THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  The cu­ran­de­ro la­id his bur­ning twigs asi­de in a dish and mo­ved to the he­ad of the bed. He to­ok Ale­xi’s he­ad in his hands and sto­od si­lently, with his eyes shut, in an at­ti­tu­de of in­ten­se con­cent­ra­ti­on.

  Sa­bir, who was not used to squ­at­ting, co­uld fe­el his thighs be­gin­ning to const­rict with the ten­si­on. He didn’t da­re to mo­ve, tho­ugh, for fe­ar of bre­aking the cu­ran­de­ro’s tran­ce. He glan­ced at Yo­la, ho­ping that she might so­me­how de­du­ce his prob­lem and of­fer him so­me gu­idan­ce, but her ga­ze re­ma­ined firmly fi­xed on the cu­ran­de­ro.

  Even­tu­al­ly, Sa­bir al­lo­wed him­self to sli­de back­wards down the wall of the ca­ra­van un­til he en­ded up with his rump on the flo­or and his legs stretc­hed out be­ne­ath the bed. No­body no­ti­ced him. He be­gan to bre­at­he mo­re fre­ely aga­in. Then the cramp hit him.

  Gras­ping his left thigh with both hands, he squ­e­ezed for all he was worth, writ­hing away from the bed, his te­eth loc­ked to­get­her in a ric­tus of pa­in. He wan­ted to yell, but didn’t da­re to dis­rupt pro­ce­edings any furt­her than he al­re­ady had.

  Li­ke a plas­tic match un­ra­vel­ling, he tur­ned first on to his front, one leg stretc­hed out be­hind him and then scis­so­red over on to his si­de when the cramp ca­me back.

  He was be­yond ca­ring what any­body el­se tho­ught of him by this ti­me and be­gan to drag him­self, li­ke a slug, to­wards the do­or, be­yond which the ever-watch­ful Ser­ge­ant Spo­la no do­ubt awa­ited him.

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t me­an to dis­rupt pro­ce­edings li­ke that. Only I got the cramp.’

  Yo­la sat down be­si­de him and be­gan rub­bing at his leg. Sa­bir was by now so far in­doct­ri­na­ted by gypsy cus­tom that he lo­oked gu­il­tily aro­und in ca­se any of her wo­men fri­ends might see her and be out­ra­ged at her pol­lu­ting - or be­ing pol­lu­ted by (he still didn’t qu­ite un­ders­tand which) - a ga­dje.

  ‘It’s all right. The cu­ran­de­ro is very happy. You to­ok away much of Ale­xi’s pa­in.’

  ‘I to­ok away Ale­xi’s pa­in? You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Yes. Un­der the cu­ran­de­ro’s hands it trans­fer­red it­self to you. You must fe­el very clo­se to Ale­xi. I had tho­ught that it wo­uld trans­fer to me.’

  Sa­bir was still in far too much pa­in to even con­si­der la­ug­hing. ‘How long do­es this trans­fer last?’

  ‘Oh, a few mi­nu­tes only. You are a…’ Yo­la he­si­ta­ted.

  ‘No. Don’t tell me. A con­du­it?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘So­met­hing which le­ads to so­met­hing el­se.’

  She nod­ded. ‘Yes. You are a con­du­it. Un­less the pa­in finds so­mew­he­re el­se to go, it will stay with Ale­xi. That was why I ca­me to help. But the pa­in wo­uld not ne­ces­sa­rily find me. It might find anot­her tar­get, that co­uld not de­al with it. Then it wo­uld re­turn, much stron­ger and Ale­xi might die. The cu­ran­de­ro is very ple­ased with you.’

  ‘That’s big of him.’

  ‘No. Don’t la­ugh, Da­mo. The cu­ran­de­ro is a wi­se man. He is my te­ac­her. But he says you, too, co­uld be a cu­ran­de­ro. A sha­man. You ha­ve the ca­pa­city in­si­de you. You only lack the will.’

  ‘And any un­ders­tan­ding of what the heck he’s tal­king abo­ut.’

  Yo­la smi­led. She was be­gin­ning to un­ders­tand Sa­bir’s ga­dje dif­fi den­ce by this ti­me and to at­tri­bu­te less im­por­tan­ce to it than he­re­to­fo­re. ‘When he’s fi­nis­hed with Ale­xi he wants to gi­ve you so­met­hing.’

  ‘Gi­ve me so­met­hing?’

