The Dream of Scipio (31 page)

It began to rain the day before he arrived, and kept up a steady downpour for nearly thirty-six hours. He was soaked to the skin and shivering by the time he finally made it to the top of the hill, hoping desperately that he would soon see his friend, huddling over a fire in the makeshift encampment he had once proudly described. But Pisano was not there, of course; he rarely was when he was needed. The chapel was deserted; only the mess all around—the poles for the scaffolding, the scorched patches on the grass where he had built his fires at night, the splotches of bright red and blue on the earth where he had washed his brushes after his work—suggested that anyone had ever been there. It was bleak, and desolate, half finished and with the air of something that never would be finished. Olivier stood uncertainly, gazing out over the thick woodlands that surrounded the hill, listening to the rain pattering down on tens of thousands of leaves so that the whole of creation seemed to be drumming with the noise. In the distance he could just see the smoke rising from the chimneys of Vaison, which he had not visited for years. He shook the rain out of his eyes, then turned miserably to the chapel, which offered the only dryness within reach. Once inside, in the gloom, for the darkness of the sky meant little light came through the windows, he shivered; he knew a fever was coming and that if he didn’t get dry he would be in great danger. Even as the shivering grew worse and he had trouble standing, he still never considered the possibility that he, too, might have the plague. Instead he was as practical as he could be, knowing that he had little time before he would be too weak to stand. He took the warm blanket from his pack, his flask of water, took off his wet clothes, and, teeth chattering from the cold, wrapped himself up and huddled on the floor.

He had no idea how long he slept, possibly a day or more, and half the time he did not know whether he was asleep or not. Rather, he kept passing in and out of dreams, sometimes thinking clearly, sometimes only aware that he could hardly think at all, and luxuriating in the strange thoughts that passed through his mind without his bidding. At some stage the rains stopped; he noticed the sudden silence, then the skies cleared for the chapel grew light once more, and a shaft of sunlight streamed in through the windows to illuminate Pisano’s unfinished work.

Olivier lay there and looked; for as much as half a day he looked at what his friend had accomplished, sometimes aware he was looking at artifice, sometimes thinking he was looking at real events. He was entranced and knew that all of the Italian’s boasting, all his claim to be doing something the world had never seen before, were perfectly justified. He had created real people and endowed the story with life. Olivier saw how he used Isabelle de Fréjus to make his Magdalen, and wondered how anyone had ever considered that the blessed saint could have looked like anyone else. Even though it was unfinished, the panel of the saints arriving on dry land in their miraculous boat made him wonder at the glory of God who could protect such a frail craft on such violent seas. He even noticed that Pisano had given the blind man his face, and saw that Sophia was Rebecca. That darkness, with the radiance shining from her, the kindness of her gestures, the sometimes rough way she spoke, the twist of her head and the fall of her hair. Who would not wish to see such a person? Who could not love her?

He dozed again, and heard her words as she addressed the sinner who came to her. “You will see when you understand what love is,” and she passed her hand over his face—an imperious, commanding gesture, not something mannered as some fairground charlatan would do—and the sunlight streamed into his eyes and woke him with a start.

The fever had gone, but still Olivier lay there, trembling in the memory of the dream, rather than from the illness. Eventually he got up, his bones creaking, his stomach protesting from hunger, his mouth dry and foul-tasting from the lack of water. His head hurt abominably, and he cried out in pain as he stood up, then knelt down again to stop the dizziness.

And then he remembered why he was there. He checked his clothes to make sure they were wearable—they were still damp and clammy, but would dry swiftly enough once he got moving. He drank thirstily and forced himself to eat some of the bread, now green and moldy, that was in his pack. Then he reached in and took out the cardinal’s letter. After hesitating for a moment, he slipped his finger under the grand seal of the bishopric of Winchester and opened it up, still unsure whether he was doing the right thing or making the biggest mistake of his life. He began to read. He read it six times, concentrating as much as his weakened state allowed. When he was sure he had got it, he put it down and recited it to himself, finally picking it up once more and correcting his errors in recollection. In an hour he had it entire, not a word out of place, the message hidden in the one place soldiers could not pry.

