by Sam Nash
Tawnie paid for our drinks. I had no lira left in my wallet. That felt a little odd, having a lady pay for me. I was glad that she was not in a talkative mood, since my entire brain capacity focused on the message from Grandma Phebe. I relived the vision over and over, teasing out the main thread and as many details as I could remember. At almost twenty-one years old, she left her entire family and fortune, and they never saw her again. What was written in the journal bearing the doll’s muted face? How could she be of help to my situation from all those years ago? I was only eight when she died. Too young to understand such complex matters. As the caffeine rushed through my system, I knew that I must find that sealed tin, before the Defence Minister could assign my name to the vaccine schedule for soldiers heading to the Gulf.
With a nebulous plan simmering in the back of my mind, I decided to exploit my upper hand. Tawnie, enlivened from the mixture of coffee and analgesics, had once again found her voice. “It’s no use. I need a cigarette.” She said, grappling inside her handbag for her purse. She left me with her bags and went in search of a tobacconist.
As soon as she was out of sight, I sifted through the last of the coins from my pocket – not enough. Keeping a watchful eye in her direction, I made a reverse charges telephone call to Brighton, at a phone booth next to the café. Wildman answered immediately, picking up after only one ring. “Pip? What in God’s name is going on? Where are you?”
“No time to explain. I’m in Italy, but heading for Paris. I need you to do me a favour. Can you fetch the mail from my house and take it back to yours? There’s a spare key hanging inside the tree house in the back garden.”
“Of course, but what…”
“I will explain everything when I get back. Did you take the precautions I suggested?”
“Yup, packed off to Disneyland.”
“Thanks, Wildman, you’re a good man. I’ll call soon.”
I hung up and rushed back to the café table. Tawnie sauntered over to me, drawing on her cigarette with her expression set to a blissful state. “That’s better. I tried to give up, but well…you know how it is.” She sat inelegantly, her messy hair and smudged makeup looking more clown-like than seductress. “I was thinking.” She paused, picking a fragment of tobacco from her tongue. “We don’t need to go the rest of the way to Paris. I can call in the cavalry from here. They’ll send a car for us.” She mispronounced cavalry, transposing the letter V with the L, and missing out an A altogether. A momentary scene of my English Master chastising me at Eton, flitted through my thoughts. His guardianship of the language was ferocious, but ultimately futile.
Her acrid breath wafted into my face across the table. I did my best not to wince. “But I want us to go to Paris. It’s the most romantic city in the world.” I reached out for her empty hand and gave it a squeeze. Her face relaxed from the contorted frown, into a playful smirk and finally rested upon conceit. She truly believed I was eating from the palm of her hand.
“Well I can’t go to Paris looking like this. Watch my things, won’t you? I’m going to freshen up before our next train arrives.”
I figured it would take her a while to sure up the disintegrating façade of loveliness she had presented to me the night before. I used the time to telephone my daughter-in-law on the number stashed in my wallet. Repeating the reverse charges procedure to an address in Wales, I called and called, but there was no answer. My stomach knotted and acid rose in my gullet. Did she give me the wrong number or was her lack of response something more sinister? Did Lily and Mary even make it out of Sussex County?
One problem at a time - dragging Tawnie’s luggage over to the timetables and route planners mounted behind Perspex boards, I attempted to calculate the time it would take to catch a different train to Milan airport and fly to Paris. After factoring in queues to buy a last-minute ticket, security checks and delays in travel either side of the flight, there was scarcely any difference. Panic drove my indecision. I sat down on a metal bench and composed myself. I had to stick to my plan, and trust that Lily had enough maternal instinct to do whatever was necessary to protect her child.
Time ticked on, and Tawnie emerged from the Ladies Room in a respectable silk shirt and jeans, with freshly applied make-up. Taking a couple of the lighter shopping bags from me, she teetered across the concourse on her heels to the platform where our train was waiting. I brought up the rear, dragging her heavy bags behind me.
