May 18, 2025

The Apostate Cathar

— J. Chr. de Vries

I did not know why I wished to go in, yet I did, and with all the certainty one knows when close to the orders of the Gods. Which is to say, close to those Gods Who are awake within you. Who can be so fortunate as to know Their Names
— Norman Mailer, Ancient Evenings

Power

“A number of months before the Cathar Council of Saint-Félix-de-Caraman, which likely took place in the late spring or early summer of the year 1167, a trial was held in the Château de Quéribus abbey against the L’Imparfait Parfait, or the Impure Pure One, Tharákaz de Nouvière; a case also known among Gnostics as The Case of the Apostate Cathar.”

Zoe Stederdronk reread the sentence she had just quoted from the preface to ‘The Case of the Apostate Cathar’ by the German historian Giseke Gideschuend. The book was written in 1851 and wasn’t published until two decades later. ‘Just 63 measly words,’ she thought. ‘And not even my own. Still over 10,000 to go.’ She shoved her laptop aside with an impatient gesture.

Zoe was of Surinamese descent. Her mother, of Hindustani heritage, had passed on to her a combative spirit, perseverance, and a fiery temper. From her Ghanaian father, she had inherited a delicate gift for laisser-faire — not in the sense of indifference, but rather of empathy. Her mother had just chased Casper out of the apartment for good; her father regretted it. She looked for her grandparents, her brother, and her aunt, but they all seemed to still be asleep. She stood up, waved her parents out of the apartment with a single motion, and walked to the kitchen with her coffee mug to pour herself another cup.

Casper den Tweeph had, until about fifteen minutes ago, been her lover — her ‘fiancé’, as her supervisor teasingly called him. They’d had yet another argument; she’d flown into a fury, and he had packed his things and left.

Stederdronk was studying gender studies at the University of Utrecht, working on her graduate thesis, which she had to submit in six months. Her mentor, Dr. Elise de Beegt, insisted that the masculine form of her title be used — not mentrix , but mentor — and was very outspoken about that. Her research had led her to the German historian Gideschuend. Or should she refer to her as a ‘historica’ or ‘historicus’ in her thesis? [The term ‘historian’ has a masculin and feminin version in Dutch.] Such questions often drove Casper to despair. ‘You’re like a bunch of scribes instead of scientists,’ he’d snap. And then they would spiral into yet another endless — and above all, fruitless — debate about how language systemically obstructed emancipation and diversity. Truth and power: it was a recurring theme in their arguments, and it led nowhere, apart from shattered glassware or crockery. Sometimes she couldn’t understand why they had stayed together so long — although, she corrected herself, her father in her understood it: Casper was a gentle soul, full of humor and a brilliant mind. ‘They complement each other,’ Dide would say. She was Zoe’s best friend, but Zoe gagged on that kind of cliché. She pushed Casper out of her mind and sat down at her desk. She pulled her laptop back toward her.

She opened the window containing Gideschuend’s text and began to read. At that moment, her phone rang. ‘Casper.’ She dismissed the call immediately. Ping-ping. A message. She muted the phone and left the message unread. Gideschuend. Nothing — she couldn’t concentrate at all. Finally, she decided to consider the day a total loss.

The biggest problem Stederdronk had encountered in her research turned out to be Gideschuend herself: only indirect sources about her could be found. That in itself wasn’t unusual, since female scholars in the first half of the nineteenth century rarely received much recognition. But it did make meeting the academic requirements of her graduate research difficult. She needed verifiable sources. She had found two independent texts mentioning Gideschuend’s name — one in connection with Charles Schmidt, who published Geschichte der Valdesier und Katharer in 1848, and the other linking her name to Napoléon Peyrat, a Protestant minister who had also written about the Cathars; he had even coined the term in French. According to Peyrat, the name derived from the Greek word katharoi, meaning ‘the pure ones’.

But the problem ran deeper: not only was Gideschuend’s background obscure, the subject of her book — Tharákaz de Nouvière, the ‘apostate Cathar’ — was even more shadowy. Even the historical foundation of the ‘Cathar Council of Saint-Félix-de-Caraman’ that Gideschuend referenced turned out to be highly debatable. Still, the story of the trial was beautiful — though largely based on Gideschuend’s paraphrasing. And that was Zoe’s actual subject: not the historicity of the twelfth-century Cathar council, nor the trial of Tharákaz, but the historical-scientific method used by Gideschuend, and whether there was a gendered aspect to it. Besides the two external references, her main source was Gideschuend’s own book — which, qualitate qua, was absolutely crucial.

Her central research question was whether historical conceptions of truth and power were gender-defined — or at least influenced by gender. The main theme of the trial of Tharákaz revolved around precisely that issue of truth and power. She therefore had to try to distill the potentially gender-related conceptions of these ideas from Gideschuend’s text. What was her explicit, or if need be, implicit interpretation? Moreover: to what extent was that interpretation — and Stederdronk’s own — shaped by truth and power concepts that were or were not gender-related? These were not only historical questions, but also sociological, philosophical, and political ones. She pushed her laptop aside again. She admitted to herself that she missed Casper — somewhat, at least, no more than that. He would have given her useful advice on this matter. ‘I’m going to fall in love with a woman,’ Zoe said with determination to her aunt Nadette. Nadette gave a long yawn and immediately fell asleep. Zoe was alone.

The following figures were important in the trial of Tharákaz de Nouvière, besides Tharákaz himself: the presiding judge, Prior Pièrre de Troppes; the Prosecutor, priestess Klarena de Sagát; and the Scribe — who was also Tharákaz’s confidant — Aldo di Tempa.

The trial was significant because at the Council that would follow, the question of so-called ‘absolute dualism’ would be the central theme. The trial was considered a theoretical test case on this point. The Prior was a proponent of this ‘absolute dualism’; the defendant wasn’t even a supporter of its relative variant. The Prior saw him as a convenient instrument to push through his view. Klarena sided with the Prior. Aldo was diplomatic.