  ‘Yes. I ha­ve exp­la­ined to him abo­ut the eye-man and he is very wor­ri­ed for us both. He pic­ked up the evil on me that the eye-man left and he has cle­aned me free of it.’

  ‘What? Li­ke he was cle­aning Ale­xi?’

  ‘Yes. The Spa­nish call it una lim­pia - a cle­an­sing. We don’t re­al­ly ha­ve a word for it, as no gypsy can be cle­aned of the­ir abi­lity to pol­lu­te. But evil that anot­her has plan­ted on us may be ta­ken off.’

  ‘And the eye-man plan­ted evil on you?’

  ‘No. But his own evil was so strong that his con­nec­ti­on to me - the re­la­ti­ons­hip he for­ged with me when I was stan­ding on the sto­ol, wa­iting to be han­ged - this was eno­ugh to pol­lu­te me.’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad in dis­be­li­ef.

  ‘Lis­ten, Da­mo. The eye-man re­ad a story to me at that ti­me. A story of a wo­man be­ing tor­tu­red by the In­qu­isi­ti­on. This was a ter­rib­le thing to he­ar. The evil of this story set­tled on me li­ke dust. I co­uld fe­el it sif­ting thro­ugh the bag co­ve­ring my he­ad and set­tling abo­ut my sho­ul­ders. I co­uld fe­el it eating in­to my so­ul and blan­ke­ting it with dark­ness. If I had di­ed stra­ight af­ter he­aring this story, as the eye-man in­ten­ded, my lac­ha wo­uld ha­ve be­en tar­nis­hed and my so­ul wo­uld ha­ve be­en sick be­fo­re God.’

  ‘Yo­la, how can so­me­one el­se do such a thing to you? Yo­ur so­ul is yo­ur own.’

  ‘Oh, no, Da­mo. No. No one owns the­ir own so­ul. It is a gift. A part of God. And we ta­ke it back to Him when we die and of­fer it to Him as our sac­ri­fi­ce. Then we are jud­ged on the strength of it. That is why the cu­ran­de­ro ne­eded to cle­an me. God works thro­ugh him, wit­ho­ut the cu­ran­de­ro kno­wing how or why it is do­ne, or why he has be­en cho­sen - just as God wor­ked thro­ugh the prop­het Nost­ra­da­mus, who was cho­sen to see things that ot­her men co­uld not. The sa­me thing hap­pe­ned with yo­ur cramp. God cho­se you to ta­ke Ale­xi’s pa­in away. He will be well now. You’ve no ne­ed to worry any­mo­re.’

  Sa­bir watc­hed Yo­la walk away from him and back to­wards the ca­ra­van.

  One day he’d un­ders­tand all this, su­rely? One day he’d re-atta­in the simp­li­city that he’d lost as a child - the simp­li­city that the­se pe­op­le he lo­ved ap­pe­ared to ha­ve held on to in the fa­ce of every last obst­ruc­ti­on that li­fe ca­red to put in the­ir way.

  69

  The cu­ran­de­ro still tra­vel­led by hor­se-drawn ca­ra­van. He had fo­und him­self a pitch at a ri­ding stab­les abo­ut two ki­lo­met­res out of town, on the right bank of the Etang des La­unes. His hor­se pre­sen­ted an un­na­tu­ral slash of brown amidst the pre­do­mi­nant whi­te of the gar­di­en po­ni­es in the cor­ral.

  As Sa­bir ap­pro­ac­hed, the cu­ran­de­ro po­in­ted to the gro­und out­si­de his front steps. Yo­la was al­re­ady squ­at­ting the­re, an ex­pec­tant exp­res­si­on on her fa­ce.

  Sa­bir ga­ve a ve­he­ment sha­ke of the he­ad, one eye still fi­xed on Ser­ge­ant Spo­la who was lur­king ne­ar his car at the ro­ad­si­de. ‘I’m not squ­at­ting anyw­he­re. Be­li­eve me. I’ve ne­ver had cramp li­ke that be­fo­re. And I don’t want it aga­in.’

  The cu­ran­de­ro he­si­ta­ted, smi­ling, as if he didn’t qu­ite un­ders­tand Sa­bir’s use of the ver­na­cu­lar. Then he di­sap­pe­ared in­si­de the ca­ra­van.

  ‘He un­ders­tands French, do­esn’t he?’ Sa­bir whis­pe­red.

