The Strange Case of the Composer and His Judge (26 page)

‘The people of the Faith belong among that company of heaven. We stand on both sides of the doorway; we are the guardians of the gateways and the crossroads.’

He spread out his great hands and bore down upon her like an accusing deity.

‘Look at me. Speak to me,’ he demanded.

‘I’m here. I’m listening,’ she snapped back.

‘I love you, Dominique Carpentier, and not just now, in this moment, and this life. But for all time and throughout all eternity.’

_{*  *  *}

Gaëlle was pacified with two cream cakes when the Judge finally pattered back into the office at almost five o’clock. She kissed her Greffière on both cheeks and handed over the freshly baked bribes. Gaëlle grinned and kissed her back, and so peace reigned between them.

‘Any calls?’

‘Schweigen. Felt like every half-hour. He’s got info on the accounts.’

‘I’d better clear all this up.’

The accounts were still there, buried beneath the black straw hat. They sat down together.

The afternoon began to darken around them, that first shadow that the Judge had sensed beneath the white cupola lengthened and extended its grip upon the city and the surrounding land. They printed off all the material on the floppy discs and opened a new filing system for the financial records of the Faith. By seven they were almost finished, when a sudden power cut stopped them short. The Judge watched the green screen tremble and fade, then gave thanks for her mass of hard copies.

‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ said Gaëlle as they stood side by side at the window, looking out at the clammy black streets, pregnant with thunder and the coming storm. ‘Why are we so bothered with this mad sect? They don’t hurt anybody but themselves with their crazy suicide ceremonies. So far as we know they don’t embezzle funds or seduce children. And they only seem to murder their close friends. You say that they support all sorts of charities we’ve never heard of – to whom they’ll presumably leave all the cash. So why don’t we just let them kill themselves off?’

The Judge stood still, thinking hard. Then she said, ‘Écoute-moi bien, Gaëlle, I didn’t want to alarm you. You’re a young woman with your whole life ahead of you. The reason why I am so concerned with the people of the Faith is because I do not believe that we are dealing with just a suicide sect; they believe in the approaching Apocalypse. They are leaving the earth and taking their children with them. They think that the Apocalypse is imminent. No, I know what I’ve always said – plenty of people think that the Apocalypse is coming up tomorrow. Human beings are much given to signs and wonders. But the members of the Faith, or at least the ones I know about, are all highly placed in society. They aren’t misfits, dropouts, or women whose husbands don’t love them. The chief government adviser on the environment and global warming was in the Swiss departure. So were two scientists from the nuclear research station at Grenoble and the Director of Research in Astrophysics. How many of them are there? Who is still here?
And what are they doing?
’

Gaëlle clapped her hands over her mouth and gasped at her own stupidity.

‘You think they’re actually working towards that Apocalypse? You think they’ll try to make it happen?’

The Judge watched the first distant bolt of forked lightning dividing the sky and entering the earth. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and began to count.

‘I have no hard evidence, Gaëlle. I cannot be certain. But there is a pattern in the dates of their mass departures, and a trail of significance too exact and rational to be coincidence moving in the stars.’

She had calculated that the storm was still at least fifty kilometres distant, but her count proved too short. The cataclysm exploded over the mountains of Haut-Languedoc in a theatrical spectacle of white fire and black rain, far closer than she had allowed in her original calculations.

12

AGAPE: HEALING THROUGH LOVE

Within two days the third letter came. Postmark Avignon; presumably he was still occupied with the Festival. She stalked straight out of her kitchen and into the tiny office, the unread letter in her hand. The music programme slowly fluttered into focus on her screen: Beethoven’s Ninth, all tickets sold, returns only – scheduled for Saturday night. He was conducting a concert of his own music, also sold out, on Friday in the theatre. Was there any danger that he would liberate himself from rehearsals and appear upon her doorstep? Not unless he abandoned the orchestra. No, she was safe from arrivals and apparitions. She took a deep breath and opened the letter. Once more he had written in English.

My Dearest Dominique
,

I must risk your anger at my impudence in addressing you thus, but I cannot wait. I am an impatient man. Yet in one thing I am like a woman – when my heart is full I must speak. And my heart is full of you. Please don’t think that I do not listen to you or understand you. I do. Your fame as ‘la chasseuse de sectes’ made it inevitable that you should be burdened with this terrible investigation. Yet I cannot wish the fault undone, because it has brought you to me. And I know, without your words, why you despise all religions and mistrust anyone in thrall to a great idea, or even a wild hope. You are someone who is utterly alone and your solitude is that of the truly independent spirit. You are the child sitting reading in the corner of the playground. You hold in absolute contempt the need of weaker people to belong to something greater than themselves. And you dislike anyone who longs to be told what to do and how to live. I have grasped this aspect of your ferocious character. But I am not only a composer; I am the conductor of an orchestra. An orchestra is one single, breathing, living thing, like a body that awaits its commands from the brain. Sometimes you must join together with others to create something greater than yourself. You must see that, Dominique. My music cannot exist without my musicians and my singers.

Please do not wilfully misunderstand me. For if you do you will misjudge me.

I must see you again. And very soon. I beg you to allow me to visit you. I will come wherever you suggest and agree to whatever conditions you wish to make. My commitments here end on Sunday and my assistant will take care of the orchestra. They have five days’ repose before we begin our rehearsals for Salzburg. Kilometres of Mozart, naturally. Please answer me. I beg you to answer me. So far as you are concerned I have no pride and no shame. I love you with all my heart and it is my greatest joy to tell you that this will always be so.