This Aldo turned out to be the main source for the account of the trial — Gideschuend apparently had access to a manuscript containing his (according to the historian ‘detailed’) notes. Stederdronk had not yet managed to track down this manuscript herself, but had found references to it in other sources. In a few cases, those sources even quoted directly from the manuscript, which allowed her to assess Gideschuend’s paraphrased account for factual accuracy, and to see to what extent she had let her imagination run free. Her mentor had advised her to find more sources, and she was working on that, but she also wanted to work with the material she already had. Perhaps doing so would even help in her search.

A central tenet of Cathar belief was the principle that two powers (or principles) were involved in the origin of our earthly world: on the one hand God, and on the other Satan — or Lucifer. In the relative variant, Satan was a creature created by God who had turned apostate. In the absolute variant of this dualistic principle, God — who represented the absolute Good — could not possibly have created the earth; that was the work of Evil. Satan, in this variant, was not created by God; he had always existed. Because the earth was Satan’s creation, it was, in fact, a hell. In this view of Catharism, there was no such thing as free will — everything was predestined. This was the principle Tharákaz was confronted with. The Prior sought to enshrine this view at the upcoming Council, and Tharákaz understood all too well that his trial had a political motive.

Zoe had just written two questions in her notebook: 1) Is the concept of power gender-defined? and 2) Why does the principle of absolute dualism lead to the rejection of free will? — when her phone began to ring. Casper. She remained motionless. ‘Don’t answer it!’ her mother ordered. Her father said nothing, but grimaced. Her aunt remained absent in her deep sleep. Zoe was just about to press the answer button when the ringing stopped. Too late. Her mother gave her a thumbs-up of approval; her father looked away.

She waved her parents resolutely out of the kitchen, but immediately Casper appeared across from her. He got straight to the point: ‘I assume your first question means: do women operate with a different principle of power than men? Or do you mean it more generally — that the oppressed, like women, gays, or Black people, are more inclined to think in terms of power principles? Because the principles of truth are always defined by those in power.’ Yes, they had had that debate a thousand times before. Enough to drive you mad! She stood up and began pacing around the kitchen. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ she shouted. ‘Intercourse! Intercourse! Intercourse!’ Casper echoed. She became even more furious. ‘Not funny! You’re a dick!’ To which Casper replied: ‘Penis, you mean. And you’re using the wrong auxiliary verb.’ She shook her head violently a few times and waved Casper out of the house with a furious gesture. She’d been through enough of this bickering. It led nowhere. A waste of time. Suddenly her father entered the kitchen, nodded toward her desk, and disappeared again.

At the head of the courtroom stood a broad table with three chairs, each with a tall, straight back. Opposite the table sat Tharákaz, alone on a smaller chair. Around thirty priests were seated in a semicircle behind the Accused. A door opened, and the Prior, the Prosecutor, and the Scribe entered the room. Everyone rose to their feet. The Prior positioned himself before the center chair, the Prosecutor stood to his right, and the Scribe to his left. The Prior held a long staff in his right hand. He struck it firmly on the floor and instructed his two companions to remove their mitres. They placed their mitres before them on the table and sat down. An attendant took the Prior’s staff away, and the rest of the room followed suit and sat. The Prior opened the proceedings, introduced the Prosecutor, Klarena de Sagát, and the Scribe, Aldo di Tempa, to those present, and read out the charges against the Accused, Tharákaz de Nouvière, who stood accused of apostasy against the Faith of the Parfaits. Klarena would present the charges; the Prior served as the judge presiding over the trial and would ultimately deliver the verdict. Aldo would record the proceedings but was also permitted — should Tharákaz request it — to provide practical support to the accused, such as requesting a pause, supplying legal or religious texts, writing materials, or water. He was not allowed to intervene in any substantive matters. The trial could in principle last several days, with a maximum of seven, not counting rest days. Proceedings would take place only during daylight hours.

Zoe Stederdronk suspected that in the descriptive passages, Gideschuend had employed her imagination to the fullest. The description of the space, the ritual — including the staff — could not possibly be verified as factual. The historian had undoubtedly drawn from other, similar accounts of trials, as well as paintings or other visual materials from the period, but in the end it remained a romanticized form of conjecture. For Zoe’s research into gender-related issues, these romanticized paraphrases were of lesser importance. What mattered more were the passages in which Gideschuend explored the possible motives and modes of thought of the trial’s key figures. Whether these were factual or partly invented was not of overriding importance for identifying Gideschuend’s own views on power and truth, and their potential gendered implications.

The Prior knew that the Scribe was a personal friend of the Accused, but had nonetheless admitted him to the court’s Presidium. On the one hand, the function of Scribe did not entail the role of defender — Aldo could support Tharákaz solely in practical matters. On the other hand, the Prior was keenly aware of the strength of his opponents, who rejected his ‘absolute doctrine’. Aldo, a firm adherent of the ‘relative doctrine’, could thus function as a kind of lightning rod, allowing the Prior to maintain the appearance of impartiality. That Aldo, as Scribe, had control over the record of the trial did not trouble the Prior too much; such texts could, after all, be manipulated without much difficulty. What mattered most was that the Prior could gain insight into the strategy and intentions of his adversary. Keep your enemies close!

Stederdronk found the sentence about the possible manipulation of the trial record by the Prior noteworthy. That thought was surely Gideschuend’s own. The rest of the paragraph, however, struck her as a legitimate analysis of how power functions — or might function — within such formal structures. No gender dynamic could yet be distilled from this mode of power; at this stage, there was no reason to assume that women, placed in an equivalent position, would wield power differently. Perhaps the parts featuring the words of the Prosecutor Klarena would shed more light on that.

The trial commenced as follows: the Prosecutor had been granted the floor by the Prior to present the charges against Tharákaz.
Prosecutor: 
Accused Tharákaz de Nouvière: you are charged with impurity of the True Faith. 
By this, you commit treason against the one, absolute Truth, which belongs to God. 
Do you acknowledge this impurity and are you willing to return to the True?

