To Play The Fool Part 4

Still, it was a harmless enough place, and discreetly notified customers that the venerable Graffeo Company had deigned to supply it with French-roast coffee, the smell of which grabbed at Kate when she opened the door, a heady aroma, sharp and dark and rich as red wine. She ordered a latte and watched with approval as the man a.s.sembling it tipped the coffee over the steamed milk with a flip of the wrist rather than using the effete method of dribbling it cautiously over the back of the spoon to create multiple multicolored layers in the gla.s.s, a drink filled with aesthetic nuances but, to Kateas mind, lacking the pleasurable jolt of contrast between milk and coffee. Reverse sn.o.bbery, Lee had called it once, admiring on that distant occasion her own tall gla.s.s with at least nine distinct strata.

aHave you seen Beatrice tonight?a she asked as she paid.

aSheall be down in a bit,a said the man, and slapped Kateas change down on the wooden bar. She picked up the dollars, tipped the rest of the change into the tips mug, and found a seat at a table with the surface area of a dinner plate. There was a guitarist at the far end of the L-shaped room, a woman all in black, with perhaps a dozen gold loops running up her ear and one through her nose. She was attempting cla.s.sical music, with limited success: The notes kept burring and her fingers squeaked as they moved along the strings. However, the flavor was there, and Kate did not mind waiting.

Twenty minutes or so later, the guitarist took a break, and shortly after that, Beatrice came through the bar area and into the room, a ten-by-twelve artistas pad in one hand and a small tin box in the other. She sat down in the point of the L and without fuss opened the box, took out a black felt-tip pen, and began to sketch the person sitting in front of her, her pen flas.h.i.+ng across the page in sure, quick gestures. In a couple of minutes, she put the cap on the pen, tore the page off the pad, and put it on the table, then stood up and moved to another vacant chair and another face. A mug marked for the artist had joined TIPS and FOR THE MUSICIAN on the wooden bar, and as people left, they tended to put some change and the occasional small bill in Beatriceas cup, even those who had not been sketched.

Eventually, when Kate had finished her second latte (this one decaffeinated) and was beginning to think she would have to approach the woman, Beatrice finished her dual portrait of a pair of nearly identical bristly-headed, metal-and-leather-clad punks, reached across her drawing on the table to pat the girlas black leather sleeve affectionately, and then took her pad and tin box over to Kateas table. She opened both and began to sketch.

ah.e.l.lo, dear,a she said. aI thought I might see you one of these nights.a ah.e.l.lo, Ms. Jankowski.a aBeatrice, dear,- call me Beatrice. I always feel that when someone calls you by your last name, itas because they want something from you. Either that or they want you to know they are better than you. Funny, isnat it, something looks like respect but underneath itas a power trip. Do they still use that phrase, I wonder? My vocabulary is so dated, itas coming back into style. You need a haircut, dear. Whatas your name, by the way?a aMartinelli. Kate,a she corrected herself with a smile.

aJust Kate? Not Katherine?a aKatarina,a she admitted. Beatrice looked up from her drawing, both hands going still.

aOh thatas very nice. Katarina. It sounds like those beautiful little islands down south, near Santa Barbara, is it? Or San Diego? Kate is too abrupt. Do you have a middle name?a aCecilia,a said Kate patiently.

aKatarina Cecilia Martinelli. Your mother was a poet. Thereas power in names, you know,a she said, going back to her drawing. aLast names are safe, generic, but when you give someone your first name, you give them a part of yourself. What about your partner?a aAl? You mean his name? Itas Alonzo. Hawkin, and I donat know if he has a middle name.a Beatrice stopped again, to gaze in an unfocused way at the shelves over the bar. aAlonzo,a she repeated softly. aOh my. I am such a sucker for a pretty name. Other girls used to fall for eyes or a lock of hair, but I would just melt at a melodious name. My three husbands were named Manuel, Oberon, and Lucius. Of course, they were all b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,- youad think I would learn. I donat think Alonzo would be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d though, do you?a aNo, but heas already spoken for.a Kate exaggerated his marital status slightly for Alas own benefit.

aI figured he would be.a She flipped the page of her sketchbook over to a fresh one. aBut this chitchat is not why youare here, is it?a aNo.a aItas about that odious man.a aJohn? Iam afraid so.a aOh, why canat you let him justa be dead?a she said crossly.