As for the letter itself, there were few enough places to put it; eventually he decided that the rough stone altar would have to do. He put his shoulder against it and heaved until it leaned over just far enough to create a gap at its base. He slipped the letter underneath and let it down, then sat down himself once more to steady his head.

Ceccani could send some soldiers, or Pisano could bring it next time he came out here. It and its contents were safe from discovery, at any rate. He had done his best.

Still sniffing, still unsteady, he went out into the daylight and was dazzled by the sun. The rain had long gone, leaving only the smell of sweetness behind it. A heat haze was already forming in the far distance, and the birds, grateful for the rain and happy also it was over, were singing their songs with a vehemence Olivier thought he had never heard before. Perhaps because of Pisano, he noticed the colors of the landscape properly for the first time, the extravagant purples and browns and yellows and greens covering the hills and the valleys as far as the eye could see. He looked the other way, across the broad plain of the river valley toward the Rhône, dotted with tiny settlements and fields. He relaxed in the warmth and the peace, and went down on his knees to give thanks merely for being alive, and for being allowed to see such sights and smell such perfumes.

 
 
 
 
WHEN MARCEL ARRIVED to take up his duties as préfet in Avignon at the start of 1941, he came as something of a hero. The way he had put on his full dress uniform to give the Germans a cold but unimpeachably correct welcome. The way he had himself lowered the tricolor and insisted that no German hands touch it. The way he had protected the town from destruction and prevailed upon the German authorities to punish any looting. The way he had even gone in person to the general in charge to demand that German vehicles be used to bring food into the town. All these had won him a reputation as a humane man who kept his head in a crisis. Such men are rare in the best of circumstances; in late 1940 they were beyond value; he swiftly had his reward. He was needed badly.

There was much to do, a whole society to rebuild, an entire regime to establish. Simple things, normally taken for granted, required immense effort and labor. All his tasks he accomplished with efficiency and dispatch. He never complained, never made excuses, seemed to sleep in the Préfecture, was an inspiration to all around. He was the perfect product of the system, almost its justification.

It was some time before he turned his mind to the minor matters and, on the recommendation of the Minister of Education, wrote the letter that summoned Julien Barneuve from his exile to see him.

“People have been making inquiries about you, my friend,” he said, and was gratified to see Julien look slightly alarmed. A little joke, which was also a small exercise of power. “I have had two memos about you.”

Julien looked puzzled. “I cannot think why,” he said.

“We have been drawing up lists of people who might be pressed into service. You wrote an article a year ago, it seems. About a bishop. It has been noticed by people who think it has the right attitude. Which shows how thorough they are being. Combined with personal recommendations . . .”

“I published it a year ago,” he interrupted. “I wrote it several years back.”

“Yes, yes. The point is that it is just the sort of thing we need at the moment. The context. A model, if you like, of how relations with our—what shall we call them?—new friends—may develop. That’s why your name has come forward. It is a small consequence of having a classicist as Minister of Education.”

Julien looked thoroughly puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“The Germans, Julien, the Germans. Remember them? Those people who have occupied half our country? You argued that although the barbarians conquered Gaul, the Gauls civilized them. A greater victory and in the end beneficial all round.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Julien replied. “And I can see no parallels between then and now at all.”

Marcel looked slightly irritated. “That’s how it seems to people in Vichy. Goths and Germans, rebellious serfs and communists. Very neat. Don’t expect politicians to pick up subtleties. The point is, they want you to help. Do your bit to steady things. Your duty, really.”

“I’m really not with you.”

“Give lectures. Write articles. Check the newspapers aren’t being unhelpful. That sort of thing. Radio, now. We could organize a few talks on the radio as well. Immensely popular, those are.”

“I don’t think that’s something I’d be very good at. Or inclined to do. Peddling vulgarized half-truths is not something that would appeal much.”

