Get into the Chauvet Cave.
See if it contains the meaning of life.
THIRTEEN
CASING THE CHAUVET
“Okay,” I said aloud to myself, “how am I going to do this?” I sat there staring at the yellow wall for a moment. Four words kept coming back to me from the letter: There is danger involved. What did he mean by that? It almost sounded like he didn’t want me to attempt this.
But I had to.
The first thing I needed was more information. Where, exactly, was this place? I got out the map again. I located Arles and looked northward. I couldn’t find Vallon-Pont-d’Arc for several minutes, even though I could see that the Ardèche region was just west of the Rhone Valley. The main highway went up that valley from Arles and Avignon to the city of Lyon. Finally, I found the Ardèche River, and then followed it west from the Rhone and there it was: the village or town of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc. There were no caves marked on the map, but I noticed that on the way to the town there was a large green-colored park with a river running through it, labeled Réserve Naturelle des Gorges de l’Ardèche. I could also see from the map’s topography that the land was much higher there. All of this looked promising. This was where you would find caves.
I got out my cell and looked up the town, the park, and the Chauvet Cave itself. What was revealed was enticing but not very promising. The town was attractive, a beautiful little place full of old buildings and tourist shops and restaurants. And the park looked spectacular, perfect for canoeing and kayaking, with little beaches here and there. But the cave was something else. It wasn’t that it wasn’t fascinating. It definitely was. But everything I read about it made my task seem more and more difficult. It didn’t look like it would be easy to get to, and just as Grandpa said, there didn’t appear to be any public access. I couldn’t even find its exact location; it was as if they were hiding it.
It was evening by now, and I had been so intrigued by the letter and my task that I hadn’t even taken the time to eat. Feeling depressed about the impossibility of what was before me, I went out to the café I’d been eating at the last few days. I was hoping to see that young waitress again.
I was disappointed at first. She wasn’t anywhere in sight, and the woman who came to wait on me was middle-aged and grumpy. She didn’t speak a word of English.
“Américain?” she barked right away.
“I’ll look after him.” A much sweeter voice came from inside the restaurant. It was my waitress. She had always seemed shy before and had only spoken short bursts of French, so I was surprised to hear her utter more than a word or two and especially pleased to hear it come out in English.
But I wasn’t so pleased with the way she looked. She was obviously finished work for the day, probably on her way home, and though she was nicely dressed in faded cropped jeans that showed off her slim calves, and a bright yellow halter top tied with a ribbon around the neck, her face looked different. I couldn’t tell what it was at first. The glow seemed to have left her, or at least the sort of glow that she’d had before. It took me a minute to figure out what it was—she wasn’t wearing any makeup. And when she sat down across from me, looking a little pale but smiling, she swept her blond bangs off her forehead and I noticed a little scar on her hairline, almost in the shape of a cross. I have to admit that I had been thinking a lot about her and now, suddenly, she looked awfully ordinary.
“May I sit?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure.”
“Shall I order for you again? I do not know your name.”
“Uh…” For some reason I was hesitant to give it to her. “Adam,” I said finally, “I’m Adam Murphy.”
“Well, I am Rose.” She turned to the other waitress and ordered something for me. I was sure it would be delicious, like everything else she had ordered for me over the last few days.
“You know,” she began, “I have always been wondering, since the time I first see you, who you are.”
“Who I am?”
“Oui. At first I thought, he is a tourist. But then, where are his parents? Or is he older than his appearance and is vacationing en Provence alone?”
“I am seventeen,” I lied.
“Really? Maybe.” She smiled. “You are un peu mystérieux. I like that. Most Américains, you know, they are not mystérieux, not at all. They are predictable. Very sad. You do wear all those clothes from Aéropostale, so you are a bit, uh, materialistic…buy the things the others buy? Still, you are different too. So I imagined, sometimes, that you were doing something mystérieux in Arles, that you were on some sort of mission dangereuse.” She laughed.
“Well, maybe I am.”
She laughed again. “Adam Murphy, I think you are just a nice boy from America and your parents are somewhere nearby, no?”
“Uh…”
“Mais, still an interesting nice boy.” She smiled at me. I was beginning to forget her lack of makeup and that scar. Her personality was awfully attractive, and now that I really checked her out up close, she looked good, makeup or not.
“My parents”—I hated to tell her this—“aren’t too far away.” Then I added quickly, “But I am really on my own here, no strings attached.”
“Oui?”
“And I am—kind of—on a dangerous mission. Or, at least, there is something very difficult and unusual that I have to do.”
“Tell me!” she exclaimed and patted my hand.
I really didn’t want to tell anyone. But for some reason, out it all came, minus the bits about taking the painting, of course. I told her quickly about the first two assignments, just the highlights, then spent lots of time explaining the next task, the one directly in front of me. As I spoke, I realized that I had needed to tell someone what I was doing. I really wasn’t sure I could do what my grandfather had asked, and it was kind of freaking me out.
But her face became very serious.
“You cannot do this.”
“Pardon me?”
“La Grotte Chauvet, it is un endroit sacré, a sacred place almost. You cannot just go barging in there. I thought you were not like the other Américains?”
