Mario Reading - [Adam Sabir 01] Read online

  Mario Reading

  THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

  EPIGRAPH

  ‘As it had never occurred to him to leave word behind, he was mourned over for dead till, after eight months, his first letter arrived from Talcahuano.’

  From Typhoon by Joseph Conrad

  ‘Our business in this world is not to succeed, but to continue to fail, in good spirits.’

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Complete Works, vol. 26, Reflections and Remarks on Human Life, s.4

  ‘Perhaps proof of how aleatory the concept of nationality is lies in the fact that we must learn it before we can recognize it as such.’

  From A Reading Diary by Alberto Manguel

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Nostradamus did indeed only complete 942 quatrains out of 1000, representing his intended total of ten centuries of 100 quatrains apiece. The remaining fifty-eight quatrains are missing, and, to this day, they have never been found.

  The Will that I have used in the book is Nostradamus’s original last Will and Testament (in the original French, with my translation appended). I concentrate particularly on the codicil to the Will in which Nostradamus bequeaths two secret coffers to his eldest daughter. Madeleine, with the stipulation that ‘no one but her may look at or see those things which he has placed inside the coffers’. All this is on public record.

  The gypsy lore, language, customs, names, habits and myths depicted in the book are all accurate. I have merely concatenated the customs of a number of different tribes into one, for reasons of fictional convenience.

  No definite proof of the existence of the Corpus Maleficus has been found to date. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t out there.

  PROLOGUE

  La Place de l ’Etape, Orleans

  16 June 1566

  De Bale nodded and the bourreau began to haul away at the pulley mechanism. The Chevalier de la Roche Allié was in full armour, so the apparatus strained and groaned before the ratchet took and the Chevalier began to rise from the ground. The bourreau had warned de Bale about the strain and its possible consequences, but the Count would hear none of it.

  ‘‘I have known this man since childhood, Maître. His family is amongst the most ancient in France. If he wants to die in his armour, such is his right.’’

  The bourreau knew better than to argue - men who argued with de Bale usually ended up on the rack, or scalded with boiling spirits. De Bale had the ear of the King and the seal of the Church. In other words the bastard was untouchable. As close to terrestrial perfection as it was possible for mortal man to be.

  De Bale glanced upwards. Because of the lèse-majesté nature of his crimes, de la Roche Allié had been sentenced to a fifty-foot suspension. De Bale wondered if the man’s neck ligaments would withstand the strain of both the rope and the 100 pounds of plate steel his squires had strapped him into before the execution. It would not be well viewed if the man broke in two before the drawing and the quartering. Could de la Roche Allié have thought of this eventuality when he made his request? Planned the whole thing? De Bale thought not. The man was an innocent - one of the old breed.

  ‘He’s reached the fifty, Sir.’

  ‘Let him down.’

  De Bale watched the sack of armour descending towards him. The man was dead. It was obvious. Most of his victims struggled and kicked at this point in the proceedings. They knew what was coming.

  ‘The Chevalier is dead, Sir. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, for a start.’ De Bale glanced over at the crowd. These people wanted blood. Huguenot blood. If they didn’t get it, they would turn on him and the executioner and tear them limb from limb. ‘Draw him anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir?’

  ‘You heard me. Draw him anyway. And contrive that he twitches, man. Shriek through your nose if you have to. Ventriloquize. Make a big play with the entrails. The crowd have to think that they see him suffer.’

  The two young squires were moving forward to unbuckle the Chevalier’s armour.

  De Bale waved them back. ‘The Maître will do it. Return to your homes. Both of you. You have done your duty by your Master. He is ours now.’

  The squires backed away, white-faced.

  ‘Just take off the gorget, plackart and breastplate, Maître. Leave the greaves, cuisses, helm and gauntlets in place. The horses will do the rest.’

  The executioner busied himself about his business. ‘We’re ready, Sir.’

