by J. G. Sandom
Koster sat. The countess finally undid the knot in her scarf and began to fold it carefully in her lap. “Have you written other books, Monsieur Koster?”
He shook his head. “No, this is my first. But I’ve done smaller pieces, articles, that sort of thing.”
“Why did you choose to write about the Notre Dame cathedrals?”
“Actually my publisher suggested the idea. I’d just done another piece for an architectural magazine and he liked it.”
“You’re an architect?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you familiar with Alberti and his theory of harmonic balance?”
“The Renaissance was never my strong point,” said Koster.
The countess smiled. “Then I’m sure you know that his entire aesthetic was based on Vitruvius. And Vitruvius,” she added, “on the geometry of the Neo-Platonists, on Pythagoras’s system of musical harmony. Proportion and balance. Da Vinci’s man in the circle and the square.”
“You mean the golden ratio? The phi,” Koster said, remembering the portrait of the stallion downstairs. “Fibonacci’s spiral.”
“Exactly,” the countess replied. “Shapes and buildings proportioned to the golden ratio have long been considered aesthetically pleasing, suggesting a natural balance between symmetry and asymmetry. The ancient Pythagoreans—who defined numbers as expressions of ratios rather than units—believed that reality itself is numerical, and that the golden ratio expressed an underlying truth about existence. In the same way, numbers meant more to the cathedral builders of the Middle Ages than they do to us today. That brotherhood of master masons I told you about at the park did not remain a business fraternity very long. Over time they became concerned with the more metaphysical aspects of their trade. They developed rituals and regalia. As more members of the middle class became involved, there came to be a new kind of mason—a Speculative Mason, instead of an Operative Mason or journeyman who worked with his hands.
“Eventually the fraternity began to attract some notable members. Your first president, Washington, was a Speculative Mason. So was Ben Franklin. Even Jefferson used phi in the design of his house in Monticello. Many lodges grew to be extremely political and wealthy, the founders of democracy. That was why the Church considered them such a threat to the Pope in Rome.” She smiled wryly. “In truth, they were never at odds with Christianity. All Masons are deists, believing in one God. But to them it doesn’t matter what you call Him. Buddhists can be Masons, and they are. So can Moslems. In some lodges the Koran is used as frequently as the Christian Bible. Yet many Masons harbor special feelings for the Gnostics because they share a common heritage.”
“Are these the same Masons I’ve been reading about in the press?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The I Four. That scandal in Italy with the Vatican Bank.”
The countess drew her legs together at her side. “I’m afraid that each thing has its shadow, Monsieur Koster. Rome had its Carthage. Your country had the Soviets. And Freemasonry has its I Four. But please don’t look on Scarcella and his pseudo-lodge as examples of real Masonry.” She paused and began to rub her ankle absentmindedly. “Of course, this is all a bit of a diversion from my normal studies, but I know that there are some who still observe the fundamental rules of Masonry.”
“Well, that’s what the papers said.”
“You have a remarkable memory, Monsieur Koster. That incident occurred a long time ago.”
Koster shrugged. “Regarding this number lore,” he said. “The legend of the Book of Thomas the Contender indicates the gospel’s hiding place is somehow linked up with the labyrinth.”
“Numerically.”
“Right, numerically. But what does that mean?”
The countess shifted slowly to her feet. “The Masons used numbers in a variety of ways during the Middle Ages,” she said, “all of which were based on Pythagoras’s system and the one developed in Chaldea.” She pulled a volume from a pile of books on the floor. “I put these aside this morning when I knew you were coming. Let’s see now.” She began flipping pages. “According to Émile Mâle here, medieval Masons considered twelve the number of the universal Church. Three was the number of the Trinity, and therefore, of the soul. Four, on the other hand, was the number of the elements and the four corners of the earth. It symbolized the body of the material world.” She paused for a moment.
“Here it is. He says, ‘To multiply three by four is in the mystic sense to infuse matter with spirit, to proclaim the truths of the faith to the world, to establish the universal Church of which the apostles are the symbol.’ You see? It was no accident that the apostles picked another man to maintain the body of twelve after Judas Iscariot was…died. It was preordained.” She closed the book.
“So the number twelve could mean the gospel’s hidden under a statue of the twelve apostles. Is that it?”
The countess smiled. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said. “But frankly it could point to any number of things. The apostles are represented throughout the Amiens cathedral, in both stone and glass. It might as easily be a form of gematria.”
“Gematria? What’s that?”
“It’s an ancient system of transforming numbers into letters, and vice versa. Like a code.” She replaced the first book and pulled another volume from the pile. “The Gnostics were especially fond of using it in spiritual exegesis. Here.” She pointed to a page. “Casper Lewis says the word gematria first appeared around A.D. 200. But Farbridge claims that even earlier, Sargon of Babylon ordered that the wall of Khorsabad be made equivalent to the value of his name. Christ was known among the Gnostics as eight-oh-one from the word dove, or as eight-eight-eight from Jesus.”
“Hold it a minute,” Koster said. “Go back a page. What’s that?”
The countess turned the pages one by one. “What’s what?”
