‘Now, where’ve you gone? ‘ asked God.
‘I’m still here,’ said Saint Peter.
‘Oh,’ said God. He turned the chair until he faced the aged saint again. ‘I do wish you’d keep still. Now then ... it’s about the Heavenly Choir.’
‘Yes?’ said Saint Peter.
‘Have they got a gig tonight? ‘
Saint Peter thought. ‘Handel’s got them working on a new version of the “Messiah”, he replied. ‘But if you’re having a personal rave up, I guess . . .’
‘If I want music,’ said God haughtily, ‘then I make my own. I don’t need sixteen hundred bopping ravers.’ He leant forward confidentially. ‘I’ve got a job for the little angels. Usual rates ... but you can throw in a little extra leave for them afterwards. I want them to go down to ...’
The men sat on the steps of Admiral Dordogne’s statue. It was early evening. Laplace and Ravelle were about to offer each other a cigarette. It was almost a ritual. Each would wait for a cigarette for as long as possible, in order to avoid being the first to reach for his packet. However, once the move was made, the other would grab for his own in a theatrical effort to seem to be first. Then, they would each accept one of the other’s cigarettes. To onlookers, it always seemed generous conviviality.
Constable Chaminade leant against one leg of the statue and listened to the music.
‘Barbusse’s taste is improving,’ said d’Arle. ‘I thought he only listened to pop music.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Henri Laplace.
The music increased in volume.
‘I said ... Oh, hell,’ shouted d’Arle. ‘I said Barbusse is using his record player too much.’
‘It’s not me. Besides, I’m here, not there,’ called Barbusse from the other side of the steps.
‘Maybe it’s your daughter, Henri,’ screamed Chaminade, over the still increasing choral background. ‘If so, then she’s committing a nuisance.’
‘A what? ‘ roared Laplace.
The music was now so loud that further conversation was impossible. It seemed to come out of the air itself. The village began to vibrate on its cavernous foundations. And even the bell picked up the sound and reverberated in sympathy. Villagers, who had been inside their houses, now appeared in their doorways. Laplace put his mouth next to d’Arle’s ear.
‘It’s “Ave Maria”!’ he shrieked.
‘I’ll arrest her,’ bellowed Constable Chaminade, his face a rich purple.
The square was now full of villagers. They stood in puzzled groups trying to find the source of the music and choir. Father Benoir and the Mayor appeared on the steps of the church, the mayor holding his hands over his ears. The villagers watched them. For a moment Father Benoir stood listening, then, he slowly bent his legs and knelt.
‘What’s he doing? ‘ shouted Laplace into d’Arle’s nearest ear.
The butcher frowned, then shrilled a reply. ‘I hope to God he’s praying for silence.’
The music died as suddenly as it had started. The last half of d’Arle’s reply echoed round the square. He clasped his hand over his mouth.
Father Benoir remained kneeling for another minute, then he stood and faced the villagers.
He raised a hand and made the sign of the cross. ‘My friends ...’ The villagers were silent. ‘We have all witnessed a second miracle. We have heard the sound of the Lord’s Heavenly Choir calling us to obey His word. I ask you all now to join me in prayer.’ The priest knelt again on the church steps; the villagers below him, in the square, sank to their knees.
‘Get down, you fool,’ hissed Laplace to Constable Chaminade, who remained standing stiffly on the top step of the statue. ‘You’re supposed to be praying, not saluting.’
‘Beloved Lord,’ called Father Benoir, his voice vibrant with emotion. ‘We humble men and women of St Pierre-des-Monts, are ...’
From the evening sky, there came a heavenly finale ... a massive clash of cymbals, a thunderous roll of a hundred bass drums ... a long, reverberating series of organ chords. Father Benoir’s prayers were lost as sixteen hundred voices - bass, baritone, tenor, contralto, alto, soprano and treble - blended together above the villagers like a hovering eagle, swooping, diving, soaring around them.
D’Arle looked across at Barbusse, who knelt, an ecstatic look upon his face. The bar-owner leant towards him. ‘Fantastic,’ he shouted. ‘I wonder where they’ve put their amplifiers.’
God rubbed his hands together, gleefully, and chuckled at Saint Peter. ‘Excellent, excellent. I do believe we’ve got them this time. The timber-merchant seems a little doubtful, but we can work on that.’ He chortled happily. ‘I do so love getting my own way with humans by kindness whenever possible.’
