“Harmless? That can’t be right.”
I shrugged at him over four thousand miles of cable.
“Have you been taping him?”
“That’s not practical. Unless he was wearing a mike, I’d just get crowd noise.”
“Have you been taking notes at least?”
“Better than that,” I snapped. “I have it down verbatim, in shorthand. Didn’t you get my fax?”
“I haven’t been down to my office today. Is it all there?”
“Just the first lecture. I’ll have to make a longhand copy of the second one. That’ll take a few hours.”
“It’s not some exotic personal shorthand, is it?”
“No, just ordinary speed writing.”
“Then my secretary can figure it out. Go ahead and fax it.”
I started to object on the grounds that the notebook would have to be photocopied first, since it couldn’t be faxed directly, but quickly realized I was just being childish. Resigning myself to the inevitable, I went downstairs and got it done.
A bottle of Cutty Sark was waiting for me in my room when I got back.
I started drinking and I started writing. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I do know this diary’s going to be useless if I don’t keep it current as I go along.
Brought it up to the present just in time to close the drapes against the rising sun. Hope I remember to put out the “Disturben Verboten” sign before crashing.
Dangerous questions
The fax machine in this joint runs round the clock, but lunch is only served till two, and I barely managed to get seated. It’s now 2:47. I suppose I note the time as a means of procrastination. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to write, so I make careful records of the time.
It’s 2:50, and I wonder what’s wrong with me.
It’s 2:52, and I think my life is falling apart.
Falling apart under what stress? I can’t quite figure it out. Or I don’t quite want to figure it out. Certainly the largest part is B, but I can’t figure out why. I’m extremely reluctant to reread his lectures. His message is like a shadowy figure standing at my shoulder. I can catch it out of the corner of my eye, and it troubles me, because I can’t see it clearly. I know I could turn around and face it directly, but, as I say, I’m reluctant to do that.
I told Fr. Lulfre that B’s teachings are harmless. What did I mean by that? I think it was something like this: B is harmless, because he’s just calling into question the entire foundation of Christianity—not to mention Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism.
No harm in that, is there?
No harm at all, Fr. Lulfre, because you taught me yourself that no question is dangerous—for us. We’ve got all the answers, so ask away. We can answer anything. Absolutely anything. For us, questions aren’t hazards, questions are opportunities.
Isn’t that right, Fr. Lulfre?
So what’s your problem, Fr. Lulfre?
On the phone I said to you, “B’s teachings are harmless,” and you said in reply, “That can’t be right.”
What?
What does this mean, Fr. Lulfre? Does it mean that some questions are dangerous after all?
The good soldier Jared
The fact that I find anything here to be disturbed about … disturbs me. I shouldn’t be disturbed at all. I mean, I’m a good soldier, aren’t I?—smart as hell but basically a simple, uncomplicated kind of guy. What’s the name of the tormented preacher in The Scarlet Letter? Dimmesdale? I’m no Arthur Dimmesdale, not by a million miles. I’m no tormented anything. You want me to spy on some guy who’s being talked about as the Antichrist? Sure, why the hell not? Where’s my plane ticket? What’s the limit on my credit card?