“Florence?”
The voice sounded like a stream: smooth and clear, but betraying brittle depths.
Her mother.
She was short and petite, like Florence, but unlike her daughter, she was very thin, almost fragile. Her brown hair, scattered with a few gray patches, was combed into a long braid. The skin on her face did not show that she was almost fifty years old, and she wore a long, ample dark green dress that gave her a monastic look. Her eyes, very pale blue, shone with great curiosity. Her smile was just as placid, and her fingers, whose whiteness contrasted with her dress, twitched nervously.
Florence crossed the bridge, feeling her mother’s gaze on her. When Eloise came to meet her, she approached her daughter. Tears starred her eyes and her smile became more tender.
“It’s you, Florence, it’s really you. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, you know," she said.
“I don’t know where we are or what I’m doing here, but it’s me; at least I’m sure of that,” Florence said with a tight throat.
“I feel like it was yesterday that I left you with your father, so that you could find your way. I never gave up hope, you know. I always knew he’d bring you here.”
“It only took me thirty-two years.”
Her mother wrapped her arms around Florence and she allowed herself to be carried away, but her body refused to respond to this tender gesture. Then she suddenly recognized the smell in her hair.
Orange blossom.
Distant images overwhelmed her. The scent of the time of happiness, so far away that she thought she had forgotten it. But it was all there, on the surface.
Her mother guided her along a narrow path carved into the rock and grabbed a torch coiled in a niche.
“I’ll show you my secret garden. It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
Florence replied with a shy "yes" and had to concentrate on her steps along a black marble wall along the river, as the torch formed moving shadows.
“Your father told me all about you. You’ve become an admirable woman. I know I had nothing to do with it, but I can’t help but be proud.”
Florence felt the delicious warmth of pride in her chest, immediately replaced by the bitterness of the feeling of imposture. What had she really accomplished?
“Coincidences have served me well,” Florence said gently.
“There are no coincidences,” her mother said in a tone that did not allow for doubt. “They are just a reminder of our ignorance about the invisible links that unite all things. If you’re here now, it’s because you’re ready to find out.”
“The delusions of Vivant with Félicie and the orphans? Is that my legacy?”
Eloise turned around, her face shocked, her hand on her chest. “Let us thank God, the barbarians of Vivant Mornay’s time no longer exist today.”
“I saw the same cross on the skin of a girl who came out of a pyramid. She nearly died.”
Anger colored Eloise’s pale cheeks and darkened her eyes. “Those who appropriate our philosophy and do not respect the miracle that is life deserve to burn in hell.”
“I don’t believe it,” Florence said timidly, impressed by the rage in her mother’s voice.
They continued on their way. As it moved away from the central building with its square, the path became more and more steep and dark. It was like climbing a mountain inside a mountain.
“Eloise?” she asked.
“They call me Vatika here.”
Florence squinted. “Like the Etruscan goddess?”
“I’m impressed. What did you want to tell me?”
“I can leave here any time I want, can’t I?”
“Of course,” Vatika smiled. “If you want to leave, just tell me and I’ll guide you to the exit. But don’t try to find your way on your own. The cave has several hundred miles of tunnels, some of which are very dangerous. You could spend your whole life here and never find a way out.”
A shiver ran down Florence’s back. The dull anxiety lurking in her gut was telling her to leave right away. But it was easier to let herself be carried away by this invisible current, fueled as much by curiosity as by the powerful desire to please her mother.
“Dad didn’t explain – ” Florence began.
“What am I doing here? I am the guide.”
They had just entered a series of narrower and darker caves, so Florence was completely lost. Apart from the torch beam, everything was just an unfathomable black mass. She felt her lungs contract: the claustrophobia attack was coming. Just as fear was threatening to reach its peak, she saw a glow at the end of a tunnel. She rushed there, her heart pounding her chest.
Suddenly, she saw her mother was startled.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Vatika said after looking at the huge stalactite ceiling.
Florence also checked. Her mother was lying: she had felt something. Her pulse accelerated, and instinctively she pressed towards the light at the other end of the cave. What she saw then nailed her there on the spot, her eyes widening with disbelief.
Gold.
Gold everywhere.
How she managed to descend the steps carved in the rock, she would have been unable to remember it.
Her eyes were not large enough to see everything, and it was not for lack of having them opened wide. Under the cliff, on a kind of quay overlooking the Green River, were colossal Egyptian, Assyrian, Persian and Greek statues. Then in hundreds of niches dug out of the rock, over a height of about fifty feet, were hidden from the smallest treasures. More than a thousand unique and precious pieces offered their thousand-year-old beauty to whomever was looking.
A doctorate in classical archaeology from Oxford University allowed her to be certain that each of these pieces deserve to be included in the collections of the major international museums.
“The world’s largest private collection,” Vatika whispered, her face beaming with pride.
Florence rushed down the last steps and crossed a bamboo footbridge suspended above the swirling green river. Once on the platform, her heart took flight, swollen with dazzling glare. She walked among the giant statues, her hands caressing the marble of bronze and gold.
