CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – ARLES
It had taken only one day for it to leave the Earth’s atmosphere. It then spent the next two years in orbit around the Earth, then one year on the outer and one year on the inner boundary limit of the Aura. The fifth year of its migration saw this lump of “stuff” succumb to the gravity of the planet and slowly return to Earth. From the perspective of a Human, this was by no means anything like a lump of stuff. They would be hard pressed to even see it – it was smaller than a speck of dust. To the Smota, it was a large mass and a suitable vehicle. It was extremely rare to actually find such a piece of slow moving matter with which the Smota could bond. Meteorites, meteors and heavy cosmic grains would burn up and kill them, as would the metal containers used by the Humans. To bond with a piece of slow matter which actually came from, and was returning to the Earth, was an opportunity that they could not ignore and as the speck drifted downward, attached to it was a small colony of Smota.
These were astral travellers, which traversed the universes using dust, comets and gasses as their means of transport. They, unlike the Whisps, were not confined to an Aura, but were aware of the existence of barriers and boundaries. These were not unassailable and the Smota would find ways and means of entering and leaving them. They had evolved from something, but did not know what – all that mattered was forward progression. It was their purpose to constantly travel, to discover, to adapt, to learn, if necessary to integrate with matter. The results of their discoveries were seldom, if ever, passed on to other Smota – because of this, the Smota as a body, had a disorganised existence.
This tiny mote of dust finally floated back to Earth after five year’s absence. It had been hurled into space from a massive explosion on the planet – the Humans called that event Krakatoa.
-oOo-
“Are you Mister Orrslet?”
Anton had just entered the reception room through a violet curtain from his office. It had been a quiet morning and he was alone reading an old National Geographic Magazine, when he heard the little front doorbell tingle.
“Oui, yes ....mesdames, may I be...of service to... you?”
Edna replied, “We’re from Vermont, USA and touring France. You may remember Mister Jeroen, he is the Funeral Director of our town. He told us that you met in Las Vegas a while ago and how he was interested in seeing your place.”
“Ah - yes yes I remember him, he was telling me of how it was near impossible to bury the departed during your winters... oh pardon me, I didn’t mean to cause upset, young lady.”
“Ne vous excuse pas” replied Aggie, “monsieur you speak English quite well.”
“Merci - and you demoiselle, speak good the French.”
“My name is Aggie and this is my aunt, my tante, Edna.” Aggie held out her hand, but instead of shaking it, Anton took it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand, then Edna’s. Dwarg went off on his flux.
“Now lovely ladies, what is it with Mister Jeroen?”
“Well he heard that we were going through Arles on our vacation and he asked if we could stop and say hello to you and if we could possibly take some photos of you and your funeral home. We would understand if you feel it’s not proper, we don’t want to trouble you.”
“Tante Edna, you have me at a good time, nobodys here today - ha ha, you see morticians funny can be also. I would be honoured to pleasure you. Let me take you on a tour of my establishment, take plenty of photographs, take anything you like. I will tell you of something that Mister Jeroen will despair. This place by the government, will be shut down because underneath this building are other buildings – old Roman buildings – and we must make way for them.”
Anton showed them the parlour, the workshop and embalming room, the shelves of bottles of chemicals and morticians tools. He kept directing Edna and Aggie – both snapping away with their cameras – at things that Mr Jeroen may find interesting.
“I will show you some more things ladies, come down these steps into the cellar, wait, I will turn on the lights. These are the legacies of my forefathers.
You see those old desks along the wall? They belonged to my father, his father and his father. I have kept everything as a memorial to them – unfortunately all this will have to be disposed of – and I will be the last of this line. My ancestor’s life works will be scrapped and dumped by tractors earthmoving just to resurrect some ugly walls of stone put there by invading Italians.” He shrugged his shoulders and held his palms up – quite the victim of circumstances beyond his control. “Cést la vie mon petit enfant.”
“Wow Mister Orrslet, there is some interesting stuff down here.” She walked around the desks and boxes and the clutter of many years of accumulation. “Aunt Edna, have at look at those gorgeous urns. Just look at this little round tin - it’s got little fairies and daisies painted all over it – it’s beautiful.”
“Tante Edna, please call me Anton.” He turned to Aggie, “petit papillon, it is merely an old container of camphor paste; you may keep it if you wish. You will need to empty and wash it – it’s sure to be off. Do you see anything you might like for yourself or something to bring back to Mr Jeroen?”
“Anton, he’ll be disappointed that I didn’t bring your entire parlour back to Vermont, and as for me – I’ve been shopping in Paris and I’m worried that I’ll become bankrupt paying for excess baggage to get it all back to America.”
“Was this your father?” asked Aggie looking up at an old dusty framed photograph on the wall.
“Non, no my cherie, that is my grandfather’s father, Claude Orrslet.”
“What an expressive pose, and I love the black suit with pipe-stove hat and black lace – he looks exactly how one would imagine a funeral director to look. I love the shiny cummerbund, and even the lilies in the background seem appropriate – you must be proud of your heritage. Isn’t he handsome Aunt Edna?” Aggie was squeezing Edna’s hand.
