Counterfeit Conspiracies

by Ritter Ames

  My jacket might not have made it, but I had, and so had my shirt, except for a small drop of blood in the ribbing around the collar. I dug in my pack and found a long sleeved black tee to pull on over the short-sleeved one. If the wound started bleeding again, maybe the black color would cover it up a bit.

  I heard a lot of noise coming from the direction the man indicated. I turned the corner and found myself in the midst of a mass of people crowded around several buses and an ancient building I assumed was a depot of some kind. I saw no sign indicating the building's purpose, but swarms of people surrounded the place, along with all their packs, bags and duffles.

  I readjusted my pack, and held on tightly as I pushed my way through the throng to find a door. A lot of shouting and good-natured jostling occurred. My ears picked up something about costumes and contests and what sounded like a retelling of what happened the previous year.

  It was a struggle to separate one conversation from the group. Between everyone talking fast and my poor French, I gave up. Next time I would spend time learning about the region rather than simply concentrating on the map. I definitely should have paid more attention in French class.

  I maneuvered through the open doorway and fought through the noisy backpackers, trying to reach the service desk. I kept a sharp eye peeled for anyone who seemed out of place. As well as anyone who seemed out of place and with grab-happy hands. There were so many people.

  By accident, I happened across a queue. I didn't recognize the line at first for what it was because there was little forward movement. I kept in place until we finally reached a desk of some sort, where an obviously suffering man sat, smoking a gitane while sorting, stamping, and counting euros. Eureka!

  Ten more minutes passed before I was able to maneuver my way back to what appeared to be the end of the queue. Within seconds, seven more people filed in behind me. This must be the right place.

  Again, I cursed my interest in my biology lab partner the two semesters I took French. In fact, some might say a little knowledge was a dangerous commodity in a place known for its people's fierce national pride.

  Fortunately, the long-haired guy in front of me took pity on my feeble attempts to communicate with the uncooperative person behind me, and interrupted my struggles at trying to be understood. He touched my arm and shouted over the din, "I speak English."

  With a sigh of relief, I turned away from the woman who had surveyed my efforts not to butcher the French language with ferocious contempt and what I was sure were colorful names and expletives, and found myself looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes. He was about a head taller than me, with a casual air that said young and carefree. His brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, a style which tugged at the romantic in me. I read curiosity and admiration in his eyes, too. Good. I could use those to my advantage.

  I took a deep breath and projected my voice to be heard over the noise. "Thank God. I fear two semesters of college French didn't prepare me for the real world. The only thing I really learned in class was I didn't have an ear for languages. A great disappointment to my grandfather's plans for my future."

  He smiled. "I too have a disappointed grandfather who is very angry that I left him alone in our shop during this very busy time of the year. As he put it, 'to waste time playing children's games.'"

  I returned his smile with interest, and his features relaxed into the face of a man who knows he has struck gold.

  "I read about Le Puy-en-Velay in my guidebook." I pointed to the ancient and battered copy of Let's Go, France I held in my hand. "And decided to visit. But I somehow missed it was such a popular site." I motioned at the surging throng of humanity surrounding us. "What's going on here anyway?"

  He laughed, showing off beautiful white teeth. "I'm afraid you managed to pick one of the busiest times of the year to visit Le Puy-en-Velay. It's the Fêtes Renaissance du Roi de l'Oiseau."

  At my puzzled look, he explained. "It literally means, the, 'Renaissance Festival of the King of the Bird.' In the sixteenth century, it began as a competition to pick the best archer of the region. The celebration today has become a way to return to the past." He smiled. "And a reason to party and act the fool. I'm Rollie," he said, offering his hand and holding mine for a beat too long.

  I finally pulled away to adjust my pack unnecessarily. I didn't particularly plan to mislead, him but his interest was exactly what I wanted. I could use him to quickly find out things about the area.

  He went on to explain about the celebrations, the stores, the craft booths and entertainments associated with the Renaissance such as acrobats and dancing bears, and a horse riding competition called "King of the Bird."

  Never a big fan of renaissance festivals, I listened with half an ear in case there was something I could learn to aid in my search for the cathedral with the black virgin and the chapel of relics with its painting of The Seven Liberal Arts, and ultimately my search for Simon, Moran, and the sword.

  His voice was a pleasant accompaniment to my thoughts as I planned what to do when I reached the place. I knew Jack would show up probably sooner rather than later and be the thorn in my side he had been since our first meeting.

  I noticed Rollie stopped talking to me, and we finally reached the ticket counter. He stepped aside and waited for me to deal with the attendant, which was exactly what I wanted. I began muddling through my terrible schoolgirl French to explain my need to purchase a ticket. The girl behind me sighed loudly and made what sounded like a rude remark about stupide Anglaise to her friends.

  The ticket master apparently spoke only French, or didn't want to speak English to me, and rattled off a rapid spate of words that sounded like he was consigning me to the devil. At any other time I would have given him exactly what he deserved, but time was of the essence.

  "I need a ticket to Le Puy-en-Velay," I repeated several times in English and attempted fractured French, "J'ai a bi—"

  Before we ultimately exchanged blows, Rollie jumped to my rescue, and said, "Mademoiselle a besoin d'acheter un billet pour Le Puy-en-Velay."

