Seed- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  I looked pointedly at his gorgeously tailored Gieves & Hawkes’ suit from Savile Row and blushed. I felt like a gawky schoolgirl next to him as in the 1950s musical Gigi. But the look in St. John’s eyes suggested otherwise.

  ‘We’ll find a discrete corner. Just watch.’

  St. John approached the Concierge and whispered something low for their ears only. I don’t know how he did it but, within minutes, we were seated at a corner table perusing menus with such exotic delicacies as “Fine Shellfish Just Opened with Steam with Sea Urchin Coral” and “Breast of Pigeon Rubbed with Juniper Berries”. I flicked to the Desserts section of the menu to see what temptations awaited me and almost swooned. Suddenly, I was ravenous.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion,’ St. John said, ‘how would you feel about sharing the Free Range Chicken from Bresse with Black Truffle? It’s for two to share, you see.’

  I looked to the page where he was focused. The chicken from Bresse came in four services – Stuffed neck; Liver mousse and sabayon with crunchy bacon; Poached breasts, artichokes with parmesan cheese shavings; and Soft leg stuffing in a broth with fresh chestnut shavings.

  I agreed, even though I was slightly dubious about the stuffed neck.

  When I looked at the prices on the menu, though, I almost choked. This one Main cost per person 180€. Rapidly calculating in my head what that would be in Australian dollars brought me to the conclusion that I couldn’t afford to pay for more than a chicken wing. I’d only budgeted for what I would have spent on Schoolies in Byron Bay which, most probably, would have been takeaway. Though my parents were paying for the hotel room, I still didn’t have enough to cover the cost of tonight’s dinner and the next few days spent in Paris.

  The hell with it! I thought. I’d call Mum and ask her to transfer some emergency money into my account and pay her back when I got some part-time work before university began in the summer.

  ‘Damn!’ I exclaimed beneath my breath, as our menus were whisked away and the waiter brought chilled water in a silver ewer and warm bread rolls accompanied by artfully curled butter on fine China to the table.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ St. John’s concerned gaze met mine.

  ‘I promised Mum I’d call her as soon as we arrived, but I forgot.’ I explained. ‘And I left my mobile in the room.’

  ‘I’ve already called your dad,’ he informed me, which had me wondering how much more perfect this guy could get. ‘But here,’ he proffered his iPhone across the table, ‘use mine.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully, reaching across to take the phone from his hand and felt a jolt of electricity, pure chemistry, when our fingers accidentally touched.

  Somehow he always managed to upset my equilibrium. Being around him, I felt ready to spontaneously combust. Why did he have this effect on me? I wondered for the umpteenth time.

  I excused myself from the table to walk into the foyer to place the call, not wishing to disturb the other diners and also wanting a little privacy to ask Mum for the monetary loan. I could hear the relief in her voice when I was connected and realised that Dad had failed to inform her I’d arrived safely.

  After assuring her I was safe and well and informing her that we were dining at Le Meurice, I asked her for the loan explaining my dilemma and she quickly agreed to electronic transfer the money into my account, which I would receive almost immediately. I ended the call telling her that I loved her and would call again tomorrow and asked her to pass on my love to everyone at home.

  Slipping the phone into my jeans pocket, I walked back into the restaurant. The subdued ambience of Louis XVI period furniture in muted tones of champagne and cream under the sparkling crystal chandeliers enfolded me.

  And I needed its calming effect as I saw that several of the women diners were devouring St. John with their eyes. At times like these, I could see why our age difference mattered, as I was made to feel gauche and naïve in comparison to these more sophisticated, femme fatales in their glamorous gowns and sparkling jewels. Jealousy raged in me afresh and now I knew how Othello felt about Desdemona’s supposed infidelity. Poor girl, she hadn’t stood a chance – “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.”

  I sighed. Would it always be this way?