With her cases stowed, I checked the seat numbers against the second part of my ticket, and discovered a stern looking Japanese man in the adjacent seat to mine. Tawnie tried all her feminine tricks to persuade the man to swap with her allocated seat, but he would not budge. The carriage being fully booked, she conceded defeat and slunk to her seat at the far end.
Relieved, and without Tawnie’s constant attention, I let my guard down a fraction and slept. I hoped that a brief snooze might trigger another vision, something more from Phebe to steer me out of deadly waters. It didn’t. I awoke with no more clues than when I fell asleep.
The diesel engine strained against the incline, as we mounted the foothills of the Alps, bound for the Swiss Border. An hour or two alone with my thoughts, I updated my journal then immersed myself in the exquisite scenery. The vast expanse of black rock, marbled with receding snow, looked like the haunches of butchered carcasses. There were dozens of tunnels, tall arching viaducts and acute angled bends in tracks that clung to the mountainside.
My eyes took in the exulted heights of the Matterhorn, as we rounded its flanks to the neck of the Wasenhorn Valley, but all I could concentrate on was David. Had he made it out of Jeddah alive? The screech of hydraulic brakes. Had the order been sent to kill him? Another tunnel and bridge over white waters. Was he already dead? Glacial moraine littered the trackside like giant granite headstones. It wasn’t yet midday, but I asked the waitress for a brandy. The piteous looks I got from the passengers around me, I could bear. Not knowing whether my family were unharmed was agony of the cruellest kind.
I sneaked a look towards the back of the carriage. Tawnie waved. She was monitoring my every move. Perhaps I should have risked a flight directly from Rome. Still, there’s no sense in regretting the past. Finding a solution for the future is all that matters. Think positively. I am choosing to believe that David is fine, has escaped the clutches of MI6, and is waiting for me in Paris. I am choosing to believe that Lily has arrived in her Welsh friend’s home safely, and is entertaining Mary somewhere away from the telephone. I am choosing to believe that Grandma Phebe has left me a watertight tin, containing the solution to my dilemma, although how I locate that, remains a mystery. The alternatives to those choices do not bear thinking about.
My mind wandered back to all that occurred in Rome. I wondered whether the Black Pope still required assisted ventilation in hospital. Had he regained enough strength to issue a command to Lady Charity and her husband to track my whereabouts? Recalling her warning to me, at the front door to my house of the Jesuit’s extensive reach, I rather suspected a greeting party awaiting me at the next stop, or certainly at the Gare de Lyon - unless they intended to handle me themselves. I may yet dodge their grasp, if I am lucky.
My picturesque and, at times, hairy journey through the rest of the Alps fluctuated between adrenalin fuelled fear and reckless indifference. Talking myself into a frenetic storm of hysteria one minute, and a bucolic haze the next, a peculiar way to pass the time in which I was helpless to act.
When, at last, we reached Lausanne, I had retained enough composure to deal with Tawnie and her incessant prattle. There was a short stop of passport checks and platform changes, before loading ourselves onto our final train. Fewer passengers boarded than our previous one, leaving the seat beside me vacant. I would need to be on my mettle to out-smart her, for she seemed to sense my reticence and attached herself like a barnacle to compensate. Trapped by the window in a table seat, she had the waiter rushed off his feet, tending to our every whim.
I began by asking about her occupation. Her response was a collection of half-finished sentences, barely explaining her role within her father’s media empire. As far as I could tell, she was under his direct instruction. For the most part, it seemed to involve persuading corporate giants to participate in their version of global philanthropy, or merge to form unstoppable powerhouses of social engineering.
Digging a little deeper, it appears that her father was not above pimping out his only daughter to the CEOs of these enormous companies to secure their support. I looked at Tawnie with fresh eyes. The abundance of cosmetic enhancements, dependence on alcohol and who knows what other chemicals, now made sense. She was outgrowing her usefulness as seductress. What role would her father create for her, when she became too old to be a professional party girl?
