Angel City

by Jon Steele

  Harper pulled a cigarette from his case and lit up. He looked up at the sky, saw a sea of stars floating between dark shores. The dark shores created by the shadowed forms of the Pyrenees. He turned slowly around. Somewhere out there, he thought, was a chunk of rock called Montségur. Radiance flooded into his blood, and the rhodopsin in his eyes became nine times more sensitive. His brain began to see the outline of jagged peaks. Then, above the narrow road and row houses, at 18° north by northeast, he saw it. Not a mountain looking like it’d been shaped over millions of years by fire and rain; more like it had been carved by a knowing hand. He saw the granite cliffs leading to the top of the pluton. There, against the north quadrant of the sky, he saw the fortress. At the far end of the fortress was the tower, standing like one more shadow in the night. His eyes drew a line from the tower to the sky. Directly above Montségur, Harper saw the constellation Draco.

  “Swell, now what?”

  He stepped to the fountain, saw a school of red-and-white-colored fish drifting in the water. Caraccius auratus, Harper thought, Sarasa comet goldfish. There was a sign on the stone wall above the fountain: S’IL VOUS PLAÎT, NE DÉRANGER PAS NEMO. Harper looked at the fish.

  “Mind if I take a drink?”

  Nemo, whichever one he was, didn’t object.

  Harper leaned over and drank from the spout. It was cold, and he drank deeply. He straightened up, wiped his mouth. Took another hit of radiance, watched the fish. He looked around. Place looked deserted. Thought about giving up on the hotel and just heading out for the fortress atop the pluton. Complications arose when he realized he didn’t even know the way, and it was bloody dark.

  “Like I was saying, now what?”

  He saw a small hand-painted sign on a fence post. It looked old, almost buried in the weeds. The kind of sign no one would see unless they were looking for it. Top of the sign was an arrow pointing that way down the dark lane. Beneath the arrow were the words:

  La Barraca. Chambre dans ma maison à louer. Pas de réservation nécessaire.

  “Guess that answers that.”

  Harper walked ahead, checked the buildings. They seemed to lean weirdly to the side. Pull one out, the whole bloody street would fall down. He scanned the windows . . . all the shutters drawn. There was a rise in the lane, and coming to a crest, a slash of light cut through the dark. It fell across a garden of wild grass and settled on the gate of a picket fence stretching across the road.

  Harper stopped, looked back over his shoulder; nobody.

  He looked ahead, took a long draw from his smoke, dropped it on the ground, and crushed it into dust. He walked ahead, saw the house beyond the gate. Simple place. Three floors, brown shutters, empty flower boxes in the windows. Coming closer he saw the open door of a shed next to the house. That’s where the light was coming from, then came a hammer-on-steel clanging sound. The clanging stopped, then there were bursts of blue light and sparks of fire and acrid smoke. Had to be a welder with an oxyacetylene torch, or a coven of witches at play maybe . . . Clang, clang, clang. Either way, someone was up late, Harper thought.

  He reached the gate, stood there, was only half surprised to see the sign on the gate: La Barraca. He waited for the clanging to stop. He sensed movement in the dark of the garden, then a bloody big dog—long white hair, huge paws, a head the size of a bowling ball—stepped from dark into light and stopped at the gate. It stared at Harper with black eyes. White slobber dribbled from its mouth. The clanging from inside the shed stopped.

  “Shiva, de qué te nhaca? Qu’es aquò?”

  Harper ran the words. Shiva: the destroyer, or transformer of the Hindu trinity of gods. The rest of it was Occitan, the indigenous language of the Pyrenees. The language of Bernard de Saint-Martin. The voice was asking, Shiva, what’s biting you? What is it?

  “And isn’t it funny how you know that one, boyo?”

  Just then, the light from the door was eclipsed by a human form. Harper saw the shadow of a large man in dirty blue overalls and a welder’s apron. He wore thick leather gloves on his hands, and his face was hidden behind a safety mask. The man raised the mask.

  “Bonvengut.”

  The radiance spiked in Harper’s blood, and though the man was no more than a shadow, Harper saw the man’s eyes were clean.

  “Bon vèspre,” Harper said.

  “Bon vèspre would be more appropriate for the late afternoon, not the middle of the night. But I appreciate the attempt to speak my language.”

  “What should I have said?”

  “Adieussiatz would do it. Works as hello or good-bye, any time of day.”

  “Adieussiatz. I’ll keep it in mind. How did you know I speak English?”

  “I guessed.”

  Harper gave it a few beats.

  “I saw your advert by the fountain. The one for a room.”

  “And?”

  “I could use a place to stay for the night, or I could use directions to the fortress.”

  The man in the shadow didn’t respond.

  “By the way, my name is—”

  “Don’t tell me your name,” the man said.

  Harper nodded. “If you say so.”

  “But I am Serge Gasca. Dintratz, come in.”

  Harper looked at the huge dog on the other side of the gate. It hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch.

  “What about the dog?”

  “Qu’ei tranquille.”

  Harper reached for the gate latch, stopped.

  “How did you know I was standing out here?”

  “The dog.”

