The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book

by Manuel Werner

“Thanks for that” Abelard said.

  “The least I can do for my star executive and future nephew-in-law,” Milly said, while wrapping his arm around an increasingly suspicious Abelard and steering him towards the large windows behind his massive desk. Could it be that he wants to push me through the glass to my death?

  “Abelard, you are incontestably the only person in this organization who could possibly succeed me,” he said, unabashedly, his growly voice now taking on an unfamiliar silky and fatherly aspect. “People who look out these windows think, prosaically, that this is such a lovely, spectacular view. But it is much more than a view, Abelard, it is a regard on my domain. I am the most powerful businessman in this city. That means I am the lord and all others grovel before me.” Milly’s tone was now of an unmistakable demented quality. Abelard did not know whether he was working his way labouriously towards some profound point or just being delusional. He thought it best to keep his peace.

  “…and one day you could be standing here with your arm about a promising young executive’s shoulders and saying the same thing.” Ah, understanding flickered through Abelard’s mind; first the promise then the demand. “Men like me were born to rule and we always, in the end, will prevail.” Abelard, at that very moment, knew with certainty that in the depths of his mind, Milly was just like him, and he would have to be very watchful, indeed.

  “There is something you are holding back from me Abelard, and if I am to protect and enrich you, it is vitally important that you be completely open with me. You must trust me….,” he trailed off with an experienced sigh.

  Abelard had dealt with much fiercer and equally untrustworthy Milly’s numerous times in his unmentionable memories. He had had many agreements, ententes, working arrangements with such men, but never in these had there ever been the slightest hint of trust. He knew, with unreserved certainty, that hard, acquisitive men like Milly used the word trust as others would a meaty pheasant bone; suck it dry and render it to the rubbish heap. But he did appreciate the delicate dilemma into which Milly’s crocodile plea had put him. Milly could make life very difficult if he did not give him some tempting morsel to chew upon. The trick here would be to give as little as would seem credible so as to buy as much time as possible; for it would have been lunacy to think Milly could be held at bay forever.

  “That’s a relief, this thing is driving me crazy,” Abelard began, eyes on the handy carpet, easily the best diversion in the room, hands dug deeply into his pockets, his words appropriately peppered with annoying sighs. Whereas Milly was hampered by his reputation in how far he could go in the ‘trust-me’ game, Abelard was as yet an unknown quantity and a superb liar. He could still hoodwink even the hardest heart unaware of his gory memories. “I never suspected how much trouble it would bring. It’s been extremely difficult keeping up appearances. I was even considering asking for some time off, partly to hide and mostly to give me time to think.”

  This last bit, hinting at a burn out, was said with clenched eyes as though damming up a torrent of self-pity. It was very effective. Milly jumped to the bait. He practically bounded the small distance separating the two and again put his arm around Abelard’s shoulder, which seemed to be heaving, ever so slightly.

  “Go on, my friend, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  “Now, I don’t know if there is any connection, but it’s the only thing I can think of. We had been doing the medieval battlefields tour in France, about three years ago. You know me, Milly, sometimes I don’t quite follow the rules,” he said, with a naïve grin. We were at the 1356 Battle of Poitiers site, where the French got their butts very badly kicked by the Black Prince. Part of the site was being excavated by an archaeological team from some university and was off limits to the tours.”

  Milly, with the patience of a brain damaged army ant, had begun to fidget, wondering where this drawn out tale was leading. He began to bite very hard on his tongue trying to purge his urge to kick Abelard, as he would any piece of machinery that was running slower than it should.

  “Go on son,” he said most solicitously. This only made Abelard want to talk even slower than he was.

  “As we passed the dig, which was then empty, it being a legal holiday that day, I lagged behind until the tour group slipped out of sight. I remembered…, I mean I had read about that famous battle and I wanted to take a solitary look at the place where the French had lost their king and almost lost the Hundred Years war. Near a large oak I noticed a piece of timber sticking through the surface at a spot where digging had already begun. The heavy overnight rains must have washed away the loose earth to expose the rotting wood. I was fairly certain that this had not yet been spotted by the diggers. Using a small trowel left by the diggers I began to poke around the exposed timber until I reached what was clearly the hub of a wagon wheel. It occurred to me that this must have been the baggage train of the French, since it was where the guide had said was behind their lines. I felt lucky and plunged the trowel afresh into the earth only to hear the clink of metal. I dropped the tool and used my fingers to feel for whatever had made that sound. That was when I found it. The small jeweled cross.”

