Saint Smith and Other Stories

SAINT SMITH AND OTHER STORIES BY RICHARD SELTZER

Published by Seltzer Books

established in 1974, as B&R Samizdat Express

offering over 14,000 books

feedback welcome: seltzer@seltzerbooks.com

Books by the Richard Seltzer available from Seltzer Books

The Name of Hero

Ethiopia Through Russian Eyes (translation from the Russian)

The Lizard of Oz

Now and Then and Other Tales from Ome

Saint Smith and Other Stories

The Gentle Inquisitor and Other Stories

Echoes from the Attic (with Ethel Kaiden)

Web Business Bootcamp (2002)

The Social Web (1998)

The Way of the Web (1995)

Without a Myth and Other Plays

Dryden's Exemplary Drama and Other Essays

Saint Smith from Sandcastles Copyright © 1987, 1989, 1991 by Richard Seltzer

The Barracks Copyright © 1989, 1990 by Richard Seltzer

The Choice Copyright © 2009 by Richard Seltzer

The Gentle Inquisitor Copyright © 1977 by Richard Seltzer, first published in Aspect #68

The Mirror Copyright © 1991 by Richard Seltzer

Saint Smith

Chapter One -- Contagious Dreams

Chapter Two -- Mansions and Castles

Chapter Three -- Aunt Rachel and the Wizard of Oz

Chapter Four -- Charlie's Coming of Age

Chapter Five -- Recruited

Chapter Six -- The Pictures from Charlie's Wedding

Chapter Seven -- Irene in Munich

Chapter Eight -- The Outhouse

Chapter Nine -- The Light House

Parables

The Choice

The Gentle Inquisitor

Chiang Ti Tales

The Mirror

The Barracks

Saint Smith

Chapter One -- Contagious Dreams

July 1966, Silver Spring, Maryland

The rest of the family was gathered in the living room playing instruments or singing songs, for the grandparents' sixtieth anniversary. Frank escaped upstairs, unnoticed in the dense crowd of relatives. He heard a noise nearby and found Irene, his uncle Charlie's wife, stretched out on her back on the bed in the guest room.  With her dress awry, the upper part of one thigh was exposed.  Frank stopped and stared.  Then she sat up, looked at him, and smiled.

Was denkst du? she asked.  She sometimes let him practice German with her, for the beginner's  course he was taking in college.  When he didn't answer right away, she asked again in English, What are you thinking?

Frank asked, rather than answered, How did you get your name? Irene isn't a German name, is it?

That name I chose, she said.  Helga my parents called me. Ich heisse Helga, Helga Heinz.

Then Helga's your real name, he concluded.

No, my real name is Irene.  Helga they called me.

And what does Irene mean?

Peace.  And before Irene, Iris my name was.

Iris?

The rainbow -- messenger of the gods.  A bold name, nicht wahr?

Why change your name twice? Were you trying to hide something? I asked.

When you change, your name should change.  Your name should harmony with you have.

What?

The presence of God have you felt? she asked, gesturing for him to sit beside her on the bed. 

From downstairs, the volume of the music increased as the family reached the refrain of A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.

The guest room was filled with conflicting shadows from the light in the hall and from the moon outside the window.  There were two single beds in the room.  Frank's father and his Uncle Fred had slept there as boys.  Later, the room had been his uncle Charlie's.  Pennants from the University of Maryland, where Charlie had been accepted and planned to go, still adorned the walls.

Charlie's high school wrestling trophies still filled a bookcase in the corner.  Granny had interspersed glass elephants and giraffes among the trophies and on the bureaus and windowsills.  She had hung a brass crucifix between the windows.  Over one bed, the one that had been Charlie's and that Irene and Frank were on now, hung a framed reproduction of a painting with a determined-looking young man, very much like Charlie, holding the steering wheel of a ship and looking up and ahead, while Christ stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder.

This crazy woman, you think.  Religious nut, nicht wahr? But me back in Heidelburg, that you should see.  Iris -- the messenger -- I was.  Now Irene -- peace -- my name is.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

Frank looked up at the painting of Christ and the ship's pilot and felt a twinge of guilt.  Irene was the most sensuous woman he had ever met.  He was hoping for the miracle of a caress.  Instead, she spoke of God.

Have you ever God beside you felt?  God Himself, living and breathing?

