Dead Voices, page 10
“We all knew what he preached,” Paul said. “It was common knowledge, though it wasn’t written yet.”
“And yet you mention nothing of his ethical message and of his works. Wasn’t that because your real message wasn’t the works or the law but the triumph of the spirit over the flesh? Wasn’t it the triumph of the inner person as opposed to the outer person, which is the secret message of Gnosticism as well? That the real ‘I am,’ the pneuma, the divine spark inside all of us, yearns to shed its outer skin and be reborn into its true source, the transcendent kingdom of the Father, the new loving God and not the old God of the Hebrew Scriptures whom the Gnostics called the demiurge — the inferior evil God. Your message wasn’t Jewish at all. It was entirely Roman and Greek and Gnostic.”
Everyone’s eyes shifted to the challenger, who sat in his swivel chair seemingly unperturbed by the grilling. Either he had suffered worse indignities than this, Wes felt, or he had something up his sleeve. Whatever the case, it made for good TV — for those still following.
“You can twist my words and bring any charge you wish against me,” Paul said in a quiet voice, looking directly at Ellen, “but my words speak for themselves. I can’t answer for how my words were interpreted after me, only what they say in their time and place. And what they say is not what I was taught, nor did I receive it from the apostles, for it isn’t of human origin.”
“My point precisely,” Ellen said, nodding with a smug smile. “You received your message from a vision, as you said, but that was a common Gnostic experience in those days. And it was considered entirely subjective — a spiritual experience, not a physical or ethical one. It existed in a sort of metaphysical space. If the uninitiated ordinary believers wanted to see it as a miracle, of course, that was up to them. The only problem was that your message of faith for all, Gentile and Jew alike, was totally opposed to the rest of the apostles, specifically Peter and James, the brother of Jesus, who wanted to keep the ethical message of Jesus within the Torah and Judaism.”
“You may see it that way, but not see it the whole way,” Paul said to her, then shifted his eyes to the studio audience. “I can only say that wisdom of this world is foolishness to the revealed words. We, on the other hand, who’ve studied the revealed words of the prophets have seen what it means to be elected and clean and separated from the rest of the world. And the Mashiah has revealed to us how we can all be saved as the chosen ones. Which is to have faith in the Lord, our saviour. And be clean on the inside and then on the outside. That is the faith I speak about. A faith that obliterates all outer impediments. A faith in the invisible spirit. Not exclusively for those elected by blood or gifted with knowledge. A faith for everyone. For the lowest of the low, for fools, for the despised, for slaves and freemen alike. A faith of hope and love, a faith of salvation for all. Not in the visible things that I saw all around me in my travels in the pagan world. With all its gods and goddesses and demons of wood and stone. And with the despicable acts the slaves were subjected to, especially in Rome, an overcrowded city of well over a million, half of whom were slaves. The whole visible pagan world was our real enemy. And now the visible kingdom of darkness and evil still reigns supreme in all its foolish glory, blind to the secrets of the invisible kingdom that our fathers established long ago.”
The visual on the monitor showed Paul’s eyes enflamed with fervour.
“I know things are getting interesting,” Wes cut in with a big grin, “but we have to take a break. We’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”
The theme music, resounding in its fast-paced tinkly vein, immediately broke the tension in the audience. He could see that most of them needed a break, one way or the other.
Larry walked out to face the studio audience. He went into a story about attending a bris and almost passing out. He didn’t know about the audience, he said at the end, but all this religious talk was giving him the willies. All they had to do was crack open a few cold ones and they’d resolve all their issues.
After Larry left, Wes saw the camera light come back on. He sensed the tension had all but evaporated and they were back in the TV world.
“Prime Time Challenge tonight has put our mystery challenger who is playing Paul of Tarsus on the hot seat,” he said. “We have to remind our audience at home and here in the studio, however, that the opinions and views expressed by the participants do not necessarily reflect the views of the show or the sponsors.”
After a brief summary of the Q & A, he gave the floor to Jake Solomon.
“I have to remind everyone, including Paul here,” Jake said, “that Rabbinical Judaism was never meant to be entirely exclusive. As long as non-Jews followed the Noahide laws they could also be saved. And that maybe his use of the Greek translation of the Scriptures instead of the original Hebrew made him misunderstand the relationship between the people and the Torah. Why did you speak so harshly against your own people?”
“If I spoke harshly, it was because I was speaking to my own family.”
“In 1Thessalonians 2 you expressly blame the Jews for killing Jesus.”
Paul paused, listening to his earphone. “Most scholars claim those words were inserted by later redactors. But it’s also possible to see the words in another way. That all those who live in the flesh are actually killing the Mashiah inside them all the time.”
Jake shook his head in disapproval. Wes could see the audience wasn’t responding.
“There are scholars,” Jake went on, “who claim that you were a collaborator, a traitor to your people. They call you a secret Herodian, an accommodator with the Romans, who sold out to the Romans, who not only abrogated the law but undermined the basic tenet of any form of Judaism. You said that faith alone could save us and that a risen-fromthe-dead-man was the saviour of the human race, thereby elevating a human being to a god-like status. That wasn’t Judaism at all, as Ellen already said, but from the Greek mystery religions, not to mention the Egyptian beliefs.”
