The Color of a Dog Running Away

by Richard Gwyn

  He woke with the scratching of the key in the lock, and was on his feet before the door had opened. The light came on, dazzling him as always, and Zaco, Le Chinois and the cyclops, El Tuerto, entered the room. Le Chinois carried a length of rope, with which he proceeded to tie Lucas’s hands behind his back. The cord dug into the flesh of his wrists. The three of them then led him down the corridor, Zaco ahead and the other two bringing up the rear. They climbed the stairs to ground level, and walked outside. It was a clear, crisp evening, with a sharp breeze. The fresh air was like a balm, despite the chill. Lucas breathed in deeply. The mountain air tasted so good following his incarceration underground and days of breathing in the rank smell of his own sweat and excrement. He would have liked simply to stay there in the night air, enjoying that brief moment of relative freedom, but his guards hurried him along. They crossed the edge of the village square and Lucas could just make out the shadowy bulk of his funeral pyre in the darkness. They entered the council hall building by a side entrance which connected with a kind of antechamber to the hall itself. Adjoining this antechamber was a small bathroom, where he was told to strip and shower. His bonds were released for this purpose and he was handed a bar of soap. The shower was cold, but it was a relief to feel clean after so many days without washing. After he had dried himself, and put on his tee-shirt, jeans and sandals, El Tuerto handed him a white smock, a garment which was half country yokel, half mortuary. Lucas pulled it over his head, an action that made him feel condemned in advance of the trial (which, if Nuria’s predictions were correct, he already was). Once dressed, his hands were again bound, but this time in front of his body. El Tuerto led him into the antechamber and told him to sit in a straight-backed chair, then positioned himself behind it.

  Lucas could hear a murmur of voices from the hall, a sound that swelled in volume by the minute. Occasionally individual voices could be heard against the general hubbub. It must have been time for the evening council meeting, but everyone would have known that something out of the ordinary was going to take place tonight, since normally such meetings were awaited in reverential silence.

  It was not long before Le Chinois and the disfigured Francisco entered the room to fetch Lucas. They led him into the hall, which had been set up as a courtroom. Pontneuf presided at the head of the court, seated at a long table with Marta and Rafael, the two other perfecti, on either side of him. There was a designated space for the prisoner between two smaller tables facing this triumvirate of judges, to which Lucas was directed, with his minders standing slightly behind him. They were situated halfway across the hall from the judges, and the rest of the community was seated to Lucas’s left. The only exits were the one on his right, from which he had emerged, leading to the antechamber, and the main entrance at the back of the hall, the other side of the thirteen credentes. There were no negotiable windows in the hall. He scanned the group, looking for Nuria. She was nearest to the wall, on the far side, looking straight ahead. It was clear to Lucas that they must avoid eye contact.

  Pontneuf was looking through a pile of manuscripts when Lucas was shown to his place, and only glanced up briefly, without indicating anything other than a businesslike preoccupation with his papers. Watching him seated there before this makeshift court, Lucas remembered his first impression of the man. He had thought him then to be a pompous fraud, and Pontneuf was never more so than at this moment, pretending to read while lording over this assortment of religious crazies, slavish catamites and moronic thugs.

  Pontneuf wasted no time on introductions.

  “This special court has been convened to try the accused of the betrayal of our group, and of Catharism at large, to the forces of the Antichrist. Shortly before the fifteenth of May 1247, as Raymond Gasc, he passed information to our enemies, enabling them to capture us during our flight across these very mountains.”

  Here he gestured melodramatically toward the world outside the walls.

  “How precisely this was done, and through whom Raymond Gasc conveyed this information, is, in part, the business of this court. Also, and more importantly, we need to receive an initial declaration of his innocence or guilt, and, when the trial is completed, an acknowledgement of his actions, if not an actual confession of guilt, before sentencing by the court can take place.”

  He paused.

  “Not guilty,” Lucas said.

  Pontneuf grunted.

