Perhaps the package itself is leaking malevolence.
This would mean that it contains photographs of the horrendous aftermath of beatings and torture. Such photographs are always profoundly disturbing, but they are also valuable evidence, each image being one small goal scored, one cog in the wheel of turning global attention to a dark corner, one inch towards generating action. Each photograph smuggled across a border is a moment of triumph. Perhaps this entire trip was planned by a mole in the entourage of the African dictator or the Chinese defector and this was their carefully planned method of getting the evidence to her. If so, she has been spared both further travel and danger.
And yet the note under her hotel door and the method of delivery of the envelope suggest menace and the crux of her anxiety is suddenly apparent to her. She is terrified that the desecrated faces and bodies will be those of people she knows, other field workers who gather what evidence they can from the killing fields. The point will be threat and one of the primary survival rules of field workers is to shield themselves from paralysing fear.
Then again, the packet may merely contain something that will restrict Cap’s ability to cross borders or will discredit any evidence she collects. Perhaps it will contain some sort of trumped-up blackmail. Cap cannot think of anything that could be used for blackmail but that means nothing. She knows of other field workers whose usefulness has been snuffed out that way.
A haze of dread envelops Cap’s table like a comic-book cloud, but she takes a deep breath and opens the envelope. She extracts a sheaf of stiff papers, all standard letter size, all heavy stock of the kind used to photocopy old Kodak prints. The top sheet induces a shock of violation so intense that Cap folds herself forward over the image until her forehead comes to rest on the table. She forces herself to count to ten, then to twenty, to inhale slowly, to exhale, before she looks at the image again. It is a photocopy of what is clearly a very old box-camera shot in sepia tones, but certain details on the original photograph have been hand-tinted. The image is of a child, an androgynous child with long pale curls, wearing a shift that has been painted pale blue. The vertical punctuation point of the blue shift is the only splash of colour in a field of beige and dark shadow. The original photograph was clearly taken in a studio in front of a sepia-painted backdrop of the Château de Boissy. Cap stares at the small sad frightened face of Ti-Loup and instinctively strokes his cheek with her index finger.
‘Are you okay?’ the waiter asks.
‘What?’
‘Should I bring that martini?’
Cap frowns slightly, trying to translate.
‘Is that you?’ the waiter asks. ‘You as a child?’
‘Oh … no. It’s, uh, he was a childhood friend.’
‘That’s a boy?’
‘A boy, yes. He was shipped to Vietnam in ’69 and never came back.’
‘Oh shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Just checking that you’re okay.’
‘Kind of you. Thanks. I’m fine.’
Cap moves the image of the little boy in the blue dress to the back of the sheaf and uncovers a photocopy of another black-and-white photograph. She is stunned. The photograph shows the forequarter of a steer punctured by a huge steel hook that is suspended from a ceiling track. Light from a high window falls on the hook, making it flash like a sun. There are two figures in the photograph, in profile and mostly in shadow, but the flash of light from the steel hook illuminates their faces. One face is that of Petit Christophe, the other the face of Ti-Loup, who holds a boning knife in his right hand. Petit Christophe is demonstrating with his index finger the line that the boning knife should follow.
Cap is stunned. Who could possibly have taken this photograph? Who had preserved it? Who had photocopied it? And how could it possibly have reached Cap in a manila envelope in Central Park?
She feels dizzy. She feels caught in a wind tunnel of time, and grasps the bistro table with both hands to keep herself anchored to the present. The last thing she feels is the imprint of the aluminium mesh of the table against her cheek.
There are voices.
‘We should call 911.’
‘No,’ another voice says. ‘She’s just drunk. Throw some iced water on her face.’
‘That would ruin the photographs.’
‘I don’t think photographs are top priority at the moment.’
‘This has something to do with the photographs. I could tell she was expecting bad news.’
Cap pushes herself upright in her chair. ‘I’m fine,’ she says groggily. ‘Too much to drink and bad news. Sorry about this.’ She shuffles the sheets into a neat pile and stuffs them back into the envelope. She stands and sways. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Truly. Terribly sorry to have caused a fuss.’
‘You’re not in great shape,’ the waiter says. ‘Can I call you a cab?’
‘No. Thanks. A walk in the cold air is what I need.’
She manages, though she seems to have boots of lead on her feet. People are watching and this makes it possible to concentrate on lifting one heavy foot after the other and placing it on the ground without falling. Manila envelope clutched to her chest, she leaves the outdoor bar and heads back into the Ramble. In the late fall afternoon, the light is fading. She knows it is not wise to stay long, but there is something about the bench at the lakeshore, something about the rocks and the ducks, something that promises sanctuary.
There will always be safe houses. There will always be tiny islands of repose.
They will never be permanently safe.
She takes the sheets from the envelope again and looks at the third sheet. It is also a photocopy of a black-and-white snapshot and shows two children in white smocks with white lace collars in front of an altar. A crucifix rises behind and between them like a sword with a jewelled hilt. It is a photograph of a First Communion. The children, a boy and a girl, Ti-Loup and Cap, are holding hands. Cap brushes her eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. She herself has a wallet-size version of this very photograph in her purse but she is certain that the only other place in America where a copy might possibly exist would be in a secret drawer in an antique desk in the private possession of the deceased countess of the Château de Boissy. That desk had been shipped to Fifth Avenue in 1968 when the countess had moved back to New York. That desk had probably been sold off. Someone must have found the secret drawers.
