The Tenth Chamber Part 2

'Well, you know how it is,' Luc mused. 'Never enough time.'

'You had a girlfriend last time we met, an American.'

'Things blew up.'

Hugo shrugged. 'Typical,' and then without missing a beat, 'G.o.d, it's good to see you!'

They talked for a while about friends from their university days and Hugo's complicated social life when Margot knocked discreetly at the door and informed Hugo that the police were on the line again.

'Shall I leave?' Luc asked.

'No, stay, stay. This won't take long.'

Luc listened to one side of a conversation and when Hugo hung up he sighed. 'It's always something. We had a break-in at my plant last night. My watchman was beaten silly. He's in hospital with a cracked skull. They ransacked the place.'

'Anything stolen?'

'Nothing. The idiots probably didn't even know we restore books. What's the last thing an ignorant crook is interested in? Books! And that's what they found, lots of them. Poetic justice, but they made a mess.'

Luc commiserated about the stress his friend seemed to be under but finally raised both palms towards the ceiling and said, 'So? What's the deal? What's so special I've got to drop everything and drag my a.s.s to Paris?'

'I need to pick your brain.'

'About what?'

'This.'

Hugo went to his credenza and picked up a small muslin-wrapped parcel. They sat together on the sofa. Hugo cleared a s.p.a.ce on the coffee table where he made a show of slowly unwrapping the book. The leather looked redder and more l.u.s.trous than the day Hugo had first seen it at the abbey. The haloed saint on the cover was more vividly three-dimensional. The silver bobs, corners and endbands along with the dual clasps had a touch of their period s.h.i.+ne. And of course, the book was much lighter now, bone dry. 'I got this in a few weeks ago. It suffered a lot of water damage but my people sorted it out.'

'Okay...'

'It's from the Dordogne, the Perigord Noir, your stomping ground.'

Luc raised his eyebrows in mild interest.

'Ever hear of a little village called Ruac?'

'On the Vezere, right? I may have poked around it once or twice. What's there?'

Hugo proceeded to tell Luc about the abbey and its fire, employing a touch of drama and showmans.h.i.+p, purposely building to a storyteller's climax. After he had finished with a boastful account of the excellence of his company at ma.n.u.script restoration he said, 'I'd like you to thumb through it and give me a first impression, okay?'

'Sure. Let's have a look.'

Luc held the thin light book in his calloused hands, opened the cover, took note of the fourteenth-century date on the flyleaf and started turning the pages.

He let out a low whistle. 'You're kidding me!' he exclaimed.

'I thought you'd be interested,' Hugo said. 'Carry on.'

Luc paused on each page only long enough to register a first impression. Although he couldn't read the text, he could tell the scribe had a competent, practised hand. The ma.n.u.script was done in a stylistically boxy script, two columns per page, employing a rust-coloured ink that retained a lovely coppery glint. There were p.r.i.c.kings around the edge of the pages that had been employed to keep the lines straight and true.

But it wasn't the text that interested him. What had him captivated were the bright and bold ill.u.s.trations decorating the borders of several pages.

Particularly the iconic ones, the images which were his life's blood.

The black bulls. The roe deer. The bison.

Wildly animalistic and beautifully rendered in blacks, earthy-reds, browns and tans.

'This is unmistakable polychromatic cave art,' he murmured. 'Upper Paleolithic, very similar in execution and style to Lascaux but these aren't from Lascaux or any site I've seen.'

'And you've seen them all, I imagine,' Hugo said.

'Of course! This is what I do! But you know, what's far more incredible is the date here: 1307! The absolute first credible mention in recorded history of cave art is from 1879 at Altamira, Spain. This is five centuries earlier! I'm not saying that man hadn't laid eyes on these caves earlier than the nineteenth century but no one ever thought to write about it or reproduce any images. Are you certain this is really from 1307?'

'Well, I haven't subjected it to forensic dating, but the vellum, the bindings, the ink, the pigments all cry out fourteenth century.'

'You're sure?'

Hugo laughed and parroted back, 'This is what I do!'

Luc buried himself back in the book. He sought out one particular page and rotated the ma.n.u.script for Hugo to see.

Hugo snorted, 'I knew that would interest you. It's quite the image, quite evocative! Ever seen anything like that before?'

In the margin was a primitive outline, a standing human form, not much more than a glorified stick figure rendered in thick black brushstrokes. Instead of a head the figure had the beak of a bird and at its midsection, a long slash of ink, a huge erect phallus.

'Yes! I have! Not identical but very similar. There's a painting in Lascaux of a birdman just like this. Some kind of mystical figure. Complete with the c.o.c.k. Incredible.'

