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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 24

by Mario Reading


  The wo­man smi­led. ‘No. I am her pri­va­te sec­re­tary. My na­me is Ma­da­me Mas­ti­gou. And Ma­da­me’s cor­rect tit­le is Ma­da­me la Com­tes­se. The Mar­qu­isa­te is con­si­de­red the les­ser tit­le by the fa­mily.’

  Mac­ron flas­hed his te­eth in a de­ligh­ted grin be­hind Cal­que’s back. That wo­uld te­ach the snotty bas­tard. Ser­ve him right to be such a snob. He al­ways had to know everyt­hing abo­ut everyt­hing. And still he mes­sed up.

  ‘Ha­ve you both be­en in a car ac­ci­dent? I no­ti­ce yo­ur as­sis­tant is lim­ping. And you, if I may say so, Cap­ta­in, lo­ok as tho­ugh you’ve co­me stra­ight from the wars.’

  Cal­que ga­ve a ru­eful ack­now­led­ge­ment of his arm sling and of the ta­pe still criss-cros­sing his newly-sha­ped no­se. ‘That is just what hap­pe­ned, Ma­da­me. We we­re in pur­su­it of a cri­mi­nal. A very vi­ci­o­us cri­mi­nal. Which is why we are he­re to­day.’

  ‘You don’t ex­pect to find him in the ho­use, su­rely?’

  ‘No, Ma­da­me. We are in­ves­ti­ga­ting a pis­tol known to ha­ve be­en in his pos­ses­si­on. This is why we wish to talk to yo­ur emp­lo­yer. The pis­tol may well ha­ve be­lon­ged to her fat­her. We ne­ed to tra­ce its iti­ne­rary over the past se­venty-fi­ve ye­ars.’

  ‘Se­venty-fi­ve ye­ars?’

  ‘Sin­ce its first re­gist­ra­ti­on in the early 1930s. Yes.’

  ‘It was re­gis­te­red in the 1930s?’

  ‘Yes. The early 1930s.’

  ‘Then it wo­uld ha­ve be­lon­ged to Ma­da­me la Com­tes­se’s hus­band. He is de­ad.’

  ‘I see.’ Cal­que co­uld sen­se rat­her than see Mac­ron rol­ling his eyes be­hind him. ‘Ma­da­me la Com­tes­se is a very el­derly lady, then?’

  ‘Hardly, Mon­si­e­ur. She was forty ye­ars yo­un­ger than Mon­si­e­ur le Com­te when they mar­ri­ed in the 1970s.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But ple­ase. Co­me with me. Ma­da­me la Com­tes­se is ex­pec­ting you.’

  Cal­que fol­lo­wed Ma­da­me Mas­ti­gou to­wards the ho­use, with Mac­ron lim­ping along be­hind. As they re­ac­hed the front do­or, a ho­ve­ring fo­ot­man re­ac­hed ac­ross and ope­ned it.

  ‘This can’t be hap­pe­ning,’ whis­pe­red Mac­ron. ‘This is a film­set. Or so­me sort of joke. Pe­op­le don’t li­ve li­ke this any­mo­re.’

  Cal­que pre­ten­ded not to he­ar him. He al­lo­wed the fo­ot­man to ste­ady him up the front steps with only the ligh­test of to­uc­hes on his uni­nj­ured arm. Sec­retly, he was rat­her gra­te­ful for the sup­port, for he had be­en dis­gu­ising from Mac­ron just how fra­gi­le he re­al­ly felt for fe­ar of lo­sing gro­und. Mac­ron was a pro­duct of the bi­don­vil­les - a stre­et figh­ter - al­ways on the lo­oko­ut for we­ak­ness. Cal­que knew that his only re­al ad­van­ta­ge lay in his bra­in and in the depth of his know­led­ge abo­ut the world and its his­tory. Lo­se that ed­ge and he was de­ad me­at.

  ‘Ma­da­me la Com­tes­se is wa­iting for you in the lib­rary.’

  Cal­que fol­lo­wed the fo­ot­man’s outst­retc­hed arm. The sec­re­tary, or wha­te­ver she was, was al­re­ady an­no­un­cing them.

  He­re we go, he tho­ught. Anot­her wild go­ose cha­se. I sho­uld ta­ke the sport up pro­fes­si­onal­ly. At this ra­te, when we get back to Pa­ris - and with Mac­ron’s gle­eful in­put aro­und the of­fi­ce - I shall be­co­me the la­ug­hing stock of the en­ti­re 2ème ar­ron­dis­se­ment.

  28

  ‘Lo­ok. It’s Ba­ze­na.’ Ale­xi was abo­ut to throw up his arm, but Sa­bir stop­ped him.

