt the blood well up under her skin, and looked down at the tray of bright-green trees. “Don't be impertinent, even if you are a ripe old seventeen.”

“Isn't it odd?” Justine asked the mixing bowl. “The minute one ventures onto strictly parental territory, one becomes impertinent. I just said: You're a fine one to ask. Perfectly true, dammit! I'm not necessarily implying you're a failure, or a sinner, or worse. Actually I think you've shown remarkable good sense, dispensing with your husband. What have you needed one for? There's been tons of male influence for your children with the Unks around, you've got enough money to live on. I agree with you! Marriage is for the birds.”

“You're just like your father!”

“Another evasion. Whenever I displease you, I become just like my father. Well, I'll have to take your word for that, since I've never laid eyes on the gentleman.”

“When are you leaving?” Meggie asked desperately. Justine grinned. “Can't wait to get rid of me, eh? It's all right, Mum, I don't blame you in the least. But I can't help it, I just love shocking people, especially you. Hew about taking me into the 'drome tomorrow?” “Make it the day after. Tomorrow I'll take you to the bank. You'd better know how much you've got. And, Justine ...” Justine was adding flour and folding expertly, but she looked up at the change in her mother's voice. “Yes.

“If ever you're in trouble, come home, please. We've always got room for you on Drogheda, I want you to remember that. Nothing you could ever do would be so bad you couldn't come home.”

Justine's gaze softened. “Thanks, Mum. You're not a bad old stick underneath, are you?”

“Old?” gasped Meggie. “I am not old! I'm only forty-three!” “Good Lord, as much as that?”

Meggie hurled a cookie and hit Justine on the nose. “Oh, you wretch!” she laughed. “What a monster you are! Now I feel like a hundred.”

Her daughter grinned.

At which moment Fee walked in to see how things in the cookhouse were going; Meggie hailed her arrival with relief.

“Mum, do you know what Justine just told me?” Fee's eyes were no longer up to anything beyond the uttermost effort of keeping the books, but the mind at back of those smudged pupils was as acute as ever.

“How could I possibly know what Justine just told you?” she inquired mildly, regarding the green cookies with a slight shudder. “Because sometimes it strikes me that you and Jussy have little secrets from me, and now, the moment my daughter finishes telling me her news, in you walk when you never do.”

“Mmmmmm, at least they taste better than they look,” commented Fee, nibbling. “I assure you, Meggie, I don't encourage your daughter to conspire with me behind your back. What have you done to upset the applecart now, Justine?” she asked, turning to where Justine was pouring her sponge mixture into greased and floured tins. “I told Mum I was going to be an actress, Nanna, that's all.” “That's all, eh? Is it true, or only one of your dubious jokes?” “Oh, it's true. I'm starting at the Culloden.”

“Well, well, well!” said Fee, leaning against the table and surveying her own daughter ironically. “Isn't it amazing how children have minds of their own, Meggie?”

Meggie didn't answer.

“Do you disapprove, Nanna?” Justine growled, ready to do battle.

“I? Disapprove? It's none of my business what you do with your life, Justine. Besides, I think you'll make a good actress.”

“You do?” gasped Meggie.

“Of course she will,” said Fee. “Justine's not the sort to choose unwisely, are you, my girl?”

“No.” Justine grinned, pushing a damp curl out of her eye. Meggie watched her regarding her grandmother with an affection she never seemed to extend to her mother.

“You're a good girl, Justine,” Fee pronounced, and finished the cookie she had started so unenthusiastically. “Not bad at all, but I wish you'd iced them in white.”

“You can't ice trees in white,” Meggie contradicted. “Of course you can when they're firs; it might be snow,” her mother said. “Too late now, they're vomit green,” laughed Justine. “Justine!”

“Ooops! Sorry, Mum, didn't mean to offend you. I always forget you've got a weak stomach.”

“I haven't got a weak stomach,” said Meggie, exasperated. “I came to see if there was any chance of a cuppa,”

Fee broke in, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Put on the kettle, Justine, like a good girl.”

Meggie sat down, too. “Do you really think this will work out for Justine, Mum?” she asked anxiously.

“Why shouldn't it?” Fee answered, watching her granddaughter attending to the tea ritual.

“It might be a passing phase.”

“Is it a passing phase, Justine?” Fee asked.

“No,” Justine said tersely, putting cups and saucers on the old green kitchen table.

“Use a plate for the biscuits, Justine, don't put them out in their barrel,” said Meggie automatically, “and for pity's sake don't dump the whole milk can on the table, put some in a proper afternoon tea jug.” “Yes, Mum, sorry, Mum,” Justine responded, equally mechanically. “Can't see the point of frills in the kitchen. All I've got to do is put whatever isn't eaten back where it came from, and wash up a couple of extra dishes.” “Just do as you're told; it's so much nicer.”

“Getting back to the subject,” Fee pursued, “I don't think there's anything to discuss. It's my opinion that Justine ought to be allowed to try, and will probably do very well.”

“I wish I could be so sure,” said Meggie glumly. “Have you been on about fame and glory, Justine?” her grandmother demanded. “They enter the picture,” said Justine, putting the old brown kitchen teapot on the table defiantly and sitting down in a hurry. “Now don't complain, Mum; I'm not making tea in a silver pot for the kitchen and that's final.”

“The teapot is perfectly appropriate.” Meggie smiled. “Oh, that's good! There's nothing like a nice cup of tea,” sighed Fee, sipping. “Justine, why do you persist in putting things to your mother so badly? You know it isn't a question of fame and fortune. It's a question of self, isn't it?”

“Self, Nanna?”

“Of course. Self. Acting is what you feel you were meant to do, isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why couldn't you have explained it so to your mother? Why upset her with a lot of flippant nonsense?”

Justine shrugged, drank her tea down and pushed the empty cup toward her mother for more. “Dunno,” she said.

“I-dont-know,” Fee corrected. “You'll articulate properly on the stage, I trust. But self is why you want to be an actress, isn't it?” “I suppose so,” answered Justine reluctantly. “Oh, that stubborn, pigheaded Cleary pride! It will be your downfall, too, Justine, unless you learn to rule it. That stupid fear of being laughed at, or held up to some sort of ridicule. Though why you think your mother would be so cruel I don't know.” She tapped Justine on the back of her hand. “Give a little, Justine; cooperate.”

But Justine shook her head and said, “I can't.”

Fee sighed. “Well, for what earthly good it will do you, child, you have my blessing on your enterprise.”

“Ta, Nanna, I appreciate it.”

“Then kindly show your appreciation in a concrete fashion by finding your uncle Frank and telling him there's tea in the kitchen, please.” Justine went off, and Meggie stared at Fee.

“Mum, you're amazing, you really are.”

Fee smiled. “Well, you have to admit I never tried to tell any of my children what to do.”

“No, you never did,” said Meggie tenderly. “We did appreciate it, too.”

° ° °

The first thing Justine did when she arrived back in Sydney was begin to have her freckles removed. Not a quick process, unfortunately; she had so many it would take about twelve months, and then she would have to stay out of the sun for the rest of her life, or they would come back. The second thing she did was to find herself an apartment, no mean feat in Sydney at that time, when people built private homes and regarded living en masse in buildings as anathema. But eventually she found a two-room fiat in Neutral Bay, in one of the huge old waterside Victorian mansions which had fallen on hard times and been made over into dingy semi apartments. The rent was five pounds ten shillings a week, outrageous considering that the bathroom and kitchen were communal, shared by all the tenants: However, Justine was quite satisfied. Though she had been well trained domestically, she had few homemaker instincts.