  De Bale nodded and the bourreau made his first incision.

  Michel de Nostredame’s House,

  Salon-de-Provence.

  17 June 1566

  ‘De Bale is coming, Master.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How could you know? It is not possible. The news was only brought in by carrier pigeon ten minutes ago.’

  The old man shrugged and eased his oedema-ravaged leg until it lay more comfortably on the footstool. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He is in Orléans. In three weeks he will be here.’

  ‘Only three weeks?’

  The manservant moved closer. He began to wring his hands. ‘What shall you do, Master? The Corpus Maleficus are questioning all those whose family were once of the Jewish faith. Marranos. Conversos. Also gypsies. Moors. Huguenots. Anyone not by birth a Catholic. Even the Queen cannot protect you down here.’

  The old man waved a disparaging hand. ‘It hardly matters any more. I shall be dead before the monster arrives.’

  ‘No, Master. Surely not.’

  ‘And you, Ficelle? Would it suit you to be away from here when the Corpus come calling?’

  ‘I shall stay at your side, Master.’

  The old man smiled. ‘You will better serve me by doing as I ask. I need you to undertake a journey for me. A long journey, fraught with obstacles. Shall you do as I ask?’

  The manservant lowered his head. ‘Whatever you ask me I will do.’

  The old man watched him for a few moments, seemingly weighing him up. ‘If you fail in this, Ficelle, the consequences will be more terrible than any de Bale - or the Devil he so unwittingly serves - could contrive.’ He hesitated, his hand resting on his grotesquely inflated leg. ‘I have had a vision. Of such clarity that it dwarfs the work to which I have until now dedicated my life. I have held back fifty-eight of my quatrains from publication for reasons which I shall not vouchsafe - they concern only me. Six of these quatrains have a secret purpose - I shall explain to you how to use them. No one must see you. No one must suspect. The remaining fifty-two quatrains must be hidden in a specific place that only you and I can know. I have sealed them inside this bamboo capsule.’ The old man reached down beside his chair and withdrew the packed and tamped tube. ‘You will place this capsule where I tell you and in exactly the manner I stipulate. You will not deviate from this. You will carry out my instructions to the letter. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  The old man lay back in his chair, exhausted by the intensity of what he was trying to communicate. ‘When you return here, after my death, you will go to see my friend and the trustee of my estate, Palamède Marc. You will tell him about your errand and assure him of its success. He will then give you a sum of money. A sum of money that will secure you and your family’s future for generations to come. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Will you trust to my judgement in this matter and follow my instructions to the letter?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Then you will be blessed, Ficelle. By a people you will never meet and by a history neither you nor I can remotely envisage.’

  ‘But you know the future, Master. You
are the greatest seer of all time. Even the Queen has honoured you. All France knows of your gifts.’

  ‘I know nothing, Ficelle. I am like this bamboo tube. Doomed to transmit things but never to understand them. All I can do is pray that there are others, coming after me, who will manage things better.’

  PART ONE

  1

  Quartier St-Denis, Paris Present Day

  Achor Bale took no real pleasure in killing. That had long since left him. He watched the gypsy almost fondly, as one might watch a chance acquaintance getting off an airplane.

  The man had been late of course. One only had to look at him to see the vanity bleeding from each pore. The 1950s moustache à la Zorro. The shiny leather jacket bought for fifty euros at the Clignancourt flea market. The scarlet see-through socks. The yellow shirt with the Prince of Wales plumes and the outsized pointed collar. The fake gold medallion with the image of Sainte Sara. The man was a dandy without taste - as recognisable to one of his own as a dog is to another dog.

  ‘Do you have the manuscript with you?’

  ‘What do you think I am? A fool?’

