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Crucifixes always fascinate me. There are numerous ways inwhich various details can be rendered, and the art of the CrucifiedChrist alone fills much of the world's museums, and those cathedralsand basilicas that have become museums. But this, even for me, was arather impressive one. It was huge, old, very realistic in the style ofthe late nineteenth century, Christ's scant loincloth coiling in thewind, his face hollow-cheeked and profoundly sorrowful.
Surely it was one of Roger's finds. It was too big for the altarniche, for one thing, and of impressive workmanship, whereas thescattered plaster saints who remained on their pedestals梩hepredictable and pretty St. Therese of Lisieux in her Carmelite robes,with her cross and her bouquet of roses; St. Joseph with his lily; andeven the Maria Regina with her crown at her shrine beside the altar?
were all more or less routine. They were life-size; they were carefullypainted; they were not fine works of art.
The Crucified Christ pushed one to some sort of resolution.
Either "I loathe Christianity in all its bloodiness," or some morepainful feeling, perhaps for a time in youth when one had imagined one'shands systematically pierced with those particular nails. Lent.
Meditations. The Church. The Priest's voice entoning the words. OurLord.
I felt both the loathing and the pain. Hovering near in theshadows, watching outside lights flicker and flare in the stained glass, Ifelt boyhood memories near me, or maybe I tolerated them. Then Ithought of Roger's love for his daughter, and the memories werenothing, and the love was everything. I went up the steps that hadonce led to the altar and tabernacle. I reached up and touched thefoot of the crucified figure. Old wood. Shimmer of hymns, faint andsecretive. I looked up into the race and saw not a countenance twistedin agony, but wise and still, perhaps in the final seconds before death.
A loud echoing noise sounded somewhere in the building. Istepped back almost too fast, and lost my footing stupidly and foundmyself facing the church. Someone moved in the building, someonewalking at a moderate pace on the lower floor and towards the samestairway up which I'd come to the chapel door.
I moved swiftly to the entrance of the vestibule. I could hear novoice and detect no scent! No scent. My heart sank. "I won't take anymore of this!" I whispered. I was already shaking. But some mortalscents don't come that easily; there is the breeze to consider, orrather the draughts, which in this place were considerable.
The figure was mounting the stairs.
I leant back behind the chapel door so I might see it turn at thelanding. And if it was Dora I meant to hide at once.
But it wasn't Dora, and it came walking so fast right up the stairs,lightly and briskly towards me, that I realized who it was as he cameto a stop in front of me.
The Ordinary Man.
I stood stock-still, staring at him. Not quite my height; not quitemy build; regular in every respect as I remembered. Scentless? No,but the scent was not right. It was mingled with blood and sweat andsalt and I could hear a faint heartbeat... .
"Don't torment yourself," he said, in a very civil and diplomaticvoice. "I'm debating. Should I make my offer now, or before you getmixed up with Dora? I'm not sure what's best."He was four feet away at the moment.
I slouched arrogantly against the doorframe of the vestibule andfolded my arms. The whole flickering chapel was behind me. Did Ilook frightened? Was I frightened? Was I about to perish of fright?
"Are you going to tell me who you are," I asked, "and what youwant, or am I supposed to ask questions and draw this out of you?""You know who I am," he said in the same reticent, simplemanner.
Something struck me suddenly. What was outstanding were theproportions of his figure and his face. The regularity itself. He wasrather a generic man.
He smiled. "Exactly. It's the form I prefer in every age and place,because it doesn't attract very much attention." Again the voice wasgood-natured. "Going about with black wings and goat's feet, youknow梚t overwhelms mortals instantly.""I want you to get the hell out of here before Dora comes!" I said.
I was suddenly sputtering crazy.
He turned, slapped his thigh, and laughed.
"You are a brat, Lestat," he said in his simple, unimposing voice.
"Your cohorts named you properly. You can't give me orders.""I don't know why not. What if I throw you out?""Would you like to try? Shall I take my other form? Shall I let mywings...." I heard the chatter of voices, and my vision was clouding.
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