Defendant:
 I firmly deny that my faith, thoughts, and actions could be impure. 
If one wishes to substantiate the accusation, this alleged impurity must first be examined. 
To that end, we must first investigate what the concept of ‘purity,’ and thus ‘truth,’ entails.

Prosecutor: 
The Accused questions God’s concept of the ‘pure’ and the ‘true’?
 This is unheard of, and without precedent! By this, the Accused effectively admits guilt. 
For the record, I ask the Accused for a confession of guilt.

Defendant: 
A confession of guilt is meaningless as long as it is unclear what this guilt pertains to. 
This means we must first examine the purity of the true faith. 
And from that follows that we must first establish the essence of God.

That was a clever move by Tharákaz; he lured the Prior into creating the necessary legal precedent through his case for the issue of duality at the upcoming Council. There was certainly some risk involved, as the Prior depended on the Prosecutor’s legal skills. If she didn’t play the legal side well, he would have given Aldo and his faction ammunition to steer the duality issue their way. However, the Prior was evidently confident enough in his power to accept that risk. Moreover, he was fully aware that Tharákaz’s views only partially aligned with those of Aldo and his allies. This gave the Prior an opportunity to sow division within the opposing camp. Still, he had to convince Klarena of the importance of his tactical move and thoroughly instruct her.

Zoe pushed Gideschuend’s text aside and stood up from her chair to pace around. The Prior’s power was clear, but what about Klarena? She was playfully drawn into the Prior’s power game. Gideschuend seemed to have no opinion on this; at least nothing in her text suggested it. Maybe her position in the realm of science was similar to Klarena’s in the order. Was that a problem for her?

Her eye caught the calendar attached to the refrigerator door. She had forgotten to number the day. And also the day before, she noticed with displeasure. Was she becoming forgetful? She grabbed a pen and wrote a number in each of the two days’ boxes: ‘270’ and ‘271’. How far should I number, she wondered.

The Prior briefly interrupted the session for a consultation within the Presidium. He also granted the Scribent permission to inform the Defendant about the procedure to be followed: the Defendant would be given the opportunity to present his views on the faith, the essence of God, and the Truth before the court. Meanwhile, the Prior gave the Prosecutor instructions on which arguments she should put forward, and which limits to the Defendant’s reasoning should be tolerated. Naturally, he retained the power to intervene at any moment himself. But he preferred to use this power as little as possible, as doing otherwise risked undermining the credibility of the Prosecutor.
Defendant: 
Is it correct to say that you speak on behalf of the One, True God?

Prosecutor:
 Indeed, this entire Presidium represents the One and True God, and so do I.

Defendant: 
Is that One, True God a man or a woman? Or perhaps both at the same time?

Prosecutor:
 You know both are true; the female principle is called ‘Sophia,’ Wisdom.

Defendant:  
Which qualities are represented by the male principle, and which by the female principle?

Prosecutor:
 Besides Wisdom, Providence is a female quality; Truth and Goodness are male.

Defendant:
 The female principle represents Wisdom, but not Truth or Goodness? 
In other words: Truth and Wisdom, or Goodness and Wisdom, are not the same? 
Put differently: The One True God consists of different principles with different qualities.

Prosecutor:
 Your questions are those of a heretic who can only mock the Faith. 
You well know that God is ‘All in One,’ a unique multiplicity.

Defendant:  
If a person dies prematurely, do we call this Good or Bad?

Prosecutor:
 That depends on the circumstances and reasons for the person’s death.

Defendant: 
Let’s assume the man became the victim of a deadly crime.

Prosecutor:
 In that case, his death is Bad. It is the work of Satan.

Defendant:  
And God, in His Wisdom and Goodness, can decide to remain uninvolved?

Prosecutor: 
As you know, all things are Predestined; nothing happens without His Will.

Defendant:
 Then this death, which is bad, has taken place with the consent of the Good?

Prosecutor:
 It is not for us to judge God’s motives. 
Moreover, God is not the cause of the fatal death; that is Satan. 
The conflict between Good and Evil is a fait accompli for us.

Defendant:  
Then I propose a new hypothesis: the man dies by a sudden lightning strike.
 We cannot say that Satan is responsible; lightning is divine. 
Then God, in His Wisdom, chose the Bad, not the Good. 
God’s Wisdom can lead to the Bad.

Prosecutor:
 If the lightning strike is a consequence of God’s Wisdom, then it is Good.

Defendant:
 The victim leaves behind a wife and children, who are left uncared for. That is Bad.
 God’s Wisdom did not lead to Good for them, but to Bad. 
God’s Wisdom and Goodness can be contradictory. They sometimes seem incompatible.

Prosecutor:
 God can at any moment choose the male or the female.
 God’s Ways are unfathomable. It is not for us humans to judge. 
And as I said, everything is Predestined. That is Wise and Good.

Defendant:
 The argument of Predestination cannot conceal the division within the Divine.
 Now God acts through the male, then through the female. 
The conclusion seems unavoidable to me: there is no overarching unity.
The Prior understood the tactic Tharákaz was pursuing, and he also noticed that Klarena did not grasp it. He let her utter a few more accusations of blasphemy, but then intervened. He adjourned the session; consultation with her was urgently needed.

After the recess, Tharákaz was given the floor. His question had indeed been anticipated by the Prior. He had prepared Klarena well and given her instructions on how to respond. Not everything was predictable, but the Prior could always adjourn the session again if needed.
Defendant: 
The upcoming Council will address the question of the True Faith. 
There are two schools of thought: the Absolutists and the Relativists. Is either of them impure? 
And if one prevails, what will be the consequences for the other?

Prosecutor:
 Only once the Council has made a decision will this issue become relevant. 
Until then, all views and factions are permitted. The True Faith prevails..

Defendant: 
Thank you for your diplomatic answer, but it only evades the problem.
 I will rephrase the question. Suppose the Council has decided which view is pure.
 What then will be the consequences for the adherents of the other, so-called ‘impure’ faction?

Prosecutor: 
That is for the Council to decide; it will have to make a ruling on that.

