THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES Page 14

by Mario Reading


  ‘A fi­eld trip? To whe­re?’

  ‘To re­new ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce with yo­ur child­ho­od ha­unts, Mac­ron. We are go­ing to Spa­in. To Mont­ser­rat. To vi­sit a lady.’

  54

  Achor Ba­le watc­hed the new yo­ung se­cu­rity gu­ard work his dog in and out of every cor­ner of the St-Sa­uve­ur Ba­si­li­ca. You had to hand it to the Ro­ca­ma­do­ur church aut­ho­ri­ti­es. They hadn’t be­en slow off the mark in the rec­ru­it­ment sta­kes. Still. Must be so­ul-dest­ro­ying work. What we­re the chan­ces of a misc­re­ant co­ming back to the sce­ne of his cri­me the very eve­ning af­ter an at­temp­ted rob­bery? A mil­li­on to one aga­inst? Mo­re than that, pro­bably. Ba­le eased him­self clo­ser to the ed­ge of the or­gan loft. Anot­her mi­nu­te and the man wo­uld be di­rectly be­ne­ath him.

  It had be­en child’s play to switch the trac­ker back on and fol­low Sa­bir and the two gypsi­es as far as Go­ur­don. In fact Ba­le had be­en so­rely temp­ted to bushw­hack them that first night, whi­le they we­re sle­eping in the car. But they had cho­sen a par­ti­cu­larly in­con­ve­ni­ent spot, slap bang in the mid­dle of a bust­ling mar­ket town, on the outs­kirts of the Bo­uri­ane - the sort of pla­ce that had se­cu­rity ca­me­ras and eager-be­aver po­li­ce­men on the lo­oko­ut for drunks and pug­na­ci­o­us yo­ung far­mers.

  Ba­le’s de­ci­si­on had be­en duly va­li­da­ted when he had he­ard on the ra­dio that the rob­bers had left the Vir­gin be­hind them. What was that all abo­ut? Why hadn’t they sto­len her? They had his pis­tol. And the gar­di­en was mid­way bet­we­en se­nes­cen­ce and the gra­ve. No. He had de­fi­ni­tely se­en the gypsy squ­in­ting at the ba­se of the Vir­gin be­fo­re in­dul­ging in all that re­li­gi­o­us mum­bo-jum­bo of his - which me­ant that the­re was so­met­hing writ­ten the­re, just as the girl had imp­li­ed at the ri­ver­bank. So­met­hing that Ba­le des­pe­ra­tely ne­eded to see.

  Now the se­cu­rity gu­ard was zig­zag­ging up and down bet­we­en the pews, ur­ging his dog for­wards with a se­qu­en­ce of short whist­les. You’d think so­me­one was fil­ming him, the ze­al he was sho­wing for his new job. Any nor­mal hu­man be­ing wo­uld ha­ve stop­ped for a ci­ga­ret­te long ago. This one wo­uld ha­ve to be put well out of the way. The dog, too, of co­ur­se.

  Ba­le threw the cand­le-hol­der high over the man’s he­ad, co­un­ted to three and la­unc­hed him­self out of the loft. The man had ma­de him­self an easy mark, just as he’d known. He­aring the no­ise of the cand­le-hol­der, he’d ins­tantly tur­ned away from his pe­ru­sal of the or­gan and flas­hed his torch at the fal­len obj­ect.

  Ba­le’s fe­et ca­ught him on the back of the neck. The man jer­ked for­ward, lan­ding with the full we­ight of Ba­le’s pro­j­ec­ti­le body dri­ving him on to the flags­to­nes. It had be­en an eight-fo­ot drop for Ba­le. The se­cu­rity gu­ard might as well ha­ve la­unc­hed him­self off a fo­ot lad­der with a ro­pe ti­ed aro­und his neck.

  Ba­le he­ard the ver­teb­ral crunch im­me­di­ately he lan­ded and tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on di­rectly to the dog. The de­ad man still had his hand lo­oped thro­ugh the bra­ided le­at­her le­ash. The Al­sa­ti­an ins­tinc­ti­vely bac­ked away, cro­uc­hing pri­or to his le­ap for­ward. Ba­le grab­bed the le­ash and swung, li­ke a ba­se­ball pla­yer stri­king out for a ho­me run. The Al­sa­ti­an to­ok off, pro­pel­led both by its own for­ward im­pe­tus and the cent­ri­fu­gal throw-out of Ba­le’s swing. Ba­le let go of the le­ash at the per­fect mo­ment. The prin­cip­le of the fulc­rum wor­ked to its full ef­fect, sen­ding the dog star-fi shing ac­ross the church li­ke an ath­le­te’s ham­mer shot. The ani­mal struck the sto­ne wall of the church, fell to the fl oor and be­gan how­ling. Ba­le ran ac­ross and stam­ped on its he­ad.

