The Missing Masterpiece

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘This is my treat, remember? You need to collect your luggage and find a taxi. I’ll take care of the bill here. It was lovely to see you, and I hope you have a terrific time at the Mont.’

  Seeing her again had made me miss Alan all the more. The three of us had shared good times together, and now I was leaving her behind, and no telling when I’d see her again, or, for that matter, Alan. However, I summoned up all the intrepid spirit I possessed and got myself and my luggage onto a train that was, I certainly hoped, heading in the right direction. Alan would have known for sure, and would have handled all the hassles. Ah, well. He’d surely be with me in a few days, so I’d just have to soldier on in the meantime. What, after all, could go wrong?

  That’s a thought one should never think while travelling. I had been told to get off the train at Pontorson, the station nearest to the Mont. That was easy. The train was modern, and equipped with lighted signs that showed the next stop. It also spoke them aloud, though without the words in front of me I might not have recognized some of the stops. However, I duly got out at Pontorson and looked confidently around for a taxi to take me to my hotel.

  There were no taxis. Furthermore, there was no one I could ask. The station was in the middle of a badly-needed renovation, and was closed, with no personnel on duty. There was a little trailer-office off to one side, but it was closed. The posted office hours ended at ‘17.00’, 5:00 to my American mind. It was now 6:15.

  Now what?

  I panicked for a moment. Stranded in a strange town, in a country where I spoke very little of the language … and night was coming on … and there might be lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

  That bit of silliness brought me to my senses. France had been a civilized country long, long before some of said wildlife ceased roaming my native land. There might be the odd mugger, but somehow I doubted it. This didn’t feel like that sort of place. I could phone Alan, but what could he do from so far away? Well, it really wasn’t that far as the crow flies, only about a hundred miles, but psychologically it felt like from here to the moon.

  I straightened my hat (a sensible one for travel), assembled my luggage, attached everything I could to the handle of my rolling bag, picked up the rest, and staggered across the station yard. There were lights across the street, and some of them came from a hotel!

  The woman at the front desk was very pleasant, and spoke good English. I explained my predicament. I was booked in to a hotel very near the Mont, but there were no taxis, and I didn’t know what to do.

  ‘But it is not a problem, madame! There is a bus, but it is not easy with your luggage, and you are tired, yes?’

  I admitted that I was tired. I would not admit that I was also depressed and near tears.

  ‘We have a room for you for tonight if you wish, madame. And we can phone your other hotel and explain. Do you wish to keep your booking there for the rest of your time here?’

  ‘I suppose I’d better, because I’m expecting my husband to join me there in a few days. I’m sorry to give you all that work for just one night …’

  ‘Ça ne fait rien, madame. It does not matter. If you will show me your passport, s’il vous plait … ah, but you are English?’

  Even the French think I’m American, I thought with a sigh as I handed over the English passport. ‘American-born, but I’ve lived in England a long time.’

  ‘Ah, oui. Now, if you will please sign here … merci. Here is your key, and I will get someone to help you with your luggage. Non, non, non, non, non, it is no trouble.’

  The porter was obliging. The room was small, but clean and comfortable. I sank down on the bed, pulled out my phone, and called Alan.

  I didn’t mean to let my voice wobble, but Alan knows me very well. ‘Buck up, old girl. You’re not lost in the wilds of a jungle somewhere. I’ve heard good things about the hotels in Pontorson.’

  ‘This one seems very nice. It was just—’

  ‘I know. You don’t like the feeling that events have slipped out of your control.’

  ‘Well, good grief, nobody does!’

  ‘Au contraire, my love. There are lots of helpless types who would have just stood there at the railway station and looked forlorn until someone came to rescue them. You took the initiative.’

  ‘Well, I certainly wished you were there to help me take it!’

  ‘And I wish I had been. Soon, the doctor says. I’m to see him tomorrow, and if he gives me a clean bill, I can join you on Monday.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the best news I’ve had since I got here! But what about the walking and climbing and all that on the Mont? No, I know, a bridge to be crossed, et cetera.’

  ‘Right.’