‘The Choirmaster was delighted,’ smiled Saint Peter. ‘He said it was nice to have a live audience for a change.’
‘I feel so benevolent ... perhaps I should change all my plans and forgive the whole world. Have an amnesty, so to speak.’ God clasped his hands across his broad stomach and half closed his eyes. ‘I could get the Heavenly Choir to sing to all the people on earth.’
Saint Peter shook his head sadly. ‘Much as the choir would appreciate it, it wouldn’t work.’
God’s face became serious. Two large tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Dear Peter... of course you’re right. It wouldn’t work. At least, not for long. No, I mustn’t change my mind. The others have really got to go.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Saint Peter.
God nodded gently.
Three
And it came to pass that the Lord took an immediate personal interest in the business affairs of Monsieur Edouard Ravelle, the timber contractor whose wood was required for the construction of the holy ark.
One mile from St Pierre-des-Monts, on the road to Clermont-Ferrand, is a major junction. It is deceptive, for, as you approach from the direction of Clermont-Ferrand, the main road appears to be the fork to the left, because it is wider, smoother and more used than the narrower track that leads to the mountain village.
In fact, the wide piece of roadway runs to the timber yards of Edouard Ravelle, and the road is wider simply to accommodate the giant Berliet trucks which hurtle along the piste, loaded with tons of le Patron’s fine timber.
The timber yards are hidden in the oldest part of the pine forest which cloaks the sides of Mont Left Tit. The felled trees are dragged, hauled, trucked and manhandled to the open-sided sheds where the machinery lives, rattling and clanking and filling the air with the screams of new-born planks which shout their arrival like babies. The office of le Patron, Monsieur Edouard Ravelle, hides unsuccessfully between the seasoning stacks of timber that only partly deflect the hideous noise of his trade.
‘Yeeeee-owwww-eeeeee...’ howled a new, infant plank.
‘How many standards did you say? ‘ shrieked Ravelle at the telephone receiver he was cupping between his leather-palmed hands. ‘Yes, yes, yes ... of course I’m not deaf. Suit yourself. Italy may well be cheaper, but wait for the damp weather, you won’t have a straight piece of timber anywhere in your buildings . . . because it will warp ... my timber never warps. All right. Yes, I suppose I agree. No, I can’t guarantee to supply further needs later. Oh, merde! He slammed down the telephone and pressed his clenched fist against his forehead. ‘Italy, huh, Italy. To save a few hundred francs. Craftsmen - they don’t know the meaning of it.’
The fat woman, sitting at a small desk opposite, frowned. She was Madame Ravelle. ‘What now?’ she shouted above the scream of a fresh saw cut.
‘We’ve lost another order,’ replied Ravelle. ‘The railways, first. Now this one.’ He waved a sheaf of papers at her.
Madame Ravelle raised her hands in horror. ‘Our oldest customers. Sixty-five years and they’ve never bought a match from anyone else. My God, what’s happening? Is there a slump in timber? ‘
‘The prices are the same as yesterday,’ roared Ravelle in chorus with the circular saw in the shed. He fumbled in a desk drawer and threw
a newspaper towards her. ‘Here ... the market rates. All the same. No mention of changes. We never miss delivery dates. Our timber is the best. It’s not cheap, but it’s competitive.’
The telephone rang again. Edouard Ravelle couldn’t hear it, until the saw reached the end of another painful cut. ‘Hello, hello,’ he shouted. ‘The Monastery? Yes, yes. You want to cancel . . . the wood for the pews? And the new roof beams.’ He nodded towards the receiver, then hung it back in place with a tired gesture. ‘The Monastery, ma chérie,’ he said. Her eyes became wider. ‘Yes, another cancellation.’
‘It must be a conspiracy,’ muttered Madame Ravelle, seizing a brief moment of silence before the saw began again.
Edouard Ravelle nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Marie, please don’t think I have become insane. But tell me, if all our standing contracts were cancelled and we were asked instead to supply the timber to build a boat, a hundred and seventy metres long, by thirty metres wide, by about eighteen metres deep... allowing more wood for cabins and suchlike, and, I suppose, a grand mast, would we have enough timber in the woodyard? ‘
Madame Ravelle looked at her husband strangely, but she pulled a slide-rule out of her overall pocket and made a few brief calculations. ‘We would have enough wood. Just,’ she said, her voice rising as the saw started again.