  He sto­od for a mo­ment, lis­te­ning, with his mo­uth and eyes wi­de open li­ke a cat. Then, sa­tis­fi ed that no one had over­he­ard him, he set off for the Sanc­tu­ary.

  55

  Sa­bir re­set­tled the blan­ket over his gro­in. The­re we­re ti­mes - and this was one of them - when he wis­hed that Yo­la co­uld we­an her­self off the ha­bit of burs­ting in­to pe­op­le’s ro­oms unan­no­un­ced. Ear­li­er that af­ter­no­on she had ta­ken the­ir clot­hes to the com­mu­nal wash­tub, le­aving both of the men wrap­ped in blan­kets, li­ke shipw­reck vic­tims and for­ced to con­temp­la­te in­de­fi­ni­te, un­wan­ted si­es­tas. Now Sa­bir fo­und him­self fran­ti­cal­ly se­arc­hing aro­und for so­met­hing in­no­cu­o­us to say in or­der to de­fu­se his em­bar­ras­sment.

  ‘All right. I’ve tho­ught of anot­her rid­dle for you. This one is a re­al stin­ker. Re­ady? “What is gre­ater than God? Mo­re evil than the De­vil? The po­or al­re­ady ha­ve it. The rich want it. And if you eat it, you die.’’ ’

  Yo­la scar­cely lo­oked up from what she was do­ing. ‘Not­hing, of co­ur­se.’

  Sa­bir slum­ped back aga­inst the wall. ‘Oh Christ. How did you get the ans­wer so qu­ickly? It to­ok me well over an ho­ur when my co­usin’s boy tri­ed it out on me.’

  ‘But it’s ob­vi­o­us, Adam. I got it in the first li­ne. When you as­ked what is gre­ater than God. Not­hing is gre­ater than God. The rest falls in­to pla­ce when you re­ali­se that.’

  ‘Ye­ah, well, I got that bit too. But I didn’t stop to think that it might be the ans­wer. I just got ir­ri­ta­ted and out­ra­ged that an­yo­ne co­uld ima­gi­ne that the­re was so­met­hing gre­ater than God.’

  ‘You’re a man, Adam. Men are born angry. That’s why they ha­ve to la­ugh at everyt­hing. Or stri­ke out at things. Or act li­ke child­ren. If they didn’t, they’d go mad.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for that one. Now I know whe­re I get my sen­se of hu­mo­ur.’

  Yo­la had co­nj­ured up an en­ti­re chan­ge of clot­hing for her­self. She was spor­ting a red-flo­we­red blo­use, but­to­ned to the col­lar and a hip-hug­ging gre­en skirt with a fla­red rim, re­ac­hing to just be­low the knee. The skirt was cinc­hed in at the wa­ist with a bro­ad le­at­her belt stud­ded with small mir­rors and she was we­aring Cu­ban-he­eled sho­es with ank­le straps. Her ha­ir was par­ti­al­ly up, just as it had be­en at the Kriss.

  ‘Why don’t you ever we­ar jewel­lery? Li­ke so­me of the ot­her wo­men?’

  ‘Be­ca­use I’m a vir­gin and still un­mar­ri­ed.’ Yo­la cast a lo­aded glan­ce at Ale­xi, who so­me­how cont­ri­ved to ig­no­re it. ‘It wo­uldn’t be se­emly to com­pe­te with the bri­de and her mar­ri­ed fe­ma­le re­la­ti­ves.’ She fus­sed aro­und la­ying out two sets of clot­hes on the bed, ne­ar Ale­xi’s fe­et. ‘Yo­ur own clot­hes are still drying. I’ll bring them in when they’re re­ady. But he­re are two su­its and two ti­es I bor­ro­wed. Al­so so­me shirts. They sho­uld fi t you. To­mor­row, at the wed­ding, you must al­so ha­ve so­me pa­per mo­ney re­ady to gi­ve to the bri­de. You’ll ne­ed to pin it on to her dress with this.’ She han­ded each man a sa­fety pin.

