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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 8

by Mario Reading


  ‘Go? Why sho­uld we go?’

  ‘Be­ca­use ot­her­wi­se he’ll end up by kil­ling so­me­body.’ Sa­bir pul­led the chest to­wards him. ‘Re­mem­ber what he did to Ba­bel? This guy isn’t a mo­ra­list. He wants what he thinks we ha­ve in this chest. If he finds we ha­ve not­hing, he will be­co­me very angry in­de­ed. In fact I don’t think he wo­uld be­li­eve us.’

  ‘Why we­ren’t you sca­red when the fi­ring star­ted?’

  ‘Be­ca­use I spent fi­ve ye­ars as a vo­lun­te­er with the 182nd In­fantry Re­gi­ment of the Mas­sac­hu­set­ts Army Na­ti­onal Gu­ard.’ Sa­bir put on a hick co­untry-boy ac­cent. ‘I’m very pro­ud to tell you, ma’am, that the 182nd we­re first mus­te­red just se­venty ye­ars af­ter Nost­ra­da­mus’s de­ath. I’m a Stockb­rid­ge Mas­sac­hu­set­ts boy myself - born and bred.’

  Yo­la lo­oked be­wil­de­red, as if Sa­bir’s sud­den des­cent in­to le­vity sug­ges­ted an unex­pec­ted si­de to his na­tu­re that she had hit­her­to ig­no­red. ‘You we­re a sol­di­er?’

  ‘No. A re­ser­vist. I was ne­ver on ac­ti­ve duty. But we tra­ined pretty hard and pretty re­alis­ti­cal­ly. And I’ve be­en hun­ting and using we­apons, all my li­fe.’

  ‘I am go­ing out­si­de to see what hap­pe­ned.’

  ‘Yes. I rec­kon it’s sa­fe now. I’m go­ing to stay he­re and ta­ke anot­her lo­ok at this cof­fer. You don’t ha­ve the ot­her one, by any chan­ce?’

  ‘No. Only this. So­me­one pa­in­ted it over be­ca­use they tho­ught it lo­oked too dull.’

  ‘I gu­es­sed that much.’ Sa­bir star­ted tap­ping aro­und the ex­te­ri­or of the box. ‘You ever check this out for a fal­se bot­tom or a sec­ret com­part­ment?’

  ‘A fal­se bot­tom?’

  ‘I tho­ught not.’

  32

  ‘I’m get­ting two re­adings.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’m get­ting two se­pa­ra­te re­adings from the trac­king de­vi­ce. It’s as if the­re’s a sha­dow on the scre­en.’

  ‘Didn’t you test it as I told you?’

  Mac­ron swal­lo­wed audibly. Cal­que al­re­ady tho­ught him an idi­ot. Now he’d be con­vin­ced of it. ‘Yes. It tes­ted fi­ne. I even tri­ed it at two ki­lo­met­res and it was cle­ar as a bell. We lo­se GPS, of co­ur­se, if he go­es un­der a tun­nel, or parks in an un­derg­ro­und car park, but that’s the pri­ce we pay for ha­ving a li­ve fe­ed.’

  ‘What are you tal­king abo­ut, Mac­ron?’

  ‘I’m sa­ying that if we ever lo­se him, it might ta­ke us a lit­tle whi­le to res­to­re con­tact.’

  Cal­que unc­lip­ped his se­at belt and be­gan to ease his sho­ul­ders, as if, with each ki­lo­met­re they we­re tra­vel­ling away from Pa­ris, he was be­ing re­li­eved of a gre­at we­ight.

  ‘You sho­uld re­al­ly ke­ep that on, Sir. If we ha­ve an ac­ci­dent, the air­bag won’t func­ti­on pro­perly wit­ho­ut it.’ The mi­nu­te he’d ut­te­red the­se words, Mac­ron re­ali­sed that he’d ma­de yet anot­her un­for­ced er­ror in the li­tany of un­for­ced er­rors which pep­pe­red his ever de­te­ri­ora­ting re­la­ti­ons­hip with his boss.

  For on­ce, tho­ugh, Cal­que didn’t ri­se to the oc­ca­si­on and ad­mi­nis­ter his usu­al stin­ging re­bu­ke. Ins­te­ad, he ra­ised his chin in a spe­cu­la­ti­ve man­ner and sta­red out of the win­dow, comp­le­tely ig­no­ring Mac­ron’s blun­der. ‘Did it ever oc­cur to you, Mac­ron, that the­re may be two trac­king de­vi­ces?’