Living in Bothwell Gardens was more fascinating than her acting apprenticeship at the Culloden, where life seemed to consist in skulking behind scenery and watching other people rehearse, getting an occasional walk-on, memorizing masses of Shakespeare, Shaw and Sheridan. Including Justine's, Bothwell Gardens had six flats, plus Mrs. Devine the landlady. Mrs. Devine was a sixty-five-year- old Londoner with a doleful sniff, protruding eyes and a great contempt for Australia and Australians, though she wasn't above robbing them. Her chief concern in life seemed to be how much gas and electricity cost, and her chief weakness was Justine's next-door neighbor, a young Englishman who exploited his nationality cheerfully.

“I don't mind giving the old duck an occasional tickle while we reminisce,” he told Justine. “Keeps her off my back, you know. You girls aren't allowed to run electric radiators even in winter, but I was given one and I'm allowed to run it all summer as well if I feel like “Pig,” said Justine dispassionately.

His name was Peter Wilkins, and he was a traveling salesman. “Come in and I'll make you a nice cuppa sometime,” he called after her, rather taken with those pale, intriguing eyes. Justine did, careful not to choose a time when Mrs. Devine was lurking jealously about, and got quite used to fighting Peter off. The years of riding and working on Drogheda had endowed her with considerable strength, and she was untroubled by shibboleths like hitting below the belt. “God damn you, Justine!” gasped Peter, wiping the tears of pain from his eyes. “Give in, girl! You've got to lose it sometime, you know! This isn't Victorian England, you aren't expected to save it for marriage.” “I have no intention of saving it for marriage,” she answered, adjusting her dress. “I'm just not sure who's going to get the honor, that's all.” “You're nothing to write home about!” he snapped nastily; she had really hurt.

“No, that I'm not. Sticks and stones, Pete. You can't hurt me with words. And there are plenty of men who will shag anything if it's a virgin.” “Plenty of women, too! Watch the front flat.”

“Oh, I do, I do,” said Justine.

The two girls in the front flat were lesbians, and had hailed Justine's advent gleefully until they realized she not only wasn't interested, she wasn't even intrigued. At first she wasn't quite sure what they were hinting at, but after they spelled it out baldly she shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed. Thus after a period of adjustment she became their sounding board, their neutral confidante, their port in all storms; she bailed Billie out of jail, took Bobbie to the Mater hospital to have her stomach pumped out after a particularly bad quarrel with Billie, refused to take sides with either of them when Pat, Also, Georgie and Ronnie hove in turns on the horizon. It did seem a very insecure kind of emotional life, she thought. Men were bad enough, but at least they had the spice of intrinsic difference.

So between the Culloden and Bothwell Gardens and girls she had known from Kincoppal days, Justine had quite a lot of friends, and was a good friend herself. She never told them all her troubles as they did her; she had Dane for that, though what few troubles she admitted to having didn't appear to prey upon her. The thing which fascinated her friends the most about her was her extraordinary self- discipline; as if she had trained herself from infancy not to let circumstances affect her well-being. Of chief interest to everyone called a friend was how, when and with whom Justine would finally decide to become a fulfilled woman, but she took her time.

Arthur Lestrange was Albert Jones's most durable juvenile lead, though he had wistfully waved goodbye to his fortieth birthday the year before Justine arrived at the Culloden. He had a good body, was a steady, reliable actor and his clean-cut, manly face with its surround of yellow curls was always sure to evoke audience applause. For the first year he didn't notice Justine, who was very quiet and did exactly as she was told. But at the end of the year her freckle treatments were finished, and she began to stand out against the scenery instead of blending into it.

Minus the freckles and plus makeup to darken her brows and lashes, she was a good-looking girl in an elfin, understated way. She had none of Luke O'neill's arresting beauty, or her mother's exquisiteness. Her figure was passable though not spectacular, a trifle on the thin side. Only the vivid red hair ever stood out. But on a stage she was quite different; she could make people think she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy or as ugly as a witch.

Arthur first noticed her during a teaching period, when she was required to recite a passage from Conrad's Lord Jim using various accents. She was extraordinary, really; he could feel the excitement in Albert Jones, and finally understood why Also devoted so much time to her. A born mimic, but far more than that; she gave character to every word she said. And there was the voice, a wonderful natural endowment for any actress, deep, husky, penetrating.

So when he saw her with a cup of tea in her hand, sitting with a book open on her knees, he came to sit beside her.

“What are you reading?”

She looked up, smiled. “Proust.”

“Don't you find him a little dull?”

“Proust dull? Not unless one doesn't care for gossip, surely. That's what he is, you know. A terrible old gossip.”

He had an uncomfortable conviction that she was intellectually patronizing him, but he forgave her. No more than extreme youth. “I heard you doing the Conrad. Splendid.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps we could have coffee together sometime and discuss your plans” “If you like,” she said, returning to Proust. He was glad he had stipulated coffee, rather than dinner; his wife kept him on short commons, and dinner demanded a degree of gratitude he couldn't be sure Justine was ready to manifest. However, he followed his casual invitation, up, and bore her off to a dark little place in lower Elizabeth Street, where he was reasonably sure his wife wouldn't think of looking for him.

In self-defense Justine had learned to smoke, tired of always appearing goody-goody in refusing offered cigarettes. After they were seated she took her own cigarettes out of her bag, a new pack, and peeled the top cellophane from the flip-top box carefully, making sure the larger piece of cellophane still sheathed the bulk of the packet. Arthur watched her deliberateness, amused and interested.

“Why on earth go to so much trouble? Just rip it all off, Justine.” “How untidy!”

He picked up the box and stroked its intact shroud reflectively. “Now, if I was a disciple of the eminent Sigmund Freud ...”

“If you were Freud, what?” She glanced up, saw the waitress standing beside her. “Cappuccino, please.”

It annoyed him that she gave her own order, but he let it pass, more intent on pursuing the thought in his mind. “Vienna, please. Now, getting back to what I was saying about Freud. I wonder what he'd think of this? He might say ...”

She took the packet off him, opened it, removed a cigarette and lit it herself without giving him time to find his matches. “Well?” “He'd think you liked to keep membranous substances intact, wouldn't he?” Her laughter gurgled through the smoky air, caused several male heads to turn curiously. “Would he now? Is that a roundabout way of asking me if I'm still a virgin, Arthur?”

He clicked his tongue, exasperated. “Justine! I can see that among other things I'll have to teach you the fine art of prevarication.”

“Among what other things, Arthur?” She leaned her elbows on the table, eyes gleaming in the dimness.

“Well, what do you need to learn?”

“I'm pretty well educated, actually.”

“In everything?”

“Heavens, you do know how to emphasize words, don't you? Very good, I must remember how you said that.”

“There are things which can only be learned from firsthand experience,” he said softly, reaching out a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear. “Really? I've always found observation adequate.”