Defendant:
 You persist in formal, evasive answers that will not advance our inquiry. 
Let us therefore take the current state as a starting point, that of the two schools. 
Is my conclusion correct that at this moment both schools are fully legitimate?

Prosecutor: 
In the process leading to the Faith Declaration, both views are legitimate. 
This does not mean that both views can be considered ‘pure’. 
The Council will determine which of the two is pure, and which is impure.

Defendant:
 How will the Council determine which of the two views is pure?

Prosecutor:
As you know, by debate series and ultimately a roll-call vote.

Defendant: 
Then the following statement is unavoidable: until now our faith has been impure.

Prosecutor: 
No, the current state of our Faith is part of a process. 
That temporary process is not necessarily impure, since it is based on pure grounds.

Defendant: 
Consequently, I cannot be accused of an impure Faith, as you did earlier. 
We have not yet formally or definitively established what a pure Faith entails. 
Therefore, this case must be dismissed.

Judge:
 The Defendant is correct from a formal standpoint. The floor is yours, Prosecutor.

Defendant:
 I accept, under formal protest, the Judge’s ruling.

Judge:
 The Court accepts the Defendant’s proposal to dismiss the case.
 The Court also accepts the Prosecutor’s formal, and thereby permitted, protest. 
The Court has several additional remarks regarding this dismissal: 
Dismissal does not equal Acquittal; it means only a postponement. 
The charges against the Defendant are now only temporarily withdrawn for formal reasons. 
Namely, until the Council reaches a decision on the Pure Faith. 
Afterwards, the Court may decide to reopen this case.
 I have spoken.
The Prior’s intervention in the trial could not be deemed a defeat on his part; he had expertly countered Tharákaz’s, admittedly clever, defense. In doing so, he achieved precisely what he intended with this trial: a solid argument to enforce his views at the Council. Unshakeable principles needed to be established to define, preserve, and potentially defend the ‘Purity’ of the Faith for the future. The case against Tharákaz had clearly demonstrated that ‘absolute’ principles were necessary, as a ‘relative’ interpretation would allow too much room for dissenting views — an unacceptable threat to the True Faith. Though significant hurdles remained for the Prior and his allies, their opponents had suffered a first, fundamental defeat — albeit in the form of a hollow victory.

Time for pacing, Zoe thought as she walked to the kitchen. She grabbed a carton of fruit juice from the fridge and searched for a clean glass. The kitchen was a mess of unwashed plates, glasses, pans, and cutlery. The sink was overflowing.

She took a glass, rinsed it out, filled it, and walked out of the kitchen while drinking. She waved her mother, father, and aunt out of the room with an impatient gesture — she had no appetite for their utterly unnecessary comments.

Immediately, her mentor, Dr. Elise de Beegt, appeared on the scene. She was very curious about Zoe’s conclusions regarding Gideschuend’s text, especially on the topics of ‘power’ and ‘gender’. Her mentor was swiftly shooed out of the room as well.

Zoe drained her glass, returned it to the topmost pile in the sink, and as she left the kitchen, a thought — perhaps an insight — came to her. Hopeful, she sat down again at her desk. 
Rulers benefit from absolute principles, she thought. Power cannot function optimally when the principles it is based on are subject to doubt or open to multiple interpretations. That was why the Prior cared so much about the absolute principle. But, she reminded herself, that had answered her question about Predestination. That principle is absolute, and thus strengthens power. Klarena was labeled ‘chosen’ by power and so incorporated into the power structure, while Tharákaz was left out in the cold. Truth had nothing to do with any of this; that so-called truth was nothing more than an instrument in service of power. She looked ahead contentedly — she definitely had a lead!  Too bad it was all utterly speculative, Dr. de Beegt had said; there was not a trace of evidence for her claim.

The next day, Zoe first went to the calendar in the kitchen to note the day’s number: ‘272’. 
She quickly rinsed a spoon, cleaned a small bowl, and filled it with yogurt, muesli, and some fruit. Sitting down at her desk, she finished the bowl and thought about the other question she had posed herself: Is the principle of power gender-determined? Now that she had unexpectedly answered the question about Predestination yesterday (even though the proof for her claim was still a detail to be worked out), she was hopeful about answering the remaining open question. 

The Prior was a man, so his power play was that of a man. Klarena was a woman, but she was part of the Prior’s male power play — she had submitted to his power. But, Zoe wondered, couldn’t it just as well have been the other way around? What was typically ‘male’ about the Prior’s power game? Was the absolutist principle a male principle? Were women more inclined toward relativism because they wanted to keep the family together? For which closing compromises is a necessary technique? She thought of the Scribent, Aldo — clearly a diplomat, skilled in finding compromises when the situation demanded it. And Aldo was definitely a man. So, she got no further.

Suddenly, a fragment from the Scribent’s record of the trial flashed through her mind — a part from the first segment of the process. The section she had focused on the past few days was about the conclusion of the trial, the outcome. 
She started leafing through Gideschuend’s manuscript and, after some time, found the following two sentences from the Prosecutor:

Prosecutor:  
The Defendant left the house of Filège de Kazharát, who is his beloved.
 It is not their possible love affair that is at issue here, but his pernicious views.

It was not these sentences alone that caught her attention, but a fragment from a different source than Gideschuend — a manuscript by Norbarátt Le Niève. That text contained a similar fragment, but longer.

Prosecutor:
 The Defendant left the house of Filège de Kazharát, who is much beloved.
 Not only by the Defendant, but by the entire impure movement around her. 
She is the leader of the impure, and the Defendant is her chief accomplice. 
It is not their possible love affair that is at issue here, but their pernicious views.

For some reason, either the Scribent Aldo had omitted two sentences and slightly changed them; or, conversely, Norbarátt had added two sentences and also altered both sentences. Stederdonk pondered for some time which of the two versions was the accurate rendering of the Prosecutor’s words. Her first thought was that a Scribent would never tamper with a formal record of a trial. But what motive could Norbarátt have had to add two sentences? Did he have a particular interest? The two extra lines not only cast Tharákaz in a bad light, but also Filège, his beloved. But was she really his beloved? Strangely enough, it was precisely his ally Aldo who claimed this.

