The Black Madonna (13 page)

‘I need to know more,’ Nazreem was saying. ‘There are other black Madonnas. There is one in Poland, I believe, Chennsto … what was it?’ she glanced at Marcus but it was the nun who finished the
difficult
word for her.

‘Czestochowa. Yes, but it is different. It is two-dimensional, an icon, more in the Eastern manner.’

‘But isn’t that the legend?’ Marcus could not help himself. He was not going to be ignored. He had an input to make too; after all that was why Nazreem had come to him in the first place, wasn’t it? ‘That St Luke painted the Virgin’s portrait on her kitchen table.’

‘That is the legend indeed,’ the nun actually turned towards him. ‘But there are many legends. And that is only one of many. There are paintings, in the Polish style, and indeed these are often attributed to St Luke, though not even the most pious in faith can believe he managed them all, in so many different styles. God works in
mysterious
ways, Dr Frey. As this young lady’s presence here proves.’

‘But the oldest images are not paintings?’ Nazreem prompted.

The nun nodded, sagely, looking at her as if trying to read her mind. ‘There are many of us who believe, particularly here in Altötting, that the oldest depictions of the Mother of God have always been figurines.’

Marcus blinked. It was the first time it had actually dawned on him that what Nazreem had found was not a painting but a
sculpture
. He wondered how he could have been so stupid: that was why they were here. Nazreem wanted to compare the figurine in the church across the road with the one she had found. How could he ever have thought anything else?

‘There are many such figures,’ the nun was saying. ‘Many more than most people realise, and the majority of the ancient ones are black. They can be found all across Europe: in Bucharest, on Malta, in France, Belgium, Ireland, Italy. There is a particularly famed example in the monastery at Einsiedeln in Switzerland …’

‘
That
was where they put the heart of the Austrian Empress Zita!’ exclaimed Marcus, suddenly remembering the piece of information he had been searching for earlier.

The nun smiled at him as if indulging a child: ‘You are well informed,’ she said, before turning her intent gaze back to Nazreem to add: ‘but the most important by far are the figure here and those on the Iberian peninsula. None of them, however, as far as we know can definitely be ascribed to a date older than the early Middle Ages. You believe the carving you found was substantially older, I believe.’

‘Yes,’ said Nazreem. ‘It had to be. Much older. It had almost
certainly
lain undisturbed since at least 200 AD, and probably earlier. If the figure in Gaza was the original, then perhaps the others, some of them at least, might have been copies, made later but perhaps not much later, as a way of perpetuating the image, of allowing more people to see it.’

‘We have long wondered the same,’ the nun said. ‘But only you know, my child. You and whatever evil or misguided people have snatched this treasure from the world.’

Sister Galina lifted both of Nazreem’s hands in hers, raising them until they were almost in the classic gesture of Christian prayer, and then lowered them again to her lap. The two women were close together, looking into one another’s eyes as if each could read the other’s mind.

‘But the figure here then,’ the nun said eventually, her eyes focused on the face of the woman in front of her, as if everything she had ever believed on depended on the answer, ‘is not the same?’

Nazreem was quiet a moment. Marcus wondered if she was worried what effect her words might have on a woman who had devoted her life to a wooden idol.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It is not the same. It is similar, the same style. But not the same. To start with, I thought maybe it too was ancient, that maybe it was as old as …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But now that I have seen it, close up. I am not so sure. It has many of the same qualities, the simplicity, but …’

She hesitated and Marcus had the impression she was trying once again, even here, to decide just how much of a description of her lost treasure she should share with others, even those she trusted implicitly. ‘It is not the same, but I see now that maybe it makes
sense. Maybe, if this was a copy of the copy, there could have been changes made.’

The nun was nodding, a wry smile on her face. ‘The figure of the Madonna in the Chapel of Grace is ancient indeed,’ she began, speaking slowly and distinctly. ‘Although no one knows exactly how old. One legend says the reason it is black is because it was scorched when saved from a fire in the chapel in the early tenth century. But there are similar stories about the Einsiedeln Madonna – it is an easy way to explain away the dark colour which some find inconvenient.