  I hung up feeling much less tired than five minutes before.

  The next morning I woke early, having had a fine dinner the night before at a restaurant recommended by the friendly concierge at my hotel. Yes, I knew he probably got a cut. I didn’t care. He was kind, and I had dined well. The porter helped me get my luggage back across the street and into the bus, and I headed for Mont-Saint-Michel feeling pleased with the world. I was coping very well, with a little help from my new friends. I looked out the window at a not-very-inspiring view – fields and meadows – and then the bus rounded a corner, and I wasn’t the only passenger who gasped.

  It was one of those experiences I call ‘Grand Canyon’ moments: oh, yes, of course I’ve seen pictures, but I didn’t know it was like that!

  It had been over fifty years since I’d caught a glimpse of the Mont, and that was from quite a distance, so this was my first real experience, and it blew me away.

  There’s no way to describe it adequately. You’ve seen pictures, or you haven’t, and anyway, no pictures can match the reality. An island that is an almost perfect pyramid rises out of the sea – or the sand, when the tide is out – rises to a peak that is, astonishingly, crowned with a tall, slender spire. Sounds interesting and a bit odd. The word ‘magnificent’ doesn’t occur to you until a second or third glance. ‘Miraculous’ comes only when you see the real thing, looming before you, huge, impossible, ethereal.

  Nobody on the bus said much until the road took another turn and the vision was lost to us. I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding, and the woman sitting next to me shook her head as if to clear it and said, in an American accent, ‘Was that real?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not hot enough for it to be a mirage. Maybe a mass hallucination?’

  The next glimpse wasn’t quite so startling, and by the time we were dropped off in the middle of the group of hotels and restaurants and shops that had sprung up to serve tourists, we had grown, not blasé, no, but almost comfortable with the phenomenon that is Mont-Saint-Michel. In an odd sort of way we had taken up ownership. The world was now divided for us into two groups of people: those who had seen the Mont, and those who hadn’t. We were a trifle smug about belonging to the A group.

  One of the passengers, a nice man whose language I couldn’t follow – Italian, maybe? – helped me get my luggage to my hotel, and I checked in. It was a slack time in the tourist season, so for a miracle I could go to my room at ten in the morning. I didn’t like the hotel quite as well as the one in Pontorson, but it was perfectly adequate, and the room was pleasant enough. It had no particular view, just a bit of meadow and another hotel. That was all right with me. I had the feeling that looking at the Mont too much might dull my sense of awe.

  When I had unpacked and got myself organized, I went back downstairs to find that a light rain had begun. Not much more than a drizzle, but the sort that can get a person awfully wet in a very short time. I thought about the long walk once I got to the Mont. The street, I had seen from pictures, was steep and cobbled, and cobbles can be awfully slippery in the rain. Hmm.

  I trudged back upstairs to take off my hat and change into sturdy walking boots and my hooded raincoat. I could shop a little right here to kill some time and see if the rain didn’t let up.

  The s
hops were about what you’d expect at one of Europe’s premier tourist destinations. There were souvenirs, some tacky, some very nice, all vastly overpriced. There was a selection of cheeses and biscuits and the like, again very expensive. The racks full of rain gear led me to understand that inclement weather was not unknown here, and most of the stuff was of good quality and reasonably priced, but my raincoat was almost new and I didn’t want to try to carry an umbrella. For one thing, they restrict one’s vision and poke other people when there’s a crowd. And no matter what the weather or the season, I expected a crowd on the Mont.

  I couldn’t find a thing I needed, and I was getting antsy. I wanted to see that island, wanted to get there, wanted to understand how – and why – anyone built a huge church in such an unlikely place. I grabbed a quick sandwich in one of the little cafés and went out in the rain to wait for the shuttle to the Mont.

  The only private vehicles allowed on the causeway out to the island are delivery vans and the like. Everyone else takes the shuttles. They’re free and run frequently, almost non-stop in high season, I’m told. This one wasn’t full, so I could sit, though I slid around some on the wet plastic seat. It was a short drive, and the driver told us (in several languages) to wait to get out until our tram got to the head of the line. He also told us that we must be back to catch the return shuttle in no less than three hours. Something about the tide. I didn’t pay a lot of attention. Here I was, finally, about to set foot on the legendary Mont-Saint-Michel.