aBecause if we let the aodiousa people be killed, where would it stop?a aOh, dear. You are right, I suppose. Very well,a she said, turning to her pad again, aask away.a aDo you know anything about Johnas history? Where he was from, what he used to do?a aHe never talked to me, not that way. I donat think he much liked women, certainly not to talk to. Not that he was gay, but a lot of men who sleep with women donat much like them.a aDid he sleep with many women?a aDonat sound so surprised. Just because people donat have beds doesnat mean they lack s.e.xual organs,a Beatrice said, primly amused.

aBeatrice, Iam a cop, not a nun in a cloister,a Kate reminded her. aI was surprised because the way youave described him made him sound unattractive. Were other women attracted to him?a aHe was presentable enough, and certainly kept himself cleaner than a lot of the men do. I found him repulsive, true, but he could have a very glib tongue when he wanted to bother, and many women fall for a clever line even more than they do a pair of shoulders or a handsome face. Iam sure he got his share of female companions.h.i.+p.a aWho in particular?a Kate asked, but Beatriceas lips went straight and she bent over the pad. aThe homeless women in the park? Wilhemena?a Beatrice snorted. aAdelaide? Sue Ann?a Kate tried to remember the names that had cropped up, but Beatrice shook her head. aDid he have lady friends in the area, then?a Kate asked, and thinking she saw a slight hesitation in the moving hand, she pressed further. aOne of the women who has a house near the park? Or someone who works here?a aShopkeepers. He liked shopkeepers,a Beatrice admitted.

aWhat kind? Bookstore, grocery store, restaurant, coffee shopa"Beatrice, please tell me, I need to know.a Beatrice pursed up her mouth and rubbed her lips with the side of her thumbnail, a portrait of anxious thought. It wouldnat do for a woman living on the margins, dependent on the goodwill of her settled, more fortunate neighbors for what degree of comfort she managed to achieve, to offend them. Kate realized this and waited.

aAntiques,a she finally muttered. aJunk really, but pretentious. I saw him inside the antique store on the corner of Masonic one morning before it opened. He kissed the owner,- she let him out. He didnat see me.a aIs she the only one?a Beatrice shot her a look full of anger and closed her pad.

aIam sorry,a Kate said. aThank you for that. Iall talk with her, and of course I wonat tell her where the information came from. Is there anything else you know about him?a Beatrice did not open her sketch pad again, but neither did she stand up and leave.

aHorses,a she said suddenly. aHe once said something about quarter horses, I think it was, one day when the mounted police went by. I suppose he was from a farming community of some kind, between the horses and the drawl.a aDrawl?a asked Kate sharply.

aYes, he spoke with a drawl. Didnat you know that?a an.o.bodyas mentioned it that Iave heard.a aOh yes. I mean, it wasnat strong, like Deep South, but it was there. Texas, maybe, or Arizona, though it sounded like head lived in cities for a while.a Kate thought for a minute. aYou said youad once seen him in a car with someone.a Beatrice did not respond, but flipped open the sketch pad and thumbed the cap off her pen. aWhen you made your statement downtown,a she elaborated. When the woman merely turned to a clean page and began to run her pen up and down, Kateas interest sharpened. So far this evening, Beatrice had shown little of the blithe, slightly disconnected stepping-stone quality of the earlier interview: Was it back, and if so, what had brought it? aDo you remember saying that?a aIt was a remarkably ugly car, considering how much money must have been spent on it.a aAn expensive car. Foreign? A sports car? A big car? Cadillac? Rolls-Royce?a aJust like a ten-gallon hat, all show and terribly impractical.a aImagine the problems with parking it,a Kate suggested, with success.

aExactly.a aBut at least he bought American,a Kate offered tentatively, and held her breath. This system of interviewing a witness was inexcusable, leading questions compounded by guesses and utterly inadmissible as evidence, but there seemed no other way, and indeed, the responses kept coming.

aI never thought that a particularly good argument. The last car I owned was a Simca.a aThe man driving the car looked the sort who would use that argument, though, would you say?a aI suppose. The cost of gasoline certainly wouldnat trouble him,a she added in a non sequitur.

