“Magnificent, madame,” laughed Malrand. “You make this Leroi-Gourhan sound like some politicians I know. But even if this ingenious theory is now exploded by the wisdom of the present day, you have established the predominant role of France and French scholarship in this field of prehistoric art. The good Abbe Breuil, the inventive Leroi-Gourhan, and now our new experts such as yourself.” He bowed courteously to Clothilde. The fun and games were over. Time for the President’s business. Lydia noticed, with only a slightly spiteful glow of pleasure, that Malrand had not asked Clothilde to call him Francois. “So, madame, you are persuaded that this tragically vanished example of cave art comes from the hands that gave us Lascaux?” Malrand asked.
“Hands in the generic sense, Monsieur le President. Not a single pair of hands. A group, a culture, a tradition that created Lascaux. Yes, of that I think I am convinced.”
“So, French without question.”
“I would stake my reputation on that, with the smallest caveat that this could just possibly have come from the Altamira culture of Spain. I doubt it most strongly, since the stylistic traditions are markedly different. But I must warn you that Spain would certainly feel entitled to make a claim. We shall have to move quickly to secure this treasure for France.”
“Which is to say that my ownership of the item would seem to leave me a choice of buyers,” smiled Manners.
“Possibly-if you can show that your father was ever in Spain,” flashed Clothilde. “We know he was here in the Dordogne.”
“Indeed so, but you seem to suggest that an auction between Paris and Madrid might be in prospect.”
“It is to avoid such an outcome that we have offered the reward,” she retorted briskly, before looking across the table to the young woman opposite. “Lydia, you must see the justice of our case.”
Lydia, feeling distracted by the pressure of Malrand’s shoe upon her own and hoping it would not mark the silk, muttered something about its being Manners’s decision, and all a bit academic unless they got the thing back.
“What I don’t see,” said Manners, with labored reasonableness, “is why this single painting is so precious to you. You have one big cave full of the things, dozens of other caves with other works. What’s so special about this one?”
“Perhaps I, as one who knows a little of public opinion, might try to explain,” said Malrand, silencing Clothilde’s eager reaction by simply talking over her.
“Madame’s estimable museum at Les Eyzies, thanks to a generous state grant that I authorized, is being rebuilt, greatly extended, and modernized,” he began, sitting up in his chair. Lydia suddenly had a vision of him at a public meeting, and took advantage of his movement to slide her shoe gently from beneath his. She crossed her legs, putting her feet out of temptation’s way.
“It will become an even greater attraction for the tourist trade, on which this region depends for much of its prosperity, if it were to include, as the highlight of the collection, a genuine example of the finest example of prehistoric art in the world. Since we do not know where it comes from, we can hardly put it back. We are therefore free to display it, as the new museum’s prime exhibit, the Mona Lisa of the Louvre of prehistory.” He bowed graciously to Clothilde, who turned bright red.
“The publicity alone will bring crowds,” he went on sonorously, as the maid brought some plates of a temptingly pink lamb. Scents of rosemary and garlic arose. He poured some of his red wine for Lydia, Clothilde, and Manners, half-filled his own glass, and raised it to the table.
“Eventually, no doubt, the search for the lost cave will catch the attention of scholars, the imagination of the public, and the curiosity of schoolchildren. The good citizens of Les Eyzies and the Dordogne in general, with their hotels and restaurants and shops, will reap the advantage. And France will benefit from the advance of knowledge and the wider dissemination of her unique place as the custodian of the art of humanity’s ancestors.” The President paused, and looked around the table. “I think I can guarantee you that there will be no difficulty in finding state funds to ensure this happy outcome, whether for a greater reward, or indeed, Major Manners, as compensation for your loss. Your family deserves well of France, and we are a generous people.”
