he says with relief.
He picks up a large dog-eared vol. from a stool beside his chair. (Underneath the dog-eared vol. lies The Times folded at the crossword puzzle, mostly finished.)
He flips dog-eared pages and says: The dictionary tells us, letâs see: Belief. Noun. One: a principle, idea, et cetera, accepted as true or real, especially without positive proof. Two: opinion, conviction. Three: religious faith. Four: trust or confidence, as in a person or personâs abilities , et cetera. There you are.
Thumps book shut, replaces on top of The Times .
Silence except for heavy breathing from Old Chum. Vic bends forward and pats him. Decomposing doggy pong rises like a gag.
I gag. Cough. Try not to breathe. Fail. Say: Might need a bit more, if you wouldnât mind. I mean, how does belief feel?
Vic, looking startled, sits back in chair and says: Feel! Good lord! Canât say one honestly feels anything. Rather . . . that is . . . one does not feel belief . . . one . . . accepts it.
I stare at him. He toys with a pen lying on the stool at his side and stares at Old Chum. Old Chum pluffles in sleep.
Selah.
Vic is not a man in a hurry. Eventually looks up, smiles, says: Warned you it was a tricky subject. I donât mean one doesnât feel anything about oneâs beliefs, only that one doesnât feel belief.
Silence. Stares at pen as he toys with it.
Then goes on: One decides that God is, by and large, bad. days taken with good, more likely to be than not. This . . . one believes.
Pause.
STOCKSHOT :Â Â Canst thou [Vic says] by searching find out God? Canst thou find out the Almighty unto perfection? It is as high as heaven; what canst thou do? deeper than hell; what canst thou know?
He looks up at me. Says: If you understand me.
Pause. I stare at him.
Not quite, I say.
Vic says: No, thought you mightnât. He sighs (sounding so like Old Chum I wonder if Vic ventriloquizes the dog, or maybe even vice versa. Then also realize they look pretty much alike as well, except Vic doesnât have the watery eyes yet). He slumps further into his puffy chair and his own bulgy waist.
Silence again. Vic stares between his hillocky knees at Old Chumâs hillocky body for so long I think heâs forgotten me or eternity has begun without me noticing.
But then he stirs himself, glances up, says: Look, er . . . Nik? Whatâs all this about? Thinking of asking for confirmation?
I explain. He laughs. Quite revived, he seems for a minute. (Old Chum lifts his head at the sound of Vicâs laughter, takes a bleary glim, and flops, comatose again. The millennium is not yet.)
Vic: How splendid! A reluctant Jesus in search of belief in himself! That does appeal, I must say!
Iâm laughing too, because it is pretty funny.
Donât be upset, says he, Iâm not laughing at you, dear boy.
(I love the dear boy bit.)
I say: Itâs okay. I think itâs a pretty stupid idea myself.
Not at all, no no, says he. Then, perking up even more: You donât happen to play goff, do you?
Sorry? say I.
Pity, says he. You know . . . Nik? . . . what Iâd do if Our Lord walked through that door this minute? After the required pleasantries, of course.
I shake my head.
Vicsays: Iâd say, My Lord, will you honour me with a round? And, you know, Nik, it has always seemed to me that He would reply, My dear vicar, Iâd be delighted. Or words to that effect.
I say: Maybe we can make that a scene in our film. (Iâm only half joking, I realize as I say it.)
You could, Vic says in all seriousness, do worse. Better than pretending to perform miracles. More likely. More real. More to do with belief, in fact.
But, I say, how would you know he was Christ?
Ah! says he, now there you have it, you see. Thatâs what belief is. Iâd know because of believing. It doesnât feel like anything. Itâs just