The Cairo Diary (6 page)

The narrow street was as dark as a sewer. It resembled a sordid medieval alley: the wall of the cemetery's foundations on one side and the row of little houses on the other, old stone everywhere, and in lieu of a lamppost an unlit lantern made of wrought iron, which creaked softly in the wind. Marion realized that she didn't have a flashlight to light her way or even allow her to keep an eye on the map. Fortunately, she had a reasonably clear idea of which way to go. It was pointless to consider taking the lower route; she had seen the sea rising during the afternoon, and by now it must be licking the ramparts.

She took the path to the left.

The ground was paved and invisible. Marion was walking on a sieve of shadows, through which only sound could filter.

A staircase appeared to the right, following the boundary of the cemetery, and climbing to higher levels of the Mount.

She turned up her collar to protect her neck from the cold, slid her hands into her pockets, and kept her elbows tightly to her sides as she climbed the steps.

The way was narrow and turned several times. It wound between low, decrepit walls and age-old houses. Marion was soon looking down on the village, from which very little light was emanating.

The streets were deserted.

She found herself in front of the abbey. A formidable fortress of faith, powerful and dominant, facing the bay. Marion walked for a moment under its protection, until she found a large staircase, which led to a road that wound between trees and led down to the fortifications.

The wind had strengthened.

The Gabriel Tower appeared down below, partly hidden by the vegetation that covered the western and northern part of the hill. Quite tall but particularly wide, it was isolated from the rest of the buildings on the Mount, like a pariah.

The sound of the surf now joined with the wind's lament.

Marion eventually reached an open postern gate, which led to the side of the tower.

A fierce wave thundered against the other side, breaking violently against the stone.

After looking down on the landscape for several minutes, Marion was disturbed to find herself on the same level as the sea. She had lost that impression of assurance and control, and had become vulnerable, snatchable.

Yes, that was the word.
Snatchable.

Seen from above, the dark immensity that surrounded her seemed beautiful and as inoffensive as a picture, but now the sea could snatch her with just one tentacle a little wilder than the others. All it took was a sudden burst of anger to carry her off, out to sea.

The absence of real light gave each sound a disconcerting amplitude. Marion drew her neck down even further into the collar of her coat. She was not terrified. Not at ease, because of her proximity to the sea in the darkness, but she was not afraid.

By this time, she had reached the Gabriel Tower. She had still to find a yellow stone.

The road had disappeared behind her; the earthen pathway sloped gently down toward the shoreline.

Suddenly, the gleaming arc of a circle appeared at the end of the path. It howled as it shattered against itself, spitting its spume onto the rocks. The sea remained motionless for a second then drew back, like the tip of an immense tongue that had tasted the flavors of the earth in that place. The sky's timid twilight was reflected in it, creating a chaotic interplay of mirror effects.

Marion stood almost twenty-two yards from the edge of the world, her hair driven to madness by the lashing wind.

She didn't regret coming down. The atmosphere was worth the trouble.

A yellow stone. You still have to find a yellow stone, and see where this little game is supposed to lead us.

She advanced step by step, scanning the ground and trying to make out the rare lighter patches scattered across it. She quickly walked beyond the tower, coming closer to the sea, which was now scarcely more than three feet below her.

It undulated constantly, noisily crushing its edges against the banks. Marion stood as far away as possible, receiving the ocean's salty dross in return for her temerity.

There was no trace of a yellow stone.

Unless it was small and hidden in the bushes, and without a flashlight it would be impossible to make out.

Marion reached the end of the path. Beyond it stretched out the sea's kingdom.

Yellow stone … yellow stone … I still have to bring it to light!

She turned around and walked back toward the tower.

A multitude of whitish dots were scattered across the ground like constellations.

A larger, duller patch lay against the wall of the Gabriel Tower, a small rock. Probably yellow.

Marion pulled it backward. It was heavy.

The block rolled onto its side, the sound swallowed by the roaring of the waves.

Marion pounced on the envelope that had just been liberated before it had a chance to fly away.

Nothing written on it.

She put it in her pocket.

There was a whistling sound above her.

At first it was faint, then it began to swell. Something began to breathe the air forcefully, like an enormous asthmatic creature.

Marion carefully scanned the tower and its top, from which the breathing sound seemed to come. The noise was drowned out.

Its last notes were swallowed up by a liquid sound, like a valve suddenly closing on the water.

Suddenly the air gave a violent crack, sharper and deeper than thunder. Marion started.

The echo resounded inside the tower. And Marion understood as she saw the sea drawing back. There were long openings, practically at the bottom of the tower, like horizontal arrow slits, through which a powerful wave could sometimes enter and strike the internal structure of the building. As it withdrew, the water caused an indraft that produced a long, whistling sound.

Marion had seen enough. The cold was starting to overwhelm her and if up to now she had been merely uneasy, this time she had to admit that she felt less sure of herself.

It was as she was climbing back up the circular path around the abbey that she saw the shadow for the first time.

A shape down below, in an adjacent narrow street, a few yards below her. An individual whom she had just noticed and who had without a doubt noticed her too, as was evident from the frequent halts he or she made to look up in her direction. Unfortunately it was too far away for the person to be recognizable.

Marion walked faster. It wasn't late, but the wind really was blowing very hard, hard enough to dissuade people from going out. They were in the antechamber of the storm, there was no longer any doubt about that. And the presence of this individual did not reassure her.

Carried along by the speed of the wind's gusts, the silhouetted figure was making swift progress, continuing to keep watch on Marion.

Marion had no desire to encounter whomever it was, still less a stranger. Not now.

She walked down the first flight of steps, then jumped down the next. The narrow corridor turned to the right, between two empty houses, then to the left, swerved again, and then there were more stairs. Marion literally hurtled down them.

