Bright Hair About the Bone
Page 32
“And the world will seek you out and crush you,” added the French senator. “I doubt anyone will mourn the loss of this vermin, but there must be a risk of obliterating innocent bystanders and we…you…will be pursued for indiscriminate slaughter. You bring your own country into danger, man! Can you not see that?”
“Of course, of course,” Constantine interposed, smoothly placatory. “But, as I’m sure Edmond was about to explain…if I may, Edmond?…Two points. Firstly: Our calculations will ensure a clean and clinical excision. The total loss will amount to a mere fraction of the casualties on any single day of combat in the last war. Millions of lives will be bought at the cost of a handful. Secondly: The plane we use will be German, flying, undisguised, in Weimar Republic livery. The pilot and his aide likewise, verifiably German. The machine will, sadly, crash—conveniently for the investigator—a few kilometres from the site, and the crew will be found dead in the wreckage. Nothing discovered at the scene of this disaster will lead back to us.”
Constantine’s hard gaze silenced d’Aubec.
François picked up the baton. “And, naturally, our newsmen will be on the spot to record the event. It is their photographs which will appear at once in the press, both in Germany and in France. Headlines all over Europe—and the world—will reveal the duplicity and desperation of the Weimar Republic, which found itself compelled to take this drastic step—to deal with this canker growing within its struggling state. The Great Powers who have watched from the sidelines—impotent leeches that they are!—will be loud in their condemnation, but they will heave a silent sigh of relief. We will be giving them news they want to hear. They will swallow the story with gusto! It’ll slip down their gullets like the first oyster of the season!”
The young had all spoken. The older members had remained silent throughout, listening. Finally, all eyes on him, the chairman, Auguste d’Aubec, responded. He began to murmur approval in his rich, urbane baritone: “We all acknowledge that we are engaged, not in a formal duel…rapiers at dawn in the Bois, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe…or a medieval joust where our target is clear—and targeting us. We use the devices, the techniques, and the tactics the twentieth century has placed in our hands. And our purpose is to destroy a noxious growth which threatens to overwhelm a neighbouring country. We must look on this as part of our sacred duty. As part of our stewardship.”
“And then—” Edmond d’Aubec took up again, grateful for his uncle’s pronouncement and eager to avoid alienating the older faction around the table: “With this threat…this distraction…removed, an embattled and weakened democratic republic will be helped to struggle to its feet—once more.” He nodded to the Weimar man, directing his next comment at him: “And perhaps, in the turmoil, there will rise to the top a more enterprising, more co-operative breed of politician? And a fresh government will have the chance to grow, uncontaminated. Other weeds may spring up—I suspect they are endemic in that soil—but we will be consolidating here and we will keep a watchful eye out. As my uncle says: This is our sacred duty,” he finished piously, pleased with the effect his speech had made on the company.
“And once free of this immediate menace,” Constantine was fast gathering up the reins, “we can all turn our attention to achieving our real aims. A slower procedure, but the one sure way of making certain that Europe, with France properly at its centre, flourishes unimpeded, unthreatened, for centuries to come.”
If the young were intent on shaking the earth in a literal way, the older generation was working towards an earth-shaking shift in religious focus, with Constantine keeping the balance and the peace. Pivotal to the whole movement, in touch with both factions. Well, d’Aubec could pay lip service to this harmless pursuit of religious fervour. He knew that any energy could be channelled if you had the tools and the sense of direction to guide it. And he would do almost anything to head off the schism he sensed was approaching.
The family was experiencing a divergence of aims. He glanced around the table once again, assessing strengths and allegiances. The chair his cousin Gabrielle should have occupied had been removed. As usual. And no loss. There was no support to be expected from her. She showed no interest in the family’s business as long as her generous allowance continued to be paid. All the same, she had been the first successfully to challenge the older generation, he acknowledged with a rush of annoyance. The scene she had staged yesterday morning before the arrival of the guests had been alarming but impressive, and she had got what she wanted: the family consent to the official engagement she had set her heart on. And the wretched girl had instantly taken off to make her arrangements, which signalled an intensive shopping spree and endless telephonic gossiping with her friends. His mother and uncle had been doubtful and, predictably, had urged a further delay, but in the face of Gabrielle’s determination and d’Aubec’s compliance, they had conceded.
But at least he’d made sure the girl understood that in return for his lack of opposition—he could hardly call it support—she was now in his debt.
His mother was looking tired, he thought. He smiled encouragingly at her, sitting at the head of the table opposite Father Anselme. She rallied and, rising to her feet, issued an invitation to everyone to accompany her to the salon, where aperitifs would be served. Always the impeccable hostess, though increasingly weary. D’Aubec remembered the sacrifice of his mother’s necklace of rose diamonds, a gift to a long-lost countess of Brancy from Cardinal Mazarin, a sacrifice which had set them on the road to financial recovery. One day he’d locate those stones and get them back for the family, whatever the cost. For a brief moment he allowed himself the sensuous indulgence of imagining them around the white neck of Laetitia Talbot.