  ‘Two, Sir? But I only pla­ced one.’ Mac­ron had be­gun fan­ta­si­sing abo­ut the happy li­fe he co­uld ha­ve had wor­king as an as­sis­tant in his fat­her’s ba­kery in Mar­se­il­le, rat­her than as dogs­body to a grumpy po­li­ce cap­ta­in on the ver­ge of re­ti­re­ment.

  ‘I’m tal­king abo­ut our fri­end. The one who li­kes ma­king te­lep­ho­ne calls.’

  Mac­ron im­me­di­ately re­vi­sed what he had be­en abo­ut to say. No­body co­uld ac­cu­se him of not le­ar­ning on the job. ‘Then he’ll be pic­king up the ghos­ting, too, Sir. He’ll know we plan­ted a de­vi­ce and that we’re run­ning pa­ral­lel to him.’

  ‘Well do­ne, boy. Go­od thin­king.’ Cal­que sig­hed. ‘But I sus­pect that that tho­ught won’t bot­her him over­much. It sho­uld bot­her us, tho­ugh. I’m slowly get­ting a pic­tu­re he­re that isn’t very pretty. I can’t pro­ve anyt­hing, of co­ur­se. In fact I don’t even know if this man with no whi­tes to his eyes re­al­ly exists, or if we are simply sum­mo­ning up a de­mon for our­sel­ves and sho­uld con­cent­ra­te our at­ten­ti­ons on Sa­bir. But we must start tre­ading mo­re ca­re­ful­ly from he­re on in.’

  ‘A de­mon, Sir?’

  ‘Just a fi­gu­re of spe­ech.’

  33

  ‘Whe­re are we go­ing?’

  ‘To whe­re it says on the ba­se of the cof­fer.’

  Ale­xi le­aned for­ward from the re­ar se­at and clap­ped Sa­bir on the sho­ul­der. ‘That’s tel­ling her. Hey, lu­lu­dji? What do you think of yo­ur phral now? May­be he’ll le­ave you lots of mo­ney when this crazy man kills him? You got lots of mo­ney, Adam?’

  ‘Not on me.’

  ‘But you got mo­ney? In Ame­ri­ca, may­be? Can you get us a gre­en card?’

  ‘I can gi­ve you a black eye.’

  ‘Hey? You he­ar that? That’s funny. I ask him for a gre­en card and he of­fers me a black eye. This guy must be a Ber­ber.’

  ‘Is an­yo­ne fol­lo­wing us?’

  ‘No. No. I lo­oked. And I ke­ep on lo­oking. We’re cle­ar.’

  ‘I don’t un­ders­tand it.’

  ‘May­be he didn’t find the car. The boys hid it well. You owe me for that, ga­dje. They we­re go­ing to bre­ak it up and sell off the pi­eces, but I told them you wo­uld pay them for pro­tec­ting it.’

  ‘Pay them?’

  ‘Ye­ah. You got to le­ave them mo­ney too, when you die.’ Ale­xi sud­denly sat up hig­her. ‘Hey. ga­dje. Pull over be­hind that car. The one par­ked down the track.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Sa­bir pul­led the Audi ac­ross the hard sho­ul­der and down the track.

  Ale­xi got out and be­gan stal­king aro­und, his he­ad coc­ked si­de­ways. ‘It’s okay. The­re’s no one he­re. They’re off wal­king.’

  ‘You’re not go­ing to ste­al it?’

  Ale­xi ma­de a dis­gus­ted fa­ce. He squ­at­ted down and be­gan unsc­re­wing the car’s num­ber-pla­te.

  ***

  ‘He’s stop­ped.’

  ‘You mustn’t fol­low su­it. Ke­ep on dri­ving. Go past him. But if you see anot­her car pul­led over, mark it. We’ll call in back-up.’

  ‘Why don’t you just pick up Sa­bir and ha­ve do­ne with it?’

  ‘Be­ca­use the gypsi­es aren’t stu­pid, wha­te­ver you might think of them. If they ha­ven’t kil­led Sa­bir, it’s for a re­ason.’ Cal­que flic­ked a glan­ce down the si­de track. ‘Did you see what he was do­ing down the­re?’

