Beyond The Rainbow

by David Forrest

  ‘I still think he would have been better for it if I had kicked him up the arse,’ said Laplace, wistfully.

  Mayor Lorraine shuffled a thick pile of papers into an orderly block, picked up his gavel, and thumped the table. Outside in the hall, Constable Chaminade jumped, and wished there were pigeons in the council chamber to give him warning of unexpected noises.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am convening the eight hundred and forty-third meeting of the Council of St Pierre-des-Monts. We have had unanimous support for the project from the village, and I have called this meeting to settle the allocation of duties in connection with the building of the Lord’s ark.’

  ‘Good,’ said Father Benoir.

  Claire Laplace, who was taking shorthand notes of the proceedings, jotted down the young priest’s one-word comment and encircled it with pierced hearts.

  ‘Duties? ‘ asked Laplace. ‘What duties? I would have thought it was obvious. Wood-merchants supply timber, carpenters hit nails with hammers and saw wood, and I shall continue to bake the finest bread.’

  ‘Imbecile!’ Edouard Ravelle was shouting in his normal speaking voice. ‘I suppose you expect me to carry all the bloody wood up the hill on my own. And I bet you want our carpenters to build the damned ship, while you sit on your fat arse, making king cakes.’

  ‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ said Mayor Lorraine, firmly. ‘Watch your language. We have young Claire with us, remember. The matter is quite simply solved. We are here to discuss a number of suggestions which I and our reverend father will make. And, if any of you feel you don’t agree, well, there’s plenty of time for you to decide to go and live elsewhere.’

  ‘But, elsewhere is all going to be ...’ began Laplace.

  ‘Precisely!’ snapped Mayor Lorraine. He looked pointedly at the baker. ‘We want no dissention ... no desertion. A full team pulling together against all adversity, doing the work of our beloved Lord. God is with us.’

  ‘I once saw that written on a dead German soldier’s belt,’ said Barbusse. Mayor Lorraine ignored him.

  ‘Our problems are large, but not insurmountable,’ he continued. ‘We now have a design. I have seen it myself. Rough sketches by Monsieur Moreau. They show the animal stalls, food cupboards, cabins, the dining-rooms, even lavatories. And, Monsieur Ravelle, we have your excellent timber ready for us. Now we need a duty roster . . . helpers . . . people of trust in trustworthy positions. Captains, lieutenants, sergeants, corporals ... to lead the remainder of the village.’

  ‘I suppose, having taken my timber, you intend me to be a corporal . . . maybe even a private,’ shouted Ravelle.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ interjected Father Benoir. ‘You will not be made a corporal. But even if you were, I would personally promote you to captain, to assist me.’ He nudged Mayor Lorraine with his knee.

  ‘I spoke metaphorically. Perhaps we can dispense with ranks,’ said Mayor Lorraine, quietly. He looked down again at his list. ‘This is what I suggest. You, Joliot, you know a good animal when you see one. It will be your job to attend to the collection of livestock. We need good breeding animals. The best ... good milkers. And a stud bull.

  ‘Ah, yes, and you, Barbusse,’ said Mayor Lorraine, showing an unconscious association of ideas not missed by the cruder elements of the council. ‘You will arrange delivery of all drinking supplies. Wine, yes. But especially good water. And a little brandy, perhaps. But enough for all the villagers for a minimum period of a year.’

  ‘But, money? ‘ asked Barbusse, mentally calculating the cost of such an enormous undertaking.

  ‘Your credit is good?’ said the Mayor.

  ‘Yes.’

  Then use it, Monsieur. It is not dishonest, is it Father?’

  ‘I can think of no reason for it being dishonest,’ agreed Father Benoir. ‘We would intend, to pay everyone ... I mean we do intend to pay everyone we owe money to, afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, afterwards,’ said Barbusse. ‘Of course ... afterwards.’

  The following evening, the Mayor, Colonel Lorraine, paced the length of the narrow terrace below the statue of his beloved leader, Admiral Dordogne. Monsieur le Colonel’s white beard was tinted pink by the fading sunlight that reflected from the red roofs of the village. His monocle shone like a porthole in his right eye as he watched the crowd in the square, talking, gossiping, flirting, courting, parading.

