The Descent

Santos,  too,  was  not  distracted.  'Monsieur  Thomas,  is  it  not  true  that  it  was  the Church that persuaded UNESCO and the Indonesians to forbid  work  at  these  depths? And that you personally were  the agent in charge of halting the UNESCO restoration?' De  l'Orme  smiled  innocently,  as  if  wondering  how  his  henchman  had  learned  such facts.

'Half of what you say  is true,' Thomas said.

'The orders did come from you?'

'Through me. The  restoration was complete.'

'The   restoration,   perhaps,   but   not   the   investigation,   obviously.   Scholars   have counted  eight  great  civilizations  piled  here.  Now,  in  the  space  of  three  weeks,  we've found evidence of two more civilizations beneath those.'

'At any rate,' Thomas said, 'I'm here to seal the dig. As of tonight, it's finished.' Santos slapped his palm on the wood. 'Disgraceful. Say  something,' he appealed to  de l'Orme.

The  response was practically a whisper. 'Perinde ac cadaver.'

'What?'

'Like  a  corpse,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'The  perinde  is  the  first  rule  of  Jesuit  obedience.  "I belong  not  to  myself  but  to  Him  who  made  me  and  to  His  representative.  I  must behave  like a corpse possessing neither will nor understanding."'

The  young man paled. 'Is this true?'  he asked.

'Oh yes,'  said de l'Orme.

The  perinde  seemed  to  explain  much.  Thomas  watched  Santos  turn  pitying  eyes upon  de  l'Orme,  clearly  shaken  by  the  terrible  ethic  that  had  once  bound  his  frail mentor. 'Well,' Santos finally said to Thomas, 'it's not for us.'

'No?' said Thomas.

'We require  the freedom of our views.  Absolutely. Your  obedience is not for us.'

Us, not me. Thomas was starting to warm to this young man.

'But someone invited me here to see an image carved  in stone,' said Thomas.  'Is  that not obedience?'

'That  was  not  Santos,  I  assure  you.'  De  l'Orme  smiled.  'No,  he  argued  for  hours against telling you. He even  threatened  me when I sent you the fax.'

'And why  is that?' asked Thomas.

'Because  the  image  is  natural,'   Santos   replied.   'And  now  you'll  try   to  make   it supernatural.'

'The  face  of  pure  evil?'  said  Thomas.  'That  is  how  de  l'Orme  described  it  to  me.  I

don't know if it's natural or not.'

'It's not the true  face. Only a representation. A sculptor's nightmare.'

'But  what  if  it  does  represent  a  real  face?  A  face  familiar  to  us  from  other  artifacts and sites? How is that anything other than natural?'

'There,' complained Santos. 'Inverting  my  words doesn't change what you're after.  A

look into the devil's own eyes.  Even if they're  the eyes  of a man.'

'Man  or  demon,  that's  for  me  to  decide.  It  is  part  of  my  job.  To  assemble  what  has been  recorded  throughout  human  time  and  to  make  it  into  a  coherent  picture.  To verify  the evidence of souls. Have you taken  any photos?'

Santos had fallen silent.

'Twice,' de l'Orme answered.  'But  the  first  set  of  pictures  was  ruined  by  water.  And Santos  tells  me  the  second  set  is  too  dark  to  see.  And  the  video  camera's  battery  is dead. Our electricity  has been out for days.'

'A plaster casting, then? The  carving is in high relief, isn't it?'

'There's  been no time. The  dirt keeps  collapsing,  or  the  hole  fills  with  water.  It's  not a proper trench, and this monsoon is a plague.'

'You mean to say  there's  no record whatsoever?  Even after  three  weeks?'

Santos  looked  embarrassed.  De  l'Orme  came  to  the  rescue.  'After  tomorrow  there will be abundant record. Santos has vowed  not  to  return  from  the  depths  until  he  has recorded the image altogether. After  which the pit may  be sealed, of course.'

Thomas shrugged in the face of the inevitable. It  was not his  place  to  physically  stop de  l'Orme  and  Santos.  The  archaeologists  didn't  know  it  yet,  but  they  were  in  a  race against  more  than  time.  Tomorrow,  Indonesian  army  soldiers  were  arriving  to  close the  dig  down  and  bury  the  mysterious  stone  columns  beneath  tons  of  volcanic  soil. Thomas was glad he would be gone by  then. He  did  not  relish  the  sight  of  a  blind  man arguing with bayonets.

It  was  nearly  one  in  the  morning.  In  the  far  distance,  the  gamelan  drifted  between volcanoes,  married  the  moon,  seduced  the  sea.  'I'd  like  to  see  the  fresco  itself,  then,' said Thomas.

'Now?' barked  Santos.

'I  expected  as  much,'  de  l'Orme  said.  'He's  come  nine  thousand  miles  for  his  peek. Let  us go.'

'Very  well,' Santos said. 'But I will take  him. You need to get your  rest,  Bernard.' Thomas saw the tenderness.  For an instant he was almost envious.

'Nonsense,' de l'Orme said. 'I'm going also.'