Malediction

by Sally Spedding

  “I’m fine, really.” Cacheux edged away. “And thank you for your kind ministrations, but I really must be getting on.”

  They both stared. Four eyes that had for seven decades watched the vines fighting for existence on the bare terroir, now saw God’s representative look as though his was lost. Cacheux stumbled away under the lights to the Virgin’s Arch, where she’d stood neatly recessed, Bible in hand, since the siege of Montségur. Her gaze led towards the Square and the small houses clustered around the Crucifix. Marble white amongst the plane trees, with blood some had claimed to see move, trailing from the stigmata to the sword’s wound.

  The last of the pétanque players had gone and also the moon captured by clouds drawn eastwards from the Pyrenees. The darkness deepened in the courtyard as he made his way towards the shallow steps before the door. Suddenly from up above, the bell shattered the silence, resonating the tenth hour far into the night. He shivered even though he was sheltered – its echo seemed to tremble the stone flags beneath him and rupture the very foundations set deep into the ground. He also clung to the Breviary in his other pocket. A small thing, worn to the shape of his hand, but at that moment, as each peal from the bell tower rocked his very being, it was all he had.

  XXX

  Saturday August 23rd

  The channel breeze felt good, cleansing in its vigour as it bore the cross-tide in from the Atlantic together with huge vaporous clouds that had already soaked the English coast.

  Dominique Mathieu stood above the shore, his breath blown back into his mouth. He was dwarfed by the pink granite rocks whose edges had long softened to resemble strange marshmallows. Miracles, he thought to himself, fixing on the mighty conglomerations that only God could have set in place. And God must know how he needed miracles after the events of the last few days.

  As instructed, he’d left the Entrepôt and made his way across to the Pont de L’Alma with the new Samsung camera and fifty reels of film. Just another tripper taking photos of the trees where an electrician among the foliage, was repairing some of the lights. He also snapped the tourist traffic along the Avenue de New York; close-ups of hulls and prows and more particularly the berthing positioning of Roquette IV next to the safety barrier and finally the small boats of the Brigade Fluvial which almost unnoticed, trawl the length of the river.

  He’d slept the sleep of the unjust through until seven, his black heart like a heavy onyx in his chest, keeping him there, unable to face the world and worse, the Baptism at midday. He’d let the phone ring four times, as he’d lain rigid, almost dead with fear – sure that it was Duvivier checking up. It was only when Madame Pinsolles from the flat below banged on his door to say Raôul Boura, the Bishop of Kervecamp wanted to speak to him, that he made it out of bed and into the daylight.

  Boura instantly felt something was wrong with his favourite fellow Christian, but nevertheless kept up the jolly uncle tone, the kindly pleasantries, until the young priest of St. Jean had relaxed. But Mathieu, unshaven, his mouth as dry as a cuttlefish bone, knew he was no match for the well-disguised academic who’d trained in Rome. He strained to detect any doubt or distrust in his caller’s voice, but it was disconcertingly normal.

  “I felt you should know I’ve just been faxed a glowing testimonial from Father André of your recent efforts with Domus. It seems they can’t do without you.”

  His pulse slowed down. He suddenly felt cold.

  “That’s reassuring. Thank you, but…”

  “No buts. As far as I and Our Saviour are concerned, I’m sure any time spent with them is just as valuable as that spent in front of an altar.”

  “I feel honoured to be taking part, my Lord,” he lied, recalling Duvivier’s nasty little eyes. His bullying control. “The homeless problem’s getting out of hand, causing begging, prostitution, drug-taking etcetera. But most people walk on the other side, saying ‘there but for the Grace of God go I,’ but that’s not good enough for me.”

  Appalled by his ready falsehood, he silently thanked the same God that the miracles of technology kept him invisible.

  “I realise that, my son. Now that I have the dates for your next release, I can arrange for old Father Cédric to take over again. He’s frail, lord knows, but his eagerness has no bounds. Just as well, as you know, we’re in crisis here, which I may say is not yet general knowledge. Only two oblates for Breil-Sorden this year – that fine Seminary may well have to close.”

