The Remembering tm-3
Page 20
My answer was another question. “Have you had any breakthroughs with the markings?”
“A few. So far, they are random and inconsequential, but there was something odd about each breakthrough, or rather each understanding. Each one came to me after waking from a dream. I awoke and could not recall a single place, image, or conversation from the dream, yet I knew the meaning of a specific marking. It is a language beyond speech. It is a language with no vowels, no consonants, and ten thousand nuances of meaning and expression. It is a language of dreams, Zezen … a language of dreams.” The Fleur-du-Mal walked over to the sphere found in Portugal. He ran his fingertips lightly over the markings, caressing the curve of the stone like a woman’s cheek and neck. “I have a name for them,” he said, letting his eyes roam from sphere to sphere.
“What is it?”
In a voice unusual for the Fleur-du-Mal, almost a whisper, he said, “Dreamstones.”
Later that evening, over a dinner served by yet another gray-haired Mannheim sister, Ilsa, the Fleur-du-Mal and I came to a working arrangement. He was adamant the spheres would stay where they were, with him. I could not have them moved to Paris, Caitlin’s Ruby, or anywhere else for study. However, I could have Opari come and live with me while I worked. I told him the others should have a chance to see the spheres, particularly his uncle, Zeru-Meq, who had a poet’s mind, and because any one of us could have a sudden insight. We negotiated and the Fleur-du-Mal compromised, saying he would allow the others open-ended visits, but only one at a time.
We both realized working together might become difficult, so we devised a variable shift schedule for our time in the milk barn. I would work days and he would work nights. All notes and observations would be written down in a common log to which we both had access.
“What if I want to leave?” I asked.
“Then leave,” he said. “You are not in prison, mon petit, except perhaps in your imagination. I will have the Mannheims assist you with any logistical concerns.”
I stared down at the fruit pudding that Ilsa had brought out for dessert. It was made from red and black currants and was delicious. I looked across the table at the Fleur-du-Mal. He was sipping cognac and preparing to light a cigar. I thought, how did I get here? How did this happen and how would it play out? It was crazy yet somehow it made no difference. All that mattered to me now were the spheres. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to admit it, but I was obsessed with them, and in almost the same way I had once been obsessed with killing the Fleur-du-Mal. I laughed out loud.
“Why do you laugh?” he asked, lighting the long Cuban cigar.
I shook my head back and forth. “Never ever did I expect to be in this … situation.”
“Nor I,” he said.
“Why do suppose we are doing this?”
“The answer is quite simple,” the Fleur-du-Mal said. He inhaled slightly, then let the smoke out slowly in a single stream. “We are, you and I, more alike than you might think. We are obsessed with the truth, Zezen … the truth.”
* * *
And thus began my long and strange alliance with the Fleur-du-Mal. The very next day I returned to West Berlin, then on to Paris by train to tell the others about this new, unlikely, and unexpected turn of events. Jack and I would also have to discuss Dallas and what the Fleur-du-Mal had said. I knew he was not lying or bluffing. Jack was no coward, but in this case I was hoping family would come first.
On the way to Paris, I stared out the window at the changing landscapes and couldn’t quit thinking about the spheres. In every passing tree and rock face, I saw the delicate and beautiful script, the intricate connecting patterns and weaves, all separate and moving backward and forward together. I kept seeing the sphere from Portugal over and over. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was the heart of the mystery. It was the one that would lead us to the Remembering.
The train arrived at the Gard du Nord Station just after sunset, and it was completely dark by the time I reached the Canal St. Martin and stepped onto the dock adjacent to the Giselle. Sailor was sitting in a folding chair, facing my direction, as if he was waiting for me.
“Well?” he said.
I laughed and hopped onto the deck of the Giselle. “Come inside,” I told him, smiling. “You won’t believe it.”
I gathered everyone around the long bench that served as a kitchen table and started talking. The true identity of the Beekeeper prompted groans, then comments of disgust in varying degrees. But when I mentioned the three spheres, it had the opposite effect. You couldn’t even hear breathing. I told them the terms of the arrangement I had made with the Fleur-du-Mal, adding that I had had little or no choice.
After I stopped speaking, Opari asked the hardest question to answer. “Why would the Fleur-du-Mal have a ‘change of heart’ concerning the Remembering? He has never done so before concerning anything. Why this? Why now?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think we’re stuck with him.”
One day later we took a train to San Sebastian and met with Geaxi, Zeru-Meq, and Mowsel. Zeru-Meq cursed loudly when he found out the truth about the Beekeeper. Mowsel asked at least a dozen questions about the spheres and their markings. Geaxi listened in silence to every detail, then stated her wish to be the first in the rotation of “guests” to study the spheres. No one had any objections, and we all agreed the study should begin as soon as possible.
The Fleur-du-Mal had given me a telephone number to call when I was ready to return. I made the call and identified myself to the woman who answered. In a thick German accent she told me to be at a specific intersection in West Berlin at a certain time on a certain date, just as I’d done on my first visit. It would become a pattern.