  Well, hardly that, thought Bale. A fool is rarely self-conscious. This man wears his venality like a badge of office. Bale noted the dilated pupils. The sheen of sweat on the handsome, razor-sharp features. The drumming of the fingers on the table. The tapping of the feet. A drug addict, then. Strange, for a gypsy. That must be why he needed the money so badly. ‘Are you Manouche or Rom? Gitan, perhaps?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘Given your moustache, I’d say Manouche. One of Django Reinhardt’s descendants, maybe?’

  ‘My name is Samana. Babel Samana.’

  ‘Your gypsy name?’

  ‘That is secret.’

  ‘My name is Bale. No secret there.’

  The gypsy’s fingers increased their beat upon the table. His eyes were everywhere now - flitting across the other drinkers, testing the doors, plumbing the dimensions of the ceiling.

  ‘How much do you want for it?’ Cut straight to the chase. That was the way with a man like this. Bale watched the gypsy’s tongue dart out to moisten the thin, artificially virilised mouth.

  ‘I want half a million euros.’

  ‘Just so.’ Bale felt a profound calmness descending upon him. Good. The gypsy really did have something to sell. The whole thing wasn’t just a come-on. ‘For such a sum of money, we’d need to inspect the manuscript before purchase. Ascertain its viability.’

  ‘And memorise it! Yes. I’ve heard of such things. This much I know. Once the contents are out into the open it’s worthless. Its value lies in its secrecy.’

  ‘You’re so right. I’m very glad you take that position.’

  ‘I’ve got someone else interested. Don’t think you’re the only fish in the sea.’

  Bale’s eyes closed down on themselves. Ah. He would have to kill the gypsy after all. Torment and kill. He was aware of the telltale twitching above his right eye. ‘Shall we go and see the manuscript now?’

  ‘I’m talking to the other man first. Perhaps you’ll even bid each other up.’

  Bale shrugged. ‘Where are you meeting him?’

  ‘I’m not saying.’

  ‘How do you wish to play this then?’

  ‘You stay here. I go and talk to the other man. See if he’s serious. Then I come back.’

  ‘And if he’s not? The price goes down?’

  ‘Of course not. Half a million.’

  ‘I’ll stay here then.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The gypsy lurched to his feet. He was breathing heavily now, the sweat dampening his shirt at the neck and sternum. When he turned around Bale noticed the imprint of the chair on the cheap leather jacket.

  ‘If you follow me, I’ll know. Don’t think I won’t.’

  Bale took off his sunglasses and laid them on the table. He looked up, smiling. He had long understood the effect his freakishly clotted eyes had on susceptible people. ‘I won’t follow you.’

  The gypsy’s mouth went slack with shock. He gazed in horror at Bale’s face. This man had the ia chalou - the evil eye. Babel’s mother had warned him of such people. Once you saw them - once they fixed you with the stare of the basilisk - you were doomed. Somewhere, deep inside his unconscious mind, Babel Samana was acknowledging his mistake - acknowledging that he had let the wrong man into his life.

  ‘You’ll stay here?’

  ‘Never fear. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ***

  Babel began running as soon as he was out of the café. He would lose himself in the crowds. Forget the whole thing. What had he been thinking of? He didn’t even have the manuscript. Just a vague idea of where it was. When the three ursitory had settled on Babel’s pillow as a child to decide his fate, why had they chosen drugs as his weakness? Why not drink? Or women? Now O Beng had got into him and sent him this cockatrice as a punishment.

  Babel slowed to a walk. No sign of the gadje. Had he been imagining things? Imagining the man’s malevolence? The effect of those terrible eyes? Maybe he had been hallucinating? It wouldn’t be the first time he had given himself the heebie-jeebies with badly cut drugs.

  He checked the time on a parking meter. Okay. The second man might still be waiting for him. Perhaps he would prove more benevolent?

  Across the road, two prostitutes began a heated argument about their respective pitches. It was Saturday afternoon. Pimp day in St-Denis. Babel caught his reflection in a shop window. He gave himself a shaky smile. If only he could swing this deal he might even run a few girls himself. And a Mercedes. He would buy himself a cream Mercedes with red leather seats, can holders and automatic air conditioning. And get his nails manicured at one of those shops where blond payo girls in white pinafores gaze longingly at you across the table.

