Crusader's Tomb Read online

  At his stand, at the end of the line of booths, dressed in a blue blouse, beret, and loose black tie, a costume designed to suggest to the rustic mind the height of Parisian artistry, Stephen took a long breath of the country air, aromatic with wood smoke, orange peel, tan bark, fresh sawdust, and the scent of horses. Beside him stood an ornate easel bearing a sign that extolled him as Grand Maître des Académies de Londres et Paris and promised an exact likeness, hand-done, profile or full-face, in high-grade charcoal for only five francs, in rich and permanent colours seven francs fifty, courtesy and service as afforded to the crowned heads of Europe, satisfaction guaranteed.

  There came the nicker of a stallion, the sharp blare of a cornet, a low grumble from an aged lioness. With his cough practically gone, Stephen experienced a sudden lift of physical well-being. He did not regret the impulse that had taken him to Peroz three weeks ago. In brief, he was almost happy.

  ‘Walk up, walk up. Come, sir, won’t you persuade Mademoiselle to have her pretty face drawn? Don’t be modest. Make a record for your grandchildren.’

  A country couple, arm in arm, wearing their Sunday clothes, lingered before him and now, blushing, the young woman took courage and came forward. She was not beautiful, but with a few swift strokes he drew a pleasant likeness upon the folio sheet that lay on the easel, brought out the fine lace work on her coif, the hand stitching on her cuffs, and taught by experience, did not forget the cameo brooch, an obvious family treasure, which she wore on her bodice.

  Meanwhile a small crowd had collected, there were murmurs of approval for the finished portrait, and soon he was hard at work. It was, for him, no more than a mechanical process executed without thought. Yet he amused himself by giving to certain of his portraits an ironic individuality, dwelling in detail upon a particular feature, an ox-like eye, an outstanding ear, a bulbous nose, and when, as sometimes happened on Saturday nights, his client was offensive, he drew with malice a subtle caricature that, more often than not, provoked the onlookers to laughter.

  At six o’clock the crowd thinned, as it always did before the main performance of the circus, and taking down his sign and shedding his blouse and tie, Stephen went through a labyrinth of ropes and canvas to a small enclosure behind the adjoining booth. Here, crouched at a glowing brazier, a shrivelled little man in cracked leggings and soiled corduroy breeches was cooking supper. Bow-legged and close-cropped, he had weathered, sharp features, except for the nose, which was flattened and broken. His eyes were beady, unblinking, and a spark from the brazier gave them warmth.

  ‘What have we tonight, Jo-jo?’

  ‘The usual.’ Jo-jo looked up. ‘But also some fresh Angers pork sausage which I picked up in the Rue Toussaint. One of the two things this town is good for.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Cointreau, of course, mon brave. They make it here.’

  The sausages, spluttering in a flat skillet, looked plump and promising. Jo-jo, who in his youth had been a jockey, then a tipster, then stable-man, then bookies’ tout, and had finally been warned off at Longchamps, was an expert forager. He knew the ropes all over France. No one was more adept at driving a bargain in the market or at picking up a stray chicken from a roadside farm.

  ‘I like these two-night stands.’ Stephen made room on the brazier for a tin coffee percolator. ‘We’re free tomorrow until three. I mean to have a look at the river.’

  ‘The Loire is a good stream,’ Jo-jo said, with the air of one who knew many things. ‘A good sandy bottom, with lots of good fish – I shall set night lines if I have the chance. In fact all this country is good for us – Bolls, Tours, and Nevers especially. The wine is a trifle small, but the grub is first chop, and the women… these wenches of Touraine, big before and behind …’ He whistled and turned up his eyes.

  As he spoke the flap of the booth opened and a strange-looking man in check trousers and a khaki turtle-neck sweater came out. He was tall and thin, so painfully emaciated he resembled a skeleton, and his face and hands – the only visible parts of his body – were covered with a thick crust of coppery scales. This was Jean Baptiste, who shared one of the poorest caravans with Stephen and Jo-jo. Mild, taciturn and melancholy, he was an extreme case of chronic psoriasis, a painless yet incurable condition of the skin from which, by exposing himself to the curious as the Human Alligator, product of the union of a ferocious male saurian and a woman swimmer of the River Amazon, he made a modest livelihood.