aWas he actually wearing his ten-gallon hat when you saw him?a aNo.a Ah well, it was a try, thought Kate. aHe didnat have it on. A ridiculous notion, isnat it? A hat that literally held ten gallons would be big enough to sit in. It was on the backseat.a By G.o.d. Bingo. Kate sat back in the flimsy chair.

aYou remember what color the license plates were?a Might as well try for the big prize, if oneas luck is in.

aColor? I donat remember any color. They werenat black and gold, though, Iam pretty sure.a The old California plates had gone out of use about the time Kate had her first pair of nylon stockings, so that wasnat much help.

aI donat suppose you remember when this was that you saw the two men?a aMy dear Katarina, life on the street does not necessarily mean a person is brain-dead.a aI didnata"a aOf course I remember. It was election day. The church served lunch outside that day because the hall was being used as a polling place and there was a mix-up over who was supposed to hold the soup kitchen instead, so they just worked inside and brought it out the back. Very apologetic, they were, but it was actually quite festive, I thought. Gave one a sense of partic.i.p.ation in the democratic process. The last presidential candidate I voted for was George McGovern. He didnat win,a she explained kindly, hr, no.

aI know that the man was in the city for a few days at least, because I remember seeing the two of them again on the Friday. They came in here. Didnat stay, just bought something to go, coffees probably, talked for a minute and looked around, then left. I was busy and didnat talk to them, but I think John saw me. I was a little nervous that he would come over, but he didnat, so that was all right, and he hasnat come in since, either. I did not like the idea of his taking over my Friday nights.a Beatrice took another thoughtful bite, then said suddenly in a m.u.f.fled voice, aTexas!a Kate waited while she chewed and swallowed rapidly. aPardon me. Texas, Iam sure, because of the star.a aWhich star was that?a aThe license plate. The Lone Star State. That is Texas, isnat it? Or is it the yellow rose? No, Iam certain there was a star on it.

aThe yellowa"a Kate stopped, struck dumb, and slowly shook her head. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

aWhat is it, Katarina? You look amused.a aSomething Erasmus saida"or rather, something he told me.a He had told her by humming, over the breakfast table in Berkeley, a tune she had only half-recognized and ignored: aThe Yellow Rose of Texas.a So, both Erasmus and Beatrice agreed that the mysterious womanizing John had probably been from Texas, and according to Beatrice, as recently as the first week of November he had retained a (wealthy?) possibly Texan connection.

aDid John smoke, do you know?a aHe did not.a aDid he wear false teeth?a aMy dear, I never looked in the manas mouth. Although, come to think of it, he occasionally hissed hisasas, and once when he was eating a banana it sounded like strawberries, that click-crunch noise. Ask Salvatore,a she said dismissively, starting to close up her pen, preparatory to moving on.

aLet me buy you a coffee,a Kate suggested. aSomething to eat?a Beatrice stopped, suddenly wary, then resigned. aVery well, dear. Krish there knows what Iall have.a Kate ordered herself yet another coffee, a decaffeinated cappuccino this time, and asked for whatever Beatrice liked, which turned out to be mulled apple cider with a toasted scone, a large dollop of cream cheese, and some plum jam. She arranged plates, cup, and cutlery onto the inadequate table, retaining her own cup for fear it would end up on her lap, and waited while Beatrice delicately cut her scone and scooped up cream cheese and jam in a practiced heap, then popped it into her mouth.

aI need to ask you a few questions about Brother Erasmus, now that Iave had the chance to meet him.a Kateas attempt to make the meeting sound like a social occasion fell flat beneath Beatriceas rather crumby words.

aYou arrested him last week, I heard, and then let him go.a aNo. There was no arrest,- he was not even detained,a she protested, stretching the truth slightly. aI gave him a ride back from Berkeley so we could take his statement, then we turned him loose. I admit it took us a while to get a statement, but that wasnat exactly our fault, if you know what I mean,a she added pointedly. Beatrice got the point and laughed.

aI can imagine.a aDoes he talk like that to everyone? Using quotes and sayings for everything he says?a aIs that what he does? Good heavens. I knew he was using the Bible a great deal, but that would explain the sometimesa inappropriate things he says. Surely not everything he says comes from somewhere else?a Thatas what I was told.a aHow extraordinary. How utterly sad.a aWhy sad?a aWhat I was talking about, the power of names, of words.