‘I thought so,’ sighed Edouard Ravelle. He paused. ‘I would have bet money on it. It’s the Lord’s doing - damn him.’ He sighed again, swivelled his chair and reached into a cupboard behind the desk. He pulled out a bottle of Cognac.
Madame Ravelle shook her head, sadly. It seemed quite likely that her husband was indeed mad, even though he insisted he wasn’t. She put her slide-rule back in her pocket and continued checking the company accounts.
By the end of the working day, all of the Ravelle Timber Company’s regular orders had been cancelled. And Edouard Ravelle was deliriously drunk.
Godliness had instilled a high degree of intelligence in the spider that occupied the corner of the vestry of St Pierre-des- Monts church. Normally, throughout the week, it only ventured from the centre of its web in order to remove trapped insects, or to repair the damage to its silk-work caused by wasps and larger creatures. But, on Sundays, it trod its way carefully across its net, until it could lower itself on a glistening strand to sway and swing a full three feet below the web. Here it was reasonably safe from the unpleasant vibrations and blasts of air that swirled from the organ pipes as Mayor Lorraine played.
It was Sunday now, and the spider hung from its web. It watched the men gathering in the room below. The spider was surprised. Normally the room would contain only the recognizable figure of the man in the Jong robes, who always looked, to the spider, like a lifetime’s food supply, were it capable of capturing such a prey.
‘Twenty-four hours would have been reasonable . . .’ bellowed a voice that hurled the spider six centimetres sideways and bounced it off the wall. The spider was terrified.
‘Shhhhhh, please, Monsieur Ravelle, this is the house of God, not your timber yard,’ said Father Benoir.
‘I apologize,’ grunted Ravelle in his softest voice. Even so, it was barely less than a shout. ‘But I’m angry . . . I’m a Godly man, and I love God as you all do. It’s just that I didn’t think that He’d stoop to extortionism and blackmail.’
Father Benoir frowned angrily.
‘Blasphemer!’ exclaimed Mayor Lorraine. ‘To speak of God in His own house in such terms is base blasphemy ... Remember you are a councillor and a Catholic.’
Ravelle blushed and looked down at the floor. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. Forgive me. If only I could tell you how I’ve suffered during the past hours. My wife . . . my business. She doesn’t know, about the ark. She doesn’t understand.’
‘Understand what?’ asked Alphonse Joliot, his eyes crossing and re-crossing.
‘My business, ruined. I would have thought we would have been allowed a little time to make up our own minds. Not me. I wasn’t allowed. Everyone cancelled their orders with me. Sell my wood? Who to, now? I don’t have a customer left. If I don’t give you my wood, it will probably rot away.’
Farmer Joliot reached out a hand and thumped Ravelle comfortingly on his back. ‘My friend, don’t worry. I doubt if your timber will ever rot. More likely it will be struck by lightning. I had a cow struck by lightning last year. It swelled up and blew shit for twenty yards.’ His reminiscences were interrupted by d’Arle’s elbow.
Father Benoir suddenly smiled. He stepped forward and grasped Ravelle by his hands. ‘Dear, dear Edouard Ravelle. Your story makes me feel so happy for you ... You are God’s chosen timber-merchant. The proof you wanted has been given. Out of all the whole world of timber-merchants you are the one which God most wants. Therefore, you are timber-merchant above all other timber-merchants.’
‘Yes. You could have a sign that says, By Appointment to the Lord Our God,’ said Toto Barbusse.
Ravelle straightened himself, pulling in a deep breath, and said resignedly, ‘Okay, okay, okay, you win. The Lord God gets what He wants. He can have all the timber He needs. I only hope He knows what He’s doing.’
Four
‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ Henri Laplace, the baker, asked Yves d’Arle, ‘how you’ve made our beloved leader look like a stork? ‘ He pointed at the statue of Grand Admiral Dordogne, and particularly at its thin left leg.
The statue once had two normal-sized legs - until Yves d’Arle discovered the left shin ideal for honing a fine cutting edge on his butcher’s knives. Over the years since then, the limb had become daily slimmer and slimmer, until it now gave the admiral the nautical look of a musical comedy pirate.