‘Art historians – the sort of people who claim to be able to
determine
such things – have said the figurine here is of Burgundian or Rhineland origin, no earlier than 1330 AD. The same people insist that the Swiss statue was made locally as late as the mid-fifteenth century. I have seen it and I can tell you that they are almost
certainly
correct.

‘But in neither case does that rule out the possibility that the statues were copies, merely that the artist at the time preferred not to be slavish in his imitation. Or that the originals were indeed damaged by fire. I have no doubt that the figure here today is an early mediaeval copy of a Madonna brought to Altötting six hundred years earlier.’

‘Six hundred,’ Marcus intervened automatically. ‘But that would take us back to the seventh century or earlier, before Christianity arrived in Germany.’

The nun raised her bushy eyebrows briefly but continued talking to Nazreem, scarcely acknowledging his presence.

‘The legend has it that the statue was first referred to on the
occasion
of the baptism of Theodoric, or Dietrich as they call him in German. He is considered to be the first duke of Bavaria, but he was probably just a tribal leader. He became a Christian and insisted all his people do likewise. According to local tradition, the chapel was built for his baptism.’

‘And was it?’ Marcus couldn’t help himself asking.

‘People have been arguing for centuries,’ the nun said, answering his question without looking at him, ‘about the age of the chapel. I am no expert in architectural history. It is very ancient. That is enough. Suffice to say that this has been a holy place for as long as we have any sort of historical records.’

‘But if all the oldest images of the Madonna have been lost, or
destroyed and replaced with copies,’ said Nazreem, ‘there is no way of finding a sure link to the Gaza figure.’

‘I did not say they have all been destroyed or replaced, merely that not everything is known. The three most ancient figures are all on the Iberian peninsula: one, our Lady of Nazaré, is in Portugal. The other two are in Spain, at Montserrat and Guadalupe.’

‘Montserrat and Guadalupe?’ said Marcus. ‘I thought they were islands in the Caribbean?’

The nun looked at him for several seconds, the longest time she had let her eyes rest on him, and then said: ‘Yes, you are right. But not just that. There are places bearing those names in many parts of the New World. The patron saint of Mexico is Our Lady of
Guadalupe
, named for a vision seen by a converted Aztec. But the origins of those names are in Europe, names taken with them by the
conquistadors
because of the power in men’s minds of the images they left behind, at home in the barren hills of central Spain.’

‘So why are the originals less well known?’

‘Because they have remained as they always were: monastic retreats, not new settlements, and I assure you they are not less known to those who care about such things. Montserrat is in the high black mountains that rise beyond Barcelona, while Guadalupe lies in the Sierra that shares its name, to the east of Madrid.

‘Both have had miracles attributed to them repeatedly over the centuries. The figure in Guadalupe in particular is of great age. It is said that it was brought to the shores of Europe by St Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine himself.’

‘If that’s so, that would date it to at least the latter part of the third century,’ said Nazreem. Marcus could not fail to note a sense of almost excitement in her voice.

‘If that is so,’ echoed Sister Galina.

‘There is some doubt?’

‘My child, my child, there is always doubt. That is why there must always be faith. The Madonna of Guadalupe is the oldest known example – or was, until now.

‘I do not wholly follow your reasoning. But then I do not
understand
so much in this world any more. The police said the man whose body parts were delivered to the chapel was a suicide bomber who died in Israel. Afterwards. It does not make sense. But then evil never does.’

