Now I Know Page 2

  In all this the group was led and encouraged by their organizer, a man of twenty-seven called Frank Randwick, a motor-mechanic by trade and a youth leader by desire. He it was who first suggested the idea of making the film, and he immediately appointed himself its Director.

  Of course the political hotshots gave themselves the job of writing the script. And early in the discussions they realized that none of them knew very much about the life of Christ or about Palestine in his day. The script-writers did not want to be bothered about such insignificant details. But they found themselves opposed by three of the so-far silent girls.

  As it happened (and rather appropriately, you might think) the girls were cast to play the three Marys: Mary the mother of Christ; Mary Magdalene, who legend has it was a converted prostitute; and Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and of raised-from-the-dead Lazarus, who is celebrated in the Bible for anointing Christ’s feet with balmy oil and afterwards wiping them clean with her presumably long and luxuriant hair.

  These three suddenly vocal girls declared that if the group was going to film Christ’s story they should at least get the facts right. The script-writers said to hell with facts, what mattered was the message. It wasn’t the facts of Christ’s life that interested them, they said, but telling people about life now.

  The girls were determined, however. Check the facts or they wouldn’t take part. And as it seemed a very neat way of getting their own back at the script-writers for being so boring about politics, a number of the rest of the group supported the girls.

  In the face of this opposition and with the astuteness of born politicians, the script-writers said okay, the facts would be verified. But later, in secret, they agreed with each other that they’d do what they liked anyway, whatever the facts were, just as soon as shooting started and everyone’s attention was occupied by the excitements of filming.

  They demanded, however, that a researcher be appointed to help them. As no one in the group wanted such a thankless and unglamorous job, the Director approached the Head of Nik’s school, who passed the buck to the head of the history department, Leonard Stanley, who nobbled Nik, because Nik was one of his better history students.

  But Nik was not keen.

  He said, ‘I’m not bothered about religion and I don’t believe in God.’

  Leonard Stanley said, ‘But think what a marvellous project it will make. History in action. You can submit your notes and an essay about the whole experience as part of your exam assessment work. No one else is doing anything like it.’

  Nik said, ‘I’d prefer black holes. I’m interested in black holes. They’re more important than God nowadays.’

  ‘Black holes,’ Leonard Stanley said, ‘don’t have a history.’

  ‘Everything has a history,’ Nik said. ‘At least, that’s what you tell us.’

  The teacher shrugged. ‘Nobody knows much about black holes yet. That’s what I mean.’

  What he really meant was that he didn’t know much about black holes himself and didn’t want the bother of finding out in order to grade Nik’s work.

  ‘Now God,’ he went on quickly, ‘God has been around a long time. We know quite a bit about him. About religion, anyway.’

  Nik smirked. ‘God has never been around at all. He’s an invention. God’s a fiction, sir. Just a story. In the past people needed some all-powerful being to explain things they couldn’t understand, and to calm their fears. Or to blame for the awful things that happened to them, like illnesses and earthquakes. And sometimes they used God to scare other people they didn’t like. But it’s no good any more. It doesn’t work. We know better now. God is dead. If he was ever alive, that is. That’s what I think, anyway.’

  Leonard Stanley snatched a winning point, poking a finger at Nik’s chest. ‘In that case,’ he laughed, ‘God’s all history. Isn’t that right?’

  Nik couldn’t help nodding an unwilling agreement.

  Leonard seized his advantage. ‘And you can’t have a better subject for a history project than a subject that is nothing but history, can you?’

  Nik said, ‘I still prefer the history of living things, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘Look,’ the teacher said, turning on his serious manner. ‘People are living. People have histories. People have a long history of believing in God. A history that goes back to the beginning of people. And a lot of people, probably the majority of people in the world, still do believe in a God of some kind.’

  ‘And look where they’ve got us,’ Nik said. ‘They fall for this God stuff and before you know it they’re fighting each other about whose God is the real one. Then they start torturing their enemies to try and convert them. And they end up fighting holy wars and killing each other, and anyone else who doesn’t agree with them. All in the name of this God they think they own and who gives them the right to murder in his name. It’s not on, sir. I don’t want anything to do with it.’