You cunning old devil, Lydia thought in admiration. You’re rehearsing this and using us as your test audience. She could see him now rehearsing a public statement, perhaps on television, announcing some lavish reward for the return of France’s property. National pride, high culture, lots of profits for the merchants of his home region so that the reward would look like a clever investment rather than a cost. And a generous gesture to the son of a war hero of France’s Liberation-that would get approving headlines in Britain. How clever these politicians could be. Lydia, thinking hard, saw no downside in the gesture Malrand was preparing, except possibly some waspish articles in the Spanish press. Across the table, her eyes bright with the prospect of becoming queen of this new Louvre of prehistory, Clothilde looked ready to die for her President.
“That seems a most statesmanlike plan, sir,” Lydia said, suddenly thinking it unwise to call him Francois in front of Clothilde. “I am sure my auction house would be happy to fall in with your wishes.”
“Ah yes,” said Malrand. “Your auction house. That reminds me. They are campaigning very hard with my friends in the British government to keep a tax-free rate for the London art market. Is that not so?”
“Indeed, sir.” All the London auction houses were forecasting gloom and bankruptcy if the new European tax plan went through, although it probably meant they would just shift the most lucrative sales to New York and Switzerland.
“I often think there are far too many taxes,” said Malrand. “Perhaps France should reconsider this tax scheme. I’m sure our friends in the Paris salons would agree.”
Lydia felt the room sway slightly. Sipping champagne and admiring Renaissance windows and feeling her toes squeezed, she had rather lost track of what it meant to be lunching with the President of a country. An unimaginably powerful man, who could change national policies at will, who could drop or propose taxes that could affect the livelihoods of thousands of people. A new wave of prosperity for the merchants of the Dordogne, continued fat profits for the art houses of London, just casually tossed onto the luncheon table. Suddenly she thought of the phone call she could make back to London with the happy news. No, this deserved more than a phone call. This could wait until her triumphant return. Better treat it rather casually. Perhaps over a drink with one of the partners. Just had lunch with Malrand at his country place-I think I’ve half-persuaded him to drop this silly European tax plan on art sales. That should be worth a raise. A raise? Ye gods. It should be worth a partnership. A little game of footsie under the table was a picayune price to pay.
“And now a toast,” said Malrand. “That this lost part of our great national heritage will soon be home, where it belongs.” They all drank and began to eat their lamb.
“We will sadly not have time to linger too long over our coffee,” Malrand said casually. “I have arranged for us all to visit Lascaux this afternoon. The real one, that is. We might as well remind ourselves of the heritage we are all trying to safeguard.”
They had driven up the road that ran along the Vezere, past their hotel at la Campagne and through Les Eyzies itself, past the high limestone cliffs that contained cave after cave. Layer after layer of continuous history. Lydia worked it out. Say twenty-five years to a generation, four to a century, forty to a millennium. Seventeen thousand years since Lascaux. Seventeen times forty. Six hundred and eighty generations. And there were still people living in these caves into the twentieth century, some perhaps even descended from the originals who had carved and drawn upon the cave walls the first evidence of a distinctive human sensibility. Who could tell what genes had drifted down from the people of Lascaux to this placid loveliness of modern France? So all but the last two or three generations had been born and bred and died in these gray cl
iffs, looking at this river, at these blue skies. Probably never dreaming that one day tourists would stand in line to come and tread along the stones where they lived, and pay money to see the carvings they had left.
“Have you visited any of these caves?” Lydia asked Lespinasse, the bald-headed security man with the mustache who had seemed to be in charge of the security staff back at Malrand’s house. He was driving them in one of the big Citroen limousines. To her relief, Malrand had whisked off Clothilde in another car. She remembered one of her mother’s phrases about some men being NSIT, not safe in taxis. Malrand would probably have qualified. Lespinasse had shown her and Manners into this one, and a dark blue Renault Espace followed them with some of the tough young security men.
“Of course, mademoiselle. I was born and raised in le Bugue and used to play in Bara-Bahau, our local cave. My father was with President Malrand in the war.” He did not turn his eyes from the road but directed his voice to Manners. “He knew your father, too. They blew up railway lines together. My father’s dead now, like yours. I met yours when he came out to the funeral. He always came to funerals, your father. He signed the book at Papon’s, the funeral parlor, when he came to pay his respects. Came to the church in le Bugue and to the grave.”