  “We are tolerant people, and it is a right of the accused to deny these charges, if, in any way, he can substantiate these denials. For our part, conversely, we have to provide evidence of his guilt and compliance in what we can prove to be a gross act of treachery. I have in front of me an original document made at the time of the crusade against us, in which Raymond Gasc refutes all teachings of the Cathars, especially those of the renegade priest Bernard Rocher. Some of you have already seen this document.”

  He held up a leather-bound volume, no doubt a part of his “previously undiscovered” library from Toulouse or Carcassonne.

  “In it, and I quote, ‘Raymond Gasc passed information to our officers that the heretic Rocher was currently living in the commune of Mélissac, but that he and several of his followers were planning to escape within several days of this meeting. When asked, he described the likely course of their route. Soldiers were sent to cut off the heretics, and they were apprehended, chained, and returned to our prison at Toulouse, where they were kept until the commencement of their trial.’”

  Pontneuf read, or appeared to read, the old French text in an appropriately grave manner, but, Lucas thought, he might as well have been reading from a Batman comic. This did not constitute evidence of any kind, even if Lucas agreed (and it was a monumental “if”) to “being” Raymond Gasc. There was no option for him to argue against the case, only to pose counter-claims. Even this was probably a waste of time. He began wondering what precisely Nuria had planned for his escape. He had a thug a couple of feet behind him at each shoulder, and both exits were a long way away. He tried focussing on the number of paces he would need to reach the antechamber door. Meanwhile Pontneuf provided the audience with gory details of their thirteenth-century counterparts’ torture and incineration, emphasising, for those who might still be in any doubt, that they had all died together for the Cathar cause.

  “To whom did you pass the information regarding the flight from Mélissac?” he asked Lucas.

  “Seeing as you have the Inquisition’s report in front of you, I would suggest that you know the answer to that yourself. Personally I have no idea, since you are addressing me as ‘you’ on the assumption that I accept your designation of me as Raymond Gasc. I do not. My name is Rhys Morgan Aurelio Lucas.”

  Pontneuf grimaced.

  “Very well then. Let us begin again. Do you deny that in your previous life as Raymond Gasc, you aided the inquisitorial forces in their pursuit and capture of a group of Cathars from the village of Mélissac?”

  “I will do more than that. I deny any knowledge of having had a previous life, either as Raymond Gasc, Christopher Columbus, or anyone else.”

  “And your plea of innocence is based on this fiction?”

  Lucas laughed. How Pontneuf had the temerity to claim that his, Lucas’s, version of himself was a “fiction” defied all expectations of reasonable sense, let alone those of a court of law, even one as characteristically kangaroo as this.

  “Is it not normal procedure to begin a prosecution by identifying the accused?” Lucas asked.

  “It is. But in this case you are being tried for actions committed by yourself in a previous life. Therefore your current identity is of little interest to the court.”

  “So I am being tried only for my alleged actions as the person you call Raymond Gasc?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then I can offer no defence other than my plea of innocence, since, as I have stated, I do not acknowledge being or ever having been Raymond Gasc.”

  “So be it,” Pontneuf answered slyly. “You wi
ll therefore be tried in absentia as Raymond Gasc. You will, however, as Rhys Morgan Aurelio Lucas, be expected to attend.”

  Lucas let this bewildering logic go unremarked. He could see that nothing he said that refuted the charges made against Gasc was going to make any difference. He could, however, try another tack, one which he had surreptitiously been nurturing since his first long talk with Pontneuf by the mountain stream. But he would hold fire on this until an appropriate moment presented itself. Meanwhile Pontneuf enumerated further allegations against the poor Raymond Gasc, whose treachery had evidently been the source of considerable grief to Bernard Rocher, ending as it did his plans for escape and re-settlement in the more accommodating climate of Trans-Pyrenean Catalunya.