Of course, Ti-Loup once kept a wallet-size copy with him at all times, but who knew where that copy might be now? Perhaps floating in a rice paddy in South Vietnam? Dissolved in the South China Sea?
Cap is not equal to seeing anything more at the moment. She folds the envelope over without creasing it and shoves it into her capacious shoulder bag. She leaves the Ramble, crosses the East Drive and follows a trail to Conservatory Water, where she sits on a bench to watch the miniature sailboats buzzing across the surface, responding to radio remotes in the hands of grandfathers and children. One of the miniature sailboats is a replica of the Santa Maria. It zips towards Cap and then pauses, facing her, vibrating like a hummingbird, before swooping away in a graceful arc.
Could Columbus possibly have imagined such a future for the ship in which he reached the New World?
10.
Father John Gabriel is a young English Jesuit, delicate as a Da Vinci drawing, who is fluent in French. He arrives at the chateau in 1953 and is given his own suite of three rooms by the countess. She summons him to the great salon for orientation.
‘This is my son, le vicomte,’ she explains.
‘What a beautiful child!’ The fervent gaze of Father John Gabriel disconcerts the countess and silences her for several seconds. Her son’s hand is held firmly in her own. She pauses in the act of extending her son’s hand towards that of the priest so that the locked hands of mother and son hover uncertainly like mating doves, fluttering slightly, moving neither forward nor back. Then the hands lower themselves, curving back into the silken nesting place of the countess’s voluminou
s skirt.
‘You will be his private tutor for six hours every day,’ the countess instructs. ‘One of your rooms is intended to be the classroom, which I have had well supplied with books and maps. I have also arranged that any book you desire to add to the collection, any book which will be of profit to my son’s education, will be swiftly supplied. My son must learn Greek and Latin, English language and literature – because his father is English-speaking – French history – in particular the accounts of how French support made the American Revolution possible, because his father, you see, is American, but I find that Americans are shockingly ill-informed on their debt to France – French literature, French art and architecture. And of course Aquinas and Catholic theology. You come well recommended.’
‘If I might inquire, Madame la Comtesse,’ Father John Gabriel says, ‘will there be boys from other great estates in the Loire Valley in the classroom?’
‘Definitely not,’ the countess responds. ‘My son will be your sole responsibility and preoccupation.’
‘If I may be so bold,’ Father John Gabriel says, ‘it is my experience that my students learn so much more and so much more quickly if there is at least one other student – and preferably more than one – in the class. I would not describe this as simple or crude competitiveness. Rather, I’ve become aware that a dynamic force operates in the give and take of different opinions and calls forth the best in each student. If you wish your son to excel – and clearly that is your intention, Madame la Comtesse – if you wish to sharpen his mind to the highest degree, then may I recommend that you add at least one more student to my class?’
‘Indeed?’ the countess says icily. ‘I will consider your recommendation. You may retire to your rooms.’
‘Father John Gabriel,’ the countess says, ‘I have given your suggestion considerable thought and I acknowledge the strength of your argument and your experience. You will have two students.’
‘That is most welcome news, Madame la Comtesse.’
‘Your second student will be the daughter of my gardener. Her name is Melusine and I consider myself responsible for her education. She is slightly older than my son.’
‘A girl, Madame?’ Father John Gabriel is taken aback and noticeably less than pleased. ‘I am not sure, Madame la Comtesse … I have no experience with teaching female students.’
‘Melusine!’ the countess calls. ‘Mon fils, le vicomte! You may come to the salon now.’
‘I am not sure, Madame la Comtesse,’ Father John Gabriel says, ‘that a female student will have the desired effect of which I spoke. Indeed, it is possible that, ah, an undesirable, an unforeseen element –’
‘It is my personal intuition,’ the countess explains as the children enter the salon, ‘that Melusine is as intelligent as my son and has a more – how shall I put it? – a more animated, a more audacious personality. I think she has a beneficial effect on my son, who is inclined to timidity. They are both eight years old.’
‘Madame la Comtesse,’ Cap says, ‘I think I am nine.’
The countess frowns momentarily, then smiles, then rests her fingers gently on Capucine’s lips. ‘As you see, Father John Gabriel, Melusine has an independent mind. She will be a challenge to which I am sure you will be equal. And the children, as you see, are inseparable. I expect you to prepare both for le bac and for eventual admission to the Sorbonne.’
Father John Gabriel bows. ‘I hope I will not disappoint you, Madame la Comtesse.’
‘What is the Sorbonne?’ Cap wants to know.
‘We have a long way to go, Madame la Comtesse,’ Father John Gabriel says, ‘before we get to the starting point.’