“That,” he said, pointing at a drawing in the book. “Right there.”
“Oh, that’s another example of gematria. It’s called an abraxas. They’re the work of Basilidian Gnostics. Quite valuable. Here,” she said, handing him the book. She walked across the room and knelt down beside a small wooden box on the floor. “I have a few here in my collection. They’re found all over the Mediterranean world, especially in Egypt and Italy. Abraxas stands for God, you see, because the letters of the word in Greek notation make up the number three hundred sixty-five—the days in a year. I suppose it’s a remnant of Zoroastrianism. Anyway,” she said, “they used to carve the word abraxas on stones and other objects and then hang them around their necks as talismans.”
Her hand dipped in the box and Koster saw the stone medallion suspended from her fingers, spinning on its leather thong.
“What’s the matter, Monsieur Koster? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “I’ve seen one of those things before. In Amiens.”
“An abraxas?” The countess looked surprised.
“I think it was the same.” He pulled it gently from her hand.
“Who had it?”
“A friend of mine. It was a present from her boyfriend. Her ex-boyfriend.”
“Well, perhaps it was just a curio. Perhaps he bought it for her somewhere else.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Koster said as the night returned and Mariane stood before him once again, naked with her arms across her breasts, smoking her cigarette by the window so that her brother wouldn’t smell the smoke, tossing the burning butt into the street when she had finished. Had that one act of guile been just a symbol too, the number of betrayal? Koster shook his head, trying vainly to dislodge the thought. It was just a gift, he told himself. And yet, what did he know about this other man, Maurice, except what little Guy had told him? Mariane had never talked about her past affairs and Koster had always assumed that her silence was just a matter of tact, of shyness even.
The countess took the abraxas from his hand. “It’s certainly worth investigating, if you have the time.”
They sat back down on the pillows and she continued talking about the Gnostics and cathedrals. Koster listened patiently, trying to remember all she said, but the image of that small medallion would not go away—hard stone and strangely carved, pressed deep within the softness of Mariane’s breasts.
In half an hour Nicole appeared at the door with a message that the minister of culture, Charles Langelier, was on the telephone. Koster saw his opportunity. Despite the protests of the two sisters, he insisted he was anxious to return to Amiens, to apply the knowledge he had obtained. The countess led him down the stairs and out through the entrance hall.
“The minister,” he said.
“Oh, he can wait,” she answered with a sour pinching of her lips. “Please come and see me again. Any time.”
Koster hesitated in the doorway. Down the hall, Nicole stood with the telephone receiver dangling like a hanged man from her fingertips. The countess leaned a little closer, and took his hand up in an awkward grasp, their fingers overlapping. “And please be careful,” she said with a smile. Their hands unlocked, and she was gone.
Chapter XV
AMIENS
September 23rd, 1991
CHEZ MARIUS WAS A BEER HALL ON RUE ERNEST Cauvin, just across the way from the Amiens Cinéma II. A few desultory parasols sprouted along the street but it was still too early for the dinner crowd, and the rain had driven everyone inside. The jukebox blared a Benny Goodman medley. The orange candlelight slipped through the windows on the sliding sound of trombones, clarinets and trumpets. Koster hovered in the doorway, taking in the mock Bavaria, the bar and countless beer mugs hanging, the posters of the same Germanic girls with the same come-hither smiles he had seen already in a thousand New York bars.
“Joseph! Joseph, up here.”
Koster looked up. Mariane was leaning over a wooden railing, waving at him from the second landing. He waved back, and started up the steps.
There were only three tables on the second landing, and Mariane stood alone beside the railing, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a baggy white wool sweater. Koster kissed her on both cheeks. “You look great,” he said.
Mariane sat down and he knew immediately that something was amiss. “What’s the matter?” he said.
Mariane shrugged. Then she looked up, and there it was—the lie.
This is how it starts, Koster thought. From white to black, and all that grayness in between. “Something’s bothering you,” he said.
“It’s probably nothing, Joseph. Really.” She took another sip of her beer. “Don’t you want a drink?”
“It can wait.”
Mariane frowned. “All right,” she said. “It’s about Nigel Lyman.”
“What about him?”
“He’s been asking a lot of questions around town.”
“Of course he has. He’s helping me research my book.”
A young waiter in a black vest appeared at the top of the stairs. He was carrying a tray full of foaming steins. Koster called him over. The waiter approached and immediately began to set two beers on the table before them. “Wait a minute,” Koster said. He turned to Mariane. “Did you order these?”
“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” the waiter said.
Koster looked down across the railing to the main floor below. “Talk of the devil,” he said. Nigel Lyman was leaning up against the bar, his hand aloft and toasting. Koster toasted back. “Come on up, Nigel,” he shouted.
“No, Joseph, wait.” Mariane grabbed him firmly by the wrist.
“No what? What’s wrong with you today, Mariane?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said defensively. “It’s him.”
“Who, Nigel?”
“If that’s his real name. Be careful, Joseph. You shouldn’t trust him.”
Koster looked deep into her eyes, searching for an answer, a temporary truth. “Why not?” he said. “What’s he going to do, steal my book idea? He saved my life, didn’t he?”