  ‘Eh, Adam…’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Ale­xi. You ne­ed to bor­row so­me mo­ney.’

  ‘It’s not only me. Yo­la ne­eds so­me too. But she’s too pro­ud to ask.’

  Yo­la flap­ped her hand in ir­ri­ta­ti­on. Her ga­ze was fo­cu­sed on Sa­bir. ‘What we­re you go­ing to tell us in the car? When I stop­ped you?’

  ‘I don’t un­ders­tand…’

  ‘You sa­id you had so­met­hing im­por­tant to say. Well. We’ve eaten. We’ve res­ted. Now you can spe­ak.’

  It had to co­me, tho­ught Sa­bir. I sho­uld ha­ve le­ar­ned by now - Yo­la ne­ver le­aves a thing alo­ne un­til she’s wor­ri­ed the ju­ice out of it. ‘I think you both ought to stay he­re. For the ti­me be­ing, at le­ast.’

  ‘What do you me­an?’

  ‘Ale­xi’s inj­ured. H
e ne­eds to re­cu­pe­ra­te. And you, Yo­la… Well, you had a ter­rib­le shock.’ He re­ac­hed ac­ross the tab­le for his wal­let. ‘I’ve fi­gu­red out the rhyme on the fo­ot of the Black Vir­gin, you see.’ He pul­led out a crump­led pi­ece of pa­per and flat­te­ned it aga­inst his knee. ‘I think it re­fers to Mont­ser­rat. That’s a pla­ce in Spa­in. In the hills abo­ve Bar­ce­lo­na. At le­ast that se­ems to be the gist of it.’

  ‘You think we’re was­ting our ti­me, don’t you? That’s why you don’t want us along? You think this man will ap­pe­ar aga­in and harm us if we con­ti­nue along this path. But wor­se this ti­me, may­be?’

  ‘I think we’re on a dan­ge­ro­us wild go­ose cha­se, yes. Lo­ok. Nost­ra­da­mus, or yo­ur an­ces­tors, or who­ever car­ved the­se things on the Vir­gin’s fe­et - they co­uld ha­ve car­ved stuff on half a hund­red Vir­gins aro­und the co­untry. Things we­re much lo­oser then than they are now. Pe­op­le ma­de pilg­ri­ma­ges all over the pla­ce. It do­esn’t ta­ke a ge­ni­us to work out that eighty per cent of the Vir­gins that exis­ted then are pro­bably go­ne - vic­tims of a do­zen dif­fe­rent re­li­gi­o­us wars. Not to men­ti­on the Re­vo­lu­ti­on, the First and Se­cond World Wars and the war with Prus­sia. Yo­ur pe­op­le we­re no­ma­dic, Yo­la. Far mo­re so than they are now. They spent the­ir ti­me avo­iding ar­mi­es, not go­ing in se­arch of them. It’s odds on that if we find wri­ting on the Mont­ser­rat Vir­gin’s fe­et, it’ll just le­ad us so­mew­he­re el­se. And then so­mew­he­re el­se aga­in. That the ver­ses, or wha­te­ver it is we are se­arc­hing for, are long go­ne.’

  ‘Then why did the man fol­low us? What do­es he want?’

  ‘I think he’s crazy. He’s got so­me no­ti­on in his he­ad that the­re’s mo­ney ti­ed up in this thing and he simply can’t le­ave it alo­ne.’

  ‘You don’t be­li­eve that.’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad. ‘No.’

  ‘So why are you sa­ying this? Don’t you li­ke us any­mo­re?’

  Sa­bir felt mo­men­ta­rily at a loss, as if he had be­en blind-si­ded by a child. ‘Of co­ur­se I li­ke you. The­se last few days… well… they’ve felt li­ke ye­ars. Li­ke we’ve al­ways be­en to­get­her. I don’t know how to exp­la­in it.’

  ‘Be­ca­use we’ve met be­fo­re? Is that what you are sa­ying?’

  ‘Met be­fo­re? No. I wasn’t…’

  ‘Ale­xi has told you I am he­xi. This me­ans I know things so­me­ti­mes. Sen­se things. That hap­pe­ned with you. I ins­tantly sen­sed that you me­ant the right thing by me. That you hadn’t kil­led Ba­bel. I fo­ught aga­inst it, but my ins­tinct told me I was right. Ale­xi felt it too.’ She cast a sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us glan­ce back to­wards the bed. ‘He’s not he­xi, tho­ugh. He’s just a stu­pid gypsy.’

