The Mule

by David Quantick

  * * *

  The print-out was folded in an article from the institute’s website about the origins of the Von Fremdenplatz documents. The facts, if that’s the right word to describe something so vastly imaginary, were fairly simple. A German professor of linguistics, visiting colleagues at the University of Rouen, was looking for a book in the library there when his eye was caught by a misfiled volume on a low shelf. The book’s German title had attracted him and when he removed it from the shelf, he discovered that the volume was not a scholarly or linguistic title at all, but a collection of peculiar images, bizarrely juxtaposed, and linked only by a text in a language he could not recognise. The book had no title as such, only the words VON FREMDENPLATZ embossed on the spine in gold letters. When the professor showed the book to a librarian, she denied all knowledge of it and produced evidence in the form of its apparent absence from the university’s library catalogue and database.

  The professor claimed the orphan volume and showed it to his friends who, like him, were both puzzled and intrigued by it. They too had no idea what the language was – it clearly had roots in both Romance and Germanic tongues, but its grammar was chaotic and seemingly random and there were other aspects, too, that made translation impossible. For example, there was a great deal of unusual repetition – in one fifteen-word sentence the word hevlént appears nine times; this word does not occur anywhere else in the book. Words like est and the one I remembered when I saw the Alice in the bar, sunt, which are normally indicators of the verb ‘to be’ in many languages, were dotted about in places where no verb should be. Six pictures on the same page – two of different kinds of eagle, one of a ruined castle, two photographs of what seemed to be elderly identical twins of different sexes, and a crude cartoon of a bicycle – were all captioned Flupe.

  The volume began to acquire some notoriety in academic circles, where scholars began, first tongue in cheek and then in earnest, to attempt to decipher it. Arguments predictably raged as to whether it was an authentic text or an elaborate hoax (hoaxes, of course, are almost always elaborate), and the whole thing was given fresh popularity when German television made a documentary about it. (The Germans felt particularly close to the Von Fremdenplatz, as it was now known, partly because of the nationality of its discoverer, and partly because ‘Von Fremdenplatz’ is the only translatable phrase connected to the book, meaning, depending on who you believe, ‘From Foreigner Square’ or ‘Belonging to the Place of Strangers’. Needless to say, no such place, square or even person of that name has ever been discovered. And also, it’s not strictly in the book, it’s just, as it were, on the book.)

  Then, just as interest was dying down again, two things happened. First, a French internet publishing magnate with pretensions to being seen as intellectual offered an enormous cash reward to anyone who could translate the book, which created major interest on the Continent. And second, another volume of the Von Fremdenplatz was discovered, this time in the stockroom of a large bookshop in Bordeaux (the finder was a student working a holiday job, who had taken the book to her boss when she’d been unable to find a barcode to price the book with). A month later, more volumes were found, more slender than the others, with the appearance of being appendices to a larger work. Naturally, this created something of a furore in the parallel worlds of applied linguistics and made-up fantasy nonsense. Those who believed that the Von Fremdenplatz was an authentic text claimed variously that it was a message from a parallel civilisation, a leak from an all-controlling secret society, or just a message from God, coded in tongues. Those who saw it as a huge prank pointed out that a similar thing had happened in a story by Borges about a mysterious book that had appeared from nowhere in several different places at once.

  It was all getting rather heated, and matters came to a head when one of the smaller volumes was stolen from the college that had purchased it and was later found defaced and smeared with either blood or jam outside a Lutheran church in Utrecht. The meaning of this gesture remains obscure, but it led directly to the internet publishing magnate, who had already withdrawn his prize offer, deciding to buy all the known copies of the Von Fremdenplatz, including the damaged one, and loaning them to a private Parisian museum with a reputation for closeness and dislike of media attention. Whatever these documents were, was the reasoning, they were both fascinating and troublesome and should be kept away from exactly the kind of people who wanted to see them.

  All this was some eight years ago. Since then, no further editions of the Von Fremdenplatz documents had turned up and, with the reward withdrawn, public interest waned. There were, of course, many websites devoted to the documents, and an endless stream of bloggers claimed to have found the key to translating the Von Fremdenplatz. But as there were no new developments, people discovered other, trendier obsessions, the steady flow of applications to see the documents was reduced to a trickle and the Parisian museum remained as unvisited as it always had been.

  Perhaps, I wondered, this was why Frant’s own application to visit the museum had been successful. Now that fewer people wanted to see the Von Fremdenplatz, maybe the caretakers of the collection were less on guard about their charge. Possibly they were just bored and wouldn’t mind some company. I had no idea, but having read this much, I found I was looking forward to seeing the Von Fremdenplatz documents, real or fake, as if they were any other fascinating historical artefact.

  The barman appeared at my table. ‘Would you like any more drink?’ he said in English. ‘We are closing now.’

  I asked for another martini. He nodded and then indicated the print-outs on the table.

  ‘You are going there?’ he said. ‘L’institut?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Demain,’ I added. Frant’s penchant for saying everything in two languages was rubbing off on me.

  The barman shook his head, as if to say rather me than him. ‘Crazy people,’ he said. ‘On fait collection de merde.’

