Beyond The Rainbow

by David Forrest

  The ark designer’s strange facial contortions continued for several more seconds. Then he spoke. His voice, had it been coloured, would have been a deep purple.

  ‘Within . . .’he said, pausing to take several deep breaths before he continued. ‘Within those lines, will I design living quarters . . .’ He paused again, and filled his lungs before repeating ‘living’, as though it were a word to be savoured. Then his face relaxed again into its usual stoniness.

  The crowd cheered.

  Moreau picked up the blackboard and carried it into his workshop.

  There was always a tricolour hanging in the square of St Pierre-des-Monts. Sometimes there were dozens, such as on Bastille Day, but always there was one. It hung on the same flagpole by day and night. The flagpole was situated just outside Josephine Abelard’s bedroom window on the second floor of her house, alongside Barbusse’s bar. The tricolour spent almost equal amounts of time fully raised and at half-mast. It was a signal for Josephine’s men friends.

  Josephine was not a whore. Whores would not have been tolerated by the other women of St Pierre-des-Monts. Josephine was just good-hearted, as her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had been before her. They had certainly not been whores. However, they had to live, and by careful planning, they went short of nothing.

  Barbusse looked out of his window, noted that Josephine’s tricolour was at half-mast once again, smiled to himself and picked another bottle of Dubonnet from his bar shelf.

  ‘Back soon,’ he told Chaminade who was sitting at a table, making a glass of thin red wine last as long as possible.

  It was evening. The square was deserted while the villagers fed themselves. Barbusse knocked on Josephine’s door and waited.

  It was always interesting waiting at Josephine’s door, thought Barbusse. Normally, when a door was opened, one saw fingers, hands, arms or a face, first. Not so with Josephine. One was always greeted by her bosom.

  The bosom opened the door. Josephine stood behind it. To Barbusse, she radiated sweetness, politeness, gentleness and concern.

  He reached forward to greet the bosom with a caress. His large hand waved vaguely in deserted air as, with a long-practised movement, Josephine stepped backwards, pulling the door open at the same time.

  ‘Toto, darling.’

  ‘I, er, brought you this,’ said Barbusse, holding out the bottle.

  ‘You silly boy,’ whispered Josephine, taking it and placing it on a nearby dresser that seemed to contain a month’s supply of household goods as well as the contents of an entire bistro. ‘You shouldn’t have done it. You’re too kind.’

  ‘It’s nothing, nothing,’ said Barbusse, edging his way past the grocery stock, and closing the door. Josephine led the way upstairs to her bedroom. It was an impressive room, totally out of character with the remainder of the house. It had been furnished by countless satisfied gentlemen throughout generations of the village’s past. The bed itself had originally been stolen from the palace at Versailles during the revolution. It found its way to the house of Josephine’s great-grandmother by way of a grateful revolutionary. The room was pregnant with a collection of antiques any museum would envy.

  Josephine led the way to the grand bed, turned, clasped her hands across her stomach, and sat on the quilted and embroidered counterpane. She smiled at Barbusse.

  ‘You are so handsome, my big lover.’

  Barbusse flexed his arm muscles until he felt them pressing against the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘And so strong . . . such a wonderful body . . . such a physique.’

  ‘Do I get you going?’ asked Barbusse, undoing the front buttons of his shirt so that he could expand his chest even more.

  Josephine, the perfect courtesan, managed a pale blush and demurely lowered her eyes. ‘How can you ask, my strong lover?‘ She began loosening the zip at the side of her dress. Barbusse watched as she shrugged the garment off her shoulders. He heard his shirt rip as he pulled it quickly off his arms.

  Josephine stood, and Barbusse licked his lips as her dress slipped to the floor. Her breasts overflowed from an inadequate brassiere. Barbusse unbuckled his thick belt and kicked off his shoes. He stood by the end of the bed, eyes bulging.

  Josephine reached behind her, and there was a slight click as she unclipped her brassiere. She held it against herself with her arms. Then she removed it slowly.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ moaned Barbusse. He jerked at the fly of his trousers and began to push them down.

  ‘The flag . . . remember the flag,’ whispered Josephine as she sank back onto the bed and lifted her rump to push off her remaining garment.

  Barbusse, unable to take his eyes from her, moved sideways, like a crab towards the window.

