Piers' Desire

by Marianne Ackerman

  EIGHTEEN

  PIERS FIRST CAME UPON AVIGNON’S most celebrated Brotherhood by way of a footnote to a treatise on monastic life in eighteenth-century France. For a while, he was sure he’d found a way through the labyrinth he’d been caught up in for years, and set out to learn everything about the movement.

  Founded as a lay order in 1586, the Pénitents Noirs de la Miséricorde was a fraternity of professionals, artisans, landowners, with a smattering of aristocrats. Husbands, fathers, men of the world, they took as their mission the care and sustenance of criminals, notably those condemned to death. In recognition of the Order’s good works and social standing, Pope Clement VIII granted the privilege of deliverance: each year, on the feast day of their patron saint, John the Baptist, one condemned prisoner of the Order’s choosing would be pardoned and set free. After a ceremonial smashing of the irons, the anointed symbol of Divine mercy was crowned with an olive garland and led through the streets of Avignon by a procession of black-robed Penitents, their faces covered in cone-shaped hoods. Past throngs of the faithful and the curious, their destination was a Gothic chapel on rue Banisterie where choirs of young girls waited, waving floral wreaths and singing hallelujahs. The Day of Deliverance ended in a night of celebration to which the entire city was invited.

  A powerful Order whose prestige rested on a single act of mercy, it had flourished for three centuries but dwindled in the early 1900s and finally disbanded completely after the Second World War. Today the Order’s only surviving testament is a chapel nestled against the wall of St. Anne’s prison. Still reflecting the design and décor created by a prominent local architect in the eighteenth century, the chapel is elegant and worldly, closer to a miniature palace than a place of worship. Images of the Order’s patron saint are the dominant motif, echoed in stone sculptures and oil paintings: the severed head of John the Baptist on a platter borne by infant angel faces without bodies.

  Piers had been caught up in research for weeks. Finally venturing outside the archives to visit the chapel, he discovered it had fallen into the hands of a right-wing sect. He didn’t like their politics; more specifically, he didn’t like the hold they had on a great tradition, but he was curious just the same. A certain Père Absalom was in charge. Piers made enquiries and found out Absalom had written a series of articles condemning certain tenets of Islam and how they were being played out in French society. He spent weeks assembling a bibliography for the poor misguided cleric, solid proof that there was less difference between monotheistic brands than its various sectarians were prepared to believe. What irritated him most was that Absalom inevitably greeted every opportunity for discussion as a sign that he was drawing the foreigner closer to the fold. Still, he found the call to debate irresistible.

  Mouloud followed Piers at dusk, skirting parked cars and couples walking arm in arm, staying in the shadows as he made his way toward the centre of town. He watched him enter the brightly lit Café Forum, order a coffee at the bar and flip through a newspaper, barely glancing at the contents. Piers looked at his watch. A reflex, Mouloud checked his too, for the hundredth time that day.

  A vigil begun at dawn, he’d hung around the open end of rue des Griffons all day, a murderously boring vigil. Finally Piers appeared carrying a briefcase and strode resolutely toward the post office, a brief stop to let go of a parcel, then on to Place d’Horloge and the Forum, apparently his destination. But as the bar began to fill up, the cacophony of joviality seemed to grate on his nerves. He kept looking around, as if he were waiting for someone, or suspected he was being followed.

  Mouloud had kept his head down since Magali had come at him with a blast of accusations. By the time she left, he was numb, exhausted by her words. He’d fallen into a stupor and slept all day. After that, his rhythms stayed nocturnal. He could sleep twelve hours at a stretch and still wake up tired, but as soon as darkness fell he was full of nervous energy and couldn’t stop walking. Solitary night thoughts preyed on his mind and crowded his dreams until there was no difference, day and night a seamless howl in his head.