  The clerk again shook his head and rattled off another series of words that apparently meant 'no way on earth,' and for emphasis shook his head again.

  Rollie turned to me, disappointment evident in his dark eyes. "There are no more tickets for this bus. You will have to wait for the next one."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Oh, no. No way. I so was not going to wait around for another bus. "Didn't you just buy your ticket?" I asked Rollie.

  "No. I have purchased mine many weeks ago," he said. "I am so sorry. I should have realized you wouldn't have a ticket since you didn't know about the festival."

  I looked around like an idiot for a sign I could understand but there wasn't anything posted. "What's this line for?"

  "It is to buy tickets when they are available," Rollie reassured me. "But it is also the line to have your ticket stamped to get on the bus."

  "Rollie, I'm willing to buy a ticket from anyone to get on this bus." I smiled. "Would you ask around and see if someone is willing to make some money by selling me their ticket and wait for the other bus?"

  "If it is that important to you, I will gladly offer you my ticket and I will wait."

  I didn't want to buy his ticket. I wanted him with me to help get me where I needed without further mishap or misunderstanding. I needed to buy someone else's ticket. Gallant I didn't want or need. "Did I misunderstand? I thought we . . . I mean, I was looking forward to riding on the bus with you."

  His eyes smiled before his mouth did. He had beautiful teeth. "As was I. But we can meet up later at a place I know."

  "No, Rollie, please ask anyone around us if they will sell their ticket to me at a premium. I'm willing to pay extra to compensate anyone willing to wait for the next bus."

  A sullen voice spoke from behind. "I'll sell for three times the cost."

  Of course, it was the bitch behind me, the one who had pretended she spoke little or no English.


  As she and Rollie argued over the inflated amount she requested, her friends steadily pleaded with her to stop.

  This happened to be a phrase I had heard directed at me many times in my French class whenever I'd attempted a translation.

  "Ne faites pas ça' 'arête ca!" her friends called desperately. "Jourdan! Jourdan!"

  The clerk waded into the fray, yelling and gesturing for us to move out of the line. The people directly around us caught onto the drama and threw out their opinions and proposals. The poor souls in the long line behind also shouted their displeasure. I had no idea what they were saying. I simply ignored everyone and concentrated on the task.

  Of course, the woman's extortion was outrageous, but I wanted to get to Le Puy now, not later. While I was ready to pay what she wanted, I didn't want to draw attention to the fact I was willing to even go beyond her first offer.

  I kept my expression neutral. "I'll give you twice the original price." I was willing to go up to ten times, but she stared at me with the cold calculating look of a vendor who knows she has someone hooked. It was important to make her work for her money. I swung my pack around and fumbled as if unable to remember where I put my euros. Like any disorganized tourist.

  "Three times," she said, stubbornly. "I will take nothing less."

  Rollie's indignation rose in volume as her friends' voices died down, obviously recognizing she meant business. The resigned looks on their faces let me know they had been through similar experiences with her in the past.

  I pulled out a group of euros and closed my pack. Rollie gently touched my arm, luckily the uninjured one, and leaned down to talk into my ear. The cacophony of voices continued on around us. "No, Laurel, do not pay. It is too much . . . she is taking advantage."

  I smiled at him. "It's all right, Rollie, don't worry."

  I quickly counted out the money before glancing at her again. "If you wish to count it, I want to see your ticket."

  Grudgingly, she pulled the ticket from her pocket and held it out. Rollie looked it over and confirmed the authenticity. I counted out the right amount and held it out to her. She snatched at the euros, and I held them higher, out of her reach

  "You don't want to count it?" I asked.

  She shook her head impatiently, clearly wanting her money.

  "So we have a deal? Your ticket for these euros?" I questioned over the catcalling.

  "Yes, yes, we have a deal," she shouted and thrust her ticket at Rollie.

  I murmured something in his ear before handing the cash to her, making a big production out of handing her the money. Groans of disappointment and shouts of approval resonated from the crowd, accompanied by the loud stomping of feet, mostly in the line behind us. I didn't blame them. I was just as anxious to be on the bus headed to Le Puy.

  I held out my ticket to be stamped. With a flourish, the clerk did so, saying something about time and waving his arm for us to be on our way.

  Before we pushed our way through the crowd, Rollie asked if I needed food. I shook my head indicating my pack. Then he did something I noticed French men doing many times in my work and travels for the foundation. He nodded and held out his hand. I took it and he gracefully opened up a path through the throngs of people, exchanging pleasantries all around. There was much back-clapping and greetings. Rollie had most definitely attended this festival before, so maybe he was who he claimed to be. I hoped so.

  We made our way outside to yet another line. The bus had not started loading people, only bags people wanted stored below. There were several benches scattered around, all taken, and the sun hid behind a cloud. I rubbed my arms, chilly once more.

  Rollie noticed my shiver and smiled. "September." He shrugged. "It begins the cooling. Some days like summer, but others warn us of the coming winter. I would offer you my jacket, but it is gone already into the bus." He pointed to the man loading duffle bags into the cargo hold. "I can offer you my arm, very innocently, naturellement." He grinned, and so did I.