  There were brief moments, like now, that I wished I was a little more knowledgeable and certainly more at ease with the idea of sex, like my sister, Fi. While I dreamed of meeting a Mr Darcy or Aragorn, Fi had flitted from boy to boy, never committing herself to any one of them, enjoying their company briefly, before she inevitably broke it off. Her kisses were easily given, her heart remained intact and immune to love.

  But I couldn’t do that – couldn’t be like her – perhaps because I was too much out of this world, living with books and tales that called for romance and chivalry, and perhaps just a tiny hint of danger. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that there was such a thing as “happily ever after” without the hassles and arguments, but the closest example I had to a marriage that was almost perfect and really worked well was my parents’. And I guessed that’s what I wanted for myself.

  The appetizer was already on the table when I arrived back and I slipped into my seat as the Sommelier poured St. John’s accompanying glass of Domaine J. Prieur Montrachet Grand Cru 2004, moving through the graceful rituals of allowing St. John time to appreciate and taste the wine. This time I did blanch, as this one bottle of white wine cost more than our entire meal.

  When the Sommelier left, I could no longer contain my curiosity.

  ‘I’ve got to ask,’ I began, shaking my head in disbelief, ‘how can you afford it?’

  ‘Afford what? The meal?’

  ‘The meal, your suit, your car, the first class tickets, all of it! I mean, no offense, but not everybody can afford your lifestyle. Do you come from a wealthy family? Have shares in Microsoft or Apple? Robbed a bank? What?’

  He laughed, taking a sip of white wine from his glass, ‘You’re not all together wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His jade eyes held amusement. ‘Like you, I come from a privileged background, but I took the inheritance my great great-grandfather made and turned it into something. I own substantial real estate – not only here in France but also in London, New York and Tuscany. I even have an apartment in Lavender Bay in Sydney, overlooking Sydney Harbour.’

  My eyes must have been as wide as saucers because I couldn’t quite take it all in. He was less than ten years my senior and had already done so much.

  He must have realised that I’d gone quiet as he frowned and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  I paused before answering. ‘Have you read Jane Eyre?’

  At this, he laughed in earnest; the deep rich sound of it attracting the attention of the diners next to our table. ‘Are you referring to my namesake now? Yes, I have read Jane Eyre. I even have a starring role in Bronte’s novel but die at the end supposedly achieving Paradise for my martyrdom.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot!’ I smiled back at him. ‘No, I meant to say that I was thinking of something Mr Rochester says to Jane – “I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty years’ difference in age and a century’s advance in experience.” – I know you aren’t twenty years my superior but you’re certainly a century’s advance in experience.’

  ‘Probably more,’ he said quietly, focusing on the wine glass cupped in his palm.

  I nodded. ‘Probably more.’

  His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘It should, I suppose,’ I told him, fascinated as the glass in his hand caught and held the light. Not looking into his eyes but looking at the wineglass, I was able to continue, ‘But I’ve decided it doesn’t matter.’

  His eyes shot up to seek mine, flaring emerald green, golden flecks more prominent than a moment ago. I’d managed once more to break through his mask of composure that he wore as a mantle somehow distancing himself from those
around him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I repeated, filling this void with my own conviction, ‘because it’s not like I’m going to be seventeen all my life. In a few months I’ll turn eighteen. I’ll be considered an adult; able to vote, able to drink legally. Honestly, I’m already old enough to have sex,’ at this I blushed bright red, avoiding his gaze briefly, ‘and there are girls my age who already have kids of their own. And the age difference between us will not always feel this insurmountable. I know I have a lot of experience to gain and a lot of experiences to live ... but...’

  I paused, wondering if I was going too far, confessing too much. I couldn’t read his face, save for the colour of his eyes which was all the encouragement I needed.

  He frowned. ‘But?’

  ‘But,’ I said softly, wanting to take him at his word that we were past all evasion, ‘This might sound crazy, but I want those experiences – all of them, good and bad – to be with you.’