  ‘Had a good afternoon, Croc?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Not much,’ said Baptiste gloomily. ‘Not a single intimate.’

  It was the most profitable part of the Croc’s technique to uncover himself slowly, from the extremities inwards, and when he had reached the navel to pause and, permitting his eye to roam over the audience, exclaim dramatically, with a kind of macabre allure:

  ‘For those who desire more intimate disclosures I shall be available in the small tent at the rear. Adults only. Special admission for these private revelations only five francs.’

  When the meal was ready they shared it, sitting round the glowing charcoal – a big can of steaming soup followed by the sausages, crisp yet juicy, spicy with country herbs, the gravy sopped up with hunks of fresh bread hacked off with a clasp knife. Only since he had joined the troupe had Stephen learned the savour of food eaten in the open. Afterwards there was coffee, hot, strong and gritty, served in the soup can. Then Jo-jo rolled a cigarette and, with the air of a conjurer, produced from his hip pocket a bottle of the clear local liqueur.

  ‘How about a drop of altar wine, Abbé?’

  The nickname had followed Stephen from Paris – he did not mind. They passed the bottle from hand to hand, drinking the clear, warming liquid without glasses. Jo-jo rolled it over his tongue.

  ‘You may have confidence in this. Made from the best Valencia oranges.’

  ‘At one time they told me never to eat fruit. At another to eat nothing else.’ Baptiste liked to reminisce on the subject of his malady. ‘From first to last I consulted nineteen doctors. Each was more of a fool than the one before.’

  ‘Then have another dose of my medicine.’

  ‘Ah, there is no remedy for me.’

  ‘You can’t complain, Croc. Haven’t you a rich and interesting existence? You experience the delights of travel. In fine, you are famous.’

  ‘It is undoubtedly a fact that people have journeyed fifty kilometres to view me.’

  ‘And don’t you have a great success with the ladies?’

  ‘True enough. I exert a certain fascination upon them.’

  At this serious admission Jo-jo gave out a shout of laughter. Then, extinguishing his cigarette, he got up to see to the horses.

  It was Stephen’s turn to wash up. When he finished, dusk had fallen, lights strung out from the generating engine were glowing like fire-flies over the fair-ground. Gazing, he felt all his senses aroused. He had not seen Emmy all day. But she did not like to be disturbed before the show, and people were already converging towards the big tent. He put away his easel and the rest of his gear in the locker underneath his bunk in the caravan, dressed in his ordinary clothes, and crossed to the back entrance of the arena. Under the terms of his engagement, it was his duty to join those members of the ground staff who showed the patrons to their seats, dispensed programmes, ices, citronade, and that brand of Montélimar nougat made especially in Passy for the Cirque Peroz.

  It seemed to Stephen an excellent ‘house’ – the circus had a deservedly popular reputation throughout the provinces and in fine weather on the good stands was usually sold out. Tonight tier upon tier of expectant faces rose up from the sawdust ring. Suddenly, on its raised platform, draped with red and gold, the brass band struck into the grand march, the ringmaster, Peroz himself, appeared in top hat, white cords and scarlet coat, a procession of cream ponies cantered with tossing manes into the arena and the performance began. Although by this time Stephen knew the performance by heart, crouched by the rail at the
back of the aisle, with a sketch-book on his knee, he followed every phase, every movement of the spectacle with absorbed interest, noting, again and again, the rhythms of muscular co-ordination, the play of light and colour tones in the vast shimmering kaleidoscope, even the individual reactions, often bizarre and comic, of members of the audience.