Nazreem kept her eyes downcast. For a long moment she was silent, as if she was fighting a mental battle with herself. When at length she spoke, her words were quiet, almost muttered, and there was once more that black hardness in her eyes and in her voice as she began to speak, the words coming out as if she had composed them in advance:

‘I don’t believe in coincidence. I … I believe there is a link between what happened here and what happened in Gaza. You will forgive me if I do not go into detail,’ she glanced at Marcus briefly, ‘but it has become clear that there is indeed evil involved. Evil and
desperate
men who would like to erase all memory of the existence of this figure.’

Sister Galina put a second hand on the one that already rested lightly on Nazreem’s and said in a soft, quiet voice: ‘Evil men who do evil things. But Our Lady is their implacable enemy. In our time of need she looks down on us, and will protect and comfort us.’

The atmosphere in the little sitting room was close. Sitting to one side, apart from the two women, Marcus felt almost excluded. With a lump in his throat, he watched as Nazreem lifted her eyes to the nun opposite and the hardness that he had noticed in them since she walked through the arrivals gates at Heathrow seem to melt for a moment. Then he realised that what he saw in her eyes was
moisture
. She was on the verge of tears.

Marcus went to put his hand on her shoulder, but she pushed him away, kindly but firmly, and pulled herself together.

‘Are you staying long in Altötting?’ the nun asked.

‘We’re in Munich actually,’ Marcus intervened. ‘At the Pension Blauer Bock,’ he added, for the sake of something to say, the trivia of their accommodation an absurd yet welcome relief from the
intensity
of the two women’s mind-melding empathy.

‘I am grateful to you for coming to see me,’ said the nun, turning again to Nazreem and taking her hands. ‘I have spent my life in the service of Our Lady, and it was my deepest wish to look upon her countenance. But once again the likeness of the Mother of God has been snatched from us, maybe for ever.’ Marcus noticed that the pitch of the nun’s voice rose at the end of the sentence, as if she were hinting at a question.

‘No,’ said Nazreem all of a sudden with certainty in her voice. ‘Not for ever.’

The nun reached forward again and took her hand, looking at her curiously.

‘You seem very certain of this, my child?’

‘I am,’ said Nazreem with a resolution that surprised Marcus too. ‘Absolutely certain.’

The black clouds had settled in overhead, fulfilling their promise of rain abundantly, with big heavy drops splattering on the windscreen as Marcus and Nazreem climbed into the car. Dusk was falling fast and the great square was deserted – even the pair of circling
pilgrims
had at last laid down their crosses and departed – save for the two bikers on the other side and even they were now pulling up rain hoods and revving up their engines preliminary to shattering the somnolent idyll of the rural Bavarian evening.

Marcus looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘I suggest we head back to Munich.’ Nazreem merely nodded and looked ahead through the windscreen at the rivulets of rain. Then the wipers clicked in and swept them all away.

The road back was as tortuous as it had been on the way out save that there were fewer tractors. Only once on the edge of a little village of red-roofed houses with an onion-domed church that reminded Marcus incongruously of something out of
Doctor Zhivago
did a great bug-eyed behemoth with its giant headlights forcing a path through the constant rain pull out of a field laden with
plastic-wrapped
bales of summer grain.

Marcus braked hard to avoid getting too close to the heavy spray kicked up by the thick-treaded tyres. Only then did he notice the single headlight in his rear-view mirror hurtling towards him, then suddenly drop back as if the rider too had pulled hard on the brakes. He thought nothing of it until a second one appeared, the two drawing level, both beams side by side now, almost capable of being mistaken for a car. Then one grew larger until the motorbike and rider were clearly visible just a few metres behind them. In front the tractor still kept him crawling along at barely forty kilometres per hour. Now the bike drew level, the whine of its engine high-pitched against the dull purr of the Volkswagen and the grumble of the
agricultural
vehicle in front. He wondered if it was the two bikers who had been so evident in the square at Altötting and decided it had to
be: two leather lads from the big city out for a summer’s day spin, caught out by unexpected foul weather and hurrying home to put the bikes away and get out for a few beers.

