Elizabeth Costello полностью

'That is the end of it. There is nothing that has not been covered. I rest my case.'

'Your case is that you are a secretary. Of the invisible.'

'And that I cannot afford to believe.'

'For professional reasons.'

'For professional reasons.'

'And what if the invisible does not regard you as its secretary? What if your appointment was long ago discontinued, and the letter did not reach you? What if you were never even appointed? Have you considered that possibility.'

'I consider it every day. I am forced to consider it. If I am not what I say I am, then I am a sham. If that is your considered verdict, that I am a sham secretary, then I can only bow my head and accept it. I presume you have taken into account my record, a lifetime's record. In fairness to me you cannot ignore that record.'

'What about children?'

The voice is cracked and wheezy. At first she cannot make out from which of them it comes. Is it Number Eight, the one with the pudgy jowls and the high colour?

'Children? I don't understand.'

'And what of the Tasmanians?' he continues. 'What of the fate of the Tasmanians?'

The Tasmanians? Has something been going on in Tasmania, in the interim, that she has not heard about?

'I have no special opinions about Tasmanians,' she replies cautiously. 'I have always found them perfectly decent people.'

He waves impatiently. 'I mean the old Tasmanians, the ones who were exterminated. Do you have special opinions about them?'

'Do you mean, have their voices come to me? No, they have not, not yet. I probably do not qualify, in their eyes. They would probably want to use a secretary of their own, as they are surely entitled to do.'

She can hear the irritation in her voice. What is she doing, explaining herself to a gaggle of old men who might as well be small-town Italians, or small-town Austro-Hungarians, yet who somehow sit in judgement on her? Why does she put up with it? What do they know about Tasmania?

'I said nothing about voices,' says the man. 'I asked you about your thoughts.'

Her thoughts on Tasmania? If she is puzzled, the rest of the panel is puzzled too, for her questioner has to turn to them to explain.'Atrocities take place,' he says.'Violations of innocent children. The extermination of whole peoples. What does she think about such matters? Does she have no beliefs to guide her?'

The extermination of the old Tasmanians by her countrymen, her ancestors. Is that, finally, what lies behind this hearing, this trial: the question of historical guilt?

She takes a breath. 'There are matters about which one talks and matters about which it is appropriate to keep one's peace, even before a tribunal, even before the ultimate tribunal, if that is what you are. I know what you are referring to, and I reply only that if from what I have said before you today you conclude that I am oblivious of such matters, you are mistaken, utterly mistaken. Let me add, for your edification: beliefs are not the only ethical supports we have. We can rely on our hearts as well. That is all. I have nothing more to say.'

Contempt of court. She is running close to contempt of court. It is something about herself she has never liked, this tendency to flare up.

'But as a writer? You present yourself today not in your own person but as a special case, a special destiny, a writer who has written not just entertainments but books exploring the complexities of human conduct. In those books you make one judgement upon another, it must be so. What guides you in these judgements? Do you persist in saying it is all just a matter of heart? Have you no beliefs as a writer? If a writer is just a human being with a human heart, what is special about your case?'

Not a fool. Not a pig in satin robes, porcus magistralis, out of Grandville. Not the Mad Hatter's tea party. For the first time this day she feels tested. Very well: let her see what she can come up with.

'The aboriginal people of Tasmania are today counted among the invisible, the invisible whose secretary I am, one of many such. Every morning I seat myself at my desk and ready myself for the summons of the day. That is a secretary's way of life, and mine. When the old Tasmanians summon me, if they choose to summon me, I will be ready and I will write, to the best of my ability.

'Similarly with children, since you mention violated children. I have yet to be summoned by a child, but again I am ready.

'A word of caution to you, however. I am open to all voices, not just the voices of the murdered and violated.' She tries to keep her own voice even at this point, tries to hit no note that might be called forensic.'If it is their murderers and violators who choose to summon me instead, to use me and speak through me, I will not close my ears to them, I will not judge them.'

'You will speak for murderers?'

'I will.'

'You do not judge between the murderer and his victim? Is that what it is to be a secretary: to write down whatever you are told? To be bankrupt of conscience?'