  He left, and I studied the print-outs once more. There was nothing in the article about crazy people but then, as it was from the institute’s own website, there wouldn’t be. Oh well, I thought to myself as I put down some change for a tip, if there was one thing I was used to, it was crazy people.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I rarely sleep well when I’m away from my own bed, which I’m sure is a common experience, even among people who aren’t staying in hotels where the bed is only slightly less narrow than a plank and the pillows haven’t apparently been harvested of their filling. I woke several times in the night, partly out of discomfort and partly because, judging by the noise of sirens outside, my room seemed to be placed just above one of Europe’s major police and criminal chase thoroughfares.

  I finally drifted off to sleep about five o’clock in the morning and immediately found myself in a familiar dream. I have never to my knowledge ever suffered from what I believe are known as ‘recurring dreams’, but this one was without doubt such a thing. I was standing in a large open space, exactly as I had been the night I’d met the girl. The sun was shining brightly, in the distance I could see trees and the faint shapes of people, and once again there was nothing else but me there.

  This time I didn’t want to waste a moment just standing there but when I tried to go and explore I found I couldn’t move. I was pinned to the spot. I could move my head and my arms but my feet might as well have been glued to the ground for all I could do to shift them. I was compelled to stay where I was. I wasn’t happy about this.

  And then I saw one of the dim figures in the distance turn. I can’t tell you how I knew it was turning but it just was turning. It seemed to detach itself from the other shapes and was moving away from them. In fact, the figure was clearly moving towards me. Moving at walking pace, for sure, but moving in my direction.

  I screwed up my eyes to see more clearly, but I couldn’t. Even though the figure was getting nearer, I couldn’t make out its features. Closer and closer the figure came, until it was so close that surely I sh
ould be able to see its face. Then I realised: the sun was behind it. I couldn’t see who it was because the figure was blocking out the sun and was therefore its own shadow. Meanwhile I was trapped and the figure was bearing down on me.

  And then I woke up.

  Like I say, I hate dreams.

  * * *

  I decided, having given up trying to get anything but French static on the wall-mounted television set, to get up then, and after a surprisingly powerful if intermittently boiling shower, I was nearly ready to go down to breakfast. I was about to unplug my mobile phone from the adaptor when it began to ring.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Mr Walker-Hebborn. ‘Where are you?’

  The simple question threw me. I had no idea what was happening back home and wondered what Walker-Hebborn had heard. For all I knew I was on the front page of every newspaper, a blurred passport photograph staring out with killer’s eyes under the headline MURDER SUSPECT FLEES COUNTRY. Perhaps there would be an interview with my curiously dry-eyed mother. ‘He never liked my dog,’ she might be telling reporters. I decided to play for time.

  ‘I’ve just got up,’ I said. ‘I’m about to go and have breakfast.’

  ‘Can you come in later?’ said Walker-Hebborn. ‘I want to talk to you about a couple of things. Well, one thing really.’

  My mind was working overtime. Walker-Hebborn’s first question suggested that he still thought I was in town, never mind in the country, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to come in later. He would have said, ‘Can you come back?’ That said, his request to talk to me was curiously vague, and I wondered if perhaps he was setting a trap. While it wasn’t my employer’s nature to set traps for his translators, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Quigley and Chick were sitting right behind him, issuing instructions. Then again, this was a ploy that would hardly fool a child, so it was entirely possible that Walker-Hebborn really did just want me to come in for a chat.

  ‘I can’t today,’ I said. ‘I’ve been called away rather urgently. What was it you wanted to talk about?’

  Walker-Hebborn released a massive sigh which sounded so natural in its irritation that I realised he was being entirely sincere. I was slightly disappointed, to my surprise, as if on some level I had been actually been hoping to be the focus of a massive police operation. Maybe this is how real criminals feel as they sit in their dens reading about themselves in the papers. But I was clearly no Public Enemy Number One.

  I realised Walker-Hebborn was talking. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘could you repeat that, please?’

  ‘I wanted you to come in and talk about the preparations for Madame Ferber’s visit,’ he said. ‘She’s very keen as you know for you to be present at the signing of the new contract.’

  ‘I thought she never left home,’ I said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Walker-Hebborn. ‘She’s a globe-trotter, old Ma Ferber. I admit she doesn’t honour us with her presence in these offices much, but I bet you right now she’s jetting across the world to another exotic destination, funded by the massive advance she’s about to get from us.’

  He sounded a little sharp, and I wondered just how much Madame Ferber had requested for the pleasure of remaining with Walker-Hebborn.

  ‘When is she coming in?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Walker-Hebborn irritably. ‘Minor details like that don’t seem to trickle down to the likes of me. I’m only her publisher, after all. But it will have to be before the end of next week or else her contract will have expired and we don’t want some big faceless publishing house to snap her up.’

  Again, his voice was rather sharp and I couldn’t help feeling he was blaming me for the delay. This was rather unfair, as the last time we had spoken Walker-Hebborn was trumpeting my praises to all and sundry and fêting me as the man who had single-handedly lured Madame Ferber back into the fold. Now he seemed to be suggesting that it would be my fault if she didn’t sign up.

