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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 41

by Mario Reading

Yo­la fid­ge­ted an­xi­o­usly be­si­de him, her fa­ce ta­ut in the ref­lec­ted gla­re.

  Spo­la flic­ked on the re­ar wi­pers. ‘That was a rot­ten trick to play on me, you know. I co­uld lo­se my job over this.’

  ‘You sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en told to watch us in the first pla­ce. It’s only be­ca­use we’re gypsi­es. You pe­op­le tre­at us li­ke dirt.’

  Spo­la sat up stra­igh­ter in his se­at. ‘That’s not true. I’ve tri­ed to be re­aso­nab­le with you - cut you so­me slack. I even let you vi­sit the cu­ran­de­ro with Sa­bir. That’s what’s got me in­to all this tro­ub­le.’

  Yo­la fl as­hed a glan­ce at him. ‘You’re all right. It’s the ot­hers that ma­ke me sick.’

  ‘Well. Yes. The­re are so­me pe­op­le who ha­ve unj­us­ti­fi­ab­le pre­j­udi­ces. I don’t deny it. But I’m not one of them.’ He re­ac­hed for­wards and scrub­bed at the in­si­de of the windsc­re­en with his sle­eve. ‘If only they’d gi­ve us cars with air con­di­ti­oning, we might see whe­re we are go­ing. Are we ne­arly the­re?’

  ‘It’s he­re. Turn left. And go on up the dri­ve. The ho­use will ap­pe­ar in a few mo­ments.’

  Spo­la eased the car up the rut­ted track. He glan­ced down at the clock. It wo­uld ta­ke Cal­que at le­ast anot­her ho­ur to get he­re - un­less he hi­j­ac­ked a po­li­ce he­li­cop­ter. Anot­her night’s sle­ep lost.

  He pul­led the car up in front of the Ma­set. ‘So this is whe­re it all hap­pe­ned?’

  Yo­la got out and ran to­wards the front do­or. The­re was no firm ba­sis to her an­xi­ety but Cal­que’s call, war­ning them that the eye-man was still af­ter Sa­bir, had up­set her equ­ani­mity. She had tho­ught that the eye-man was out of the­ir li­ves fo­re­ver. And now he­re she was, in the mid­dle of the night, aiding and abet­ting the po­li­ce.

  ‘Da­mo?’ She lo­oked aro­und the ro­om. The fi­re was al­most out. One of the cand­les was gut­te­ring and anot­her was only ten mi­nu­tes away from ex­tinc­ti­on. The­re was hardly eno­ugh light to see by, let alo­ne transc­ri­be de­ta­iled text. She tur­ned to Ser­ge­ant Spo­la. ‘Ha­ve you a torch?’

  He clic­ked it on. ‘Per­haps he’s in the kitc­hen?’

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. Her fa­ce lo­oked pinc­hed and an­xi­o­us in the ar­ti­fi­ci­al light. She hur­ri­ed down the cor­ri­dor. ‘Da­mo?’ She he­si­ta­ted at the spot whe­re Mac­ron had be­en kil­led. ‘Da­mo?’

  Had she he­ard a no­ise? She pla­ced one hand on her he­art and to­ok a step for­wards.

  The so­und of a guns­hot ec­ho­ed thro­ugh the empty bu­il­ding. Yo­la scre­amed. Ser­ge­ant Spo­la ran to­wards her. ‘What was that? Did you he­ar a shot?’

  ‘It was down in the cel­lar.’ Yo­la had her hand to her thro­at.

  Spo­la cur­sed and man­hand­led his pis­tol out of its hols­ter. He was not an ac­ti­ve man. Gunp­lay was not in his na­tu­re. In fact he had ne­ver ne­eded to use vi­olen­ce in over thirty ye­ars of po­li­ce work. ‘Stay he­re, Ma­de­mo­isel­le. If you he­ar mo­re shots, run out to the po­li­ce car and dri­ve it away. Do you he­ar me?’

  ‘I can’t dri­ve.’

  Spo­la han­ded her his cel­lpho­ne. ‘I’ve put in a call to Cap­ta­in Cal­que. Tell him what is hap­pe­ning. Tell him he must call an am­bu­lan­ce. I must go now.’ Spo­la ran thro­ugh the back of the ho­use to­wards the cel­lar, his torch cas­ting wild sha­dows on the walls. Wit­ho­ut pa­using to think, he threw open the cel­lar do­or and clat­te­red down, his pis­tol held awk­wardly in one hand, his torch in the ot­her.