“Ah, the Parthenon marbles. So Lord Elgin didn’t leave them all to the British Museum? And he, this winged bull, a Lamassu, he comes from Khorsabad Palace, doesn’t he?”
She approached the wall against which a bamboo scaffold rested, to access the high niches.
“And this golden set, Lambayeque, Northern Peru. No! Further east, the Moche culture. It comes from the royal tombs of Sipan, yes, the lords of Sipan.”
She spoke again and again, as if the word could exorcise the questions that were jostling in her mind. She allowed herself to feel them under her fingers, to appropriate them as if they were her own. When she rejoined her mother on the bridge, she was out of breath with the vertigo of her discovery.
“I’ve never seen anything so extraordinary.”
“But what you haven’t seen is just as extraordinary,” Vatika said, with satisfaction lighting her face.
“Excuse me?”
Vatika turned her head and Florence followed her gaze. Opposite the statues, on the other side of the Green River, was a huge white shroud, about eighty feet high. It hung from the ceiling and swept the shiny, smooth floor of the cave.
It took Florence several seconds to discover that it was not a shroud. It was the light of the moon, whose opening let the rays through. A clearing.
“The exit of the cave.”
“One of the exits,” Vatika corrected.
Florence squinted. Beyond the white rays, she saw a gigantic bamboo staircase hanging on the wall.
“This leads onto a clearing in the jungle, only a few hundred feet from a path. And just two miles away, you have a village, and the national road to Dong Hoi. If you want to leave.”
A burst of astonishing intensity animated the pupils of Vatika.
Florence stared at the b
amboo staircase, thought of the soulless hotel, the walls without windows, the vision of the man with the knife.
“Do you?” Vatika asked.
Florence turned to her mother and said, “Not until you answer a few questions, my dear mother.”
26
Max and Bian followed the men through the cave. The group entered another part of the cave as gigantic as the one that housed the pagodas, and they settled at the foot of a giant stalagmite. Around the men, a circular geological formation in espalier looked like a small amphitheater, where the rock was covered with a bright green color.
“Seaweed,” Bian breathed.
The men sat in circles on the different levels, and a confused hubbub arose. Among them were those who had crossed the waterfall, and Alfred-Jean. Then a man, stocky, bald and wearing silver glasses, walked towards the center of the amphitheater, a small red wooden chest under his arm.
With a wave of his hand, he silenced the rustle of voices. He lifted the chest to the heavens and sang a monotonous Latin incantation. The other men imitated him. These hastily recited prayers aroused little religious enthusiasm.
After a minute or two, the man in the center put the chest back under his arm. Someone passed him a torch, then he headed towards the foot of the stalagmite.
On his side stood a bamboo staircase, which the bald man began to climb. Max took his binoculars and followed his ascent. He was very slow and, as soon as he got to the quarter-way mark, he was very out of breath. The torch made his skin shine, which became red with effort.
The young archaeologist tried to remember where he had seen these puffy features. In a publication on the ancient world? His name escaped him.
The bald man continued on his way to the top. Meanwhile, the men downstairs were talking to each other, while taking a look at the stalagmite. Their expressions showed only exasperation and impatience, and little recollection.
Then, after a long while, the bald, hanging man placed the small red chest in a natural indent in the wall of the stalagmite. Max then discovered dozens of red chests stuck along the stone column. He then remembered the Toraja, that Indonesian ethnic group from South Sulawesi, who buried their dead in tombs dug right into the cliff walls.
“I bet you it’s the hearts of the deceased, in the chests,” Max breathed.
“Gross,” Bian whispered with a disgusted cringe.
When the man finally reached the top, his legs were so shaky that he had to bend over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. He placed the torch on the apex, which lit up a large part of the cave.
That’s when Max recognized him.
It was Helmut von Wär.
As he began his descent, the men in the amphitheater grew quieter. But as soon as he touched the ground, as if they were responding to a tacit signal, the voices exploded into a furious cacophony.
Max and Bian took advantage of the noise to get closer to them. They hid behind a green rock next to where an exotic plant grew. Finally, they were close enough to distinguish the words and faces of this gloomy and angry congregation. One thing was certain: their exasperation was entirely directed at Helmut von Wär.
“You told us Aslanian was dead! And so did little Pryce!” shouted one of them.
“All the newspapers in Italy talk about Nefertiti. My reputation is ruined.”
“Why was Nefertiti not brought before the Council?”
“We haven’t had a vote since Elizabeth died. The High Light must be elected! You promised us she’d be here soon!”
Helmut von Wär sponged his sweaty forehead.
Then all of a sudden, he grew tired and exclaimed, “Quiet! Quiet! Our fellowship is experiencing the greatest crisis of its existence. Aslanian continues his crusade against us with the perfidy we know of him. Nefertiti’s imposture struck at the tenderest of our hearts. But my brothers, let us remember our strengths, and what we know. No one can come here to disturb our peace. The outside world can besiege us, we are protected by the cave, our stocks which have several months to live, and our chests which will allow us to settle some business. The world has a short memory these days. In a few weeks’ time, when we leave the cave, public opinion will spill its outrage on another scandal, and we will have moved the pawns to find our places.”