What could Aldo’s interest have been? Protecting Tharákaz seemed to Zoe the most obvious reason. He took the risk of naming the love relationship with Filège, but was that really a problem? She had found no information about any vow of celibacy on Tharákaz’s part, and besides, that relationship was irrelevant to the Prosecutor. Probably everyone already knew about it. However, the two extra sentences from Norbarátt were dangerous to both Tharákaz and Filège. The phrase about ‘pernicious views’ in Norbarátt’s text directly referred to Filège and her movement. In Aldo’s version, it referred only to the private views of Tharákaz. But if Norbarátt’s text was the actual transcript of the trial, why did the Prior do nothing with it? Or did the Prior add or have added the omissions? Zoe checked the text before and after the relevant fragments in both manuscripts. There was nothing about Filège or her movement. Only formal points. The remark about Tharákaz leaving Filège’s house related solely to the moment he was summoned for trial. It was exclusively a typical formal description about dates, times, and locations. This was true for both texts. The only plausible reason Zoe could think of for ignoring the phrase about Filège was that the Prior intended to raise that issue only during the Council. Naturally, he knew about her movement, but the trial was not meant to accuse her, only to find legal arguments useful for the Council.

But this could also mean that Norbarátt’s text was the actual trial transcript. Aldo had altered his report, on the one hand to protect Tharákaz and Filège, and on the other to defuse the Prior’s position ahead of the Council. The latter probably failed because the Prior likely also had access to Norbarátt’s report. There were two versions in circulation for good reason. Zoe realized her conclusion could very well be correct, but also that, once again, she couldn’t prove it. It was enough to make her despondent. Her research had hit a dead end.

She wanted to close her laptop, but something held her back — a brief question that had lingered somewhere in the back of her mind and now pushed itself to the foreground: Does God laugh? Zoe frantically began leafing through the manuscript. Where was that again? It was a question from Tharákaz, but in which part of the trial? She had ignored it when she read it, since she was focusing on power structures and not their relativization. What a stupid mistake that had been!

After Tharákaz had asked the question, Klarena had answered: “God does not laugh. Have you ever seen a man laugh on his deathbed? And tell me, have you ever seen a woman laugh in childbirth?” To which Tharákaz responded as follows:

Didn’t the great poet Vergil write that the child must laugh at its parents? 
A child that does not laugh at its mother who carried it for nine months, 
No god invites it to his Dis, nor any goddess to her couch.

Zoe closed her laptop at last, pushed the manuscript aside, and rose from her desk.

She now understood what she had to do. Suddenly, all the puzzle pieces fell into place — they formed the answer to her research, to her struggles with her parents and with Casper, to her life. She also knew what she had to do.

She walked to the kitchen, piled all the dirty dishes on the counter, grabbed a basin, a dish brush, and soap, and got to work. For three hours she was busy — not only was the kitchen restored to perfect order, but she also mopped all the floors and gathered all her work materials, putting them away in a cabinet. She looked around satisfied and collapsed on the couch. Neither her mother, nor her father, nor her aunt or grandparents had shown up. She was truly alone.

Truth

The next morning, Zoe got up early and went to the kitchen to make coffee. She saw the calendar hanging on the fridge and decided to number the day one last time. Since October 4th, she had been numbering the days consecutively. It was now June 3, 2013, so she wrote ‘273’ in the box for this date. Exactly 273 days, or 39 weeks, or 9 months, she had been marking off. For months, she had forgotten the reason for it — but today, she hadn’t.

With a cup of coffee in her hand, she left the kitchen and shuffled toward her filing cabinet. She had a sudden idea and took out a scrapbook. She sat down on the couch and flipped through it.

There were photos from when she was still a child: pictures of her with her best friend Dide Nirven in the sandbox, with her mother in a stroller, sitting on her father’s lap, and eating ice cream with her aunt on the beach. The last pages were covered with newspaper clippings. The first was from October 5, 1992; it was a front page of a morning paper with a large photo of an apartment building showing a gaping hole. The building was in the Bijlmermeer. An Israeli cargo plane had crashed into the building early that evening. More than forty people died, including Zoe’s parents. The day of the disaster was her birthday, and her friend Dide was allowed to spend the night at her place. Dide also died in the disaster; only Zoe survived for miraculous reasons. She had been injured and had inhaled smoke but had fully recovered — at least physically. Zoe was seven years old when the disaster happened. Afterward, her aunt took her in and cared for her like a mother until she died of cancer in the spring of 2010. By then, Zoe had been studying for several years and had been living on her own. Early in her studies, the first signs of mental trouble appeared: she heard voices, saw people who weren’t there, had sleepless nights, but sometimes she could study obsessively for an entire night, producing thorough analyses and writing her findings and conclusions clearly.

She was prescribed medication and took it faithfully. For several years, things went well: she slept better, had fewer hallucinations, and could function well socially. On her 28th birthday, things went wrong. She had stopped taking her medication for several days, had a severe argument with Casper, with whom she had a living-apart-together relationship, and on October 4, 2013, she made her decision: she would isolate herself for nine months, living in complete solitude. She had her groceries delivered. Casper was strongly against this, but her inner mother insisted, and her father didn’t have the strength to oppose it. She would use the nine months to ‘rediscover herself’ and to write her master’s thesis. These two goals went hand in hand, she told herself. It would also be good for Casper, and thus for their relationship — if anything was left of it after nine months. Don’t cross the bridges before you come to them. 

She took her laptop and resolutely wrote the following email to her mentor: Dear Dr. Elise de Beegt, Hereby I inform you that I am stopping my master’s research immediately. This is not an impulsive decision; I have thought about it for nine months. I know what I am doing and why, and I do not wish to discuss it further. I want to thank you very much for your guidance. Kind regards, Zoe Stederdonk. She then closed her laptop.

Next, she grabbed her mobile phone and sent a short text to Casper: Do you want to come over for dinner at my place?