“Ah, but what about when it comes to love?” He put a delicate deepness into the word. “How can you play Juliet without knowing what love is?” “A good point. I agree with you.” “Have you ever been in love?”

No.

“Do you know anything about love?” This time he put the vocal force on “anything,” rather than “love.”

“Nothing at all.”

“Ah! Then Freud would have been right, eh?”

She picked up her cigarettes and looked at their sheathed box, smiling. “In some things, perhaps.”

Quickly he grasped the bottom of the cellophane, pulled it off and held it in his hand, dramatically crushed it and dropped it in the ashtray, where it squeaked and writhed, expanded. “I'd like to teach you what being a woman is, if I may.”

For a moment she said nothing, intent on the antics of the cellophane in the ashtray, then she struck a match and carefully set fire to it. “Why not?” she asked the brief flare. “Yes, why not?”

“Shall it be a divine thing of moonlight and roses, passionate wooing, or shall it be short and sharp, like an arrow?” he declaimed, hand on heart. She laughed. “Really, Arthur! I hope it's long and sharp, myself. But no moonlight and roses, please. My stomach's not built for passionate wooing.” He stared at her a little sadly, shook his head. “Oh, Justine! Everyone's stomach is built for passionate wooing-even yours, you cold-blooded young vestal. One day, you wait and see. You'll long for it.”

“Pooh!” She got up. “Come on, Arthur, let's get the deed over and done with before I change my mind.”

“Now? Tonight?” .

“Why on earth not? I've got plenty of money for a hotel room, if you're short.”

The Hotel Metropole wasn't far away; they walked through the drowsing streets with her arm tucked cozily in his, laughing. It was too late for diners and too early for the theaters to be out, so there were few people around, just knots of American sailors off a visiting task force, and groups of young girls window-shopping with an eye to sailors. No one took any notice of them, which suited Arthur fine. He popped into a chemist shop while Justine waited outside, emerged beaming happily.

“Now we're all set, my love.”

“What did you buy? French letters?”

He grimaced. “I should hope not. A French letter,ness like coming wrapped in a page of the Reader's Digest -condensed tackiness. No,

I got you some jelly. How do you know about French letters, anyway?”

“After seven years in a Catholic boarding school? What do you think we did? Prayed?” She grinned. “I admit we didn't do much, but we talked about everything.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smith surveyed their kingdom, which wasn't bad for a Sydney hotel room of that era. The days of the Hilton were still to come. It was very large, and had superb views of the Sydney Harbor Bridge. There was no bathroom, of course, but there was a basin and ewer on a marble-topped stand, a fitting accompaniment to the enormous Victorian relics of furniture. “Well, what do I do now?” she asked, pulling the curtains back. “It's a beautiful view, isn't it?”

“Yes. As to what you do now, you take your pants off, of course.” “Anything else?” she asked mischievously.

He sighed. “Take it all off, Justine! If you don't feel skin with skin it isn't nearly so good.”

Neatly and briskly she got out of her clothes, not a scrap coyly, clambered up on the bed and spread her legs apart. “Is this right, Arthur?” “Good Lord!” he said, folding his trousers carefully; his wife always looked to see if they were crushed.

“What? What's the matter?”

“You really are a redhead, aren't you?”

“What did you expect, purple feathers?”

“Facetiousness doesn't set the right mood, darling, so stop it this instant.” He sucked in his belly, turned, strutted to the bed and climbed onto it, began dropping expert little kisses down the side of her face, her neck, over her left breast. “Mmmmmm, you're nice.” His arms went around her. “There! Isn't this nice?”

“I suppose so. Yes, it is quite nice.”

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of kisses, occasional murmurs. There was a huge old dressing table at the far end of the bed, its mirror still tilted to reflect love's arena by some erotically minded previous tenant. “Put out the light, Arthur.”

“Darling, no! Lesson number one. There's no aspect of love which won't bear the light.”

Having done the preparatory work with his fingers and deposited the jelly where it was supposed to be, Arthur managed to get himself between Justine's legs. A bit sore but quite comfortable, if not lifted into ecstasy at least feeling rather motherly, Justine looked over Arthur's shoulder and straight down the bed into the mirror.

Foreshortened, their legs looked weird with his darkly matted ones sandwiched between her smooth defreckled ones; however, the bulk of the image in the mirror consisted of Arthur's buttocks, and as he maneuvered they spread and contracted, hopped up and down, with two quiffs of yellow hair like Dagwood's just poking above the twin globes and waving at her cheerfully.

Justine looked; looked again. She stuffed her fist against her mouth wildly, gurgling and moaning.

“There, there, my darling, it's all right! I've broken you already, so it can't hurt too much,” he whispered.

Her chest began to heave; he wrapped his arms closer about her and murmured inarticulate endearments.

Suddenly her head went back, her mouth opened in a long, agonized wail, and became peal after peal of uproarious laughter. And the more limply furious he got, the harder she laughed, pointing her finger helplessly toward the foot of the bed, tears streaming down her face. Her whole body was convulsed, but not quite in the manner poor Arthur had envisioned.

In many ways Justine was a lot closer to Dane than their mother was, and what they felt for Mum belonged to Mum. It didn't impinge upon or clash with what they felt for each other. That had been forged very early, and had grown rather than diminished. By the time Mum was freed from her Drogheda bondage they were old enough to be at Mrs. Smith's kitchen table, doing their correspondence lessons; the habit of finding solace in each other had been established for all time.

Though they were very dissimilar in character, they also shared many tastes and appetites, and those they didn't share they tolerated in each other with instinctive respect, as a necessary spice of difference. They knew each other very well indeed. Her natural tendency was to deplore human failings in others and ignore them in herself; his natural tendency was to understand and forgive human failings in others, and be merciless upon them in himself. She felt herself invincibly strong; he knew himself perilously weak. And somehow it all came together as a nearly perfect friendship, in the name of which nothing was impossible. However, since Justine was by far the more talkative, Dane always got to hear a lot more about her and what she was feeling than the other way around. In some respects she was a little bit of a moral imbecile, in that nothing was sacred, and he understood that his function was to provide her with the scruples she lacked within herself. Thus he accepted his role of passive listener with a tenderness and compassion which would have irked Justine enormously had she suspected them.

Not that she ever did; she had been bending his ear about absolutely anything and everything since he was old enough to pay attention. “Guess what I did last night?” she asked, carefully adjusting her big straw hat so her face and neck were well shaded.

“Acted in your first starring role,” Dane said. “Prawn! As if I wouldn't tell you so you could be there to see me. Guess again.”

“Finally copped a punch Bobbie meant for Billie.”

“Cold as a stepmother's breast.”

He shrugged his shoulders, bored. “Haven't a clue.”

They were sitting in the Domain on the grass, just below the Gothic bulk of Saint Mary's Cathedral. Dane had phoned to let Justine know he was coming in for a special ceremony in the cathedral, and could she meet him for a while first in the Dom? Of course she could; she was dying to tell him the latest episode.

Almost finished his last year at Riverview, Dane was captain of the school, captain of the cricket team, the Rugby, handball and tennis teams. And dux of his class into the bargain. At seventeen he was two inches over six feet, his voice had settled into its final baritone, and he had miraculously escaped such afflictions as pimples, clumsiness and a bobbing Adam's apple. Because he was so fair he wasn't really shaving yet, but in every other way he looked more like a young man than a schoolboy. Only the Riverview uniform categorized him.

