‘I’ll stay on in the dungeon, thanks,’ said Morry.
Barbusse looked at him in surprise. ‘But there’s a camp bed in the room above the stairs. It’s warm here, and I have plenty of food.’
‘I’m sure that’s so,’ said Morry, blandly. ‘But you haven’t mentioned money.’
Barbusse tutted. ‘My dear young friend, I don’t expect any money for ...’
‘But I do,’ broke in Morry.
There was a laugh from Yves d’Arle. Barbusse scowled across the bar at him. Then, turned back to Morry. ‘Money? Money for what? I’m offering you accommodation . . . board … ‘
‘You think that, because I’m here, and because I’m Jewish, you can take advantage of me,’ said Morry. ‘The lodging is nothing. You’re only offering it to help you ease your bad conscience.’
‘Conscience? Me?’
‘Consider your actions,’ said Morry, loosening his shoulders from under Barbusse’s arm. ‘I land here, a stranger in your village - needing only assistance. First, you threaten to impale me on a spike. Then you manhandle me, throw me bodily into a stinking pit and consider stretching me on a medieval instrument of torture. Then you drag me out and try to get me involved in a battle. Now, you expect me to slave for you, for nothing.’
‘This is incredible,’ said Barbusse. ‘This is terrible. You make me feel like a maggot, and yet I have done noth . . . well, I didn’t think I’d … ‘
‘I forgive you, because you are what I said before, just an ignorant man.’
Barbusse looked sadly down at the floor. ‘I suppose I am. You make me see that.’
‘We’ve all be telling you that for years without making you see it,’ said Yves d’Arle happily. He shut up abruptly as Barbusse glowered at him.
‘I feel empty inside, discovering that I’m such an unpleasant person,’ groaned Barbusse.
‘Realization is often hard,’ said Morry, generously. ‘Now what would you suggest as a decent wage for me?’
Barbusse sighed. ‘What can I say? No matter what I suggest, history will undoubtedly record it as insufficient. Take what want from the till.’
‘That’s foolish, too,’ said Morry. ‘I will work for thirteen francs an hour . . .’
‘Thirteen francs!’ exploded Barbusse. ‘That’s robbery, you thieving little yid . . .’ He held up his hands in capitulation. ‘Okay, okay ... whatever you say ...’
Morry chuckled. Barbusse grinned at him. ‘Then it’s a deal,’ said Morry.
There was a twitch in Barbusse’s lower regions that reminded him that it was evening and that he had not yet visited his new fiancée. ‘Yes, my friend, it is a deal ... but, on one small condition.’ He tried to make his voice nonchalant. ‘I, er, have, a few vital arrangements to complete . . . er, visit the battlements, inspect the guard ... that sort of thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, er, would you mind beginning work now... just a very little work ... er, serving ... ? The price list is there.’
‘Of course, Patron,’ said Morry, ‘Your business will be well looked after by my capable mind. You go and have your fuck in peace.’
‘Thank you,’ said Barbusse simply.
Eleven
The full moon threw shadows across the roofs of the buildings around the square, and somehow enlarged the towering hulk of the ark. It seemed to Father Benoir that the vessel had always occupied the square. He could no longer visualize the area without it, with the statue of his uncle dominating everything instead. Father Benoir sat on the church steps, feeling the stone cool against his back.
‘It’s very big,’ said Claire Laplace’s voice next to him. The priest jumped. He hadn’t heard her arrive. ‘But I like the smell of it. Like Monsieur Ravelle’s timber yard. Sort of disinfectant.’
‘The Lord God’s disinfectant,’ smiled Father Benoir. ‘That’s the whole idea of the ark.’
‘I’m glad you’re our captain.’ Father Benoir felt Claire move closer to him in the darkness.
‘I’m not. God will be our captain.’
‘But afterwards,’ asked Claire. ‘What then? What will it all be like? Will the land be just a mass of mud? What will we all do then?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the priest. ‘We won’t be alone. God will be with us. As for the land ... who knows where we’ll even be? The ark could be set down anywhere. But, wherever it is, it will be God’s choice. I doubt if there’ll be mud.’
‘But what will we do?’