  ‘He spe­aks Sin­to, Ca­lo, Spa­nish and Ro­ma­ni-Cib. French is his fifth lan­gu­age.’ Yo­la lo­oked em­bar­ras­sed, as if the me­re su­bj­ect of how much the cu­ran­de­ro might or might not be ab­le to un­ders­tand was subtly out of or­der.

  ‘What’s his na­me?’

  ‘You ne­ver use his na­me. Pe­op­le just call him cu­ran­de­ro. When he be­ca­me a sha­man, he lost his na­me, his fa­mily and all that con­nec­ted him to the tri­be.’

  ‘But I tho­ught you sa­id he was the co­usin of yo­ur fat­her?’

  ‘He is the co­usin of my fat­her. He was that be­fo­re he be­ca­me a sha­man. And my fat­her
is de­ad. So he is still the co­usin of my fat­her. They cal­led him Al­fe­go, back then. Al­fe­go Ze­na­vir. Now he is simply cu­ran­de­ro.’

  Sa­bir was sa­ved from furt­her be­wil­der­ment when the cu­ran­de­ro re-emer­ged, bran­dis­hing a sto­ol. ‘Sit. Sit he­re. No cramp. Ha ha!’

  ‘Yes. No cramp. Cramp a bad thing.’ Sa­bir lo­oked un­cer­ta­inly at the sto­ol.

  ‘Bad thing? No. A go­od thing. You ta­ke pa­in from Ale­xi. Very go­od. Cramp not hurt you. You a yo­ung man. So­on go­ne.’

  ‘So­on go­ne. Yes.’ Sa­bir didn’t so­und con­vin­ced. He bac­ked on to the sto­ol, stretc­hing his leg ca­re­ful­ly out ahe­ad of him li­ke a go­ut vic­tim.

  ‘You mar­ri­ed al­re­ady?’

  Sa­bir glan­ced at Yo­la, un­su­re what the cu­ran­de­ro was get­ting at. But Yo­la was do­ing her usu­al trick of con­cent­ra­ting in­ten­sely on the cu­ran­de­ro and po­in­tedly re­fu­sing to no­ti­ce any stra­te­gi­es Sa­bir might ca­re to use to ga­in her at­ten­ti­on.

  ‘No. Not mar­ri­ed. No.’

  ‘Go­od. Go­od. This is go­od. A sha­man sho­uld ne­ver marry.’

  ‘But I’m not a sha­man.’

  ‘Not yet. Not yet. Ho ho.’

  Sa­bir was be­gin­ning to won­der whet­her the cu­ran­de­ro might not in fact be short of a few marb­les - but the stern exp­res­si­on on Yo­la’s fa­ce was eno­ugh to di­sa­bu­se him of that no­ti­on.

  After a short pa­use for pra­yer, the cu­ran­de­ro felt in­si­de his shirt and drew out a neck­let, which he pla­ced aro­und Yo­la’s neck. He to­uc­hed her on­ce with his fin­ger, along the par­ting of her ha­ir. Sa­bir re­ali­sed that he was spe­aking to her in Sin­to.

  Then the cu­ran­de­ro mo­ved ac­ross to him. Af­ter anot­her pa­use for pra­yer, the man felt aro­und in­si­de his shirt and drew out a se­cond neck­let. He pla­ced it aro­und Sa­bir’s neck and then to­ok Sa­bir’s he­ad in both his hands. He sto­od for a long ti­me, his eyes shut, hol­ding Sa­bir’s he­ad. Af­ter a whi­le Sa­bir felt his eyes clo­sing and a rat­her com­for­ting dark­ness obt­ru­de it­self upon the sur­ro­un­ding day.

  With no ap­pa­rent ef­fort, Sa­bir sud­denly fo­und him­self watc­hing the back of his own eyes - rat­her as an int­ru­der in a ci­ne­ma might find him­self sta­ring at the re­ver­se ima­ge on the re­ar of a pro­j­ec­ti­on scre­en. First, the ap­pro­ac­hing dark­ness tur­ned to a ro­se­ate hue, li­ke wa­ter that has be­en imb­ru­ed with blo­od. Then a tiny fa­ce se­emed to form it­self a long way away from him. As he watc­hed, the fa­ce slowly be­gan to ap­pro­ach, ga­ining in pre­ci­si­on the clo­ser it ca­me, un­til Sa­bir was ab­le to ma­ke out his own fe­atu­res cle­arly imp­rin­ted on its physi­og­nomy. The fa­ce ca­me clo­ser still, un­til it pas­sed cle­an thro­ugh the no­ti­onal scre­en in front of him, to di­sap­pe­ar via the re­ar of Sa­bir’s own he­ad.