  The two of them step­ped back, in tan­dem, be­hind the scre­en se­pa­ra­ting two out­si­de shopf­ronts.

  ‘What’s she do­ing?’

  Ale­xi cra­ned aro­und the scre­en. ‘I don’t be­li­eve this.’

  ‘Be­li­eve what?’

  ‘She’s beg­ging.’ He tur­ned to Sa­bir. ‘I’m se­ri­o­us. If her fat­her or her brot­her saw her, they’d ta­ke a hor­sew­hip to her.’

  ‘Why? I see gypsi­es beg­ging all the ti­me.’

  ‘Not gypsi­es li­ke Ba­ze­na. Not from fa­mi­li­es li­ke hers. Her fat­her is a very pro­ud man. You wo­uldn’t want to get on the wrong si­de of him. Even I wo­uld think twi­ce.’ He spat on his hands su­pers­ti­ti­o­usly.

  ‘Then what’s she do­ing it for?’

  Ale­xi clo­sed his eyes. ‘Hold it. Let me think.’

  Sa­bir dar­ted his he­ad aro­und the cor­ner of the scre­en and chec­ked out the squ­are.

  Ale­xi grab­bed him by the shirt. ‘I’ve got it! It has to be so­met­hing to do with Gav­ril. Per­haps he’s got her lo­oking out for us?’

  ‘Why do­esn’t he lo­ok-out for us him­self?’

  ‘Be­ca­use he’s a lazy so­no­fa­bitch.’

  ‘I see. You’re not pre­j­udi­ced, by any chan­ce?’

  Ale­xi cur­sed un­der his bre­ath. ‘What do we do, Da­mo? We can’t go in­to the Sanc­tu­ary with Ba­ze­na the­re. She’ll run off and tell Gav­ril and he’ll blun­der in and mess everyt­hing up.’

  ‘We’ll get Yo­la to talk to her.’

  ‘What go­od will that do?’

  ‘Yo­la will think of so­met­hing to say. She al­ways do­es.’

  Ale­xi nod­ded, as if the com­ment se­emed self-evi­dent to him. ‘Okay then. Stay he­re. I will find her.’

  ***

  Ale­xi fo­und his co­usin se­ated with a gag­gle of her girlf­ri­ends, exactly as pre­ar­ran­ged, out­si­de the town hall, on the Pla­ce des Gi­tans. ‘Yo­la. We’ve got a prob­lem.’

  ‘You’ve se­en the eye-man?’

  ‘No. But ne­arly as bad. Gav­ril has sta­ked out the church - he’s got Ba­ze­na beg­ging ne­ar the do­or­way.’

  ‘Ba­ze­na? Beg­ging? But her fat­her will kill her.’

  ‘I know that. I al­re­ady told Da­mo.’

  ‘So what are you go­ing to do?’

  ‘I’m not go­ing to do anyt­hing. You are.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You are go­ing to talk to her. Da­mo says you al­ways know what to say.’

  ‘He says that, do­es he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  One of the ot­her girls star­ted to gig­gle.

  Yo­la tug­ged at the girl’s bre­asts. ‘Be qu­ite, Ye­le­ni. I’ve got to think.’

  It surp­ri­sed Ale­xi that the girls he­ar­ke­ned to Yo­la and didn’t simply ans­wer her back, as they cus­to­ma­rily did to an­yo­ne her age who was still of spinst­ress rank. Nor­mal­ly, the fact that she was so la­te un­mar­ri­ed wo­uld ha­ve di­mi­nis­hed her sta­tus in the fe­ma­le com­mu­nity - for so­me of the­se yo­ung wo­men had al­re­ady gi­ven birth, or we­re preg­nant for the se­cond or third ti­me. But he had to ad­mit that Yo­la had a par­ti­cu­lar air abo­ut her which com­man­ded at­ten­ti­on. It wo­uld cer­ta­inly ref­lect well on him, we­re he to marry her.

  Still. The tho­ught of Yo­la ke­eping an eye on all his do­ings fil­led him with a pres­ci­ent dre­ad. Ale­xi ack­now­led­ged that he was we­ak-wil­led when it ca­me to wo­men. It was next to im­pos­sib­le for him to pass up any op­por­tu­nity what­so­ever to swe­et-talk ga­dje girls. Yo­la was right. And that was all very well as things went. But on­ce they we­re mar­ri­ed, she was not the sort of wo­man to turn a blind eye to such pro­ce­edings. She’d pro­bably cast­ra­te him whi­le he was as­le­ep.

  ‘Ale­xi, what are you thin­king abo­ut?’