  Tracking Piers restored his energy, but his thoughts stayed muddled. On the side of relief: at least Magali had admitted her mistake. Selim too. He’d paid a visit with a happy purpose to tell Mouloud he was off the hook. My mistake, he’d said. His exact words: Don’t worry. An easy miscalculation in the contents of the package, you were not to blame. Marco tried to screw me, Mouloud protested. But what happened that night, outside your place? Who threw the stone? Remy’s friend is dead. Did you throw the stone? Did you? No. Was it you? No! Was it? NO. Who then? I don’t know. You know. I don’t. He was wearing leather gloves. Selim squeezed his fingers like a spider’s legs, demanding to know who threw the stone that finished Remy’s friend. Because if it wasn’t you, he said, it was somebody else, and somebody had to pay. There was somebody with you, wasn’t there? Selim demanded a name, an address. Over and over, beating him down with words. You’re not to blame, he kept saying. But tell me who is. So Mouloud told him. Selim wrote it down and was happy after that, as if nothing at all had happened to turn their friendship upside-down, or disrupt their plans. I want you to pay close attention, Selim said, with the same voice he used at first, full of promise. Watch me, watch how easy it is to do an enemy in. Pay attention, you’ll learn something valuable. You hear me? Hear me? Speak up!

  I don’t want to learn how to kill, Mouloud had wanted to shout. But he said nothing. Selim took out his pocket agenda and picked a day. This was the day, and it was turning into night. Nothing had happened yet but there was still time. Selim worked best at night.

  As if time had suddenly run out, Piers folded his newspaper and left the café, walking quickly. Mouloud thought, he knows something’s up. He turned down a narrow cobblestone alley into the walkway that led through Pope Urban V’s orchard, Mouloud following at a respectable distance. There was a line-up for the six o’clock movie at Cinema Utopia but Piers swung right, dropping into the alley below. It wasn’t far from Mouloud’s room, but he’d never gone home this way.

  Finally they turned into a tiny square with a church built into a high stone wall. An ornate facade with high wooden doors, the doors were open. There were lights on inside. An elderly man was standing on the steps, his back to the doors, smoking a cigarette. He nodded at Piers on the way in, and scowled at Mouloud, as if to say, you have no business being here. Mouloud ignored the look and walked calmly after Piers.

  The first room was a small antechamber with wooden benches, empty. Double doors led to a larger room. On rows of benches facing a stage sat a dozen or so people, most of them old and sad or young and alone. The air smelled of burnt spices and dust. A small man in a long green cape was standing at the front, facing a table crammed with ornaments, flowers, candles; he was chanting in a strange language. Mouloud glanced around at the walls and ceiling, taking in garish paintings of chunky women holding babies and pale men with long hair dressed in pastel robes. A severed head on a platter, a naked body pinned to a cross, obviously dead. He’d seen it before, the Christian god of love and peace, murdered of course. The place gave him the creeps.

  As if on cue, everyone stood up, including Piers who had taken a seat at the side. He went along with the crowd, stood when they stood, pretended to read from a black book he found on his seat, moved his lips to the incomprehensible muttering, nodded off during a long monotone monologue. Finally they broke formation and headed towards the stage, where they ate and drank from a cup passed to them by the man in green. Piers stayed immobile, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he was staring into dead air. A few more prayers followed and the crowd began to disperse, except Piers, who followed the man in green through a door behind the stage, into another room. Mouloud waited till the room was empty then shot forward, stopping on the threshold to listen. Behind the door, an argument, though he couldn’t make out the issue. At first Piers was doing most of the talking. His voice was a low hum with spaces between t
he words but gradually the other man chimed in and the volume rose, sentences overlapped till it was impossible to understand.

  While they were still shouting, the door opened and Piers shot out, practically landing in Mouloud’s arms.

  “What are you doing here?” he barked, still in the mood of the interview.

  Before Mouloud could answer, the other man appeared. He was dressed in a long black robe, carrying keys which he jangled angrily in one hand, a briefcase in the other. He asked them both to leave the building, polite words but clearly an order, assuming they were together. He waited till they’d left the building, then locked the doors and got into the only car left in the parking lot, a new Mercedes. Piers watched him drive away, and cursed softly, as though he were standing alone. He began to walk. Mouloud followed.