  The Mayor tuned his ears into each conversation, as he passed. He was worried for he knew that now was the dangerous time. Once committed, the villagers would hurl themselves into the work. But now ... this was the time when a breath of doubt could grow into a tornado of disbelief that would sink the ark even before it was built. The Mayor fidgeted and drummed his fingers along the silver-topped cane he held tightly behind his back.

  ‘Waiting is always dangerous,’ he muttered to himself. He remembered the nervousness of men in front lines waiting for whistles to signal the charge. Men deserted before a battle; even afterwards - seldom during the fighting itself. Now, the villagers were waiting for the first of the wood to be delivered to the square. Colonel Lorraine felt this was the dangerous moment prior to the battle.

  Constable Chaminade detached himself from the parading crowd and stopped at the steps of the statue. He looked up at the Mayor. His arrival seemed to dislodge a precariously set trigger.

  ‘FRANCE . . .’ shouted Colonel Lorraine. Constable Chaminade jerked with surprise. The villagers stopped whatever they were doing and looked towards their Mayor. ‘France . . .’ he shouted again. Colonel Lorraine was astonished by his own behaviour. He preferred his speeches well-planned and well- edited before he pronounced them. Now, because he wasn’t sure what he intended to say, he shouted ‘France’ a third time. The villagers cheered. Colonel Lorraine permitted himself a benevolent smile. ‘Our great and beloved mistress ...’ At these words, the male half of the village audience turned to gaze at Josephine’s window. Colonel Lorraine winced at his own error. ‘Is France ...’ he added, hastily. The heads turned back to look at him again. ‘Our dear country has been chosen . . . yes, selected, from all those on earth, to lead God’s chosen to eternal peace and happiness.’

  ‘Brilliant, mon Colonel, you should have been a priest,’ said Constable Chaminade.

  ‘This man . . .’ The Mayor’s words, amplified by the square, ricocheted from building to building. ‘This man ... this son of our village . . . this great statesman ... is our salvation.’ He slapped the statue with his swagger-cane.

  ‘God . . . yes, God, Himself, must have watched our leader’s strong and forceful progress. In peace and war. And He has approved.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted the crowd.

  ‘We all know Charles Dordogne as our son,’ shouted the Mayor. ‘And I have served under him, even though I watched him play in this very square as a child. In him we have the greatest leader of all time, a captain for the ark - indeed, more than a captain - an admiral. Grand Admiral Dordogne. We are chosen because he will lead us safely, surely, to God’s New World .. ‘

  Colonel Lorraine was interrupted by cheering that began untidily but swelled to a roar as the buildings tossed the noise around the village. In the bell tower built over the deep catacombs, the great bell picked up the cheers and began to resonate, adding its own approval.

  The Mayor held up his hands for silence. Now, he knew, the villagers would be with him . . . behind him. He swung round once more to the statue.

  ‘Here is the man who makes Ghengis Khan, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, er, Abraham Lincoln . . . Hannibal. . .’

  ‘Winston Churchill? ‘ suggested Constable Chaminade, helpfully. Colonel Lorraine’s upper lip twitched, dangerously.

  ‘They were just children, beside our Admiral...’ he shouted. The crowd cheered again.

  Colonel Lorraine pointed his finger down at the ground. ‘Here ... it will start. Here, beneath the feet of our beloved leader.’

  Constable Chaminade looked puzzled. ‘What will start?’ he wondered. Almost by magic
, he thought, the Colonel answered his unspoken question.

  ‘The ark ... His voice snapped out the words. ‘The ark of the Lord will grow from this spot.’ He let his arms collapse to his sides as the crowd roared again. He could see tears in many of their eyes. Yes, he decided. Now they will surely build the Lord His ark.

  Farmer Joliot, Yves d’Arle and Colonel Lorraine sat on the steps of the statue. Constable Chaminade stood at one corner of the plinth, tall and angular and stiff - because he had been motionless for the past half-hour, feeling it had suddenly become his duty to stand vigil beside the statue of the revered Admiral.

  ‘That was a clever speech, Colonel,’ said Joliot. ‘As my grandfather would have said, you could charm an egg out of a cockerel’s backside.’

