The Three Evangelists - Страница 4

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‘Well,’ said Marc, twisting his rings, ‘when our disagreements get really serious and our chronological preferences too hard to face, all we have to do is make a fire, right?’

‘It might help,’ Lucien conceded.

‘Sensible idea,’ added Mathias.

So they stopped talking history, and warmed themselves by the fire. In fact they were more concerned about the weather that evening, and for the evenings to come. The wind had risen and heavy rain was leaking into the house. The three of them began to estimate the extent of the repairs needing to be done, and the work involved. For now, the rooms were all empty and they were sitting on packing cases. Tomorrow each would bring his own possessions. They would have to plaster the walls, rewire the electricity, fix the plumbing, prop up the ceilings. And Marc was going to collect his elderly godfather. He would explain that another time. Who was he? Just his old godfather, that’s all. He was actually his uncle as well. And what did this uncle-godfather do? Nothing, he was retired. Retired from what? From his job, of course. What kind of job? Oh, Lucien was a pain with all his questions. He was a civil servant, if you must know. He would fill in the details another time.

V

THE TREE HAD GROWN.

For more than a month, Sophia had been keeping watch from the second-floor window, observing the new neighbours. They interested her. Was there any harm in that? Three fairly young men, no women to be seen, and no children. Just three guys. She had immediately recognised the one who had been pressing his forehead against the rusty gates and had told her at once that her tree was a beech. She had been pleased to see him back in the street. He had brought with him two very different-looking fellows. A tall, fair-haired type, who wore sandals, and an excitable character in a grey suit. She was getting to know them rather well. Sophia wondered whether it was quite proper to be spying on them like this. Well, proper or not, it reassured and distracted her, and it was giving her an idea. So she went on doing it. They had been in perpetual motion for the whole month of April: transporting planks, buckets, sacks of stuff in wheelbarrows, or boxes on-what do you call those metal things with wheels? Trolleys, that was it. So, boxes on trolleys. Plenty of work going on, then. They had been crisscrossing the garden the whole time, and that was how Sophia had learnt their names, by leaving the window open. The thin one in black was Marc. The slow-moving, fair-haired one was Mathias, and the one always with a tie was Lucien. Even when he was making holes in the walls, he kept his tie on. Sophia touched her neckscarf. Well, each to his own mannerism.

Through the side window of a boxroom on the second floor, Sophia could also see what was going on inside the house next door. The newly repaired windows had no curtains and she did not think they would ever acquire any. Each resident seemed to have chosen a floor. The problem was that the tall, fair-haired one worked in his apartment half-naked, virtually naked, and sometimes completely naked, according to his fancy. As far as she could see, this bothered him not at all. It was embarrassing. He was good to look at, that wasn’t the problem. But as a result, Sophia did not really feel at her ease perching in the boxroom. Apart from work on the house, which sometimes seemed to overwhelm them, but which they were pursuing with determination-they did a lot of reading and writing as well. Bookshelves had been filled with books. Sophia who had been born on the rocky shores of Delphi, and who had made her way in the world entirely by her voice, admired anyone who could spend time reading a book at a table with a reading lamp.

Then last week, there had been a new arrival. Another man, but much older. At first Sophia thought he was a visitor. But no, the elderly man had come to stay. For some time? Well, anyway there he was, in one of the attic rooms. It was pretty odd, all the same. He had a good face, she thought. He was far and away the most handsome of her neighbours. But the oldest too: sixty, seventy, maybe. To look at him you would suppose he would have a commanding voice, but on the contrary, he spoke so softly and mildly that to date Sophia had been unable to hear a single word of what he said. He held himself very erect and tall, very much the ex-commander of the fleet. Nor did he lend a hand with the repair work. He watched, and chatted. It was impossible to catch his name. For the moment, Sophia called him ‘Alexander the Great’ or ‘the old bugger’, depending on her mood.