  “For the information of the court, I can confirm that the Inquisitors’ report relates that, at a secret meeting, Raymond Gasc confided the precise details of the group of heretics’ escape from Mélissac. The Inquisitor’s account reads”—and here Pontneuf returned to his leather-bound files, perusing the text through a hand-held magnifying lens, like a myopic but benevolent scholar—“‘the shepherd Gasc did give cause for me to believe that he would renounce the heresy known as Catharism, and would lead a proper Christian life following confession and absolution. Since the information which he gave to me proved correct, and resulted in the capture of the heretic Rocher and his followers, I would recommend to the Inquisitor General that Gasc’s life be spared and whatever outstanding penance is demanded of him be weighed against the honourable course of action he has pursued in meeting with me, at such risk to himself. Gasc also pleaded with me that the life of his wife, Clare, be spared, since he believed Rocher to be an agent of the Devil who had poisoned her mind against both himself, Gasc, and the true teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ.’”

  He passed the manuscript to his right, so that Rafael could confirm the content of the passage he had quoted. Rafael followed the text with a long, quivering finger, then nodded his head sadly. He struck Lucas as a pathetic figure, lugubrious and servile. Lucas couldn’t imagine from what deathly cloister Pontneuf had recruited his services.

  “Need we know more?” Pontneuf questioned the small crowd of credentes now, who sat like a huddle of eager school-children, awaiting his verdict. “Would any one of you care to speak in defence of the actions of the accused?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “As I supposed,” resumed Pontneuf, “since these actions are indefensible. A report in the hand of the Inquisition stating clearly that Raymond Gasc renounced his faith and betrayed his colleagues.”

  “May I speak?” Lucas proposed, when it seemed to him that Pontneuf was finished.

  “Please. Do,” Pontneuf offered, suddenly magnanimous.

  “In your previous life as Bernard Rocher, did you live impeccably according to the tenets of the Cathar faith?”

  “As well as any man might.”

  “You obeyed the vows of chastity?”

  “What is this nonsense? Yes, I did.”

  “So you would deny the charge that you were conducting an illicit sexual relationship with Clare, the wife of Raymond Gasc, at the time of the events we are discussing.”

  Pontneuf guffawed. The disciplined monk who had serenaded Lucas with his vision of a new world religion was entirely absent from this court.

  “I would refute such an idiotic claim unreservedly. It is true that while still a young man, and before my conversion to Catharism, I had lain with women. Yes, I had carnal knowledge of them, fornicated, ate of the forbidden fruit. It was common practice among the Catholic clergy then, and ever shall be. As present-day readers of newspapers can verify.”

  Pontneuf could barely contain his amusement at the accusation. He continued, enjoying himself rather more than Lucas considered apt, considering the gravity of the punishment he had in store for him.

  “While working among the lepers of Lombardy I was gifted with an understanding of the true nature of the world, and made my conversion to the Cathar faith. From that moment I never felt the pangs of lust, nor ever ate the flesh or produce of creatures. To suggest that I lay with the woman of whom you speak, Clare d’Aubrac, who married you, Raymond Gasc, is a gross calumny. Your mindless jealousy, which you placed, and continue to place, before any other consideration, cost the previous lives of all the good people you see around you, burned horribly on the pyres of the Inquisition. A fate which tonight you will share, none too soon.”

  What had happened to Nuria’s plan, if she had one? Lucas glanced at her, but she was looking straight ahead, unmoving. He realised that in order to prolong this performance, he was going to have to improvise, relying only on his own blurred intuitions about Pontneuf/Rocher.