  Yves d’Arle sniggered. ‘The Colonel is a diplomat and that’s more than can be said about you, Alphonse.’

  Farmer Joliot barged d’Arle with his shoulder. Yves shot sideways off the steps of the statue and finished his brief flight sitting at the feet of the motionless Constable Chaminade. The butcher laughed, climbed up and brushed himself, then sat down on the other side of Mayor Colonel Lorraine.

  ‘I agree with Alphonse, Colonel,’ he said. ‘You made a very good speech. It was inspiring, although I didn’t know Admiral Dordogne was going to be captain of the ark. Still, it does seem logical, in view of his being born here, and being the curd’s uncle ...’ d’Arle paused and thought. ‘The more I think about it, the more I believe that was the reason for God choosing us - because of the Admiral.’

  ‘The bit of your speech I most liked,’ said Joliot, ‘was the part about the ark growing from this very spot. Yes, that was a good bit, it added a sort of sentiment to the occasion.’

  The Mayor smiled. ‘I had no choice,’ he confessed. ‘It had to be here. This spot. I measured the length we need to build the ark. It fits exactly ... and only ... between the corner near Barbusse’s bar, and the front of our church. I measured it not out of doubt, but just to be quite certain that God had not made an error of judgment. I report that God was quite right. The ark will just fit the village square. But we’ll have to move the statue.’

  ‘I will be most willing to have it placed directly outside my shop,’ said Yves d’Arle, cleaning his nails with the boning knife he’d brought over for its daily sharpening.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ growled the Mayor. ‘Monsieur d’Arle, I consider it most improper that you choose to sharpen your knives on the statue. You’ve worn the leg so thin on one side it looks as though he’s had rickets. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s bad for his political image.’ He glanced round the square, selecting the point furthest from d’Arle’s butcher’s shop. He nodded towards Barbusse’s bar. ‘The statue of our great leader will stand there. From that position he will face the bow of the ark, and will watch over the work as it progresses.’

  The hooting started in the distance, away over the village walls, behind the houses, beyond the old walls. It was melancholy, rather like a goose with a harsh attack of laryngitis. Colonel Lorraine stopped speaking, put his hands on his hips and stared coldly towards the village entrance. Father Benoir emerged from the church, and came towards him. The honking increased in volume until it echoed between the houses and was joined by a banging, thumping and rattling noise. Like a train emerging from a tunnel, Edouard Ravelle’s timber lorry hurtled into the square, and drove straight towards the crowd of villagers grouped around the statue. They scattered as the vehicle showed no signs of stopping. Almost at the steps, it halted, its tyres hopping over the uneven cobbles.

  Edouard Ravelle grinned down from the cab.

  Constable Chaminade waved both his arms in the air. ‘You’re under arrest, Ravelle,’ he shouted.

  Edouard Ravelle gave no sign he had heard the constable, and began climbing out of the truck.

  ‘D’you hear me?’ screamed Chaminade across the bonnet. ‘Come round here at once and be arrested for disturbing the peace and endangering life and limb, not to mention property.’ Ravelle made a half salute in the direction of Father Benoir and Colonel Lorraine. ‘Your keel,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you the best timber I’ve got.’

  Constable Chaminade clambered over the front bumper of the wood lorry and stood for a moment, straightening the front of his uniform. Then he officiously took his notebook from his pocket. ‘Your name and address, Monsieur Ravelle,’ he said.

  ‘Father Benoir,’ continued Ravelle. ‘I can honestly assure you that there is no better timber in the whole of France.’ Constable Chaminade licked his pencil tip and wrote laboriously.

  ‘Excellent,’ beamed Colonel Lorraine. ‘And your timing is perfect, too. The keel must be laid now - while the spirit of my villagers is uplifted.’ He stood upright. ‘Friends,’ he called. The scattered villagers reformed into a crowd again. ‘Of time we have little enough . . . We must begin work at once. Tonight! But before we can lay the keel we must move the statue of the great Admiral.’ He looked at Father Benoir, who nodded.