  As he spoke, Mathieu stared at his precious collection of photographs ranged along the wall. Multiples of the youthful nun of Lisieux whose many eyes challenged his feckless soul and whose lips all seemed poised to admonish him.

  “I’ll pray to Saint Thérèse,” he said. “She’s intervened on everything I’ve asked so far.” This sounded infantile in the extreme, and for the first time Boura hinted his irritation.

  “With all due respect, Xavier-Marie, she can do nothing about man’s inherent need to procreate. I’m afraid to say the world has greatly changed since she was last in it, flesh and blood like yourself is more precious to us than any gold or rubies. Our fabric is ageing and fraying like an old shroud. Soon the only Confessors will be octogenarians who’ve long forgotten the temptations of the flesh. I mean the...”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Mathieu’s gaze followed the light to the small harbour below. “We must be relevant and approachable.”

  “Exactly. One day, I can foresee you, Xavier-Marie, taking high office within the Church. Rest assured, I will personally recommend you when the time is right.”

  “That’s most kind.”

  Mathieu’s smile no more than a flicker, his free hand shaking.

  “And it was good to see one of our very own priests supporting His Holiness at Longchamp. Most reverential. I’d no idea you’d gone to Paris. Father André never said.”

  Mathieu was caught off guard.

  Why so oblique? Is he trying to catch me out? Help me Thérèse.

  “I had to see the homeless situation there for myself. Then came the Vigil and the Mass...”

  “Well, it’s the sort of thing our flock here responds to. Active service. Do as I do, not do as I say.”

  “I actually found the whole experience very moving.”

  “That was obvious, Father. So moving in fact you looked as though you were attending a Requiem Mass.”

  “It was.”

  “I beg your pardon, Xavier-Marie?”

  “I said, to some it was.”

  Boura paused.

  “If I understand things correctly, His Holiness was giving a message of hope to the poor, the dispossessed, to the youth of the world and, of course, there was his special plea for religious tolerance. Especially since the Algerian massacre.”

  “Precisely, your Lordship.” He sensed the other man’s puzzlement and knew he’d implied enough. Enough to salve a little of his ailing conscience. Just a little.

  Mathieu winced at the recollection. Duvivier’s pitted face suddenly overlaid the visionary from Lisieux, cancelling her luminous gaze with two bore holes as the Bishop of Kervecamp remounted his hobby horse.

  “After all, 1997 has been designated European Year Against Racism, so it was more than appropriate His Holiness addressed that issue. The two are indeed inseparable now that borders are opening up and we have much greater freedom of movement to find work etcetera.” Then suddenly he laughed in a way Mathieu couldn’t fathom.

  “I’ve recorded you on video, you know. You and your fellows – a mixed bunch of Dominicans if ever there was. And wasn’t that Father André with you? You see, we’ve actually never met. Only corresponded. Spoken over the telephone…”

  “Yes. And very supportive he was, too.” Mathieu spluttered. His pretence evaporating like the summer mist when the sun climbs over the Île de Bréhat.

  The bishop clearly hadn’t finished.

  “Had you met the others before the Celebration?”

  A trap. Watch out.

  “No. And to be
honest, my Lord, I didn’t much care for them. Ships that pass in the night, you know how it is on those occasions.”

  “Well I have to say again you looked none too pleased with things, in fact...”

  “Yes?”

  “One or two from St. Jean de la Motte wondered what was going on.”

  “I was just a bit emotional, that’s all. I’m very sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. But I’ll show the film to you sometime, then you can see for yourself.”

  A tight, tense pause followed.

  “Now, Father, speaking from experience, and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but it might restore your position within St. Jean de la Motte Mauron if perhaps you were to hold a small parish meeting...”

  Restore? What’s he talking about?

  “Oh?”

  “Just a small one, as I say, to explain how it was. Why you seemed so distressed, so unlike the young man we’ve all got to know and, dare I say it, depend upon.”

  “I see.”

  “Give it a thought, anyhow, and may God in his infinite wisdom, be with you.” The bishop then left him with a deeper unease than before.

