by Maggy Diak
***
I was so absorbed in reading that I did not hear Kate entering my room. Suddenly, she was standing by my bed, making me jump up of fear.
“Sorry, I knocked, but you did not hear,” she apologized. “Anything useful?” she asked.
“I am not sure,” I answered. “He writes about interesting but weird things. At the beginning he recites the Bible, talks about historical facts, then he starts to fancy things. I don’t think there is any truth in his statements; nevertheless, his writings might have attracted some fans. Fans who believe that he really knows some secret. That he can predict the future. I don’t see any harm in this. People have the whole right to be fools. What I am afraid of is, that somebody might have found his writing provocative. Inciting to something dangerous … He says, for example, that the USA and Europe will fall apart. We both know what pains are being taken by the European Committee to hold the countries together. I am sure they wouldn’t like the idea that all their efforts were in vain. However, the idea of the fall of the USA is even worse. You know how proud the Americans are of their country, of the stars on their flag! They certainly will not applaud to your husband when he tells them they will lose them. Lose the stars. And the reason for the attack on New York. It’s so far-fetched. Where does he get these ideas?”
Kate shrugged her shoulders. She probably didn’t know any answer.
“I really don’t know what to do with this,”I sighed, tapping my finger on the folder.
“I think we should try to find the French police officer who is investigating the case,”she suggested. “He might have found some traces till now.”
“We will,” I agreed, “but first I’d like to talk to the student. To Maurice. I’m really interested in what he has to tell.”
Without objection, Kate followed me out of the room.
7.
Maurice opened the door as soon as I put my finger on the bell. He must have been expecting somebody, but his surprised face told me that he was for sure not expecting us.
“Yes?” he asked shortly, sulkily, disappointedly. He was a blond, slim, blue-eyed young man. The kind, women would describe as handsome. Attractive.
I introduced us.” Oh, come in, come in,” he hurried, opening the door wide. We entered.
“Do you have any fresh news?” I asked after we had sat down.
Maurice shook his head.
“No,” he answered. A faint smile crossed his face, as he added: “I hoped, you were bringing them.”
“Sorry to have to disappoint you,” I said.
He nervously combed his hair with his fingers. “I don’t understand what is going on,” he stammered desperately. “This is crazy! I don’t know who would … Who could have learned about, about …?”
He fell silent, worriedly shaking his head.
“About what?”I asked.
I noticed that my question confused him. He dropped his eyes while saying that it was nothing.
“If you have any suspicions, please, tell me.”
“No, no, because of worries I sometimes talk through my hat.”
“I see. Maurice, tell me, what makes you think that CIA or Scotland Yard might have kidnapped them?”
He took quite a long time to think before he answered: “I guess because of the names Professor uses in his lectures.”
“What names?”
“Well, Bush, Blair, Laden, the Queen of England …”
“He mentions those people in his lectures?” I asked astonished. In the part that I had read, I didn’t come across any of those names.
There were mostly places and all had the meaning of Jerusalem.
“Yes, he does. They are the trinity of today.”
“Trinity? Oh yes, I remember. The trinity like Abraham, Sarah and Lot? The leading people in a period?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “They, in fact, are the leading people, aren’t they?”
“But maybe they don’t like what he wrote about them.”
“And what did he write?”
“I don’t remember,” he said nervously.
“You don’t remember?” I exclaimed unbelievingly. “Didn’t you insist on inviting Otrin to the Sorbonne because his lectures seemed so interesting to you?”
“It was Isabelle who insisted,” he answered. “I supported her when I noticed how much it meant to her to get him here. I accompanied her to Mr. Pearson where I pretended to be immensely enthusiastic. Just to help her.”
I stared at him for some moments. “Does it mean you haven’t read any of his books?”
“That’s right. I tried. But when I discovered that his theories are not really scientific, that they do not base on experiments and other scientific methods, I lost interest in them.”
“How do you know then that he wrote about trinities and about names like Bush, Blair and so on?”
“Isabelle told me. She read some passages aloud. I remember thinking that what he wrote about them was interesting, yet I felt uneasy as well, because I think that writing about people on such high positions, might be dangerous. You never know when you say something … when you insult them, and trigger revenge.”
“Did you reveal your hesitations to Isabelle? Did you warn her?”
“Of course I did. She answered that I was making a mountain out of a molehill. But I was right, wasn’t I? He shouldn’t write about those people.”
“Isabelle is your girlfriend, isn’t she?” I asked. He nodded.
“What kind of a person is she?”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“When I am looking for people it helps me if I know about them as much as possible. “
After a short pause, he said thoughtfully: “She’s the most attractive, the smartest and the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
That did not tell me much about her, of course. I needed facts not emotional outbursts of a person deeply in love.
“I don’t know much,” he admitted with some uneasiness. “She comes from Provence. From St. Rémy. The place where Vincent Van Gogh was treated if you remember. The birthplace of Nostradamus. There are ruins in St. Rémy, which cannot be found anywhere else in the world. The ruins of a real Gallo Romanian city. God knows what they are hiding in them. The city was built thirty years before Christ. If only I had the chance to investigate them, I'm sure I'd find remnants, containing DNAs, I could reveal the secret ...”
“Maurice,” I interrupted him, “I am not interested in history or any DNA stuff! At this point, I am interested only in Isabelle. In the members of her family. Tell me about those if you can.”
Obviously insulted, he continued: “Isabelle’s parents are living in a big house in St. Rémy. Both, her mother and her father are reputable lawyers. Her sister is a manager of the Vincent Van Gogh Museum. That’s all I know.”
“Have you ever met her family?”
“No. Her parents travel a lot and we, Isabelle and I, are always running out of time. We are very busy and …”
“What did they say when you told them about her sudden disappearance?”
His look became desperate. “I don’t have their address or the telephone number. I called the Museum to get her sister, but they said there was no person with that name working there.”
“Not working there?” I frowned. “Are you suggesting she lied to you?”
“No, of course not! Isabelle’s sister is the manager and as much as I know the stuff is not allowed to reveal any personal information about their managers.”
I had my own opinion about that, but there was no point telling it to him. I asked him to stay in contact. To inform me if there were any news. He promised and we left.
“He is hiding something,” I said to Kate. “He was not telling the truth.”
“About what?”
“About everything. He knows more than he told us.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I’ve been working with people all my life. I can smell a lie. His question, how anybody could find out something, he didn’t want to finish the sentence, remember, has a deeper meaning and I’m going to find out what it is!”
After a short silence, she asked: “It’s strange that he can find neither Isabelle’s parents nor her sister, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It is. Yes. More and more people seem to be missing. It is very strange. Very very strange …”