  “The dog didn’t bark.”

  “He moved from his place in the garden, the place he sleeps. He only moves when there is something interesting to see. And in this place, a man appearing from nowhere in the middle of the night asking for a place to stay, or directions to the fortress, is most interesting. Dintratz.”

  “I didn’t appear from nowhere.”

  “No?”

  “No. I took a cab.”

  Harper pushed open the gate. It creaked. He stepped into the garden. The dog took one step forward; Harper stopped and held out his right hand. The dog sniffed at it, bumped it with his furry forehead, then turned and walked slowly toward the shed. Harper followed. The man in the doorway, the man who called himself Serge, came into focus. Dark hair, dark eyes, a face looking like it’d been cut from stone. He held up his soot-covered gloves.

  “Don’t think me rude if I don’t shake your hand. I am in the middle of something.”

  “No worries.”

  Serge went into the shed, and the dog lay on the grass to the side of the door with a distinct thump. Harper stepped through the doorway. There were traces of iron oxide fumes and smoke, and an exhaust fan fitted in a side window was doing its best to clear the air. A single lamp was fixed in the middle of the ceiling, and it dropped a dome of light over the man’s work space. There was a sculpture standing in the light. Bent and twisted iron rods in the outline of a human form. Head bowed, hands across its chest. Harper looked closer, saw something else: wings draped from its shoulders like mournful things.

  “It’s an angel,” Harper said.

  “Yes, an angel,” the man said, picking up the oxyacetylene torch and spark lighter. “You should look away. I must finish this joint or its wings will fall off. Do you smoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t.”

  The man lowered his safety mask, opened the gas valves, struck the spark lighter. A knifelike jet of blue fire shot from the nozzle. He adjusted the regulator till the flame was three inches long. The intensity of the flame hurt Harper’s eyes and he turned away, looked about the shed. As Serge worked the weld, there were bursts of blue light that lit up the shed. The corners were filled with scrap iron and junk, and along the back wall were more angels. Dozens of them standing in close order forma
tion like some silent army, all in the same mournful pose. Harper considered crunching the odds of his showing up, finding no room in the town but for a place where a guy seemed to be waiting up in the middle of the night, making iron angels in a shed . . . He gave up. Serge shut down the torch, closed the gas. He took off his mask and gloves, lay them on a worktable. He inspected the weld joint.

  “That should do it, my noble lord,” he said.

  Noble lord, Harper thought. That’s one I haven’t heard before. Then, running it through his mind again, he knew he had. Somewhere.

  “You’re an artist?” Harper said.

  The man shook his head.

  “No, I’m unemployed. I used to work in a textile factory up the road in Laroque-d’Olmes, till it closed fifteen years ago. This whole region used to be big in textiles, this village, too. We had a thousand residents once.”

  “It looked empty, the village.”

  “There are only one hundred of us left. It was ninety-nine, but we had a new arrival in 2009, a baby girl. The village was drunk for a week. But we have hikers and tourists in the summer. They come for a day or two, climb the trail to the fortress, then they leave. Now and again one of them buys one of my angels. Between this and that, my wife and I survive.”

  “‘That’ being renting a room in your house to people who show up in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes.”

  Harper nodded. “That’s good, then.”

  Serge looked at Harper.

  “You’ll be wanting to go to the fortress?”

  “Yes.”

  The man walked to the pile of scrap iron and junk, found a staff of knotted oak with a brass tip.

  “You’ll need this. Not so much to get up, but for coming down. Lots of bending and tricky steps.”

  He held it out to Harper. Harper stepped in the shed, took it.

  “Cheers. Happen to have a flashlight?”

  “You wish to go now?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s dark, that means it’s dangerous. One slip, you fall; you fall, you’re dead. It would be better if you waited for morning.”

  “I’d just rather go it alone, not run into anyone.”

  “This time of year the trail opens at ten. If you leave at dawn, you’ll be up and down before you are noticed, if that is what you want.”

  “That’s what I want. How do I get there, back toward the fountain and out of the village?”

  “You can’t go that way. The villagers will have their shutters open by then. There is a gate at the back of my garden. It cuts through the forest and leads to the field. You cross the field, and there is the trail. None of the villagers will notice you if you go that way. Shiva will show you.”

  Harper followed the man’s line of sight to the open doorway. The huge white dog was sitting there, watching them.

  “The dog?”

  “He knows the way, you don’t. You will become lost without him. He won’t climb the trail, but he’ll stay in the field and wait for you. When you descend the mountain, he’ll show you the way back, through the same gate. Come, I’ll take you to the house.”

  Serge took off his apron, lay it on the worktable, walked toward the door. Shiva sat up to greet him.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” Harper said.

  Serge stopped. “What is it?”

  “Why angels?”

  Serge looked at the angel sculpture standing in the light, then at Harper.

  “Because an angel passed this way once, stayed under this roof. At least that’s the story in my family.”

  Harper shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Is that so?”

  Serge stared at Harper a moment.

  “You do not believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  Serge cleared his throat.