  A meeting? Forcing me to relive that hideous weekend? I’ll have to be ill. Something to tide me over till it’s all forgotten.

  He turned away from the sea through the small park where screams from kids on the Crazy Golf course shattered his concentration. The Church would be empty. Ninian the evangelist from the north of England wasn’t on the list of Saints to be celebrated, so he could go and think himself out of the hole Boura had dug for him, besides lighting overdue candles for Colette and Bertrand in peace.

  The sun between clouds was hot on his head, his mind a maelstrom of unconnected thoughts. The fleuriste was due in at ten, the baptism of David Berthier at noon, a Mass for St. Augustine with the Deacon on the 28th and then... Then, by the 30th, Duvivier wants the shots of the boats and another trip overnight for the final images.

  Merde. He almost collided with someone by the park gates. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, mercifully no-one recognised him, and after a quick apology, he ran through the covered market towards the twin spires of St. Jean de la Motte Mauron.

  Six steps, deep in shadow. A homecoming so needed, yet so strangely empty. His love, Thérèse, hadn’t kept Bertrand from the water or healed Colette’s distress. Neither had she moved Vidal to befriend her, nor to destroy the plans. That man had his own ambitions, it was obvious, but whether he was as diabolical as Duvivier and Plagnol was another matter.

  Mathieu cursed himself for having replied to Duvivier’s advert in the first place. But he’d been tempted by the prospect of doing good and finding love at the same time.

  Now as he pushed open the church’s heavy main door, he felt the biggest Lonely Heart on the planet, and pretty Simone Haubrey with the long, gold-blonde hair, was probably laughing all the way to the bank. His cheque, for the introduction with her, safe in her designer handbag.

  After the opening creak, the sheer magnitude of the interior always made him gasp. Everything massive, over-sized late Renaissance, copied from The Basilica Torino. Hushed and chilled by sea air. Dark without candles. He went over towards the Lady chapel to collect a taper, when something hard pressed into his ribs. Someone was there, buried by the dense shadow. The hairs on his neck bristled with fear.

  Duvivier? Plagnol? Is it my turn to be hunted...?

  “Got you. You’re dead.”

  “Holy Jesus.”

  Two figures emerged from the darkness. Two boys no more than twelve, brandishing guns. Mathieu tried to stop them running away, and cornered them by the tomb of an eighteenth-century Bishop of Kervekamp lying in blissful repose.

  Laurence and Stéphane Petrus, choirboys, straight off the beach in matching gaudy shorts, stood in front of him, their brown legs quaking. Sand in their hair.

  “What the Hell do you think you’re playing at, you stupid little shits? You gave me the fright of my life!” He held each one by the scruff of the neck and knocked their heads together. The sound of it echoed dully in the silence, as the sand fell and their toys crashed down on the stones. The twins cried out, so he repeated the punishment and again, despite their yells for mercy, until his rage was extinguished. Father Xavier-Marie then heaved at the latch and threw them both out, sobbing into the morning.

  ***

  He slumped into the first chair he could find. Old and spindly, it barely took his weight as he rocked backwards and forwards, head in his hands.

  Meanwhile, at the altar end, beneath the arching angels, old Aouregan Tasset was lighting candles. Slowly like a growing soul, each one came into being, honeying the walls and gilding the altar cloth, while the sun, now right behind the St. Jean window, beamed the saint’s robed body into the gloom. Violet and vermilion, white and cerulean, fixed like a kaleidoscope at rest. But none of this reached Mathieu who was locked in his own torment.

  Like the plague, the violence of Paris had insinuated itself into his very core. He was trapped, and nothing in earth or Heaven could free him. Not even dear sweet Thérèse.

  “Are you alright, Father?” The aged acolyte from Tregastel stood over him, smelling of smoke. “Can I fetch you anything?”

  Mathieu suddenly stood up, sweeping the thin hair from his face. His watch showed 10.15 p.m. “I’m fine, Aouro. Just a little contretemps, that’s all. Are we OK for the Berthiers?”