“I can understand why massive agrichemical companies would be amenable to joining the crusade, particularly with the recent successes in genetic modification of crops and the potential impact that could have on the human genome, but what do they expect from me?” An earnest question on my part. I could provide them with next to no assistance in managing global population numbers.
“It’s your true name that they’re most interested in. You’re from one of the oldest families in Christendom, with a tested background in immunology. Most of our members struggle to achieve a name that is synonymous with trust. Over the years, a number of unfortunate leaks has forged the basis for conspiracy reporting. We’ve got entire divisions devoted to combating the issue and battling against the theorists, but they’re gaining momentum. You are the Eighth Earl of Sedgewell, from The family. You’ve a long history of proven immunological work. If you tell the world that vaccinations are the key to our survival, no one will question your motives. It’s your legitimacy that they need.”
I said nothing, absorbing the information and comparing it in my mind to the subterfuge staged by the Secretary of State for Defence in Westminster. The similarities of their missions were obvious and disturbing.
Tawnie continued. “I really didn’t intend to get into specifics on the train, too many ears, if you know what I mean, but we can arrange several different courses of action. Whatever you are comfortable with. A lecture tour of worldwide universities, get the younger academics on board, book releases, television spots, you know the kind of thing. Or perhaps you would prefer a more political path? I believe a seat in the House of Lords is yours for the taking, along with an invitation to sit on some prestigious panels and committees?” She studied my expression and frowned. I tried to remain impassive but I could feel the anger raising my heart rate, and with it, erratic inhalations.
I had to say something, confirmation of my approval. “I haven’t really thought about it. I guess that is something I would need to discuss with your father?”
“Hmm, probably someone higher up than my father. They might even ask you to attend one of their Grove weekends in California.” She slipped her arm beneath mine and rested her head on my shoulder. If she was a cat, she would have scent marked me. I was her ticket to the inner circle, a route to secure a higher station than that of her father, allowing her to relinquish her seduction duties.
“What’s the Grove?” I asked in all innocence.
“Kinda like a tamed wilderness. There’s a lodge and a huge private woodland, where the main players meet up and hunt, and discuss progress or issues needing resolution, that sort of thing.”
“They meet up for a camping and killing expedition?” It left my mouth before I could stop it.
She gazed up at me, all doe eyed and compliant, then smiled. “I can’t see you hunting either.” A little titter at my expense, then she said, “But the European branch regularly meet up at a particular hotel. Perhaps they’ll invite you there instead.”
That unlocked a memory for me. An article I once read, years ago in The Independent, about a group of billionaires, politicians and elite scientists meeting up at a hotel in the Netherlands. No minutes, recordings or press releases were permitted during the meetings, nor interviews regarding their discussions. At first, member’s details remained a secret, until one or two glory hunters leaked their presence. The prestige of membership became almost more important than the international politics debated at the meetings. To be seen entering or leaving the hotel around the time of their gathering is now sufficient to activate a flurry of excitement from the press, each reporter, striving to obtain leaked evidence of their agenda. How is it that no one questions their right to influence the political, social and economic landscape? Those names of members, published in newspapers, were not elected officials. In most cases, membership was brought about by means of calculable wealth.
Erupting bile left a nasty taste at the thought that I would now be eligible for such a committee, but I did not relate my feelings to Tawnie. I simply replied, “Perhaps they will. We shall have to wait and see.”
The panorama outside our carriage was flattened by gradual steps. Sandy arid soils gave way to lush fertile ground, rocks to poplar trees and vineyards to dairy farms, as we made our way through the heart of the French countryside. The closer we drew to our destination the quieter I became.
Tawnie clutched my arm tighter. “I was in Paris the day that terrible train crash happened. You remember it? A couple of years ago now. I hate arriving at this station. Gives me chills.”