  This isn’t going to be a travelogue. Every writer who’s ever visited the Mont has waxed eloquent about it, and truly, it’s hard not to. From the moment I set foot inside the walls (and I had not even known it was a walled city), I knew why people from the four corners of the globe had made this a place of pilgrimage for centuries.

  Yes, it’s crowded. Even on a drizzly day before high tourist season began, I was hard put to walk without banging into someone. Yes, it’s touristy and ridiculously expensive. I took one look at the menu outside Mère Poulard’s establishment, famous for omelettes, and shuddered at the idea of paying thirty-five euros for an omelette, famous or not. The shops that lined the streets sold all sorts of interesting wares, but I balked at the prices.

  Nevertheless. I found it possible, as I climbed the narrow street that spirals up toward the Abbey, to ignore the tourists and the merchants and even the rain. This was a place of true antiquity. Here the twelfth century was somehow still alive and flourishing.

  So, however, was the twenty-first. A child with bright red hair, in a raging tantrum to match, pushed a stroller with a younger child in it over my foot. There was no real damage done; my walking boots are sturdy. But I was annoyed, the more so because the younger child was also screaming, and the mother who should have been looking after the little monsters was engaged in an argument with her companion, none the less furious for being conducted in an undertone.

  ‘… dragged me all the way out here in the pouring rain, and then you’re too cheap to buy a ticket to the church.’

  ‘If I wanted to go to church, which I don’t, it wouldn’t be one where I had to pay admission! They would have thrown us out anyway, since you had to bring along those screaming kids of yours. Shut up, you two!’

  The last was delivered in a roar that had no effect whatever on the children.

  ‘You talk about them screaming!’ Her face, which ought to have been attractive, was mottled with rage. Her bright blond hair hung down in dripping tails, making her look almost witch-like.

  ‘If you can’t control them, you shouldn’t have brought them.’

  ‘And just what was I supposed to do with them, leave them back home with their father? I never wanted to come here anyway …’

  ‘Then why did you? Why don’t you go home, if you hate it so much!’

  ‘I might just do that! Not only have you upset the children, I’ve ruined my shoes climbing those damn stairs! I’m going back to the hotel!’

  She caught the older child by his hand and dragged him out of the shop, leaving the man (second husband, maybe?) to cope with the baby, who by now was red-faced and wriggling frantically, trying to get out of the stroller.

  I hadn’t really intended to climb all the way to the Abbey. The wet cobbles made for treacherous walking, and anyway, I’d decided to wait until Alan could join me. Sightseeing isn’t only more fun with a companion, it’s also more interesting, because your companion can point out things you might have missed, and vice-versa. But I remembered sorrowfully that Alan might not be able to go all the way up to the top on a still-fragile ankle. And after that little scene in the shop, I badly wanted some tranquillity. I found an opening in the crowd, stepped back out on the street, and soldiered on.

  Once I left the confines of the busiest tourist area, the going was easier. Apparently not many people wanted to see the Abbey badly enough to negotiate the slippery footing. I found myself at the end of the street, with no place to go except up into the Abbey precincts, or back the way I had come. I’d got this far. I’d go up.

  Steps. More steps. I stopped counting at 200, and that was before I made it into the Abbey itself. I wasn’t moving fast, but I had to stop frequently to catch my breath. I really was going to have to get serious about losing weight.

  Right. In France, home of haute cuisine.

  The Abbey wasn’t crowded. I bought my ticket and a guide book in English. I didn’t need the rack full of the books in languages from Arabic to Welsh (including a good many I didn’t even recognize) to know that people from all over the world visited here. Even on a slow day I could spot Asians of several different ethnicities, Indians, and Africans, along with Europeans of every stripe and the ubiquitous Americans.