  The cu­ran­de­ro mo­ved away from him, nod­ding in sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  Sa­bir ope­ned his eyes as wi­de as they wo­uld go. He felt temp­ted to stretch him­self - rat­her li­ke a cor­mo­rant drying its wings on a rock - but for so­me re­ason he felt physi­cal­ly abas­hed in front of the cu­ran­de­ro and con­ten­ted him­self with a se­ri­es of small cir­cu­lar mo­ve­ments of the sho­ul­ders. ‘I saw my own fa­ce ap­pro­ac­hing me. Then it se­emed to pass right thro­ugh me. Is that nor­mal?’

  The cu­ran­de­ro nod­ded aga­in, as if what Sa­bir sa­id did not surp­ri­se him. But he se­emed in no mo­od to spe­ak.

  ‘What is this?’ Sa­bir po­in­ted to the neck­let res­ting just abo­ve his ster­num.

  ‘Sa­ma­na’s da­ugh­ter will tell you. I am ti­red. I will sle­ep.’ The cu­ran­de­ro ra­ised a hand in fa­re­well and duc­ked in thro­ugh the do­or­way of his ca­ra­van.

  Sa­bir glan­ced down at Yo­la to see what ef­fect the cu­ran­de­ro’s stran­ge be­ha­vi­o­ur might be ha­ving on her. To his as­to­nish­ment, she was crying. ‘What is it? What did he say to you?’

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. She ran the back of her hand ac­ross her eyes li­ke a child.

  ‘Co­me on. Ple­ase tell me. I’m comp­le­tely out of my depth he­re. That much must be ob­vi­o­us.’

  Yo­la sig­hed. She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. ‘The cu­ran­de­ro told me that I wo­uld ne­ver ma­ke a sha­man­ka. That God had cho­sen anot­her path for me - a path that was har­der to ac­cept, mo­re humb­ling and with no cer­ta­inty of ac­hi­eve­ment. That I wasn’t to qu­es­ti­on this path in any way. I was simply to fol­low it.’

  ‘What do­es he know? Why wo­uld he tell you such a thing? What gi­ves him the right?’

  Yo­la lo­oked at Sa­bir in shock. ‘Oh, the cu­ran­de­ro knows. He is ta­ken away in his dre­ams by an ani­mal spi­rit. He is shown many things. He may not inf­lu­en­ce events, ho­we­ver, but only pre­pa­re pe­op­le to ac­cept them. That is his func­ti­on.’

  Sa­bir mas­ked his be­wil­der­ment with in­qu­iry. ‘Why did he to­uch you li­ke that? Along the ha­ir­li­ne? It se­emed to hold so­me sig­ni­fi­can­ce for him.’

  ‘He was ce­men­ting both hal­ves of my body to­get­her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘If I am to suc­ce­ed in what I ha­ve be­en cho­sen to do, the two hal­ves of my body must not be split one from anot­her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Yo­la. But I still don’t un­ders­tand.’

  Yo­la sto­od up. She glan­ced un­cer­ta­inly to­wards Ser­ge­ant Spo­la, then al­lo­wed her vo­ice to drop to whis­per. ‘We are all ma­de in two hal­ves, Da­mo. When God co­oked us in His oven, He fu­sed the two parts to­get­her in­to one mo­uld. But each part still lo­oked in a dif­fe­rent di­rec­ti­on - one to the past and one to the fu­tu­re. When both parts are re­ver­sed and bro­ught back to­get­her - by il­lness, per­haps, or by the ac­ti­ons of a cu­ran­de­ro - then this per­son, from that mo­ment on­wards, will lo­ok only to the pre­sent. They will li­ve en­ti­rely in the pre­sent.’ Yo­la se­arc­hed for the right words to con­vey her me­aning. ‘They will be of ser­vi­ce. Yes. That is it. They will be ab­le to be of ser­vi­ce.’

  Sen­sing that they we­re fi­nal­ly awa­re of him on­ce aga­in, the ever-co­ur­te­o­us Ser­ge­ant Spo­la ra­ised his sho­ul­ders qu­iz­zi­cal­ly from over by the ro­ad. He had long ack­now­led­ged that he was way out of his depth with the­se gypsi­es, but as ti­me trick­led past, he was inc­re­asingly dre­ading the so­mew­hat ine­vi­tab­le call from Cap­ta­in Cal­que abo­ut his char­ges.

