Skeleton Dance

They had begun the fourteen-hour, eight time-zone flight from Seattle early the day before, arriving jet-lagged and seedy at 6:15 this morning, showered and changed at the airport, taken the Air France bus to the city, had a disappointingly so-so breakfast in a glassed-in streetside brasserie, managed to get in a morning walk around the Tuileries and then caught a taxi to the train station, where a two-day old garbage men's strike had left the place looking as if it had been hit by a tornado. All in all, not a wildly successful Paris visit, and their moods reflected it.

After an hour or so on the rails, however, during much of which Julie slept, the land developed some character, the fields becoming more contoured, the villages a little prettier and more individual; about on a par, say, with what you'd see driving through southern New Jersey. But then, as the train moved deeper into the rural heart of France, eventually crossing into the departement of the Dordogne—or the Perigord, as most Frenchmen still referred to it—there were increasingly frequent glimpses of deep-green forests of chestnut and oak, smooth-flowing rivers, and wonderful outcroppings of limestone, brilliant against the darkness of the green.

Gideon too tried sleeping, but, although he was relaxed and comfortable enough, it came only in drifting patches, and most of the time he simply looked dumbly and contentedly at the scenes sliding by the window, or equally dumbly and contentedly at Julie, sound asleep in the chair opposite in their otherwise empty compartment, a single misplaced tendril of her glossy, curly, black hair quivering back and forth on her cheek with every quiet breath.

'You're not watching me sleep, are you?” she asked with her eyes closed.

'Yeah, you caught me. I can't help it. You're sure pretty. I keep meaning to tell you that.'

She smiled, brushed away the tendril, opened her eyes, and straightened up, looking surprisingly rested. “Oh— it's beautiful out there.'

'We're in the Dordogne. You've been asleep for a couple of hours.'

'Those hollows in the cliffs—those are the famous abris?'

'Uh-huh. You're looking at what was the most crowded place in Europe thirty-five thousand years ago, a real population center. The Cro-Magnons had just arrived, and the Neanderthals hadn't quite died out yet, or evolved, or whatever happened to them. Every one of those hollows—the ones you could reach, anyway—probably had a few tenants at one time or another. The Old Man of Tayac came from one just like that long, low one at the foot of that double-cleft.'

Julie, still a little sleepy, watched it go by. “You know, you've only talked about the Tayac hoax in snippets now and then. I wouldn't mind having a better idea of what it was all about.'

'Sure, what do you want to know?'

'Well, I know you know the people who were involved, the people from that institute—'

'The Institute of Prehistory . . . L'Institut de Prehistoire.'

'—but you weren't actually here at the time it happened, were you?'

'No, a little before, unfortunately. I missed it by a couple of months. And the reason I knew them was that I was putting in a few weeks weeks on that middle-Neanderthal dig up the road near Le Moustier. It didn't have anything to do with the institute, but I was staying right there in Les Eyzies—at the Hotel Cro-Magnon, in fact—and of course anthropologists like to talk to other anthropologists—

Julie smiled. “To argue, you mean.'

'That too,” Gideon said equably. “Anyway, I made a courtesy call when I arrived and eventually I got to know them fairly well. But I was long gone by the time the ruckus over the Old Man started, and pretty much out of touch. I followed it in the journals, like everyone else.'

'And what was that about, exactly—the ruckus?'

'Julie, are you sure I never told you about it?'

'Well, you might have. It's possible my mind wandered—kind of like yours does sometimes when I tell you about the National Park five-year plan. But now I'm here; it seems more relevant.'

'Fair enough,” he said, laughing. “Okay, it all goes back almost ten years, to when the institute first dug this Neanderthal site—the Tayac site. They found two burials, a mature adult male and a child of about three, along with a few stone tools, and that was it. The dig was wrapped up six or seven years ago and closed down. The burials and most of the stone tools and things are in the Museum of Man in Paris.'

'And the mature adult, that was the Old Man of Tayac?'

'In person.'

'And what was so special about him?'

'About him, per se? Nothing; just one more Neanderthal old geezer—arthritic, toothless, bent over with age—probably all of thirty-five years old. An authentic, fairly typical burial. It was what was dug up later on that made him special.'

'Later on? But you said the dig was closed.'

'Yes, but you see, the director of the institute, Ely Carpenter, was convinced—obsessed is more like it—that there was more to be found in the abri, and even though there wasn't any more funding to keep the dig going, he kept at it on his own, poking around the cave in his spare time, and damned if he didn't eventually hit the jackpot.” He looked up. “Here comes the coffee-cart. Interested?'

'Desperately.'

As usual on European trains the coffee came in a flimsy plastic double-cup with a packet of grounds in the upper part, over which the vendor poured hot water; a gimcrack affair, to put it mildly. But also as usual, it was delicious: deeply aromatic, hearty, and soul-satisfying, especially to a couple of coffee-lovers whose biological clocks were under the unhappy impression that it was four o'clock in the morning. For a minute they paused in the narrative and sipped, letting the rich stuff flow like heated wine through their systems.

'Where was I?” Gideon asked after he'd downed half of it.

'Umm . . . ‘hit the jackpot.’”