It was a warm, sunny day. Dane removed his straw boater school hat and stretched out on the grass, Justine sitting hunched beside him, her arms about her knees to make sure all exposed skin was shaded. He opened one lazy blue eye in her direction.

“What did you do last night, Jus?”

“I lost my virginity. At least I think I did.”

Both his eyes opened. “You're a prawn.”

“Pooh! High time, I say. How can I hope to be a good actress if I don't have a clue what goes on between men and women?” “You ought to save yourself for the man you marry.”

Her face twisted in exasperation. “Honestly, Dane, sometimes you're so archaic I'm embarrassed! Suppose I don't meet the man I marry until I'm forty? What do you expect me to do? Sit on it all those years? Is that what you're going to do, save it for marriage?”

“I don't think I'm going to get married.”

“Well, nor am I. In which case, why tie a blue ribbon around it and stick it in my nonexistent hope chest? I don't want to die wondering.” He grinned. “You can't, now.” Rolling over onto his stomach, he propped his chin on his hand and looked at her steadily, his face soft, concerned. “Was it all right? I mean, was it awful? Did you hate it?” Her lips twitched, remembering. “I didn't hate it, at any rate. It wasn't awful, either. On the other hand, I'm afraid I don't see what everyone raves about. Pleasant is as far as I'm prepared to go. And it isn't as if I chose just anyone; I selected someone very attractive and old enough to know what he was doing.”

He sighed. “You are a prawn, Justine. I'd have been a lot happier to hear you say, “He's not much to look at, but we met and I couldn't help myself.” I can accept that you don't want to wait until you're married, but it's still something you've got to want because of the person. Never because of the act, Jus. I'm not surprised you weren't ecstatic.”

All the gleeful triumph faded from her face. “Oh, damn you, now you've made me feel awful! If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were trying to put me down-or my motives, at any rate.”

“But you do know me better, don't you? I'd never put you down, but sometimes your motives are plain thoughtlessly silly.” He adopted a tolling, monotonous voice. “I am the voice of your conscience, Justine O'neill.”

“You are, too, you prawn.” Shade forgotten, she flopped back on the grass beside him so he couldn't see her face. “Look, you know why. Don't you?” “Oh, Jussy,” he said sadly, but whatever he was going to add was lost, for she spoke again, a little savagely.

“I'm never, never, never going to love anyone! If you love people, they kill you. If you need people, they kill you. They do, I tell you!” It always hurt him, that she felt left out of love, and hurt more that he knew himself the cause. If there was one overriding reason why she was so important to him, it was because she loved him enough to bear no grudges, had never made him feel a moment's lessening of her' love through jealousy or resentment. To him, it was a cruel fact that she moved on an outer circle while he was the very hub. He had prayed and prayed things would change, but they never did. Which hadn't lessened his faith, only pointed out to him with fresh emphasis that somewhere, sometime, he would have to pay for the emotion squandered on him at her expense. She put a good face on it, had managed to convince even herself that she did very well on that outer orbit, but he felt her pain. He knew. There was so much worth loving in her, so little worth loving in himself. Without a hope of understanding differently, he assumed he had the lion's share of love because of his beauty, his more tractable nature, his ability to communicate with his mother and the other Drogheda people. And because he was male. Very little escaped him beyond what he simply couldn't know, and he had had Justine's confidence and companionship in ways no one else ever had. Mum mattered to Justine far more than she would admit.

But I will atone, he thought. I've had everything. Somehow I've got to pay it back, make it up to her.

Suddenly he chanced to see his watch, came to his feet bonelessly; huge though he admitted his debt to his sister was, to Someone else he owed even more.

“I've got to go, Jus.”

“You and your bloody Church! When are you going to grow out of it?” “Never, I hope.”

“When will I see you?”

“Well, since today's Friday, tomorrow of course, eleven o'clock, here.” “Okay. Be a good boy.”

He was already several yards away, Riverview boater back on his head, but he turned to smile at her. “Am I ever anything else?” She grinned. “Bless you, no. You're too good to be true; I'm the one always in trouble. See you tomorrow.”

There were huge padded red leather doors inside the vestibule of Saint Mary's; Dane poked one open and slipped inside. He had left Justine a little earlier than was strictly necessary, but he always liked to get into a church before it filled, became a shifting focus of sighs, coughs, rustles, whispers. When he was alone it was so much better. There was a sacristan kindling branches of candles on the high altar; a deacon, he judged unerringly. Head bowed, he genuflected and made the Sign of the Cross as he passed in front of the tabernacle, then quietly slid into a pew. On his knees, he put his head on his folded hands and let his mind float freely. He didn't consciously pray, but rather became an intrinsic part of the atmosphere, which he felt as dense yet ethereal, unspeakably holy, brooding. It was as if he had turned into a flame in one of the little red glass sanctuary lamps, always just fluttering on the brink of extinction, sustained by a small puddle of some vital essence, radiating a minute but enduring glow out into the far darknesses. Stillness, formlessness, forgetfulness of his human identity; these were what Dane got from being in a church. Nowhere else did he feel so right, so much at peace with himself, so removed from pain. His lashes lowered, his eyes closed.

From the organ gallery came the shuffling of feet, a preparatory wheeze, a breathy expulsion of air from pipes. The Saint Mary's Cathedral Boys' School choir was coming in early to sandwich a little practice between now and the coming ritual. It was only a Friday midday Benediction, but one of Dane's friends and teachers from Riverview was celebrating it, and he had wanted to come.

The organ gave off a few chords, quietened into a rippling accompaniment, and into the dim stone-lace arches one unearthly boy's voice soared, thin and high and sweet, so filled with innocent purity the few people in the great empty church closed their eyes, mourned for that which could never come to them again.

Panis angelicus

Fit panis hominum,

Dat panis coelicus

Figuris terminum,

O res mirabilis,

Manducat Dominus,

Pauper, pauper,

Servus et humilis ....

Bread of angels, heavenly bread, O thing of wonder. Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice! Let Thine ear be attuned to the sounds of my supplication. Turn not away, O Lord, turn not away. For Thou art my Sovereign, my Master, my God, and I am Thy humble servant. In Thine eyes only one thing counts, goodness. Thou carest not if Thy servants be beautiful or ugly. To Thee only the heart matters; in Thee all is healed, in Thee I know peace.

Lord, it is lonely. I pray it be over soon, the pain of life. They do not understand that I, so gifted, find so much pain in living. But Thou dost, and Thy comfort is all which sustains me. No matter what Thou requirest of me, O Lord, shall be given, for I love Thee. And if I might presume to ask anything of Thee, it is that in Thee all else shall be forever forgotten ....

° ° °

“You're very quiet, Mum,” said Dane. “Thinking of what? Of Drogheda?” “No,” said Meggie drowsily. “I'm thinking that I'm getting old. I found half a dozen grey hairs this morning, and my bones ache.”

“You'll never be old, Mum,” he said comfortably. “I wish that were true, love, but unfortunately it isn't. I'm beginning to need the borehead, which is a sure sign of old age.”

