Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Caroline Vermalle

  In his state, Spidey muttered about what had happened. Was he talking to Max, or to the gods, or to himself? Or to the whole world so that never, ever again, no girl has to die like that?

  Naya had discovered the tunnel and in her joy, she had forgotten to be careful. She had joined Spidey and they loved each other for the first time, despite that little tattoo on his wrist that had to separate them forever.

  She was Muslim, he was Coptic.

  Spidey had learned his lesson, learned when he saw death in the tunnel, he told her that he loved her and she was more beautiful and more important than any tunnel. They had made love in a miserable place that looked like a palace under their caresses. After that sublime night, the first, but also the last, the father and cousins had arrived and separated them with all the violence they knew.

  “Naya had fought back. Like a warrior,” Spidey said. And then the blows on Spidey had continued and he had lost consciousness, just enough to wake up on the banks of the Nile, alongside his dead love.

  Max listened but his eyes were almost unknowingly looking at the three great pyramids of Egypt. Aqmool. He had never called him before, interrupted by Florence’s arrival. Could he have saved Naya if he had received the help Aqmool had promised? Max wanted to save the world, but it was always too late; as it had been for Nasser Moswen, and as it had now been for Naya.

  For Sixtine it had been too late from the beginning.

  Without thinking, he dialed the police officer’s number. He told Aqmool everything he knew about the pyramid, about the murder, about Naya, about the lotuses, about everything except Sixtine. He preferred to keep her for himself.

  He hurriedly gave Florence’s address, which had to be protected at all costs.

  Max took a taxi, ordered him to hurry. When he arrived at the big house, he called out but heard nothing. A bad feeling rose inside him when he finally saw Charles standing in the kitchen, pale, with a piece of paper in his hands.

  “What’s wrong, Charles?” Max asked as he slowly approached the old man.

  “A note from Florence,” Charles answered and handed it to him.

  It read, “Dad, if I’m not back by midnight tonight, don’t call the cops. Call Max, he’ll know where to find me. In the passage of Cheops which apparently does not exist.”

  28

  When Sixtine arrived at Plaza de Toros, the city’s gigantic bullfighting arena, her hopes went up in smoke. Thirty-five thousand cheerful and vocal spectators celebrated the matador and his bull. How was she going to find Thaddeus in this human mass?

  She bought a seat for the VIP box and scanned the crowd around her.

  In the arena, man and beast was engaged in an almost graceful dance. The event created an atmosphere of joyful kindness, where rich children ate popcorn and laughed with parents smoking cigars or sometimes throwing their hats in tribute to the matador’s talent.

  Thaddeus was nowhere to be found.

  Sixtine slipped through the aisles, down the stairs, over the bleachers, her eyes still riveted on the countless spectators. Gradually, she became convinced Thaddeus was not here. There was only one day left before he returned to the cliff house. A cold feeling formed in her chest, and despair rose in her throat. It was a lost cause.

  Suddenly, the cheers of the crowd and a certain shiver that spread through the arena forced her to watch the show. Much to her horror, she watched as the matador punctured the bull’s skin with a sharp spike.

  The sound of the arena became deafening. Blood seeped from the animal’s skin and the matador’s gestures had taken a sudden ferocity.

  Sixtine became a personal witness to an absurd death, that of the bull undoubtedly but also perhaps of man. Next to her, a young man seemed to grumble at the matador while his girlfriend kissed him; and they laughed together, the girl holding a rose on her lap. The crowd cheered again, and the animal collapsed as another spear entered its flesh.

  The magnificent beast was living its last moments and Sixtine felt this death like a slap in the face.

  The matador paraded in front of the crowd who threw hats and flowers at him.

  At that moment, the cries of the monkey resounded in the sky of Mexico City and Sixtine saw the green river flowing in the middle of the arena. A knife entered Seth’s chest and his naked body rolled down bloody stairs.

  When a taxi dropped her off in front of the red house, Sixtine was still in shock from her hallucination.