  For Ser­ge­ant Spo­la had be­la­tedly re­ali­sed that he co­uld ne­ver sa­tis­fac­to­rily exp­la­in how he had al­lo­wed the girl to per­su­ade him to aban­don Ale­xi to his sick­bed in fa­vo­ur of this vi­sit to the cu­ran­de­ro. Not even to him­self co­uld he exp­la­in it.

  As he sto­od by his car, wil­ling the gypsi­es to gi­ve up what they we­re do­ing and hurry back to him, he ex­pe­ri­en­ced a sud­den des­pe­ra­te ur­ge to re­turn and check on his ot­her char­ge in ca­se so­me­one, so­mew­he­re, had ta­ken ad­van­ta­ge of his go­od na­tu­re and was plan­ning to land him in the hor­ses­hit.

  Sa­bir ra­ised a pla­ca­tory hand. Then he tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on back to Yo­la. ‘And the­se things aro­und our necks?’

  ‘They are for kil­ling our­sel­ves.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cu­ran­de­ro fe­ars for our li­ves aga­inst the eye-man. He sen­ses that the eye-man will hurt us simply out of an­ger if we fall in­to his hands aga­in. In­si­de this vi­al is the dis­til­led ve­nom of the Co­ule­uv­re de Mont­pel­li­er. That is a po­iso­no­us sna­ke that li­ves in the so­uth-wes­tern part of Fran­ce. Inj­ec­ted in­to the blo­odst­re­am, it will kill in un­der a mi­nu­te. Ta­ken by the thro­at…’

  ‘Ta­ken
by the thro­at?’

  ‘Swal­lo­wed. Drunk li­ke a li­qu­id. Im­bi­bed. Then it will ta­ke fif­te­en mi­nu­tes.’

  ‘You can’t me­an it. Are you se­ri­o­usly tel­ling me that the cu­ran­de­ro has pro­vi­ded us with a po­ison? Li­ke the sort they used to gi­ve spi­es who ris­ked tor­tu­re by the Ges­ta­po?’

  ‘I don’t know who the Ges­ta­po are, Da­mo, but I do­ubt very much that they are as ter­rib­le as the eye-man. If he ta­kes me aga­in, I will drink this. I will go to God in­tact and with my lac­ha un­tar­nis­hed. You must pro­mi­se me that you will do the sa­me.’

  70

  Joris Cal­que was a de­eply un­hap­py man. Only on­ce in his li­fe had he be­en res­pon­sib­le for bre­aking the news to a fa­mily of the de­ath of the­ir only son and that ti­me he had be­en co­ve­ring for anot­her of­fi­cer who was inj­ured in the sa­me en­ga­ge­ment. He had be­en in no way res­pon­sib­le. Far from it, in fact.

  This was anot­her mat­ter en­ti­rely. His pro­xi­mity to Mar­se­il­le, Mac­ron’s ho­me town and the fact that Mac­ron had di­ed vi­olently, at the hands of a mur­de­rer and on his watch, ma­de Cal­que’s job all the har­der. It had so­me­how be­co­me a pri­ority for him per­so­nal­ly to de­li­ver the news.

  By mid-after­no­on on the se­cond day it was ob­vi­o­us to ever­yo­ne that the eye-man had so­me­how es­ca­ped the net. He­li­cop­ters and spot­ter-pla­nes had criss-cros­sed the en­ti­re area be­low the N572 Ar­les to Va­uvert ro­ad - inc­lu­ding the vast span of co­untry de­li­mi­ted by the Parc Na­ti­urel Régi­onal de Ca­mar­gue - and they had fo­und not­hing. The eye-man ap­pe­ared to be a wra­ith. CRS units had ins­pec­ted every bu­il­ding, every ber­ge­rie and every ru­in. They had stop­ped every car go­ing eit­her in or out of the Parc Na­tu­rel. It was an easy pla­ce to se­al off. You had the sea on one si­de and the mars­hes on the ot­her. Few ro­ads bi­sec­ted it and tho­se that did we­re fl at, with traf­fic vi­sib­le for mi­les in every di­rec­ti­on. It sho­uld ha­ve be­en child’s play. Ins­te­ad, Cal­que co­uld fe­el his po­si­ti­on as chi­ef co­or­di­na­tor of the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on be­co­ming mo­re pre­ca­ri­o­us by the mi­nu­te.