He must be very frightened of his own words if he never creates any. Terrified of his own thoughts, to push them aside for the thoughts of others.a Kate stared at Beatrice, who took a mournful bite of her scone. aYouare an amazing person,a she said without thinking.

aOh no, not really. I just keep my eyes open and think about things. One thing about being on the street, thereas lots of time for thinking.a aWhat are you doing here, anyway? Iam sorry if thatas rude, but most of the street people I see are pretty hopeless. Youare articulate, skilleda"you could have a job.a aOh indeed, I taught art history at UCLA,a she said, and seeing Kateas astonishment, she added, aThereas really quite an interesting intellectual community among the street people here. Iave met an astrophysicist, a couple of other university and college teachers, three computer programmers, and a handful of published poets. To say nothing of the young men, and a few women, who make a deliberate choice to remove themselves from the race of the middle-cla.s.s rat and as a form of practical philosophy choose this admittedly extreme form of freedom. Wasnat it Solzhenitsyn who said that a person is free only when thereas nothing more you can take away from him? Dreary man, but unfortunately often right.a aAnd you?a aOh no, dear. You donat want to hear about me, itas not a very pretty story.a Her voice remained light, but her eyes began to shoot around the room, looking for an escape from this topic. Kate relented and gave her one.

aTell me about Erasmus, then. He wonat, or canat, tell us anything except that heas a fool.a aI told you all I know about him. He comes to us on Sunday morning and leaves us on Tuesday. While he is here, he tells us stories from the Bible, sings hymns, leads us in prayer.

He listens, with all his being he listens, and does not judge. The disturbed are quieted,- the drunks are calmed,- the angry begin to see that there may be ways they can help themselves. He looks, and he sees,- he listens, and he hears. This alone is an unusual experience for most homeless people: We are used to being either invisible or an annoyance. He brings dignity into the lives of those who have lost it. He is likea he is like a small fire that we warm our hands over. What else can I say?a aBut you donat have any idea who he is or where he came from?a aHe came here in the summer. It would have been two summers ago, I suppose. How time does fly. He gives us Sunday and Monday, he gives the people at this place with the holy hill Wednesday and Thursday.a aAnd the other days?a aTravel, I suppose,a Beatrice said dismissively, but her eyes began to roam and her fingers gave a twitch on the knife.

aDoes it take two days to get back from Berkeley?a Kate asked mildly.

aI was never much for distance walking myself.a Beatrice was retreating fast, but this time Kate would not let her go.

aWhere does Erasmus go on Sat.u.r.days?a aI have to get back to my drawing.a aJust tell me where he goes.a aThe world is a big place.a aWhere does he go?a aIt has many needs,a Beatrice said wildly. aEven the world needs comfort.a aHe is off comforting the world?a aThey donat deserve him. They donat understand him. All they see is the surface, shallow, silly, violenta"no, not that, I didnat mean that!a she said quickly, looking frightened. aI meant crazy-looking, all they see is the act.a aBeatrice,a Kate said evenly, aI know Erasmus performs for the tourists at Fishermenas Wharf. You havenat told me anything I donat know. Iam sorry if Iave disturbed you, but I could see that you were trying to hide something about Erasmus and I wanted to know what it was.a Kate did not make it a habit to apologize to witnesses shead been pressing, but this woman, strong to look at, struck her as being too fragile to leave in an upset condition. Besides, she wanted her friendly and helpful in the future. aTrust me. I wonat be misled by his act for the tourists. Okay? Good. There was just one other thing: Was there ever any direct animosity that you saw between Erasmus and John?a This last question blew Kateas soothing words out of the water. Beatrice slapped the top down on her tin box, picked up box and pad, and rose to her feet.

aDonat I get my drawing?a Kate asked mildly. Beatrice tucked the box under her arm, flipped open the pad and tore off the page, and dropped it on the cluttered table. It was a caricature, a clever one, that emphasized the look of dry cynicism Kate sometimes felt looking out from her eye. She started to thank Beatrice, but the woman had already moved off to another table and was fumbling with unsteady hands at the clasp of her box. Kate put on her jacket, fished two five-dollar bills out of her purse to shove into the for the artist cup, and rolled the caricature gently into a tube.