‘We should begin, I think,’ Father John Gabriel says in the classroom, ‘with a pivotal moment in the history of French– English relations; that is, with the meeting of the English and French kings – Henry VIII and François I – at the Field of the Cloth of Gold in June 1520, particularly since, Monsieur le Vicomte, this took place in the grounds of the Château of the Ducs des Guînes, your ancestral residence as I understand.’
‘So Maman claims,’ Ti-Loup says. ‘I don’t know if it’s true and I’ve never been there, but I know it’s near Calais.’
‘Yes. Excellent.’
‘Maman says I am a descendant. My father says it is one of Maman’s fantasies. Maman has a woodcut of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.’
‘I hope we will visit the site of that historic 1520 encounter and the even more hallowed site of a much earlier engagement, the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, a glorious victory,’ Father John Gabriel says.
‘Whose glorious victory?’ Ti-Loup asks.
‘Ah.’ There is a careful and diplomatic pause. ‘A glorious victory for Shakespeare,’ the Jesuit says. ‘No battle in history has a more lasting or triumphant monument than the king’s speech in Henry V. I hope la comtesse will allow field trips to these iconic places.’
Cap and Ti-Loup exchange a quick look, shining-eyed. ‘Now let us study this painting in detail.’ Father John Gabriel displays a book with a wingspan that covers his desk. There are coloured plates that stretch across the ravine between the two pages. ‘This, I regret to say, is not a reprint of the original painting, but it gives us a very detailed contemporary view. This is a copy of a copy, a coloured print, done by James Basire in 1774 and housed in France. The original painting was done either by an eyewitness or by a painter who had access to the many eyewitness accounts. The original is held in the Royal Collection of George III of England, which is now on display at Hampton Court Palace. If I am permitted to take you on a field trip to London, we can view that painting. In the meantime, study this print closely and tell me what you can see.’
‘A lake,’ Cap says, pointing to the upper left corner of the painting.
‘Ocean?’ suggests Petit Loup.
‘Correct,’ Father John Gabriel says. ‘Monsieur le Vicomte, you should not be so tentative. I am confident your intelligence and your knowledge are superior.’
Out of sight of Father John Gabriel’s eyes, Cap pokes out her tongue, sticks her thumbs into her ears and waggles her fingers. She mouths the words Monsieur le Supérieur, ooh la la! Petit Loup folds his hands together in mock prayer, prostrates himself over his desk in satiric obeisance to Cap, and slowly raises one finger in a gesture discreetly obscene.
‘That’s the English Channel, in fact,’ explains Father John Gabriel. ‘Remember, we are just outside Calais. Can you see Henry VIII?’
The children, a semaphore of raised eyebrows flashing between them – Is this fussy dinosaur for real? – examine the painting.
‘I will give you a hint,’ says Father John Gabriel. ‘He is not wearing a crown. He is riding a white horse and his cloak is richly embroidered in gold. The horse’s bridle and saddle cloth are also gold.’
‘Here he is!’ Suddenly interested, both children identify the royal figure.
‘He’s fat,’ Cap says.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle. I note that your mode of perception veers more towards the material than the metaphorical or the metaphysical. But yes, Henry VIII was already, shall we say, substantial in figure in 1520 and he became considerably more substantial. Late in life, no horse could be found to support the king and his armour. There was a winch to lift him in full battle dress onto his mount, but no winch could prevent that mount from collapsing. You understand that at the time of the Field of the Cloth of Gold the king was still the Defender of the Faith and not the traitor to the Pope and to Holy Mother Church that he later became.’
‘When did he become a traitor to Holy Mother Church?’ Petit Loup asks.
‘In 1535.’
‘Why?’ Cap wants to know.
‘Because of his lust for the witch Anne Boleyn,’ the priest replies. ‘And because of his lust for the riches of Holy Mother Church. His empty treasury was the most direct cause of the Sack of the Monasteries in England. There is a lesson to be learned here for those who have ears to hear. The king had already def
ied the pope by his marriage to Boleyn in 1533, but the formal schism with Rome did not take place until two years later. Curiously enough, both the mother and the sister of Anne Boleyn were present at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, but the future queen herself was not there. At the time, both her mother and her sister were mistresses of the king.’
Capucine’s eyes widen with fascination and with the frisson of what seems like deliciously forbidden information. ‘Should you be telling us this?’ she asks.
‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Melusine?’
‘Does my mother know?’ asks Petit Loup.
‘Does she know about the debaucheries of Henry VIII?’
The children regard him with silent awe, uncertain of how to respond.
‘Of course she knows. Everyone knows about his six wives and his countless mistresses and every Catholic knows what harm he did to the church. Madame la Comtesse has entrusted me with giving you a thorough education and I take that task very seriously. This is French history. It is also English history. It is also the history of the church and of faith itself. So, what else do you notice in the painting? Can you see the royal tents and pavilions made of gold?’
Yes. Oh, yes. These are easily identified. Here, and here, and here.
‘They were woven of silk and gold thread,’ the Jesuit explains. ‘Fabulous sums of money were spent on this diplomatic meeting. The nobles were taxed, the church was taxed, the poor were taxed to pay for this political extravaganza. You might even say that the seeds of the beheading of Charles I of England as well as of the French Revolution were sown here by these two profligate kings.
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