He flipped to another page and pointed at the marginalia, lavishly rendered in rich pigments lush greens, earthy-browns and bursting reds. 'And look at all these drawings! These plants.' And another page. 'These are vines of some kind.' And another. 'These are gra.s.ses. It's like a natural history!' And finally he turned to one of the last pages. 'And this, for G.o.d's sake, Hugo, this is a map!'

Along the margins of the page was a winding blue line snaking through a swathe of greens, browns and greys, some apparent topography. The landscape was dotted with small painted symbols: a tan tower, a meandering blue line surely a river a cl.u.s.ter of grey-roofed dwellings, a tree with crazily angled branches, a paired array of wavy blue lines against a grey background and near it, a tiny black X X, unlabelled, floating without context.

Hugo agreed. 'It struck me as a map too.'

Luc finished his bourbon but waved Hugo away when he tried to refill the gla.s.s. 'So, now you'd better tell me what this says. You're the Latin scholar. I never progressed much past veni, vidi, vici veni, vidi, vici.'

Hugo smiled and replenished his own gla.s.s then said with theatrical flair, 'Well, the inscription on the flyleaf says, "I, Barthomieu, friar of Abbey Ruac, am two hundred and twenty years old and this is my story."'

Luc wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. 'Go on...'

'And the first line on the first page says, "In the everlasting memory of the greatest man I have ever known, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux."'

Luc ran his finger over the saint's halo on the cover. 'This guy?'

'Presumably.'

'Any relation to the dogs?'

'As it happens, yes, they're named after him, but as I've since learned he's a bit more famous than that.'

'So tell me the rest.'

'I can't.'

Luc was losing his patience. 'Why not?'

Hugo was enjoying himself. 'I can't read it.'

Luc was finished with the game. 'Look, spit it out and don't be a jerk. Why can't you read it?'

'Because the rest of it's in code!'

FIVE.

For Luc visiting the Perigord was like coming home. It was green and fertile and always seemed to welcome him like a mother's arms. From his earliest boyhood days at the family vacation cottage at Saint-Aulaye where he spent his summers wading at the village beach along the Dronne, Luc was happiest when he was in that countryside.

The undulating terrain, the steep river gorges, the limestone cliffs, the sun-splashed terraces extending beyond the wine-producing slopes, the dense patches of woodlands, the plum trees and holm oak abundant in the sandy soil, the ancient villages and sandstone towns that dotted the winding by-roads all these things stirred his soul and kept drawing him back. But none were as important as the ghosts of the Perigord's distant past, faraway souls that came to him as if in a waking dream, shadowy figures darting through the forests always just out of reach.

His childhood visions of early man prowling the land, fueled by field trips to the dark painted caves of the region and the novel, Jean Auel's, The Clan of the Cave Bear The Clan of the Cave Bear, which the precocious eleven-year-old had practically inhaled, set him on an academic path that took him to the University of Paris, Harvard and now the faculty at Bordeaux.

Luc had picked up Hugo from the main Bordeaux train station, Gare Saint Jean, and from there they headed west in his banged-up Land Rover. For Luc the route was automatic; he could almost close his eyes. The Land Rover, once dubbed the Gland Rover by a waggish English grad student, had a few hundred thousand kilometres on the clock. By day, when an excavation was running, it ferried students and equipment to the dig site on its unforgiving shock absorbers and by night, beer-stoked, hormonally charged young diggers to and from the local cafes.

They arrived before lunch at the abbey and sat with Dom Menaud in the study of his abbot house, a dusty book-filled room more resembling a professor's apartment than a cleric's. Hugo performed the introductions and offered a quick apology for their casual clothes. The creature of fas.h.i.+on he was, he was chagrined to be taking a meeting dressed for a hike.

Hugo had corresponded with the abbot about the status of the restorations and a timetable had been set for the return of all the volumes. But now, Dom Menaud was particularly anxious to see the Barthomieu ma.n.u.script for himself and when Hugo produced it from his bag he grabbed at it like a greedy child offered a chocolate bar.

The abbot spent a full five minutes in silence, pawing through the pages, studying the text through his bifocals before shaking his head in wonder. 'This really is quite remarkable. Saint Bernard, of all people! And why did this Barthomieu feel it necessary to hide behind a cipher? And these fantastic ill.u.s.trations! I'm delighted and puzzled and at the same time, I admit, somewhat apprehensive about what it all means.'

'We don't disagree,' Hugo said with a counterbalancing lack of emotion, always the professional before his clients. 'That's why we're here. We're keen to find explanations and Professor Simard has graciously volunteered to help.'