It was raining lightly when she stepped out onto the street, raining heavily when she got home, and for the first time in her life she lay awake and wondered where the homeless were resting their heads this night.

TWELVE.

The jester could be free when the knight was rigid.

Sat.u.r.day morning was clear and clean and cold, and Kate stood drinking her coffee in a patch of sunlight that poured through a high side window onto the living room floor, wearing her flannel robe, talking to Al Hawkin on the telephone, and speculating with one part of her mind on how Beatrice and Erasmus fared this day.

aFine. Good,a she was saying. aNo, I donat think thereas any need for you to cancel. Iam only going because Iam curious, after Beatriceas reaction. He probably just talks dirty or something that embarra.s.sed her,- I donat think she was actually trying to hide anything from me. Right. Fine, yes I have Janias number.

Iall call you if anything comes up; otherwise Iall talk to you tonight. Have a good time, Al. Say hi to Jani and Jules for me. Bye.a She pushed the off b.u.t.ton and dropped the handset into her pocket, then closed her eyes and absorbed the pleasure of the winter sunlight in the silent house. Sat.u.r.day mornings, Jon and Lee went to a pottery cla.s.s, where they produced lopsided bowls and strange shapes from the unconscious. Three whole hours with a house that held only her was a treat she looked forward to every week,- illicit, never mentioned, and resented when her job or an illnessa"Leeas, Jonas, or the pottery teachersa"took it from her. This morning she could have half of it before she went hunting Brother Erasmus in his Fishermenas Wharf manifestation.

Normally she kept this time for something unrelated to daily life: loud music, frozen waffles with maple syrup, a book in a two-hour bath. Not today, though. She pulled a pillow from the sofa and dropped it onto the patch of sunlight. A million dust motes flew up, and she settled herself with a fresh cup of coffee and the folders from Professor Whitlaw. Very soon this case would be pushed to a back burner, superseded by another, probably one considered more pressing than the odd death of a homeless man in a park. But Erasmus interested hera"no, he bugged her. He was an unscratched itch, and she wanted him dealt with. So she read the impenetrable files for a second time, this time with a lined pad to write questions on, things she needed to know.

Did Erasmus have the scar of a removed tattoo on his left cheekbone? Might John have had one?

There must have been some organization behind the Fools movement. Where were the original Fools? Someone must have known Erasmus.

Who was the David Sawyer whose notes were marked as a personal communication from 1983? A Fool?

Kate wanted more details on the crimes committed by Fools, both misdemeanors and felonies, primarily the names of those arrested for attempted kidnapping (later dropped) and the murder of the bystander in Los Angeles.

The sun had moved, and Kate scooted the pillow across the wooden floor so as to be fully in it again, then opened Professor Whitlawas folder, the one with the loose sc.r.a.ps and notes. She picked up one page at random, and read: It used to be thought that only through the prayers of aescetic monks did the world maintain itself against the forces of evil, that monks were on the front lines of the battle against evil. Now, we are willing to grant monastic orders their place, for those of excessive sensitivity as well as a place of retreat and spiritual renewal for normal people. However, when a monk comes out of his monastery, we are baffled, and when confronted with a Saint Francis making mischief and behaving without a shred of decorum, we call him mad, not holy, and threaten him with iron bars and tranquillisers.

Christianity is, by its core nature, more akin to folly than it is to the Popeas ma.s.sive corporation. The central dictate of Christian doctrine is humility, in imitation of Christas ultimate self-humbling. Christians are mocked, persecuted, small: The powerful so-called Christian empires are the real perversion of the Gospel, not the Holy Fool.

One cannot be a Fool for Christas sake and be truly insane. Holy Foolishness is a cultivated state, a deliberate choice.However,themovementasgreatest strength, its simplicity, is also its greatest weakness, for it cannot protect itself against the mad or the vicious. The innocent Fool is as helpless as a child before the folly of willful evil. Hence the absolute catastrophe of the Los Angeles shooting.

