"The epidemics," added Marion, finishing off her sorbet.
Or was it Manon?
"Do you know the area?" she asked. "Have you ever been to Massachusetts?"
"Yes, I admit that I have made several visits over the years. It never fails to impress me. And not just the reconstructed 20th century version of the town of Plymouth, I must add. Do you know Pilgrim Hall, the oldest Museum of the Pilgrim Fathers in the United States?"
"I do, yes."
"I'm fascinated with some of the objects in those showcases," I muttered.
Just how far was she willing to go? How much did that woman know about me?
"Constance Hopkin's beaver skin hat, Susana White's crib, may they rest in peace," she added. "There's a very curious piece there as well, almost out of place, given the origins of the Pilgrim Fathers: a Spanish knife."
"Yes, from Toledo," I said, clenching my teeth. I left my knife at the farm, along with many of my belongings which I didn't think would survive the fire I lit.
"That's right. From Toledo, Spain," Marion pushed. "They must have been famous back then due to their beautiful engravings, don't you agree? I've always wondered the story that could be behind such a simple object, the story that its owner could tell us. Don't you think, Pilkington?"
"Yes, indeed, Doctor Adamson. Indeed. More sorbet?" he asked.
It wasn't until I heard Pilkington's voice that I remembered he was still there. I was barely aware of his presence in the room. Our mute guest looked at us, not understanding what was going on. How could he even begin to imagine what was happening? Just how truly amazing it was that two longevos who had loved each other so much four centuries earlier were now together again in a café in Paris.
Is that what was happening here? Was Marion Adamson really Manon Adams, or just an imposer?
An old melody floated out from her elegant white Gucci jacket. That melody.... It was old, medieval. I used to hear it played in some of the fortresses in Languedoc, France. The old jesters would announce their presence with their flutes, playing those melancholic chords. Everyone in Christendom, which was how the land which is now Europe was known back then, knew it, it was like the Top Ten of best known songs. Bit by bit it fizzled out, and was no longer heard along the roads and in the castles. That generation of jesters died out, and the ones that followed rejected the songs of the elders.
But that memory made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the tastes of medieval sauces that I hadn't tried since came rushing back to me. Sensations that I will never experience again, such as the feel of a good Yorkshire fur on my sleeve. Others not so pleasant, such as the infamous nights spent on flee-infested straw mattresses, or the putrid stench of the latrines. Others sublime, such as the hips of so many women that I would never again ride, or Florentine perfumes with undertones that have since been lost.
Marion's voice, that exact mix of poise and sweetness in her words, brought me back to the 21st century. Or was it the 17th?
Pilkington and I listened closely to her phone conversation, in perfect French, with a colleague from the Kronon Corporation, and I knew that our strange meeting had come to an end.
"I'm afraid that we have other business to attend to," said Marion after hanging up. "My dear Wistan, tonight, after we finish with all these meetings that are going to have me tied up all day, I'll stop by your hotel and give you those reports. How does that sound?"
I took my false business card out of my wallet with the name of a Wistan Zeidan who had never existed. I remembered that it was Lyra who had designed it and sent it to the printers, together with the other false material of that short-lived identity. I scribbled an address on the back and handed it to her.
"It's not a hotel," I whispered as she walked past me, dropping my front. "It's one of my properties."
"Wait for me there," she said, pretending to kiss me goodbye on both cheeks, as the Spanish do. Don't go running off to sell beaver skins this time."
I felt dizzy and shut my eyes to regain my balance.
There was no doubt about it: that woman was Manon, my beloved wife.
16
The Mayflower list
IAGO
London, 1620 AD.
"I stole it from the Spanish ambassador in London," my father whispered, opening out the map. "But don't worry, I'm going to give it back."
"Are you mixed up in the whole spy game again? Is that what's keeping you in London?"
"Not exactly. Let me tell you about it. Pedro de Zúñiga, who was the Spanish ambassador until 1609, was set on telling King Phillip II of Spain to put an end to King James I's English company of founding colonies on the East cost of the New World. In fact, the first boat from the Plymouth Company, the Richard, set sail from England in August 1606, but it was intercepted and captured by the Spanish close to Florida in November. Although the next attempt was more successful, at first. Two boats set sail, the Gift of God and the Mary and John, which reached the Kennebec River in August 1607, and they built what you can see here in this document. Pedro de Zúñiga got hold of this map and he sent it as proof to Philip II. I managed to quickly falsify a copy, which is now in certain archives in Madrid, although I'll go back one day to replace the original."
I picked up a candle and held it close to the drawing. I couldn't understand my father's interest. I saw a star shaped building, internal constructions, a storeroom, a barn... I didn't want to know anything about defensive buildings. Or maybe everything still reminded me of Kinsale.
"It's a fort," said my father. "The Fort St. George, in the colony of Popham. It was financed by the Virginia Company of Plymouth in 1607, on the other side of the ocean. A year later it was abandoned. Ever since, the company has been inactive."
"And you're telling me this because..."
