by Aderyn Wood
Michael was half way through his second glass of whisky, appreciating the warm flush of it in his veins, when a knock at the door sounded. John answered it and the musical voice of Anais greeted them.
“Bonsoir.” She kissed John and strode over to the couch where Michael sat. Michael stood to say hello and Anais kissed him on each cheek. “Bonsoir, Père.”
Michael’s ears burned, but he murmured a quick “Bonsoir.”
Anais cleared the other part of the couch, dumping a pile of clothes on the floor and sat next to Michael.
She looked tired. Her hair was out and a little knotty at the back. She wore no makeup and her clothes were less extravagant – a simple pair of track pants and runners with a black woollen poncho.
“I hope my car will be safe out there, John,” she said in her slightly American-accented English.
John opened his mouth in shock. “Why does everyone think this neighbourhood unsafe?”
“Probably because it is, you crazy motherfucker! Now get me a drink.” She ran her hands through her knotty hair. “I’m going to crash here tonight, John. I don’t want another night alone.”
John paused on his way to the kitchenette and smiled. “There’s always a place for you in my bed. You know that, Anais.” He winked.
Anais sniffed. “This filthy couch will be just fine.”
She reached out and grabbed Michael’s hand with both her own. He felt her tension immediately. She shook a little.
“Père, I’ve remembered something else.”
Michael returned her grasp with both hands. Instinct guided him. “Go on, I’m listening.”
“Last night I had bad dreams. He was in them. Nathaniel. And that man who bought me a drink at the bar. I kept seeing the wound on his neck. That scene I remembered with you last time – like a video on replay.”
John put Anais’s drink on the coffee table, but Anais didn’t shift her eyes from Michael.
“I watched it all again, a million times in my dreams and I realised something else.”
“Yes?” Michael said.
“The mirror. When I looked at it, I could see me, and the man who bought me a drink. And Em, I could see Em as she smiled and talked.”
“Yes?” The blood had drained from Anais’s face. Michael tightened his grip, somehow knowing what she was about to say. The tingling ran sharp through his hands now.
“Nathaniel wasn’t in the mirror. He had no reflection.”
Chapter 6
Email from Lady Susan Farleigh to Michael D’Angelo – Friday 21st November.
Dear Michael,
Please call me Susan. No one calls me Lady unless I’m at one boring function or other!
No one in the family has visited the apartment since the police stopped their investigation. I myself went to Paris, and stopped in on the apartment not long after Emma’s disappearance, but I didn’t stay there. The police asked me not to make any changes. I believe the camera was put there by them. I don’t know if they have any footage that would give us further clues, but I doubt it – we would have been informed. Commandant Schleck was very efficient and kept in touch throughout the investigation.
Unfortunately, we do not have a key to the apartment’s mailbox. Perhaps the police found a key? If you need to search her apartment, my father and I give you full permission to do so.
Thank you for your efforts so far, Michael. You are our last hope. I know you will do your best.
Take care,
Susan.
Michael had been following Pascal’s secretary, walking the ups and downs of the Louvre for what seemed like an age. Finally, they came to a large gallery filled with renaissance paintings. The secretary approached a man with grey balding hair and a beak of a nose, who wore a pinstriped suit. He stood with one hand under his chin as he stared at an oil painting depicting a man and a woman reclined in a garden, the sea in the background. Botticelli’s Venus and Mars.
“Monsieur,” the secretary said.
Pascal snapped his head around and locked eyes with Michael. “Mr D’Angelo?”
Michael nodded and said a quiet “merci” to the secretary before she left. He stepped forward. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Monsieur.”
Pascal sniffed, squinting at Michael. “You have an interesting name. It is old … significant.”
Michael had to concentrate to understand Pascal’s dramatic accent. He tilted his head. “Yes, it is,” he said quietly.
“Do you know its meaning?”
“Yes, I do, Monsieur.” Michael assumed Pascal referred to the artist. He knew all too well the resemblance his name had to the great renaissance painter and sculptor. His father had been a painter, and it was his deliberate choice to name him Michael.
Pascal’s eyes darted over him, as though the curator now examined an ancient artefact. Then he straightened his shoulders. “You have fifteen minutes.” He waved a hand, and turning, walked briskly toward an adjacent room. “And you’ll have to keep up. I’m on my daily rounds.”
The curator, clearly fit in body and mind, set a swift pace. Their footsteps echoed through the tourist-free galleries and corridors. Pascal would stop briefly at various displays and examine them with hawk-like focus. Sometimes he’d speak into the small dictaphone clutched in his hand.
Michael asked questions as they walked, trying not to sound breathless, and berating himself for not exercising more. “Do you have any thoughts on Emma’s disappearance?”
Pascal sniffed. “Of course I have thoughts.”
They stopped at another painting. Michael adjusted his glasses and looked at the subject – a young man, wearing a leopard skin and a subtle smile, pointed at a staff in his left hand.
“You know this piece?” Pascal asked.
Michael shrugged. “It’s a Da Vinci?”
The curator’s lips twitched. “It is attributed to a Da Vinci sketch, but the artist remains unknown.” He sighed. “There is too much that remains unknown. Come.” He doubled his pace and Michael almost ran to keep up.