  "I accept the offer of your arm while we wait," I said. "But only to get warm." He feigned disappointment and wrapped his arm around me. Thankfully, his hand remained higher than my wound.

  I moved into his body heat, grateful for both the warmth and the opportunity to be seen as a couple. Not an American woman traveling alone in a bus filled with mostly French people, going to what appeared to be a mostly French festival. My discreet surveillance had not revealed any other discernable tourists or possible enemies out to get me.

  Something else really bothered me, though. The entire time in the bus station, I had seen no evidence of cell phones. Not one.

  "May I ask you a few questions?"

  He smiled and his arm tightened just a bit—not enough, however, for me to object.

  "Of course."

  "Don't people in this area of France have cell phones?"

  He laughed. "Oui, naturellement. But for our festival, we make a deal. To put away all except for emergencies. It is not a rule, but is a point of honor to try and live as people did centuries ago. Not really, certainement, but just a bit. Cell phones, they are the most obvious technologies to give up as are iPods, this type of thing."

  "Have you attended this festival before?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Oui, many times. " He called a greeting to someone several yards away.

  "Do many tourists come?"

  "Many people come throughout the year to Le Puy-en-Velay, to do the ancient pilgrimage route. St. James Way to Santiago de Compostela. They come to visit the old churches, the Statue of Notre Dame de France, to see the extremely high quality of architecture, and to visit the production of lace and lentils. A few more tourists, what you would call renaissance groupies, come during the Roi de l'Oiseau festival. But that is fairly recent. Not much interest in other countries for shooting the bird and becoming king." He grinned.

  "Excuse me?"

  He sighed but the grin remained, so I knew he was happy to go on. "It is saying." He pulled his arm free and pretended to put on his thinking cap. Then he clasped his hands together in the way children are taught to do across the globe when presenting material to their classmates. "In 1594, whomever shot the Papagai . . ." At my puzzled look he substituted, "Parrot." At my dismayed look, he laughed. "It was not a real parrot. It was handmade of material. But shooting this 'bird' and winning the archery competition carried great honor. The winner gained high esteem for the following year, since being a great archer meant you were the best at defending the town from your enemies. The winner became good friends with the mayor, and held keys to the city. Best of all, he had no tax to pay!"

  Rollie's look changed to a downcast one as he continued to play the part of presenter and entertainer. "However, after the French revolution the festival was banned as barbaric and backward." He dramatically paused, and I played along.

  "So no celebration for the town?"

  "Oui. No celebration." His expression brightened. "But in the 1940s the celebration was revived and by 1986, a very important year because it was the year I was born, the fête was revived," he grinned again, "and started what it is today, a grand festival allowing everyone to celebrate the past in the present, or have a legitimate reason to party, as you say in the States."

  His face turned serious again, and he waggled a finger. "But make no mistake. The festival is very much family friendly. Although, there are solely adult pleasures if you know where to look. And I definitely know where to look." He grinned, letting me know he was teasing while pointedly staring down at me.

  "So, you've been to the States?"

  "Oui. After graduation, I traveled there for a year. Where are you from, Laurel?"

  Touchy. "Originally, I'm from upstate New York. I've also traveled quite a bit."

  "I too have traveled over the years, to the complaints of my grandfather who wants me to take over his business in the next year. So he can retire to his vineyard and spend every day in the sun."

  "What kind of busi
ness do you have?"

  "My grandfather is head of the family's businesses—the main one being an architectural firm that has grown into a . . ." He paused and fought for the right word. "Group . . . non, conglomeration of related businesses."

  "You mean a conglomerate?"

  "Oui, a conglomerate. The headquarters are in Paris, but I have so far resisted moving permanently there."

  "You spoke of a shop?"

  "Oui, we also deal with textiles and construction to name but a few. We are now gearing up to prepare for the holiday celebrations, and groaning for having to return to work after the August holidays. That's why he gets upset, because I'm leaving again so quickly after August, and September is the time when we make a lot of decisions about the holiday preparations for the cities."

  "So you have government contracts?"

  "Oui."

  Before he could elaborate, people started shifting toward the front bus and we gathered up our things to move into the boarding line, to be on our way to Le Puy.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Le Puy-en-Velay, the small capital of Haute-Loire, was a beautiful, very theatrical looking town on the right bank of the river Borne. According to my guidebook, the city sat on an undulating plateau on the eastern border of Auvergne, one of the regions in Massif Central. The area was known for geographical oddities, called volcanic thrusts that appeared visible aboveground.

  As we approached the municipality, two of the hills stood sharply visible amidst the terracotta roofs. I knew one was St. Michel d'Aiguilhe and the other Rocher Corneille, both places I wished to visit. For now, however, I was content to fill my gaze with the beauty of Le Puy.

  The new parts of the town blended well with the medieval. While the buildings boasted little color, they were picturesque all the same. Every turn of the head showed booths and vendors setting up their goods. Many people were already dressed in their sixteenth century clothing, or at least approximations of those types of costumes. Although, I saw one I'd swear was an updated version of Madonna's outfit in the long ago "Like a Virgin" video.