He lingered behind as the room emptied and was joined by Constantine.
When they were alone, d’Aubec spoke casually. “The senator is not with us…”
“I had observed. Leave it to me, Edmond.”
Reassured, Edmond went back to his vision of Laetitia. She was still in his thoughts when a manservant entered and sought him out. Leaning forward, he murmured that the count was urgently requested to come to the telephone.
CHAPTER 34
But it’s the Saint-Jean, mademoiselle,” was the laughing and inadequate explanation given her by the young boy Letty questioned on Saturday morning. “June the twenty-fourth,” he shouted over his shoulder, and ran off to join his friends. Strolling through the town, she’d been drawn to the hubbub in the central square, where half the town seemed to be milling about joining in the preparations for the evening’s event. The other half was standing about offering advice.
The square had been cleared and teams of men and boys were constructing, with a good deal of Gallic drama, an enormous bonfire. One old man (it might well have been Dutronc of the Device, she speculated) appeared to be loosely in charge of the construction. The placing and sizing of the logs seemed to be crucial—six inches this way or that a vital matter—and the whole edifice was to be topped off with a tottering pile of brushwood. She hoped the town fire-service would be standing by.
She was enjoying the scene when a familiar sound drew her attention. Charles Paradee’s van clanked to a halt by her side and he leaned out, glad to have spotted her in the crowd. “There you are! Just move that spade into the back, will you, and get in! Excuse me—that is, if you’d like to go for a spin and don’t disdain my old crate—accustomed as you are to something more grand these days, this will seem quite a comedown.”
How could she refuse this calculated invitation?
“…and good morning, Stella,” he went on with great good humour as they bounced their way down the cobbled street heading towards the hills. “Didn’t recognise you at first. Dressed like a native today, I see. I don’t think I’ve seen you in a skirt before.” He ran an approving eye over her blue cotton print skirt and white blouse and the espadrilles on her feet.
“All bought in the local market. Charles—tell me—are you making off with me?”
He sank into silence and Letty sat back, puzzled and distractedly watching the Burgundy farmland flow past her as they drove towards the hills. This was a road she had not taken before. They appeared to be heading northeast, climbing out of the valley. She glimpsed a crowded fan of grave Romanesque saints above the arched door of a church, its outline blurred by the thousand years that had passed since the pious monks of Fontigny first set it there to inspire and protect its surrounding village, as it slid past one window. Three small children escorting a supercilious Charolais cow slid past the other and, on a low hill ahead of them, appeared an ancient wall, a jumble of roofs, and, soaring above all, the solid outline of a defensive keep.
“Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,” chirruped Letty, to break the awkward silence.
Paradee shook himself from his abstraction. “I’m sorry, Stella. You were saying?”
“Trees,” she said. “Tufted.”
He seemed suddenly to focus his attention on her, but had swiftly to look ahead to negotiate the narrow gateway in the old wall. He drew up, wrenching on the brake, in front of a café terrace in the centre of the village. Chestnut trees shaded the village square; wood smoke still drifted lazily from the ovens of the boulangerie. One or two old countrymen were already sitting at tables enjoying a drink and they greeted Paradee as a friend, exchanging comments on the weather and the state of his van. Seeing that he had a female companion, they tactfully cut short their conversation and exchanged swift smiles as Paradee made for a table at the far end of the terrace. He ordered a beer for himself and a lemonade for Letty.
She looked about her, enchanted. This village, like Fontigny, was en fête. Strings of bunting wound around the square from tree to tree and here too men were busy piling up a bonfire. She watched in silence as it grew, to the noisy accompaniment of shouted advice and expostulation. Letty pointed to a poster, one of many tacked to trees. “They’re having a dance followed by fireworks this evening. Is every village in Burgundy celebrating today?”
“In this area it’s traditional, yes. Midsummer fertility rite, though they’d never admit it, of course,” said Paradee. “It died out generally halfway through the last century but,” he shrugged, “after the war, it started up again. People needed to reassert themselves, reaffirm their national identity, listen to good old Mother Nature urging them to do a little restocking, I suppose. Well, that’s my explanation, delivered with my anthropologist’s hat on and my tongue in my cheek.”
“So it’s not an accepted Christian celebration?”
“Oh, yes, it is. On every ecclesiastical calendar. They’ve sanctified it by naming it the festival of Saint John, but underneath—and not that far underneath—the official label there’s a pagan ceremony. They’re actually celebrating the summer solstice. The boys jump over the fires, showing off their courage, but in the deep Celtic past—and beyond—one of the poor souls, the strongest and the handsomest, would have been chosen as sacrificial victim. He might well have been proud to be selected.”
“How would we ever know? We can dig up his bones, we can count his teeth, identify the killing blow, but we can never hear him speak,” said Letty. “Was he screaming or praying when he died? Perhaps the work they’re doing at Hallstatt or here at Alésia and Mont Lassois will tell us more.”