The steel of a cleaver hissed against the cement. D’Arle stopped the samba movement of his behind, examined the blade, spat on it and ran his thumb down the edge.
Laplace shuddered.
D’Arle put the cleaver into a piece of sacking and rolled it up with his other freshly-sharpened knives. He stood with them clasped behind his back and watched Mayor Lorraine push his way through the waiting crowd until he reached the statue. D’Arle reached forward and rubbed a handful of dust on the new scars on the Admiral’s leg, and hoped the Mayor would not notice. Mayor Lorraine was, however, preoccupied. He turned and signalled to Constable Chaminade who struggled, with his thin arms, to pass up a heavy blackboard. Mayor Lorraine took it and balanced it against the tail of the statue’s frock coat. Then he turned and spread his arms. The waiting villagers were hushed.
Theatrically, Mayor Lorraine turned his back to them, and with a flourish wrote, in large chalk letters on the top of the board - ‘Plans for the ark.’
He straightened himself abruptly, his shoulders pulling the front of his jacket out of shape. He slapped his leg with the swagger cane he intended using as a pointer.
‘This needs to be handled like a military operation,’ he announced.
The villagers stopped speaking amongst themselves and listened.
‘We will begin it with a design,’ he continued. ‘I imagine an ark to be a fortification - against the entry of water. Therefore, I suggest a fortification of the type used in desert warfare.’ Alphonse Joliot coughed. ‘Excuse me, Colonel, but as a farmer, I do not imagine an ark to be a fortification. I imagine it to be more like a barn - only upsidedown.’
‘On the contrary, I imagine it as a loaf of bread,’ added Laplace helpfully. ‘A fresh crusty loaf, with the inside dough removed. And, as it will provide a crop for the Lord, I think of it as a harvest loaf.’
‘It is clearly to be thought of as a boot,’ said Constable Chaminade from the step below the Mayor.
‘A boot?’ asked Joliot. ‘How on earth can you imagine an ark as a boot?’
‘Because it will keep my feet dry,’ said Chaminade, smugly.
‘Fantastic,’ groaned Farmer Joliot.
Mayor Lorraine slapped his leg for silence. ‘It seems then that the sensible thing to do would be to ask an expert to design the ark and to s
upervise its construction. Where is M. Moreau, the cabinet-maker?’
‘Calling Monsieur Moreau ... Monsieur Mortimer Moreau,’ shouted Constable Chaminade, grandly.
The long-faced Moreau shouldered his way through the crowd till he reached the blackboard.
‘Ah ...’ said Mayor Lorraine. The villagers were quiet again. Moreau held out his hand. Mayor Lorraine passed him the chalk. Moreau nodded a grave thanks. Moreau was a man of so few words that even this slight acknowledgement could be regarded as a lengthy conversation. For a moment, Mayor Lorraine wondered how Moreau would convey his ideas. Was it possible he might even be prepared to speak on such an important occasion as this?
There was total silence as the crowd, many of whom had never heard Moreau utter so much as a grunt, waited in anticipation. Moreau turned, scowled at them, then looked again at the blackboard. With an abrupt movement, he drew a straight horizontal line right across the board.
‘Length,’ he said.
He flicked the chalk twice. Two perfectly vertical lines appeared. He joined them at the top. Mayor Lorraine and the audience were surprised at the perfection and accuracy. The oblong might have been drawn with set-squares and rule.
‘Height,’ said Moreau. Chaminade clapped.
With a brevity of movement, Moreau sketched, in magnificent perspective, a depth to his plan.
‘Width,’ he said. Chaminade clapped again.
‘A cabinet,’ exclaimed Mayor Lorraine. Moreau nodded, the thick creases round his neck making it appear as though a larger movement might result in self-decapitation.
‘Oh, God,’ moaned Farmer Joliot. ‘We might have expected it. A cabinet design from a cabinet-maker.’
‘Well it’s safer looking than your upsidedown barn idea,’ said Laplace.
Moreau was making strange movements with his face. Mayor Lorraine held up his arms for silence again.
‘Holy Mother,’ grunted d’Arle. ‘I believe that Moreau actually wants to say more than one word.’
Beyond The Rainbow Page 4