“I hope I’m not barging in on you two lovebirds.” Lyman climbed the last few steps and paused to catch his breath.
“Not at all,” said Koster. “Have a seat.”
“The concierge at the hotel said I might find you here. Hello, Mariane. Don’t you look wintry in that pullover.”
“Monsieur Lyman.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” Lyman said. “I’ve been on pins and needles all day long waiting for you to come back from Paris. How did it go? How was the countess?” He pulled out a chair and settled down.
Koster described his journey into town. He told them how he thought he’d seen Nick Robinson at the Rodin Museum. He talked about the countess and their quick escape across the garden gate. Lyman peppered him with questions. What had made him think it was his publisher? Who was Cosell, the man with the whiskers? Who was the fellow in the raincoat? Even the consulates, which he had passed along the rue de Varennes, intrigued the Englishman. He asked the oddest questions.
As Koster recounted his conversation with the countess, he kept trying to catch Mariane’s attention, but she would not meet his eyes. She was looking at Lyman. Then, as she took her beer up for another sip, Koster finally said the word abraxas. It acted on her like an incantation. She blanched and stiffened in her seat. She put her glass down and began to rifle through her purse, hunting for a cigarette.
“Mariane.”
“Yes, Joseph.”
Even Lyman seemed to sense that there was something wrong. “Don’t you wear a pendant like that around your neck?”
“You know,” she answered with a bubble of a laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing. But I’m sure mine’s different. I mean, where would Maurice get the money?” She turned away, caught on the barb of her own words. “Would anyone like another beer?”
“Why don’t you let me see it for a second? Maybe he picked up a bargain.”
She looked at Lyman. Then she ran her hands around her neck, under her long brown hair, and dexterously unclasped the chain. For a moment, as she slipped it through, the pendant caught on the collar of her sweater and Koster could see the small medallion like a stain against the wool.
“Is it an abraxas?” Lyman said.
Koster picked it up. It looked so simple in his hand. A small ridge about the edge, and a string of rough Greek letters running through. Less than an inch across. “Yes,” he said. “Just like the one the countess had.” He gave it back to Mariane. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”
She clutched the small medallion in her hand. “Maurice gave it to me.”
“Where did he get it?” Lyman asked.
She glanced at him for a moment and then turned back to Koster. “Joseph. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“Mariane, this could be very important,” Lyman said. “This could be the clue we’ve been looking for.”
“Important to whom, Monsieur Lyman?”
“What do you mean? For the book. For Joseph.”
“I’d still rather not talk about it.”
Koster took her by the same hand in which she held the medallion. “What’s the matter with you, Mariane? Don’t you care?”
“Please, Joseph.”
“No, answer me.”
“I promised.”
“Promised who? Maurice? What did you promise him?”
“Joseph, don’t!”
“Is he more important then? Is that it?”
“He found it,” she said at last. “There.” She took another sip of beer. “Are you happy now?” She looked at Lyman. “One of his men found it. Is that a crime?”
Lyman shrugged. Then he leaned back slowly in his chair. “Perhaps.”
“He’s right,” Koster said. “You may be at risk just wearing that thing, if it was stolen.”
“It wasn’t stolen. It was found. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Just once,” said Lyman.
Mariane sig
hed. She dropped a crumpled pack of Marlboros on the table. There was only one cigarette left. She pulled it out of the pack, straightened it carefully, and slipped the filter into a corner of her mouth. Lyman offered her a light. “It was during Christmas,” she said. “Two years ago. That’s when they started turning up—the abraxas.”
“Where?” Lyman put in.
“At the Bishop’s Palace. Maurice was doing the renovation. First it was one, then three, then a whole pile of them. The abraxas, I mean. But Maurice didn’t hear about them until later. His men found them digging in the basement of the south wing.”
She took another drag off her cigarette. Then she reached out and crushed the empty pack of Marlboros in her hand. “One of the workers—Pierre, I think—went to an antique dealer on the rue Dupuis. Jacques Tellier. That was the dealer’s name. Tellier told him that the abraxas were worth some money and suddenly everybody started going crazy looking for them. No one would do their work. They were all treasure hunting.
“It didn’t take long before Maurice heard about it. He went to see Tellier himself.” She shook her head. “That was the biggest mistake of his life. I never liked that man. There was something about him. I don’t know. Like those fishes at the bottom of the sea, the ones without color, the ones that never see the light…”
“What happened then?” said Koster.
Mariane unclasped her hand and the pack of Marlboros rolled out onto the table, opening like the blossom of a rose. “Tellier had already been to jail. At least, that’s what they said. It’s hard to keep secrets in a town this small. Anyway, he told Maurice the abraxas were worth as much as fifteen thousand francs.”
“How much?” Lyman asked.
“Fifteen thousand. He also told him that they could lead to a much greater treasure, something worth millions.” Mariane smiled. “Maurice was always talking about leaving Amiens and moving to Paris. He kept saying how he wanted to marry me, but that we had to wait until he’d made enough money.” She looked up suddenly at Koster and said, “That was a long time ago.”