He took a breath and continued. “Let us not forget, our faith distinguishes us from the common man. Do not torture yourself with the passing scandals of this world, while the next one, infinitely richer, leaves us a place in the sun. Soon we will have a High Light, and we will prosper.”
Most of the men whispered an "Amen" and seemed relatively calm, but an old man whose face was covered with beige spots and rosacea, stepped forward, using a cane. The collar of his black dress floated around his thin neck.
“What if Aslanian comes to find us here?”
“What do you want him to do to one of us against all of us? He’s on his own on his crusade these days. He is powerless against our brotherhood.”
“Mmm,” grumbled the old man. “You know what I’ve suspected for several months. I found some writing.”
“I know what you’re afraid of,” von Wär interrupted. “I have read these writings. And precisely, they give solutions to neutralize creatures like him. I’m booking him a trip to eternity. Courtesy of the Neo-Assyrians.”
“You are very pretentious,” replied the old man. “Pretentious or lazy. It’s not Nefertiti who’s going to lose us, it’s your blindness. I prefer not to witness the fall of my brothers. I have planned my ascent for tonight.”
Whispers passed among the men, until voices were raised.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Is it too soon?”
He silenced them all by raising his arthritic hand. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. Instructions have been given. Humanitas will receive fourteen percent of my fortune, as I promised. And the collection of Viking artifacts. Pray that Humanitas will always exist on this earth to receive this gift.”
“You can’t leave tonight,” said von Wär, a bad grin twisting his face. “We don’t have time for the full ceremony. And Vatika can’t – ”
“I don’t need Vatika,” the old man spat. “I tolerate her during times of peace, but the war is coming. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Are you going alone?”
“No,” replied the old man, smiling slyly.
He sniffed, and put his sleeve over his nose. “The one who accompanies me has never been cluttered in any way either.”
27
“What do you know about the afterlife?” Vatika asked.
They had arrived in a small cave, one of whose walls formed stairs. As Vatika lit candles placed all around the cave, the light came back. Perhaps Florence was getting used to it, but her claustrophobia seemed to calm down as well.
“Heaven, hell, and all that?” Florence asked with a shrug, sitting on one of the steps that the wall formed. “I haven’t thought about it much. For me, once you’re dead, you cease to exist, so there’s no longer much to worry about. It’s quite scientific.”
“Yes, it’s quite scientific. Science is a very young religion.”
“It’s not a religion. It’s a fact.”
“Science is a very young religion,” Vatika repeated, ignoring Florence’s remark. “It was born barely a hundred and fifty years ago. Most religions are several thousand-year-old. If we talk about the essential idea that they all share, that is, the existence of life after death, it is even older. It dates back to the rock paintings of our ancestors forty thousand years ago. The science you cherish so much, through archaeology, informs us that even the Neanderthals adhered sufficiently to these beliefs to make sculptures in their caves as well. So we go back at least a hundred thousand years, the dawn of time. You can see how new scientific ideology of ‘nothing after death’ is. But the problem is not just science, it’s also language.”
“Language?”
“Yes, language separates life from death.”
“I think there is more than language that separates life from death,” Florence laughed.
“No, life and death are simply two sides of the same coin. The stage of the soul’s existence, where we have a body shell, a beating heart, and a brain that gives us the illusion of our ego, is called life. Death is both the moment when the bodily envelope and the ego cease to exist, but it is also time – if there is time – after life. It’s non-life. But what do you call time before life?”
Florence stammered an uncertain answer.
“We cannot call it death because the word has a negative connotation, whereas the time before our life is necessarily a source of optimism, if it led to our birth. Yet it is the same thing, it is the time of non-life. It is he who gives life its full meaning. Without death, without beginning and without end, our existence would be meaningless.”
Florence squinted.
“Life and non-life are a whole, which is the journey of our immortal souls. Once our body envelope is obsolete, we will move on to another world. The border that separates us from the next world is as thin and light as a veil.”
“Okay,” Florence said, “but what does that have to do with the cave down there?”
“The report is that all the art produced by men since the dawn of time relates to this other world.”
“Wrong,” Florence pointed out after a short reflection. “The Romans, for example, were not interested in life after death.”
“But they had a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses. All works of art, like their offerings, were intended to honor them.”
“To recover favors in this world, not the other.”
“It remains that this other spiritual world was very close to them, and that it is their greatest concern,” Vatika said, turning to Florence. “Finally, the reason we have these works of art here in this cave is to allow us to be in constant communion with the other world.”
“Why the cave?”
“Because it shelters the darkness. It extinguishes the outside world, in a way. The senses no longer exist. There is no time left either. We focus on the invisible, more on the visible.”
Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 61