  “That guy you hit with a stone …” he began.

  “What about him?” Piers threw the words on the street.

  “He works for somebody I know. They’re trying to find you.”

  Piers quickened his pace, ignoring him.

  “They’re looking for you.”

  “Are they?” he stopped and glared. “Well, that’s nice. I’ll say hello on your behalf.”

  Mouloud followed for a while in silence. He couldn’t think of what to say, how to phrase a warning that didn’t sound crazy. His mouth was dry. Piers began humming through his teeth, a quick staccato melody in time with his stride. When they drew close to rue des Griffons, Mouloud stopped. Piers kept on walking, waved goodbye without looking back and went inside the house.

  Magali was standing in the doorway to the rose room, half-hidden, swinging the door back and forth, about to ask if she could come in for a chat, but he slipped by with a nod and closed his door. Her heart beat as though the exchange had been momentous. Something about him had changed. He had a strange expression, as if his thoughts were faraway. He must be working on a new book, she thought.

  She listened for sounds of activity in the avocado room, expecting water, typing, but heard nothing, only the occasional thud of his boots hitting the tiles. A few moments later, his voice. She moved closer to the wall to catch the drift. It was a onesided conversation, low and warm, in English. She could not understand a word.

  Chanelle Lambert recognized Piers’ number when it came up on her phone, and picked up on the last ring. She didn’t want to sound eager. “Are you alone?” he asked, in English.

  The language caught her off guard. Whenever she’d tried to coax him into speaking English, he’d refused.

  “Yes, I’m alone,” she said, choosing her words carefully. The tone sounded more inviting than she’d intended, no hint of the anger aroused by their last meeting when he’d stood her up, then dragged her into a congested city for a glass of rough wine at the Bar Américain followed by the insult of watching his attention leap like a hungry lion from her to a girl standing outside the window. “How are you?” he asked, softly.

  “I’m good,” she replied, thinking immediately she should have said, I am well. If he noticed the mistake and teased her, she’d be furious, but he didn’t. He sounded relaxed. She pictured him standing by a window, an airy white room furnished sparsely, a glass-topped desk and couple of simple Italian chairs. Shoulders slightly stooped from hours of typing, he would be holding a Scotch in one hand (as she was holding a Scotch), and staring out on a sweeping view of the Papal Palace. The writer at work, taking a break to call her. Nothing like their Tuesday afternoons, a routine launched by brute necessity. Surprised by evidence of her husband Frédéric’s infidelity, she had responded according to convention with shouts, threats, tears. A lurid few days of noisy uncertainty, then the classic riposte carried out with dignity: she’d placed a classified ad in the newspaper, fielded a handful of calls, and was soon on her way to Porte St. Michel for the inaugural rendezvous with the lover she deserved.

  Time passed, they fell into a routine, drifted. Meanwhile, Frédéric had a heart attack, and in the flush of recovery, proposed a trip to America. By the time Chanelle fell upon a dog-eared copy of The Faithful Husband in a New Orleans hotel lobby, she had no need for a lover. But an Author, that was another matter.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner,” he said.

  His voice, as if from the bottom of a well, aroused her as it never had in person. Weeks of silence since their last disastrous rendezvous, and then out of the blue, a proper date. She held back. If their affair was about to resume, then every move would need to be considered. He was calling for a reason. He would be making calculations. Who had called it off, anyway? She couldn’t remember, it had just seemed to dwindle away. She hadn’t wanted a fiery ending, didn’t need the bother. But she did want to know a writer. Sleep with him, maybe, most of all befriend him, draw him into her circle. The idea was thrilling, presenting Piers Le Gris: mon très cher ami, The American Writer.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you are famous?” she said, banking on a flirtatious tone to mask inquisition.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “You are! I would very much like to talk about your work.”

  “I don’t talk about my work.”

  “Oh, come on! Yes, all writers do. They go on television. They love it.”

  “Not me.”