  Leonard Stanley liked nothing better than this kind of heated argument from his students. He believed it helped them discover how exciting history is. Not that he expected anyone actually to do anything as a result of the arguments. Talk was one thing, action another. But this time he had quite mistaken the character of the student he was arguing with.

  Leonard rubbed his hands and said, ‘Listen, Nik. People do all those things for other reasons as well as religion. For politics, for example, and family feuds, for money, or food, or to gain territory, or because of jealousy, or even for love. All you’re saying is that religion includes the whole of the human race, the good and the bad. Which makes it a perfect subject for a historian to study.’

  ‘But,’ Nik said, ‘the Christians say God made people in his own image, don’t they? So if there’s a God, and if he made people in his own image, and they go round murdering each other and doing horrible things, then it’s all God’s fault that the human race is like it is, and the sooner we ditch him the better. But if there isn’t a God, then there’s no point in doing history about him because it’s a waste of time.’

  Leonard said, ‘I’m not saying whether there’s a God or not. Historians don’t answer questions like that. What they do is tell the story of people and how they got to be the way they are. It’s people who interest historians. All I’m saying is that religion is one of the most powerful forces—maybe the most powerful—in the history of people everywhere. So we should study it.’

  Now it was Nik’s turn to shrug. ‘Maybe.’

  The teacher took a step closer, a sign the argument was over. ‘Don’t give me any maybes, Nik. You know I’m right. This project is a perfect opportunity to investigate first hand one of the most potent forces in human life. And you can do it by researching its effects on real, ordinary people of your own age. Anyway, it’ll be fun. And it’ll get you in amongst others. You spend too much time on your own.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Nik said, not happy at the turn the conversation had taken.

  ‘Don’t think about it. Do it. Okay?’

  Nik knew he’d be badgered till he agreed. ‘I’ll give it a go, sir. But under protest.’

  ‘Protests I can live with,’ Leonard said, and stalked off, thinking force of argument had won the day.

  He was wrong. Nik knew, without admitting it to himself just then, that throwing up in his bath at the knowledge of his own separateness had much more to do with it than argument.

  EYE DEES

  Nik’s first few meetings with the group were interesting enough. The historical information they needed was easy to find; and he mildly enjoyed the joshing and jokes which seemed to be what most of the group came for.

  He quickly fell into the habit of arriving just in time for the film-making part of the proceedings, and of avoiding the whoopee afterwards by saying he had school work to do and dodging away. A few people teased him for this, hinting at darker, sensational reasons for his leaving. ‘We’ve heard that before,’ they’d say with winks and nudges and obscene fists. ‘Who is
it? Come on, tell us.’

  Some, he knew, thought he didn’t hang around like the rest because he was snobby and standoffish. But Nik was used to this. From infancy he had never felt comfortable with large groups, worst of all when everyone was his own age. One of his earliest memories was of standing in the middle of a swarm of babies at nursery school and screaming till his mother took him away. Later he always kept clear of gangs and parties. And these days he felt particularly suspicious of what he called ‘teenage playgroups’, unable to imagine why anyone needed them or why any sane adult wanted to run them.

  A teacher once accused him of being ‘chronically unclubbable’, as if this were a dire ailment. Others often called him a loner, their tone of voice leaving no doubt that loners were never approved of. He both resented this and was proud of it.

  In self-protection, and out of cussed principle, he had encouraged this view of himself as an oddity, making an aggressive virtue of being an outsider. He even acquired a kind of following of boys, and of girls too, who admired his remoteness and tried to imitate his slightly aloof manner, his wary look through his glasses, the bite in his talk, and his disdain for any physical activity.