‘Work,’ said Father Benoir. ‘It’s going to be a new beginning. We’ll start with almost nothing and we’ll build a new world from that. The ark is a sort of womb and mankind will be reborn from within it.’
‘I like the idea, but I’m frightened, all the same.’
‘All of us are a little frightened,’ said Father Benoir. ‘But really, there’s no need for fear.’
Claire giggled. ‘I’m often afraid. You make me afraid every time I confess to you. Making confession to an old priest might be easy, but making them to someone nearly the same age is very frightening.’
Father Benoir snorted. ‘Nonsense, my child. You should remember that as a priest, I listen not with my own ears, but with the ears of the Church.’
‘Sometimes, Father, I don’t think that you really listen to me at all,’ whispered Claire, sadly. Then her voice brightened. ‘Oh, I know what I wanted to tell you. It’s about my dreams ... you know, that man … ‘
Father Benoir sighed. ‘Please, Claire, save your dreams for the confessional.’
‘No,’ said Claire, firmly. ‘This isn’t another dream, it’s just about the man in them. The one who I do awful things with ... ‘
‘Yes,’ said Father Benoir.
‘Well. . .’ Claire leant her head over, confidentially. Father Benoir could smell her girlish perfume, heavy on the warm summer air. ‘That man, Father... oh, it’s so awful... the one with no clothes on. Well, last night I saw his face properly ... it’s you, Father darling.’
‘We will have a farm of several million hectares,’ said Alphonse Joliot, contentedly. He lay, fully dressed, on the bed, his arms behind his head. ‘And there will be no competition. There will also, probably, be no foot-and-mouth disease and I shall build up a huge herd. Larger even than the ranches in the Carmargue ... a real American-type ranch.’
Mathilde Joliot sat in front of a small dressing-table, combing her hair.
‘Naturally,’ continued Joliot, ‘I will supply meat in return for the building of my farmhouse. I’ve been trying to work out values. I estimate that I will sell my beef for something like an hour’s work a kilo. Three loaves of bread for a piece of prime beef ... a bottle of good wine for a similar slice. It will be a matter of credit . . . good book-keeping. We should be millionaires in the new world within a very short time.’
‘I’m comforted by only one thought,’ said Mathilde, punctuating her words with sweeps of her hairbrush. ‘That I am not the only woman married to an idiot in our community.’ She turned from the mirror. ‘Now listen to me, Alphonse. For a thousand generations you men have ruled with one thing - your cocks. And look what you’ve done with your power.’
‘Kept our wives in the pudding club.’
‘And talked rot . . . you and your millionaire ideas. A big ranch . . . huh . . . And where do you think the cows will come from for your herd? ‘
‘From the ones I’ve--’ began Alphonse, sarcastically. Mathilde interrupted him. ‘Idiot. Every single one of those animals out there is communal property. Every cow, every calf, every bull, every chicken, cockerel . . . duck. Even the mice hiding in the ark. There’s not a single item going on that boat that either you, or any other man, will be able to call his own.’ Joliot was silent for a few seconds. Then his face brightened. ‘I’m pleased,’ he said at last. ‘Very pleased to learn that everything will be shared. Of course, you’re including my prick in the community’s property, aren’t you - so’s the other women can use it if they want to, just as much as y
ourself?’
Mathilde looked at him coldly. ‘Naturally,’ she said. ‘In fact, I will inform them that it is available - as, no doubt, it has always been available. I will also tell them that it is planted with the same finesse that you drive in larch poles for fences.’
‘Then tell them also, that my fences stand longer than those of any other man . . .’
‘Be silent,’ snapped Mathilde. ‘And remember that the future belongs equally to us all.’
‘You’re Communists,’ grumbled Alphonse. ‘Every one of you is a damned Communist. Even the Mayor ... and Father Benoir. If God knew, I’m sure he would keep you all off the ark.’
Father Benoir thought the noise that awakened him early next morning was thunder. It woke him even before the birds began their dawn chitterings, and it was several seconds before his mind was sufficiently awake to recognize the noise as the clump of hurrying boots on the cobbles of the square.