Marcel paused and sat down at his desk. “Listen, Julien my friend. Let me give you a little lecture. You, after all, have given me enough of them over the years. Do you know what the situation is here? In this country? Probably not. We have been beaten. This you may have noticed. Even you. Definitively and completely, this time. We are in a new world, one which has changed forever. The Germans have won, so comprehensively they cannot now be defeated. There is no one left to fight them. They have complete control over Europe. England is hanging on by its fingertips and will inevitably be destroyed sooner or later. Eventually, no doubt, there will be a war on Russia and it will suffer the same fate. Our government, meanwhile, is in the grip of an old general surrounded by men of often doubtful motives. The people are dazed, confused, and prey to any convincing charlatan who might come along. They have to be protected from false hope and expectation. . . .”

“People like Bernard, you mean?”

“Exactly like Bernard. I hear he has fled the country. That was the best news I have heard for a long time. Think what he would be writing now. Sniping criticism from the sidelines, assaults on those who lost the war—all justified, no doubt. Worthy articles on democracy and freedom. Constant bickering about every piece of legislation. Character assassinations of ministers and politicians. A never-ending stream inciting hatred against those people who have just driven their tanks all over our country and divided it in two. Again, justified no doubt. But that is not the point. We cannot look back. We dare not. The people have to be consoled and encouraged and protected. We cannot afford a people divided, or a government hampered by internal bickering. Not at the moment.

“And there is another point.
I
need help. Me, your friend. Another thing you do not know, I imagine. Have you heard of the Legion of Combattants?”

Julien shrugged. “Of course. What of them?”

“A group supposedly of old soldiers. Very virtuous. Heroes of the last war, although how many actually took part in it is doubtful. They have attached themselves to the president, got close to him. Do you know what they are doing? ‘The bureaucracy will not carry out your orders,’ they whisper in his ear. ‘You cannot rely on them. Let us help. Let us be your eyes and ears, tell you what is going on, do those jobs which otherwise will not get done.’ They are dangerous people, Julien. If they are not stopped, they will bypass people like me, all the usual balances of administration will collapse, and it will fall into the hands of old street fighters. Do you remember we were both in Paris in 1928? When there were the riots, when the right battled the communists on the streets? You said you couldn’t decide which was worse, you were merely terrified either would ever come to power?”

Marcel paused. “They are nearly there, Julien. Marshal Pétain is a fine man, a hero. But he is easily influenced. And these are the people who are influencing him. And unless I can surround myself with people I trust, then they will take more and more of the administration here into their hands. And that is why I need you, a decorated soldier, a renowned scholar, a respected figure, by my side. I need my friends, now more than ever. And, as I say, you cannot sit on the sidelines talking about your inclinations. If there was a war on, you could go off and fight, if you wanted. Very noble. Very simple. But the war is over. Now the really dangerous part begins. You have to see, Julien, what a chance we have. To renew and rebuild this country, give it good government, get rid of all those people who do nothing but criticize and weaken us. All those people who lost us the war. Look at the Germans; look at how they run things, and look at the shambles that we became. I don’t like them, but we must learn from them if we are ever going to get off our knees. But we must keep it out of the hands of the thugs as well. A balancing act. If you do not help me, you are helping them. Here ends my lecture.”

Julien gazed at him, saw that he had considered this speech, written it in his head for this moment, and was absolutely convinced that what he was saying was correct. Nor could Julien disagree with him. His friend was talking little more than common sense. But he was still reluctant to take the step Marcel seemed so desperately to want.

“I just don’t see how giving lectures will help,” he said.

“Oh, that. Useful. Keeps spirits up, explains what we’re doing. Keeping an eye on the newspapers and publishers is the more important part. Making sure no defeatist, critical nonsense is spread about. We can’t afford it. The government, no doubt, is not perfect. But it’s all we’ve got at the moment, and it has to be given a chance. And at the same time you must fend off criticism of me from within. Do a good job, use all that intelligence of yours.”