  “We are.” But the eighty-year-old didn’t think the young curé looked up to much more than a good sleep. “Bonnefort’s been practising the choir while you were gone and...”

  Damn.

  He’d forgotten Madame Berthier had asked for the choir. Alarm for a moment, thinking of the Petrus boys. Two of its shining lights...

  “Don’t worry,” said Aouregan. “They all sounded wonderful.”

  “I’m sure. I’m sure, but why not let Bonnefort do it? The whole thing I mean. Instead of Father Cédric.”

  The old man hired in from the Gueribois monastery wasn’t used to disruption and stared at the priest with tired transparent eyes.

  “He’s not well himself, Father. Stomach problems, in the night.” He rubbed his own with a long white hand.

  “He could have told me.”

  “Said he tried, but no-one answered.”

  “Really?”

  And as Mathieu tried to avoid the inevitable, the fleuriste bustled in carrying two bunches of red gladioli. Coffins, he thought. He hated those flowers. Death’s more glamorous partners. Even their smell was hideous. She kissed him on both cheeks, then stood back, her strong country face missing nothing of his demeanour.

  “Well, Father Xavier-Marie, if I may say so, you seemed pretty fed up in Paris and now you look even worse.”

  “Thank you, Madame; I appreciate your concern.” But his irony was wasted and she tip tapped away down the nave.

  “I’d better go and get things ready, too.” Aouregan was glad of the long walk back to his simple duties, and Mathieu watched until the frail figure disappeared.

  Alone, near the great font of Megalithic rock, he peered in, seeing in close up the myriad gouge marks from unknown hands. Diagonals, cross-hatched, following the curve, the only testament to those faraway lives. And now unable even to speak to his mother, Angélique, or his public-spirited father, and unfit in the eyes of God to cleanse a new infant of sin, he let his tears of shame drop one by one, silently, into the sacred vessel.

  XXXI

  “Laboureurs et vignerons,

  Devant Dieu courbons nos fronts!

  C’est lui qui dont la main, nous donne les fruits

  Que mûrit l’automne...”

  Colette could hear the chapel choir above the storm which despite their supplications had already flattened some of the St. Émilion vines and now reached deep into the bowels of the Refuge. Like a silver thread, the voices persisted through the fierce spasms of thunder that forced her to crouch next to the thin mattress, rather than lie vulnerably on it. At
least that way she could see the door.

  Something in her had died as the key had turned, not once but twice, abandoning her to the dark airless humidity. This was no chai – a ground floor wine storage area – for there weren’t any casks, and in Bordeaux, because of the terrain and the high water table, caves as such couldn’t be excavated. She’d remembered that from school, where the little library book, Wine Regions of France had been a favoured companion.

  So what was this, reeking of damp and wet underfoot? Although cold, she was sweating all over and her robes felt leaden and imprisoning. She stood up to grope around the walls for any kind of opening, a grille, a vent – anything.

  She had to have air.

  Colette ripped off her veil. For the first time her hands touched her head. A hideous alien thing, beginning to bristle short spiky hairs.

  “You evil bitches!” she yelled and kicked at the door until her voice gave out, as thunder again racked the building. She also tore the underskirt and the outer dress from her body and, although she had no recollection of being robed in that way, other images were slowly returning. They’d tried to make her a stranger, even to herself, but she was going to hang on. To cling to the boy waving from the summer bank, his face trapped in sunlight. The boy whose birthday had gone.

  No body hair either. Under arm or down below where the dark-skinned man had once caressed her. She was bald as a seven-year-old; naked save for a pair of black institutional boots.

  “Witches!” Colette struck the door again and stood against it, listening. Her senses sharper now despite the shivering.

  The singing had stopped and the procession from the chapel was beginning overhead, as desperately, she moved along the wet wall to her right, the one not yet explored but which she reasoned must follow the way out of the Refuge.

  Her fingers traced over shallow carvings, initials of others who’d been there, holed up like the Templars at Chinon. Pathetic remnants of a line here, a cross there, but on some, this cross was different with Greek gammas at each end.