  It had gotten dark without her even noticing and in her street, the street lights lit the way. She felt an immense fatigue, as if everything that was happening was too late, with a feeling of déjà vu. As she entered the house, she ran into the housekeeper, holding a little boy by the hand who was missing two front teeth. The lady handed Sixtine a small green and pink sugar skull. In broken English intermixed with Spanish words, she said it was an offering “for the dead”.

  “We must invite the dead to eat with us, as it is the Night of the Innocents.”

  The lady smiled kindly and so did the little boy. Sixtine glanced around her as families rushed with baskets of food and candles. The Feast of the Dead. The little boy handed her a candle jar, which he lit for her.

  Sixtine thanked them both and hurried into the garden.

  There was a pleasant smell in the air, of flowers waiting for night to sow their perfumes. The moon was full, warmed by the light of the candles that seemed to scroll by themselves, like fireflies, through the streets.

  It was a beautiful night.

  A warm, golden night, a bright night. The Night of the Innocents.

  Sixtine sat on a stone bench, placing her gifts beside her, and glanced at the sugar skull, immediately thinking of her mother. She still felt that feathery caress that made her want to let go. Her mother was always there, beside her, with her smile and grace. Sometimes she was even in her dreams, not quite a ghost but not quite a part of her either.

  Seth was dead too, and yet she had never really felt his presence. The visions of the Green River in recent days were just that – visions, a bad film being replayed in her mind. Even the few memories that had come back seemed to be two-dimensional.

  Seth didn’t live anywhere beyond the invisible.

  A hummingbird approached the pink hibiscus in front of her and she admired its delicacy and beauty. It was fast too, and it seemed to be in two places at the same time.

  Sixtine suddenly remembered the anecdote that De Bok had told her. The Aztec god of music and poetry had taken the form of a hummingbird and descended into the kingdom of the dead. He had fallen in love with a goddess, and had sex with her. This was how it gave birth to the first flower of the world. Since then, people here have considered hummingbirds as messengers between the two worlds.

  When she grew tired of her own company and decided to go home, Sixtine saw something at the other end of the garden. In the pale shadow of the moon, a red halo. She stood slowly and blinked a few times, making sure that she was not imagining the person who stood a few feet away from her, his back to her.

  “Seth?”

  Tears spilled onto her cheeks without her control and she said in a hoarse voice, “Seth, is that you?”

  Sixtine stared at the vision of her dead husband, no longer fully recognizing it, and even more terrified to see it again as much as to lose it.

  She grabbed the sugar skull and held it out to this undecided specter.

  Everything was only a shadow now; Sixtine could no longer distinguish anything. It had been a mirage, and yet, she knew there was a presence here in this garden.

  She cleared her throat and whispered, “Since you left, I keep wondering why they chose you to be the one who died.”

  She had trouble swallowing, and tears blurred her vision even more. The words banged on the door of her mind but couldn’t get out. She couldn’t articulate what she was carrying inside her since the memory of Thaddeus’s kiss. She closed her eyes, gathered her courage. These thoughts had to be exorcised.

  “The pyr
amid, Seth, was it my fault? If you’re dead, it’s my fault,” she said, the words broken in her throat.

  Tears flowed more beautifully, drowning the whole night.

  Suddenly, Sixtine turned her head towards the bushes beyond the palm trees, as a cracking sound, louder than what a night animal would have made, appeared. Then another one.

  There was someone there.

  The hairs on her skin stood up, a stream of fresh air passed through her neck. When she looked up at the moon, Seth and his red veil had disappeared. Everything was quiet. It was then that she smelled the familiar smell that she could have recognized among all the others.

  Oxan Aslanian.

  She glanced around her and called out, her voice broken with tears, “Who are you, crawling in the dark, huh? Is it the light that scares you? Or the specter? I stopped talking to the living, do you also want me to stop talking to the dead too? Huh? Answer me! Answer me!”

  For any answer, the sound of laughter and joy, in the distance, perhaps in a cemetery. She realized that her whole body was shaking.