  ‘At once, mon Colonel,’ snapped Constable Chaminade. He saluted, turned towards the terrace, braced his back against the giant statue and pushed. The council members sitting on the plinth itself watched him. Colonel Lorraine waited patiently. Chaminade grunted, strained and puffed for a full three minutes. Then he stood, weakly, flushed with exertion, and breathless. He looked up at Colonel Lorraine like a hunting labrador that had lost one of its master’s pheasants. He saluted again, bashfully. ‘It is impossible for me alone, mon Colonel,’ he sighed.

  The Mayor raised his eyes towards the sky. His monocle fell and dangled on its cord against his chest. For a moment, the crowd wondered if he was about to cross himself. Then he regained his composure. ‘The statue is to be moved by all of us’ - he looked meaningfully at Chaminade - ‘to that spot over there. Beside Barbusse’s bar.’ He pointed at the biggest and strongest of the men below him. ‘You . . . d’Arle, Joliot, Pervas, Lavac . . .’ He named two dozen of the villagers. ‘Please assist Monsieur Ravelle with his trolley.’

  There was a clank as Edouard Ravelle dropped the tailboard of his truck. The men chosen by Colonel Lorraine moved to help him. Together they dragged out one of Ravelle’s timber trolleys, a heavy wooden platform with sturdy wheels. It crunched to the ground.

  ‘Over here,’ ordered the mayor. The men hauled the trolley round, the steel rims of the wheels screeching on the granite cobbles. With a thump they rammed it against the marble base that supported the statue of Grand Admiral Dordogne. The sword in the Admiral’s outstretched hand quivered.

  Ravelle unwound the steel cable from the winch fixed to the front of his lorry. He passed the cable to d’Arle who carried it round the base of the statue and coupled it back on to itself in front of the trolley.

  ‘Ready!’ called d’Arle. Ravelle climbed into the cabin and jammed the winch into gear. The cable tightened, the statue shuddered. Admiral Dordogne’s sword point moved against the skyline.

  There was a twang as the cable tautened and cut its way into one corner of the concrete base. Then, slowly, the whole statue began to move off the plinth on to the edge of the trolley.

  ‘Stop!’ roared Colonel Lorraine, as the statue hesitated on its journey. He examined the trolley edge. ‘We need grease,’ he said. Ravelle, up in the cab of the truck, shrugged his shoulders. The Mayor thought for a moment. ‘Butter,’ he said to Pierre Flambert.

  ‘Butter?’ asked the grocer.

  ‘Half a kilo,’ said Colonel Lorraine.

  ‘I’ll deliver it in the morning,’ said Flambert.

  ‘Now, man, now,’ said the Colonel, impatiently. ‘Go and get it so that we can grease the trolley.’

  ‘Oh,’ grunted Flambert. He waddled off to his shop, his fat behind joggling inside the trousers his wife always made several sizes too large so that there was always room to accommodate his steadily increasing diameter. He was back, soon, with a small barrel of butter. He held it towards the Mayor. Colonel Lorraine barely disguised a shu
dder and looked down his nose at the grocer.

  ‘I suggest you smear it on the edge of the trolley, Monsieur Flambert,’ he said. The grocer did as he was told. ‘Start the winch,’ ordered Colonel Lorraine. The engine coughed, then shuddered as Ravelle pushed the winch into gear again. This time the statue moved more quickly. It teetered slightly. Colonel Lorraine frowned, began to say something, but changed his mind as, with a sudden jerk, the statue slid forward until it stood squarely in the centre of the trolley. Ravelle switched off. The statue rocked gently as the axles took the full weight of the concrete Admiral.

  Colonel Lorraine looked at the empty base where Dordogne had stood a few minutes before, then he allowed himself a small, military smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Oh, sweet lover,’ breathed Josephine. ‘You are so powerful. You ripple with vitality. Your muscles are like knotted ropes that whip me to a frenzy of desire. Your shoulders and arms are great oak trees that suck the strength of the mountains. And your waist, supple as a swan’s neck . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Barbusse. ‘It was years of training in the Paras that made my body so beautiful.’

  ‘Dear giant,’ gasped Josephine, her eyes on Barbusse’s huge naked body standing between the foot of her bed and the tall mirror on the far wall. ‘How can you keep me waiting for you?

  I am filled with a burning fire that only you can extinguish.’