  ‘Raise your flag proudly, my big lover,’ breathed Josephine, writhing invitingly. Barbusse, hypnotized by the sight, reached to push open the shutter.

  His trousers slipped loosely from his hips, and dropped to his knees. Mesmerized by her seductive movements, he continued shuffling, stumbled as the trousers dropped even lower, and launched himself sidelong at the shuttered windows. Only two things saved his life. The first was the shutter catch, which was fastened. Although it burst apart, it reduced his take-off speed. The second was the barrow-load of courgettes being pushed by Farmer Joliot to his wife’s evening greengrocery pitch in the square.

  From below, the scene was spectacular. There was a crash as the shutters slammed open as Barbusse’s eighteen stone smashed against them. Then the sudden jack-in-the-box appearance of the bar-owner himself, sailing, naked, through Josephine’s window with a terrifying scream. Finally, the splurging squelch of a hundred and fifty kilos of ripe courgettes being compressed into puree by a one-hundred-kilo body dropping from a height of twenty feet.

  A second scream made the villagers look up. Josephine leant from the window, her hand at her mouth. Beside her, hanging from a splintered shutter were Barbusse’s trousers, neatly peeled from his ankles on his journey through.

  Barbusse lay in Joliot’s cart and groaned.

  Constable Chaminade pulled his notebook out of his pocket and joined the crowd staring at the stained body. It rested on the crushed courgettes like a plastic doll in a wooden bowl of green-pea soup.

  ‘What is the name of the deceased?‘ he asked in his pompous tone.

  Barbusse groaned again. His eyes fluttered.

  ‘He’s not deceased, idiot,’ said one of the women.

  ‘Not yet, perhaps,’ agreed Chaminade, licking the end of his indelible pencil. ‘But I have never yet seen a healthy man that colour.’

  Farmer Joliot got hold of Barbusse by the hair and shook his head violently. Barbusse’s tongue flopped out of his mouth. ‘He bloody well will be dead when my wife finds out what’s happened to her fine produce.’

  Josephine hung out of her window and screeched at Joliot. ‘You ogre, you villain. A good man is hurt and all you can think of is your rotten vegetables.’ The crowd laughed. Joliot’s face reddened. ‘You ought to be ashamed,’ she shouted, her large breasts hanging over the windowsill like paws-paws on a vine. ‘You call those courgettes ... that one there... it’s nothing more than a dwarf pickling gherkin.’

  The villagers laughed even louder.

  ‘That one?’ sneered Farmer Joliot. ‘That’s not a dwarf gherkin at all. It’s Barbusse’s tool.’

  The laughter became hysterical.

  Barbusse groaned loudly and tried weakly to clasp his hands over the insulted part.

  ‘I feel good,’ smiled God. ‘I may even create something new today. Let’s give the production department something to get their teeth into.’

  ‘Today isn’t a good day,’ said St Peter. ‘We’ve got union problems. They’re working to commandment.’

  There was a sharp rap at God’s door. It opened. The Orderly Arch Angel stood severe and upright, his robes bleached a harsh white, every feather of his wings neatly groomed and in place.

  ‘Yes? ‘ asked God.
r />   ‘Defaulters, suh,’ snapped the Orderly Arch Angel.

  ‘Oh, dear ... wheel them in,’ said God.

  The Orderly Arch Angel turned. He shouted outside the door. ‘You, you and you ... ‘tenshun ... ‘eft, right, ‘eft, right, ‘eft.’ Three rather dishevelled angels marched into the room almost at the double. They halted in front of God’s large desk.

  ‘Orf with yer perishing ‘aloes . . .’ roared the Orderly Arch Angel.

  ‘The charges?’ asked God. Saint Peter stood silent beside him, his hands folded across his stomach. He hated the daily round of heavenly routine duties, and the Orderly Arch Angel was such a tartar for discipline.

  ‘All peeping Toms, suh,’ snapped the O.A.A., his face taut and colourless.

  ‘Peeping . . . My goodness,’ said God. ‘I didn’t know we had anything worth peeping at up here.’

  ‘It was down there . . .’ said the Orderly Arch Angel. ‘They was apprehended, sitting on a window ledge, doing their disgusting and dirty peeping.’

  ‘They was ... er, were? ‘ said God.