  “The what?” Milly’s tongue biting patience control mechanism had backfired. In his surprise he had drawn blood and the question came out as a pressurized hiss, a small red fleck staining his lower lip. Abelard was now drawing great pleasure from the destructive tension his complete fabrication had built up in Milly.

  “Yes, it was a small, obviously very old jeweled cross, like something a medieval noble man or women would carry. You are the only person to whom I have told this tale and I don’t think it should go any further until I get a better feel for what is going on.” Abelard, thought it an appropriate moment to stop and wait for a word from Milly.

  Holding a handkerchief between his lips, to stanch the bleeding tongue, Milly judged it prudent to limit his response to a nod and an assuring wave of his free hand. He then pinched his lips between thumb and index finger as a final personal guarantee that Abelard was dealing with none other than Mr. Probity Discretion, aka Milly Lord.

  “It was really quite a beautiful piece. I intended on keeping it for my own personal pleasure.” Here he paused and turned abruptly to look directly into Milly’s eyes, which were still moist from the painful wound to his tongue. Caught by surprise, Milly recoiled from Abelard’s sudden, personal attention. “Do you think it was wrong to wish to possess this small, stunningly attractive object?” he asked, and quickly added, “It’s not as though I was going to put it on e-bay to turn a quick profit.”

  Speaking was still an awkward affair, particularly the ‘th’ sound, but Milly had run out of his limited body and sign language vocabulary and would have to make a little effort. “Not at all. Anyone wit an eye for fine art and a little courage would have done da same ting. Gosh, I would have,” winking and swiveling his oversize head to look at his own collection.

  Abelard was feeling more confident by the moment. Milly was practically scrambling aboard his speeding fabrication. He now needed a good plausible ending that left only cold, dead end trails. Milly would then go off and beat all the empty bushes to which they might lead. He reckoned that Milly would carefully sift through all parts of his story, some of which did have very small openings into the truth, but finding those, Abelard felt, would be akin to winning a lottery.

  “I was uneasy about what I had done and I thought it best to keep Felicity out of my obviously illegal activities. I buried the cross in the woods behind the house and intended to leave it there for as long as we stayed at the farm. However, the very next day, nervous about scavengers possibly following my scent to the spot, I went to retrieve the cross, having it in mind to find a more suitable hiding place. There was only an empty hole, the freshly dug earth just piled beside it. I was outraged. I know I should not have been, since I had done the same thing at the archaeological dig site, but I couldn’t help myself. It was such an astoundingly lovely object. It was not difficult
to figure out what happened. The earth was damp and the tracks from common steel toed work boots were still fresh. The trail led from the tree, near where I had buried the cross directly to the little shack where the Malvue brothers, our landlords, lived. I ran to their little hovel to question them but they were not in. I would have to wait. Three days later, the police showed up to let us know that there had been an accident in which the Malvue brothers were killed. It had taken so long for the news to finally reach us because the explosion and fire had made identification very difficult. In fact, the destruction was so complete I reckoned that the cross must have been destroyed if it was still in their hands at the time. But, and this is the key, the accident did not occur until the evening, so they must have had a full day to try and sell it to one of the local dealers, which is what I imagine those two small time crooks would have tried to do. So, and this is my best guess, Milly, someone else is now aware that I had the cross and for some unknown reason wants to get to me. End of story.”

  Abelard had been standing at the windows, staring out over the city, his back to Milly. He had avoided looking at him as he concluded his creative storytelling. He heard him approach, but did not turn to face him. He needed for Milly to believe that this was a difficult moment, not a time for tough questions.

  “I do greatly appreciate your candor. But, I’m puzzled, why didn’t you come to me right away?”

  “I had thought about that, but I had this illegal thing hanging over me. I was hoping it would all blow over and let me get on with my life. But no, Sanschagrin has to be nosing around and now you’ve become involved. I’m really very sorry about that. It would probably be best if I just resigned so that you and VBI don’t get dragged any further into my stupid mistake.”

  “Nonsense! I won’t hear of that. Don’t fret, my boy, I’m not in the least fussed over you taking that little cross. I’ve done worse. Let me take care of Sanschagrin and be sure, if the need arises, and I’m sure it won’t, you will have access to the best legal help available.” He said all this while steering him out the door.

  Milly waited a few moments, to be sure that Abelard was indeed gone. He then asked his secretary to find Shakespeare. It wasn’t long before the security chief was standing before Milly’s desk. No one had noticed that Abelard did not actually leave the floor, but was in the washroom, the door slightly ajar, waiting to see if, as he suspected, Shakespeare would show up.

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