He couldn’t quite believe it. Saboteur, terrorist, attacker of railway workers, shoe thief: it was a lot for one man of the cloth.
New York
They headed for the big city, with Zefiro limping and Vango climbing along low walls. There was plenty to catch up on, and a lot to say to each other. They looked like two wandering pilgrims as they raised the dust on the road, eating the first fruits from gardens along the way and resting in trees.
Time sped by. The houses became packed more tightly together. The buildings grew taller as they sprouted more stories. The patches of green were harder to find. The factories gave off a throbbing noise. The cars forced the pedestrians to walk in ditches. In the distance was a blue line of skyscrapers.
Vango confided freely in the padre. He explained why he had come to America: to find the man who had murdered his parents, back there, in his islands. Giovanni Cafarello. The same man who had stolen more than his share of the mysterious treasure by killing one of his fellow pirates: Bartolomeo Viaggi.
It was the first time Zefiro had heard this tale of pirates, murder, and treasure. The kind of story one tells children. He made Vango repeat the criminal’s name: Cafarello. When Vango said it, a steel blade seemed to appear on his tongue.
“I’ll find him,” Vango declared, “and he’ll tell me everything.”
Zefiro understood his friend. Vango wasn’t after gold or precious stones, or even the sweet taste of revenge. The only jewel he really wanted was the one that Giovanni Cafarello possessed: the secret of the boat, of the man and the woman he had sent down to the bottom of the sea. Cafarello would know who Vango’s parents were, and from what star this child had fallen before being washed up on the black pebbles of Sicily.
Deep down, this was the only treasure that Vango was after: the secret of his life.
They stopped, from time to time, to shake the cherry trees. They filled their pockets while Vango told Zefiro about his last visit to the invisible monastery, about how disoriented the monks had been, and of their fear of losing their abbot forever.
“Brother Marco doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to replace you.”
Zefiro seemed to be listening absentmindedly, but in fact he was constantly praying not to collapse. The invisible monastery was his life’s work, and he had fought hard for it. Yet now here he was: a bandit, an irresponsible father, a warrior.
Sometimes he would duck behind a hedge, as if looking for wild berries, but once out of Vango’s sight he would double up in pain and grief. He had abandoned his flock. Then he would start repeating the simplest words over and over again, prayers from his childhood, until he was able to appear again farther up the road, his face betraying nothing.
Later on, along the way, Vango described what it was like being an outlaw.
They never left him alone. Never. Night and day, they were there, everywhere.
“Will they stop one day, Padre?”
They had even tried to trample on his memories, by attacking the house where he had grown up, his island, descending on it like a squally wind and carrying off his nurse, sweet Mademoiselle. Where was she now? Where were her hands working their magic with flames and wooden spoons? Vango had never stopped asking this question, despite being on the run, despite all the people after him in London. Yes, even in the streets of London, he told Zefiro, even in the forests of the Highlands, he could hear the dogs behind him.
“Dogs, that’s right; I swear I heard them barking.”
“Be careful,” Zefiro warned him. “Your fear is preventing you from thinking straight.”
Vango came to an abrupt halt.
“You think you’re being followed —” Zefiro went on.
“What?” demanded Vango, grabbing hold of the padre’s coat and shaking the black fabric in his fist. “You as well? Are you calling me mad?”
They were by a brick wall, set back from the road. Vango’s eyes blazed as Zefiro deftly caught him by the jaw and pinned him against a telegraph pole. Then the padre raised him slowly off the ground so that Vango was on tiptoes, about to lose his footing, and in danger of being hanged.
“Calm down, little one,” whispered Zefiro, suddenly letting go of his prey.
Vango collapsed on the pavement. Zefiro rubbed his shoulder a little, as if bitten by a midge.
“I said that your fear was preventing you from thinking straight. Now, are you going to listen to me?”
Vango sniffed and agreed to do as he was told.
Stroking his mustache, Zefiro took a step backward.
“Who says they’re the same people following you around our islands, in London, and in the forests of Scotland? I’ve already explained to you that Voloy Viktor’s men are now among those hunting you down. And the French police are after you as well. You’re convinced that there’s some dark force, one single enemy: in which case, why not head like a lemming for the cliff edge? But, if you stop and think about it, you might be able to do something.”
Zefiro bent down and held out his hand to help Vango get up again. The young man allowed himself to be hauled up.
“Anyway, what about her? Why don’t you tell me about her instead?”
Vango was startled.
Her?
He froze. He had never even mentioned her name. How did Zefiro know about her? He felt as if his secret were spreading all around him. He held his breath so as not to let it out.
“We’re nearly there,” said Zefiro.
He smiled to himself and let Vango catch up with him on the road.
He had asked the question on the off chance, without being sure. But his curiosity rarely let him down. There was always something to reel in when he cast out this particular hook. What about her? Even the most virtuous of his monks turned pale at the question. And Zefiro always felt moved by eyes suddenly turning misty, like marsh water, as a result of the line he had cast.
Her. For each of them, and even for Zefiro, those three letters represented someone specific, occasionally very far away, a dream, a shadow, or a regret.
Apart from the rustle of their clothes, the two men were silent until they reached the city center.
