The Descent

It  was a lovers' meal, raspberries  plucked  from  the  summit  slopes  of  Gunung  Merapi, a lush volcano towering beneath the crescent  moon. You would  not  know  the  old  blind man  was  dying,  his  enthusiasm   for  the   raspberries   was   so  complete.   No  sugar, certainly not, or cream. De l'Orme's joy in the ripe berries  was a thing to see.  Berry  by berry,  Santos kept  replenishing the old man's bowl from his own.

De l'Orme paused, turned his head. 'That  would be him,' he said.

Santos  had  heard  nothing,  but  cleaned  his  fingers  with  a  napkin.  'Excuse  me,'  he said, and rose swiftly to open the door.

He peered  into the night. The  electricity  was out, and he had ordered a  brazier  to  be lit  upon  the  path.  Seeing  no  one,  he  thought  de  l'Orme's  keen  ears  were  wrong  for  a change. Then he saw the traveler.

The  man  was  bent  before  him  on  one  knee  in  the  darkness,  wiping  mud  from  his black  shoes  with  a  fistful  of  leaves.  He  had  the  large  hands  of  a  stonemason.  His  hair was white.

'Please, come in,' Santos said. 'Let me help.' But he did not offer a hand to assist.

The  old  Jesuit  noticed  such  things,  the  chasm  between  a  word  and  a  deed.  He  quit swabbing at the mud. 'Ah, well,' he said, 'I'm not done walking tonight anyway.'

'Leave  your  shoes  outside,'  Santos  insisted,  then  tried  to  change  his  scold  into  a generosity. 'I will wake  the boy to clean them.'

The  Jesuit said nothing, judging  him.  It  made  the  young  man  more  awkward.  'He  is a good boy.'

'As you wish,'  the  Jesuit  said.  He  gave  his  shoelace  a  tug,  and  the  knot  let  go  with  a pop. He undid the other and stood.

Santos  stepped  back,  not  expecting  such  height,  or  bones  so  raw  and  sturdy.  With his rough angles and  boxer's  jaw,  the  Jesuit  looked  built  by  a  shipwright  to  withstand long voyages.

'Thomas.'  De  l'Orme   was   standing  in  the   penumbra   of   a   whaler's   lamp,   eyes shrouded behind small blackened spectacles. 'You're late. I  was  beginning  to  think  the leopards must have  gotten you. And now look, we've  finished dinner without you.' Thomas advanced upon the spare banquet of fruits and  vegetables  and  saw  the  tiny bones of a dove, the  local  delicacy.  'My  taxi  broke  down,'  he  explained.  'The  walk  was longer than I expected.'

'You  must  be  exhausted.  I  would  have  sent  Santos  to  the  city  for  you,  but  you  told me you knew Java.'

Candles  upon  the  sill  backlit  his  bald  skull  with  a  buttery  halo.  Thomas  heard  a small,  rattling  noise  at  the  window,  like  rupiah  coins  being  thrown  against  the  glass. Closer, he saw giant moths and sticklike insects, working furiously to get at the light.

'It's been a long time,' Thomas said.

'A very  long time.' De l'Orme smiled. 'How many years?  But now we are reunited.' Thomas looked about. It  was a large  room  for  a  rural  pastoran  –  the  Dutch  Catholic equivalent  of  a  rectory  –  to  offer  a  guest,  even  one  as  distinguished  as  de  l'Orme. Thomas  guessed  one  wall  had  been  demolished  to  double  de  l'Orme's  workspace. Mildly  surprised,  he  noted  the  charts  and  tools  and  books.  Except  for  a  well-polished colonial-era secretary  desk bursting with papers, the room did  not  look  like  de  l'Orme at all.

There  was the usual aggregation of temple  statuary,  fossils,  and  artifacts  that  every field  ethnologist  decorates  'home'  with.  But  beneath  that,  anchoring  these  bits  and pieces of daily  finds,  was  an  organizing  principle  that  displayed  de  l'Orme,  the  genius, as  much  as  his  subject  matter.  De  l'Orme   was   not  particularly   self-effacing,   but neither  was  he  the  sort  to  occupy  one  entire  shelf  with  his  published  poems  and two-volume   memoir   and   another   with   his   yardage   of   monographs   on   kinship, paleoteleology,  ethnic  medicine,  botany,  comparative  religions,  et  cetera.  Nor  would he  have  arranged,  shrinelike  and  alone  upon  the  uppermost  shelf,  his  infamous  La Matière  du  Coeur  (The  Matter  of  the  Heart),  his  Marxist  defense  of  Teilhard  de Chardin's Socialist Le Coeur de la Matière. At the  Pope's  express  demand,  de  Chardin had  recanted,  thus  destroying  his  reputation  among  fellow  scientists.  De  l'Orme  had not recanted, forcing the Pope to  expel  his  prodigal  son  into  darkness.  There  could  be only  one  explanation  for  this  prideful  show  of  works,  Thomas  decided:  the  lover.  De l'Orme possibly did not know the books were  set  out.

'Of course I would find  you  here,  a  heretic  among  priests,'  Thomas  chastised  his  old friend. He waved  a hand toward Santos. 'And in  a  state  of  sin.  Or,  tell  me,  is  he  one  of us?'