“Really,” said Manners. “I never knew.”
“Must have come four or five times. Always stayed at Malrand’s place. I picked him up a couple of times at the station at Perigueux and drove him here. They always sat up half the night talking, the two of them. It’s normal. I have some old comrades from the time we were in Lebanon. I like to see them, drink a pot or two. You’re a soldier too, I hear.”
“Yes, but there’s not much about Northern Ireland that I like to remember. Which unit were you in?”
“Paras. I served my time, finished as a sous-off, and then applied for the security detail. Malrand was already President. He and my father fixed it up.” Lespinasse leaned forward, punched the cigarette lighter, and fired up a Gauloise. They were cruising quite fast along the open road.
“Are you always based here in Perigord?” Lydia asked.
“No, mademoiselle. I’m deputy chief now, so I always travel with the President, in France and abroad. I met them all with Malrand, your Thatcher, and Gorbachev, and Yeltsin, Reagan, and Kohl. Japanese whose names I can’t remember. I got to know some of your English security people, the ones from Scotland Yard. We went on some courses together. They came and used our special driving school at Nantes, and we spent two weeks with your SAS at Hereford. Tough guys. You did the SAS course, didn’t you?”
“A long time ago,” said Manners. “I’m back with my regiment now.” Lydia raised her eyebrows-that came as a surprise. But then French security would have checked out his career. Manners seemed eager to change the subject. “Were you in Lebanon when the bombs went off? The one that killed a lot of your chaps and then the Americans.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t in the barracks at the time. I was off with the UN in the Bekaa Valley. A bad time. But you know what Napoleon said about the quality he wanted most in his generals?”
“Yes, that they should be lucky,” said Manners.
She glanced at him. Some sort of communication had taken place between the two men that Lydia could not begin to decode. A month ago, she might have jumped into the conversation to make some joke about men joining armies to recapture the boys’ clubs of their youth. Lydia smiled inwardly. It would have been the direct, the American thing to do, forcing the two men to turn their attention back to her. Clothilde would never have done it, being far too subtle in her wiles to stoop to the obvious, and perhaps that explained to Lydia the unconscious decision she had made not to interrupt the two men and the contact they had established. She was learning a lot from Clothilde. That elaborate flirtation with Malrand over the sexual symbols of cave art had been fascinating to watch, a most accomplished and discreet seduction of Malrand through his passion for ideas. It did not seem to have made much impression on the pragmatic Manners. But then the English were supposed to be suspicious of ideas. What, she wondered idly, would be the technique that would affect Manners in a similar way? Clothilde, she suspected, would know by instinct, and would probably employ the right technique out of sheer habit. Lydia was far from sure that she would. By agreeing to join him on this jaunt in Perigord, Lydia told herself, she had made no commitment, although she had not ruled out the prospect of a pleasant romantic dalliance should the mood take her. Manners, she suddenly thought, might not be thinking in the same way at all. What mysteries men were.
They turned off at Montignac, crossed the river, and then ignored the signs that steered the tourists toward the mock cave that had been built for them, taking a side road that wound up the hill and through a thin screen of trees. Looking down, Lydia saw a long slope falling to a stretch of flatter land by the river, then the ground rising from the small town of Montignac beyond. Screen out the town, she thought, and this is the view the artists of seventeen thousand years ago saw as they left the cave each evening.
CHAPTER 11
The Vezere Valley, 15,000 B.C.