The abbot turned to Luc, his hands resting protectively on the ma.n.u.script. 'I appreciate, that, professor. One of the Brothers did an Internet search for me. You have an ill.u.s.trious background for such a young man. A baccalaureate in Paris from my alma mater, a doctorate from Harvard, a faculty appointment there and most recently, a prestigious professors.h.i.+p at Bordeaux. Congratulations on your accomplishments.'

Luc bowed his head in appreciation.

'Why Harvard, if you don't mind my curiosity?'

'My mother was American, my father French. When I was young I attended boarding school while my parents lived in the Middle East, though we came back to France for summers. When they divorced, it was natural to split the baby, where I'm the baby, you see. I went to an American high school to be with my mother then Paris for my university studies to be near my father then to Harvard to be near my mother again. Complicated, but it worked out.'

'But most of your research has been done in this region?'

'Yes, at least ninety per cent, I should think. I've had my hand in many of France's important paleolithic sites of the last couple of decades, including the Chauvet Cave down in Ardeche. For the last several seasons, I've been extending some old trenches originally dug by Professor Movius from Harvard at Les Eyzies. I've been busy.'

'Not too busy for this?' the abbot asked, pointing to the book.

'Certainly not! How can I turn my back on a great intrigue?'

Dom Menaud was nodding and staring down at the cover. 'Saint Bernard of Clairvaux is a very important figure in our order, are you aware of that?'

Hugo acknowledged he was well aware.

The abbot who was wearing his simple monk's habit suddenly pursed his lips in concern. 'As excited as I am to have a doc.u.ment a.s.sociated in any way with him, we should be aware of some sensitivities. We don't know what this Barthomieu has to say. Saint Bernard was one of our great men.' He proceeded to unfold a finger for each point: 'He was a founder of the Cistercian order. He was a partic.i.p.ant in the Council of Troyes which confirmed the Order of the Knights Templar. He preached the Second Crusade. He established almost two hundred monasteries throughout Europe. His theological influence was immense. He had the ear of popes and famously was the one who denounced Pierre Abelard to Pope Innocent the Second.' When Luc's expression didn't register recognition, the abbot added, 'You know, the famous romance between Abelard and Heloise, the great tragic love story of the middle ages?'

'Ah yes!' Luc said. 'Every schoolboy's forced to read their love letters.'

'Well, later in Abelard's life, long after his physical tragedy, as it were, Bernard made his life quite difficult again, but it was over a theological matter, not an affair of the heart! Well, to be sure, it's just an interesting footnote. But nevertheless, for his great works, Bernard was not only canonised, but the Pope made him a Doctor of the Church in 1174 within a mere twenty years of his death! So, what I'm saying, gentlemen, is that even though this Barthomieu is dedicating a tract to the Saint almost two hundred years after his death, we have to be mindful of Bernard's reputation. If I am to allow you to investigate this matter, I insist you exercise appropriate discretion and inform me of every finding so I may communicate to my superiors and take instructions. In this, as in all things in life, I am only a servant.'

From the rough map in the book, Luc had decided the best place to start their search was on the southern edge of Ruac, which was situated on the eastern bank of the Vezere. Ruac was an ancient village that, unlike many of its neighbours, completely lacked tourist attractions, and so it remained quiet throughout the year. There were no museums or galleries, only a single cafe and no signposts directing visitors to prehistoric caves or rock shelters. There was one main cobbled street lined by lemon-coloured stone houses a good number still with their original lauzes roofs made of impossibly heavy slabs of mottled-grey rock, once common to the region, now rapidly vanis.h.i.+ng, replaced by more practical terracotta-tiled roofs. It was a neat tidy enclave with modest gardens and poppy-stuffed flower boxes, and while Luc slowly drove through its heart, looking for a place to park, he made some idyllic comments about its unspoiled authenticity. Hugo was unmoved and flinched at an old heavy-haunched woman who scowled at the car as it squeezed past her on the narrow lane. At the end of a row of houses, as Luc was pondering which direction to take, a goat tethered near a tool shed within a small low-walled pasture spectacularly relieved itself and Hugo could no longer hold in his sentiments.

'G.o.d, I hate the country!' he exclaimed. 'How on earth did you persuade me to come with you?'

Luc smiled and turned towards the river.

There wasn't a convenient place to park, so Luc pulled the Land Rover onto a gra.s.s verge on the outskirts of the village. Through the woods, the river was unseen but faintly heard. He left a cardboard sign on the windscreen indicating they were on official University of Bordeaux business, which may or may not prevent ticketing, depending on the officiousness of the local gendarmes. He helped Hugo adjust his rucksack and the two of them delved into the forest.