  Recently, this body of admirers had become vocal. Someone had given them what was intended to be a scornful name, the Nikelodeons. Others, both for and against, took it up and with startling speed Nik found himself the unwilling focus of a fashion which people took sides about. Even second- and third-years were soon calling themselves Nikies. They could hardly be called a club as the whole point of Nikishness was to be unclubbable and fiercely individual. But they took to standing about together and off-handedly acknowledging each other when they crossed paths in corridors.

  Then one day NIKS SCORE ALONE was found scrawled across the team lists on the soccer notice-board. And the next day N = 1 was sprayed on the maths room wall. After that Nik-graffiti appeared everywhere. The best of it was collected and printed in the school newspaper.

  THE NIKELODEONS OF LIFE PLAY THEIR

  OWN TUNES

  BETTER A NIKEL THAN A KNUCKLE

  NOW I KNOW I WON

  Secretly, of course, Nik enjoyed his temporary notoriety. Everybody likes to be noticed. But he never openly confessed it, nor that being a loner had one enormous disadvantage. It literally meant that he was frequently alone, when the truth was he would have liked companionship now and then.

  This partly explains why he stayed with the film group. His project gave him an excuse for being there without his having to acknowledge any other reason. He thought of himself as an outsider, an observer, one of the group without belonging to it. So he didn’t feel he was giving in to any of those human weaknesses he scorned.

  In his role as observer, and on Leonard Stanley’s instructions, he kept a notebook in which he recorded the events of each session, wrote up the information needed for the film and for his essay on religion. But very soon he began to use it as a kind of journal of his secret thoughts and comments on what happened to himself. (Though it must also be admitted that his notes became as long as they did because he had just been given a word processor and using it was a novelty.)

  But there was another reason why Nik stayed with the group. This is how it came about.

  At Nik’s sixth meeting the Director settled the casting of the film. There was plenty of crude joking, about, for example, the appropriateness of the boy who was Judas, and whether the girl who was Mary Magdalene was experienced at certain aspects of life that would fit her for the part of a reformed prostitute.

  Towards the end of the evening the Director said, ‘Agreed, then. That’s the cast.’

  Mary Magdalene said, ‘Except for Jesus.’

  ‘Yeah, what about him?’ Saint Peter said. ‘We can’t make a film about Jesus turning up again if we haven’t got anybody to act him.’

  The Director said, ‘Why not? He could always be just out of shot. Or the camera could be him. Everything seen from his point of view. I’ve considered it.’

  General uproar.

  ‘Arty-farty,’ John the Beloved shouted.

  ‘Gimmicky,’ Doubting Thomas yelled.

  ‘You have to see him,’ John the Beloved went on. ‘I can’t eat the last supper with a camera for Christ.’

  ‘All you ever think about is your stomach,’ Mary of Bethany said.

  ‘That’s all you know!’ Jason the clapperboy said with a mock simper.

  ‘Trouble is,’ the Director said, ‘we don’t know what he looked like.’

  ‘Handsome,’ Mary the Mother said. ‘He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? He’d not be ugly, not the son of God.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lazarus said.

  ‘Like you!’ Doubting Thomas mocked. ‘Type cast, you are. Won’t need no make-up. Like death warmed up without any.’

  ‘You leave my brother alone,’ Mary of Bethany said.

  ‘What I mean,’ Lazarus said, ever undaunted, ‘is that God might of let Jesus be ugly to show that ugly people matter as much as handsome people.’

  Groans.

  ‘Depends what you’re after,’ Brian the camera boy said.

  ‘We all know what you’re after,’ Sally the continuity girl said, grinning, and not at all resisting the yoke of Brian’s arm.

  The Director said, ‘What’s ugly and what’s handsome anyway?’

  Doubting Thomas said, ‘Can’t say I have much trouble deciding,’ and looked lasciviously at Mary of Bethany, whose luxuriant black hair had landed her the part and Thomas’s obvious admiration.

  ‘All I’m pointing out,’ the Director said, ‘is that everybody has their own idea. And then there’s fashion. Ideas about what’s ugly and what’s beautiful change from time to time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rachel the sound recordist said. ‘In the eighteenth century they liked fat women and men dressed in long curly wigs and lacy clothes.’

