The Map

by T. S. Learner

  August decided to take the left path. As he walked the string spun out behind him. It was surreal. He felt dwarfed by the towering dark green walls of leaf, and strangely vulnerable, as if he no longer walked in the physical material world, but in another metaphysical dimension.

  To anchor himself he took the rough string and allowed it to burn a painful sense of reality between his fingers as he proceeded cautiously down the narrow path, the gravel crunching under his boots the only noise punctuating the thick silence. Above him, a raven circled in the thin strip of sky, enclosed yet isolated.

  A few feet on and the path abruptly opened onto the next circular base – the sephirot known as Hod – meaning ‘Splendour’ or ‘Glory’. Again, the sephirot was designed with a series of confusing circular paths around the centre. Now August was beginning to realise that each sephirot in each maze was designed in a unique maze pattern, making it impossible to memorise a simple path through to the centres.

  August looked across the carefully gravelled circle, empty of all symbolic planting. Here, as in all the sephiroth, the walls of the maze circled the bed and arched over each path’s entrance in leaf bowers. There were four paths confronting him, including the one he’d just arrived from. He decided he would take the one directly in front which, by his calculations, ran up to the next station, Geburah. This way he would be travelling around the outer edge of the maze – along one side of the Tree of Life. Then he would come down the other side, he decided, before venturing into the middle of the maze.

  He walked between the dark walls, winding his way right around the outside sephiroth – all of them unplanted – back to the station that sat opposite Hod – Netzach or ‘Victory’. He was now facing back towards his starting point, the entrance of the maze, the sephirot Malkuth. Standing in the centre of the barren Netzach, gravelled like all of the other sephiroth he’d walked through, he knew the path ahead of him would lead him back to where he began. From the outer ring he took the next path along to the right. By his calculations this had to take him to the second sephirot in the middle branch of the Tree of Life – Yesod or ‘Foundation’. Just then it occurred to him that the mini-mazes contained within each sephirot were designed to make it impossible to look clearly down any of the paths (or branches and trunk) of the Tree of Life. Once inside the maze one sephirot was obscured from another. It was genius.

  When he reached the centre of Yesod he saw that, in this maze, Yesod was a living sephirot. The circular flowerbed in the middle of the circle of maze was planted with two herbs – anise and a low flowering bush he recognised as the purple bloom of the mandrake root. It was well tended like the rest of the interior of the maze, hidden as it were by the shell of wild overgrowth. The scent of the mandrake filled his head and he crouched down for a moment, overwhelmed, burying his face in his hands, as the world closed around him and he was back in that night, in that forest outside Belchite, and there was Charlie walking in front, the white of his shirt dancing in front of August as they moved through the young saplings stretching up around them as if yearning for the sky. He felt that sense of terror tightening his throat while Charlie, his army trousers loose on his skeletal frame, talked out into the dark, a stream of incessant words, from one who’d been silent for weeks, as if he were determined to fill the ever-accelerating void between them. And August, his trembling hand wrapped around his gun, hidden deep in his jacket pocket, could not stop shivering despite the sticky summer heat, could not stop the encroaching horror of what he had been ordered to do. And still, seemingly oblivious, Charlie chatted on, as if they were simply taking a walk in a forest, the two of them, in that moment of their toppled youth. Small talk. August could barely concentrate to make sense of this babbling chatter. There was memory – the river, their rooms, the passionate arguments that always finished in drunken self-congratulatory diatribes; the quiet Oxford lanes and Charlie’s broken loves; there were the dreams they had shared; the time in Paris when they were waiting to be smuggled into Spain and into the ranks of the International Brigade; and then there was the fear. And in the middle of this, one small sentence glistened apart from the others: ‘Don’t look so worried, Gus,’ Charlie had said. ‘I have always looked after my own fate.’ And then, after launching into another reminiscence, he began walking again, before August, his wild red hair a beacon of sacrifice. And August now wanted to run after him, to reverse what he knew was coming, but the flashback faded as quickly as it had appeared.

  He came to his senses, his face still in his hands. He had never recalled that night in such detail before – it had always been too overwhelming, too profoundly distressing, but now he had Charlie’s strange little sentence hanging in his head. It was an armature he could build something upon. Do I really know what really happened? Do I? A bee buzzing around his head landed on his arm. He brushed it off and stood, now fully in the moment. The maze, how to decipher the layout.

  He would have to get a topographical shot of the maze to really decode it, and the question was how. Just then he felt a tug on the string. He looked up. To his utter amazement floating overhead, quite low, was a hot air balloon advertising Dunlop tyres. Dropping the string August began running towards the path he knew would lead him out of the maze.

  17

  ‘Where are you stationed?’ The balloonist hauled up the last of the anchoring ropes, then sent another blast of flame up into the billowing silk above them. The basket lifted off from the ground with a lurch and they ascended over the grassy slope and the maze.

  ‘Up north, a small coastal town. You wouldn’t know it!’ August yelled, over the roaring gas. The balloonist glanced at him sceptically. For a moment August worried that the man might have recognised him from a newspaper or the radio descriptions that had been broadcast, but the balloonist merely broke into a grin. ‘That would explain the accent!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have a funny accent!’