It was hot and the air hummed with insects. There was no trail but the undergrowth of bushes, ferns and weeds wasn't too thickly tangled. They had few problems weaving through the stands of horse chestnuts, oak and beech trees which formed an umbrella-like canopy, blocking the midday sun and cooling the air. It wasn't completely virgin territory. A pile of crushed lager cans under a false acacia tree bore witness to recent nocturnal pursuits. Luc was peeved at the violation. An otherwise perfect image of hanging cl.u.s.ters of creamy flowers against a verdant background was spoiled by the litter and he grumbled that on their way back they should stop and clean up. Hugo rolled his eyes at the boy-scout sentiment and trudged onwards.

As they drew closer to the river, the sound of flowing water filled their ears until they broke through a heavy thicket and were suddenly on a ledge, a good twenty metres above the river. There was a splendid view across its wide, sparkling expanse towards the fertile valley on the opposite bank. The vast plain, a patchwork of asymmetrical fields of wheat and beans and grazing cattle seemed to fade and disappear into the hazy horizon.

'Now where?' Hugo asked as he uncomfortably adjusted his rucksack.

Luc pulled out the copy of the map and pointed. 'Okay, I'm going on the a.s.sumption that this cl.u.s.ter of buildings represents Ruac, because this tower, here, is perfectly compatible with the Romanesque tower of the abbey. It's obviously not drawn to scale but the relative positions make sense, see?'

Hugo nodded. 'So you think we're somewhere around here?' He stuck his finger on a map point near the meandering blue line.

'Hopefully. If not, we're in for a very long day. So I say we start walking along the cliffs that way until we find something that looks like this.' He was tapping his finger on the first set of wavy-blue lines. 'I don't think we can rely on this odd tree he's drawn. I'd be surprised if it's still there after six hundred years!' Then he laughed and added, 'And please be careful and don't fall. It would be tragic.'

'Not so much for me,' Hugo said glumly, 'but the two women who cash my alimony cheques would go into mourning.'

Because of the geography of the steep-sided valley, the precipice they were perched upon was lower than the cliffs downstream. As they hiked, the surface they were traversing turned into heavily wooded undercliffs above them, the limestone face soared another twenty metres over their heads. It was not a treacherous hike. The ledge of the undercliffs was broad enough and stable and the view down into the river was postcard lovely. Nevertheless, Luc was aware his friend was a novice at outdoors pursuits so he kept the pace leisurely and opted for the safest possible footings for Hugo to match step-by-step.

He knew this stretch of cliffs, but not well. It had been fifteen years since he explored this section, but even then it had been a casual survey, a time-filler with no specific motivation. The entire river valley was riddled with prehistoric caves and shelters and it was a well-accepted certainty that important sites, perhaps even spectacular ones, remained to be discovered. Some would be found by professional archaeologists or geologists, others by cavers looking for new thrills, still others by hikers or even, as had happened before, the family dog.

Before today's expedition with Hugo, Luc had gone back and checked his old journals about the Ruac cliffs. The notations were spa.r.s.e. He'd spent a day or two poking around the area during the summer following the award of his doctorate. His scribbled notes spoke of buzzards and black kites soaring on the thermals and the pleasures of a good packed lunch, but there was not a single mention of an archaeological find. Looking back, what he remembered most of that summer was the lightness that came from finis.h.i.+nig one part of his life and starting another. His student days were done; his professors.h.i.+p had not yet started. He could still conjure up the bliss of that liberty.

In researching the trip, Luc discovered that a colleague from Lyon had done a helicopter survey of the stratified oatmeal-coloured rock surfaces of the Vezere valley several years earlier. This was potentially of greater use than the notes he had made years before, and Luc had him email a file of photographs and maps. He studied them intently, side-by-side with the Barthomieu map, peering through a photographer's loupe for any useful clues waterfalls, creva.s.ses, cave mouths but like the archaeologist from Lyon, he saw nothing of particular interest.

An hour into their hike, the two men paused for some bottled water. Hugo slipped the rucksack from his shoulders and squatted on his haunches with his back up against the rock face to avoid getting dirt on the seat of his khakis. He lit a cheroot and his face registered the first pleasure of the afternoon. Luc remained standing, squinting into the afternoon sun. He pulled the crude map from the back pocket of his jeans, had another look then folded it back up.

Hugo pouted. 'I hadn't appreciated how futile this would be until I got up here. We can hardly see the rocks below us! It's almost impossible to make anything of the rocks above us! I suppose if there were a big fat cave entrance right off this ledge, maybe we'd find it. You never told me how ridiculous this was going to be.'

Luc shrugged off his friend's comments. 'The map is the key. If it's for real then perhaps we'll find something. If it was from this guy's imagination then we're getting our sun and our exercise for the week, that's all. Plus some male bonding.'