New Writings in SF 10 - [Anthology] Read online

  “What was his job, Mrs. Duluth ?”

  “Advertising. At the Realright Agency. It was Edwin’s idea to start using sandwichmen again—you know, men out on the sidewalks with signs on their backs. It was a total flop sales-wise. I mean, if a person is a pedestrian he isn’t going to be buying very much, is he? And if you’re jetting by in a car, then you can’t read a little bitty sign. A total flop, but it did cost millions of dollars in salaries. A big boost to the economy, everyone said. Yes, Edwin was going places.”

  “How much time would you say he spent at work?”

  “Oh ... twenty hours a week?”

  The Prosecution lifted one sceptical eyebrow out of its wreaths of flesh.

  “Well, ten hours anyhow,” Maude declared firmly.

  “And yet he had no time left over to spend with you at, shall we say, normal activities?”

  “He had the time. I was always telling him different things we could do instead of all the time staying at home and watching teevee. He didn’t even do that. He just sat down in his chair and read books.” She looked out to the gallery for sympathy. A flashbulb popped. “Or wrote things.”

  “Advertisements ?”

  “No, just... things.”

  The Prosecution allowed Mrs. Duluth a moment to recover from her ordeal.

  “And then, to top it all, he quit his job. One hundred thousand a year—and he was still a young man. Do you know what he wanted to do instead ? He wanted to move to the country and ... and use the money he’d saved! All that time he’d been putting money away, saving it, while we sat at home and starved! So that’s why I had to get a divorce.”

  “Did it seem to you, at that time, Mrs. Duluth, that your husband might be ‘poor in spirit’ as the saying goes?”

  “A party pooper? I should say so! And he came from a good solid middle-class family too: two hundred thousand dollars a year. Civil Service. His poor parents still can’t understand where they went wrong. It’s such a tragedy I could cry.” In witness to this a tear squeezed out of the corner of Maude’s face and dropped to the plateau of her bodice.

  “That will be all, Mrs. Duluth.”

  * * * *

  The next witness spoke so incoherently that the clerk was able only to make a summary of her testimony. Miss Nausicaa Hotchkiss was Professor Emeritus in the English Department of Quebec University College, where the Accused had taken his Bachelor’s degree fifteen years earlier. Miss Hotchkiss testified that the Accused had been able to read without moving his lips, write in script and recite long poems from memory; further, that he had been argumentative in class and taciturn during the Fellowship Sings afterwards. The Defence objected that, since the Accused was not on trial for literacy, Miss Hotchkiss’ testimony was immaterial and served only to prejudice the jury against the Accused. The Prosecution countered that, far from being immaterial, the behaviour of the Accused showed a consistently anti-social pattern, a pattern that had led him inalterably to the crime for which he was being tried. The objection of the Defence was overruled, but Miss Hotchkiss had been so shaken that the next half-hour of her testimony was utterly incomprehensible. While everyone in the courtroom politely ignored Miss Hotchkiss’ pathetic babblings and conversed quietly among themselves, the defendant could be seen to grow more and more agitated. Finally he exclaimed: “This ... this moron, an English teacher! An English teacher—hah!” A doctor was called from the gallery to administer a sedative to the delirious defendant.

  * * * *

  “Would you spell out your name, please, for the benefit of the clerk?”

  “Anderson. A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. Jack Anderson.”

  “Your occupation, Mr. Anderson?”

  “Loan consultant and junior partner for the Maple Leaf Protective Loan Corporation. Our motto is: Ready Cash— Easy Terms. Twenty-two years in the business, and this is the first time-”

  “Thank you,” the Prosecution said, raising the appendage that depended from its right shoulder. “Just tell the court briefly how you came to know the Accused.”

  “I handled his application. That was two years ago.”

  “What amount was the loan approved for?”

  “Well, he applied for an even million, but we finally persuaded him to take three. I guess that was a mistake on our part. We’re a small company, although we’ve been in the business twenty-two years. Did I mention that? We don’t have the resources to investigate every applicant as thoroughly as we might like to. The economy, as you may recall, needed a shot in the arm at that time, and the Federal Reserve interest rates favoured us. We would have realized a neat seventeen per cent on that loan. And you know the old saying: ‘Haste is the better part of discretion.’”

  “Did you know that the Accused had already filed for bankruptcy the year before?”

  “No. That would have made us more cautious, but like I said, it was a rush job. Priority A, I call it. A three million dollar loan is nothing to sneeze at. He sure looked respectable, and he had good references. I pride myself that I’m a good judge of people. Nobody can pull the wool over my eyes. This is the first time-”

  “Mr. Anderson, were you aware of the intended destination of that three million dollars?”

  Mr. Anderson looked about nervously, removed a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed at a speck of dust on his polished baby-kangaroo street-slippers, replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and (the question not having vanished with the speck of dust) replied: “I understood him to say that he was a publisher. Of books.”