That same evening, two tramps set up camp above Manhattan, in the scaffolding of a tower. The low-lying clouds sometimes descended to their level. A grid of planks surrounded the unfinished skyscraper. Construction had been abandoned following an accident involving one of the workers. Zefiro took advantage of the building lying empty.
It was here that they made their nest, three hundred meters above Fifth Avenue. It began to rain. Vango lit a fire in a cast-iron tank from the work site, but Zefiro remained outside in the wet May air, standing on the end of a girder, watching the city.
“There he is,” he declared.
“Where?”
Zefiro pointed to the top of another tower opposite. The Empire State Building was gleaming beneath the floodlights, but most of its windows remained dark. Just one row of picture windows was lit up.
“He lives there.”
Vango drew closer.
“Two months ago,” Zefiro went on, “I was confident that it was a done deed. I arrived up there, convinced I’d thought of everything. Voloy Viktor was in his suite on the top floor, but then something happened.”
“What?”
“I saw someone. . . .”
Vango was waiting.
“I saw someone, and after that I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.”
“Who was it?”
“You don’t know him. The elevator stopped a floor too soon, on the eighty-fourth floor. The door opened. I was armed to the teeth. A man was standing there, waiting. When I saw him, I realized I wouldn’t get Viktor that day.”
“Tell me his name.”
Zefiro wavered.
“He works with Superintendent Boulard, in Paris. . . . His name is Augustin Avignon. I realized that he too was going to visit Voloy Viktor, or that he’d just come from visiting him.”
Vango recognized the name. Ethe
l had mentioned Avignon.
Zefiro gathered his thoughts for a few minutes before continuing.
“The elevator door closed between us. Avignon stayed there, petrified, on the landing. He recognized me; I’m sure of that. I blocked the elevator twenty centimeters before reaching Viktor’s floor. He was holding a meeting in the reception room opposite the elevator door. I could hear his voice. But the door never opened. I went back down the eighty-five floors and tidied up my heavy artillery. A kid on the street was acting as my lookout. He hung around in the days that followed. According to him, Voloy Viktor’s protection was increased tenfold the next day.”
“So . . .”
“Avignon must have spoken to Viktor. He’s on their side. The right hand of Superintendent Boulard is a traitor. I’d had a premonition of this for some time.”
“Does Boulard know?”
“Boulard? I couldn’t set off back to Paris. I wrote to him, explaining everything. I can only hope that my message reached him.”
Zefiro was watching the illuminated building. The curtain of rain could be seen in the floodlights.
“If I’d run the risk of dying that evening, Avignon would have carried on causing destruction. Now I know how Viktor managed to escape from us so many times. Avignon was never far away.”
“Did you try anything else?”
“No. Three days later, Voloy Viktor left New York. I’ve been waiting for him to return, until this morning.”
The rain was falling more heavily now.
“I had another plan to catch Viktor. And it might have worked. But it would have been dreadfully expensive. . . .”
Zefiro started laughing. The gulls were back, flying close to the scaffolding.
“I’ve always believed I needed very little to live on, Vango, but this time I’ve got nothing left at all. I couldn’t even go back home if I wanted to.”
The monk took a copper coin out of his pocket, big as a shirt button, and put it on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t got enough to feed the birds.”
He tossed the coin high in front of him. The seagulls swooped down and disappeared into the night with it.
“Come over to the fire, Padre.”
Zefiro turned around sharply, as if waking up. On seeing the void below him, he started. Slowly, he crouched down on the beam and made his way back toward Vango.
“Voloy Viktor. In the end, he’s all I can think about,” said Zefiro. “What will become of me when my enemy is no longer here?”
He glanced down at the street, three hundred meters below them.
“What about you, Vango?”
The young man took the older man by the hand and helped him reach the floor again. Zefiro sighed as he looked at Vango.
“Our anger is propping us both up. What are we going to do afterward?”
Vango didn’t know what to say. It was a fair point: how would life look afterward?
They drew close to the fire. Gigantic iron letters were waiting to be fixed onto the facade. Vango made his bed under the arch of the letter A. Zefiro lay down under two upside down Ls that formed a roof over him.
One day, these letters would spell out a name above the city. Every tower in Manhattan was a monument to the glory of a different man. Some years earlier, an ordinary mechanic from Kansas, by the name of Walter Chrysler, had built a tower that was nearly three hundred meters tall, in order to remind the world that he had reached the pinnacle of success in less than twenty years. A forest of stone and brick was rising up in New York, born out of such legends.
A light wind blew through the wooden scaffolding. Zefiro had been asleep for some time. The embers were reflected in his steel shelter. The fire in the brazier had almost gone out. Night masked the padre’s face.
On hands and knees, someone crept up on the monk. But before the person could lunge forward, something sharp slid across his throat.
“Don’t move,” hissed Zefiro, opening his eyes. Sitting up, he saw that his assailant was none other than Vango.
The padre was still holding the piece of sharpened zinc against his friend’s neck.
“Don’t creep up on me like that in the dark. What do you want?”
“Your plan for Viktor, is it really going to cost all that much?”
“Yes, little one, so go back to sleep.”