The Fool is the mirror image of the shaman. The shamanas mythic voyage takes him from insanity into control of the basic stuff of the universe,- the Fool goes in the other direction, from normality into apparent lunacy, where he then lives, forever at the mercy of universal chaos. Both remain burdened by their ident.i.ties: the shaman paying for his control by personal sacrifice, and the Fool being in the grip of what Saward calls athe rare and terrible charism of holy folly.a Kate came to the end of the file without feeling much further along in her understanding. She set the folders on the table by the door, ate a breakfast of pear and a toasted bagel, and went to dress for her encounter with tourism.

Given a sunny Sat.u.r.day, even in February there will be a decent crowd in the Fishermenas Wharf area, meandering with children and cameras along the three-quarters of a mile between the glitzy Pier 39 and Ghirardelli Square, that grandfather of all factory-into-shopping-mall conversions. Kate parked in the garage beneath the former chocolate factory and made her way to the street that fronted Aquatic Park, but there was no sign of a six-foot-two elderly bearded clown. She went up the stairs back into Ghirardelli Square proper and found a puppet show in progress, but no Erasmus.

Back on the street, she crossed over to run the gauntlet of sidewalk vendors selling sweats.h.i.+rts, tie-dyed infantas overalls, images of the Golden Gate Bridge painted onto rocks and bits of redwood, bead necklaces, toilet-roll holders in the shape of frogs and palm trees, crystal light-catchers, crystal earrings, crystal necklaces, and crystals to sew into the back seam of your trousers to center your energy. She was tempted to get one of those for Al, just to see his face, but moved on instead to the next stall, where a graying gypsy sold polished stones on thongs. Kate fingered a teardrop-shaped stone, dark blue with an interesting silvery line running through it.

aThatas lapis lazuli, good for physical healing, psychic protection, and stimulating mental powers,a the woman rattled off, adding, aThe color would look good on you.a G.o.d knows, I could use some mental stimulation, thought Kate, although she told her, aIam looking for a gift, for a blond woman.a The woman gave her a brief lecture on stone auras and personality enhancements, and Kate ended up buying a small necklace of intense lapis lazuli that was set in a delicate silver band. As the woman looked for a suitable box, Kate ran her eyes over the park again.

aDo you come here often?a she asked the woman.

aSeven years,a was the laconic answer.

aThereas a performer here I was hoping to see, an old guy, tall, does a clown act.a aYou a cop?a Kate was surprised, as she had made an effort and dressed like half the women on the street.

aYes. Why?a aJust like to know who Iam talking to. Thatas eighteen bucks.a Kate handed her a twenty,- she gave her back two ones and the small white box. aIave got nothing against cops. My sister used to be married to one,- he was okay. Youare talkina about Erasmus?a aThatas right. Have you seen him?a aNot today. He usually comes down in the afternoon,-mornings, he starts in front of the Cannery.a aIall try down there, then. Thanks.a aSure. Itas the eyes,a she said unexpectedly.

aWhat eyes?a aCops. Your eyes are never still, not if youave been on the streets. Flip-flip-flip, always looking into peoplesa pockets, watchina how they stand. Wear your sungla.s.ses. And relax, sister. Itas a beautiful day.a Kate laughed aloud, then sauntered off, feeling good. This was not a bad city, sometimes. She tended to forget that, what with one thing and another.

She made her way past the crowded cable-car turntable and turned downhill at the cart selling hot pretzels, strolling along the waterfront with her hands in her pockets and her eyes scanning the streets from behind the black lenses, humming a tune she did not recognize as coming from the silly musical video she had watched two nights ago. (aWhen constabulary dutyas to be done, to be done, a policemanas lot is not an aappy one, aappy one.a) She saw two drug scores and a cruising hooker, then a familiar face. She walked over and leaned against the wall next to the pickpocket and sometime informant.

aHey, Battles,a she murmured. aHowas doing?a aInspector Martinelli. Looking good. Iam clean.a aIam sure you are, Bartles, and how about we stay that way? Such a pretty day, letas not spoil it for the folks from Nebraska, huh?a aIam not working, I told you. Iam just waiting for the wife.a a aHis capacity for innocent enjoyment is just as great as any honest manas,aa she sang, out of tune, startling a pa.s.sing young couple from Visalia.

aWhatare you going on about?a aJust something I heard on the tube the other night. Bar-ties, I think when your wifeas finished her shopping you should take her home. Iam in a good mood and if you spoil it, I might break one of your fingers getting the cuffs on you.a aIam not working today,a he insisted.

aGood. Neither am I. Have you seen a tall old man with a beard doing some kind of a clown act?a aFirst she threatens me, then she asks me a favor.a aNo threat, and itas not a favor. Just asking a civil question.

aYou wouldnat know aa"oh Christ, itas my wife. Get lost, will you?a aHave you seen him?a aTwo blocks down, across the street. Now go!a he hissed.