“Yes, it was a dreadful disaster. I watched a documentary about it. Fifty-nine lost their lives. On the plus side though, French safety systems are now the best in Europe. They have satellite tracking on all their trains. Imagine that. A machine up in space is keeping tabs on our exact location at all times and beaming the information back to computers. What will they think of next?”
We waited until the train reached a full stop at the platform, and Tawnie reached above our heads for the coated card shopping carriers and her handbag. I rushed to the luggage racks, close to the toilets. Amid the bustle of travellers departing from the narrow aisle, I hung back, leaning against the glass partition of the next carriage.
“Your cases are huge.” I shouted above the crowd to Tawnie. “I’m going to try and get one of those luggage trolleys. Why don’t you find a payphone to call your father?” Between the heads of standing passengers, I saw her nod, and then wander in the opposite direction to a less crowded exit.
I hopped off the train, walked briskly along the platform, across the concourse, down an escalator and followed the signs that read Metro. I didn’t look back. Feeling a whole lot lighter, I followed the crowds to the line of ticket booths, where I bought a travel pass. I had just ninety minutes to reach the meeting place before the building closed for the evening.
Stepping on another slow moving downward escalator, I looked down and my heart stopped. On the adjacent upward track, were Lady Charity and the hulk. It was too late to turn back. Streams of people joined the escalator, hemming me in. There was no mistaking her salon coiffeur heading towards me. Unable to run, I sat on the grimy metal tread, ducked my head beneath the rubber arm rail, and pretended to tie my shoe laces. They must have interrogated staff at the station in Rome and flown ahead. Come to think of it, there were close circuit cameras in the Rome Termini. They probably watched me boarding the train on video. Either way, my little bob down amongst the legs of passengers, did the trick.
With no time to relax, I hopped on the Number One Metro train and stood for the six or so stops, jumping off at the station closest to the Louvre. Squashed against tourists of every nationality, I rose to the pavement via Art Deco inspired steps, and hurried past the glass pyramid in the Louvre Palace courtyard. I shall reserve my judgement over the contentious new structure until I have time to explore it ful
ly. My Minnie would have loved the furore it has sparked.
My calves ached, but I pressed on, striding across the Seine on the Pont du Carrousel and along the bank towards the former railway station. This was to be the destination of my dear late wife, upon her recovery from the vile cancer that took her from me. I hastened along to the ticket office of the Musée d’Orsay, home of the Impressionists.
“Vous êtes trop tard, monsieur. On ferme en vingt minutes.” The man in the booth looked at my gaping mouth of incomprehension, and said, “We close in twenty minutes.”
I pulled out my wallet, slapping Francs down in front of him. “Please. I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Ten at most. S’il vous plait?” I wrung my hands, pleading with him. He relented, issuing a ticket and allowing me past.
Rushing through the main hallway, I attracted the attention of a museum guard. “Ou…um…Claudel’s L’Age mur, s’il vous plait?” I garbled, doing my best in trying circumstances. He grinned, then pointed upwards and said, “Galerie Françoise Cachin.” I thanked him, craning my neck this way and that for a means to get to the first floor. Again, the guard chuckled and then pointed to the stairwell behind me. Taking two steps at a time, I raced to the Niveau Médian, and ran along the balconied walkway, bordered by the paned archways of the former station.
There it was, in all its bronzed glory, the sculpture of Maturity, by Rodin’s mistress, Camille Claudel. The young woman on her knees, imploring him to leave his lover for her. I choked back tears. This was the artwork that inspired Minnie to fight her illness. To hang on until the conversion from train station to impressionist museum was complete, and her most beloved installation unveiled. She did not make it.
Fighting against the fluttering of sadness in my chest, I focused. David was my utmost priority. Minnie would never forgive me if I let anything happen to him. I stared down the aisle to the end of the gallery. There were just a few straggling visitors, making their way to the exits. Behind me, a café attendant closed the shutters and locked them. I looked down into the ground floor central hall, straining my sight for anyone who might look like my son.