  It was fascinating, this new world he had discovered, with its superb, high-stepping horses, ponderous elephants and sinuous, yellow-eyed lions, its tumbling acrobats, deft-handed jugglers, and tight-rope walkers swaying beneath paper parasols. Watching, he thought of the famous circus piece by Manet, Lola on the High Wire, and in his present uplifted mood felt he could draw from this field an equal richness. Design, of course, he would have, but above all colour would be the instrument of his expression. He saw on his palette the pure colours, the ultramarines, ochres, and vermilions, saw how he could humanise them without reducing their intensity. He would create a new world, a world which only he perceived, a world for himself alone. Bent in his corner he drew and drew. This was his real work, his daytime portraiture no more than a method of existence, and already in the portfolio in his locker he had scores of studies which he would use in one tremendous composition.

  After the interval the more important performers made their appearance – the Dorando troupe of trapeze artists, Chico the sword swallower, Max and Montz the famous clowns. Next a wooden floor was swiftly assembled in the centre of the ring and there came that fanfare he knew so well, which always caused his heart to beat. Then, below, he saw Emmy cycle in, wearing a white satin blouse, white shorts, and long white boots. Once she had gained the flooring she began to execute upon the light nickel-plated machine a series of evolutions that left the spectator dizzy, circling and turning backwards, forwards, always within the confined space, altering her position until she rode upside down beneath the handlebars, finally dismembering the machine while in motion and completing the complex pattern upon a single wheel.

  Perhaps these manoeuvres were less difficult than they seemed, yet that cult of the bicycle, a national passion which reaches its peak annually in those hectic weeks devoted to the Tour de France, made them popular with the crowd. A burst of applause rattled round the dome, followed by a silence as Emmy walked towards a curious structure at the far end of the arena. This was a high chute, a narrow strip of metal painted red, white, and blue, descending almost vertically from the roof of the tent and ending in a curve that swept abruptly upwards.

  By altering its tempo the band exaggerated the suspense as Emmy, slowly climbing the rope ladder, reached the minute platform on top. There, seen dimly through the upper swirls of smoke, she unhooked a heavier cycle from the cleats that held it, tested the frames, stretched her limbs, dusted her hands with chalk. Finally, mounting the machine on the platform, she seemed for a long moment to be suspended, floating almost in the steamy haze. The brass, which had gradually muted to a prophetic murmur, now came to life, supported by a violent staccato of drums which rolled and reverberated, louder, louder. It was the instant which made Stephen wish to close his eyes. Jo-jo had told him that if one were an expert and had nerve the danger was limited, yet the white central strip down which the wheels must exactly travel had less than a six-inch span, and after rain, or when the humidity was high, the slippery surface, despite preliminary rubbing, was treacherous. However, there was no time to think – in a final thunder of sound Emmy let herself go, dropped, it seemed, like a plummet, shot upwards on the curve, flew through the air for thirty feet and landed on the wooden platform with a velocity that carried her out of the tent like a flash.

  Under cover of the applause, though he was not supposed to leave, Stephen escaped, went round to the dressing tent. He had to wait fifteen minutes before she came out, and immediately he sensed that she was not in the most amiable temper.

  ‘Well?’ she inquired.

  ‘You were good… very good,’ he assured her.

  ‘The chute was wet – a heavy dew – and these lazy fripons hadn’t wiped it half. Don’t they realise it is suicide to skid on a damp track? I almost didn’t go down.’ On several occasions, because of this, she had called the act off – in fact she had an understanding with Peroz which permitted her to do so. Now, however, the complaint left her voice. ‘ I wanted to tonight, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  She did not seem to hear him. Then, indifferently, she answered.

  ‘Because of these military fellows.’

  ‘The soldiers?’

  ‘No, stupid, officers, of course. There is a cadet school of the first class here. Didn’t you see that group in the front tribune?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘A smart lot they were, in their tunics. I like a uniform. And were they trying to get off with me. Not that I took notice, naturally. Still’ – her sulky expression lifted slightly – ‘I did put in a little extra for their benefit.’

  He bit his lip, trying to stifle the jealousy which she had such capacity to arouse in him. After the stuffy heat of the tent the air was soft and cool.

  ‘Let’s walk by the town walls … it’s rather nice there.’

  ‘No. I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘But it’s such a lovely night. Look, the moon’s just coming out.’

  ‘And I am just going in.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you all day.’

  Not a muscle of her face moved.