They were lying in the warm winter sun on towels spread over the Drogheda grass, by the borehead. At the far end of the great pool boiling water thundered and splashed, the reek of sulphur drifted and floated into nothing. It was one of the great winter pleasures, to swim in the borehead. All the aches and pains of encroaching age were soothed away, Meggie thought, and turned to lie on her back, her head in the shade of the log on which she and Father Ralph had sat so long ago. A very long time ago; she was unable to conjure up even a faint echo of what she must have felt when Ralph had kissed her.

Then she heard Dane get up, and opened her eyes. He had always been her baby, her lovely little boy; though she had watched him change and grow with proprietary pride, she had done so with an image of the laughing baby superimposed on his maturing face. It had not yet occurred to her that actually he was no longer in any way a child.

However, the moment of realization came to Meggie at that instant, watching him stand outlined against the crisp sky in his brief cotton swimsuit. My God, it's all over! The babyhood, the boyhood. He's a man. Pride, resentment, a female melting at the quick, a terrific consciousness of some impending tragedy, anger, adoration, sadness; all these and more Meggie felt, looking up at her son. It is a terrible thing to create a man, and more terrible to create a man like this. So amazingly male, so amazingly beautiful.

Ralph de Bricassart, plus a little of herself. How could she not be moved at seeing in its extreme youth the body of the man who had joined in love with her? She closed her eyes, embarrassed, hating having to think of her son as a man. Did he look at her and see a woman these days, or was she still that wonderful cipher, Mum? God damn him, God damn him! How dared he grow up? “Do you know anything about women, Dane?” she asked suddenly, opening her eyes again.

He smiled. “The birds and the bees, you mean?” “That you know, with Justine for a sister. When she discovered what lay between the covers of physiology textbooks she blurted it all out to everyone. No, I mean have you ever put any of Justine's clinical treatises into practice?”

His head moved in a quick negative shake, he slid down onto the grass beside her and looked into her face. “Funny you should ask that, Mum. I've been wanting to talk to you about it for a long time, but I didn't know how to start.”

“You're only eighteen, love. Isn't it a bit soon to be thinking of putting theory into practice?” Only eight equals teen. Only. He was a man, wasn't he? “That's it, what I wanted to talk to you about. Not putting it into practice at all.”

How cold the wind was, blowing down from the Great Divide. Peculiar, she hadn't noticed until now. Where was her robe? “Not putting it into practice at all,” she said dully, and it was not a question. “That's right. I don't want to, ever. Not that I haven't thought about it, or wanted a wife and children. I have. But I can't. Because there isn't enough room to love them and God as well, not the way I want to love God. I've known that for a long time. I don't seem to remember a time when I didn't, and the older I become the greater my love for God grows. It's a great mystery, loving God.”

Meggie lay looking into those calm, distant blue eyes. Ralph's eyes, as they used to be. But ablaze with something quite alien to Ralph's. Had he had it, at eighteen? Had he? Was it perhaps something one could only experience at eighteen? By the time she entered Ralph's life, he was ten years beyond that. Yet her son was a mystic, she had always known it. And she didn't think that at any stage of his life Ralph had been mystically inclined. She swallowed, wrapped the robe closer about her lonely bones. “So I asked myself,” Dane went on, “what I could do to show Him how much I loved Him. I fought the answer for a long time, I didn't want to see it. Because I wanted a life as a man, too, very much. Yet I knew what the offering had to be, I knew .... There's only one thing I can offer Him, to show Him nothing else will ever exist in my heart before Him. I must offer up His only rival; that's the sacrifice He demands of me. I am His servant, and He will have no rivals. I have had to choose. All things He'll let me have and enjoy, save that.” He sighed, plucked at a blade of Drogheda grass. “I must show Him that I understand why He gave me so much at my birth. I must show Him that I realize how unimportant my life as a man is.”

“You can't do it, I won't let you!” Meggie cried, her hand reaching for his arm, clutching it. How smooth it felt, the hint of great power under the skin, just like Ralph's. Just like Ralph's! Not to have some glossy girl put her hand there, as a right?

“I'm going to be a priest,” said Dane. “I'm going to enter His service completely, offer everything I have and am to Him, as His priest. Poverty, charity and obedience. He demands no less than all from His chosen servants. It won't be easy, but I'm going to do it.

The look in her eyes! As if he had killed her, ground her into the dust beneath his foot. That he should have to suffer this he hadn't known, dreaming only of her pride in him; her pleasure at giving her son to God. They said she'd be thrilled, uplifted, completely in accord. Instead she was staring at him as if the prospect of his priesthood was her death sentence. “It's all I've ever wanted to be,” he said in despair, meeting those dying eyes. “Oh, Mum, can't you understand? I've never, never wanted to be anything but a priest! I can't be anything but a priest!” Her hand fell from his arm; he glanced down and saw the white marks of her fingers, the little arcs in his skin where her nails had bitten deeply. Her head went up, she laughed on and on and on, huge hysterical peals of bitter, derisive laughter.

“Oh, it's too good to be true!” she gasped when she could speak again, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes with a trembling hand. “The incredible irony! Ashes of roses, he said that night riding to the borehead. And I didn't understand what he meant. Ashes thou wert, unto ashes return. To the Church thou belongest, to the Church thou shalt be given. Oh, it's beautiful, beautiful! God rot God, I say! God the sod! The utmost Enemy of women, that's what God is! Everything we seek to do, He seeks to undo!” “Oh, don't! Oh, don't! Mum, don't!” He wept for her, for her pain, not understanding her pain or the words she was saying. His tears fell, twisted in his heart; already the sacrifice had begun, and in a way he hadn't dreamed. But though he wept for her, not even for her could he put it aside, the sacrifice. The offering must be made, and the harder it was to make, the more valuable it must be in His eyes.

She had made him weep, and never in all his life until now had she made him weep. Her own rage and grief were put away resolutely. No, it wasn't fair to visit herself upon him. What he was his genes had made him. Or his God. Or Ralph's God. He was the light of her life, her son. He should not be made to suffer because of her, ever. “Dane, don't cry,” she whispered, stroking the angry marks on his arm. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. You gave me a shock, that's all. Of course I'm glad for you, truly I am! How could I not be? I was shocked; I just didn't expect it, that's all.” She chuckled, a little shakily. “You did rather drop it on me like a rock.”

His eyes cleared, regarded her doubtfully. Why had he imagined he killed her? Those were Mum's eyes as he had always known them; full of love, very much alive. The strong young arms gathered her close, hugged her. “You're sure you don't mind?”

“Mind? A good Catholic mother mind her son becoming a priest? Impossible!” She jumped to her feet. “Brr! How cold it's got! Let's be getting back.” They hadn't taken the horses, but a jeeplike LandRover; Dane climbed behind the wheel, his mother sat beside him.

“Do you know where you're going?” asked Meggie, drawing in a sobbing breath, pushing the tumbled hair out of her eyes. “Saint Patrick's College, I suppose. At least until I find my feet. Perhaps then I'll espouse an order. I'd rather like to be a Jesuit, but I'm not quite sure enough of that to go straight into the Society of Jesus.” Meggie stared at the tawny grass bouncing up and down through the insect-spattered windscreen. “I have a much better idea, Dane.” “Oh?” He had to concentrate on driving; the track dwindled a bit and there were always new logs across it.

“I shall send you to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. You remember him, don't you?”