“Ah, yes, a very nice looking man. Anton, would it be possible for me to take a close up photograph of it? – I think Mister Jeroen would really be interested in seeing this.”
“Of course, here, I will get it down for you. Take it with you if you like - I have copies. The glass is rather thick so it should not break easily.”
“Why thank you so much, that’s so gracious of you Anton. I think it’s a wonderful picture and I’ll treat it with reverence. Are you sure you don’t mind me taking it?”
Anton just gave a little whistle and a wave of indifference.
“Thank you so much for your time and trouble Anton – we’re really happy to have met you. May we offer our condolences on the loss of your business. Goodbye and good luck.”
“Au revoir ladies, and, as you say....happy trails.”
Anton returned to his small office, picked up the National Geographic and kept reading the fascinating story about Eskimo life. To him, life was bon and he was going to live the good life.
Edna and Aggie jumped into the car and drove toward the city centre of Arles. “Tell me, tell me, tell me” quipped Edna. She felt like a little schoolgirl who had just done something very naughty, “did we do what little shithead wanted us to do?”
“Wonderfully and Dwarg has found a connection Aunt, he’s still working on it. See this pretty little tin Mister Orrslet gave me – on the bottom someone has scratched GARDER POUR R. Dwarg has just worked out that the R stands for Rachel – KEEP FOR RACHEL.”
“O my Lord Aggie, you don’t think what’s inside that, is...aw come on now...that’s going a bit too far.”
“You mean a bit of Vincent van Gogh’s left ear? – Yep – I reckon so.”
Edna reminded herself to have a check-up if she ever got back to the States. Her heart had missed so many beats in the last few months that she was bound to have some condition or other. Aggie interrupted her thoughts and said, “I saw a little restaurant just down from the hotel. It’s called la Boehme, and the board outside advertised Australian BBQ dinners, that would be a nice treat to celebrate
our nefarious caper today – don’t you think Tante Edna?”
“I don’t know what nefarious means Aggie, does it mean spanking a cheeky girl whose aunt ain’t too good at big words?”
“ Ooh noo, it means unspeakably wicked, and I promise never to use that word again.”
“Thank goodness. As to food, anything but crepes and pizza, sweetheart, or that eel pudding you made me eat – that was something nefarious. So where do we go from now? and don’t say the Bastille. And what about this dirty, ugly and heavy photo of grandpa grim – what’s that all about?”
“I really don’t know aunt – Dwarg likes it. You remember Anton saying something about invading Italians? Well there was a riot in Arles around the time of Claude Orslett. Seems a couple of French soldiers were mugged and killed by two Italians. A lynch mob demanded that the police give up the two, but failed. There was a great hostility toward Italians in the town, who all packed up and moved away for fear of retaliation. Claude was very active organising that mob – perhaps he was looking to improve business.”
Dwarg had waited for so long to get onto the trail of the mysterious Whisp through possible stored memories of Vincent van Gogh. He had fluxed through the memory modules of Anton’s father Louis, and Louis’s father Philippe, then Philippe’s father Claude.
It was Claude who was summoned by Rachel, the madam, on 15 January 1889. She asked him to collect a bottle which contained alcohol and the lower portion of an ear. She related that it belonged to Vincent van Gogh, the red headed Dutch painter who lived on Place Lamartine. She told of the incident which occurred on Christmas Eve of the previous year. Late that night Mnsr van Gogh knocked on her door and left a newspaper wrapped parcel with her, saying “keep this, it is important.”
She assumed it was a Christmas gift. He had some linen wrapped around his head but she could see blood seeping at the left side of his face – he would not come in and left - he was very agitated. She then saw blood on the newspaper and asked her housekeeper unwrap it and went into a swoon when she saw the mutilated ear. The housekeeper called the gendarmerie who took the bottle away as possible proof or evidence of a crime.
The police returned the property to her on 15 January, saying they had no further interest in the matter. They did not offer advice as to the disposal of the ear. She then called Claude Orrslet who collected the ear and asked him to keep it at the funeral parlour until she knew what should be done. She paid five francs in advance for such storage. Claude pressed the portion of ear into a bath of menthol, camphor and wax; stored it in a decorative tin and marked it underneath – “GARDER POUR R.”
At last Dwarg had found something that would take him directly to van Gogh – all he needed was for Aggie to firmly touch that piece of Human ear.
“Aggie, this is too morbid. We can’t just open that tin and fondle a one hundred and twenty year old wrinkly piece of cartilage, you can never know that there won’t be some disease or germ or fungus that will pop up and kill us.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to get the experts to open and examine this first?”
“We could try but it would be hard to convince people about all this – Inspector Odrow back in Paris would not like the idea, besides, Dwarg wouldn’t let us get hurt – OK maybe a bruise or two. There is a big pharmacy in the city, we can drive there and buy some rubber gloves, masks and antiseptic, would you feel better if we did that?”
“Might need some smelling salts as well.”