“Was she a good worker?” he asked, his breath short and rapid now. Pascal wasn’t very forthcoming with his answers. Michael wished he could glance at the questions he’d prepared. But reading and walking at this pace would have him crash straight into one of the masterpieces, and the interview with Pascal would come to a dramatic and mortifying halt.
“She was thorough, but inefficient. A dreamer.”
“Her thoroughness must have been an advantage at times.” Michael frowned. Why was he defending Emma? Perhaps his subconscious was trying to tell him something.
“Sometimes, yes. That is why I often sent her on digs – I could trust her to ensure our discoveries were safe for travel. But not every artefact needs the attention of a medieval monk, Mr D’Angelo. There is too much to discover and too little time.”
Michael suddenly understood. Pascal’s sense of urgency rose from his deep desire to somehow discover all the world’s mysteries in his short time left. This man’s work was his life.
“Tell me about the diary. I understand it came to you?”
“Yes. A building, over four hundred years old burned down in Le Marais Arrondissement. Older foundations were found beneath and we were notified. I sent a team and a number of artefacts surfaced, including that diary.”
“Are you still convinced it’s a fake?”
Pascal stopped walking and faced him. “I am convinced of nothing.” He squinted and Michael once again had the feeling of being examined. Pascal then took a card out of his pocket, and a pen. He turned the card over and scribbled a few words before handing it to Michael.
It read: Henri Chevalier. A phone number, with the words Foliss Abesse, were scrawled beneath.
“Henri has a penchant for the old and rare books. He generally works through the night, so do not call before midday.” Pascal scratched his head, appearing momentarily indecisive. “He can be, how do you say it … brusque? He likes whisky, take him some.”
“I thought the French preferred brandy?”
Pascal shrugged. “Henri is Norman.” He nodded at the card. “Ask him for this book, and tell him I sent you.”
Michael frowned. “What is it?”
Pascal squinted again. “History has thrown up many a strange thing, Mr D’Angelo. My mind is not closed to any possibility. Emma is inefficient and a dreamer, yes. But, she is a good person.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose. What would John say to this surprisingly touching observation?
“I like your questions better than the inept ones the police asked. You must be open to all possibilities, too, Mr D’Angelo.” He tapped a finger on the card. “Do your research, and find her.” He turned again. “I must go now, Mr D’Angelo, my nine o’clock awaits.”
Michael watched the curator descend the stairs. He put the card in his pocket. The weight of what Pascal left unsaid lay heavy in the air.
Michael spent an hour walking the Louvre. No one asked him to leave, so he strolled through the renaissance section and let his mind wander – perhaps it would stumble upon a clue. He paused before Veronese’s Wedding at Cana. Its vivid colours would stir admiration in the most stoic viewer. Michael was torn between taking in the whole festive image, and focusing on details, like the sumptuous fruit at the feast, the beauty of the vast blue sky above, and, of course, the famed wine Jesus had turned from water, and that servants poured from huge ornate urns – Christ’s first miracle. Michael glimpsed the many faces of wedding guests, entertainers and servants, until gradually his eye fell on the very centre, and the only face that returned his gaze. Jesus himself. Michael took a breath, and blinking, moved swiftly on.
He paused again at Raphael’s St Michael Vanquishing Satan. It was a dramatic painting. The golden-haired St Michael, guardian of the Church and all that is Good, stood in a pose of triumph over the Antichrist who lay helpless and defeated at his feet. The Archangel appeared confident in his role as warrior and judge. Michael took another deep breath and wished that life were indeed so clear-cut. That good and evil could be so readily identified, in people and in spirits.
As always, such grand art made him think of his father, who had painted people’s houses to earn a living, but burned with a deep, artistic passion. He painted grandiose scenes, many religious, and sold them where he could. He’d been commissioned to decorate the interior of a small church once, after the priest discovered his artwork at a Sunday market. His efforts remain there to this day, and have become something of a tourist attraction in the small village where Michael grew up.
The gallery must have opened to the public, for a steady wave of tourists now wandered the vast space. Michael stopped briefly at another Michelangelo, but when an American tourist declared loudly that you could tell a Michelangelo from the detail of the veins, he remembered he didn’t really like tourists and turned to leave.
“Michael?”
His breath stopped.
“Michael?”
The voice came from behind; it’s familiarity causing his heart to race. Could it be? Was it possible? Slowly, cautiously, he turned. Her dark hair shone in waves over her shoulders. Her porcelain skin contrasted with the ocean blue of her dress that displayed her perfect femininity. She could be a painting herself, she looked so good. Still a beauty to stop a man’s heart, even a priest’s. But Michael’s heart now thundered in his chest.
Judith smiled wide. “I can’t believe it's you! What are you doing in Paris?”
Michael took a deep breath as old emotions surged to the surface. He clenched his jaw; and a fist. He couldn’t allow her in. Not even a little bit. Not after he’d spent so long trying to forget about her. “I have to go,” was all he could manage to say before he spun on his heel and raced down the stairs two at a time, Judith’s bewildered gaze burning his back.
“Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.” After walking in a daze for half a mile, Michael stopped at a cafe to gather his thoughts. He took a window seat and looked out on the cold street outside, and the steady pace of city workers who wrapped their scarves and coats around them as they marched.
He felt bad about running from Judith. But he had to do it. He’d had no choice. He was doing well now. Living a life with a steady income: he even had a couple of friends. Old Frank and Charlie were almost twice his age, and he only met them at the pub every Friday night. But they were reliable. Always there, and their conversations were never too deep, too probing. They were friends he could keep at arm’s length; all he needed.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced his mind to forget about Judith. In a few days, it would feel as if it had never happened and he would continue making progress to forget about her entirely, as though she had never existed. That was his goal.
With effort, he focused on the case, took the card Pascal had given him from his pocket, and placed it on the table, rereading the name ‘Henri’ and the words Foliss Abesse. Somewhere in the dark crevices of his consciousness, it sparked a memory. He touched the card and his fingers tingled, just a little. He closed his eyes and fanned the memory, and a flame ignited somewhere in the distant past. He had been in the seminary. No – the institute. A lecture on the occult. The speaker was explaining the various demons and their transgressions into this world, and mentioned a little known monk working in Rome. And something else. Michael concentrated, coddling the memory, hoping it wouldn’t vanish before he grasped it. Yes. The Benedictine. He’d performed more exorcisms than any other, with the Bishop’s leave, and claimed to have dealt – with vampires.
“Un café au lait, monsieur.”
Michael’s eyes opened as the waiter placed the coffee on his table next to the card. “Merci.”
He looked to the window again, his blue eyes reflecting in the glass. The sun shone brightly and his ash hair looked almost blonde, golden.
Gerold O’Leary.
Michael blinked. The name whispered in his mind.
He withdrew his tablet and added the name to his notes. He would have to call on his old friend, Patrick, and find out what he knew. He would do that in the afternoon, after he visited Emma’s apartment.
Michael sipped his coffee and opened up to Emma’s blog. There was an entry he wanted to re-read.
Chapter 7
The last entry from Emma’s blog – The Viscount’s Son
Dear Reader,
She has gone. It was done last night and I think, reader, you know what this means. The return of my diary and the delights offered by this sensuous young woman provided me with a distraction from the long nights of tedium I have come to endure.
I came across her quite by accident. I was in Spain at the time, and had just acquired my first iPad. Technology really is a wonder. If only you twenty-first century citizens truly knew how much the world has changed.
Sitting in a bar in Barcelona, I recall reading the latest post on one of the blogs I follow. Feeling curious, I clicked on the ‘next blog’ link and Emma’s blog appeared before me. I recognised it at once – my diary. Her translations were incredibly accurate.
Within a week I had returned here to Paris.
I first came here after leaving England in 1531, when I took up residence in a humble apartment (centuries later, it became an Indian restaurant). I must have forgotten all about the diary then. It’s not surprising; I had much to learn. I’ve been all over the globe since. Every inch of Earth has been traversed by my footsteps. I have learned much, but still I have questions.
Finding her was easy. Her company – a breath of sweet air. Emma filled the darkness with some short pleasure. I sit at her writing desk, in her apartment, now. The whole room speaks of Emma. Such an innocent, yet intelligent woman. She lived in the past – I can see that. Novels line the wall, stories from another era. Jane Austen and the Brontes, in particular. Good fun – the early 19th. So outwardly proper, but scratch the surface … Yes, I enjoyed that era.
One book on her shelf catches my eye. Perhaps she should have studied it
a little more than the others. I remember Stoker well; he knew what the darkness could wreak.
Emma’s words, within this blog, have given me a fire that I’ve not experienced in ages. She reminded me of my original quest – to find the gypsy. Did I ever find her? No. That elusive pursuit died at least three centuries ago.
I had quite forgotten about her, my maker, and now I intend to resume that old quest. To find her. The Gypsy. Only she has the answers to my questions.
I will go to Egypt. That old realm holds the key. Emma revealed that much to me and I am grateful for it. Perhaps she will join me, when, or if she wakes. Not everyone inflicted does awake. This much I have learned.
So reader, I shall leave it to you to decide the veracity of this journal. Whether you believe or not is no concern of mine. Indeed, you would do better to simply click off the page and go on with your dreary life. For knowledge of this is dangerous, as Emma would now attest.
Nathaniel Chartley (Nate)
A Viscount’s son
In the cafe, Michael had ordered another coffee and read the blog entry at least a dozen times. Now, as he pounded the footpath along the Seine, Nathaniel’s words replayed in his mind. He almost knew them by heart. And the more they repeated the more a fire flamed within him – though Nathaniel’s first line gave him chills.
‘She has gone. It was done last night and I think, reader, you know what this means.’
Michael checked himself when he realised he was grimacing and slowed his pace as he finally came upon Notre Dame. The grey cloud had dissipated and a blue sky flared in its wake. Sunshine always calmed him, and breathing easy, he sat on a bench to admire the gothic architecture of the old cathedral. At the very top, the menacing figure of a gargoyle caught his eye. Its scowling mouth revealed long teeth. Its arms were almost wings and it had ears like a bat. Had the artist seen such a creature?