Kate moved off, but not before she had seen the light of suspicion come on in the face of a thin woman in shorts and spike heels. She whistled softly to herself and turned into one of the nearby clothing shops, where she chose a hot pink nylon baseball cap that was embroidered with a truncated Golden Gate Bridge and the words SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, buying it and a package of chewing gum. She paused at the tiny mirror beside a display of abalone earrings to put her hair up under the hat, then unpeeled the gum and took out a piece, which she never chewed by choice, but it rendered her infinitely more harmless than all the makeup in a theater. Chewing and humming and slouching behind her shades, she went to see the act of Brother Erasmus.

THIRTEEN.

A certain precipitancy was the very poise of his soul.

It really was a stunningly beautiful morning, Kate thought with pleasure, the kind of day that tempts people from New York and Boise to move to California. It is easy to brave the earthquakes and the unemployment and the killing mortgages when a person can eat lunch outside wearing only a cotton s.h.i.+rt, knowing that much of the country is up to its backside in snow. Strolling along in the carnival atmosphere, kites dipping out over the water, the air smelling of fish and aftershave, the waters of the Golden Gate sparkling, with the bridge, Mount Tamalpais, and the island fortress of Alcatraz looking on benevolently, Kate could forget for a few minutes that she was here on business. She paused to examine the odd wares of the shop that sold live oysters complete with pearls, stopped again to watch a young black kid standing on a box playing robot while his buddy made sure everyone had the hat held under their noses, and then she bought an ice cream conea"for camouflage, of course. By then she had spotted Erasmus. She went up casually, hiding behind hat and cone and the large crowd he had attracted.

He was dressed as Rosalyn Hall had described him, in khaki trousers, a too-small blue-and-white-striped T-s.h.i.+rt, and running shoes that were just a bit too long. He also had a Raiders cap perched on the back of his head and an exaggeratedly garish gold watch on his wrist. His face, as Rosalyn had said, was very lightly shaded. From the side where Kate stood, his face above the beard seemed slightly more dusky than usual, but when he turned around, she saw that the left side of his face was pale, almost chalky. Subtle, and disconcerting.

The most striking thing, however, was not Erasmus himself but his wooden staff: Propped upright against a newspaper vending machine, it wore on its carved head a miniature Raiders cap and a pair of childas sungla.s.ses, and beneath its chin a sc.r.a.p of the blue-and-white T-s.h.i.+rt fabric covered the worn piece of ribbon. Kate had not really noticed how like Erasmus the carving was, probably because the wood was so dark that the details faded, but it was all there: the beard, an identical beak of a nose, the high brow beneath the cap. The staff was Erasmus reduced to fist-sized essentials. Only its eyes were invisible behind the miniature black lenses.

Erasmus was talking to the staff. He seemed to be reciting a speech in a Shakespearean cadence (speaking with a clipped midwestern sort of accent), striding up and down in the small area of sidewalk that was his stage, seemingly unaware of any audience but the staff, which stood erect, gazing back enigmatically at him from the orange metal newspaper box.