“I’m not sure his voice would have been very different from our own,” said Paradee, surprising her. “We’ll never know what a Celt would have said to his gods, because their language is lost, but I bet it would have been much the same as his ancient Greek or Roman counterpart, and what he would have said is: Do ut des.…I give, that you may give. It’s all about fertility. Pleasing the gods, enriching the earth. We think of the ancestors as savages, but, really, if one young brave were to die tonight in every village, well, that’s still a lot fewer than the millions sacrificed in the fields of Flanders.” He sighed. “And, of course, you can’t deny—it’s effective,” he added slyly.
“What can you mean?”
He affected an air of innocence. “The crops keep growing, don’t they? The flocks multiply. And next March will be a busy time for the midwives. It always is.”
“Goodness! You mean…?”
“Oh, yes. A lot of wine gets drunk, there’s song and dance and a lot of showing off. The youths and maidens have a chance to take a look at each other and make their choice. I approve heartily,” he finished as their drinks arrived.
She sipped her lemonade slowly, much intrigued by Paradee’s behaviour.
“You had a proposal to put to me?” she reminded him.
“A proposition, I think I said…initially…but you never know your luck,” he said, the boldness tempered by an engaging grin. “Look, I’ll come straight to the point.” And still, he hesitated.
“When were you ever less than direct, Charles?”
He gave her a long look and embarked on his speech. “I’ve been watching you work for…how long now?…three weeks? Seems much longer. Well, you can always tell…three days is all it takes…I’ve been very impressed with the way you got your eye in so quickly with our project here. It’s not exactly your preferred period or place we’re investigating—you made that clear at the outset—but your professional approach has been noted and appreciated. You’ve learned fast; you’ve integrated well with all the other members of the team. They all have a good word for you and respect you. They’ve noticed, as have I, that you don’t shirk any task, however unpleasant, and never seek to push yourself forward…Phil saw and reported to me the discreet way you let Fabrice take the glory for that Etruscan potsherd the other day…and I’d say that’s typical of you. Anyhow, I want you to know that I shall always be delighted to recommend you to any archaeological outfit you care to approach in the future.”
Letty was barely listening. “I’ve been here before,” she was thinking miserably. “I’ve been sacked from the university, I can survive getting the sack from a job I didn’t really want to do and am doing under a different name, anyway. It’s Stella he’s dismissing, not Laetitia Talbot—I must hang on to that. Surely I can take this?” But she was steeling herself for the hard words all this flannel was preparing her for. She decided she was not going to help him out. A familiar scorn for all the men who had meddled in her life, controlled her actions, decided her future, and perpetually underestimated her was beginning to bubble.
As he sank into silence again, she acknowledged that, to his credit, he was not finding it easy. She relented and threw him a life-line. “I think I can guess what you’re about to say, Charles. You’re going to tell me it’s time to pack my bags and leave? Time to go back to England?”
He looked at her gratefully, relaxing at once. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do want you to pack your bags and leave. But to come back to the States with me.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her response was inadequate to express her astonishment.
“I’m pulling out, Stella.” His voice was bleak, his expression stony. “I had a wire yesterday from our backer, ‘our very own Lord Carnarvon,’ as I jokingly referred to him when you arrived. Unlike the English lord, my own personal Maecenas has proved fickle. He’s decided to invest his abundant cash in another project. He’s following the frenzy to Egypt. Monastic architecture in a town no one’s heard of in France has failed to fix his interest. Now, if we’d uncovered a Roman shrine to Mithras, his butterfly attention might have been engaged but—well, you know, as do I, nothing that glamorous is ever going to emerge here. So—before we’re down to our last cent of support, I’m making plans to hand over to the French
and see that the team members have somewhere to go next. As far as I can.”
“Charles, you don’t have to make contingency plans for me, you really don’t,” Letty protested.
“But I have. Listen while I lay them out for you,” he said. “There’s a possibility—more than a strong possibility—of an academic post in Chicago. I can use the time and the opportunity to write up the research we’ve done here…the outcome may not set the world on fire but the work we’ve done has more significance, I think, than the actual trench production might suggest. I want to write a textbook, Stella. An authoritative guide—no, the definitive guide—on how to carry out an excavation. So many examples and methods to draw on from the past—Pitt Rivers, Flinders Petrie, even old Schliemann can cast some light. And I thought I might give credit where credit’s due to Thomas Jefferson…the third President of the United States but, in my book, the First Archaeologist. Some time before he took office—1784—he dug out and meticulously recorded the digging of a mound on his property in Virginia. A native burial ground. He devised stratification, realised the significance of skeletal remains, and recorded geological evidence. I thought I’d celebrate these heroes, outline their techniques, extract what is truly useful, and add a good deal of my personal experience.”
Letty was relieved to hear the familiar enthusiasm returning to his voice. She found herself, in spite of her personal disappointment and surprise at his news, taking fire from his brief outline.
“Well, if that’s what you’re about—I wish you would include in your gallery an Englishman I’m fond of,” she said. “Captain Meadows Taylor. In 1850 he was using methods of excavation in India which are still relevant today. I wonder why so many military men have made a name for themselves as archaeologists? There’s a question you might consider, too.”