  Ale­xi ma­de a ru­de sign at her but his he­art wasn’t in it. He was watc­hing her in­tently. Lis­te­ning to her words.

  ‘We gypsi­es fe­el things stron­ger than pa­yos and ga­dj­es. We lis­ten to the vo­ices in­si­de us. So­me­ti­mes it sends us wrong. Li­ke it did with Ba­bel. But most ti­mes it’s right.’

  ‘And whe­re’s it sen­ding you now?’

  ‘With you.’

  ‘Yo­la. This man is evil. Lo­ok what he did to you. To Ba­bel. He wo­uld ha­ve kil­led Ale­xi, too, if we’d gi­ven him the ti­me.’

  ‘You we­re go­ing to le­ave wit­ho­ut us. To sne­ak out at night. Li­ke a thi­ef. We­ren’t you?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se I wasn’t.’ Sa­bir co­uld fe­el the lie ref­lec­ted on his fa­ce. Even his mo­uth went lo­ose in the tel­ling of it, muf­fling his words.

  ‘Lis­ten to me. You’re Ba­bel’s phral. He exc­han­ged his blo­od with you. Which me­ans that we are re­la­ted, all three of us, by blo­od as well as by law. So we’re go­ing to this wed­ding. To­get­her. We’re go­ing to be happy and joy­ful and re­mind our­sel­ves of what li­ving on this earth re­al­ly me­ans. Then, when the mor­ning af­ter the wed­ding co­mes, you’ll stand in front of us and tell us whet­her you want us to go with you or not. I owe a duty to you now. You are my brot­her. The he­ad of my fa­mily. If you tell me not to co­me, I shall obey. But you will scar my he­art if you le­ave me be­hind. And Ale­xi lo­ves you li­ke a brot­her. He will we­ep and be sad to know you do not trust him.’

  Ale­xi put on a mo­urn­ful fa­ce, only half mi­ti­ga­ted by the ho­les left by his mis­sing te­eth.

  ‘All right, Ale­xi. You don’t ne­ed to lay it on with a tro­wel.’ Sa­bir sto­od up. ‘Now that you’ve de­ci­ded what it is we ne­ed to do, Yo­la, co­uld you ple­ase tell me if the­re is anyw­he­re to wash and sha­ve aro­und he­re?’

  ‘Co­me out­si­de. I will show you.’

  Sa­bir ca­ught Yo­la’s war­ning lo­ok just as he was abo­ut to inc­lu­de Ale­xi in his in­ten­ded exo­dus. Clutc­hing the blan­ket abo­ut him li­ke a Ro­man to­ga, he fol­lo­wed her out of the hut.

  She sto­od, hands on her hips, lo­oking out over the camp. ‘You see that man? The blond one who is watc­hing us from the steps of the new ca­ra­van?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He wants to kid­nap me.’

  ‘Yo­la…’

  ‘His na­me is Gav­ril. He ha­tes Ale­xi be­ca­use Ale­xi’s fat­her was a chi­ef and ga­ve a ru­ling aga­inst his fa­mily that re­sul­ted in an exi­le.’

  ‘An exi­le?’

  ‘That is when a per­son is ba­nis­hed from the tri­be. Gav­ril is angry, al­so, that he is blond and an only child. Pe­op­le say that he was ab­duc­ted from a ga­dje wo­man. That his mot­her co­uldn’t ha­ve child­ren of her own and so her hus­band did this ter­rib­le thing. So he is do­ubly angry.’

  ‘And yet he wants to kid­nap you?’

  ‘He is not re­al­ly in­te­res­ted in me. He just pes­ters me to go be­hind the hed­ge with him be­ca­use he knows it an­gers Ale­xi. I was ho­ping he wo­uld not be he­re. But he is. He will be happy that Ale­xi has be­en inj­ured. Happy that he has lost so­me te­eth and can­not af­ford to rep­la­ce them.’

  Sa­bir co­uld fe­el the tec­to­nic pla­tes of his for­mer cer­ta­in­ti­es shif­ting and re­set­tling them­sel­ves in­to a subtly dif­fe­rent con­fi­gu­ra­ti­on. He was get­ting used to the fe­eling now. Al­most li­king it. ‘And what do you want me to do abo­ut him?’