  “One night. I have one more night. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? I have one more night,” she shouted and all the hummingbirds left the shadows.

  At that moment, the door of her house flew open and the electric light flooded the garden. Sixtine stood there, trembling, staring at the outside lamps. Then she saw the cleaning lady trotting to her. She explained, embarrassed, that she had forgotten a bag and had to come back.

  “Sorry to bother you, señorita, but there was this note on the doorway. For you.” She handed Sixtine the piece of paper.

  Before even touching it, Sixtine recognized the writing. He had signed, it was superfluous.

  ’Tonight, at the Museo Templo Mayor, 11:30 p.m.

  Thaddeus.

  29

  When Max arrived at Naya’s house, three uniformed police officers were already there.

  In front of some mute neighbors, Naya’s handcuffed father screamed in anger, deeply affected by the death of his daughter. Her mother, resigned as a disjointed doll, was docile.

  The taste of the Nile and her death still fresh in his mouth, Max breathed deeply and gathered the courage that abandoned him. Florence. They had to save Florence.

  Max saw Aqmool, who waved to him to follow him into the cellar. He had found a brand new large trunk of good quality antiquities.

  The father had confessed everything he knew. Yohannes De Bok had taken delivery of this trunk from the new truck and had entered the tunnel. There was a large hidden trapdoor, the main access to the tunnel, while the bread oven was simply an emergency exit. The rest, he didn’t know. It was the grandfather who had always been in charge of the tunnel, he had always forbidden his son to ask questions, which over the years had poisoned their relationship. But the grandfather had suddenly disappeared when Naya died.

  “I’ll have the trunk sent to the morgue for DNA testing. They have the Pryce DNA data, they can compare.”

  “I have nothing more to do with this story,” Max said and held his hands up in surrender. “I just want to find Florence and then I swear to you that I will never set foot in your pyramids again.”

  “I don’t think your lady came here, no one saw her.”

  “Experience tells me that, in Florence Mornay’s case, it means nothing. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look.”

  Equipped with a backpack containing a pickaxe, lamp, water and GPS, Aqmool and Max entered the tunnel through the large trapdoor hidden in the ground. When the darkness welcomed them, Max could not help but think of Sixtine.

  He had tried to forget her, and had almost succeeded, but suddenly, she seemed to be there with him in that tunnel.

  Max ignored the specter of Sixtine just as he ignored the dull aches that sporadically surfaced in his leg since the discovery of Naya’s lifeless body. He also ignored the dust that was being breathed into his anxious chest.

  As they progressed, Max called out Florence’s name, but there was no answer. They walked through the strange antechamber of dust-covered kitsch furniture and it looked like one of Falmouth Manor’s rooms that had been abandoned for centuries. Aqmool walked in front, gun in hand, ready to fire. Attached to his belt, his walkie-talkie, connected to the police officers upstairs. Max and Aqmool climbed stairs, and walked along a seemingly endless corridor.

  “Florence! Florence!”

  Suddenly, they heard a voice. It was Florence’s, but who was she talking to?

  They stopped suddenly and Aqmool lowered his flashlight, silently signaling to Max to hide behind him. They advanced at a wolf’s pace and Max could already see the Egyptian frescoes seen on Naya’s video. Florence’s voice was getting closer, but nothing in her tone indicated distress, rather an atypical solemnity. When finally, at the bend in one of the tunnel’s meanders, he discovered who she was talking to, and frankly, he was speechless.

  “ … sublime frescoes. How long has it been since man’s hand has touched these thousand-year-old masterpieces? A discovery that will undoubtedly write a new chapter in the history of the world. Florence Mornay, for the BBC.”

  She froze suddenly when she turned and saw Aqmool’s disfigured face.

  “Florence, what the hell?” Max felt an overwhelming anger and grabbed her by the arm.

  Before he could speak, Florence cried out, “Get the hell away from me, you liar!”

  Without saying another word, he practically dragged Florence through the tunnel, still clinging to her camera tripod.