  ‘Me? Oh, not­hing. Not­hing at all.’

  ‘Then go and tell Da­mo that I shall cle­ar the way for us to go to the Sanc­tu­ary. But not to be surp­ri­sed at how I do it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ale­xi was still thin­king abo­ut what it wo­uld be li­ke to be po­iso­ned or cast­ra­ted. He didn’t know which he wo­uld pre­fer. Both
se­emed ine­vi­tab­le if he mar­ri­ed Yo­la.

  ‘Did you he­ar me?’

  ‘Su­re. Su­re I he­ard you.’

  ‘And if you see Gav­ril and he do­esn’t see you, avo­id him.’

  29

  ‘Cap­ta­in Cal­que? Ple­ase sit down. And you, too, Li­e­ute­nant.’

  Cal­que col­lap­sed gra­te­ful­ly on to one of the three lar­ge so­fas set aro­und the fi­rep­la­ce. Then he le­ve­red him­self back-up whi­le the Co­un­tess sat down.

  Mac­ron, who had at first be­en temp­ted to perch on the arm of one of the so­fas and dang­le the so­les of his pa­in­ful fe­et in the air, tho­ught bet­ter of it and jo­ined him.

  ‘Wo­uld you both li­ke so­me cof­fee?’

  ‘That’s qu­ite all right.’

  ‘I shall or­der so­me for myself then. I al­ways ha­ve cof­fee at this ho­ur.’

  Cal­que lo­oked li­ke a man who had for­got­ten to buy his lot­tery tic­ket and who­se num­bers had just flas­hed up on the te­le­vi­si­on scre­en.

  ‘Are you su­re you won’t jo­in me?’

  ‘Well. Now that you men­ti­on it.’

  ‘Excel­lent. Mi­lo­u­ins, a pot of cof­fee for three, ple­ase. And bring so­me ma­de­le­ines.’

  ‘Yes, Ma­da­me.’ The fo­ot­man bac­ked out of the ro­om.

  Mac­ron ma­de anot­her inc­re­du­lo­us fa­ce but Cal­que re­fu­sed to me­et his eyes.

  ‘This is our sum­mer ho­use, Cap­ta­in. In the ni­ne­te­enth cen­tury it used to be our win­ter ho­use, but everyt­hing chan­ges, do­es it not? Now pe­op­le se­ek out the sun. The hot­ter the bet­ter, no?’

  Cal­que felt li­ke blo­wing out his che­eks, but didn’t. He felt li­ke a ci­ga­ret­te, but sus­pec­ted that he might simply set off a hid­den smo­ke alarm - or trig­ger a ruc­kus abo­ut asht­rays - if he ga­ve in to his cra­ving. He re­sol­ved to for­go both and not su­bj­ect him­self to any mo­re stress than was strictly ne­ces­sary. ‘I wan­ted to ask you so­met­hing, Ma­da­me. Pu­rely as a mat­ter of re­cord. Abo­ut yo­ur hus­band’s tit­les.’

  ‘My son’s tit­les.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Yo­ur son’s tit­les. Simp­le cu­ri­osity. Yo­ur son is a Pa­ir de Fran­ce, is he not?’

  ‘Yes. That is cor­rect.’

  ‘But I un­ders­to­od the­re to be only twel­ve Pa­irs de Fran­ce. Ple­ase cor­rect me if I am wrong.’ He held up his fin­gers. ‘The Arch­bis­hop of Re­ims, who tra­di­ti­onal­ly con­duc­ted the Ro­yal crow­ning. The Bis­hops of La­on, Lang­res, Be­a­uva­is, Châlons and No­yons, who, res­pec­ti­vely, ano­in­ted the King and bo­re his scept­re, his mant­le, his ring and his belt. And then the­re we­re the Du­kes of Nor­mandy, Bur­gundy and Aqu­ita­ine (also known as Gu­yen­ne). The Du­ke of Bur­gundy bo­re the crown and fas­te­ned the belt. Nor­mandy held the first squ­are ban­ner, with Gu­yen­ne hol­ding the se­cond. Fi­nal­ly the­re we­re the Co­unts: Cham­pag­ne, Flan­ders and To­ulo­use. To­ulo­use car­ri­ed the spurs, Flan­ders the sword and Cham­pag­ne the Ro­yal Stan­dard. Am I not cor­rect?’

  ‘Extra­or­di­na­rily so. One wo­uld think that you had just this mi­nu­te lo­oked the­se na­mes up in a bo­ok and me­mo­ri­sed them.’

  Cal­que fl us­hed. He co­uld fe­el the blo­od chur­ning thro­ugh his da­ma­ged no­se.