We were in our favorite tavern in London, The Devil's Tavern, named as such due its dubious reputation. It had had that name for almost a hundred years, although we had originally known it as The Pelican. It was a safe place for us, no one of high moral standing would dare set foot in that dump, and that was always a good thing for us and our plans.
Despite everything, I was not in a good mood that day. I couldn't stop staring at my mug of water.
Of water.
I had sworn to my father and my siblings that I would not drink alcohol again, after they had risked their lives to get me out of that prison. And I hadn't, I had kept my promise... Well, at least, I had not had another drink in front of them.
"I'm telling you all this, son, because this week my friend, John Calvert, has requested a letter from King James to send new colonies to the area of the Plymouth Company to get it set up again. It's a risky investment, but he's managed to get seventy investors to put forward 1800 Pounds to cover the expenses. There is a group of Puritans who are exiled in Leiden, Holland, for their disagreements with the Anglican church, but they haven't managed to fit in there either. They've managed to get involved in the business and each of them has received a share of 10 Pounds, and those who wish to do so are free to buy more shares. The business is as follows: in seven years they have to return the debt and we will split the profit equally between Puritans and investors: land, houses, assets... They have other things in mind besides the financial aspect. They want to found their New Jerusalem there, but there are other adventurers going on the crossing who aren't Puritans. The company was set up last August. To begin with two boats left, the Speedwell and the Mayflower, headed to the coasts of the Plymouth Company, but the Speedwell ran into problems and they had to turn back mid-voyage. They've been trying to fix it in the port of Southampton, but to no avail, so they're all going to set off again in a few days on the Mayflower. Forty-two crew, a hundred and one passengers in total. And that's where you come in. Here, son," he said, handing me a piece of stamped paper. "Here are your shares. Here's the deal: you go with the Puritans, you make sure that the company is economically viable and when you return we split the profit."
"You're throw
ing your money away. If the fort in the colony of Popham didn't even manage to survive one year, what makes you think that this time the colony could even bring in a profit?"
"Because I'm sending you. You know the conditions in the New World. We survived Florida and Ponce de León. I'm not concerned about your survival. You know all about the cold and the hunger. What could possible kill you after everything you've been through?”
The ghost of a son I betrayed? I wanted to answer. But I didn't say anything so as not to hurt him. My father thought that I was pretty much recovered from that unfortunate episode.
"There's another colony to the south, in Jamestown. It belongs to the Virginia Company of London, also privileged by Kind James I. After getting off to a bad start, where hunger killed almost 600 settlers, they seem to have found a good business cultivating a sweet strain of tobacco from the Caribbean. But I'm not sending you to set up a tobacco plantation. What I want is for you to bring me this," he took off his wide brimmed peaked hat and placed it on the table.
"You're sending me to America to become a Hatter?"
"Not exactly. The hats are made here, in London, as they have been since the 14th century. Look around you, don't you see new opportunities around every corner? London has gone from having 60,000 to 300,000 inhabitants in just a few decades. The old rich keep investing in property and land, but the new rich spend all their money on their dazzling suits with beaver skin hats. There are dozens of shops that open every day, sun up to sun down, and the orders keep coming in. Each hatter can make three hats per day, so the demand keeps growing. Beaver skin has to be prepared with certain chemical products, but it's the best there is, it repels water and its finish is as soft as it looks. I want you to make contact with the natives in the north, establish a commercial network with them and help the future colony to send beaver skins to England. There are other possible businesses: sea cow, or cod, as they call it on this island. It's very sought after here in times of Lent, and I have contacts to divert business to Castile. You need to see if it's viable, there's already a lot of competition from the Basques and the French to the north, but it may be a solution that the people in the colony in Jamestown don't have. It's a challenge for you, don't you think it sounds interesting, son?"
I understood my father's motivation, he wanted to get me away from the old Europe, where the bad memories were eating me alive. He wanted to send me far away, to an unlikely company that could keep me occupied on staying alive. Deep down I knew that the return on his investment mattered less to him than my return to life following my disastrous duel over Gunnarr.
What I hadn't told him is that two decades had done little good. I still saw Gunnarr in every blond man taller than me who walked past me. I saw him behind the crooked smile of the innkeeper, riding a horse crossing the Thames, in uniform in a parade for King James I.
Everyone was him.
"So, son, what do you say? Will you help me with this?" my father insisted, from the other side of the table of the inn, thousands of miles away from my thoughts.
I took the wooden jug of water and toasted with him, forcing a smile and told him exactly what he wanted to hear.
"What the hell! Let's do it, father, let's be business partners once more!"
A week later, having said goodbye to my father in London, I took a horse driven carriage I had hired to the port of Southampton, looking for a boat called the Mayflower. I'd been given instructions to find Adams, the person in charge of the provisions and the passenger list.
I always found the smell of ports hard to stomach. The fish, the rotten food from the crossings that were thrown into the sea right there in the harbor, the vomit from the first time passengers... I wasn't sure I wanted to take this trip.
All of a sudden my horse stopped dead in its tracks and began to whinny in terror, as if it had seen the devil himself. And that's when I saw a tall man with his back to me. He was speaking with a woman in mourning next to the hull of a boat.