  August smiled blandly back, while inwardly cursing his French grammar teacher he’d had as a child in Boston – who was in fact an aristocratic emigrant.

  ‘My father was Belgian!’ he lied, over another blast of flame.

  ‘Well, we can’t all be lucky.’ The balloonist shrugged philosophically. A thin, energetic man, dressed in a black canvas jumpsuit, he had originally thought August was waving him down to the ground for some illegal geographical transgression he might have unwittingly made. The balloonist had travelled off course – his usual route was along the roads and over the village square to advertise his sponsors, but the wind had sent him inland. It had, therefore, been comparatively easy for August to negotiate a ride over the maze as the balloonist, greatly relieved that he wasn’t going to get charged with trespassing, was more than happy to oblige. Above them the burner expelled another huge blast of flame and the balloon rose several feet. Down on the ground Izarra, leaning against the motorbike, waved up at them and the balloonist waved back enthusiastically.

  ‘Pretty girl, your girlfriend?’ the man asked, with obvious intrigue.

  ‘My fiancée,’ August replied, firmly, extinguishing any further interest. ‘Just a short ride over the garden would be wonderful, you could land over there in the field,’ he instructed. He leaned over the edge of the balloon’s basket. Below he could see the top of the ruined burned-out villa, the blueprint of the architecture now clearly visible – an inner courtyard and the outline of five large rooms that fanned out from what remained of the roof.

  They were now nearing the maze. August pulled out his camera and leaning over started to try to focus.

  ‘Is that legal?’ the balloonist asked, jolting August’s elbow, his voice ringing out in the sudden silence that occurred after another blast of flame.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a harmless hobby.’ August tried to contain his irritation at having his photograph ruined. ‘Besides, I am a decorated officer, you know,’ he added, hoping that pulling such rank might shut the man up. The balloonist gestured apologetically.
/>   ‘In that case, Officer, would you like me to take you lower? You’re bound to get a better view then.’

  ‘That would be superb, merci.’

  August looked down again. Now he could see the maze perfectly from above. The outer walls were like a tangled wild shell, built deliberately high enough to conceal the meticulous cultivation within. It was an ornate and beautiful depiction of the Tree of Life in hedgerow. The ten circles joined by straight paths all in perfect proportion, all of them containing a circle of blue-grey gravel – except for the second sephirot in the middle trunk, one up from the bottom, the sephirot Yesod, which had a circle of green in the middle. Yesod. He sounded the name out in his mind, feeling the leaves of the anise and mandrake he had hidden in his pocket. Nine blind grey eyes staring up at me, with one living green one. But why wasn’t any of it visible from outside of the maze. It really was a hidden symbol, decipherable only from above as if God himself were to be the only witness. For some inexplicable reason, August found this terrifying. Quickly, he fired off a series of photographs, snapping the maze first in its entirety then in stages as they descended toward it. The balloonist leaned over beside him.

  ‘Crazy, eh? Why have a secret garden no one can see? Some folk have noodles for brains. But not me,’ he confided.

  August sped along the bank of the Rhône on the boulevard Saint-Lazare. Although it had begun to cloud over and the sun was sinking behind the island of Bagatelle, there were still small fishing boats and speedboats on the river. He swung left into rue Banasterie, now roaring towards the old city centre, Izarra’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the camera and the herb safely in his satchel. The cathedral bells were tolling four o’clock, the schools were emptying and the locals, festive in their summer clothes, had started to stroll home from work. There was a deceptive air of normalcy about the city, the faintly festive ambience of day’s end, and waiters had started to set out the café tables on the squares for the evening diners. As much as August would have loved to have stopped at one of the cafés and sat and drank, he dared not succumb to this false sense of security. With the warmth of Izarra’s body pressed against him, it was easy to imagine another life, that they were just a local French couple returning from a day out in the country, the scent of crushed grass still lingering on their clothes.

  He drove past the old Palace of the Popes, then glanced into his side mirror at a red Citroën that had been following him for the past ten minutes. He turned sharply into a side lane to lose the car. The motorcycle bounced over the cobblestones, then out into another square that was filled with a group of religious pilgrims; Italians, mainly, being ushered around by several priests. In the centre of the square a merry-go-round spun slowly, the painted horses moving up and down, each with its own small rider screaming in pleasure atop it. August navigated his way through the milling crowd and street carts, narrowly missing one man pushing an ice-cream cart. Ignoring the man’s shouts, August checked his mirror again. It had worked – he’d lost the tail. He checked his watch. He still had over an hour, so he swung the motorcycle around and headed towards the rue Victor Hugo.

  18

  L’Hôtel de Pont was a small place sandwiched between a café and the administrative offices for the Collège J. Vernet. It was an inconspicuous building, the kind of hotel an executive might take his mistress for an afternoon tryst, a place that made a virtue out of discretion, not luxury. August thought it perfect. He parked the motorcycle out of view behind a pissoir.

  ‘What are we doing? I thought we were going back to Edouard’s?’ Izarra looked up at him, perplexed. Avoiding a direct answer, he pressed the satchel with the herbs and his camera into her hand.