  The personally-guided tours, as opposed to the audio ones, were meant for organized groups only, but the one that was just getting started seemed quite disorganized. The young guide who was leading it was trying, without too much success, to get them to calm down and listen to him. They were speaking English, but they were all babbling at once, and I had a hard time catching remarks. I hung around, since eavesdropping is one of my favourite amusements. Besides, I had some hope that I might, in all the confusion, be able to attach myself inconspicuously to their party.

  ‘You are certain, madam, that he was with you when you entered the Abbey precincts?’

  ‘He was certainly on the tram from the village,’ said the buxom, commanding woman. Head of the WI in her community, I speculated. ‘I sat next to him. He was most eager to see the Abbey.’

  ‘Perhaps he stopped in one of the shops on the way up—’

  A chorus of voices vigorously discounted that suggestion. ‘I have never,’ said the self-appointed spokeswoman, ‘known a man to let shopping deter him from a goal. Bruce was interested only in the Abbey. Far from stopping along the way, he forged ahead of the rest of us and said he would wait for us here. I did try to make him understand we should stay together.’ Her tone clearly indicated that the mishap was in no way her fault.

  ‘The fact remains, madam, that he is not here, and we can wait no longer. When he does make his appearance, I fear he will have lost his place in the tour, unless it’s within the next few moments.’

  ‘I wash my hands of him,’ said the woman in severe tones. No, not the WI, I decided, or not exclusively. Schoolmistress, and a rigid disciplinarian.

  They started off. I trailed in their wake. I had my audio gizmo, in case I was questioned, or couldn’t hear what the guide was saying, but I much preferred a live human voice to a recorded one. You can’t ask questions of a piece of plastic. Of course I couldn’t question the young man, either, since I didn’t belong with the group, but I could listen to the questions of the others, and I might be able to corner the guide later.

  I’ve never been in any place quite like l’Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel. Frankly, I doubt there is another place quite like it. It was built over a period of many centuries, and bits of the very oldest structures still remain. Because
it stands on a steep hill, its floor plan is irregular and lies on many different levels. Up more stairs. Down again. Up again. It was all fascinating, and worth the effort, but I’m not a young woman. We did get a chance, here and there, to sit for a moment and admire whatever was in front of us – the pillars of the Salle des Chevaliers, the austere beauty of the refectory, the gorgeous flamboyant pinnacles – well, we had to stand outside to see those.

  I made it through the tour, though, and managed to avoid undue notice, or at any rate the guide ignored my unauthorized presence. I felt, in fact, rather proud of myself. I had blended in, and negotiated a million or so stairs. It’s all that walking, I thought smugly. I may be overweight, but I’m pretty fit for an old bat. Walking four miles a day – well, most days – well, whenever I have the time – anyway, I’m in good shape!

  Pride, they say, goeth before a fall. It was when we were leaving, going down some of those interminable interior stairways that we had climbed, that I had my downfall. Literally. My boots were wet from the little excursion outside to see the pinnacles. The stone stairs were worn in the middle by the passage of thousands of feet over the centuries. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but somehow I slipped, grabbed for the railing and missed, and went bumping down seven or eight steps to land on the hardest floor I’ve ever encountered.

  FOUR

  Everyone was very nice. They checked me over for serious injuries before they would let me try to get up, and then three of the men in the group more or less lifted me off the floor and deposited me in a chair. The leader, whom I had mentally christened Margaret after a notable English prime minister, was somewhat sniffy about my tagging along with them, but she was distracted by thinking about how she was going to reprimand the missing group member when he was found. She also clucked about any delay that my accident might cause; some of the members were inclined to want to stay and help.

  Peter, the guide, who spoke with an impeccable English accent, calmly took over. ‘It is very kind of you, ladies and gentlemen, but we have rules about dealing with such incidents. In such an ancient structure, of course visitors have difficulties from time to time. It will take you some little time to get back to your bus, which is undoubtedly waiting for you. We will deal with this lady. Thank you for visiting l’Abbaye du Mont-Saint-Michel; I hope you enjoyed your tour. Thank you, no—’ to the man about to give him a tip – ‘but if you wish to make a donation to the Abbey it would be most welcome. There is a box near the exit.’