  A man’s fe­et pro­j­ec­ted from the lip of what ap­pe­ared to be an old wa­ter cis­tern or ces­spit. As Spo­la watc­hed, the fe­et slit­he­red down in­to the pit. Cra­zed so­unds we­re co­ming from in­si­de the sump and Spo­la sto­od, for one wild mo­ment, fi­xed to the spot in shock and cons­ter­na­ti­on. Then he crept for­wards and sho­ne his torch in­si­de the pit.

  Sa­bir had his he­ad cra­ned back and his mo­uth open, in a sort of si­lent ric­tus. In his free hand he held Ba­le’s fist, with the Red­hawk anc­ho­red bet­we­en them. As Spo­la watc­hed, Ba­le’s he­ad emer­ged from the ces­spo­ol, the clot­ted eyes tur­ned up furt­her than it se­emed pos­sib­le for hu­man eyes to go. The gun roc­ked for­wards and the­re was a vi­vid flash.

  Spo­la fell to one knee. A numb­ness spre­ad ac­ross his chest and down thro­ugh his belly in the di­rec­ti­on of his ge­ni­tals. He tri­ed to ra­ise his pis­tol but was unab­le to do so. He co­ug­hed on­ce and then fell over on to his si­de.

  A fi­gu­re dar­ted past him. He felt the pis­tol be­ing wrenc­hed from his hand. Then his torch was ta­ken. He pla­ced both his free hands on his belly. He had a sud­den, ex­qu­isi­te ima­ge of his wi­fe lying on the­ir bed, wa­iting for him, her eyes bur­ning in­to his.

  The gun fl as­hes be­ca­me mo­re in­ten­se, ligh­ting up the cel­lar li­ke the re­pe­ated stri­kes of a tor­na­dic light­ning storm. Spo­la was awa­re of mo­ve­ment way out be­yond him. Far away. Then so­me­one was gently se­pa­ra­ting his hands. Was it his wi­fe? Had they bro­ught his wi­fe to lo­ok af­ter him? Spo­la tri­ed to spe­ak to her, but the oxy­gen mask cut off his words.

  ‘You owe the girl yo­ur li­fe.’

  ‘I know I do.’ Sa­bir twis­ted his he­ad un­til he was sta­ring at the tips of the pi­ne tre­es just vi­sib­le out­si­de the win­dow of his hos­pi­tal ro­om. ‘I owe her mo­re than that, if the truth be told.’

  The re­mark pas­sed Cal­que by. He was con­cent­ra­ting on so­met­hing el­se al­to­get­her. ‘How did she know that you had ta­ken po­ison? How did she know that you ne­eded an eme­tic?’

  ‘What eme­tic?’

  ‘She fed you mus­tard and salt wa­ter un­til you bro­ught up what was left of the po­ison. She sa­ved Ser­ge­ant Spo­la’s li­fe, too. The eye-man guts­hot him. With guts­hot vic­tims, if they go to sle­ep, they die. She kept him tal­king whi­le she lay with one hand han­ging down in­to the ces­spit, hol­ding you up­right - out of the sump. Wit­ho­ut her, you wo­uld ha­ve drow­ned.’

  ‘I told you she was a spe­ci­al per­son. But, li­ke every­body el­se, you dist­rust gypsi­es. It’s simply not ra­ti­onal. You ought to be as­ha­med of yo­ur­self.’

  ‘I didn’t co­me he­re to re­ce­ive a lec­tu­re.’

  ‘What did you co­me he­re for, then?’

  Cal­que sat back in his cha­ir. He felt aro­und in his poc­kets for a ci­ga­ret­te and then re­mem­be­red that he was in a hos­pi­tal. ‘For ans­wers, I sup­po­se.’

  ‘What do I know? We we­re pur­su­ed by a mad­man. He’s de­ad. Now we get on with our li­ves.’

  ‘That’s not eno­ugh.’

  ‘What do you me­an?’

  ‘I want to know what it was all for. Why Pa­ul Mac­ron was kil­led. And the ot­hers. Ba­le wasn’t mad. He was the sa­nest one amongst us. He knew exactly what he wan­ted and why he wan­ted it.’

  ‘Ask his mot­her.’

  ‘I ha­ve. It’s li­ke kic­king a de­ad tree. She de­ni­es everyt­hing. The ma­nusc­ript we fo­und in her hid­den ro­om is in­de­cip­he­rab­le and my su­pe­ri­or con­si­ders it a was­te of po­li­ce ti­me to pur­sue it any furt­her. She’s got away scot-free. She and her aris­toc­ra­tic band of De­vil-fan­ci­ers.’