  “I know you much better from reading your books.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m not in the books.” She laughed. “Oh, you are, you just don’t see it. You are always the bad guy. He’s always wearing your clothes. Even when you change his name, the bad guy resembles you.”

  He answered with a tight, dry chuckle confirming she was right. She had many more questions, but hesitated. How famous was he? Difficult to tell, the world of the thriller was vast and lucrative. He would be wealthy, of course. He would have houses in other countries.

  “I need to see you again,” he said. “Is it possible?”

  The urgency in his voice was thrilling. “Of course,” she cooed. “I’d like you to meet some people.”

  “I don’t like meeting people. Let’s have dinner.”

  “Oh but you will like them,” she said. “Saturday night. Don’t worry, I’ll drive. Meet me at eight o’clock in the usual place.”

  “Chanelle!”

  “And please, chéri, write it down. Au revoir. Bisou.” She hung up before he had a chance to reconsider.

  Over breakfast, Magali told Piers about Mouloud’s concert, and asked if he’d like to go. She waited till Nelly had gone to the kitchen for more coffee, giving the invitation a hint of complicity. “It’s in a disco hall somewhere outside the walls,” she said, sliding the envelope across the table. Saturday, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Be careful with Mouloud,” he said. She nodded, a faint grimace passing over her face, as though she’d heard the same thing a thousand times before.

  This time the warning went both ways. A few weeks ago, he’d feared for her safety. Now he wondered which one faced greater danger, blind beauty or the fragile psyche under beauty’s spell.

  NINETEEN

  THE BACK COVER OF PUTTERLY INC.’S popular line of erotic thrillers has a photo of a man wearing a substantial black hat tilted to cover his eyes, leaving a firm jaw line in shadow. Piers kept the hat in a suitcase.

  By the time he had reason to dig out the hat, his room was as spare and clean as a monk’s cell. Several metres of bookshelves had been trimmed down to a few volumes: Ekhardt, the King James (New and Old), the Apocrypha, The Divine Comedy and a slim volume of verse inscribed to a woman named Ann. The armoire was almost empty, the coffee pot stiff from lack of use. An unfinished manuscript sat on one side of the bare table, next to an unopened box of A4 bond 100 gsm, a high-quality paper meant for final drafts. In spite of everything, he had not lost hope in The Lethal Guitar.

  It was dusk by the time Chanelle wheeled her silver Peugeot into the familiar parking lot. Piers was stand
ing by a cement pillar. He was wearing a new black trench coat, clutching a bundle of roses in one hand, a briefcase in the other. At the sight of the black hat, familiar from his book covers, her heart leapt.

  He slid into the passenger’s seat, leaned over for a kiss. The brush of his newly shaven jaw against her skin was thrilling.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  “So are you.”

  He smelled of olive soap and something else, indefinably sweet and dusty, incense.

  As the car pulled onto the highway that circled the ramparts, she asked if he knew Isle sur la Sorgue.

  “Yes, well, somewhat. Chanelle, I don’t feel much like meeting people tonight. In any case, I have to be back in Avignon by eleven. I’m sorry, it’s unavoidable. I should have cancelled—”

  “Shhh. Never mind,” she cooed, shooting him a grin full of promise.

  She was wearing a jersey cocktail dress that clung to her hips, an elaborate chain necklace, and leather pumps with stiletto heels. She’d had her hair cut and tinted a quiet shade of red. At the last minute, she had reached for a spray balm of Je reviens. A soft oldfashioned scent, it lacked the audacity of newer perfumes, but she was not in the mood for bold strikes.

  They stopped at a red light. Piers reached over and placed his hand on hers, which was resting on the stickshift.

  “Chanelle,” he said, firmly. “Let’s go somewhere for a quiet dinner, alone.”

  The light changed to green. She shifted into first and the vehicle lurched forward.

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty of food at the party. And excellent wines, I can promise. It’s the last meeting of our wine-tasting circle before the holidays. You’ll meet some very interesting people. In fact, you’re going to meet my husband. He’s bringing a 1992 Chateau—”