When they were teenagers, Sophia and Stelios used to love to go out of Delphi along mountain paths with donkeys and goats, playing at being Ancient Greeks’, as they called it. And then the imbecile had tried to drown himself. Luckily there was the cascade of declarations by Pierre. Nowadays, Sophia was still trying to locate a few trickles of it. Stelios? Was he a threat? Would he do something like this? Yes, he might. When he had been pulled out of the Mediterranean, he had been suddenly galvanised, and started screaming like a madman. Her heart beating too fast, Sophia made an effort to get to her feet, drink a glass of water and look out of the window.
The view calmed her down at once. What had come over her? She took a deep breath. Her habit of creating a whole terrifying logic out of nothing was exhausting. It was almost certainly just a beech tree, a sapling, and it didn’t mean a thing. But how did whoever planted it get into the garden, with their blasted beech tree? Sophia dressed quickly, went outside and examined the lock on the garden gate. Nothing to notice. But it was such a simple lock that anyone with a screwdriver could undoubtedly open it in a moment and leave no trace.
It was early spring. The day was damp, and she was getting chilled, standing there defying the beech. What might it mean? Sophia tried not to think. She hated it when her Greek soul got carried away, especially twice in one morning. And what was she to think if Pierre wouldn’t take any interest in this tree? Why didn’t he? Was it normal that he should be so unconcerned?
Sophia had no wish to stay alone all day with the tree. She picked up her handbag and went out. In the street, a young man, well thirty-something, was looking through the gate of the house next door. ‘House’ was perhaps putting it too grandly. Pierre always referred to it as ‘that tumbledown disgrace’. He thought that in this privileged street, where the houses were all desirable residences, that barn of a place, which had for years lain empty, let the side down. Up to now, Sophia had never imagined that Pierre might become stupid with age. The notion now crossed her mind. This is the first sinister effect of the tree, she told herself without really meaning it. Pierre had even had the side wall of their garden built higher to prevent them from having to see the so-called ‘disgrace’. You could only see it now from the second-floor windows. This young chap, on the other hand, seemed to be looking admiringly at the facade with its broken windows. He was skinny, with black hair, black clothes, chunky silver rings on the fingers of one hand, and a bony face; his forehead was pressed between two bars of the tall, rusty gates.
Exactly the kind of person Pierre could not stand. Pierre was a defender of moderation and sobriety. And this young fellow was elegant, both rather austere and rather showy. The hands gripping the gates were beautiful. Looking at him, Sophia felt a little comforted. No doubt that was why she asked him if he could identify the tree. The young man moved his head away from the gate, flecks of rust now in his straight black hair. He must have been standing like that for some time. Without showing surprise or asking any questions, he followed Sophia, and she pointed to the tree, which could be seen quite clearly from the street.
‘That’s a beech tree, Madame,’ the young man said.
‘Are you sure? Forgive me, but it is quite important.’
The young man looked again carefully. With his dark and as yet unclouded eyes. ‘Absolutely sure, Madame.’
‘Thank you, monsieur. You’re very kind.’
She smiled at him and walked away. The young man walked off in the other direction, kicking a small stone with the toe of his shoe.
She was right, then. It was a beech. Just a beech.
Dammit.
II
THAT WAS HOW IT STARTED.
He had been down on his luck-for how long now? About two years.
And then finally, a gleam of light at the end of the tunnel. Marc kicked a pebble, sending it about five metres up the street. It’s not so easy on the pavements of Paris to find a pebble to kick. In the country, yes. But who bothers in the country? Whereas in Paris, you sometimes really need to find a pebble and give it a good kick. Sod’s law. And, like a little ray of sunlight in the clouds, he had had the good luck, about an hour ago, to find a very suitable pebble. So he was kicking it along and following it.
His pebble had now taken him all the way to rue Saint-Jacques in the Latin Quarter, not without one or two problems. You’re not allowed to touch it with your hand, it’s strictly feet only. So, anyway, the bad luck had lasted two years now. No job, no money, no woman in his life any more. And no way out in sight. Except, perhaps, the house, or if you prefer, the ‘disgrace’. He had seen it yesterday morning. Four floors, counting the attics, plus a bit of garden, in an out-of-the-way street, and all in a totally tumbledown state. Holes everywhere, no central heating, an outside lavatory with a wooden door and latch. If you screwed up your eyes, it looked fantastic. If you opened them properly, it looked like a disaster area. On the other hand, the landlord was willing to let it at a peppercorn rent, in exchange for the tenant doing it up a bit. This house might help him get out of the hole he was in right now. What was more, there would be room for his godfather. Somewhere near the house, a woman had asked him an odd question. What was it now? Oh yes. The name of a tree. Funny how people know absolutely nothing about trees, yet they can’t live without them. But maybe they’re right. After all, he knew the names of plenty of trees and where had that got him?
The pebble went off-piste in rue Saint-Jacques. Stones don’t like going uphill. It had rolled into a gutter right by the Sorbonne, what was more. Well, farewell the Middle Ages. Farewell all those monks, lords and peasants. Marc clenched his fists in his pockets. No job, no money, no woman and no more Middle Ages. How pathetic. Skilfully, Marc propelled the pebble out of the gutter and back onto the pavement. There’s a trick to doing that. And he knew all about the trick, just as he knew all about the Middle Ages, it seemed to him. Don’t even think about the Middle Ages. In the country, you never have to confront the challenge of getting a pebble back onto a pavement. That’s why one can’t be bothered to kick a stone in the country, even though there are tons of them there. Marc’s pebble sailed smartly across rue Soufflot and manoeuvred without too much difficulty into the narrow part of rue Saint-Jacques.
Two years, then. And after two years of that, the first reaction of someone down on their luck is to look out for someone else down on their luck. Seeing friends who have succeeded, when you have made a complete mess of your life, aged thirty-five, only makes you bitter. At first, OK, it’s interesting, it gives you ideas, and encourages you to try harder. But then it begins to get on your nerves and makes you bitter. Well-known fact. And Marc wanted at all costs not to become bitter. It’s pathetic, and even dangerous, especially for a medievalist. Dispatched with a solid thump, the pebble reached the Val-de-Grace.
There was someone else who was in his position, or so he had heard. According to information recently received, Mathias Delamarre was very seriously down on his luck, and had been for some time. Marc liked him, liked him a lot in fact. But he had not seen him for the last two years. Maybe Mathias would come in with him and rent the disgrace. Because even if it was a peppercorn rent, Marc could only manage about a third of it. And the landlord wanted a reply right away.
With a sigh, Marc negotiated the pebble to a telephone box. If Mathias agreed, he might be able to say yes to the deal. But there was one big problem about Mathias. He was a specialist on prehistoric man. As far as Marc was concerned, once you’d said that, you’d said it all. But was this the moment to be fussy about a man’s academic speciality? In spite of the terrible gulf between them, they liked each other. It was odd, but that was what you had to hold on to, this strange affection, and not the peculiar choice Mathias had made to study hunter- gatherers and flint axeheads. Marc could still remember the phone number. Someone answered, saying that Mathias had moved, and gave him the new number. Doggedly, he dialled again. Yes, Mathias was in. Hearing his voice, Marc breathed again. If a guy of thirty-five is at home at twenty-past three on a Wednesday afternoon, it’s a sure sign he’s in grade A trouble. Good start. And when he agrees, without more ado, to meet you in a down-at- heel cafe in rue du Faubourg Saint-Jacques, that tells you he is likely to agree to anything.
All the same.