  Chez Minette was only a two-minute walk away. The least he could do would be to poke his head inside the door and check out the other man. Sting him for a down-payment - a proof of interest.

  Then, groaning under a mound of cash and gifts, he would go back to the camp and placate his hexi of a sister.

  2

  Adam Sabir had long since decided that he was on a wild goose chase. Samana was fifty minutes late. It was only his fascination with the seedy milieu of the bar that kept him in situ. As he watched, the barman began winding down the street-entrance shutters.

  ‘What’s this? Are you closing?’

  ‘Closing? No. I’m sealing everybody in. It’s Saturday. All the pimps come into town on the train. Cause trouble in the streets. Three weeks ago I lost my front windows. If you want to get out you must leave by the back door.’

  Sabir raised an eyebrow. Well. This was certainly a novel way to maintain your customer base. He reached forward and drained his third cup of coffee. He could already feel the caffeine nettling at his pulse. Ten minutes. He would give Samana another ten minutes. Then, although he was still technically on holiday, he would go to the cinema and watch John Huston’s Night of the Iguana - spend the rest of the afternoon with Ava Gardner and Deborah Kerr. Add another to his no doubt unsaleable book on the hundred best films of all time.

  ‘Une pression, s’il vous plaît. Rien ne presse.’

  The barman waved a hand in acknowledgement and continued winding. At the last possible moment a lithe figure slid under the descending shutters and straightened up, using a table for support.

  ‘Ho! Tu veux quoi, toi?’

  Babel ignored the barman and stared wildly about the room. His shirt was drenched beneath his jacket and sweat was cascading off the angular lines of his chin. With single-minded intensity he concentrated his attention on each table in turn, his eyes screwed up against the bright interior glare.

  Sabir held up a copy of his book on Nostradamus, as they had agreed, with his photograph on prominent display. So. The gypsy had arrived at last. Now for the let-down. ‘I’m over here, Monsieur Samana. Come and join me.’

  Babel tripped over a c
hair in his eagerness to get to Sabir. He steadied himself, limping, his face twisted towards the entrance to the bar. But he was safe for the time being. The shutters were fully down now. He was sealed off from the lying gadje with the crazy eyes. The gadje who had sworn to him that he wouldn’t follow. The gadje who had then trailed him all the way to Chez Minette, not even bothering to hide himself in the crowd. Babel was still in with a chance.

  Sabir stood up, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Close to, all the savagery that he had detected in the gypsy’s stare had transformed itself into a vacant mask of terror.

  ‘You’re the writer?’

  ‘Yes. See? That’s me. On the inside back cover.’

  Babel reached across to the next table and grabbed an empty beer glass. He smashed it down on to the surface between them and ground his hand in the broken shards. Then he reached across and took Sabir’s hand in his bloodied paw. ‘I’m sorry for this.’ Before Sabir had time to react, the gypsy had forced his hand down on to the broken glass.

  ‘Jesus! You little bastard…’ Sabir tried to snatch his hand back.

  The gypsy clutched hold of Sabir’s hand and forced it against his own, until the two hands were joined in a bloody scum. Then he smashed Sabir’s bleeding palm against his forehead, leaving a splattered imprint. ‘Now. Listen! Listen to me.’

  Sabir wrenched his hand from the gypsy’s grasp. The barman emerged from behind his bar brandishing a foreshortened billiard cue.

  ‘Two words. Remember them. Samois. Chris.’ Babel backed away from the approaching barman, his bloodied palm held up as if in benediction. ‘Samois. Chris. You remember?’ He threw a chair at the barman, using the distraction to orientate himself in relation to the rear exit. ‘Samois. Chris.’ He pointed at Sabir, his eyes wild with fear. ‘Don’t forget.’