  ‘What do you want from me, then?’

  ‘Yo­la ad­mit­ted to Ser­ge­ant Spo­la that the prop­he­ci­es we­ren’t lost. That you had se­cu­red them and we­re trans­la­ting them at the Ma­set. I think she has a soft spot for Ser­ge­ant Spo­la.’

  ‘And you want to know what was in the prop­he­ci­es?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what if I we­re to pub­lish them?’

  ‘No one wo­uld lis­ten. You wo­uld be li­ke King Pri­am’s da­ugh­
ter, Cas­sand­ra, who was gi­ven the gift of prop­hecy by her su­itor Apol­lo. Only when she re­fu­sed to go to bed with him, he va­ri­ed the gift so that, alt­ho­ugh her prop­he­ci­es we­re in­va­ri­ably true, no one wo­uld ever be­li­eve them.’ Cal­que held up three fin­gers to si­len­ce Sa­bir’s ine­vi­tab­le ri­pos­te. He be­gan to co­unt off the po­ints he wis­hed to ma­ke by grip­ping each fin­ger in the palm of his free hand. ‘One - you don’t ha­ve the ori­gi­nals. Two - you don’t even ha­ve a copy of the ori­gi­nals. You bur­ned them. We fo­und the as­hes in the fi­rep­la­ce. Fi­ve mil­li­on dol­lars’ worth of as­hes. Three - it wo­uld simply be yo­ur word aga­inst the rest of the world. An­yo­ne co­uld say they fo­und them. What you ha­ve is va­lu­eless, Sa­bir.’

  ‘Then why do you want it?’

  ‘Be­ca­use I ne­ed to know.’

  Sa­bir clo­sed his eyes. ‘And why sho­uld I tell you?’

  Cal­que shrug­ged his sho­ul­ders. ‘I can’t ans­wer that.’ He hunc­hed for­wards. ‘But if I we­re in yo­ur sho­es, I’d want to tell so­me­one. I wo­uldn’t want to carry wha­te­ver it is you’re car­rying to the gra­ve with me. I’d want to get it off my chest.’

  ‘Why you in par­ti­cu­lar?’

  ‘For Christ’s sa­ke, Sa­bir!’ Cal­que star­ted up from his cha­ir. Then he chan­ged his mind and sat down aga­in. ‘You owe me. And you owe Mac­ron. You pla­yed me for a suc­ker af­ter I trus­ted you.’

  ‘You sho­uldn’t ha­ve trus­ted me.’

  Cal­que ga­ve the ghost of a smi­le. ‘I didn’t. The­re we­re two trac­kers in the car. We knew if we lost one, that we co­uld pick you up aga­in with the ot­her. I’m a po­li­ce­man, not a so­ci­al wor­ker, Sa­bir.’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad sadly. He was watc­hing Cal­que, his eyes dark in cont­rast to the pris­ti­ne whi­te ban­da­ge that was pro­tec­ting the si­de of his fa­ce. ‘So­met­hing hap­pe­ned to me in the­re, Cap­ta­in.’

  ‘I know it did.’

  ‘No. Not what you are thin­king. So­met­hing el­se. It was li­ke a trans­for­ma­ti­on. I chan­ged. Be­ca­me so­met­hing ot­her. The cu­ran­de­ro war­ned me that it hap­pens when you are abo­ut to be­co­me a sha­man. A he­aler.’

  ‘I don’t know what the Hell you’re tal­king abo­ut.’

  ‘I don’t eit­her.’

  Cal­que sat back in his armc­ha­ir. ‘Do you re­mem­ber any of it? Or am I just was­ting my ti­me?’

  ‘I re­mem­ber all of it.’

  Cal­que’s body stif­fe­ned li­ke a bird dog scen­ting its prey. ‘You can’t be se­ri­o­us.’

  ‘I told you that so­me chan­ge had oc­cur­red in me. So­me trans­for­ma­ti­on. I don’t know what it was or why it hap­pe­ned, but even now I can bring up every word of the French text that I saw. Li­ke a pho­tog­raph. I just ha­ve to clo­se my eyes and it co­mes back. I spent six ho­urs in that ho­use, Cap­ta­in. Re­ading tho­se qu­at­ra­ins over and over aga­in. Trans­la­ting them. Trying to un­ders­tand the­ir sig­ni­fi­can­ce.’