The one you heard most often was the one with a tie, Lucien. His voice carried a long way and he seemed to take pleasure in giving a loud running commentary on what he was doing, giving all kinds of advice, only rarely followed by his companions. She had tried talking to Pierre about the neighbours, but he was no more interested in them than in the tree. As long as they didn’t make too much noise in the disgrace next door, he was not going to concern himself with them. Yes, of course, Pierre was preoccupied with his social work. Yes, of course, every day he had to deal with files on terrible cases, single mothers sleeping rough, young people chucked out by their families, homeless twelve-year-olds, old people wheezing away in slums, and he compiled reports on all that for the minister. And Pierre was the kind of person who was conscientious about his work. Even if Sophia hated the way he sometimes talked about ‘his’ cases, which he divided into categories and sub-categories, the way he did her fans. Which category would Pierre have put her in, when at twelve years old she was trying to sell embroidered handkerchiefs to tourists in Delphi? A ‘social problem’ for sure. So yes, one could understand how, with all that to think about, he couldn’t give a damn about a tree or the four next-door neighbours. But still. Why would he never talk about them? Even for a minute?

VI

MARC DID NOT EVEN LOOK UP WHEN HE HEARD LUCIEN FROM HIS third-floor eyrie shout an order of high alert, or some such warning. Marc was more or less learning to put up with the Great War historian, who had, for one thing, put in a huge amount of work on the house, and was, for another, given to impressively long periods of silent study. Indeed they were so intense that he was dead to the world for as long as he was grappling with the mudbath of the Great War. Lucien had made himself responsible for all the rewiring and replumbing, of which mysteries Marc knew absolutely nothing, and for which he would be eternally grateful to him. He had transformed the attic into a large double room, neither cold nor dilapidated, where the godfather was now happily settled. He paid a third of the rent and contributed a generous flow of donations, bringing some new refinement to the house every week. But he was also generous with speeches and occasionally with outbursts. He could deliver sarcastic military tirades, excesses of all kinds, and snap judgements. He was capable of ranting away for a whole hour at full stretch, over some tiny detail. Marc was learning to let Lucien’s tirades go in and out of his consciousness like inoffensive monsters. Lucien wasn’t even a militarist. He was trying, with determination and rigour, to penetrate the heart of the Great War, but not succeeding in locating it. Perhaps that was why he shouted so much. No, there must be some other reason. At any rate, this time Lucien came downstairs and burst into Marc’s room without knocking.

‘General alert!’ he cried. ‘Take cover! The neighbour’s on her way.’

‘Which neighbour?’

‘The one on the Western Front. The one on the right, if you prefer. The rich woman who wears scarves. Not a word. When she rings the bell, nobody moves. Empty house. I’ll tell Mathias.’

Before Marc could say anything, Lucien had run down to the first floor.

‘Mathias,’ he called, opening his door. ‘General alert! Empty-’

Marc heard Lucien stop abruptly. He smiled and came downstairs after him.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Lucien was saying. ‘Do you have to be in the nude to put up some bookshelves! I mean, what is the point? Don’t you ever get cold?’

‘I’m not in the nude, I’ve got sandals on,’ Mathias said calmly.

‘Sandals, as if that made a difference! And if you must play at being prehistoric man, surely, whatever I may think of him, he wasn’t daft enough to go around with no clothes on.’

Mathias shrugged.

‘I know more about that than you do,’ he said. ‘And it’s got nothing to do with prehistoric man.’

‘What is it to do with, then?’

‘It’s just me. I don’t like clothes, they make me feel imprisoned. I’m fine like this. What do you want me to say? It’s not a problem for you, if I stay on this floor. You just need to knock before you come in. Anyway what’s going on? Is there some emergency?’

The concept of an emergency did not figure in Mathias’ mental makeup. Marc entered, smiling.

‘“The serpent”’, he remarked, ‘“on seeing a naked man, is frightened and escapes as fast as he can. But when it sees a man with clothes on, it attacks without fear.” Thirteenth-century saying.’

‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ said Lucien.

‘What’s going on?’ Mathias asked again,

‘Nothing. Lucien saw the neighbour from the Western Front advancing this way. Lucien has decided not to answer when she rings.’

‘The bell still doesn’t work,’ observed Mathias.

‘Pity it’s not the neighbour from the Eastern Front,’ said Lucien. ‘She’s pretty. I get the feeling one could negotiate a peace treaty with the Eastern Front.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve conducted a few tactical reconnaissance missions. The east is more interesting and more accessible.’