“Do I remember him? What a question, Mum! I don't think I could forget him in a million years. He's my example of the perfect priest. If I could be the priest he is, I'd be very happy.”

“Perfection is as perfection does!” said Meggie tartly. “But I shall give you into his charge, because I know he'll look after you for my sake. You can enter a seminary in Rome.”

“Do you really mean it, Mum? Really?” Anxiety pushed the joy out of his face. “Is there enough money? It would be much cheaper if I stayed in Australia.”

“Thanks to the selfsame Cardinal de Bricassart, my dear, you'll never lack money.”

At the cookhouse door she pushed him inside. “Go and tell the girls and Mrs. Smith,” she said. “They'll be absolutely thrilled.”

One after the other she put her feet down, made them plod up the ramp to the big house, to the drawing room where Fee sat, miraculously not working but talking to Anne Mueller instead, over an afternoon tea tray. As Meggie came in they looked up, saw from her face that something serious had happened.

For eighteen years the Muellers had been visiting Drogheda, expecting that was how it always would be. But Luddie Mueller had died suddenly the preceding autumn, and Meggie had written immediately to Anne to ask her if she would like to live permanently on Drogheda. There was plenty of room, a guest cottage for privacy; she could pay board if she was too proud not to, though heaven knew there was enough money to keep a thousand permanent houseguests. Meggie saw it as a chance to reciprocate for those lonely Queensland years, and Anne saw it as salvation. Himmelhoch without Luddie was horribly lonely. Though she had put on a manager, not sold the place; when she died it would go to Justine.

“What is it, Men!” Anne asked.

Meggie sat down. “I think I've been struck by a retributory bolt of lightning.”

“What?”

“You were right, both of you. You said I'd lose him. I didn't believe you, I actually thought I could beat God. But there was never a woman born who could beat God. He's a Man.”

Fee poured Meggie a cup of tea. “Here, drink this,” she said, as if tea had the restorative powers of brandy. “How have you lost him?” “He's going to become a priest.” She began to laugh, weeping at the same time.

Anne picked up her sticks, hobbled to Meggie's chair and sat awkwardly on its arm, stroking the lovely redgold hair. “Oh, my dear! But it isn't as bad as all that.”

“Do you know about Dane?” Fee asked Anne.

“I've always known,” said Anne.

Meggie sobered. “It isn't as bad as all that? It's the beginning of the end, don't you see? Retribution. I stole Ralph from God, and I'm paying with my son. You told me it was stealing, Mum, don't you remember? I didn't want to believe you, but you were right, as always.”

Is he going to Saint Pat's?” Fee asked practically. Meggie laughed more normally. “That's no sort of reparation, Mum. I'm going to send him to Ralph, of course. Half of him is Ralph; let Ralph finally enjoy him.” She shrugged. “He's more important than Ralph, and I knew he'd want to go to Rome.” “Did you ever tell Ralph about Dane?” asked Anne; it wasn't a subject ever discussed.

“No, and I never will. Never!”

“They're so alike he might guess.”

“Who, Ralph? He'll never guess! That much I'm going to keep. I'm sending him my son, but no more than that. I'm not sending him his son.” “Beware of the jealousy of the gods, Meggie,” said Anne softly. “They might not have done, with you yet.”

“What more can they do to me?” mourned Meggie. When Justine heard the news she was furious, though for the last three or four years she had had a sneaking suspicion it was coming. First of all, because Justine had been at school in Sydney with him, and as his confidante had listened to him talk of the things he didn't mention to his mother. Justine knew how vitally important his religion was to Dan caret.; not only God, but the mystical significance of Catholic rituals. Had he been born and brought up a Protestant, she thought, he was the type to have eventually turned to Catholicism to satisfy something in his soul. Not for Dane an austere, Calvinistic God. His God was limned in stained glass, wreathed in incense, wrapped in lace and gold embroidery, hymned in musical complexity, and worshipped in lovely Latin cadences.

Too, it was a kind of ironic perversity that someone so wonderfully endowed with beauty should deem it a crippling handicap, and deplore its existence. For Dane did. He shrank from any reference to his looks; Justine fancied he would far rather have been born ugly, totally unprepossessing. She understood in part why he felt so, and perhaps because her own career lay in a notoriously narcissistic profession, she rather approved of his attitude toward his appearance. What she couldn't begin to understand was why he positively loathed his looks, instead of simply ignoring them. Nor was he highly sexed, for what reason she wasn't sure: whether he had taught himself to sublimate his passions almost perfectly, or whether in spite of his bodily endowments some necessary cerebral essence was in short supply. Probably- the former, since he played some sort of vigorous sport every day of his life to make sure he went to bed exhausted. She knew very well that his inclinations were “normal,” that is, heterosexual, and she knew what type of girl appealed to him tall, dark and voluptuous. But he just wasn't sensually aware; he didn't notice the feel of things when he held them, or the odors in the air around him, or understand the special satisfaction of shape and color. Before he experienced a sexual pull the provocative object's impact had to be irresistible, and only at such rare moments did he seem to realize there was an earthly plane most men trod, of choice, for as long as they possibly could.

He told her backstage at the Culloden, after a performance. It had been settled with Rome that day; he was dying to tell her and yet he knew she wasn't going to like it. His religious ambitions were something he had never discussed with her as much as he wanted to, for she became angry. But when he came backstage that night it was too difficult to contain his joy any longer. “You're a prawn,” she said in disgust.

“It's what I want.”

“Idiot.”

“Calling me names won't change a thing, Jus.”

“Do you think I don't know that? It affords me a little much-needed emotional release, that's all.”

“I should think you'd get enough on the stage, playing Electra. You're really good, Jus.”

“After this news I'll be better,” she said grimly. “Are you going to Saint Pat's?”

“No. I'm going to Rome, to Cardinal de Bricassart. Mum arranged it.” “Dane, no! It's so far away!”

“Well, why don't you come, too, at least to England? With your background and ability you ought to be able to get a place somewhere without too much trouble.”

She was sitting at a mirror wiping off Electra's paint, still in Electra's robes; ringed with heavy black arabesques, her strange eyes seemed even stranger. She nodded slowly. “Yes, I could, couldn't I?” she asked thoughtfully. “It's more than time I did .... Australia's getting a bit too small.... Right, mate! You're on! England it is!”

“Super! Just think! I get holidays, you know, one always does in the seminary, as if it was a university. We can plan to take them together, trip around Europe a bit, come home to Drogheda. Oh, Jus, I've thought it all out! Having you not far away makes it perfect.”

She beamed. “It does, doesn't it? Life wouldn't be the same if I couldn't talk to you.”

“That's what I was afraid you were going to say.” He grinned. “But seriously, Jus, you worry me. I'd rather have you where I can see you from time to time. Otherwise who's going to be the voice of your conscience?” He slid down between a hoplite's helmet and an awesome mask of the Pythoness to a position on the floor where he could see her, coiling himself into an economical ball, out of the way of all the feet. There were only two stars” dressing rooms at the Culloden and Justine didn't rate either of them yet. She was in the general dressing room, among the ceaseless traffic. “Bloody old Cardinal de Bricassart!” she spat. “I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him!”

Dane chuckled. “You didn't, you know.”

“I did! I did!”