  ‘I want you to watch out for Ale­xi. Stay with him. Don’t let him drink too much. In our wed­dings, men and wo­men are se­pa­ra­ted, for the most part and I will not be ab­le to pro­tect him from him­self. This man, Gav­ril, me­ans badly by us. You are Ale­xi’s co­usin. On­ce you’ve be­en int­ro­du­ced to the he­ad man he­re and for­mal­ly in­vi­ted to the wed­ding, pe­op­le will stop sta­ring at you and you will be ab­le to blend in mo­re. No one will da­re to de­no­un­ce you. Now you stick out li­ke an al­bi­no.’

  ‘Yo­la. Can I ask you a qu­es­ti­on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do­es everyt­hing ha­ve to be so dam­ned comp­li­ca­ted aro­und you?’

  56

  Cap­ta­in Bar­to­lo­meo Vil­la­da i Llu­ça­nes, of the Po­li­cia Lo­cal de Ca­ta­lun­ya, of­fe­red Cal­que a Tur­kish ci­ga­ret­te from the am­ber ci­ga­ret­te box he kept in a spe­ci­al­ly car­ved in­den­ta­ti­on on his desk.

  ‘Do I lo­ok li­ke a smo­ker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re right. I am. But my doc­tor has war­ned me to gi­ve up.’

  ‘Do­es yo­ur doc­tor smo­ke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do­es yo­ur un­der­ta­ker smo­ke?’

  ‘Pro­bably.’

  ‘Well then.’

  Cal­que to­ok the ci­ga­ret­te, lit it and in­ha­led. ‘Why is it that so­met­hing which kills you can al­so ma­ke you fe­el the most ali­ve?’

  Vil­la­da sig­hed. ‘It is what is cal­led by
the phi­lo­sop­hers a pa­ra­dox. When God ma­de us, he de­ci­ded that li­te­ra­lism wo­uld be the ba­ne of the world. He the­re­fo­re in­ven­ted the pa­ra­dox to co­un­te­ract it.’

  ‘But how do we co­un­te­ract the pa­ra­dox?’

  ‘By ta­king it li­te­ral­ly. See. You are smo­king. And yet you un­ders­tand the pa­ra­dox of yo­ur po­si­ti­on.’

  Cal­que smi­led. ‘Will you do as I ask, then? Will you ta­ke this risk with yo­ur men? I wo­uld fully un­ders­tand if you de­ci­ded aga­inst it.’

  ‘You re­al­ly be­li­eve that Sa­bir will aban­don his fri­ends and co­me alo­ne? And that the man you call the eye-man will fol­low him?’

  ‘They both ne­ed to know what is on the ba­se of La Mo­re­ni­ta. Just as I do. Can you ar­ran­ge it?’

  ‘A vi­sit to La Mo­re­ni­ta will be ar­ran­ged. In the in­te­rests of cross-bor­der co­ope­ra­ti­on, ne­ed­less to say.’ Vil­la­da ga­ve an iro­ni­cal inc­li­na­ti­on of the he­ad. ‘As for the ot­her thing…’ He tap­ped his ligh­ter on the desk, swi­vel­ling it from back to front bet­we­en his fin­gers. ‘I shall sta­ke out the Sanc­tu­ary, as you sug­gest. For three nights only. The Vir­gen de Mont­ser­rat has much sig­ni­fi­can­ce for Ca­ta­lun­ya. My mot­her wo­uld ne­ver for­gi­ve me if I al­lo­wed her to be vi­ola­ted.’

  57

  Sa­bir didn’t fe­el en­ti­rely com­for­tab­le in his bor­ro­wed su­it. The la­pels we­re ne­arly a fo­ot wi­de and the jac­ket fit­ted him li­ke a mor­ning co­at - in fact, it ma­de him lo­ok li­ke Cab Cal­lo­way in Stormy We­at­her. The shirt, too, left so­met­hing to be de­si­red; he had ne­ver be­en fond of sunf­lo­wers and wa­terw­he­els, par­ti­cu­larly in terms of cre­ati­ve de­sign. The tie was of the flu­ores­cent kip­per va­ri­ety and clas­hed abo­mi­nably with his shirt, which it­self clas­hed with the ma­ro­on stri­pes which so­me joker of a ta­ilor had al­lo­wed to be in­ter­le­aved thro­ug­ho­ut the su­iting ma­te­ri­al. At le­ast the sho­es we­re his own.

 

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