  ‘Ha­ve you writ­ten them down?’

  ‘I don’t ne­ed to. And I don’t want to.’

  Cal­que sto­od up. ‘Fi­ne. It was stu­pid of me to even ask. Why sho­uld you tell me? What can I do abo­ut anyt­hing? I’m an old man. I sho­uld re­ti­re. But I hang on in the po­li­ce for­ce be­ca­use I don’t ha­ve anyt­hing el­se to do with my li­fe. That’s abo­ut the sum of it. Go­odb­ye, Mis­ter Sa­bir. I’m glad the bas­tard didn’t get you.’

  Sa­bir watc­hed Cal­que shuf­fle to­wards the do­or. The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut the man - an in­teg­rity, per­haps - that ra­ised him abo­ve the com­mon run of hu­ma­nity. Cal­que had be­en ho­nest ac­cor­ding to his own lights du­ring the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. He had cut Sa­bir far mo­re slack than he had any right to ex­pect. And he hadn’t bla­med him for Mac­ron’s de­ath or Ser­ge­ant Spo­la’s wo­un­ding. No. He had ta­ken tho­se things on him­self. ‘Wa­it.’

  ‘For what?’

  Sa­bir held Cal­que’s eyes with his own. ‘Sit down, Cap­ta­in. I’m go­ing to tell you part of the story. The part that will not comp­ro­mi­se any third par­ti­es. Will you be sa­tis­fi­ed with that?’

  Cal­que re­tur­ned Sa­bir’s glan­ce. Then he set­tled him­self ca­uti­o­usly back in his se­at. ‘I shall ha­ve to be, won’t I? If that’s all you fe­el you can gi­ve me.’

  Sa­bir shrug­ged. Then he inc­li­ned his he­ad qu­es­ti­oningly. ‘Sec­rets of the con­fes­si­onal?’

  Cal­que sig­hed. ‘Sec­rets of the con­fes­si­onal.’

  87

  ‘The­re we­re only fifty-two qu­at­ra­ins on the parch­ment I ret­ri­eved from the bam­boo tu­bing. I had ini­ti­al­ly as­su­med the­re wo­uld be fifty-eight, be­ca­use that is the exact num­ber ne­eded to ma­ke up Nost­ra­da­mus’s ori­gi­nal ten cen­tu­ri­es. But six are still mis­sing. I now think that they are scat­te­red aro­und, li­ke the ones at Ro­ca­ma­do­ur and Mont­ser­rat and de­sig­ned to ser­ve as clu­es to the ma­in ca­ucus.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘As far as I can work out, each of the fifty-two re­ma­ining qu­at­ra­ins desc­ri­bes a par­ti­cu­lar ye­ar. A ye­ar in the run-up to the End of Days. The Apo­calyp­se.

  Rag­na­rök. The Ma­yan Gre­at Chan­ge. Wha­te­ver you cho­ose to call it.’

  ‘What do you me­an, desc­ri­bes a ye­ar?’

  ‘Each one acts as a po­in­ter. It desc­ri­bes so­me event that will ta­ke pla­ce in that ye­ar - and each event is sig­ni­fi­cant in so­me way.’

  ‘So the end isn’t da­ted?’

  ‘It do­esn’t ne­ed to be - even Nost­ra­da­mus didn’t know the exact da­te of Ar­ma­ged­don. He only knew what pre­ce­ded it. So the da­te be­co­mes ob­vi­o­us the ne­arer we get to it. In inc­re­ments.’

  ‘I still don’t un­ders­tand.’

  Sa­bir sat up stra­igh­ter in his bed. ‘It’s simp­le. Nost­ra­da­mus wants man­kind to es­ca­pe the fi­nal ho­lo­ca­ust. He fe­els that if the world can chan­ge its be­ha­vi­o­ur by ack­now­led­ging the Se­cond Co­ming - by re­j­ec­ting the Third An­tich­rist - then we might stand a fa­int chan­ce of avo­iding an­ni­hi­la­ti­on. That’s why he’s gi­ven us the clu­es, ye­ar by ye­ar and event by event. We’re to cor­re­la­te the qu­at­ra­ins with the events. When each event oc­curs just as Nost­ra­da­mus pre­dic­ted, the qu­at­ra­ins will inc­re­ase in im­por­tan­ce and we can tick them off. The clo­ser we get to Ar­ma­ged­don, the mo­re ob­vi­o­us the star­ting da­te and the end da­te will be, for the simp­le re­ason that the events pre­dic­ted for the last few ye­ars in the run-up to the End of Days ha­ven’t hap­pe­ned yet. Then pe­op­le will start to be­li­eve. And may­be chan­ge the­ir be­ha­vi­o­ur. To all in­tents and pur­po­ses Nost­ra­da­mus was gi­ving us a fifty-two-ye­ar war­ning.’