He stared at her, lost in her deep blue eyes. 

Imagine that Christ returned, and you his return made happen, she said.  "Or imagine each of us Christ is.  A spark within us from God comes.  And, sometimes, that spark can flare and brightly burn.

"I'm silly think you.  Sehr gut. Perhaps my words no truth hold.  What could this crazy lady know?

"I will you a story tell.   The story of Der Heilige Schmidt.   Heinrich Schmidt his parents him called.  Heilige Schmidt we came to call him.  Hank Smith, Saint Smith would you call him. 

"All Sturm und Drang, all struggle and push, was I, like Charlie now.  I would my mark on the world make.  Very proud was I of my cleverness. 

I drama and literature studied, at Heidelberg.  One day I great literature would write. Already, to me the world a stage was.  My living, what I did and what I said would a masterpiece make.

Performance art? Frank suggested.

What you say -- yes.  Only not so big a deal.  At the beer keller, my friends and I tales and jokes made -- not just with words, with what we did.

Practical jokes?. 

Yes, that we did.  Heinrich sometimes with us joked, but shy he was, quiet.  We mocked; we laughed; we tricked.

He was the butt of your jokes?  

"Yes, perfect was he as victim -- everything he believed.

He was gullible.

'Ghost bags' we made. 

What are those? Frank asked.

Hot-air balloons, yourself you make.  You this for fun at college do, nicht wahr?

No, he admitted.

Ach! This must you learn.  First, a cross with two pieces of wire you make.  Little candles, birthday candles where the wires cross you melt. Plastic bag for clothes you take.

Dry cleaners' bag?

Yes, and bag to wires you tape, with bag wide open.

Okay.  So why bother?  What can you do with it?

"At night, on roof you go, tall roof.  The candles you light, the bag you hold.  The bag with hot air fills.  Let go.  Let fly.  For miles will it go.  Bag with smoke filled, light bright and ghostlike shines.

This we did, from the roof of Heinrich's building.  Ten bags, one after the other. One of us with him in his room was.  Heinrich the ghost bags saw -- lights through the city flying.  Heinrich through the halls ran, 'Fliegende geiste!' he shouted.

You mean flying saucers?

Yes.  A week he classes missed.

Okay.  I get it.  He was embarrassed. He couldn't show his face.

As you say.  Then telephone, we the telephone trick did.

"What trick?:

"You lessons on pranks need? So simple -- telephone and ball point pen.  Telephone a dial has, and a receiver. When down the receiver goes, down the buttons go; and the call ends.   Pen a metal clip has, for pocket.  And clip round part has, like ring.  From two pens the ring take. Rings on buttons put, so receiver rests; buttons don't down go; call ends not.  

"Like this, I Heinrich's phone fixed.  Receiver down but phone on.  I with the dial played -- like fooling.  I my own number dialed.  When to my room I went phone still rang.  When I receiver picked up, everything from Heinrich's room I heard.

Like a bug?

"Yes, homemade bug.  No cost, just fun. Friends in my room listened.  Heinrich in his room lines from play practiced.  We at him laughed.  He laughs heard, but where the noise came from, he knew not.  He shouted.  We louder laughed.  He here and there ran, everywhere looked -- where this sound?   We louder laughed.

He must have been freaking out.

Freaking, yes.  That word.  Very scared.  Ran very fast, very far.  Room geistlich.

Haunted.

Yes.  Good laugh.

Okay.  So you pulled some practical jokes on him. What's the big deal? 

"The big deal next came.  A play I wrote --  'All God's Children.' Satan God tells, 'Why to Earth you go? Why to Earth you your Son send?  Why with man games play? All people your children are, nicht wahr?  One man, any man, wake up.  To one man truth make known -- the truth that he God is.'

"In my play, God said, 'Sehr gut. Miracles from inside make, not outside.  Miracles not from God; from man by the free will of man.  I will one awaken, one to be to all the rest a guide.  One of my children among them god-like to be.'

"In my play, God a carpenter chose.  And to waken him, no angels, no burning bush came. His brothers and friends a joke played.  

"Imagine Jesus at age twelve.  To his parents, obedient and trustworthy was he -- a fine young man.  He with his father worked; he with his mother helped.  To his brothers proud and pompous was he.  'Little God' they him called. 