  The silence stretched on after I confessed this. It was absolutely deafening and I began to wonder if I’d misread the signs. Thinking back on my words, I almost cringed. I sounded as young and naïve as Jane Eyre when she’d confessed to Mr Rochester that she loved him and that they stood before God as equals. How stupid could I have been? A man of St. John’s age and sophistication would hardly be impressed by what must seem like a schoolgirl crush! Idiot!

  His eyes were intense but tender when he finally said, slowly, carefully, ‘No, you’re right. It won’t always be insurmountable. And, as I have committed myself to being your protector, I plan to be around you for a very long time to come.’

  It was not the declaration I had hoped for but it was, at least, a start. I consoled myself that he hadn’t rejected the commitment in my words outright. But I was going to have to do something about him feeling like some sort of guardian angel watching over me in case I fell headlong into danger because I wanted more than for him to be simply my protector. So much more.

  The meal passed in a more subdued atmosphere. We talked about our interests – music, travel, history – but didn’t touch again on anything serious. It was light-hearted and comfortable but still, at the back of my mind, was a desire to push him out of his comfort zone to know what he truly felt, truly thought. He was far too enigmatic for my liking.

  When the bill came, he paid for it without even glancing at the figures. And then he was assisting me to my feet and escorting me to the elevator.

  The elevator doors pinged open and I hesitated, trying to prolong the moment.

  ‘Sage?’ he asked in a serious tone as I was stepping into the lift.

  I turned back to him eagerly. ‘Yes?’

  He paused as if changing his mind, and said, ‘I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll go out for brunch.’

  Disappointed, knowing this wasn’t what he intended to say, I nodded in agreement as another couple excused themselves and pushed forward to board the lift. Before I had an opportunity to say goodbye, he was already turning away and the doors closed in front of my sight of his retreating back.

  I’d swiped my keycard to ascend to my floor when I felt a vibration in my pocket. Reaching down, I realised that I’d accidentally pocketed St. John’s iPhone which he’d lent to me to make my call earlier.

  I immediately reacted. Stabbing at the button that symbolised the doors opening, I knew that I could catch him if I hurried.

  The elevator doors began to part again with another little ping and I squeezed through the gap without bothering to wait for them to open fully. Darting to the street, I furtively looked left to right and saw St. John already a distance away crossing the road.

  ‘ST. JOHN!’ I cried out. But my voice was lost beneath the roar of the traffic on the Rue de Rivoli or maybe it was just that my cry was carried away on the wind. Whatever the case, he didn’t turn around but continued walking.

  I sprinted after him, hoping to catch up somehow, but he was setting a terrific pace. He continued down Rue de Rivoli, eventually passing the Jardin de Tuileries and the Louvre. I finally realised where he was going as he headed towards the Pont Neuf. He was going home to his residence on the Île de la Cité.

  At this point, curiosity got the better of me and my mission to catch up to him turned into something else altogether. I was inquisitive and wanted to see where St. John Rivers lived.

  Following behind him, I briefly wondered if I’d gone insane. I was tailing a man in the middle of the night like some stalker. I didn’t even recognise myself any more. Maybe Fi was beginning to rub off on me – I’d never been this adventurous or daring before.

  Surprisingly, as the grandiose Notre-Dame de Paris towered before us, St. John slowed as he walked its esplanade. The haunting beauty of the cathedral was illuminated at night, its west façade a marvel of Gothic architecture in warm honey coloured stone. It stood in sombre grandeur, in imposing geometric harmony, cloaked in the mystery of night.

  Instead of veering to the right or left of the cathedral, St. John ducked under the Portal of Last Judgement and disappeared into the building’s vast interior and from my view.

  What was he doing? I thought. Was he going in to pray? At this time of night?

  My imagination captured, I just had to follow.

  I moved closer, heels tapping against the pavement, slowing only when I was in arm’s length of the Portal he’d just entered. I passed under the lintel where the dead were being resuscitated from their tombs and, above that, on the upper lintel, the Archangel Michael was weighing their souls.

