The Letter Killers Club by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky Read Free Book Online Page A

tears.
    â€œYes, the time has come for you too, my child, to learn what not everyone is given to know: the Secret of the Ass. Flowers bloom so purely and fragrantly because their roots are manured, in mud and stench. The way from small prayers to great supplications lies through blasphemy. The purest and the highest must fall, if only for an instant, and be besmirched: how else shall one learn that pure is pure and high, high? If God has assumed flesh and the law of man, even once in eternity, how can man despise the law and flesh of an ass? Only by abusing and insulting what one’s heart loves and needs most can one become worthy of it, because on this earth there are no roads without sorrow.”
    Old Father Paulin rose and proceeded to light his lantern. “Our church has opened shrines to the Festival of the Ass: the Church, Christ’s bride, wishes to be mocked and abused: because she knows the great secret. Everyone enters into the festival, into the joy, with merriment and laughter—but only the chosen go farther. Verily I say unto you: there are no roads without sorrow.”
    Having adjusted the flame, the old man turned to go. Pressing her lips to his bony knuckles, Françoise said, “Then I must keep silent?”
    â€œYes, my child. For how can one reveal the Secret of the Ass to … asses?”
    Smiling as he had the day of the third publication, Father Paulin walked out, closing the door tightly behind him.
    Tyd fell silent and, tapping the steel key against the arm of his chair, sat with his face turned to the door.
    â€œWell, all right”—Zez cut short the pause—“the masonry of your conception in some dozen bricks. We’re used to doing without cement. Therefore, since we still have time, perhaps you would agree to reassemble the elements of your novella in a different order? As for the first brick—the period—let it lie where it lay; at the center of the action, put not the woman, but the priest; and give him significance owing to the significances of the Feast of the Ass. Separate it from the roots, so to speak, take only the tops, and then—”
    â€œAnd then,” the corpulent Fev interposed with a derisive wink, “end everything not in life, but in death.”
    â€œI would also ask you to revise the title,” Hig snickered from the corner.
    The muscles under the ruddy blotches blooming all over Tyd’s face twitched and tensed; he leaned forward as though preparing to jump; his entire shape—short and wiry, agile and precise—recalled the brevity, dynamism, and clarity of the novellas among which he evidently lived. He sprang to his feet and strode past the black shelves, then spun abruptly round on his heels to face the circle of six.
    Fine. I’ll begin. Title: The Goliard’s Sack . This alone will allow me to remain in the same period. Goliards, * or “merry clerics” as they were called, were—as I think you all know—wandering priests who had lost their way, so to speak, between the church and the show booth. The reasons for the emergence of this strange jester-chaplain hybrid remain unexplored and unexplained: most likely they were priests from impoverished parishes; since their cassock did not feed them or fed them only by half, they took to earning money from whatever they could—mainly farcical acting, a trade that did not require guild membership. The hero of my story, Father François (I’ll transpose the names, if I may, along with everything else), was one such goliard. In high boots of tanned leather, a stout staff in hand, he tramped the dusty bends of country roads, from cottage to cottage, changing psalms into songs, Gallic sayings into scholarly Latin, and the ringing of the Angelus bell * into the tinkle of jingles on a foolscap. In his sack, a string-tied bundle on his back, lay side by side, like man and wife, neatly folded and pressed against each other, a