They had eaten, it was evening, and they looked like laboratory technicians. They were in their hotel suite, in the bathroom dressed with white paper aprons, masks and hair coverings, safety goggles and gloves.
It took all of this for Aggie to convince Edna that everything would be safe. The lid was tight and Aggie couldn’t pop it off – Edna put out her hand and tried, “get me the car keys sweetie” and after several attempts and a scraped knuckle the lid was prised off. Edna set the tin container onto the side of the bathroom sink. They both peered down through their plastic glasses and saw only a brownish blob – the smell of camphor was strong. Before Edna could think of saying something, Aggie had poked her finger into the substance, stirred it around and brought a black solid lump to the surface. “Ah – ear we are” - she looked at Edna with a smile – Edna was not amused “...sorry about that aunt.”
“Yuk Aggie, now what? You’re not actually going to touch it with your bare fingers – are you?”
“It’s something I really have to do. After I touch it, I may have to lie down. Just let me sleep – I want to give Dwarg as much energy as possible.” Aggie removed the rubber glove off her right hand, looked at Edna, and said “OK, here goes...” and grabbed the bit of ear. Nothing happened. “Aunt Edna, could you let me have your brooch, I just need a little pin prick to get past the crust.” Edna took off her brooch and said, “here, let me at least do something” then stabbed the point into the “thing”- Aggie rubbed her finger over the small hole that Edna had made.
“If you could, can you put the lid back on and tape it all together – don’t want to let the bacteria in.” Edna wrapped the tin with cling-wrap, then used an entire roll of surgical tape to seal it - no way would some evil spirit from Pandora’s Box spring out. Edna kept a close eye on Aggie.
“Whoa, yes, I’m feeling a bit woozy now, that did the trick - I think I need to rest now Aunt – it’s about bedtime anyway. I’ll just wash my hands and say goodnight – don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Aggie then wobbled to her bed. Edna pulled up a chair next to her. She would keep a vigil for however long it might take. Aggie immediately fell asleep.
“Good morning sweetheart – how are you feeling?”
“A bit giddy aunt, were you here all night? did you get some sleep?”
“I dozed a bit, you were running a bit of a fever at one stage, I think you were having nightmares, you were moaning and sometimes you opened your eyes suddenly – gave me a few starts, but you’ve been sleeping calmly for the last three hours – after all that, I hope Dwarg has come up with a few answers.”
-oOo-
Aggie spread some maple syrup on a fresh croissant. “Dwarg has confirmed that some alien was in Vincent. The good news, it was not a Whisp. The bad news is that the entity was not of the Aura or of the Planet. It came from another world.”
“Great, just what we need! – more ETs and gremlins fluttering around our assholes..oops sorry Aggie, I meant, our world – OK, let’s have it, what’s the little shithead’s story on this bug?”
“Dwarg says it has limited group intelligence but does have a small influence on its immediate environment. It entered Vincent while he was here in Arles. Ironically it became trapped in the body of this Human who was already suffering from a variety of maladies. It kept to its course of seeking escape from the organism but the Human fights back at each attempt to leave. The entity does not have the ability or knowledge to heal or repair creatures. At the time of the wounding, the entity was still present – seems both Vincent and it, remain trapped.”
“So, after all these years, where the hell is this damn bug now?”
“Dwarg says Paris. We may need to find Vincent’s grave – and we may need to buy a shovel.”
Edna sprang up and nearly up-ended the coffee pot. “Aggie, with the combined knowledge of Dwarg and yourself, try to figure out just what I’m thinking right now.”
“Don’t worry Aunt Edna, Dwarg’s sense of humour is improving. He was just waiting to get back at you for calling him a little shithead - twice. He believes that the entity would have expired when Vincent died. Obviously the intruder had an awareness of, or may have actually observed, the Swirl Chaos and somehow influenced Vincent with his paintings, especially The Starry Night.”
“I guess it explains why he went gaga big time. Hmm...I wonder if he shot himself in order to kill off the ET inside him?”
“You know, that’s a very good point and quite possible. He had just painted a scene of a wheat-field
with big black crows flying overhead, away from him. He may have been inspired with the thought that if he shot himself, so would the entity fly away from him – but that’s only a presumption, anyway he still lived a few days after he shot himself.”
Edna said, “O yes, the crows. I read that Vincent was handed a pistol as he went to go and paint in the field. He was asked to shoot it occasionally to scare them off. Hmm...all so interesting. I’ve bookmarked a page in this here book of Vincent’s letters, let me see..ahh yes, listen to this... “When a man comes out of prison after having been there a long time, there will be moments when he will even miss his prison, because he finds himself at a loss now that he is at liberty – so called, I suppose, because the grinding daily task of earning your living hardly leaves any liberty at all.” I thought that was well written – even for a nutcase. Don’t you look so surprised young lady, I can read too.”
“And back in Putney you said you’d just come along purely for the ride.”
“OK, OK, so what now? – mystery solved? - back to Putney?”
“Still a few days to go aunt – anything can happen.”
Dwarg in the Seventh Dimension : The Aggie Kellor Experience Page 22