  “So what of Rocher himself? Where among your ‘documents’ does it state that he perished in the flames, along with all his followers? It doesn’t, does it? You yourself have told me that Rocher’s name had been ‘airbrushed’ from all official accounts of the crusade against the Cathars. And in your own private account, what specific mention is made of him? Clearly he has not vanished from there too. Is it not true that Rocher escaped the trials unscathed? How could such an important Cathar fish escape the Inquisition’s net? Why don’t you inform your so-called court that this was so? Was there a secret deal done with his noble relatives in the court of Aragon? And that he ‘disappeared’ or was ‘airbrushed’ from the official accounts on condition that nothing more was heard of him? I put it to you, André, that your precious manuscript is either a travesty, a fake, or else a later document, designed and drawn up to protect the real outcome of the trial of Rocher, which was an embarrassment to certain figures in the ecclesiastical community. To be explicit: can you furnish the court”—here Lucas allowed himself a dismissive wave of the hand towards Pontneuf’s miserable crew of sycophants—“with any evidence at all that Bernard Rocher died at the stake? Can you?”

  Lucas had no idea where this stuff was coming from, but it seemed to be having a very bad effect on Pontneuf’s temper. He sat back in silence, magisterial in his big chair, but his eyes had narrowed and he wore an expression of fierce contempt.

  However, Lucas never had the pleasure of hearing his reply.

  Before the lights went out, there was an explosion, which seemed to come from one of the outbuildings. Lucas guessed the generator had blown. Whatever Nuria had engineered had taken place successfully. All he had to do now was move, and fast. He could feel the first contact of a minder’s hand on his shoulder and he twisted free, sprinting towards the nearer exit. Darkness, he felt, after his three weeks’ confinement, was his element, and until someone found a candle or a torch, he had the advantage. He had also, through some subliminal process, been working with numbers throughout the trial, measuring distances and counting steps. He knocked somebody over as he counted three strides before diving to the floor, where he knew there to be a table, then scrambling to his feet, counted four, five, six strides to the exit.

  He head-butted his way into the stomach of a body, which he guessed from its bulk was that of El Tuerto, who gasped, winded, and crumpled to the ground. Since Lucas knew that El Tuerto had been standing in the doorway, he leaped over the body and into the antechamber. If the outer door was bolted, he would be trapped inside this small space, with his hands still tied in front of him, but the door gave with a push, and he jumped clear, into the moonlit square.

  PART THREE

  On Saturday nights in Plaça Reial you can almost hear the viruses mutating.

  ROBERT HUGHES

  cuando me buscan nunca estoy

  cuando me encuentran yo no soy

  el que está enfrente porque ya

  me fui corriendo más allá

  MANU CHAO

  17. THE ART OF DESCENT

  Sean was looking at me suspiciously. Eugenia was smiling. Susie was drawing in a sketchbook with coloured pastels, and Igbar Zoff appeared to be asleep. It was evening, and the air was cooler than it had been the previous night. I got up and used the bathro
om, then began to make tea. But my mind was still racing with the cocaine and the unfolding story: I needed some kind of ballast. Tea would not be enough. The tequila was finished and I had no taste for beer, so I asked Susie Serendipity to finish preparing the brew and I went down to the corner store and bought a bottle of Fundador. Stretching my legs did me good, and when I returned I expected my friends would want to make a move. Susie had placed a thick candle on the floor in the centre of the terrace, and it gave off a soothing scent of cedarwood.

  During the course of my storytelling, my voice had become strained. I sat up in the hammock and drank hot lemon juice with a generous slug of brandy. Igbar, cross-legged against the terrace wall amid a sea of cushions, had taken the short-stemmed pipe from his coat and was ramming the bowl with a soft and sticky putty. Opium was a rarely encountered luxury at the best of times, but evidently his windfall had caused him to cast financial caution aside.

  “Here, let me do that,” offered Sean, as Igbar succeeded in spilling the contents of the bowl for a second time while attempting to light his pipe.

  “So you got away, huh?” questioned Susie, who, since it was now dark, had put her sketchbook aside. “How long ago was this?”

  “Oh, two, three days now,” I replied, with a smile.

  “Hang on, man,” put in Sean, match poised above his opium pipe. “Are we supposed to believe all this? I thought you were just telling us a story, to uh, pass away the hours.”