“No, you didn't. Aunt Anne told me one Christmas hoi, and I'll bet you don't know.”

“What don't I know?” she asked warily.

“That when you were a baby he fed you a bottle and burped you, rocked you to sleep. Aunt Anne said you were a horrible cranky baby and hated being held, but when he held you, you really liked it.”

“It's a flaming lie!”

“No, it's not.” He grinned. “Anyway, why do you hate him so much now?” “I just do. He's like a skinny old vulture, and he gives me the dry heaves.”

“I like him. I always did. The perfect priest, that's what Father Watty calls him. I think he is, too.”

“Well, fuck him, I say!”

“Justine!”

“Shocked you that time, didn't I? I'll bet you never even thought I knew that word.”

His eyes danced. “Do you know what it means? Tell me, Jussy, go on, I dare you!” She could never resist him when he teased; her own eyes began to twinkle. “You might be going to be a Father Rhubarb, you prawn, but if you don't already know what it means, you'd better not investigate.”

He grew serious. “Don't worry, I won't.”

A very shapely pair of female legs stopped beside Dane, pivoted.

He looked up, went red, looked away, and said, “Oh, hello, Martha,” in a casual voice. “Hello yourself.”

She was an extremely beautiful girl, a little short on acting ability but so decorative she was an asset to any production; she also happened to be exactly Dane's cup of tea, and Justine had listened to his admiring comments about her more than once. Tall, what the movie magazines always called sexsational, very dark of hair and eye, fair of skin, with magnificent breasts.

Perching herself on the corner of Justine's table, she swung one leg provocatively under Dane's nose and watched him with an undisguised appreciation he clearly found disconcerting. Lord, he was really something! How had plain old cart-horse Jus collected herself a brother who looked like this? He might be only eighteen and it might be cradle-snatching, but who cared?

“How about coming over to my place for coffee and whatever?” she asked, looking down at Dane. “The two of you?” she added reluctantly. Justine shook her head positively, her eyes lighting up at a sudden thought. “No, thanks, I can't. You'll have to be content with Dane.” He shook his head just as positively, but rather regretfully, as if he was truly tempted. “Thanks anyway, Martha, but I can't.” He glanced at his watch as at a savior. “Lord, I've only got a minute left on my meter! How much longer are you going to be, Jus?”

“About ten minutes.”

“I'll wait for you outside, all right?”

“Chicken!” she mocked.

Martha's dusky eyes followed him. “He is absolutely gorgeous.

Why won't he look at me?”

Justine grinned sourly, scrubbed her face clean at last. The freckles were coming back. Maybe London would help; no sun. “Oh, don't worry, he looks. He'd like, too. But will he? Not Dane.”

“Why? What's the matter with him? Never tell me he's a poof! Shit, why is it every gorgeous man I meet is a poof? I never thought Dane was, though; he doesn't strike me that way at all.”

“Watch your language, you dumb wart! He most certainly isn't a poof. In fact, the day he looks at Sweet William, our screaming juvenile, I'll cut his throat and Sweet William's, too.”

“Well, if he isn't a pansy and he likes, why doesn't he take? Doesn't he get my message? Does he think I'm too old for him?” “Sweetie, at a hundred you won't be too old for the average man, don't worry about it. No, Dane's sworn off sex for life, the fool. He's going to be a priest.”

Martha's lush mouth dropped open, she swung back her mane of inky hair. “Go on!”

“True, true.”

“You mean to say all that's going to be wasted?” “Afraid so. He's offering it to God.”

“Then God's a bigger poofter than Sweet Willie.”

“You might be right,” said Justine. “He certainly isn't too fond of women, anyway. Second-class, that's us, way back in the Upper Circle. Front Stalls and the Mezzanine, strictly male.”

“Oh.”

Justine wriggled out of Electra's robe, flung a thin cotton dress over her head, remembered it was chilly outside, added a cardigan, and patted Martha kindly on the head. “Don't worry about it, sweetie. God was very good to you; he didn't give you any brains. Believe me, it's far more comfortable that way. You'll never offer the Lords of Creation any competition.”

“I don't know, I wouldn't mind competing with God for your brother.” “Forget it. You're fighting the Establishment, and it just can't be done. You'd seduce Sweet Willie far quicker, take my word for it.”

A Vatican car met Dane at the airport, whisked him through sunny faded streets full of handsome, smiling people; he glued his nose to the window and drank it all in, unbearably excited at seeing for himself the things he had seen only in pictures-the Roman columns, the rococo palaces, the Renaissance glory of Saint Peter's.

And waiting for him, clad this time in scarlet from head to foot, was Ralph Raoul, Cardinal de Bricassart. The hand was outstretched, its ring glowing; Dane sank on both knees to kiss it.

“Stand up, Dane, let me look at you.”

He stood, smiling at the tall man who was almost exactly his own height; they could look each other in the eye. To Dane the Cardinal had an immense aura of spiritual power which made him think of a pope rather than a saint, yet those intensely sad eyes were not the eyes of a pope. How much he must have suffered to appear so, but how nobly he must have risen above his suffering to become this most perfect of priests. And Cardinal Ralph gazed at the son he did not know was his son, loving him, he thought, because he was dear Meggie's boy. Just so would he have wanted to see a son of his own body; as tall, as strikingly good looking, as graceful. In all his life he had never seen a man move so well. But far more satisfying than any physical beauty was the simple beauty of his soul. He had the strength of the angels, and something of their unearthliness. Had he been so himself, at eighteen? He tried to remember, span the crowded events of three fifths of a lifetime; no, he had never been so. Was it because this one came truly of his own choice? For he himself had not, though he had had the vocation, of that much he still was sure.

“Sit down, Dane. Did you do as I asked, start to learn Italian?” “At this stage I speak it fluently but without idiom, and I read it very well. Probably the fact that it's my fourth language makes it easier. I seem to have a talent for languages. A couple of weeks here and I ought to pick up the vernacular.”

“Yes, you will. I, too, have a talent for languages.”

“Well, they're handy,” said Dane lamely. The awesome scarlet figure was a little daunting; it was suddenly hard to remember the man on the chestnut gelding at Drogheda.

Cardinal Ralph leaned forward, watching him. “I pass the responsibility for him to you, Ralph,” Meggie's letter had said. “I charge you with his wellbeing, his happiness. What I stole, I give back. It is demanded of me. Only promise me two things, and I'll rest in the knowledge you've acted in his best interests. First, promise me you'll make sure before you accept him that this is what he truly, absolutely wants. Secondly, that if this is what he wants, you'll keep your eye on him, make sure it remains what he wants. If he should lose heart for it, I want him back. For he belonged to me first. It is I who gives him to you.” “Dane, are you sure?” asked the Cardinal.

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

His eyes were curiously aloof, uncomfortably familiar, but familiar in a way which was of the past.

“Because of the love I bear Our Lord. I want to serve Him as His priest all of my days.”

“Do you understand what His service entails, Dane?” “Yes.”

“That no other love must ever come between you and Him? That you are His exclusively, forsaking all others?”

“Yes.”

“That His Will be done in all things, that in His service you must bury your personality, your individuality, your concept of yourself as uniquely important?”

“Yes.”

“That if necessary you must face death, imprisonment, starvation in His Name? That you must own nothing, value nothing which might tend to lessen your love for Him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you strong, Dane?”

