Maximinius, Sidonius and Lazarus the Resurrected – were cast adrift from Palestine in a boat without oars, sails, or food, they landed at Oppidum-Ra, driven there by the wind of God. Queen Sara went down to the shore to see who they were and to decide on their fate.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, Yola?’
‘You misled me. You said they were three married people. But Sara was a virgin. Her lacha was untarnished. She was unmarried.’
Sabir raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘So what happened when Sara went down to check them out?’
‘At first she taunted them.’ Yola made a hesitant face. ‘This must have been meant as a test, I think. Then one of the Maries climbed out of the boat and stood on the water, like Jesus did at Bethsaida. She asked Sara to do the same. Sara walked into the sea and was swallowed up by the waves. But the second Marie cast her cloak upon the waters and Sara climbed up on it and was saved. Then Sara welcomed them to her town. Helped them to build a Christian community there, after they had converted her. Marie Jacobe and Marie Salome stayed on at Les Saintes-Maries until they died. Their bones are still there.’
Sabir sat back. ‘So everything was already contained in that first verse. The rest was simply waffle. Just as I said.’
‘No. I don’t think so.’ Yola shook her head. ‘I think it was also a test. To check that the gypsies were still Catholic – si li boumian sian catouli. That we were still worthy to receive the verses. Like a sort of pilgrimage you have to make before you can learn an important secret.’
‘A rite of passage, you mean? Like the search for the Holy Grail?’
‘I don’t understand what you are saying. But yes. If, by that, you mean a test to make sure one is worthy to learn something, it would surely add up to the same thing, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yola.’ Sabir took her head in both his hands and squeezed. ‘You never cease to amaze me.’
67
Macron was angry. Deep, seat-of-the-pants, mouth-foamingly, slaveringly, angry. The side of his head had swelled up, giving him an unsightly black eye and his jaw felt as though someone had run a pile-driver across it. He had a blinding headache and his feet, where the eye-man had tenderised them with his sap, made him feel as if every step he took was taken barefoot, over a bed of oval pebbles, in a sandbox.
He watched Calque approaching via the cafe tables, twisting and turning his hips just as if he’d heard somewhere – and believed – that all fat men must, by default, be excellent dancers. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Where have I been?’ Calque raised an eyebrow at Macron’s tone.
Macron backtracked swiftly, with as much dignity as he was able to muster. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. My head is hurting. I’m feeling a little grumpy. That didn’t come out right.’
‘I agree with you. In fact I agree with you so much that I think you should be in a hospital, not sitting here in a cafe drooling coffee out of a grotesquely swollen mouth. Look at you. Your own mother wouldn’t recognise you.’
Macron grimaced. ‘I’m all right, I tell you. The Spanish medico told me I don’t have concussion. And my feet are just bruised. These crutches take some of the pressure off when I walk.’
‘And you want to be in for the kill? Is that it? To get your revenge. Stumping along behind the eye-man on a pair of crutches?’
‘Of course not. I’m detached. A professional. You know that.’
‘Do I?’
‘Are you going to throw me off the case? Send me home? Is that what you’re trying to say to me?’
‘No. I’m not going to do that. And shall I tell you why?’
Macron nodded. He wasn’t sure what he was about to hear, but he sensed that it might be unpleasant.
‘It was my fault the eye-man got you. I shouldn’t have left you alone on the hill. Shouldn’t have abandoned my position. You might have been killed. In my book, that allows you one favour and one favour only. Do you want to stay on the case?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then I’ll tell you where I’ve just been.’
68
Sabir rubbed his face with his hands, just as though he were smoothing in a squirt or two of suntan lotion. ‘There’s just one snag to all this.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Not only will the French police not know exactly where we are going, thanks to my partially holding out on Calque, but they will still be out to get me – with everything they have in their arsenal – for Babel and the nightwatchman’s murder. With you both along as accessories after the fact.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Oh yes I can. Deadly serious. Captain Calque told me that he is doing this entirely off his own initiative.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Yes I do. He could have taken me into custody this morning and thrown away the key. Claimed all the kudos for himself. I was perfectly prepared to surrender to him without a struggle. I’m no cop killer. I told him so myself. He even held the Remington in his hand and then gave it back to me.’
Alexi whistled.
‘The authorities could have spent months pinning that maniac’s actions on to me, by which time the man they call the eye-man would have been long gone – probably with the verses in tow and ready for sale on the open market. And who could prove where he found them? Nobody. Because they’ve got no DNA evidence – the death of an unknown gypsy doesn’t rate a full police procedural over here, apparently. And anyway, they would already have had me in custody, so why bother with the rest? The ideal suspect. Whose blood is conveniently splattered all over the crime scene. Open and shut, no?’
‘Then why is Calque doing this? They will send him to the guillotine, surely – or exile him to Elba, like Napoleon – if things go wrong.’
‘Hardly that. He’s simply doing it because he wants the eye-man and he wants him badly. It was his fault his assistant got nailed. And he holds himself responsible for the nightwatchman’s death, too. He reckons he should have figured that the eye-man would come back to sort over unfinished business. But he says he got so carried away with his own and his assistant’s brilliance in working out the Montserrat code, that he couldn’t see the light for the trees. A bit like me, really.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a trap? So they can get both of you? I mean, perhaps they think you are working together?’
Sabir groaned. ‘What the Hell. I don’t know. All I know is that he could have taken me in this morning and he didn’t. That’s one heck of a bonafide in my book.’
‘So what do we do?’
Sabir lurched backwards in mock surprise. ‘What do we do? We head for the Camargues, that’s what we do. Via Millau. That much I have agreed with Calque. Then we lose ourselves for a few days amongst ten thousand of your closest relatives. Always bearing in mind, of course, that the eye-man can track our car wherever and whenever he wants to – and that we are still murder suspects, with the French police hot on our trail, handcuffs and machine guns at the ready.’
‘ Jesu Cristu! And then?’
‘And then, in six days’ time, at the absolute height of the festival of the Three Maries, we steal out of hiding and fi lch the statue of Sainte Sara from in front of a church crammed to the rafters with frantically worshipping acolytes. Without tangling with the eye-man. And without getting ourselves strung up, or hacked to pieces, by a crazed mob of vengeful zealots in the process.’ Sabir grinned. ‘How do you like them apples, Alexi?’