"One night, when he slept, his brother James near his face a torch waved, then ran.  Outside the window, others shouted, 'I am the Light!' He did not wake.  Nothing.  The next night, again they tried, again he slept.  And a third night, and again he slept.  

"Then the morning after the third try, Jesus a new person appeared -- selfless, humble, kind.  To everyone he listened, for everyone he cared.  His look and his words everyone comforted and inspired.   'A light unto the world' he became.

"Proud was I of this idea.  But my friends mocked. Real people like this do not act. To prove my point, I myself tried.  There and then, a modern version of that same joke, with Heinrich as  victim I played.

A tape recorder and camera flash I near his bed placed, with timer.  In the middle of the night, the bulb would flash and the recorder would boom, I am the light!"

"What would he think?  How would he act?  At least down the hall would he run and scream.  More flying saucers, more laughs for us.  Wild tales would he tell. 

"But nothing.  He just slept.  So again I tried, and yet again, as in the play.  Still nothing.    .  I stopped. Mein Gott, was I foolish.

"Then a week later, Heinrich changed.  He with warmth, concern, and tenderness glowed.   His deep blue eyes they compelled. His voice, his words they resounded. Even strangers everywhere him followed. With these followers, he the streets roamed, night and day. Good will and joy he spread.  The poor and homeless help he gave. No preaching, just doing.  Such confidence.  Such strength of will. 

"Me and my friends -- we who had nothing believed -- we, too, his followers became.  Der Heilige Heinrich, Der Heilige Schmidt, Saint Smith we called him.  And my friends named me 'Iris', crediting me, my play, my joke for this miracle.  A 'messenger of the gods' was I for this new cult.

"Only Heinrich didn't know.  No one about my trick had told him. No idea had he a joke this change had made.  I what I had done must confess.  

"In public him I told, so friends and followers would hear.  Before him I knelt like to a God, and begged forgiveness. 

"His eyes blank and cold became.  Who was this?  Not Der Heilige Schmidt and not the old Heinrich. I screamed.  Him I grabbed. Him I hugged. Him I shook. Gone.  The magic, the godliness gone. 

"Then knew I that I had loved him.  As God-in-man I had loved him.  That heilige man had I loved.  

"The cult ended.  The followers they blamed me.  'Fraulein Judas' they me called.

"With him I stayed.  With my body I him loved.  No soul.  No magic. Flesh rubbed flesh.

I became pregnant.  I an abortion had.  I Heinrich left.  I the university left.  Irene I called myself.  Peace I needed. 

As she paused -- Frank became aware of the music from downstairs, the chorus of Gloria In Excelsis Deo. His muscles were stiff.   He hadn't moved during her narration.  His right leg had gone asleep, but he didn't dare shake it.  He didn't want to disturb her concentration.  He wanted her to continue. 

You at my eyes stare, she noted, "not in them, but at them.  Yes.  They are blue, like Heinrich's, but not heilige.  When he God was, when god-in-him was, his eyes you out of yourself drew.  I this story poorly tell; even in German poorly.   Forgive my awkward words.  If once you see, no need for words. If not, words nothing do.

"Sometimes Charlie that look has.  When I him in Munich first met, he that look had. He, a GI with a camera, on a street in Munich stopped me.  In broken German said he, my 'face' he needed, as a model.  He would me pay. Well knew I that not my face he wanted. He me followed, pictures taking.  At the corner, I stopped, turned, and smiled.  'Okay,' said I in English, 'let's about your pictures talk.'

"We to a beer keller went.  The story of Der Heilige Schmidt I him told, not like a story I had lived, but like a story I had written.  His eyes then, they looked deep like Heinrich's.  On and on we talked about the Saint Smith story, about making a movie based on that.  A masterpiece it could be, said he.  First must he master his craft. .

At our wedding, too, his eyes that deep look had.  And sometimes too, his eyes even now that way flash even, when me he wants and only me.

  Frankie! his mother bellowed from downstairs.  With a start, Frank reawakened to the world in which his parents treated him as if he were still a little kid.  He hated being called Frankie.  Frankie! she bellowed again. 

Yes, Mom? he called back automatically.  

Get down here this instant.  Are you deaf? It's time to go home.

With his right leg still painfully asleep, he stumbled and hobbled to the door.  Irene