At exactly six o’clock, Casper rang the doorbell. Zoe saw his mouth drop open when she opened the door; she was wearing her most seductive dress, an ode to her divine body. She pulled him inside and planted him on the couch. She took the expensive-looking bottle of prosecco from his hand and set it on the table. “We’re going to drink this down nicely, and we’ll have a great meal, and an amazing conversation,” she said. “I’ve finally got everything figured out.”

It took Casper several minutes to gather his thoughts. “Good plan,” was all he could manage to say. Meanwhile, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He sat restlessly and hesitantly on the couch; Zoe had taken a seat opposite him in a chair, and for a while, they just looked at each other in silence.

“How’s your research going?” he finally asked. “I mean, how are you? That’s obviously much more important.”

“I’ve stopped my research, and now I’m doing great,” she replied. “Let’s toast first, then I’ll explain everything.” She stood, grabbed two champagne glasses, uncorked the bottle, and carefully poured the glasses. “Cheers!” she said.

Casper responded to the toast, and together they sipped from their glasses for a while. “You look fantastic!” Casper said suddenly.

“You didn’t expect that, did you?” Zoe said. “You thought you’d find a disaster fund here, admit it!”

“Yeah, that’s true if I’m honest. But I actually meant to say that I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”

“Sexy, you mean,” Zoe said with a half-mocking smile. She saw red patches appear on his cheeks and neck.

“Yes, that too, but is there something wrong with that?” The fighter in him finally emerged. “I meant both. I meant your beauty, the clarity in your head that I sense. And yes, I also find you extraordinarily attractive.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself; I know what you mean. I’ve known you longer than today.” She gave him a genuine smile, stood up, stroked his wild hair, and walked to the kitchen. “I’ve prepared a platter of sashimi and sushi as an appetizer. Let’s sit at the table and eat; then I’ll tell you everything.”

Zoe first gave an account of her research — the problems she had encountered, her doubts, and the ongoing ‘visits’ from her parents and aunt. ‘And you too,’ she had added. When he asked if she was still taking her medication, she honestly replied that she hadn’t taken it for a long time. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I’m still not taking it, and I feel great.’ He didn’t comment; she thought he was holding back.

“Yesterday, the breakthrough finally came,” she continued. “Through a strange detail I had initially overlooked. Two details, actually. The first was a difference I saw between two versions of the trial report — one of the sources had two extra lines in a certain statement from the Prosecutor, lines with a loaded meaning. The other detail concerned humor.”

Casper followed her argument with great interest but was careful not to respond immediately. For now.

Zoe explained the situation with those two extra lines from Norbarátt Le Niève’s source and told what she knew about Filège de Kazharát; which was, in fact, very little, so all her hypotheses were very fragile. “It seemed there were two centers of power,” Zoe concluded her part about the ‘first detail,’ “That of the Prior, which was overt, and that of Filège, which was hidden. That’s also why I found no proof. Everything is based on my analyses and imagination. A male and a female power structure. At least, if my hypotheses hold up.”

“Let’s assume for now they do,” Casper suggested. “What conclusions can we draw from that, for example about your actual research subject, the relationship between power and gender? The Prior as male power, Filège as female power — isn’t that a bit too simple for this issue?” Casper was starting to talk again, his sharpness coming through, though still cautiously.

“Yes, that would be far too simple,” Zoe admitted, “it’s obviously all much more complicated, and besides, I still have to explain the ‘second detail’ to you.” She poured herself some more prosecco and continued: “Regardless of the terminology — male or female — I think we ultimately have to move beyond those terms, and we actually can. But if we keep using those terms for now, it’s clear that women can also wield a masculine form of power, and vice versa. But what is the essence?”

“If there is no fundamentally male or female element present in that power structure, then the distinction is meaningless. Leaving aside the fact that men more often hold positions of power than women — whether that’s because they’re men or because men help each other, I find hard to judge. The Old Boy Network certainly plays a role, but there are arguments against that too. Those men are also competitors — why would you help your future rival? The positions these men hold may be attractive to women, who can be exploited, with or without consent. But women also have a comparable position of power. You just have to look at me seductively once, and I’m immediately your slave. Consciously, and voluntarily.”

“Eroticism and desire undoubtedly play a role in the realm of power, though it must be noted that women are far more often used or even abused. But women have definitely developed their own weapons of power over time. Still, I think this aspect ultimately plays a subordinate role in this issue. Something else is going on, in my view much more fundamental. I arrived at this because of that ‘second detail’ I mentioned earlier. That of humor.”

Zoe stood up and carried the now empty bottle, glasses, and dishes to the kitchen. “First, a fresh supply,” she said. Shortly after, she returned with a bottle of sauvignon blanc, clean wine glasses, and again a platter of sushi. “Course number two.”

“Aha,” Casper grinned, “In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister… but don’t hear me complain, you know me…”

Zoe grinned back but quickly grew serious again. “I stumbled on a short question from the Defendant: ‘Does God laugh?’ The Prosecutor said no, because life and death are not things to make us laugh. But Tharákaz thought otherwise, referring to that famous passage from Vergil’s Bucolics about a child better laughing at its parents.”

“Okay… interesting thought. Gods don’t like humor, but what does that have to do with power? Sex and humor don’t work well together either, let’s be honest. And art and humor isn’t a comfortable combination either. Rulers have no sense of humor?”

“No, it’s much more layered. My conclusion from how power works, via that Cathar Prior, was that power strives for the absolute. Relativization is death in the pot. That was precisely the subject of that trial, and of the then upcoming Council: the ‘absolute’ view against the ‘relative.’ My thesis is that this whole idea comes from Filège, and that her beloved, Tharákaz, was in fact her spokesperson. The power we will for now call the masculine variant must be absolute in its principles, otherwise it is lost. The moment you relativize God, He dies. The Prior understood this very well. But so did Filège. With humor, or rather irony, she had a formidable weapon to resist masculine power. Irony, eironeia in Greek, means something like feigned ignorance; it’s also comparable to the sixteenth-century Italian concept sprezzatura, which you could translate as stylized nonchalance — both are deceptive.”