Her ears were hurting from the attacks of the coming storm.

Finally she came out in the street,
her
street, panting for breath.

She covered the last few strides down the dark alley.

Before stopping suddenly in front of an unexpected obstacle, a mass battered by the elements that bounced off it.

He was there.

In front of her.

The light came up suddenly, pointed directly at Marion's face. She took a step back, protecting her eyes with one arm.

“Hey!” she protested.

There was no reaction from the figure in front of her.

Marion had only had sufficient time to spot that the stranger was much taller than she was, and very powerfully built.

“Will you please lower your flashlight!” she snapped. “You're blinding me.”

She could no longer see him, but heard him moving. His shoes squeaked on the paving stones.

“Hey, I'm talking to you!”

The torch went out.

“I don't know you. Who are you?” demanded a man with a strong Northern accent.

“Excuse me? Are you joking? You're the one who's attacking me, with your light!”

“That's my job, little lady. I'm the Mount guard. So who are you?”

Marion relaxed a little. She detected the release of a more intense tension than she'd been aware of. “I … I was invited here by the brothers and sisters to—”

“That's what I was telling myself. You're with the brotherhood. That's what I thought when I realized that I didn't know your face. Gaël, Brother Gaël, informed me that they were playing host to a woman on retreat for the winter. Excuse me if I frightened you.”

Marion was annoyed that someone had said she was going to stay all winter. “That's okay, let's not talk about it again,” she said. “My name's Marion.”

“And I'm Ludwig.”

He raised his torch and lit his face from beneath, to show himself. “Now you'll recognize me,” he chuckled.

He was indeed very tall, a good six foot two, a little overweight, with plump cheeks and a circle of beard enclosing his mouth. His eyes were as dark as his close-cropped hair. Around thirty, Marion estimated.

“You shouldn't stay outside, the storm's coming,” he warned her. “Pretty soon it's going to be blowing a gale around here.”

“I was just going back home, I've been out for a little walk.”

“Yeah, well, don't hang about. I'll finish off my round and then I'm getting under cover. After then, there'll be nobody left on the streets.”

Marion pointed to the narrow street that ran behind him. “I live down there…”

“Oh, 'scuse me.”

He stepped aside to let her pass. “Right, anyhow, we'll have a chance to get to know each other if you're spending the whole winter with us. Good night, madam.”

She nodded and felt a surge of relief as she reached her front door.

The man's “madam” hadn't pleased her. Too overdone. How old was he himself? Five or six years younger than she was? He had spoken the word as if a whole world existed between them. As if she were … old.

Thin-skinned.

Yes, so what?

She locked the door and switched on the ceiling lamp in the entrance.

What had come over her, going out like that?

She slid a hand into her pocket and removed the envelope.

She shook her head gently, bemused by her own attitude.

And she placed the envelope on the hall table.

7

The dawn was gray.

And noisy.

The storm had launched its first attack during the night, waking Marion many times. For the time being, all that was left of it was its tail end, a continuous wind that whistled against the walls and transformed the whole bay into a vast, sooty sky in which nobody could tell the difference between sea and air.

Marion opened her eyes gradually.

On the bedside table a cream-colored sheet of good-quality paper lay, unfolded. An elegant fountain pen had written the following words upon it:

Bravo.

Bravo, and welcome.

The sheet of paper was newly crumpled, a gesture of irritation the previous night, when Marion had opened the envelope before going to bed.

She got up before eight o'clock. She went down wearing a dressing gown “borrowed” from a fine London hotel during an international symposium on legal medicine, to which she had accompanied the female director of the Médico-légal Institute. Somebody had dropped a note through the letter slot and it had slid onto the tiles in the entrance hall. Marion sighed as she picked it up.

Neither a riddle leading to nothing, nor anonymous, thankfully.

This time there were no obscure phrases. Sister Anne explained that she was at the abbot's residence for the whole day and that Marion could join her there. As Friday was the day of the Passion, no member of the brotherhood would be taking any meals, so she would have to eat alone, and she ended by hoping that the storm hadn't disturbed her sleep too much.

Marion arched her eyebrows and let the note fall to the ground.

Still dazed with sleep, she opened the refrigerator and found some orange juice. She ate some crackers, sitting on the big sofa, staring distractedly the tops of the roofs through the window.

She had no desire to be among the brothers and sisters today, and especially not to listen to any talk of Christ, God, the Church, or religion as a whole. She aspired to a real, entirely personal peace.

She took a shower, dressed in jeans and a thick woollen sweater, then rang the abbot's residence, whose number was on a list beside the telephone. She explained to Sister Anne that she would like to be alone, and hung up. She had made no mention of the previous evening's riddle, and still less the fact that she'd gone out. Either thing would become clearer on its own, or not at all.

In any event, the day passed more quickly than she had imagined.

In the morning, she braved the wind, which was still just as strong, to wander along the main street of the village. Apart from Mère Poulard's restaurant, there was only one shop open. The handful of resolute winter tourists had melted away at the announcement of the storm. Marion was alone in the street.

When she entered the souvenir shop, the saleswoman offered her most beautiful smile and begged her to buy a postcard, so that she wouldn't have opened up for nothing. They laughed and quickly hit it off. They drank a few coffees as they got to know each other. The saleswoman's name was Béatrice, she was forty-four, and she lived on the Mount with her eighteen-year-old son, Grégoire. Several times, Marion remarked that she was a beautiful woman, with bobbed red hair and high cheekbones that led to a slender nose, and that it was a shame for her to live alone in this exile, at the end of the world. There couldn't be hordes of attractive men around here, apart from the usual ones, you'd get through them all pretty quickly, and if she hadn't found one who suited her—