  The Prosecution waited for the witness to continue.

  “There’s nothing illegal about publishing books, is there? Personally, I’m against books, but seventeen per cent is seventeen per cent. And they weren’t pornography—they were picture books. I saw one of them. It cost twenty-five dollars—The Wonderful World of St. Francis of Assisi. Religion! You wouldn’t expect a religious man to be dishonest—now would you ?”

  Mr. Anderson stepped down from the witness box, smoothed out the wrinkles from his gold lamé suit and with a friendly but dignified wink at the Judge, walked out of the courtroom.

  * * * *

  “Your name?”

  “Brother Francis Simeon.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” the Judge enquired.

  “We of the Brotherhood renounce all earthly names. When I received my vocation, I adopted the names of St. Francis and of Simeon the Stylite.” Brother Simeon clasped his hands together, prayerfully, and bowed his head.

  “You are,” the Prosecution continued, “an Assisist?”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “How is the court to interpret that?” the Judge asked.

  “If I may interpret, your Honour—he means ‘yes’,” the Prosecution explained. “I must beg the court’s indulgence for calling up such a singular witness—a man who is almost a self-confessed criminal—but his testimony is essential to the Prosecution’s case.”

  The Judge nodded gravely, with indulgence.

  “Would you explain to the court, Brother Simeon, the nature and purpose of your organization?”

  “We are a religious group. The Fioretti, as we call ourselves, were incorporated over a century ago. In this country alone there are ten thousand of us. We practice austerity and live by the charity of others.”

  “Do you advocate the overthrow of the United States Government by force or violence?”

  “Praise the Lord—no!”

  “But you do preach austerity? You are a self-declared enemy of affluence?”

  “We realize that austerity is not everybody’s cup of tea. We do, however, advocate moderation. Three meals a day, for instance, at two thousand calories each, would not be detrimental to health.”

  A few ladies in the galleries gasped; some—more blasé— tittered; still others, munching popcorn, didn’t hear Brother Simeon’s testimony.

  “There will be no need to scandalize the court with details of obscene and disgusting practices,” the Prosecution war
ned.

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “Objection!”

  “Objection sustained.”

  But the Prosecution had already made his point. Brother Simeon, who stood five feet eight inches in his hand-sewn sandals, weighed no more than one hundred and eighty pounds. The Prosecution followed up its advantage: “You are a friend of the Accused, Edwin Lollard ?”

  “Praise the Lord! I was.”

  “He was also a Sissy ... pardon me ... an Assisist?”

  “Not in the formal sense. He was what you might call a fellow traveller. Since we cannot own property, he handled certain of our business affairs. He held many properties in his name for the Fioretti—including a publishing house, which he also managed. Strictly speaking, they were not our ‘property’, but we were allowed the free use of them, and the profits maintained our community. Legally, however, they belonged to Lollard.”

  “Would you tell us what some of those properties were?”

  “The Ritz Hotel, where many of the Fioretti reside; the Racquet Club; the Lo-Cal Gourmet Eateria on Diefenbaker Drive; The Thrift Emporium of Fine Furs—and the Fioretti Press. I might add that some of the wealthiest men in the State of Quebec—and in our southern states as well—are sympathetic to the aims of the Assisists. Largely it is these men who provide our daily bread. I might also add that our daily bread costs them a pretty penny. Austerity isn’t cheap. We don’t eat any hydroponic foods, and many of our members are vegetarians—although that is not an article of faith. Everything we eat must be grown without chemical fertilizers. We use pewter dishes and hand-crafted furniture. It all adds up. You’d be amazed.”

  “When did the Accused begin to work for your organization?”

  “Ten years ago; perhaps longer than that. He had been recently divorced when he read The Little Flowers of St. Francis. That little book has brought in converts by the droves—and, naturally, their money. A brother in the order, of course, gives up his private property. Mr. Lollard went to see the Brother-Superior at the Ritz. That is how I came to meet him: I am the Brother-Superior’s assistant, in charge of our financial operations. Mr. Lollard told us that he had fallen in love with Lady Poverty. He said, and I can remember it very clearly—’I want to give all that I have to the poor.’ The Brother-Superior can tell it much more humorously than I.”

  There was an awkward silence. Brother Simeon giggled.

  “But don’t you see the point? There are no more poor. They are no longer with us, as the saying goes.” Brother Simeon cinched up his drooping paunch with a lovely handcrafted silver rope. “Well, of course, we couldn’t take a maniac like that into the order, but the Brother-Superior put him to good use.”

  “Running the Fioretti Press?”