“So false,” interrupted Casper. “The truth is violated; that’s why the Prior opposed it so strongly.”

“That’s more like you,” Zoe retorted, but without a trace of spite. “It’s not about truth, it’s about power. An ironic remark isn’t necessarily false, and an absolute statement isn’t necessarily true. It’s about whether you allow doubt in your argumentation. Whether you, as power, allow yourself to be contradicted. All absolutist domains — whether religion, law and justice, and certainly a significant portion of science — apparently cannot afford to be contradicted; they reject doubt. That’s why we also have the arts, where this aspect is a fundamental element. This is why I stopped my doctoral research: there is no room for fundamental doubt or ‘ignorance.’ My theses and conclusions are untenable within that domain. I cannot exist there.”

“And that difference in perspective — or even in the exercise of power — is not so much male or female, but absolutist or relativizing. Whether doubt, or the — feigned — ignorance, may be an essential part of your praxis.” Casper looked thoughtfully at the piece of sushi he was holding between his chopsticks, then resolutely popped it into his mouth. “I can get behind that.” He grinned again.

“You’re quite witty,” Zoe stuck out her tongue. “But you get my point, right? And therefore also my decision.”

“There is a difference between understanding and endorsing, but the latter is not for me to decide. That choice is entirely yours.”

They sat for a while, silently enjoying their food and lost in thought, until Casper had something to say again: “Still, I’m not sure the concept of truth isn’t involved here. You just said that in that pretending and feigned indifference lies a form of deception. Irony means, one way or another, that you do some violence to the truth. It’s at least a game with the truth, that you won’t deny, right?”

“Truth is disinterested, and therefore utterly powerless. It is diametrically opposed to power. If I claim that 1 + 1 = 2, I do not desire that 2. I might desire the result 3, because it’s more than 2. But that would be part of a power game. The Prior and Filège were playing a power game, where truth for the Prior was an absolutist asserted or claimed truth, which is not the same as a proven truth; and for Filège a deceptive game with truth, which does not serve truth but only power. Truth in the power game is no more than an object.”

Casper shook his head thoughtfully. “I’m not convinced yet,” he said finally. “You just mentioned science as an example of an absolutist domain of power. But truth is surely the very subject of science? Without truth, or truth-seeking, it doesn’t exist.”

“That might apply to the science you practice,” Zoe replied. “Mathematics is probably the most objective of all sciences, although even that has speculative aspects. But what other science, except maybe physics, can claim that qualification?”

Casper wanted to respond, but Zoe anticipated him: “Take medical science, for example — it articulates a history of false assumptions, botched attempts, and clumsy techniques. It is, even today, basically no more than a sophisticated form of plumbing. Installing a new heart valve is a breeze, but no doctor could truly help me with my delusions. Yes, a little pill to dim the noise. Pain? Really, they have no idea what it is or how to handle it, except with those pills. But the choice then is between some pain relief, which works fine for a hangover, or complete knockout. I witnessed it with my aunt — she was in agony, and she could choose between morphine, but then she was knocked out, or cutting a nerve, then she was half paralyzed.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Casper gestured fervently with his right hand, the two chopsticks still in his grip drawing little circles in the air. “Medical science, like many other sciences, is really about developing technology. It’s slow, looking at history as a whole, but getting faster step by step. Truths then are relative truths: something works, that can be established, but not everything works, or the pace isn’t sufficient, or there are side effects. But all of that is charted, and you could call that ‘truth,’ if the documentation is in order.”

“And then you have sciences like economics, linguistics, psychology, law, and philosophy, not to mention. The same applies there.”

“What do you mean by ‘the same applies’? That their truth is mushy? Because that’s mostly the case, right?”

“I don’t think it’s mushy. Like I said, everything must be well documented, but then there is knowledge, and knowledge, to me, is a form of truth. I see truth as an organism; it’s alive and can therefore be subject to change. Truth need not be absolute. Some truths are, like your 1 + 1 = 2, but others are not, because they are more a path toward truth, a direction, or a trajectory.”

“That’s a nice romantic thought, but then it becomes a language game. Then you can call anything ‘truth.’ I don’t call ‘knowledge’ truth. Knowledge is power. Take Law and Justice as an example. The Law is fixed in text. But that text is dead. It only comes alive in Justice, when a judge, for example, makes a ruling. All legal texts — but the same applies to all facts, like historical facts — seem to be ‘truths,’ but they only come alive when interpreted. That is inevitably part of a power game, because there is always an interest served.”

“But isn’t there always an interest served with truth? What use is truth if it’s meaningless?”

“Truth in itself is not without interest; it can serve an interest and be of great significance. But it is disinterested, it is not tied to a desire. I do not desire truth. Truth is indicative, not imperative.”

Zoe stood up and cleared the table, leaving only the glasses. From the kitchen, she brought a new bottle of sauvignon blanc and two large portions of tiramisu. Casper opened the bottle and filled their glasses. They toasted.

“Alright then,” Casper began, “what I understand from you is that truth arises in an action. Not because someone desires it, but as a result of that action. But could that action not also be an act of power? Think of how Filège tries to resist the Prior’s power with her ‘ironic method,’ if I may be so irreverent to call it that — could this produce some form of truth? She does not desire that truth in itself, rather she desires her position of power. Yet this turns out to be an articulation of truth. Could you find yourself in this idea?”

Zoe took a large bite of her tiramisu and thought for a moment. “What I find interesting about that idea is that in that case it’s not about ‘the truth,’ but about ‘truth’ simpliciter. A resultant of an action or process.”

“Could this mutatis mutandis also apply to power, that it’s not about ‘the power,’ but about ‘power’ simpliciter? That would then also be a resultant of a process or an action. Maybe truth and power resemble each other much more than we initially assumed. Take your idea of absolute and relative power — doesn’t that also apply to truth? The statement 1 + 1 = 2 is an ‘absolute’ truth. But there are also ‘relative’ ones, such as temporary truths.”