  ‘They. The­re we­re three of them.’ Mac­ron cle­ared his thro­at un­cer­ta­inly. ‘If I we­re them, I’d be switc­hing num­ber-pla­tes. Just in ca­se.’

  Cal­que smi­led. ‘Mac­ron. You ne­ver ce­ase to ama­ze me.’

  ***

  ‘What do you ho­pe to ga­in by that? The mi­nu­te they co­me back to the car they’ll see you’ve switc­hed the­ir pla­tes.’

  ‘No.’ Ale­xi smi­led. ‘Pe­op­le don’t lo­ok. They don’t see things. It’ll be days be­fo­re he no­ti­ces anyt­hing. He’ll pro­bably only re­ali­se we’ve switc­hed the pla­tes af­ter the po­li­ce po­un­ce down on him wa­ving the­ir mac­hi­ne guns - or when he lo­ses his car in a su­per­mar­ket par­king.’

  Sa­bir shrug­ged. ‘You so­und as if you’ve do­ne this so
rt of thing be­fo­re.’

  ‘What do you me­an? I’m li­ke a pri­est.’

  Yo­la bes­tir­red her­self for the first ti­me. ‘I can un­ders­tand my brot­her kno­wing abo­ut the first pa­per. My mot­her do­ted on him. She wo­uld ha­ve told him anyt­hing. Gi­ven him anyt­hing. But how did my brot­her know what was on the ba­se of the cof­fer? He co­uldn’t re­ad.’

  ‘Then he fo­und so­me­one in the camp who co­uld. Be­ca­use he used part of the sa­me wor­ding in his ad.’

  Yo­la glan­ced at Ale­xi. ‘Who wo­uld he find?’

  Ale­xi shrug­ged. ‘Lu­ca can re­ad. He wo­uld do anyt­hing for Ba­bel. Or for a hand­ful of euros. He’s sly, too. It wo­uld be just li­ke him to plan all this and then set Ba­bel up to act in his pla­ce.’

  Yo­la his­sed. ‘That Lu­ca. If I find he did this, I will put a hex on him.’

  ‘A hex?’ Sa­bir glan­ced back at Yo­la. ‘What do you me­an, a hex?’

  Ale­xi la­ug­hed. ‘She’s he­xi, this girl. A witch. Her mot­her was a witch. And her grand­mot­her too. That’s why no one will marry her. They think that if they gi­ve her a be­ating she will po­ison them. Or gi­ve them the evil eye.’

  ‘She’d be right.’

  ‘What do you me­an? A man’s got to be­at a wo­man so­me­ti­mes. Ot­her­wi­se, how can he ke­ep her in or­der? She’d be li­ke one of yo­ur pa­yo wo­men. With balls the si­ze of hand gre­na­des. No, Adam. If, by a mi­rac­le, she ever finds her­self a hus­band, you’ve got to talk to him. Tell him how to ma­na­ge her. Ke­ep her preg­nant. That’s the best thing. If she’s got child­ren to lo­ok af­ter, she can’t nag him.’

  Yo­la flic­ked at her front te­eth with her thumb, as if she we­re get­ting rid of a pi­ece of un­wan­ted grist­le. ‘And what abo­ut you, Ale­xi? Why aren’t you mar­ri­ed? I’ll tell you why. Be­ca­use yo­ur pe­nis is split in half. One bit go­es west, to­wards the pa­yos and the ot­her bit stays in yo­ur hand.’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad in be­wil­der­ment. Both of them we­re smi­ling, as if they de­ri­ved com­fort from the ba­di­na­ge. Sa­bir sec­retly sus­pec­ted that it re­in­for­ced, rat­her than trun­ca­ted, the­ir com­mu­na­lity. He sud­denly felt je­alo­us, as if he, too, wan­ted to be­long to such a light-he­ar­ted com­mu­nity. ‘When you’ve both stop­ped ar­gu­ing, shall I tell you what was writ­ten - or rat­her bur­ned - on to the ba­se of the cof­fer?’

  They both tur­ned to him as if he had of­fe­red, out of the blue, to re­ad them a bed­ti­me story.