  Cal­que ma­de a fa­ce.

  ‘Lo­ok, the first clue, in what I now be­li­eve to be the first qu­at­ra­in, runs li­ke this:

  The Af­ri­can de­sert will melt in­to glass Fal­se fre­edoms will tor­ment the French

  The gre­at em­pi­re of the is­lands will shrink Its hands, fe­et and el­bows shun the he­ad.’

  ‘That me­ans not­hing. It gets us now­he­re.’

  ‘On the cont­rary. Lo­ok at it aga­in. “The Af­ri­can de­sert will melt in­to glass.” In 1960 the French con­duc­ted the­ir first ever nuc­le­ar test in so­uth wes­tern Al­ge­ria. In the Sa­ha­ra De­sert. They cal­led it the Ger­bo­ise Bleu - the Blue Jer­boa.’

  ‘You’re stretc­hing, Sa­bir.’

  ‘Try the next li­ne, then: ‘Fal­se fre­edoms will tor­ment the French.’ In 1960 Fran­ce gran­ted - or was for­ced to grant - in­de­pen­den­ce to French Ca­me­ro­on, French To­go­land, Ma­da­gas­car, Da­ho­mey, Bur­ki�
�na Fa­so, Up­per Vol­ta, Ivory Co­ast, Chad, the Cent­ral Af­ri­can Re­pub­lic, Con­go-Braz­za­vil­le, Ga­bon, Ma­li, Ni­ger, Se­ne­gal and Ma­uri­ta­nia. But still they per­sis­ted with the­ir war in Al­ge­ria. “Fal­se fre­edom” is when you gi­ve with one hand and you ta­ke back with anot­her. Now li­nes three and fo­ur: ‘The gre­at em­pi­re of the is­lands will shrink. Its hands, fe­et and el­bows shun the he­ad.’ Gre­at Bri­ta­in was al­ways the ‘gre­at em­pi­re of the is­lands’ to Nost­ra­da­mus. He uses the ima­ge on nu­me­ro­us oc­ca­si­ons and it was al­ways spe­ci­fic to Bri­ta­in. In 1960 the Bri­tish gran­ted in­de­pen­den­ce to Cyprus. Al­so to Bri­tish So­ma­li­land. Gha­na. Ni­ge­ria. The­se are the ext­re­mi­ti­es. Qu­e­en Eli­za­beth II was the he­ad. By ac­hi­eving in­de­pen­den­ce, they shun her.’

  ‘Not eno­ugh.’

  ‘Try the next one then:

  Ger­many will be strang­led and Af­ri­ca re­ta­ken A yo­ung le­ader will emer­ge: he will re­ta­in his yo­uth Men will ra­ise the­ir eyes to­wards the bat­tle­fi­eld A star will shi­ne that is no star.’

  ‘Accor­ding to yo­ur the­ory, Sa­bir, this qu­at­ra­in sho­uld then re­fer to 1961. Do­es it? I don’t see that.’

  ‘Why don’t you? Ta­ke the first half of the first li­ne: ‘Ger­many will be strang­led.’ Nost­ra­da­mus uses the phra­se en­vo­yer le cor­don, me­aning to ‘send the bowst­ring’. In ot­her words to ‘order to be strang­led’. And what hap­pe­ned in 1961? The bor­der was clo­sed bet­we­en East and West Ber­lin and the Wall was bu­ilt - a conc­re­te cor­don, ef­fec­ti­vely se­pa­ra­ting and strang­ling Ger­many. Now the se­cond part of the first li­ne: ‘And Af­ri­ca re­ta­ken.’ On the 21st of Ap­ril 1961 re­bel­li­o­us mem­bers of the OAS to­ok Al­gi­ers, in an ef­fort to stop Ge­ne­ral de Ga­ul­le from gran­ting Al­ge­ri­an in­de­pen­den­ce. You re­mem­ber that, don’t you, Cal­que? You we­re pro­bably still busy cut­ting yo­ur milk te­eth on the be­at as a pan­do­re.’

 

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