‘The ark,’ thought Father Benoir, his mind racing. ‘Something must have happened to it.’ He scrambled out of bed, hooked on his spectacles and pushed open the shutters of his window. The ark, long and dark in the shadow of the buildings, was still there, intact. The villagers, however, seemed to be running towards the gateway like lemmings making for the sea.
Even as Father Benoir watched, the sergeant militiaman, posted by President Dordogne to keep intruders out of the village, stumbled into the square. He seemed hesitant. Father Benoir shouted down to him. The man looked up.
‘Father,’ he shouted. ‘Where is the telephone? Quickly.’
‘In the bar.’ Father Benoir pointed beyond the ark. The militiaman half-saluted, then ran on across the square. Father Benoir grabbed his cassock and pulled it on over his pyjamas, then he hurried down into the square.
‘Father, Father,’ panted d’Arle as the priest arrived by the gate. He grabbed him by the arm. ‘Look, Father. Out there.’ He dragged him through the wedge of villagers who were blocking the gateway. Father Benoir’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. On the narrow bridge, like the legendary hero Horatius, stood Barbusse, his shirt tattered and hanging from his waist, his clenched hands made huge bloody fists as he prepared again to repel another charge from a bunch of men at the far end of the bridge. Behind him, on the bridge, lay the second militiaman, unconscious. Beyond his attackers were more men, urged on, in some cases, by semi-hysterical women. Father Benoir allowed his gaze to travel beyond them. The whole of the valley was filled, as far as he could see in the pale light, with thousands and thousands of people.
‘When the sun came up, they were there,’ said d’Arle. ‘They say they want to join us on the ark.’
It seemed later to Father Benoir that he had acted completely without logic. He suddenly found himself beside Barbusse, then in front of him, alone, facing the crowd. ‘Stop it. . . Stop . . .’ he shouted at them. They paused. Father Benoir felt the bridge shudder a little under his feet. He raised both his hands. ‘In the name of God ...’ he ordered.
‘It’s him. It must be. The priest who spoke to the Lord,’ shouted a thin voice at the edge of the crowd. There was a forward surge of movement. Two huge arms encircled Father Benoir from behind. He found himself lifted bodily and carried backwards. He was dumped still upright on the narrow strip of ground on the village side of the bridge, next to the still unconscious figure of the militiaman.
‘Now! It’s the only way . . .’ shouted Barbusse’s voice in his ear. The bridge in front of him tilted, cracked and hung for a second before it slid, end first, down into the gorge. There was a silence until it reached the bottom two hundred feet below, came a lingering splash. The crowd, now poised on the far side of the chasm, roared angrily.
‘Back,’ shouted Barbusse. ‘Get back in the square. Close the gates.’
Father Benoir felt himself propelled sideways through the gate. He barely managed to keep on his feet. Then, with a thud, the gate was pushed closed, darkening the gateway, and muffling the noise of the people in the valley.
By noon, a remarkable and unforeseen situation had developed throughout the whole of central France. Roads leading to St Pierre-des-Monts from every direction, were blocked with every conceivable kind of transport . . . coaches, cars, lorries, horse-carts, motorcycles and bicycles. All loaded, packed with people and their bundles of possessions ... looking like a million refugees from a hundred different wars. Roads, even motorways, ceased to have dual carriageways - both lanes being used by the village-bound traffic.
Around Clermont-Ferrand, the slow moving streams of people and vehicles forced themselves into the funnel of the valley that was already too packed to contain them. They spilled into the fields, trampling and crushing the crops and vines. They fought their way through the undergrowth of the hillside forests and waded, sometimes chest-deep, up the river beds towards the village. Police and troops deployed to control the ever-growing crowd found themselves swept along inevitably towards the mountain peaks. A million people sweated, trudged, scrambled, fought, defeated, and prayed their way towards St Pierre-des-Monts.
The head of the valley, between Right and Left Tit, was no longer green. The meadows that had fed the village’s cattle were now packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder, breast to back, on the slopes. Groups, harangued by religious cranks, cheered, wept and sang, over the corpses of those who had died in the crush. The valley was now a vast lake of semi-hysterical humanity.
And the villagers of St Pierre-des-Monts went about the Lord’s business.