“Well,” Paul said, “the message had to be understood by everyone, Jew and Gentile alike, and it was bound to be misunderstood by both sides.”
“Isn’t it a fact that in Galatians you repudiate the whole Torah?” Jake said. “Isn’t it a fact that your so-called faith was not only anathema to Judaism but also radically different from the real historical Jesus himself and his true apostles, James and Peter? Isn’t it a fact that it was you, and only you, that split entirely from the historical Jesus in order to get all the benefits of the Torah without the work of following it?”
“However you see it,” Paul said, not losing his smile, “the good news was meant to be a bridge, not only between Jew and Gentile but between the flesh and the spirit, the visible and the invisible. And the end of days was near. We had to be ready to cross over at any time.”
The monitor showed Jake’s tight visage. “You betrayed the law and your own people.”
“As followers of the Mashiah, we only brought the nomos pisteos, the law of faith, into its next step, the law of love. May the Holy One, HaShem, forgive me if I’ve done wrong.”
Two of the cameras panned over the studio audience which was hushed. The panellists, with their own earphones in place, remained silent, looking at the guest challenger with a mixture of scepticism and respect
Wes heard through his earphone to get out fast. Dave was practically shouting in his ear.
“I’m sure I speak for everyone, Paul,” Wes said, “when I say you’ve done a great job of meeting the Prime Time challenge. We may not understand or agree with everything you said, but we certainly see your fervour and faith. Do you have any final words?”
The challenger looked into the camera, his expression almost serene in its intensity.
“Peace and grace to all those out there still firm in their faith. We believe we are saved in our minds and hearts — and not in the outward show, as our Lord taught us. And these days everyone is fooled by the outward show, at what comes to us through the screen of the great beast. What we must do, however, is always look to the signs of the spermatikos logos, the seed of the Father, the generative principle, which connects the visible to the invisible, the law of love under our skin, where there is no Jew or Gentile, no male or female, no Muslim or Hindu, no Catholic or Protestant, no black, no white, no brown, no rich, and no poor.”
The studio fell into a tense silence. Wes’s TV training told him to steer away from the iceberg ahead, but his stronger instincts prevailed.
“What great beast do you mean?” he said.
The challenger faced the camera and maintained steady eye contact. Everyone waited for his words, but no words came from his mouth.
Wes let the dead air time go on for as long as possible, hoping the silence would make for good TV for the few — even though Dave was giving him an earful.
“Thank you, Paul,” he finally said.
After the show, the guest challenger was whisked away before anyone could talk to him.
Later that night Dave called him into his office and gave him a tongue lashing. He had let the challenger talk much too long to defend himself. Had he forgotten his job as moderator to not let things get out of hand? The complaints, angry and from all sides, were flooding in by phone and Twitter. Their show was supposed to be fun and light-hearted, not revisionist hysteria.
Sitting in front of Dave’s desk, Wes took everything in. The awards on his wall. The photos of his family, the little mementos and photos of his years on the network. He had never seen Dave this angry with him before. His face was flushed, his unkempt and long hair all askew. Two buttons on his old shirt were torn, exposing his large belly. Any second he thought he’d get the heave-ho.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Dave said. “What the fuck were you doing asking him about the great beast? That wasn’t Paul of Tarsus. It was an actor who’s a selfrighteous bastard, biting the hand that feeds him. You just gave him a fucking podium to spout his views. Now I’m going to have to eat shit from the viewers and sponsors. Not to mention the religious fanatics. Give me one fucking good reason why you didn’t stop him.”
“To tell you the truth, Dave, I don’t know. I guess I was trying to be fair to everyone.”
“Fair? Are you kidding? Your first loyalty is to me and the show, not to your pangs of personal conscience. The next time I tell you to fucking shut things down, Wes, you do it or you’re out. Is that clear? There are about two hundred people who’d jump at your job. I know that for a fact.”
“Anything you say, Dave.”
“Fortunately we had enough time to cut a few things out.”
After the show was actually aired — and the editor did all his cutting — Wes got a call from his mother who was as distraught as he had ever heard her.
“Why didn’t you say anything, Wesley?” she said. “Why didn’t you help that poor man out? They were attacking him left and right, showing no respect whatsoever.”
“I don’t know, Mom. I was just trying to be fair. It’s only a TV show. That wasn’t the real Paul. It was just an actor.”
“It doesn’t matter, Wesley,” she said in her weak voice. “The proper respect has to be paid. You know that.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And all those people you work with. They seem so intelligent with their words and yet so cold in their hearts, don’t you see?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“The wisdom of this world is folly with God, Wesley.”
“Yes, Mom.”
In the long pause he could hear her laboured breathing. It was painful to hear. A long indrawn breath, followed by a slow wheezing sound as if her lungs had lost all their elasticity. She wasn’t much longer for this world, he knew. She was looking forward for the next world, where she believed all her pain and suffering would be justified.