“I don’t think the two concepts are comparable in this way,” Zoe answered, “but I still need to think this through.”

“Okay,” said Casper, “let’s make a wider sweep then. What about the concept of ‘justice’? Is that a form of truth? I have in mind Filège’s ironic power play as an example — how do we judge whether this is a form of justice? Or is justice always part of a power game? If so, then it is not a form of truth.”

“That’s a good question, and I don’t have a good answer for it either. Give me some time to think further.” Casper made a gesture with his hand that he was fine with this, and for a while, both sat in silence eating, occasionally taking a sip. Suddenly Zoe stood up, walked to her bookshelf, and took a book down.

“Here: Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition,” Zoe said as she handed Casper the book. “She writes something very interesting about ‘goodness,’ which might be the wide-angle movement that will give us something useful.” Casper had been flipping through the book but quickly handed it back because she wanted to find the exact passage. A moment later, she read aloud:

When goodness appears openly, it is no longer goodness, though it may still be useful as organized charity or an act of solidarity. […] Goodness can exist only when it is not perceived as such, not even by its author. […] Only goodness must go into absolute hiding and flee all appearance if it is not to be destroyed.

“Let’s replace what Arendt writes about ‘goodness’ with ‘truth,’” Zoe suggested, “and see what that yields. The moment a certain truth is given that name and becomes visible under that name, it has become an object, and is therefore no longer true, since it is then linked to an interest. That truth then dissolves into its name. With power, it’s different — power wants to be visible; that is part of the principle of power. Power must be exercised, which indeed is an action, as you said, but ultimately, and this is better expressed, a product of an action — that is, an object.”

Casper saw that Zoe was still deep in thought and held back on responding. Zoe continued her argument a little later.

“As for your question about ‘justice,’ I would indeed not call that a form of truth. For two reasons. The first is that justice must be visible, and therefore cannot be truth. That’s a negative argument, so not sufficient. Hence the second argument is necessary as well: justice is always the result of an exercise of power, and thus linked to an interest. Immanuel Kant’s ‘categorical imperative,’ which can be considered a form of justice, is not called an ‘imperative’ for nothing: something must be done. I believe Kant considered this imperative universal, which you could call ‘absolute.’ But undoubtedly, there is also ‘relative’ justice, for example when someone has wronged you for personal reasons and had to answer for it. I doubt whether I would call any — specific — truth absolute. And nor does relative truth exist.”

Casper saw his chance and finally got the opportunity to respond. “You can hardly qualify your proposition 1 + 1 = 2 as non-absolute. That statement can never be improved or refuted, as was possible, for example, with certain natural laws that had to be adapted due to the theories of Einstein and Bohr. That is called ‘progress.’ Progress is always relative; an endpoint is absolute.”

“I see it somewhat differently,” Zoe replied. “It has to do with how I now think truth comes about. You cannot force anyone to see a certain truth. You cannot force someone to understand that the proposition 1 + 1 = 2 is true. You can force that person to say it out loud or something, but then it doesn’t become an essential part of their knowledge — it is not ‘made one’s own.’ Someone who, in some way, accepts that 1 + 1 = 2 is true has made that truth an ‘object.’ It is then assumed without question, but not understood in a ‘subjectwise’ manner. The opposite, which I call ‘objectwise’ thinking or acting, is meanwhile a very dominant factor in our current world. Capitalist practice thrives on it; objects are indispensable for the market and market thinking.”

“Hmm, that is a highly speculative proposition, but I admit it has seductive aspects. If I summarize correctly, you say that truth takes place in an action, between subject and subject, and cannot exist as an object. Power, on the other hand, can only exist as an object and does not take place between two subjects. Power does not take place in an action.”

Zoe nodded somewhat hesitantly. “Yes, something like that, but it’s more complicated. Of course, power does take place in an action; it happens between people, but in a fundamentally different way than with truth. The person wielding power turns the subjects they deal with into objects. There is always some form of dehumanization. Even if that power is ultimately used for good, or with good intentions. For example, if you get a speeding fine, the law treats you, by definition, as an object. That’s how bureaucracy works. Where a subject is dehumanized, truth cannot take place. It’s comparable to a concert. The music takes place in the action; it is intangible and eventually dissolves in time and space, the only thing that remains is our memory. It is impossible to make an object out of played music. Yes, of course, you can make a recording of it and put that on the market, but that is not the music you experienced as a listener in the hall. It is no more than a black-and-white snapshot of it. True music is an Apostate Cathar.”

Zoe had suggested that Casper stay over at her place. His neck flushed red again, his hands started to tremble, and he could only utter something sounding like an assent — he was clearly taken aback. She stood right in front of him and suddenly let the only garment she was wearing — a mint-green silk robe — slide off with an elegant sweep. Had she not grabbed his hand, he surely would have fallen off his chair.

She pulled him upright and said softly: “You can consider me an object, an object of your desire, then my body is an instrument of power. Then the lovemaking that I hope will follow is an articulation of power. It can also be an expression of truth, the choice is not mine, it’s ours both.”

“My goodness! You are so divinely beautiful,” he said hoarsely, “this is beyond beauty, it’s sublime. And that is impressive.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to man up,” she said playfully. She unbuttoned his shirt, tore it off his shoulders, unfastened his trousers, and pulled them down. “Good Lord,” she said huskily, “this is what you’d call ‘exalted’!”

The next morning, lying close together, she said: “In two days, I’m going to Ghana. I want to explore my male roots.” She saw his face darken. “But I also want to explore the truth further with you.”

“How long will you be gone?” He tried to control his disappointment. “Sorry, that was an impertinent question. Of course you have to figure things out. I don’t want to lose you again; my insecurity is clearly stronger than my ability to be patient.”

“Of course you may ask that question. I’m thinking again about a period of nine months. It is the only way for me to understand how we can be together; I first need to understand myself well. I’m not asking you to wait for me — that would be truly impertinent — but I do hope that when I come back, you will be there for me.”

— Bonnemort, May 31, 2023