“How much?”
“Leave me in peace.”
Vango unclenched one fist.
“Would this be enough?”
In the flat of his hand lay four rubies, as big as chickpeas.
At the same time, across the Atlantic, Everland, Scotland
Day was breaking. There was a spotless golden doe with bewitching eyes in the kitchen. She was lapping milk from a large salad bowl, the white droplets clinging to her eyelashes. She didn’t notice the castle staff coming and going as the morning spectacle was played out.
Andrei was watching her enviously as he sat on a chair in the corner of the kitchen. Mary had made him take off his shoes before quarantining him among the copper pots and pans. He had gone away for six months only to appear again, without warning, at dawn. He knew he wouldn’t receive a warm welcome.
“I want to work again. I want to speak with Master Paul.”
But Ethel’s brother hadn’t been at home for several weeks.
So Mary the housekeeper had made Andrei sit down before giving him a good scolding and taking his jacket from him to wash it.
“I’m going to clean this right away,” she had insisted, “because you certainly won’t be staying. I’ll see later on whether anyone is prepared to talk to you. But even if they are, Andrew, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”
Lily the doe had come to drink close by, and Mary had asked Andrei to keep an eye on her.
“She mustn’t go upstairs. They get up to such nonsense in this house. At Christmas, there was a horse tied to the piano on the second floor.”
Andrei didn’t take his eyes off Lily. He wasn’t simply envious of the milk she sent splashing with each lick of her tongue. He envied her freedom, a good simple life, innocence, and the kindness that surrounded her.
Andrei, on the other hand, could sense the jaws of a trap about to slam shut on him. He was thinking of his family in Moscow, who would pay with their lives for what he was doing: his little brother, his sister, his mother, and Ivan Ivanovitch, his father, who had so badly wanted him to follow in his footsteps and become a mechanic. And he was thinking of the terrible Vlad the Vulture, and how his eyes were like two blades pressing into the back of his neck. Andrei was there to find Vango and hand him over to Vlad.
Mary had disappeared into the depths of the castle. Andrei watched Lily knock over the bowl with her muzzle and finish lapping up the milk from the flagstones. She politely wiped herself clean using her hoof in place of a linen napkin, then raised her head and made for the kitchen door.
“Lily!”
Andrei wasn’t sure if he was allowed to get up.
“Lily, come here!”
Apparently, the deer didn’t understand his Russian accent. She disappeared behind the door.
Andrei ran after her. Together, they crossed two small sitting rooms and a study lined with books. The cool May air wafted in through the open windows. There were triangles of sunlight on the bare wooden floors. The carpets had been draped over the windowsills. Every morning, Everland Castle yawned and stretched from head to toe.
Little Lily was capering around in this kingdom. She was sliding over the oak thresholds, polished to within an inch of their lives. Andrei had fallen behind while putting his shoes back on. He was walking on tiptoes now and calling out to her in hushed tones, constantly turning around for fear of being caught by Mary.
His first assignment on his return to Everland was to guard this deer. And he would do whatever it took.
Andrei slowed down when he saw Lily stop near a pedestal table with a small box on it.
“There you are!” he said. “Come here!”
“Come here, Lily, Lilishka.”
Three meters away from her, he found himself smiling stupidly and holding out his hand. But Lily raised the lid of the box with a nudge of her head and delicately removed three cigars, which she began to chew. Andrei bit his lip. The lid slid shut. Clearly, Lily had her habits. A bowl of milk and three Havana cigars for breakfast. The good life.
Suddenly, she sped off again and came out into the hall.
By the time Andrei arrived, he could see in a flash that the morning constitutional wasn’t over yet. The doe was standing in front of the flight of stairs leading up to the second floor. It was a grand staircase with a thick carpet cascading down it in an irresistible red. With the final cigar poking out from her mouth, Lily gave Andrei a satisfied look before starting to climb the stairs. She seemed to be on familiar terrain, reaching the landing in just a few bounds.
Andrei hesitated before following suit. Wouldn’t he be better off going back into the kitchen to find Mary, asking for her help and sobbing into her skirts? Lily must have sensed this sudden indecision, and put an end to such ideas by grazing on the golden tassels hanging off the curtains, causing Andrei to gasp in horror. He went after her again.
Lily had ventured onto the main landing. She slowed down a little in front of each window, to bask in the warmth of the sun. Her golden fur rippled on her flanks. She raised her head and half-closed her eyes. She looked cozy enough to go to sleep then and there. But each time, a mysterious call made her set off again. At the end of the landing, after sniffing the air one last time, she pushed open a door and disappeared.
Andrei remained behind the half-open door. He knew that this escapade was madness. But in the worst moments of folly, there always comes a point where turning back is more risky than carrying on.
So Andrei carried on.
He pushed open the door without even thinking, and went one step too far.
The scene that met his eyes in the large bedroom could have been depicted in a classical painting. The deer was curled up on the carpet, in a circle of sunlight, at the foot of a blue-silk window seat. And on that window seat were two young people, a girl and a boy, their shoulders touching, staring at the animal whose sudden appearance must have taken them by surprise.
A Prince Without a Kingdom Page 4