F.G.

The Judge misread ‘impudence’ for ‘imprudence’, looked up both words in her dictionary, and found herself unable to decide which defence would be the most suitable. Repose resembled ‘repos’, but seemed oddly archaic. She had never seen the word used in a letter, only in advertisements for sun loungers. She imagined the orchestra, lifeless and frozen like a vast modern sculpture, magnificent in repose, only to be summoned back into vitality by Mozart’s crescendos, limpid and demanding, a great bell, ringing across two hundred years. The Judge experienced no unease listening to Mozart. Mozart’s structures exuded logic and security. They represented no emotional threat; the mathematics of beauty did not disturb her. She had neither knowingly heard nor ever seen any of the operas.

He expects me to answer this letter, yet he has given me no address, phone number or e-mail. Or maybe he thinks that it’s all in his file on my desk. She rang Gaëlle, announced her late arrival at the office and then looked up the Domaine Laval in her personal address book. The commercial arm of the enterprise could be reached under Myriam’s work number.

‘Myriam? C’est Dominique à l’appareil.’

‘Salut, ma belle. You’ve caused quite a stir here. Marie-T never stops talking about you. Congratulations! She’s utterly bewitched. I thought she’d never smile again when her Maman went off so disgracefully. I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but let me tell you, now that the first wave of shock is past, there are some very angry people here, who don’t think too well of Madame Laval. I mean, how could she do it? Her son’s a monster and he might well inherit the estate. Did you see how he’s ruined the façade of the mas with his orange awnings? I’ve a mind to ring the Beaux-Arts. It’s a listed medieval building. What was it that you wanted, ma bibiche? When are you coming to see us again? Marie-T says you’ll be here next week.’

‘Next week?’

‘Mais oui, aren’t you here for the fête en l’honneur de l’orchestre on Sunday? Or were you coming on your own later in the week?’

The Judge invented a banal reason to rush, sent her best to Marie-T and rang off. She poured herself a powerful slug of bitter coffee and then sat quite still, looking at the phone. She was everywhere anticipated, expected, cornered, coerced. What course of action should she choose? As she drove into work, anxious and puzzled, she decided to do nothing. The best course of action, when surrounded by uncertainty, is always to do nothing. Watch, listen, wait. Let them declare their hand first, give themselves away, let them come to me. Gaëlle also sat looking at the phone, but she had her huge black watch, the strap covered in spikes, laid flat upon the desk, and a mysterious tally of figures and letters on a large white sheet before her.

‘Bravo! You made it. Look, I’m keeping score. Schweigen and the Composer are vying with one another to catch you first. They ring alternately, at precise intervals, like a pavane.’

‘For God’s sake Gaëlle, alert the switchboard. Put it on automatic response and suppress the sound. Or we’ll never get any work done.’

_{*  *  *}

They sent out for pizza at twelve-thirty. Gaëlle chattered away in buoyant good humour.

‘Here, have my pepperoni. They’re too hot for me. Isn’t it a bit of a dangerous game you’re playing? Schweigen’s out of his mind with worry.’

‘What game?’

‘With the Composer.’

‘What game?’ The Judge fixed Gaëlle with a deadly stare, but the young woman waltzed on regardless, utterly certain of her ground.

‘It’s clear to me, but I don’t think Schweigen’s grasped your tactics. You’re infiltrating the group, aren’t you? The Composer almost certainly thinks that he can eventually recruit you to the collective suicidal madness. And if I were you I’d go as far as you dare. Get to meet the inner circle. You’ll probably bump into Monsieur le Procureur. I’ve always thought he was ripe for the funny farm. Then you can get his job and take me with you. We’ll have a much bigger office and two secretaries.’

Gaëlle chomped the crusts, shook the mini-bottle of vinaigrette with unnecessary violence and then tipped it over the salad.

‘You’d like this mixed? I mean anybody can see that the Composer is crazy about you. And that’s perfectly understandable. Bit odd, though – you could have him arrested for fraud and murder any day now. But the fact that he worships you could be useful. You’ll be able to reel him in like Ahab’s whale.’

‘I didn’t know you read Melville.’

The Judge tapped salt on to her hard-boiled egg and nibbled at the thing.

‘The film was on telly last night. Version originale. Entire crew of the
Pequod
looked like members of the Faith. Or any one of our sects for that matter – obsessed, deranged!’

‘So you think he’ll try to recruit me?’

‘Not a doubt. It’s like you said. They want people with positions in society, good jobs, influence. All that stuff.’

Gaëlle sucked a tomato; the juice overflowed down her pale chin and stained the white skin, carefully guarded against the sun; she usually looked like a vampire. There was a long thoughtful pause, a beat in the air between them.

‘It’s all very murky and ambiguous. I wish I was dealing with your TV scenario,’ said the Judge, her voice suddenly anxious and sad.

‘But it’s always murky, isn’t it? Like being a double agent. I’d ring Schweigen if I were you. He’s still cut up about that day at the Domaine and he hasn’t seen you since.’

‘He’s a married man, Gaëlle.’

The Greffière raised both pierced eyebrows, which disappeared into her stiff, lacquered fringe.

‘Oh, is he now? Well, what a surprise! I’d never have guessed!’ She grinned at the Judge, but her voice, drenched with irony, suggested a different outlook on the facts. Gaëlle suspected that Schweigen’s wife and son mattered more to the Judge than could ever officially be admitted, in any court.