And then the staff spoke. For a moment, Kate felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise at the hoa.r.s.e whisper, until she realized it was merely a very skillful ventriloquism she was hearing. Around her, the people in the crowd, particularly the newcomers on the outer fringes, stirred and glanced at one another with quick, embarra.s.sed smiles. It was eerie, that voice, hypnotic and amazingly real. Across the shoulders, she caught a glimpse of two children on the other side of the circle, their mouths agape as they listened to the mannikin speak.

aA pestilent gall to me!a it said.

aSir, Iall teach you a speech,a offered Erasmus eagerly. He stood slightly bent, so as to look up at the face on the end of the wooden pole, and his stance, combined with the expression he wore of sly stupidity, changed him, made him both bereft of dignity yet somehow more powerful, as if he was under the control of some primal buffoon.

aDo,a said the staff in its husky voice.

aMark it, uncle: Have more than you show,- speak less than you knowa"a As the speech went on, Kate licked her ice cream absently, the wad of gum tucked up into her cheek, and tried to remember where she had heard this before. It must be Shakespeare, she thought. One of those things Lee had taken her to. What was it, though? One of the dramas. Not Macbeth. The Tempest? No, it was King Lear, talking to his fool. But here, the part of the king was being played by the inanimate staff, while the kingas fool was the flesh-and-blood man.

aThis is nothing, fool,a hissed the staff.

aThen itas like the breath of an unpaid lawyer,a said Erasmus gleefully. aYou gave me nothing for it!a This brought a laugh, from the adults at any rate. The children did not giggle until the fool offered to give the staff two crowns in exchange for an egg.

aWhat two crowns will they be?a said the staff scornfully.

aWhy, after Iave cut the egg in the middle and eaten the meat, the two crowns of the egg.a And so saying, Erasmus pulled two neat half eggsh.e.l.ls out of thin air and placed them on the heads of two children. He turned back to the enigmatic wooden figure.

aI pray you, uncle, keep a schoolmaster, that can teach your fool to lie. I would like to learn to lie.a He wagged his eyebrows up and down and the children laughed again.

aIf you lie, sir, weall have you whipped,a growled the staff.

aI marvel what kin you and your daughters are!a Erasmus exclaimed. aTheyall have me whipped for speaking the truth, you will have me whipped for lying, and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I would rather be any kind of thing than a fool, and yeta"I would not be you,a he said, marching up to the staff and shaking his head at the wooden face. aYou have pared your wit on both sides, and left nothing in the middlea"and here comes one of the parings.a He raised his voice at this last sentence and looked pointedly over the heads of the people at a spot behind them. As one, they turned to see. Kate, with the whole ma.s.s in front of her, stepped away from the street to look down the sidewalk and sawa"Oh no. Oh s.h.i.+t, Erasmus, you stupid old man, donat do this. Canat you see what youare messing with?

But of course he could. That was why he was standing there with his head down, grinning in wicked antic.i.p.ation as he met the eyes of his target.

The young man was startled at the sudden spectacle of thirty or more people turning to stare at him. Wary, but const.i.tutionally unable to back away from any confrontation, the young man stopped dead, his eyes shooting from side to side as he tried to a.n.a.lyze the situation.

He was a small but powerfully built boy of perhaps nineteen or twenty wearing a tight tank top that showed off the muscles of a weight lifter. His chin and cheeks were dusted with a slight blond bristle and he swaggered in snug blue jeans and black Doc Marten boots that boosted his height almost to average. In his left hand he had a small brown paper bag with the gla.s.s neck of a green bottle protruding from it. His right arm was draped over the shoulder of an emaciated girl of seventeen or eighteen who had acne on her chin and chest, black roots in her blond hair, a fading bruise on her upper arm, a lip whose puffiness was not hidden by the lipstick she wore, and a pair of enormous black sungla.s.ses that obscured a large part of her face. Kate had been on enough domestic calls to read the signs without thinking about it: Her careful walk and the arms crossed in front of her told Kate the girlas ribs hurt,- her body language (leaning both into and away from the possessive arm) told Kate who had been responsible.

Erasmus, too, knew that something was wrong here. He held out a hand to the pair and called jovially, aCome my lad and drink some beer!a aUh, thanks, I got some,a said the boy.

aHasten to be drunk,a Erasmus said smilingly. aThe business of the day.a aI ainat drunk.a The staff now spoke up. aFirst the man takes a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes the man.a The young man stood with his mouth open, his eyes going from the man to his curiously dressed stick and back again. He suspected mockery, but the number of spectators made it impossible either to shove the old man around or to back off.

aWhaa the f.u.c.k?a he asked.

aWhere the drink goes in, there the wit goes out,a commented the staff.

The boy squinted at the wooden object, then took his arm from the girlas shoulders to walk around and see it face-on.