Gunnarr, son, is that you?
I jumped down from the cart and ran after him, but when I reached the boat, the huge silhouette had disappeared and there was just a young Puritan woman, dressed in traditional Dutch attire with a white bonnet, a dark wool skirt and a huge lace collar covering her shoulders.
"Who were you talking to?" I snapped, doubling over and breathing heavily in front of her from my run.
"Sir, do I know you?" she replied.
"No, but I thought I recognized the man you were talking to a moment ago."
"Sir, I've been standing here since dawn with the list of provisions and there are many still to come. I see that you are one of the passengers," she said, pointing to the royal document I was holding in my hand. "Sant or stranger?"
"Are you the wife of Adams, who's in charge of the provisions?" I wanted to know, ignoring her question. My father had already informed me that the Puritans called themselves Sants, holy men, and they referred to the rest of the passengers as strangers.
She looked me up and down. I was dressed as an adventurer, with a doublet, pantaloons, a short cape and a musket, as well as the beaver skin hat to show the Indians. I thought it looked ridiculous, but to the English it was a sign of luxury, and as my father well said, of the new ostentatious rich, so to the Puritans, I looked like a rich, pompous globetrotter.
"My name is Manon Adams, and I am indeed in charge of the passenger and provisions lists. I am recently widowed, and as such, have inherited the debt that my husband so eagerly took on with the Plymouth Company. So there is no longer a Mr. Adams, but there are many Pounds to be returned."
"First off, I'm going to write your name on the passenger list of the Mayflower, this old boat that used to carry wine. Could you show me your credentials?"
I handed her the piece of paper and she frowned when she read my name.
"It only states your first name here, Ely. Don't you have a surname?"
"Just write down Ely. That's sufficient to identify me."
She scribbled down my name, not very convinced, on the tattered piece of paper that never left her hand that day.
And that's what she put, on the famous list of the Mayflower, that so many American scholars would study five centuries later, just one passenger was recorded with no surname. A passenger which the chronicles would soon lose sight of.
"Have you brought the provisions with you?"
"Yes," I said, looking towards the horse and cart. "I'll go and fetch you the stipulated two tones."
Widow Adams helped me to unload the heavy wooden barrels where I had stashed everything that was going to accompany me to the New World.
"Sir, I don't mean to snoop through your belongings, but I have to make an inventory of what you are taking, to make sure that this will be a viable trip and that the passengers do not bring useless things aboard that will not be pertinent to our survival."
She opened one of the barrels and peered inside, with a strange look on her face.
"And your clothes? Aren't you taking any clothes to face the cold coastal winter?"
"There will be natives, I will hunt furs and trade them. I have information about other colonies, the Indians have textile mills in their camps."
"And don't you mind dressing like a native?" asked the widow, twisting her face.
"Their clothing will be more suitable for those extremes. Or do you think that your starched collars and bonnets will be of more use when the first flakes of snow begin to fall?"
"And why so many metal plates? And so much cutlery? Are you thinking of opening an inn?"
I laughed at the thought, that woman only moved within very strict parameters."
"It's my currency with the natives."
How could I tell her that I knew of the fascination that our shiny plates caused in the New World? How could I tell her that a barrel full of plates would practically make me the richest man on the Mayflower?
"Why do you have so much fresh fruit? Wouldn't salted meat be more useful?" she asked, openin
g a second barrel.
"These lemons will come in very handy if the crew gets sick."
"Rubbish, that's not been proven."
Trust me, I've tried it and it works.
I looked apprehensively at the widow as she began to remove lemons from the top of the barrel.
"Just let me pass, the rest are my things."
But she was wasn't ready to give in. She pulled out one of the bottles that was hidden in the bottom of the barrel.
"What are you planning on doing with so much alcohol?"
"Trade with the natives," I lied.
The truth is that they were reserves, my reserves. I was still on edge and afraid of seeing Gunnarr again. There was only one way of escaping from my ghosts, and that was drowning them out with alcohol. And there was no way that that Dutch or English widow, or whatever she was, was going to change my plans.
"I can't let you aboard with this much alcohol. William Bradford put me in charge of this task and he trusts my judgment. If the crew finds out that there are so many bottles of alcohol on board, this voyage could turn into pure hell."
"Nobody will find out that there are so many bottles, ma'am. You're not going to say anything and I'm a discreet man who doesn't like to share his intentions with anyone. Take another look at the permit stamped by King James I, giving me the freedom to come aboard with the supplies I deem necessary," I said, tired of the formalities.
Widow Adams understood that she had lost the battle, took a step back and let me pass.
During the first dinner, the Puritan families sat on several tables away from the rest of us. I counted a few children and a pregnant woman. That night, the passengers of the unsuccessful Speedwell got together with the Mayflower passengers and they all prayed for the success of the new voyage. But there was barely enough room for everyone and we were going to have to endure many weeks living together in a cramped space, and I could understand the concern of Widow Adams, who was always alert.