  ‘A watching two naked ‘umans preparing to have a good ... er, in that French village of Yourn. A male and a female ‘uman, A Monsieur Barbusse and a Mam’selle Josephine.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said God. He peered at the three scruffy angels who stood, with their heads bowed in front of him. ‘You’re choristers, aren’t you? ‘ he asked.

  The three heads nodded.

  ‘I’m ashamed of you ... if it isn’t pornographic books, then it’s filthy thoughts. Picking your noses, playing with each other’s haloes behind bushes.’ He frowned at them severely. ‘I’m sorry ... I can’t be lenient with intrusion on human privacy,’ said God. ‘Fourteen days confined to Hell.’

  ‘... and I just didn’t say anything about the piece of ham being underweight, Father.’

  Father Benoir made an appropriate tutting sound in the darkness of the Confessional. ‘You have, of course, the chance to make amends,’ he whispered. ‘Next time the customer comes into your shop, just add a little extra to whatever she buys. And give it with true generosity from your heart...’

  ‘I will, I will...’

  ’And I suggest that a little extra prayer will help absolve you in this instance.’

  ‘Thank you, Father...’ The low step outside creaked. Father Benoir smiled to himself. The step creaked again.

  ‘Father, forgive me - for I have sinned ... again,’ whispered the voice of Claire Laplace.

  Father Benoir groaned.

  ‘Oh, dear, you’re ill . . . you poor thing,’ whispered Claire. ‘Let me come to your home and make you some soup.’

  This time the priest sighed. ‘I’m not ill,’ he whispered back. ‘Just surprised.’

  There was a soft giggle. ‘I had another wicked dream,’ said Claire. ‘I have to confess it because otherwise I would spend all my time feeling wicked. And I don’t want to be wicked, not with the ark being built. Isn’t it exciting?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Father Benoir, in a tired voice.

  ‘I mean, Mother said to me yesterday that I’d got to get all my dresses cleaned. I think I should throw them away and buy new ones. It’ll be like going on a cruise. I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise. Won’t it be wonderful? Do you think it would be a good idea if I bought a bikini for sunbathing?’ Father Benoir sighed again. ‘What about my pop records?’ asked Claire. ‘Should I pack them, too? I’ve got quite a lot, and a good record player. Will we have electricity? I should think we would have . . . Daddy says we’re having a wind generator on the ark. What are we going to call it? The ark? One of the other girls is terribly disappointed about everything. She’s got a boyfriend in Clermont. I said that as he’s one of the sinners who’ll be drowned, she should give him up. Now she just cries all the time...’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Father Benoir, firmly. ‘This is a Confessional, not a clubhouse. There are others who would like to use my services.’

  Claire laughed softly. ‘Oh, I’m sorry... I always forget when you talk to me... You’re such a wonderful talker. So interesting. I could listen to you all day ...’

  ‘But, unfortunately, I can’t listen to you all night. Remember why you’re here, child.’

  ‘Why do you call me child?’ asked Claire. Her voice sounded a little hurt. ‘Mother says I’m a young woman. And I feel like a young woman. Why don’t you just call me Claire?’

  ‘Please ... Claire ...’ said the priest, wearily.

  ‘Oh, yes... well... it was last night... when I’d just gone to bed. I was wearing that thin, lacy nightdress of mine. You know, the black see-through one I mentioned to you last time. Well, I wonder if it’s possessed or something. I mean, well, do you think I ought to put it on so’s you could exorcise it, or something? I could do that. I could bring it round to your house and change there for you. Then you could ...’

  ‘Please continue with the confession,’ pleaded Father Benoir.

  ‘Well, as I was saying, I had this lacy thing on that you can see right through, and I went to bed. Well, when I went off to sleep I suddenly found myself in this dark cave . . .’

  Father Benoir began his mental multiplications.

  ‘There was this young man lying on a big rock. He was completely naked, except for a clerical collar. Oh, Father, I feel so awful about my confessions. Well, you see ... his face was so familiar, Father. That’s what makes it so bad. I took all my clothes off... and I stood naked in front of him ... lying there on the rock, with his clothes off, too. Then I sort of danced for him ... in the nude. He seemed to like it and he kept trying to get up off the rock. Then he pulled me down on top of himself and rubbed me against him . . . and stroked me with his hands ... ever so gently ...’

  ‘Nine thousand six hun . . .’ whispered Father Benoir. His skull seemed to be pressing inwards on to his brain. Then he noticed that Claire had stopped whispering.