  “Yes. I mean, praise the Lord! He seemed to enjoy it in his own odd way. A bookish sort, you know. Personally, well...” Brother Simeon smiled appealingly at the jurors. “... books aren’t my failing. In fact I’m proud to say I never learned to read. But we do sell a lot of them, and every penny counts.”

  “You sell a lot of books?” the Judge asked incredulously.

  “Praise the Lord! Libraries are becoming fashionable these days in the better sort of home. And you can imagine what it costs to furnish one full room, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, with books at twenty-five dollars apiece.”

  “How big is a book ?” the Judge asked.

  “No more than an inch thick, usually. That’s one of our books there on the table.” Brother Simeon pointed to Exhibit A, The Little Flowers of St. Francis.

  “Then how in hell did the defendant go broke?”

  “Our next witness will explain that, Your Honour,” the Prosecution said, pacifically. “If you please, Brother Simeon?”

  Brother Francis Simeon left the witness box, cast a look of considered hatred at the Accused, and, sotto voce, intoned a short prayer for vengeance.

  * * * *

  “Would you spell that again, please, for the benefit of the clerk?”

  “C-O-L-T.” She pronounced each letter carefully. “Any idiot should be able to spell Colt.”

  Jillian Colt didn’t give a damn—not for the court, not for public opinion, not for the twelve solvent jurors, not for the flashbulbs popping, not for the deadly glances of the ladies in the gallery nor for the more kindly looks of the ladies’ escorts.

  “How long have you been acquainted with the

  Accused?”

  “Two years or so. I don’t keep a diary. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You met him ...?”

  “At the Lo-Cal Gourmet Eateria. I usually have lunch there when I’m in town. That’s how I keep my figure. I think it’s disgusting to be fat—don’t you?”

  “If you please! I shall ask the questions.”

  Jillian regarded the Prosecution’s massive dignity with astonished innocence. “To be sure. I was only joking.”

  “Are you an Assisist, Miss Colt?”

  “Don’t be silly. Me? By the way, you can call me Jillian, I won’t mind.”

  “But you diet?”

  “I explained that. I said I think it’s disgust-”

  “Did you know the Accused had been a member of that organization?”

  “Eddie—a Sissy? No, he couldn’t have been. He thought they were all phonies. Me, I couldn’t care less. After all, just about everybody is phony when you come down to it. What the hell, I say.”

  “Miss Jillian!”

  “H’m?”

  “Miss Colt, please answer the questions directly and to the point.” The Prosecution retired to his bench, where he pretended to consult an empty notebook. “You became good friends with the Accused at that time?”

  Jillian smiled enigmatically.

  “That is to say—you saw the Accused frequently after that first meeting?”

  “Oh yes. He was crazy—kept calling me his Lady Poverty. But he had style, if you know what I mean. Like, some women have to wear dresses that would have made Queen Elizabeth look like a pauper. The first Queen Elizabeth, that is. Me, I think simplicity is more elegant. Once I even joined a nudist camp, but they were mostly old retired couples. Cranks. Well, Eddie was no crank, and he had style. Yes, we saw a lot of each other after that.”

  “Were you acquainted with his financial affairs?”

  “Not really. Money’s such a bore, don’t you think? I’m an heiress, myself. Talk about money! But it’s entailed, which means that I only get it in dribs and drabs. Eddie had this funny deal with the Sissies. He’d gone bankrupt right before he went to them. Actually, he’d quit his job and just been loafing around, living on what he had saved. Then his wife insists on a divorce, which was a good thing really, except that it cleaned him out. He called his first bankruptcy a purification, or, sometimes, an enema.” Jillian tittered.

  “Miss-”

  “As I was saying. They would have arrested him then and there, but the Sissies made him take all this property. They just gave it to him outright, although I guess there was some arrangement so that they got all the profits. All of a sudden Eddie was a millionaire. I think everybody should be a millionaire. They’re nicer. But he could only think of giving it all away to someone else. I thought it was a wild idea. I mean, after all, most people wouldn’t take a printing press if you offered it to them. It has dirty connotations.

  “But Eddie wouldn’t give it to just anybody. He wanted to give it to poor people. Imagine that! He was always looking around for poor people. In fact, that’s how he struck up with me—he thought I looked poor! I was never so flattered in my whole life.

  “Of course he never found any. But he was determined to unload all his stuff just to play a trick on the Sissies. He sold the hotel and the other things and borrowed a pile of money and started printing books. He was crazy about books. Strangest man I ever met.

  “Millions of books. You wouldn’t believe it. Tons of books with fancy leather bindings and crinkly paper and gold-leaf illustr
ations. He was filling warehouses with these books. And they were all the same story—The Little Flowers of St. Francis. He was always quoting from that book, and to tell the truth, this St. Francis was every bit as crazy as Eddie was.

  “Then one day he sold the publishing company and bought this fleet of ships. Twenty of them, all freighters. He loaded the books on and we set sail. North.