  ‘It’s in me­di­eval French. Li­ke the Will. It’s a rid­dle.’

  ‘A rid­dle? You me­an li­ke this one? ‘I ha­ve a sis­ter who runs wit­ho­ut legs and who whist­les wit­ho­ut a mo­uth. Who is she?’’

  Sa­bir was get­ting used to the gypsy way with a non se­qu­itur. At first, the sud­den loss of a tra­in of tho­ught had dis­tur­bed his sen­se of or­der and he had fo­ught to get back on track. Now he smi­led and yi­el­ded him­self up to it. ‘Okay. I gi­ve up.’

  Yo­la ham­me­red the se­at be­hind him. ‘It’s the wind, idi­ot. What did you think it was?’ She and Ale­xi erup­ted in­to ga­les of la­ugh­ter.

  Sa­bir smi­led. ‘Now do you want to he­ar what I fo­und? Then we’ll see if you’re as go­od sol­ving rid­dles as you are at set­ting them.’

  ‘Yes. Tell us.’

  ‘Well, the ori­gi­nal French go­es li­ke this:

  ‘Hébergé par les tro­is ma­riés Cel­le d’Egypte la der­ni­ère fi t La vi­er­ge no­ire au ca­ma­ro du­ro Ti­ent le sec­ret de mes vers à ses pi­eds’

  When I first re­ad it, I to­ok it to me­an the fol­lo­wing:

  Shel­te­red by the three mar­ri­ed pe­op­le The Egyp­ti­an wo­man was the last one The Black Vir­gin on her hard bed Holds the sec­ret of my ver­ses at her fe­et’

  ‘But that ma­kes no sen­se.’

  ‘You’re dar­ned right it ma­kes no sen­se. And it’s not in Nost­ra­da­mus’s usu­al style, eit­her. It do­esn’t rhyme, for a start. But then it do­esn’t pre­tend to be a prop­hecy. It’s cle­arly me­ant to be a gu­ide, or map, to­wards so­met­hing of gre­ater im­por­tan­ce.’

  ‘Who are the three mar­ri­ed pe­op­le?’

  ‘I’ve not the fa­in­test idea.’

  ‘Well, what abo­ut the Black Vir­gin, then?’

  That’s a lot cle­arer. And it’s whe­re the key, in my opi­ni­on, li­es. Ca­ma­ro du­ro do­esn’t re­al­ly me­an ‘hard bed’, you see. It’s one of tho­se phra­ses one sup­po­ses must sig­nify so­met­hing, but it’s ac­tu­al­ly me­aning­less. Yes, ca­ma is bed in Spa­nish and du­ro me­ans hard. But the men­ti­on of the Black Vir­gin ga­ve me the true key. It’s an anag­ram.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An anag­ram. That me­ans when one or two words dis­gu­ise anot­her word, which can be ma­de out of all the let­ters. Hid­den in­si­de the words ca­ma­ro du­ro we ha­ve a cle­ar anag­ram for Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. That’s a fa­mo­us pla­ce of pilg­ri­ma­ge in the Lot val­ley. So­me say it’s even the true be­gin­ning of the San­ti­ago de Com­pos­te­la pilg­ri­ma­ge. And the­re’s a fa­mo­us Black Vir­gin the­re, which wo­men ha­ve go­ne to for many ge­ne­ra­ti­ons to pray for suc­cess in ha­ving child­ren. So­me even say that she is half man, half wo­man - half Mary and half Ro­land. For the pa­la­din Ro­land’s phal­lic sword, Du­ren­dal, re­si­des to this day in a vul­va-sha­ped cleft high up in the rock ne­ar the Vir­gin’s shri­ne. She was cer­ta­inly the­re in Nost­ra­da­mus’s ti­me. In fact I don’t think she’s mo­ved anyw­he­re in eight cen­tu­ri­es.’

  ‘Is that whe­re we’re go­ing, then?’

  Sa­bir lo­oked at his two com­pa­ni­ons. ‘I don’t think we ha­ve much cho­ice in the mat­ter.’

  34

  Yo­la set two of the cups of cof­fee in­to the­ir hol­ders and ga­ve the third to Sa­bir. ‘You mustn’t be se­en. The­se ga­ra­ges ha­ve ca­me­ras. We sho­uldn’t stop in such pla­ces aga­in.’