On May 13 Geaxi, Opari, and I stood on a corner only two blocks from the Brandenberg Gate in Berlin. It was 3:15 in the afternoon. An old black Mercedes sedan pulled to a stop and a door opened. The three of us climbed into the backseat. Our driver was about sixty years old with bushy salt-and-pepper hair and a grizzled two weeks’ growth of beard. He introduced himself as Hans. As I was to learn later, he was the youngest of the Mannheims.
When we reached the farm an hour later, the Fleur-du-Mal was standing at the end of the long driveway, waiting to greet us. His black hair was neatly tied back with a green ribbon, and he wore his ruby earrings. His pressed pants and shirt were made of fine Egyptian linen. He was fully relishing the charade of playing the host. He bowed slightly to Opari, said hello to me, and seemed genuinely surprised to see Geaxi as the first “guest” Meq.
“Ah, Geaxi,” he said with a wide smile. “How is Malta? I have always loved your little island.”
Geaxi adjusted her beret and ignored the remark. In a flat voice she said, “I understand you have treasures.”
“That I do, that I do.” He turned and motioned for Hans. “First, let us get you settled in your cottage. Hans will show you the way. Dinner is served at six o’clock and afterward I shall take you to the milk barn.”
“The milk barn?”
The Fleur-du-Mal was already walking away, toward the massive front door of his farmhouse. Over his shoulder, he said, “Tell her, Zezen,” and kept walking.
Hans said, “Zis way, please.”
Around nine o’clock we left the farmhouse and followed the Fleur-du-Mal down the path leading to the milk barn. It was a clear night and the moon had yet to rise. Venus was low and bright and looked as if it was hovering over the top of the barn. The Fleur-du-Mal laughed and said, “It seems we have a torch to light our way. Perhaps a good omen, no?”
He opened the door and flipped the switch. Geaxi was speechless when she finally saw the three spheres together, lit by the bank of lights and lined up on their stainless-steel cylinders. She walked in slow circles around each of them, pausing occasionally and reaching out to feel the markings. She touched the sphere from Portugal last and jumped back with a shout, as if she’d been shocked. “This stone is warm,” she said.
“That i
s impossible,” the Fleur-du-Mal replied. He rushed over and laid his palm across the top of the sphere. He gave Geaxi a quizzical look. “This sphere is cold as a tombstone.”
I reached out and felt the stone. It was cold. I glanced at Geaxi, trying to read her expression. She gave nothing away. She looked back at me and I knew she was absolutely serious and telling the truth. For whatever reason, the sphere from Portugal felt warm to her touch. Before we even started our study of the spheres, another mystery had appeared.
We began in earnest the next morning. We had no set pattern or routine. Each of us spent time alone with each sphere, and all of us, including the Fleur-du-Mal, spent time together discussing the problems. We studied and speculated, examined and meditated, agreed and disagreed. Opari, Geaxi, and I spent our days with the spheres while the Fleur-du-Mal spent his nights with them. We truly expected a breakthrough right away. After all, why not? The Fleur-du-Mal had previously deciphered a word or two, although he didn’t call them words. He referred to the markings as “dreamings.” Opari and Geaxi had extraordinary facilities with languages from every corner of the world. They could have an insight at any time. And of course, everyone expected me to have a complete breakthrough and be able to read the entirety of the message, whatever it might be. I even expected it to happen. In Russia I had “read” a phrase and a word in only a few minutes. Now I had all the time I wanted, and I was obsessed with the spheres. I could think of little else. “Today,” I kept telling myself, “today I will find the key and unlock the mystery.” But it didn’t happen. Study became struggle and infatuation led to frustration. Seasons passed in rapid succession, dressing and undressing the landscape like a fashion show. The rotation of Meq “guests” began and continued, with each one delivered and driven away by the Mannheims. Some stayed longer than others and all returned time after time. Still, nothing happened. Not a word was deciphered. Weeks became months, and months became years. Throughout the turbulent sixties, while the rest of the world was changing with abandon around us, we spent our time sneaking in and out of East Germany, obsessed with solving a riddle carved on three silent granite spheres, a riddle that refused to give up its secret.
On occasion, Opari and I would return to Paris for a few days or weeks, however long it took to revive our spirits, away from the spheres and the dark umbrella of the Fleur-du-Mal. Twice on these “holidays” we received sudden and sad news, the kind you never want to hear and can never change. In September of 1965 Cardinal had been enjoying his retirement by going on a deep-sea fishing vacation with several other men to a small resort on Great Abaco Island in the Bahamas. During the night of September 6, Hurricane Betsy, a storm that would later pummel Florida and the Gulf Coast, roared across Great Abaco Island with winds measured at 147 mph. They sheared the roof off the small resort and demolished everything else for the next three hours. By dawn, twelve people were dead and dozens had been injured. Cardinal, Dr. Bikki Birnbaum, was among the dead. Jack flew to the island and claimed his body, then buried him in a church graveyard not far from his home overlooking the Potomac. Cardinal’s death affected Jack deeply. Less than two years later, he decided to retire himself. He wanted to spend more time in St. Louis with Carolina. The Vietnam War was, according to Jack, “already beyond the point of no return.” He said he’d been in the spy business too long and added, “This war has nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with it. I’m going to watch baseball instead.” Jack hired a man we could trust named Michel to take care of the Giselle year-round, while we could come and go as we pleased with no questions asked.