  “You lied to me! Why did you lie to me,” she yelled at him, struggling against his tight grip. “You’re not saying anything? You wanted the glory all to yourself, didn’t you?”

  Max whirled around and glared at her, still holding onto her arm. “Glory? You want to talk to me about glory, while I talk to you about your life, Florence! Naya was murdered, she was found floating on the Nile and you’re thinking about your videos and glory?”

  “Naya, the local girl?” Florence asked in a small voice.

  “Naya, yes. I broke a promise to pick you up here, so you are going to follow me and – ”

  “That’s the promise to Jessica Pryce, right?”

  When he looked at her, he felt an intense frustration. And the conviction that he should be harmed for his own good. Not because he was cruel, but because he cared about her.

  “You think it’s a game, don’t you, Flo,” Max sighed. “We go through old notebooks, think we’re great reporters, explore pyramids like a bunch of heroes. But it’s a not a game, and you’re the only one who doesn’t understand it. I do, because I almost died here once before, it comes back quickly, in those moments. Aqmool was the cop in the police station fire, remember? And Jessica Pryce, believe me, she understood it too. You’re the only one who always makes movies for yourself. It’s time you forgot your camera and realize you’re putting others’ lives in danger. And yours. So follow me and shut up.”

  He paused for a moment and added, “Or rather, follow Aqmool. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Despite his painful leg, he started running back, deeper into the pyramid.

  Progressive collapse.

  It would only take a minute, but he had to know.

  Max started climbing the high steps, one by one. Seventy-three. Beyond the seventy-third, there should be a corridor. When he reached the top, he stopped abruptly.

  There was no more corridor.

  In front of him was a wall from which a thin stream of sand flowed. He observed everything very quickly. Yes, he was right.

  As Max rushed down the stairs, he felt a flutter in his stomach. When he reached Florence and Aqmool, he said breathlessly, “Someone has activated the mechanisms and closed all the chambers.”

  But Florence and Aqmool were barely listening. They silently stared at a split in the granite slab, most of it was still attached to the wall. Pieces were scattered on the ground and among the granite debris, large letters were engraved into the granite.


  SICA DESR.

  Aqmool pointed the beam of the flashlight at the ground and stirred the dust with his foot. Soon Max was able to see another piece of engraved granite. As Max glanced at the name formed in the granite – JESSICA DESR – he hunched down beside Aqmool and gathered all the debris, turning them over. There were many names – about twenty, like on war memorials.

  When Max finally realized what they were for, the horror of his realization filled the tunnel and he heard a thousand voices drum in his ears.

  There had been others.

  These were the names of the victims. They were carved in this corridor which led to their graves.

  “Max,” Florence said and pointed upwards. “Look, there, at the very top. Nathaniel Emmitt-Foster. I recognize that name. It’s in the Vivant archives, I’m sure it’s there, Max. Max? Max, are you listening to me?”

  Max’s attention was already elsewhere. Jessica Desroches was not the last name. Underneath it was a few more names, carved in the granite.

  Seth Pryce – Jessica Desroches 2013

  Alfred-Jean de Stehl — Livia Minore 201..

  Max frowned as he realized that there was a number missing and whispered to himself, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “There’s a number missing.”

  As Florence took out her smartphone to take pictures of the entries, Aqmool searched in vain, in the dust, for the last missing digit.

  Max saw Florence’s facial expression, she had just realized it as well. There had been two other victims since the discovery of Sixtine in Room X. Alfred-Jean de Stehl and Livia Minore. They were probably behind the heavy walls and the thin sand veil.

  It was for them that they had closed the rooms.

  A gust of cool air blew through the tunnel, causing Max to shiver slightly. Max’s eyes were drawn to Florence’s pink hair, moving slightly, as if a draft had disturbed them. Max took Florence’s hand, but it was already too late.

  In Aqmool’s walkie-talkie, voices burst out, cries of several men. Then gunshots crackled through the receiver, and almost at the same time muffled noises passed through the tunnel. Of all the words that resonated, he remembered only one.