  ‘I’ll be back before then,’ I said, with no factual justification for my statement.

  ‘You’d better be,’ said Walker-Hebborn and rang off.

  I was displeased with his brusqueness, but consoled myself with the amusing thought that if Walker-Hebborn only knew where I was he would be spluttering with impotent fury. I was not, as he supposed, distant from Madame Ferber and unavailable, but actually in the city in which she resided. I might see her in a café at any moment, or perhaps a gallery. Not that I would recognise her, of course, unless she was the kind of person who liked to preserve their youthful appearance through surgery. I could even – I suddenly realised – simply go round to her home, ring the doorbell and invite myself in. ‘Madame Ferber, I presume,’ I would say, ‘I have the honour to be your translator.’ Although in reality she would demand to know how I had got hold of her address and call the police. And, as I only knew her address because I’d come across it in the files while looking for an address for Euros Frant, I couldn’t really blame her. Admittedly, I hadn’t written her address down, but instead found it had lodged in my mind from her frequent corresponding (that absurd letter crest) but she wouldn’t have known that.

  I realised I was drifting rather in my thoughts and was almost relieved to hear my mobile ringing again. This time it was Frant.

  ‘I’ll keep this short,’ he said, ‘these calls cost a fortune.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me on the phone in my room?’ I said.

  There was a pause. ‘You have a phone in your room?’ he said.

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ I said.

  ‘I have had my appointment confirmed by the institute,’ said Frant. ‘Meet me in the lobby in five minutes.’

  ‘Should I be ready to check out?’ I said. ‘After all, we could do this and get the train back the same day. That would save me some money—’

  Frant had rung off. I decided to take my small bag of belongings anyway and went downstairs to the lobby where I found him, if not exactly pacing up and down, then looking somewhat agitated.

  ‘Hurry up!’ he said. ‘The appointment is at ten o’clock. We cannot afford to be late.’

  It was nine o’clock and the institute was a five-minute walk from the hotel. I hadn’t had any breakfast. Still, getting this over with would enable me to get away from Frant more quickly, and who knew, once that was done I might have some information that would give me an idea how to clear my name with the police.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘Not so fast!’ said Frant. ‘I haven’t had any breakfast yet.’

  * * *

  As we hastily consumed small, almost fresh croissants and slightly burned coffee, Frant went through a checklist.

  ‘Arrive 10am,’ he said, ‘find main office on first floor, meet Monsieur Derringer, Head of Artefacts. Present our credentials to Monsieur Derringer—’

  ‘What credentials?’ I said. ‘I haven’t got any credentials.’

  ‘I will have credentials enough for both of us,’ said Frant. ‘Ten fifteen, Monsieur Derringer admits us to the Document Room and, if he has any manners, leaves us alone for a few hours to study the Von Fremdenplatz properly.’

  ‘That seems rather a long time,’ I said. ‘I hope we don’t miss our train.’

  ‘Always the mundane worrier,’ said Frant. ‘I hate to disturb your timetable fetishism but we will need time. The Von Fremdenplatz documents are copious to say the least, and we – I – will need time to study them. The translated Alice is after all an imperfect Rosetta Stone.’

  I said nothing. I could picture myself, sitting on a hard chair in the corner of a small windowless room, watching, bored, as Frant pored over his beloved Von Fremdenplatz, possibly with an actual magnifying glass, going over the same words again and again until night fell and there were no more trains to take me away from him.

  Frant opened a small leather zip case and removed some familiar pieces of paper. There was a map detailing the five-minute journey from our hotel to the institute
, some sections of the Von Fremdenplatz with several key phrases ringed, and another copy of the Alice pages, with similar phrases also ringed. Frant’s zip case held a copy of one of his books too (I refused to upset my eyes by looking to see what it was called) and some certificates, which were presumably his credentials (again, I didn’t want to see what deluded organisation had seen fit to award Frant qualifications). He licked a finger, laboriously counted all the papers, and put them back in the zip case.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Traversons le Rubicon.’

  * * *

  Crossing the Rubicon didn’t take very long once I had paid for our breakfasts and Frant had once more taken out his map to determine that we were walking in the right direction. It was a sunny Parisian morning and the sky’s wide blueness suggested nothing but hope and possibility. Of course, the sky wasn’t going to spend the day with Euros Frant, so it could afford to be full of hope and possibility. But the weather made me feel a bit better, and even Frant was smiling as he turned his map the right way round and headed towards the institute. It was an awful smile, twisted and full of teeth, but at least it was a smile.

  As we neared the address on the map, however, Frant began to look more nervous. He dropped his man-bag on the floor and, when I bent to pick it up, snarled at me to leave it. He got it himself and forced another, less convincing

  smile.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ he said. ‘Today is possibly the most important day of my academic career and I am perhaps a little on edge.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s a very exciting day.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘Isn’t it, though? Ah! We are here.’

  Frant was right and we were standing outside a very large wrought-iron gate, so convoluted in design that it looked like a huge metal doily, suspended across a large stone doorway. Through the ironwork I could see a big courtyard, with old warped flagstones and a path leading to a building of pre-revolutionary vintage. Clearly this institute had been around for a long time.