Deer was sketching, as he always did. Down by the riverbank, sitting cross-legged by the water, a small stretch of moist clay smoothed flat by his hand, and a twig drawing lines that seemed to flow unbidden from his fingers. Somehow it was never beasts that sprang from the clay at times like this. What was emerging now was that fallen tree on the far bank of the river, the sad way one branch leaned into the water, while the heavy trunk just squatted on the shore. The water built up around the obstruction of the branch, making a fat lip that flowed into two arms that raced along either side of the bough and set the leaves dancing into the sudden turbulence of the river. Heavy lines for the tree, lighter lines for the flow of water, but how could he capture the way the leaves danced? Quickly, he scratched three tiny shapes alongside each other. One leaf that was curling up, another that curled down, another bent into a suggestion of movement and merged into the one of the lines of the water. That was almost right.
“It’s the tree,” said a surprised voice. “The tree in the river.” Little Moon put down the skin in which she was fetching water, and bent over the sketch in the clay.
“Those are the leaves in the water, and that is the river,” she said eagerly, while Deer’s eyes fixed on the dappled lights that flowed over her face from the sunlight reflected on the water. She turned, looking at the fallen tree. “I didn’t think you could draw trees. I mean, I didn’t think you could just draw what you see. What is just there.”
“How can we draw anything unless we see it?”
“But I thought only the beasts were drawn.” Her voice was low with an automatic respect.
“In the caves, yes. Only beasts. But if you want to draw beasts, you must be able to draw other things. At least, I do. What I learn when I draw a tree, I can use when I draw a beast. Look, you see this water?” He pointed at the clay. “How do you draw water? I cannot. So I draw movement, and the shape in the movement. You see how the river flows around the tree, piling up behind the branch. That is what I try to draw. If I can find the movement in the water, I can put movement into the beasts.”
She looked again at the stretch of clay, and then at him.
“I am not to talk with you, my father says.” Quick as a bird, she flicked her head to look up toward the village. “I just happened to come to this stretch of bank for the water. We are smoking the meat you brought back from the hunt.”
“It is the easiest way down to the river,” he said reasonably. Along with the other apprentices from the cave, he had spent the previous day cutting saplings and fixing the frames that the women would use to scrape and dry the reindeer skins. Then they had dug the fire pits and erected the teepees above them where the reindeer meat would be smoked.
“What else do you draw?” she asked.
“Flowers, and those hills over there, and the moon at night, and the ways caves appear in the curves of rock like a smile appears on
a face.”
“A face? You cannot draw faces. You cannot draw people. That is forbidden.”
“Does your father say that?”
“When I was younger, I used to make shapes in the clay. Like you, only not as good. I did little figures once, like sticks. Big thin ones for men and round ones for women and little ones for children and my father was angry and rubbed them out. Drawings capture the spirit, he told me, which is why they paint the beasts in the caves. It is forbidden to draw people.”
“It is not forbidden to draw trees or water.”
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly he leaned forward to put a hand into the river, splashed water on the clay, and smoothed out his tree. “Show me what you draw,” he instructed, and put the twig into her hand.
“I cannot,” she said, darting her eyes up toward the village again. “I must take the water to soak the skins and dampen the fires for the smoking.”
“Do it without me looking. I’ll get your water.” He rose, a fluid movement, picked up the skin and its carrying stick and splashed through the shallows to the deeper water where the current flowed fast and looked back to see Little Moon kneeling over the clay, the twig darting quickly across it. He threaded the stick through the holes that had been carefully sewn in the edges of the skin, filled it with water, and used the little thongs to secure it. He came back with deliberate slowness, watching the village and the small humped tent where the old Keeper of the Bison used to sleep. It was his now. The village was stirring busily, smoke already rising from the narrow holes at the top of each of the teepees where the meat already hung, sliced by flintknives. The sun was already a hand’s breadth above the hill. His eyes turned back to Little Moon, and he felt that strange sensation when he was not just looking, but seeing. There was the curve of Moon’s back, the fall of her hair, and then the flat plane of the clay, and the river dancing below it. The shapes fitted together in a way that he could almost feel, a balance of curve and flatness and movement. She looked up and broke the pattern, but in a way that pleased him. Her eyes danced, just like the water. Her limbs were smoother than the clay.
The Caves of Perigord Page 17