  ‘Dishy,’ Jason the clapperboy said, only, as usual, to be ignored.

  ‘We ought to have some idea of what Christ looked like though, oughtn’t we?’ Judas said. ‘We’ve got to cast somebody.’

  ‘I think he’d have nice eyes,’ the Magdalene said.

  King Herod yawned, never one for discussion, and said, hoping to put an end to this one, ‘Nik ought to know. He’s the researcher.’

  Nik said, ‘That’s the trouble. We don’t know much about him at all.’

  ‘Tell us anyway,’ the Director ordered.

  Nik flipped pages in his file. ‘It’ll be easiest if I read you a summary.’

  Mary Magdalene said, ‘Not long, is it? Want to be home early tonight to wash my hair.’

  This was taken as an incredibly funny joke. The Magdalene frequently had this effect, though she never quite understood why. (The Director had cast her as the Magdalene expecting she’d have this effect on audiences too, for his secret intention was to direct the film as a send-up of religion, he being a rabid atheist himself.)

  When everyone had quietened, Nik said, ‘Only a page. You can survive that.’

  ‘If it isn’t boring,’ Doubting Thomas said.

  ‘Can you tell the difference?’ Nik said, and went on, ‘Extract from—’

  ‘Never mind the frills,’ script-writer Tony muttered.

  Mary the Mother said, ‘He’s only trying to be accurate.’

  Nik read.

  STOCKSHOT: Jesus of Nazareth has been the central figure of the most widespread religion of the past two thousand years, yet almost nothing is known of his earthly life. We can confidently state that he lived in Palestine in the time of Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee, and that he was crucified under Pontius Pilate. Beyond that, we have only the devout literature of his disciples and followers, and we see and hear Jesus only through their record. Our lack of historical information is due in part to the fact that to his disciples Jesus was not a memory but a living Lord, and when they came to set down his story they presented him not as the Jesus of past history but as the Christ of their living faith.

  ‘That�
��ll do,’ Thomas said.

  Nik said, ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Not about how he looked?’ the Magdalene asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we might as well make him look any way we want. And I don’t care, as long as he isn’t one of them wallies they put in pictures in churches.’

  ‘How would you know?’ script-writer Harriet said. ‘You never go into a church.’

  ‘I do! I was in one when our Jim got married four years ago.’

  Laughter.

  Mary of Bethany said, ‘I don’t want no creeping Jesus neither. I’m not wiping his feet with my hair if he’s one of them. I’d get the giggles anyway. If I’m going to act the part I have to believe in the characters. I couldn’t believe in no weeping-willy.’

  ‘No weeping-willies,’ the Director said. ‘Promise.’

  Nathaniel, quiet as ever, said, ‘Ought to look ordinary. He must have looked like the people where he was born, mustn’t he? So he should look like the people round here if he’s born here. He’d look like everybody else till God called him, then he’d look special.’

  Brian, sneering, said, ‘You make him sound like a religious Clark Kent.’

  ‘Who’s Clark Kent?’ Nathaniel asked, and was bewildered by the cries of mockery.

  ‘You laugh,’ the Director said, ‘but there’s a lot in what he says. In any case, I think I know who I’d like to play the part.’

  †

  NIK’S NOTEBOOK: ME play JESUS. Five thousand exclamation marks.

  He said he didn’t want anybody to play the part who also wants to be an actor. He wants a non-actor. Someone, he said, who can just BE. Someone who can just be an idiot, Judas said, as he would, he having wished to play Jesus himself.

  Our Beloved Director is out of his leptonic mind.

  Selah, as they say in the Godbook.

  All this Bible-reading research is going to my head. I just looked up selah in the dictionary. A Hebrew word of unknown meaning, it says, which is a lot of help. Except I do like words of unknown meaning, because then they can mean anything you want them to mean. The dic. does say, though, that selah probably had something to do with an instruction in music. Like saying: Pause here. Which makes it very suitable for this songandance.