  ‘No, Ma­da­me. Cap­ta­in Cal­que re­al­ly do­es know his stuff.’

  Cal­que ga­ve Mac­ron an inc­re­du­lo­us sta­re. Go­od God. We­re we tal­king class so­li­da­rity he­re? That had to be the ans­wer. The­re co­uld be no ot­her pos­sib­le re­ason for Mac­ron to de­fend him so se­du­lo­usly and in so pub­lic a man­ner. Cal­que inc­li­ned his he­ad in ge­nu­ine ap­pre­ci­ati­on. He must re­mem­ber to ma­ke mo­re of an ef­fort with Mac­ron. En­co­ura­ge him mo­re. Cal­que even felt the ves­ti­ge of a slight af­fec­ti­on clo­uding his ha­bi­tu­al ir­ri­ta­ti­on at Mac­ron’s yo­uth­ful brash­ness. ‘And so we co­me to yo­ur hus­band’s fa­mily, Ma­da­me. For­gi­ve me.

  But I still don’t un­ders­tand. This wo­uld su­rely ma­ke them the thir­te­enth Pa­ir? But no re­cord of such a Pa­ir exists, as far as I am awa­re. What wo­uld yo­ur hus­band’s an­ces­tor ha­ve car­ri­ed du­ring the Co­ro­na­ti­on?’

  ‘He wo­uldn’t ha­ve car­ri­ed anyt­hing, Cap­ta­in. He wo­uld ha­ve pro­tec­ted.’

  ‘Pro­tec­ted? Pro­tec­ted from whom?’

  The Co­un­tess smi­led. ‘From the De­vil, of co­ur­se.’

  30

  Yo­la felt that she’d ti­med her two in­ter­ven­ti­ons just abo­ut per­fectly. First she’d sent Ye­le­ni to wa­ke Gav­ril and tell him that Ba­ze­na ne­eded to spe­ak to him. Ur­gently.

  Then she’d al­lo­wed fi­ve mi­nu­tes to go by be­fo­re hur­rying to tell Ba­du, Ba­ze­na’s fat­her, that his da­ugh­ter had just be­en se­en beg­ging out­si­de the church. The fi­ve mi­nu­tes we­re to al­low for the fact that Ba­du and Ste­fan, Ba­ze­na’s brot­her, wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly hit the gro­und run­ning the mo­ment they he­ard the news. Now Yo­la was run­ning her­self, un­wil­ling to miss the un­ra­vel­ling of her plot.

  Ale­xi saw her co­ming. ‘Lo­ok. It’s Yo­la. And over the­re. Gav­ril. Oh shit. Ba­du and Ste­fan.’

  To Sa­bir it se­emed as if the sce­ne had be­en lo­osely mo­del­led on the car cha­se from the ori­gi­nal Pink Pant­her fi lm - the one in which the old man, be­wil­de­red by the plet­ho­ra of po­li­ce cars and two hor­se­po­wer Cit­ro­ens circ­ling the squ­are in front of him, fi­nal­ly brings out his armc­ha­ir, plumps it down in a pri­me lo­ca­ti­on and watc­hes the out­co­me in com­fort.

  Gav­ril, en­ti­rely una­wa­re of Ba­du and Ste­fan, was hur­rying to­wards Ba­ze­na. She, ca­ught in flag­ran­te, with a cloth la­id out in front of her co­ve­red in co­ins, had just no­ti­ced her fat­her and brot­her. She sto­od up and cal­led out to Gav­ril. Gav­ril stop­ped. Ba­ze­na mo­ti­oned him vi­olently away. Ba­du and Ste­fan saw the mo­ve­ment, tur­ned and re­cog­ni­sed Gav­ril. Gav­ril, ins­te­ad of stan­ding his gro­und and simply ple­ading ig­no­ran­ce, de­ci­ded to do a bunk. Ba­du and Ste­fan split up - a mo­ve that they had ob­vi­o­usly prac­ti­sed on nu­me­ro­us oc­ca­si­ons be­fo­re - and ca­me at Gav­ril from op­po­sing hal­ves of the squ­are. Ba­ze­na star­ted scre­aming and pul­ling at her ha­ir.