“I am a man, Your Eminence. I am first a man. It will be hard, I know. But I pray that with His help I shall find the strength.”

“Must it be this, Dane? Will nothing less than this content you?” “Nothing.”

“And if later on you should change your mind, what would you do?” “Why, I should ask to leave,” said Dane, surprised. “If I changed my mind it would be because I had genuinely mistaken my vocation, for no other reason. Therefore I should ask to leave. I wouldn't be loving Him any less, but I'd know this isn't the way He means me to serve Him.”

“But once your final vows are taken and you are ordained, you realize there can be no going back, no dispensation, absolutely no release?” “I understand that,” said Dane patiently. “But if there is a decision to be made, I will have come to it before then.” Cardinal Ralph leaned back in his chair, sighed. Had he ever been that sure? Had he ever been that strong? “Why to me, Dane? Why did you want to come to Rome? Why not have remained in Australia?” “Mum suggested Rome, but it had been in my mind as a dream for a long time. I never thought there was enough money.”

“Your mother is very wise. Didn't she tell you?” “Tell me what, Your Eminence?”

“That you have an income of five thousand pounds a year and many thousands of pounds already in the bank in your own name?” Dane stiffened. “No. She never told me.”

“Very wise. But it's there, and Rome is yours if you want. Do you want Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want me, Dane?”

“Because you're my conception of the perfect priest, Your Eminence.” Cardinal Ralph's face twisted. “No, Dane, you can't look up to me as that. I'm far from a perfect priest. I have broken all my vows, do you understand? I had to learn what you already seem to know in the most painful way a priest can, through the breaking of my vows. For I refused to admit that I was first a mortal man, and only after that a priest.”

“Your Eminence, it doesn't matter,” said Dane softly. “What you say doesn't make you any less my conception of the perfect priest. I think you don't understand what I mean, that's all. I don't mean an inhuman automaton, above the weaknesses of the flesh. I mean that you've suffered, and grown. Do I sound presumptuous? I don't intend to, truly. If I've offended you, I beg your pardon. It's isn't that it's so hard to express my thoughts! What I mean is that becoming a perfect priest must take years, terrible pain, and all the time keeping before you an ideal, and Our Lord.”

The telephone rang; Cardinal Ralph picked it up in a slightly unsteady hand, spoke in Italian.

“Yes, thank you, we'll come at once.” He got to his feet. “It's time for afternoon tea, and we're to have it with an old, old friend of mine. Next to the Holy Father he's probably the most important priest in the Church. I told him you were coming, and he expressed a wish to meet you.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

They walked through corridors, then through pleasant gardens quite unlike Drogheda's, with tall cypresses and poplars, neat rectangles of grass surrounded by pillared walkways, mossy flagstones; past Gothic arches, under Renaissance bridges. Dane drank it in, loving it. Such a different world from Australia, so old, perpetual.

It took them fifteen minutes at a brisk pace to reach the palace; they entered, and passed up a great marble staircase hung with priceless tapestries.

Vittorio Scarbanza, Cardinal di Contini-Verchese was sixty-six now, his body partially crippled by a rheumatic complaint, but his mind as intelligent and alert as it had always been. His present cat, a Russian blue named Natasha, was curled purring in his lap. Since he couldn't rise to greet his visitors he contented himself with a wide smile, and beckoned them. His eyes passed from Ralph's beloved face to Dane O'neill and widened, narrowed, fixed on him stilly. Within his chest he felt his heart falter, put the welcoming hand to it in an instinctive gesture of protection, and sat staring stupidly up at the younger edition of Ralph de Bricassart. “Vittorio, are you all right?” Cardinal Ralph asked anxiously, taking the frail wrist between his fingers, feeling for a pulse. “A little passing pain, no more. Sit down, sit down!”

“First, I'd like you to meet Dane O'neill, who is as I told you the son of a very dear friend of mine. Dane, this is His Eminence Cardinal di Contini-Verchese.”

Dane knelt, pressed his lips to the ring; over his bent tawny head Cardinal Vittorio's gaze sought Ralph's face, scanned it more closely than in many years. Very slightly he relaxed; she had never told him, then. And he wouldn't suspect, of course, what everyone who saw them together would instantly surmise. Not father-son, of course, but a close relationship of the blood. Poor Ralph! He had never seen himself walk, never watched the expressions on his own face, never caught the upward flight of his own left eyebrow. Truly God was good, to make men so blind. “Sit down. The tea is coming. So, young man! You wish to be a priest, and have sought the assistance of Cardinal de Bricassart?” “Yes, Your Eminence.”

“You have chosen wisely. Under his care you will come to no harm. But you look a little nervous, my son. Is it the strangeness?” Dane smiled Ralph's smile, perhaps minus conscious charm, but so much Ralph's smile it caught at an old, tired heart like a passing flick from barbed wire. “I'm overwhelmed, Your Eminence. I hadn't realized quite how important cardinals are. I never dreamed I'd be met at the airport, or be having tea with you.”

“Yes, it is unusual.... Perhaps a source of trouble, I see that. Ah, here is our tea!” Pleased, he watched it laid out, lifted an admonishing finger. “Ah, no! I shall be “mother.” How do you take your tea, Dane?” “The same as Ralph,” he answered, blushed deeply. “I'm sorry, Your Eminence, I didn't mean to say that!”

“It's all right, Dane, Cardinal di Contini-Verchese understands. We met first as Dane and Ralph, and we knew each other far better that way, didn't we? Formality is new to our relationship. I'd prefer it remain Dane and Ralph in private. His Eminence won't mind, will you, Vittorio?” “No. I am fond of Christian names. But returning to what I was saying about having friends in high places, my son. It could be a trifle uncomfortable for you when you enter whichever seminary is decided upon, this long friendship with our Ralph. To have to keep going into involved explanations every time the connection between you is remarked upon would be very tedious. Sometimes Our Lord permits of a little white lie “-he smiled, the gold in his teeth flashing-”and for everyone's comfort I would prefer that we resort to one such tiny fib. For it is difficult to explain satisfactorily the tenuous connections of friendship, but very easy to explain the crimson cord of blood. So we will say to all and sundry that Cardinal de Bricassart is your uncle, my Dane, and leave it at that,” ended Cardinal Vittorio suavely. Dane looked shocked, Cardinal Ralph resigned. “Do not be disappointed in the great, my son,” said Cardinal Vittorio gently. “They, too, have feet of clay, and resort to comfort via little white lies. It is a very useful lesson you have just learned, but looking at you, I doubt you will take advantage of it. However, you must understand that we scarlet gentlemen are diplomats to our fingertips. Truly I think only of you, my son. Jealousy and resentment are not strangers to seminaries any more than they are to secular institutions. You will suffer a little because they think Ralph is your uncle, your mother's brother, but you would suffer far more if they thought no blood bond linked you together. We are first men, and it is with men you will deal in this world as in others.”

Dane bowed his head, then leaned forward to stroke the cat, pausing with his hand extended. “May I? I love cats, Your Eminence.”

No quicker pathway to that old but constant heart could he have found. “You may. I confess she grows too heavy for me. She is a glutton, are you not, Natasha? Go to Dane; he is the new generation.”

° ° °

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