Concrete joists thrust into empty space: they seemed to have no purpose other than to knock an unwary pilgrim on the head.
It was intriguing enough, but also disappointing. There was no intimation of mystery, no sense of any concealed archives. And the library was just a library — on the third floor of the building. It was not hidden at all and the contents were thoroughly ordinary. There were no ancient texts chained to shelves. No papal parchments in mahogany chests. No musty manuscripts bound in goatskin. There was nothing but racks of regular books and large metal tables. Even a drinks machine.
It felt positively municipal.
Sighing, heavily, Simon sat down at one of the tables, to search in some of the books — but his lifeless research was interrupted by another phone call.
Why so many?
He stepped outside into another bleak concrete corridor.
It was Bill Fanthorpe, the psychiatrist from St Hilary.
'Hi, Bill, I — '
'Hello, Simon. I'm sorry to bother you. But…' The doctor's voice was tinged with anxiety.
'What is it, Bill?'
'I'm afraid Tim has disappeared.'
A faint rumble echoed through the building. The sound of the Lyon-Paris TGV rumbling in the forested distance.
'Disappeared?'
'Yes. But please do not concern yourself, not overly.'
'Jesus. Bill — '
'This happens all the time, of course.' Fanthorpe's tone of worry had quickly faded, replaced by studied calmness. 'Schizophrenics can be exceptionally perambulatory. And of course Tim wandered off before, two years ago.'
'But when? When did he run away? How?'
The doctor hesitated.
'We think last night. As I was saying — ' A thoughtful pause. 'I understand you have personal concerns for the safety of your family. Your wife told me. Therefore…We have been in touch with the police but they assure us there is no question of…' Another, slightly awkward pause. 'No question of foul play, as it were. But it was a serious lapse in security. My apologies.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'Please. Calm down. We will find him. Quite likely by tonight. Just as we found him the last time.'
Simon stared at the damp grey patch on the opposite concrete wall. This was all his fault. He had run off. He had left his family unprotected for no good reason. Why was he even here?
He had quit the house in the early morning, not telling the cops what he was doing — taking a taxi, then the train, then the first plane from Heathrow to Lyon — just so he could chase the wildest of geese, the ludicrous dream that he was some Watergating superjournalist, going to crack the biggest story in a decade.
What a fool he had been. In reality he was just a second-division crime reporter, already in his forties, who'd wasted too many years on booze, and was all-too-desperate to catch up with his peers, by pursuing some deluded fantasy. He was going nowhere. And his brother was now…escaped, on the run, in the wilds. Doing what? How was he surviving?
Now he thought of Tomasky; he tried not to think about Tomasky. Tried very hard.
With a jolt, he realized he was still holding the phone in his hand — and Bill Fanthorpe was still on the line. He apologized to the doctor, rang off, and instantly called his wife.
She confirmed what Fanthorpe had said: it seemed innocent enough, Tim had indeed just wandered off, it was not the first time he'd gone walkabout, last time they found him within twelve hours…
But Simon was not reassured. He told Suzie he loved her, loudly, not caring who might overhear his conversation. Then he told her he was coming home as soon as he could.
'OK, Simon. Of course…' Her tone was solicitous. Loving. More than he deserved.
'I'll call you later, sweetheart.'
He made his second urgent call of the day. The airport. The information was not what he wanted. He had already missed the last flight of the day from Lyon to London.
The next flight was at dawn. That was the fastest way back to London. If he wanted to go back immediately — he would have to wait until dawn.
After the briefest hesitation, he booked the flight.
So that was it. He would stay today, then leave before sunrise, and fly home from Lyon. He had this afternoon, and the evening, to see if he could find anything. And then he must return to his family. Protect them.
Simon continued his doomed and hapless search. He felt like a jerk even as he explored. He made for the roof. The roof was flat as his mood. It was grassed over. Odd, boxlike structures formed modernist gargoyles.
Then he took the lift down. The depths of the building comprised the religious core of the monastery: a large, dark, enigmatic chapel, semi-submerged into the slope underneath, and illuminated by slender stained glass windows on one side only.
And that was it, that was the chapel, and that was the monastery. Acceding to his nerves, he retreated to a concrete cloister and frantically texted Suzie the question: any news?
She texted back: no news.
Anguished, almost furious, he aimed himself at the library, yet again. Maybe there was something here. There were certainly lots of books. But they were boring books. French books. Irrelevant books. Books by Aquinas. A history of the Blackfriars. A life of St Dominic. A selection of architectural monographs for the architectural pilgrims. One slim French biography of Pope Pius the Tenth did pique his interest, but then he noticed maybe three hundred other books in the same series: lives of all the other popes in history.
There were two other people in the concrete room, besides himself. A young woman was immersed in a yellow jacketed volume by Le Corbusier: Vers un Architecture Libre. The other companion was a monk, wearing a cardigan and slacks, and glasses so thick they made him look like a nervous treefrog.
Simon drove the thought of Tim from his mind. The thought climbed back into his brain, through the window of his soul. Where was Tim? Wandering some road? Asleep in a stairwell? Buying a big fat knife?
There was nothing Simon could do, not from here, not right now. He needed to distract himself with work. Pessimistically, he leafed another text: a glossy modern volume about the monastery's unique design. It mentioned several interesting features: the book went into great detail about 'light cannons' and 'pilotis'.
Sitting back, he sighed, and looked around. The large tall windows of the library gave onto the endless farms and vineyards. The monastery was very isolated. Squat and strange and lonely under the grey-black Lyonnais sky.
An autumn storm was brewing: a grandiose affair. The first thunderclaps drumrolled across the Rhone Valley, making the building positively vibrate. Even the mute little monk looked up from his studies at the noise, his bug eyes rolling.
The noise of the booming thunder was like two parents arguing upstairs, overheard by a small and terrified child; it was like the muffled but ominous sounds of someone falling to the floor, in a bedroom.
Das Helium und das Hydrogen.
The journalist shuddered, and turned to the book at the end of the table. The visitor's book. It was a huge leather job: at least a thousand pages thick, with entries dating back decades. He flicked through the most recent entries, at least those written in English.
'The noises at night: unbearable.'
'An expression of pure genius.'
'The most beautiful building in the world. And also the ugliest.'
'I have found serenity here. Merci.'
Lightning flashed across the darkling valley, briefly dazzling the grey walls and the orange curtains. Vast curtains of rain were marching down the valley. Drenching the little hamlet of Eveux-sur-L'Arbresle.
Eveux and L'Arbresle?