Colonel Lorraine had just climbed down the steep steps from the battlements. His face was serious. The crowds outside seemed to be growing. The narrow track leading up from Clermont-Ferrand was packed by a steady caterpillar of people who, as they neared the village walls, spread out across the valley, filling it like an amphitheatre. Smoke from their cooking fires drifted like an autumn mist, and their tents resembled the massing of a Saracen army.
Morry, standing at the bottom of the steps, in the square, disturbed the Colonel’s musings. ‘Excuse me . . . er, Monsieur Mayor...’
‘Yes?’ The Colonel hesitated, then straightened himself. Morry handed him an envelope. ‘It’s an application.’
‘It is? An application.’ The Mayor took the envelope and opened it. ‘What are you applying for? ‘
‘The ark,’ said Morry. ‘It’s a sort of tender. I wish to buy it.’ The Colonel looked puzzled. He unfolded the paper, and read it. ‘The ark? Buy the ark? It’s impossible. It belongs to everybody. The whole community.’
‘I know,’ said Morry, hurriedly as the Colonel began to hand him back the paper. ‘No, you keep it, it’s an official tender. I don’t want the ark now, only when you’ve finished with it . . . afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’ echoed the Colonel.
Morry nodded. ‘I know it used to belong to everybody, but now, it doesn’t. It’s a sort of arrangement I’ve made with people.’
‘How do you mean, arrangement? ‘
‘Well,’ continued Morry. ‘What I’ve done so far, is to buy a number of shares in it. Like for instance, Barbusse’s share. He’s been paying me for working for him, and so, while money is still of some use, I’ve used a bit of it to buy his share of the ark after it’s finished with.’
‘You’re mad!’ said Colonel Lorraine angrily. ‘It may be years before the ark is of no use to us.’
‘I know,’ said Morry, brightly. ‘That’s why I’m getting it so cheaply. I don’t care how long you want it for - ten years, twenty years, thirty years - it makes no difference.’
‘How many others have sold you their so-called share? ‘ asked Colonel Lorraine, curiously,
‘Most,’ said Morry. ‘Laplace, d’Arle, Joliot, Chaminade . . .’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Barbusse and Lautrec ... oh, and then there’s--’
‘Enough,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘Tell me just how many haven’t sold their bits.’
‘Not many . . . most families want the money now to buy odds and ends for themselves.
In fact, only about four families haven’t sold out... not including you and Father Benoir.’
‘You’re incredible,’ said Colonel Lorraine, his monocle slipping as his eyes widened. ‘You’ve been here only a few days and already you’ve gone into the property business. A mind like yours might be a lot of use to us later.’
‘Then you’ll consider the application?’
‘Consider it? I don’t see how it can be ignored if you’ve already managed to complete ninety per cent of the deal. I can’t see that it’ll do any harm to let you have the ark once its work has been completed. But you’ll have a long wait, I warn you.’
‘I’ve got the time,’ said Morry, smiling at the Mayor.
‘Then tell me one thing, confidentially,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘I’m curious to know why you want it. It can’t be for the timber. There’ll be plenty around, I’m sure. It won’t be a tourist attraction because there won’t be any tourists. So, what? ‘
Morry grinned. ‘I’m looking after my future children’s children’s interests. You’re a religious man, with a good knowledge of Christian history . . . Well, have you any idea just how many pieces of the True Cross have been sold?’
Colonel Lorraine paced the battlements, briskly. Father Benoir almost trotted to keep pace with him. ‘Ah, Barbusse,’ said the Colonel, approaching the bulky figure that lounged against one of the castellations in the wall. ‘How’re the wounds? ‘ He didn’t wait for Barbusse to reply. ‘Excellent job, Barbusse. Excellent. If you were a regular, that remarkable performance would have earned you a Croix de Guerre. As it is, you have the thanks of us all.’
‘And not a few bruises,’ added Father Benoir. He looked closely at Barbusse’s face. ‘And a split lip.’
‘It was nothing,’ smiled Barbusse, crookedly.
‘There’ll be a lot more trouble yet,’ warned Colonel Lorraine. He repositioned his monocle and stared out over the battlements. ‘Look at them down there. Regiments of them. And more coming. See them?’ He pointed into the valley. ‘Like a stream of ants climbing a table leg towards a pot of honey.’
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