“I don’t intend to barge in. I won’t hurt anybody or anything. I just want to look.”
“You just want to accomplish this task! You just want to win. All you want is to be someone important in your grandfather’s eyes.”
“No.”
“Oui! And he is dead anyway.”
“I-I want to go into the Chauvet Cave because it is a sacred place. I want to see those drawings; I want to feel what is special about them. I want to know whatever truth they reveal. I want it to make me a better person.”
It was true. And when I said it to her, it kind of shocked me. I wasn’t sure I was a very good person, though I had never admitted it out loud to myself before. I knew I was a jerk a lot of the time, but I also knew I was struggling to be the person I should be.
“Really?”
“Really.” I swallowed.
The older waitress brought my meal, which was some sort of crepe with cheese and herbs. Rose insisted that I eat and wouldn’t have any herself. She watched as I began, knowing I would enjoy what was on my plate. “Bon appétit!” she said, her good humor suddenly returning. She sat and watched me for a while. It was a little unnerving. Then she patted my hand again and pushed back her chair. “Well, I must go. If I were you, I would not try to go into La Grotte Chauvet even if I was doing it for la bonne raison. You should know it is dangerous for you, very dangerous.”
“I don’t get that. My grandfather said that too.”
“But of course it is! The drawings on those walls are the most important art in the world. They are easily destroyed. The presence of too many person damages them. They are well protected. The authorities will do anything to protect them. Getting in is impossible! And if you are found in there, I don’t know what they would do to you. You would need a good—how do you call it?—lawyer?”
“Lawyer?” I gulped.
I stopped eating.
“Besides,” she added, getting up and smiling at me, “the meaning of life, Adam, it is not in that cave. It is somewhere else.”
She was gone before I could ask her what she meant by that. She vanished down the street like a ghost. I finished my meal, paid and returned to my room. I wanted to be in bed early tonight. I wanted to get up first thing tomorrow morning and make my way to Vallon-Pont-d’Arc. I was going to need all my wits about me when I got there. I felt like a thief readying himself to check out the lay of the land before the big job.
Though Grandpa had said that the cave was in the Ardèche region, about an hour away, that was only true if you were leaving from the Noels’ home and moving across country as the crow flies. It took me closer to two hours to get there. I had to take a cab up the highway past the city of Avignon and then farther north on the big road toward Lyon. About halfway up, we turned west and soon reached the Réserve Naturelle that I’d seen on the map. The Ardèche River flowed through it like a blue snake, and the road wound along above it at the top of a massive gorge. I was surprised at the heavy traffic. This was obviously a popular tourist area. It wasn’t hard to see why. Everything was just so stunningly beautiful and the views were incredible. I thought of how this was so unlike back home, and for some reason that made me think of Leon and how much he would love to have the chance to see this. I stared down into the gorge at the dots of canoes and kayaks and the little beaches, beige and gray, sandy and rocky. Just after we’d passed through the park, the Pont d’Arc itself came into view: a famous tourist spot on the river that I’d seen on the reserve’s website. It was about a million years old, a rock formation that actually formed a huge bridge! There were even trees growing on it. It rose about thirty yards above the river, like some sort of prehistoric animal stretching itself over the water. I gazed down onto the sheer limestone cliffs below, green about two thirds of the way up with lush trees and plants, but light brown, almost yellow, near their tops. Was the great cave out there somewhere, in one of these mountains? That snapped me out of my tourist dream. Danger. That’s what Grandpa had said. And when Rose explained why, it made a lot of sense. The other tasks were difficult—but this one could get me into very deep trouble. I was nearing the beginning of my most daunting mission. My stomach started to churn.
We got closer to the river as we approached Vallon-Pont-d’Arc and soon were traveling through some dark little tunnels cut right into the gorge. It barely seemed like there was enough room for two cars to pass.
I had asked the driver to leave me in the village. That seemed like the best place to start. I had to find out exactly where the cave was, ask discreetly, and never give away what I really wanted.
The town was a little smaller than I imagined, but it was gorgeous. It was ancient, of course, with narrow streets and low stone walls and many stone buildings. Quite a few of the buildings had half-pipe shingles on their roofs and the little shops had colorful awnings. There were lots of flowers and trees, some of them kind of like the palm trees we have in Florida. The whole place was so tightly packed that it was almost claustrophobic. But it was awfully impressive too, like being on the set of a historical film, a romantic one, I guess, maybe a chick flick. Something I could take Vanessa to, or maybe Shirley. That would probably be better. The little sidewalks were filled with people and the cutesy stores were jammed with tourists. Unfortunately, I could often tell which ones were American. They were talking to the French the way I had at first—loudly and slowly.
I figured that a place like this would have a tourist kiosk, and I asked to be dropped off there. Sure enough, it was in an old stone building in a sort of courtyard in the center of the town. A big wooden door that looked like it had been made for a castle was wide open, and people were pouring in and out of the building, women’s heels clicking on the heavily polished wood floor. I had to wait in line for a while. The woman who finally spoke to me from behind the counter was probably in her thirties, slim, with dark hair cut in a fashionable short style. She was wearing subtle makeup and smelled awfully good.