  ‘You’ve seen me now.’

  ‘Only for a moment. Do come.’

  ‘Haven’t I told you I am always fatigued after my act? The strain is most severe. All very well for you, selling programmes and nougat down below.’

  He saw that it was useless to press her further. He concealed his disappointment stoically. They reached the caravan which she shared with Madame Armande, the woman who looked after the costumes of the troupe. He had thought of her all day, he was hungry for her company, for a sign of her affection. As she stood there, her taut figure seductive in the moonlight, he wanted to seize her roughly and force kisses on her pale, indifferent face, her slightly open mouth. Instead he said:

  ‘Don’t forget about tomorrow. I’ll call for you at ten.’

  He watched her run up the steps and disappear in the caravan. As he turned away the show had ended, and crowds were pouring out of the big tent talking, gesticulating, laughing. They all seemed happy, pleased with life and with themselves, on their way back to normal, comfortable homes. His own earlier cheerfulness was gone. Restless and unsettled, he could not bring himself to return to his quarters, to face Jo-jo’s banter and Baptiste’s snores. He set out for the ramparts alone.

  Chapter Eight

  But on the following morning, which came with a mild, grey dawn, she surprised and cheered him by her punctuality. She was almost ready when he called, and shortly after they were on their vélos, bound for the Loire, the fine outline of Angers, with its Roman walls, spired Cathedral of St Maurice and arcaded préfecture fading into the luminous mist behind them. As usual, she set a very fast pace, bent over the handlebars, legs moving like pistons, with the fixed purpose of outdistancing him. His machine, bought cheap with his first week’s pay, was an old model; however, fresh air and country food had hardened him. Though it cost him a stiff effort on the hills, he maintained his place just behind her shoulder.

  Presently they swung through a wood to the left and all at once the splendour of the valley was revealed – the great broad river glinting in the placid light, moving lazily between its banks over shallows of golden sand, past tall banks of osiers, moored flat-bottomed boats and little green islands. On the winding road, thick with sand, they slackened speed. Behind a screen of beeches, Stephen glimpsed the lichened, grey façade and pointed turrets of an old château. The beauty of the countryside was intoxicating to his spirit. Uplifted, he looked towards his companion, made as though to speak, then, wisely, refrained.

  Towards noon they drew up at a riverside estaminet where above the doorway a monstrous fish, swathed in we
eds, swam in a glass case. Stephen had at first proposed a picnic, but this held slight appeal for Emmy, who preferred always to stop at those cafés likely to be frequented by the sporting fraternity, where under an atmosphere of camaraderie there was free companionship, sharp slangy talk, and the music of an accordion. This inn, however, while possessing considerable charm, was at present empty of customers – a fact which did not displease Stephen, who suffered from the too open admiration which his companion chose to provoke. They crossed the clean sanded stone floor, sat down at a scrubbed table by a window hung with a box and, after consultation with the landlady, chose a local, fish dish which she strongly recommended to them. This arrived after a brief interval on a tremendous wooden platter, a fritto of tiny Loire spratlings each no bigger than a whitebait, so crisply cooked they broke at the touch of the fork. With them came pommes frites and a carafe of the Bière Navarin that Emmy favoured.

  ‘This is good.’ Stephen glanced across the table.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me order a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I like this beer. It reminds me of Paris.’

  ‘On a day like this?’

  ‘On any day Paris is good enough for me.’

  ‘Still… you don’t mind being here?’

  ‘It could be worse.’

  Emmy was not addicted to superlatives, but for once she was in an excellent humour and presently she broke into a laugh.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I got this morning. Flowers. Roses. And in them a billet-doux from one of the officers.’

  ‘Indeed.’ His expression had turned slightly rigid.

  ‘Here it is. Embossed monogram and all.’ With another short laugh she felt in her pocket and brought out a crumpled pink sheet. ‘Take a look.’

  He had no wish to read the note but neither did he wish to offend her. Quickly he glanced through it, noting the double meaning in the polite phrases inviting her to take an apéritif on La Terrasse and go to supper afterwards at Le Vert d’Eau. He handed it back without comment.