  “My family was one of the first families to settle this place, before there was a village, back in the late eighth century. They were nomadic shepherds from near Sant Pau de Segúries in Spain. They came here and became farmers. This house used to be nothing but a stone hut then.”

  “Cathars?”

  “Yes, but my family renounced the faith before the Inquisition to escape being burned with the others.”

  “Right. Sorry for asking.”

  “It isn’t penance, making angels, if that is what you think.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything. I was curious, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  “Angels.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. Especially one who might’ve stayed under your family’s roof.”

  The man looked down at the dog, scratched the animal behind the ears.

  “The story goes that after the Crusaders murdered the Cathars, they ransacked the fortress and the huts built on the cliffs outside the north gate, searching for treasure. When they found nothing, they leveled the fortress. Then the rains came, then the cold, then the Crusaders went home. My ancestors went to the field to bury the bones of the Cathars, but there were no bones to be found. There was only a great pile of sodden ash. It was terrible work. The ash had turned to mud, and you could easily sink deep into it and become trapped. It was growing dark, and my family gave up. Leaving the field, they found an angel buried in the ash. He was delirious, raving, weeping, his face blackened and singed. My family brought him to the hut and tended to him. Weeks, months. Then one day, he was gone.”

  “How did they know he was an angel?”

  Serge shrugged, looked at Harper.

  “Because in his delirium, he told them this. He told them he had tried to comfort the souls of the Cathars as they burned to death. He told them he was overcome with their suffering. Who knows? Perhaps he was a Frenchman, someone with the Crusaders who stayed behind and was digging through the ash looking for bits of gold or silver. Perhaps he became trapped and, fearing revenge when he was rescued, he told my family he was an angel to save himself.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think, back then, people had strange ideas about the world.”

  “But here you are, nearly nine hundred years later, making angels from scraps of iron.”

  Serge smiled again.

  “I tried birds, horses. I tried avant-garde. Making angels is the only thing I’m good at. Come, I’ll show you a place where you can sleep.”

  “Actually, I’m not tired. Do you have a computer with Internet?”

  “Some do in the village, not me. Too much information for me.”

  “Do you have a TV?”

  “In the kitchen. My wife likes to watch Spanish soap operas as she’s jarring her vegetables and jams.”

  “Can I get the History Channel on it?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned off the light. Harper stepped outside, and Serge closed the door.

  “Shiva, move,” he said.

  The dog led the way through the dark. The garden was long and narrow. They passed the main door of the house, walked around the corner to a small stone patio. Serge pointed farther up the garden.

  “The gate you need is back there. Shiva will be waiting for you.”

  Harper looked around for the dog. He’d wandered off to his spot under a tree with a view of anything coming or going.

  “Right.”

  “Come, my wife always leaves food in the kitchen in case I’m hungry.”

  Serge walked across the patio, opened the door into the house. Harper rested the staff against the side of the house and went inside. There was a candle burning on a table. A plate of white cheeses, a baguette, a bottle of wine, and an empty glass.

  “I hope you enjoy cheese. We’re vegetarians in this house. But they’re very good cheeses. Bethmale, Rogallais, Bamalous; all from the village, and the wine is from Corbières. My wife baked the bread.”
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  “No, cheese is fine. I’ve been thinking I should become a vegetarian myself.”

  Serge looked at Harper, nodded.

  “So should every person in the world.”

  There was a box-shaped television on a metal stand next to the kitchen table. Serge turned it on, found the History Channel.

  “I don’t need the sound up,” Harper said.

  “No?”

  “I’m fine with the picture. I’ve seen most of the episodes before. Watching the pictures helps me pass the time.”

  “I understand. Are you sure you will not need a room to rest?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Serge nodded.

  “I understand. I will leave you to your peace and join my wife in bed. The stars will fade in four hours. You can set out then, Shiva will lead you. By the time you reach the trail to the fortress, it will be safe enough to climb. Vos pregui slitz com a casa.”

  Harper ran the words: Make yourself at home.

  “Cheers.”

  Serge walked through the small sitting room and up a set of creaking stairs. Harper poured a glass of wine, had a long swallow. He cut a slice of Bamalous, ate it with a piece of bread. It was good.

  II

  ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A GIANT CATERPILLAR WHO WAS very clever and wore a silly hat on his head. And his name was Pompidou, and he lived on snowflakes. Big ones, fat ones. And he flew around the world and beyond the moon.”

  Max pointed at the drawing of the moon in the notebook. “La lune.”

  “That’s right, honey, that’s the moon. See the loon in the lune. There are his eyes and his nose and his mouth. And see funny old Pompidou with his funny hat. It’s just like the hat on Mommy’s head, isn’t it?”

  Max looked up at his mother, saw the hat on her head, and touched the brim.

  “Lune, moon.”

  “No, that’s my hat, the lune moon’s down here, in the book.”

  They were sitting on the floor of Max’s room. Katherine on a blanket, Max on her lap, the two of them surrounded by pillows like a fort. The lantern was on a nearby stool and it cast light on their faces. Monsieur Booty lay at her feet like the Sphinx. All-knowing, all-seeing, waiting for the moment when there’d be a break in the proceedings for food.