The Clowns of God Read Online Free PDF

mutually exclusive. Jean Marie was a madman. Jean Marie was a liar.
    Jean Marie was a man touched by God, charged to deliver a momentous revelation.
    He had two choices: refuse to be involved which was the right of any honest man who felt himself incompetent or submit the whole case to the most rigid scrutiny, and act without fear or favour on the evidence. With Anneliese Meissner, brusque and uncompromising, as his Beisitzer he could hardly do otherwise.
    But what of Jean Marie Barette, long-time friend of the heart? How would he react when the harsh terms of reference were set before him? How would he feel when the friend he sought as advocate presented himself as the Grand Inquisitor?
    Once again Carl Mendelius found himself flinching from the confrontation.
    Far away towards the Klinikum an ambulance siren sounded a long, repetitive wail, eerie in the gathering dusk.
    Mendelius shivered under the impact of a childhood memory:
    the sound of air-raid sirens, and after it, the drone of aircraft and the shattering explosions of the fire-bombs that rained down on Dresden.
    r ‘{ ‘{ When he arrived home, he found the family huddled around the television screen. The new Pope had been elected in the afternoon session of the conclave and was now being proclaimed as Leo XIV. There was no magic in the occasion.
    The commentaries were without enthusiasm. Even the Roman crowd seemed listless and the traditional acclamations had a hollow ring.
    Their Pontiff was sixty-nine years old, a stout man with an eagle’s beak, a cold eye, a rasping Aemilian accent and twenty-five years practice in Curial business behind him. His election was the outcome of a careful but painfully obvious piece of statecraft.
    After two foreign incumbents, they needed an Italian who understood the rules of the papal game. After an actor turned zealot and a diplomat turned mystic the safest choice was Roberto Arnaldo, a bureaucrat with ice-water in his veins.
    He would raise no passions, proclaim no visions. He would make none but the most necessary pronouncements; and these would be so carefully wrapped in Italian rhetoric that the liberals and the conservatives would swallow them with equal satisfaction. Most important of all, he suffered from gout and high cholesterol and, according to the actuaries, should enjoy a reign neither too short nor too long.
    The news kept the conversation going at Mendelius’ dining-table. He was glad of the diversion, because Johann was moody over an essay that would not come right, Katrin was snappish and Lotte was at the low point of one of her menopausal depressions. It was an evening when he wondered with wry humour whether the celibate life had not a great deal to recommend it, and a non-celibate bachelor existence, even more. However, he was practised enough in marriage to keep that kind of thought to himself.
    When the meal was over he retired to his study and made a telephone call to Herman Frank, Director of the German Academy of Fine Arts in Rome.
    “Herman? This is Carl Mendelius. I’m calling to ask a favour. I’m coming to Rome for a week or ten days at the end of the month. Could you put me up?”
    “Delighted!” Frank was a silver-haired courtly fellow, an historian of Cinquecento painters, who kept one of the best tables in Rome.
    “Will Lotte be coming with you? We’ve got acres of space.”
    “Possibly. It’s not decided yet.”
    “Bring her! Hilde would be delighted. She needs some girl company.”
    “Thanks, Herman. You’re very kind.”
    “Not at all. You might be able to do me a favour, too.”
    “Name it.”
    “While you’re here the Academy will be playing host to a group of Evangelical pastors. The usual thing daily lectures, evening discussions, afternoon bus-rides. It would be a great feather in my cap if I could announce that the great Mendelius would give a couple of lectures, perhaps conduct a group discussion…?”
    “Happy to do it, my friend.”
    “Wonderful! Wonderful! Let