  Wit­hin a span of ni­nety se­conds from the start of Yo­la’s plan, may­be fifty gypsi­es, of all se­xes and ages, had con­ver­ged, as if from now­he­re, on the cent­re of the squ­are. Gav­ril was bac­king up in front of Ba­du and Ste­fan, who had the­ir kni­ves out. Pe­op­le we­re flo­oding out from in­si­de the Sanc­tu­ary to see what all the com­mo­ti­on was abo­ut. Two po­li­ce­men on mo­torcyc­les we­re ap­pro­ac­hing from anot­her part of town, but gypsi­es we­re al­re­ady im­pe­ding them and ma­king su­re the­ir vi­ew of the fight was spo­ilt. Ba­ze­na had thrown her­self aro­und her fat­her’s neck and was han­ging on for de­ar li­fe, whi­le her brot­her was circ­ling Gav­ril, who al­so had his kni­fe out but was still busy fid­dling with the me­tal loc­king ring.

  ‘This is it. This is my mo­ment.’ Ale­xi dar­ted away amongst the crowd be­fo­re Sa­bir co­uld qu­es­ti­on his in­ten­ti­ons.

  ‘Ale­xi! For Christ’s sa­ke! Ke­ep out of it!’

  But it was too la­te to stop him. Ale­xi was al­re­ady sprin­ting aro­und the pe­rip­hery of the crowd in the di­rec­ti­on of the church.

  31

  Ale­xi had be­en a mas­ter thi­ef all his li­fe - and mas­ter thi­eves know how to use hap­pens­tan­ce. To be­ne­fit from the mo­ment.

  He was cer­ta­in that the watch­man wo­uld even­tu­al­ly be temp­ted out of the Sanc­tu­ary. How co­uld he not be, when the en­ti­re cong­re­ga­ti­on of the chur
ch had exi­ted in a dro­ve be­fo­re him, spur­red on by cu­ri­osity abo­ut what might be hap­pe­ning abo­ve them in the squ­are?

  Ale­xi co­uld ima­gi­ne the se­qu­en­ce of tho­ughts that wo­uld be pas­sing thro­ugh the se­cu­rity gu­ard’s he­ad. His duty, su­rely, lay out­si­de? Sa­in­te Sa­ra co­uld lo­ok af­ter her­self for a few mo­ments, co­uld she not? The­re was no for­mal thre­at aga­inst her that he knew of. No­body had war­ned him to ta­ke es­pe­ci­al ca­re. What harm wo­uld it do to bre­ak up the mor­ning’s mo­no­tony with a bre­ath of fresh air and a ri­ot?

  He had just sec­re­ted him­self on the right-hand si­de of the ma­in do­or when the watch­man burst thro­ugh at the ta­il of the crowd, his fa­ce alight with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on. Ale­xi dar­ted in be­hind him and stra­ight down to the Sanc­tu­ary. He had be­en co­ming to this pla­ce all his li­fe. He knew its ge­og­raphy li­ke the back of his hand.

  Sa­in­te Sa­ra was stan­ding in a cor­ner of the de­ser­ted crypt, sur­ro­un­ded by vo­ti­ve of­fe­rings, pho­tog­raphs, cand­les, knick­knacks, po­ems, pla­qu­es, black­bo­ards with pe­op­le’s na­mes insc­ri­bed and flo­wers - many, many flo­wers. She was dres­sed in at le­ast twenty la­yers of do­na­ted clot­hing, in­ter­le­aved with ca­pes, rib­bons and hand-stitc­hed ve­ils, with only her ma­ho­gany-brown fa­ce, dwar­fed by its sil­ver crown, pe­eping thro­ugh the stif­ling den­sity of the fab­ric sur­ro­un­ding her.

  Cros­sing him­self su­pers­ti­ti­o­usly and cas­ting a ‘ple­ase for­gi­ve me’ glan­ce at the ne­arest cru­ci­fix, Ale­xi upen­ded Sa­ra-e-ka­li and ran his hand ac­ross her ba­se. Not­hing. It was as smo­oth as ala­bas­ter.

  With a des­pe­ra­te glan­ce at the ent­ran­ce to the crypt, Ale­xi mut­te­red a pra­yer, to­ok out his penk­ni­fe and be­gan scra­ping.

  ***

  Achor Ba­le had watc­hed the ra­pid un­fol­ding of events in the squ­are in front of him with ke­en in­te­rest. First the hasty ap­pe­aran­ce of the blond idi­ot - then the two angry gypsi­es, be­aring down on the beg­ging girlf­ri­end. Then the beg­ging girlf­ri­end crying out and dra­wing ever­yo­ne’s at­ten­ti­on to the blond boyf­ri­end, who wo­uld ot­her­wi­se ha­ve un­do­ub­tedly no­ti­ced what was hap­pe­ning be­fo­re an­yo­ne had a chan­ce to see him and be­en ab­le to ma­ke him­self scar­ce be­fo­re the shit re­al­ly hit the fan. Which it was do­ing now.

 

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