  Sa­bir watc­hed Ale­xi win­ding his way thro­ugh the shop to­wards the rest ro­om. ‘Why is he he­re, Yo­la?’

  ‘He wants to kid­nap me. But he do­esn’t ha­ve the co­ura­ge. And now he is sca­red that you might do so when he isn’t aro­und. That’s why he’s he­re.’

  ‘Me? Kid­nap you?’

  Yo­la sig­hed. ‘In Ma­no­uc­he fa­mi­li­es, a man and a wo­man run off to­get­her when they want to get mar­ri­ed. It is cal­led a ‘kid­nap­ping’. If a man ‘kid­naps’ you, it is the equ­iva­lent of mar­ri­age be­ca­use the girl will no lon­ger be - I don’t know how to say this - in­tact.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Why sho­uld I joke? I’m tel­ling you the truth.’

  ‘But I’m yo­ur brot­her.’

  ‘Not by blo­od, stu­pid.’

  ‘What? That me­ans I co­uld marry you?’

  ‘With the Bu­li­bas­ha’s per­mis­si­on, as my fat­her is de­ad. But if you did that, Ale­xi wo­uld get se­ri­o­usly angry. And then he might cho­ose to re­al­ly hit you with the kni­fe.’

  ‘What do you me­an ‘might cho­ose to re­al­ly hit me’? He mis­sed me cle­anly.’

  ‘Only be­ca­use he wan­ted to. Ale­xi is the best kni­fe-thro­wer in the camp. He do­es it at cir­cu­ses and fa­irg­ro­unds. Every­body knows that. That’s why the Bu­li­bas­ha cho­se the kni­fe jud­ge­ment. They all re­ali­sed Ale­xi tho­ught you we­re in­no­cent of Ba­bel’s de­ath. Ot­her­wi­se he wo­uld ha­ve split yo­ur hand in two.’

  ‘Do you me­an that all that the­at­re was just a put-on? That every­body knew all the ti­me that Ale­xi was go­ing to miss me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what if he’d hit me by mis­ta­ke?’

  ‘Then we’d ha­ve had to kill you.’

  ‘Oh gre­at. That m
a­kes sen­se. Ye­ah. I see it all cle­arly now.’

  ‘You mustn’t be angry, Adam. This way, every­body ac­cepts you. If we’d do­ne it anot­her way, you wo­uld ha­ve had prob­lems la­ter.’

  ‘Well that’s all right then.’

  ***

  Cal­que watc­hed the two of them thro­ugh his bi­no­cu­lars. ‘I re­cog­ni­se the girl. It’s Sa­ma­na’s sis­ter. And Sa­bir, of co­ur­se. But who’s the swarthy one using the pis­so­ire?’

  ‘Anot­her co­usin, pro­bably. The­se pe­op­le are sick with co­usins. Scratch one and co­usins fall off them li­ke ticks.’

  ‘Don’t you li­ke gypsi­es, Mac­ron?’

  ‘They’re la­ya­bo­uts. No so­ut­her­ner li­kes gypsi­es. They ste­al, trick and use pe­op­le for the­ir own pur­po­ses.’

  ‘Pu­ta­in. Most pe­op­le do that in one way or anot­her.’

  ‘Not li­ke them. They des­pi­se us.’

  ‘We ha­ven’t ma­de li­fe easy for them.’

  ‘Why sho­uld we?’

  Cal­que pre­ten­ded to nod. ‘Why in­de­ed?’ He wo­uld ha­ve to watch Mac­ron mo­re ca­re­ful­ly, tho­ugh, in fu­tu­re. In his ex­pe­ri­en­ce, if a man had one outs­po­ken pre­j­udi­ce, he wo­uld be do­ubly as li­kely to har­bo­ur ot­her, mo­re sec­ret ones, which wo­uld only emer­ge in a cri­sis. ‘They’re mo­ving. Lo­ok. Gi­ve them half a mi­nu­te and then fol­low on be­hind.’

  ‘Are you su­re this is re­gu­lar, Sir? I me­an, le­aving a mur­de­rer to go abo­ut his bu­si­ness on the pub­lic high­way? You saw what he did to Sa­ma­na.’

  ‘Ha­ve you for­got­ten abo­ut our ot­her fri­end so qu­ickly?’

 

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