Opari and I arrived back in Paris on May 4, 1969, to celebrate my hundredth birthday. As we stepped on board the Giselle, Michel handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it. He said to call Jack at that number — it was urgent. I called the number and was connected to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis. I asked for Jack Flowers and was transferred to a private room. Jack answered after one ring. “It’s Z,” I said. “What’s up?”
There was a long pause at the other end. Finally, Jack said, “Willie’s dead.”
“Oh, no … no.”
“Yeah,” Jack said in a whisper.
I closed my eyes and in a flash remembered nearly every moment I’d spent with Willie Croft. I missed him already. “Tell me what happened.”
I learned from Jack that Willie had gone to the airport that same morning to take his beloved de Havilland out for a short flight. At seventy-eight years old he was still a pilot and flew at least once a month. Jack said Willie taxied to the end of the runway and waited to be cleared for takeoff. A short time later he was given clearance, but he never responded. As the de Havilland idled on the runway, Willie slumped over the controls. He had suffered a massive stroke. By the time help reached him, he had fallen into a deep coma. Jack said he was taken to Barnes Hospital, where he held on for a while, then passed away less than an hour before I called.
“How is Star?” I asked.
“She’ll be all right … in time.” Jack paused and let out a long breath. “He was a good man, Z.”
“The best.”
“I figure in a week or two, we’ll take him back to Cornwall to be buried with his parents.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, “just tell me when.”
Jack and I talked for a few more minutes about Willie, then Jack said he would be in touch. I hung up the telephone with the heaviest heart I’d had in years. Sailor told me once that the Meq should celebrate every single birthday. Sometimes that is simply not possible. On May 4, 1969, there was nothing to celebrate.
On May 19 Geaxi, Sailor, and I traveled to the coast by train and took a ferry across the English Channel. Opari and Sheela and the others stayed behind in Paris and San Sebastian. Jack was to meet us in London, along with Koldo and Arrosa Txopitea. He said Willie had left Caitlin’s Ruby and a large percentage of the Daphne Croft Foundation to Koldo and his family. They would be in London to finalize the papers. Afterward, we would drive back to Cornwall for the funeral. I looked forward to seeing Koldo and Arrosa. Too many years had passed since I’d seen them last. Their twin sons, Kepa and Yaldi, were now in their early thirties. The twins were the last of the tribe of Vardules, Protectors of the Stone of Dreams, and yet I had never met them. On the crossing, I thought about what Willie had done and smiled. “Good on you, Willie!” I shouted over the water. Then I wondered if ever before there had been an independently wealthy Basque landowner in Cornwall. I laughed out loud. Koldo Txopitea had to be the first.
Arrosa was waving to us when we stepped off the train in Victoria Railway Station. She looked as beautiful as I remembered, even with silver hair and a few lines on her face, which now crisscrossed their way through the tiny scar on her left cheek. Koldo shook our hands vigorously and Jack smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile, just a welcome one. We left the station and walked to a big Jaguar sedan parked a block away. They had concluded their business earlier that morning, so we set out immediately on the long drive to Cornwall, with Jack and Koldo taking turns at the wheel.
I asked Koldo, “What would your grandfather think of this car?”
Koldo grinned. “If he were here, I would not have this car.”
Even Sailor laughed at that, having known Kepa well.
The next three days were quiet, relaxed, easygoing, and sometimes awkward, almost like Willie himself. The funeral was simple and solemn, and Star was gracious and patient, personally thanking every person who came, and there were many. The Crofts had been generous contributors to the whole community for generations. Koldo and Arrosa had become an integral part of the community years ago, and they, too, accepted condolences. The twins, Kepa and Yaldi, were not there, nor were they at Caitlin’s Ruby. I learned on the drive to Cornwall that both were professional musicians and both were currently on tour. Kepa was a classical pianist and Yaldi was a rock guitarist, and yet Koldo said they were very much alike. I looked forward to meeting them, but it would have to be another time.
Star was now sixty-eight years old herself. I knew she was telling the truth. “I’ll be there soon, Star,” I said, then added, “I promise,” hoping that I was telling the truth.
Jack and Star left Caitlin’s Ruby for home on the morning of May 25. I made the same promise to Jack as I’d made to Star, and we said our farewells. Before we left the next day, Geaxi, Sailor, and I took a long walk along one of the six paths that Caitlin had cleared centuries earlier. It made no difference which path we chose because they all led to the same place. It was a wild and desolate, nearly barren hill on the western corner of the property, an ancient station from a distant past known as Lullyon Coit or, as Geaxi called it, “the slabs.” It was here in 1918 that Sailor took down the huge stone structures that had stood upright for millennia. In a fit of bitter rage, which he never fully explained, and using only his mind and his “ability” of telekinesis, he shook the tons of granite and the ground beneath them until the sacred stones collapsed and fell like dominoes in just a few seconds.