“Américain?” she asked. That was the first of several depressing things she said. I had thought I was at least a bit different from the other Americans.
“I am looking for some information about the Chauvet Cave.”
“You cannot go there,” she said very quickly and firmly. Then she smiled. “May I help you with anything else?”
“I-I don’t want to go there, of course. I know it isn’t open to the public—”
“That is correct.”
“But—”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Can you just tell me where it is?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
“Just so I can see it from a distance.”
“But there is nothing to see from a distance.” She flashed her wonderful smile again. “There is much to do in Vallon-Pont-d’Arc itself and, of course, even more in the surrounding area. This region of l’Ardèche is one of the most beautiful natural places on the earth. You can hike, canoe or kayak, or simply—”
“I am not a hiker or a kayaker. But thank you.”
I thought she gave me a bit of a suspicious look as I stepped away from the counter. I noticed that a few of the other employees had glanced my way when I persisted with my questions. It was obvious that the official line in the area was to not encourage average people or tourists to be curious about the cave. But I wasn’t an average person or a tourist, not now.
I had to get close to the cave. In fact, all I had to do for now was to get close, just see it, do that thief-checking-out-the-lay-of-the-land thing. I had to figure out how in the world I might get in there.
The instant I was back on the street, it occurred to me that perhaps the regular citizens of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc wouldn’t have the same reluctance about revealing the cave’s location. So I plucked up my courage and entered the nearest patisserie. There were quite a few of them in the little town, despite its size. The French certainly liked their baking and their pastries. I figured the owners of these businesses were constantly dealing with American tourists, so they might be able to understand me.
It smelled like heaven inside—fresh-baked bread and sugar and chocolate and cinnamon and all sorts of good things. It was a quaint place, of course, with lots of wood and stone, as rustic and old as they could make it. The man behind the cash register looked as though he’d been eating quite a few of his own wares. He wore a chef ’s hat, likely for the tourists.
“Excusez moi, monsieur,” I began. “S’il vous plait, où est la grotte du Chauvet?”
The fat man looked at me for a long while, as if he were trying to figure out which kind of pain aux chocolate I wanted.
“Pardon?” he finally said. I guess my accent wasn’t that good.
“The Chauvet Cave?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed with a smile. “La Grotte Chauvet! Go to le Pont d’Arc, maybe two mile from the town, yes? It is on the road à la direction de la Réserve Naturelle. Then, go up.”
“Up?”
“Up to the cliffs. Comprenez-vous?”
“Oui. Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
That was all I got. But it was enough.
Thinking it unwise to ask anyone to take me there, I walked. Or at least I thought I would walk. Before I was too far out of town, already into the countryside (which appeared almost immediately), a little car pulled over. It roared like a chainsaw… a small one. There was a kayak about twice the length of the vehicle strapped to the roof.
“Américain?” the driver asked. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than me, wearing peach-colored shorts, a beaded turquoise necklace, sandals and no shirt. The Black Keys were playing on his iPod; I could hear the bass line pulsing right through his earbuds.
“Oui.”
&n
bsp; “Parlez-vous français?”
“Un peu.” It sounded to me like I’d said “a poo.”
“Where are you going?”
“Can you take me to le Pont d’Arc?”
“Mais oui, monsieur! Bien sur!”
I got in, and he didn’t say another word for the next two or three minutes as we careened at top speed along the little, curving road, past beautiful country houses, vineyards and fields, small tourist businesses, through those cool tunnels along the river, then to a large parking lot, dressed up with all sorts of trees and flowers to not look like a parking lot.
“Voilà!” said my new friend and immediately leaped from his little sardine can and began taking his kayak down. He acted as though we’d known each other for a while and he had simply given me a lift and then gone about his business. I considered asking him about the Chauvet Cave but decided against it. The parking lot was filled with people, many unloading canoes or kayaks or returning with them from the river. I had a hundred other candidates to choose from. I could pick the perfect one.
A gravel walkway led down from the parking lot to the Pont d’Arc. I could see it from where I stood. Though I wanted to get on with my quest, the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. I had rarely seen anything as beautiful. I’m not a big believer in God, or at least I don’t think I am—haven’t figured that out yet—but if God didn’t make that giant bridge, then I don’t know who or what did. The water was like glass and as blue as the sky. Kayaks and canoes glided on it as paddlers stared up at this magnificent creation.
I shook myself away from it and turned back to the lot. Mostly, I heard French voices, though there were a few other languages I wasn’t sure about, and here and there, shouts in English, both British and American. Then I heard something that really caught my attention.
“Hey, man, let’s get moving, eh!”
The guy was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs T-shirt and khaki shorts, and his skin was tanned like leather. The dude he was yelling at was similarly bronzed, sporting a Molson Canadian beer shirt, kind of dragging himself behind, looking like he’d had too many glasses of his favorite brew during the lunch hour. They were heading down the gravel path to the water, where they had probably docked their boat. Canadians. It looked like they had been in the Ardèche for a while, taking in the sun. They were probably in their early twenties.
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