  I shivered as if somebody had walked over my grave. Looking up at the Portal’s carvings I felt a strange foreboding. It was as if the figures flickering in the shadow of night were indeed walking – the chosen people were being led to the left towards heaven and the condemned to the right, being led to hell, by a devil.

  I pushed against the solid door and, surprisingly, at my touch it gave way, swinging open on silent hinges, allowing me to pass within.

  The chill of the cathedral was the first thing I noticed. The second was that all was draped in darkness except in the distance, beyond the nave near the high altar, the flickering of candlelight could be seen.

  On tiptoe I slipped into the nave, following the flying buttresses till I was in clear view of the high altar and St. John. I crouched behind a pew end, peeping over at him as he knelt before the exposed monstrance, the candlelight illuminating his golden hair wreathing it in a halo.

  As I watched carefully, barely daring to breathe, the shadows lengthened, flattening against the stone. St. John’s silhouette rose between us and from his shoulders unfurled the shadow of enormous wings, spreading, expanding till it reached the vaulted ceiling. Light radiated from him, around him, between us.

  Strangely, in that moment, I didn’t feel afraid or shocked or surprised but, instead, an overwhelming sense of peace and calm seemed to creep over me. Time stood still. Or rather, I was out of time, for there was no other way to put it. An indescribable feeling surged within me – a love so profound that I heard the universe speak, and what it spoke was a blessing. Something older than humanity stirred, more ancient than the earth. Something that exerted a force so powerful, it was as if two souls were meeting. It required no explanation. No need for words. It existed and did not exist. It was and was not. The universe stood still and the universe continued on its path, travelling through endless time.

  And then it was as before. Just a man kneeling in front of the altar.

  I gasped but all sound was smothered by the arrival of another.

  ‘Elijah, mon fils,’ a voice came out of the darkness and an older man, wizened and white-haired shuffled across the high altar to where St. John stood.

  ‘Father,’ St. John said in a clear musical voice and strode across to grip the priest by the shoulders and pull him into a bear hug.

  They began walking down the nave towards the entrance and I feared that I was to be locked in, worse still, that I was going to be caught spying, so I sn
uck back along the way I’d come and as they faced one another, away from the Portal, voices low in discussion, I opened the door a crack and slid out into the dark of night.

  He had wings! St. John had wings!

  I didn’t know what to believe. I wasn’t sure what I had experienced. All my life I had wanted to believe in the existence of the unknown and invisible, but my rational side kicked in. I didn’t know what to think and was at war within myself.

  I walked a slight distance away, leaning against the side of the Portal of St. Anne, cold stone digging into my shoulder, but barely had time to catch my breath when the priest and St. John appeared barely a stone’s throw from me.

  ‘Come Elijah,’ the priest said, ‘we must visit the Crypt.’

  Again, against my better judgement, I found myself trailing after them.

  The archaeological Crypt was located under the parvis and accessed by an almost completely overlooked modern staircase opposite the cathedral, near the Police Headquarters, leading down into the archaeological excavations beneath Notre-Dame’s esplanade. The plaza above was built to protect the ruins discovered during the excavations that began in 1965, conducted by the Commission du Vieux Paris; the Archaeology and Architecture History Department.

  The Crypt was opened in 1980 with the aim of presenting elements from the successive buildings constructed on the site from ancient times – including bits of the original Celtic Parisii settlement and the ancient Roman city that took its place – through to the 19th century, so I wondered for what possible reason could St. John and this priest be visiting the Crypt in the dead of night.

  I descended into its inky blackness, seemingly devoid of time, to the island’s original level. Throughout the centuries, builders erected new structures over the ancient ruins of previous settlements, raising the Île de la Cité by about seven metres.

  As I moved into this underworld, following the low murmur of masculine voices, I remembered that I was moving through history – through Gallo-Roman ramparts and third century rooms heated by a hypocaust, its underground furnace system, and the cellars of medieval houses. It was like walking into an atmospheric time capsule.