  ‘I woke up, then, Father,’ said Claire, disappointedly.

  ‘Good,’ said the young priest. He wondered what erotica she had told him about this time. ‘I think it would be a good thing if you--’ he began.

  Claire interrupted him. ‘The Hail Marys don’t seem to help, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Wouldn’t it be a better idea if you put me over your knee and pulled up my skirt and spanked me?’ Father Benoir felt dizzy.

  Five

  There was one English tourist in St Pierre-des-Monts on the day of the next council meeting. He was standing in the centre of the village square, asking directions of Constable Chaminade, who understood not a word. The English tourist had just begun to gesticulate in a most un-British manner, when the first of the pigeons on the statue of Grand Admiral Dordogne fluttered nervously. A second later, all the birds were in flight, wheeling high above the village.

  Barbusse, who was serving drinks on the terrace outside his bar, and who was still stained a courgette shade of green, saw them rise from their customary perches. ‘The pigeons . .’ he shouted.

  Joliot slapped a protective hand over the rim of his glass and looked up at the sky. ‘I mean, the bell . . .’ yelled Barbusse. This time, Joliot correctly understood the warning, wedged the glass with his elbow and pressed his forearms against the sides of his head, grinning sheepishly at Barbusse.

  Outside, in the street, Constable Chaminade, to the astonishment of the tourist, half saluted, clasped his hands over his ears and ran for the shelter of the nearest doorway. Within a fraction of a second, mothers had gathered their children, dragged perambulators into their houses and disappeared. The men, those who were the bravest, turned their backs to the square, covered their ears with their hands or coats, and leant their heads against the walls of the houses.

  There was one massive, reverberating boom. The shock wave hurtled down from the tower, was magnified beyond all human endurance by the catacombs of the rock on which the village stood, and bounced back into the sky. The first note was followed by a second and a third ... and, finally, a tenth. The last note
of the bell died to a buzz, before anyone in the square moved.

  ‘Another council meeting,’ grunted Barbusse.

  The bar customers nodded.

  Outside, in the square, village life was resumed. The men who had been standing with their heads against the walls of the houses, like hostages waiting to be shot, turned, brushed down their caps, and resumed their chatter. Constable Chaminade straightened his uniform and stepped out of the house where he had been sheltering and marched back towards the tourist.

  ‘Eh, comment?’ he asked, politely saluting him. There was no reply. The tourist stood, pale and stiff, in the centre of the square, a few feet below the Admiral’s statue. Chaminade repeated his question. The Englishman ignored him. His eyes were glazed. Constable Chaminade reached out a hand and poked one finger into the tourist’s chest. The man swayed gently on his feet, but remained stiff and otherwise unmoving.

  Henri Laplace strolled over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘The usual,’ replied Constable Chaminade, walking round the tourist with his hands clasped behind his back, and examining him closely. ‘Bell shock. Another shock’s the only treatment.’

  ‘It worked last time when we threw those two German tourists into the river,’ said Laplace.

  ‘And I almost lost my pension,’ grunted Chaminade. ‘No, this time we must use more scientific methods.’

  ‘Shall I kick him, then?‘ asked Laplace. He looked at the car parked nearby with its GB plates. ‘It’s always a pleasure to kick an Englishman up the arse.’

  ‘It mightn’t work,’ said Chaminade. ‘Father Benoir once told me that in the old days when the bell paralysed Protestant visitors, the Curés used it as an opportunity to baptize them into the true faith. But I don’t think he was being serious.’

  The English tourist blinked and moved slightly.

  ‘He’s waking up,’ said Laplace. ‘Quick, get rid of him.’ Constable Chaminade took the man by his shoulders, turned him until he was pointing towards his car and gave him a gentle push. The man stumbled, regained his balance and walked, stiff-legged, towards his vehicle. Chaminade followed him. The tourist stopped uncertainly by the open door. Chaminade gave him another gentle push, and he sat sideways in the seat. Chaminade bent and lifted in the man’s legs, and set them on the controls. Then he placed the man’s hands carefully on the steering wheel. Finally, he turned the ignition switch. The car jerked as the semi-conscious driver automatically jammed it into first gear. The vehicle moved forward in a series of lurches, and finally crossed the bridge leading out of the village. Constable Chaminade watched it disappear with a certain amount of satisfaction.