But in that case why didn’t they overtake? On these narrow roads, a tractor posed a serious obstacle to a car, but a bike could soar past. And yet they didn’t. One remained a consistent distance behind him, as if deliberately matching his speed; the other was also
matching
his speed, almost parallel to him. Marcus squinted sideways and was almost certain he recognised the bike as the big black
Kawasaki
with the red stripe he had noticed earlier. Whatever game they were playing he was not happy about it. It seemed improbable that the same people who had been tailing Nazreem in London could have latched onto them so quickly here. Or did it? Not necessarily if her suppositions about the link between the Gaza statue and the one here were true. But if these were the people who had stolen the statue, surely they had what they wanted.

The tractor in front unexpectedly turned off into a farmyard and Marcus accelerated but there was more traffic in front: villagers in no particular hurry taking care in the bad weather. Traffic in both directions. The bike matched his speed, the rider playing with him, his colleague behind closing, just a few car lengths between them now. He braked sharply. The light in his rear-view mirror grew rapidly closer, then as quickly fell back. That’ll teach you to keep your distance in the wet, thought Marcus. Any harder and whoever was on it would have been flying over the Polo’s bonnet.

The biker beside them, however, caught out by the manoeuvre too, pulled into the space between them and the car in front. Marcus looked for a number plate but if there was one it was invisible,
illegally
unilluminated in the dark. Then the bike in front braked hard, playing Marcus’s trick back on him, forcing him to slow down. He tried instead to pull out but was faced by a solid line of
oncoming
traffic. The bike behind had pulled level now and Marcus saw Nazreem gape in horror as the opaque black visor of the rider loomed large in her window, a faceless automaton. Jesus, he thought suddenly, what if he has a gun. He had never heard of drive-by shootings carried out by bikers, but that did not mean they didn’t happen.

Then suddenly they were bathed in light, the road ahead cleared. They had hit the short stretch of autobahn that extended from the
Munich ring road. Marcus rammed his foot down, the revs
screaming
as the little car accelerated from thirty-five up to 130
kilometres
per hour while he scrunched his way through the gears. For a gratifying few seconds the bike’s headlights dwindled rapidly in the rear-view mirror. And then they grew again. Coming steadily closer. Marcus looked at the speedometer. There was no way the little VW Polo could outrace two performance bikes. If they wanted them, they would have them.

But it would not go unnoticed. The relative dark and anonymity of the country road was gone now. As they got closer to Munich the volume of traffic grew, the smart BMWs and Mercedes of affluent city dwellers replacing the small cars and trucks of the countryside. The motorway lights were bright. Number plates would be visible, a lack of them too. An incident would have witnesses. Not that he was
reassured
by the idea of ‘witnesses after the event’. But the bikes showed no sign of closing, maintaining their distance some hundred metres behind. For a few seconds at a time Marcus was forced to stop
watching
them, heeding instead the traffic around him and the confusing signs as the autobahn split, weaving left and right, north towards the airport, Nürnberg and Regensburg, south to the Alps, Austria and Italy, then again, spurs tucking themselves into the city’s series of concentric ring roads. When he looked again, they were gone.

Or rather they no longer stood out. In the long queue of
vehicles
behind them as they turned off the autobahn proper into a dual carriageway that seemed to lead towards the city centre, there was maybe one bike, maybe two. And then there was maybe none. Maybe.

‘Are they gone?’ Nazreem said to him, her voice betraying no trace of the anxiety he had felt.

‘I think so,’ he said, not knowing whether he really thought so. ‘I think so.’ Maybe the threat was in his head. Maybe they had been just two local cowboys, hotshots baiting strangers for kicks along country roads on a wet night. Maybe. But he didn’t think so. There was only one obvious purpose to their pursuit and sudden
disappearance
: that they had succeeded in their aim. Identifying the woman in the passenger seat.

Whatever else was true or false in the labyrinth of conspiracy that Nazreem was clearly creating in her own mind, one thing was
indisputable
. She herself held the key.