  ‘Listen, I want you to walk to the next square and wait for me at a café. I’ll be an hour, no longer.’

  ‘No, I stay with you.’

  ‘Izarra, I have some business. It won’t be safe.’

  ‘So you think I’m a coward? I come with you.’ Her lower lip was jutting out in that determined way he’d learned meant there was no point in arguing with her. Okay, have it your way, but I will not be responsible if you get hurt, I will not.

  ‘Okay, if you insist, but we play by my rules. You do exactly what I say, understand?’

  She nodded reluctantly. He started striding towards the hotel trying not to let his irritation show, Izarra now running to catch up.

  ‘But what are we doing?’

  ‘You’ll see. It’s an old Bostonian hunting trick, a way of flushing out the rabbit.’

  ‘Rabbit? Huh! You should try hunting wild boar.’

  ‘Well, let’s just see what we flush out. After all that’s the objective of the game.’

  August pushed his way through the glass door into the hotel and Izarra followed silently. The lobby was small, chintzy in decoration, with a panorama of Gay Paree along one wall, a faded red velvet chaise longue and low wooden coffee table, a balding middle-aged man squeezed into a tight suit sitting awkwardly at one end of the chaise, radiating embarrassment as if he were being kept waiting by some woman sadistic in her tardiness. Edouard stood at the counter, talking quietly to the proprietor behind the desk. They both turned as the two walked in. As August and Izarra approached them, Edouard smiled while the proprietor, a sober ruddy-faced man of about fifty, held out two sets of keys.

  ‘What I don’t know cannot kill me,’ the proprietor told him in French, shrugging.

  Without a word August took the keys, then turned to Edouard, who handed him an envelope.

  ‘I’ll meet you back at the printing press at seven,’ August murmured. ‘Until then you should disappear.’ He headed to the elevator. After a questioning glance at the two men, Izarra turned on her heels to follow him.

  The proprietor leaned towards Edouard. ‘You didn’t tell me he was a soldier?’

  ‘He’s not, at least not of that uniform.’

  ‘In or out of uniform, a man like that will always have women,’ the proprietor conceded, ruefully, at which Edouard could only grunt.

  Inside the tiny elevator August tore open the envelope. Inside was the fake passport, the fake receipt for a passage on a ship called La Veuve Joyeuse bound for Port Said from Marseille, and a map of Marseille. He flicked through the passport – it appeared authentic enough, and he didn’t recognise the intense black-haired moustached man staring up from the page as himself. The perfect forgery. Satisfied, he tucked it into his back pocket.

  ‘Edouard, you’re a genius,’ he said, quietly.

  Izarra glanced nervously at the documents. ‘You planning to abandon me?’

  ‘Watch and learn.’

  The elevator shuddered to a halt on the third floor, the doors opened and August pulled back the iron safety grid. Now he realised the lobby was in fact the most palatial part of the hotel. The narrow and claustrophobic corridor, painted a hospital green, had no such pretensions. It was lit by a blinking light, and at one end, August noticed, had a small service cupboard. He checked the tags on the keys – rooms fifteen and sixteen.

  ‘C’mon.’ He headed towards the service cupboard, picked the lock and within three minutes had handed Izarra a cleaner’s white coat and a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘We haven’t got much time,’ he told her. She took the coat, then wheeled the vacuum cleaner obediently behind him as he made his way to room fifteen.

  He switched on the lights and the room spluttered into a dreary palette of browns and maroon. The double bed with an embroidered bedspread that had seen better days dominated the room. A small chest of drawers with a mirror stand sat squeezed against the wall while a framed poster of Le déjeuner sur l’herbe hung on the opposite wall – a misguided attempt to bring some colour into the room. August walked over to the window and dragged the curtains back. Outside was a tiny balcony, just enough space for a man to stand. He pulled open the French doors and stepped out. As he had predicted the balcony for room sixteen was right next-door – less than a foot away.

  Climbing over the iron
railing, he took care not to look down at the street, a staggering four flights down, and swung his leg over the balcony of room sixteen, the satchel over his shoulder. Once there, he opened those French windows and placed the satchel on the bed then let himself out of the hotel door and rejoined Izarra in room fifteen.

  He threw the bedspread back. ‘Get into the cleaner’s coat and tie your hair back,’ he ordered. While she slipped the coat on he got into the bed fully dressed and rolled around in the sheets until they looked sufficiently well used. He then went to the small shaving bowl, poured some water from the china jug beside it, made it cloudy with soap and splashed it about a bit. He took off one of his socks and left it tossed on the threadbare carpet. Outside, the cathedral bells rang a single peal indicating it was half-past five.

  ‘We haven’t got much time – they’ll be coming for me at six.’

  ‘They know where you are!’

  ‘They think they know where I am. All I’m asking is for you to keep your nerve. You’re the chambermaid. You will be vacuuming the corridor. If anyone talks to you, you don’t understand a word of French, understand? You might recognise them, but they won’t recognise you. Believe me, in that uniform you’re less than wallpaper.’