Nick and Francesco Visit Canada
I got the call from my friend at the CBC on a sunny crisp afternoon in late October, just after my run and lunch. Allen had been a producer on the national news, travelled extensively, then kicked sideways, I gathered, to produce a few prime-time shows, though I didn’t know exactly what he did. I hadn’t seen Allen in a few years, however, and was surprised by the call. We used to chum around at the Athletic Centre at the university where we played tennis.
My connection to the CBC was spotty. I had done some radio on literary matters way back when it was still on Jarvis Street and Howard Engel had hired me on a trial basis. I could never forget the interview with Al Purdy in which some curmudgeonly spittle had been hurled in my direction for my impertinence. Many years later, when I was no longer a struggling writer and teaching and into my gig as an invisible man, Allen had called a few times to get my take on educational matters. And since I had written some fictional material on growing up in a hockey environment, the CBC had included me in its Hockey History series, though most of the footage was left on the cutting room floor.
The first thing that entered my mind was that the CBC wanted to do a show on me. The second was that Allen wanted my opinion on a literary matter. The third was that I had gotten some sort of award and Allen was giving me a heads up.
I was way off on all counts, to say the least.
He came right to the point. Two native sons from Italy were visiting Canada to appear on some sort of game show to be shot at CBC headquarters downtown. Would I be willing to play nursemaid, to show them around the sites for a couple of days, and make sure they stayed out of trouble? He was going to do it himself, but he had just been called out of town on urgent family business and no one else on staff could do it. CBC would take care of all expenses and throw in a perk or two. Ordinarily, he added, the Italian Consulate downtown would handle such matters, but the two visitors wanted nothing to do with the Consulate, nor with the Italian Cultural Centre or the Columbus Centre.
“With me out of the picture,” he said, “you’re the only compromise.”
“You mean they’ve heard of me?”
“No. It was me who mentioned you. Gave them a little of your background. That you were Italian-born and never made it big.”
“Did you tell them I used to kick your ass in tennis?”
“The last thing they’re interested in is tennis. Listen, they’re not looking for adulation. All they need is someone who knows the city, knows their language, and is reasonably well-read and can sympathize with their widely disparate points of view. Neither of them can speak English too well.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why me? I’m not on the up and up on modern Italian culture. There’re plenty of academics in the Italian Dept. at the universities who’d jump at the chance to wine and dine them and display their erudition over some pasta al Dante.”
“You don’t get it, Mark. They don’t want to be wined and dined. They want a simple unpretentious guy, someone who understands where they’re coming from, and doesn’t make a fuss about them. Someone who’s down to earth, doesn’t bother them with Dante, and understands the literary soul.”
“Who are these guys?”
“Nick and Francesco. All I know is that they’ve both seen better days, especially Nick who’s a former diplomatslash-envoy. He’s retired and penniless but extremely well-read in the classics and writing full time now. Francesco’s a friar or brother in some order who fancies himself a poet. They’re both up your alley.”
“I don’t even know the language that well. When are they arriving?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll try to make some arrangements for the two nights and get back to you. Do this, man, and the CBC will be forever in your debt. Maybe we’ll do a feature on you in the future. The unknown writer who’s holed up in the suburbs, totally unrecognized and unappreciated, and thumbing his nose at the literary establishment.”
“I never liked the CBC,” I shot back. “I can’t stand watching or listening to that simpering smugness. All you guys do is copy the Americans — and you still can’t do it right.”
“If you do this, I’ll owe you one.”
“What do you mean, keep them out of trouble?”
“They’ve both been kind of . . . out of the limelight for a long while, let’s say. And neither has been to North America before.”
The airport was only a ten-minute drive north of my place in central Etobicoke. I arrived the next afternoon in plenty of time for the Alitalia flight. I made a cardboard sign with their names on it to identify myself and waited outside Customs with a small crowd. When the automatic glass doors started opening, the crowd surged forward with effusive displays of emotion. Everyone was dressed at their best bella figura. The men in smart suits or casual chic black leather jackets. The women in hip-hugging skirts and flouncy colourful tops. It was straight out of an Italian soap opera.
Then these two middle-aged guys came out looking a little discombobulated, as if they had stepped out of a time capsule.
The first guy was short and lean, in old brown cords and a coarse brown hoodie, with short black hair cut in page-boy, a tonsure, and charcoal eyes, looking like some lost and extinct bird. Over his shoulders he had a duffel bag that looked more like a sack. The second guy was taller, with thin features, a sharp nose and sunken cheeks, with piercing black eyes and a smile that could only be cagey. He was dressed smartly in fashionable dress pants, a tie, a suit jacket draped over his arm, and carried a leather satchel.
“Ciao, Niccolò e Francesco,” I yelled out. “Benvenuti in Canada.”
We shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries. Francesco, the guy with the hoodie and tonsure, looked entirely out of his element. Nick, with the suit and satchel, smiled and nodded, as if he were being greeted by a head of state and was ready to review the troops.
I have to be perfectly frank here. Though I could read Italian well enough, I didn’t speak it well. My family had emigrated when I was four and I had been raised in a dialetto that had died out in Italy. The visitors understood my Italian well enough and they knew enough English to get by. We alternated, sometimes in the same sentence. What I transcribe here, therefore, is a translated facsimile that rounds out the rough edges.
