Victus

  “Saved your life, monsieur. You owe us one,” said Anfán when we finally stopped to rest among the trees.

  I laughed. “Surely it’s I who saved the two of you—from something awful—and you who owe me.”

  “Let’s make a deal!” said the child. “We get you a vehicle, and you take us to Barcelona.”

  “Vehicle? What vehicle?” I said, intrigued. I’d escaped so unplanned, I hadn’t even thought about the next leg of the journey.

  “Follow us!” They led me along a small hidden path, the woods and undergrowth becoming ever thicker around us.

  “Here,” said Anfán after a short time, bringing me through an opening between some trees.

  There, nestled against a wall of vegetation, stood a two-horse carriage. The driver was still in his seat. Dead.

  There were thousands of Miquelets in this area, harassing the siege army’s rearguard; the driver must have made a harebrained attempt to flee from some small skirmish. There was a bullet wound in his back, the dried blood blackening his white uniform. His last effort must have been to try hiding away from the road, and this was where he’d ended up.

  In the seat, with his chin on his chest, the dead driver looked as though he were sleeping. Taking hold of him by the shoulder, I pushed him somewhat unceremoniously to the ground. The horses, sensing a living human, brightened up, seemed pleased. Consequently, they were very obedient during the tricky maneuver of turning them around and going back to the road.

  “We’re going to Barcelona?” asked a gleeful Anfán.

  He had such hungry eyes, this child—hungrier-seeming than his stomach itself. I examined the horses. One had a bullet in its right haunch; the other’s mane had been singed. Fine, I thought: They needed only to be able to cover the distance to Barcelona, a hundred or so miles. I climbed onto the bay of the carriage, which was full of sacks. Opening one, I found biscuits in it. I lobbed a couple to Nan and Anfán, who gobbled them down, even though the biscuits were the size of discuses, if not bigger. But there was an assortment of things. When I went to open another sack, cylindrical and six feet tall, it fell over, loosing its contents all over the floor of the bay.

  Bullets, lead bullets. A torrent of little round bullets that went everywhere. Nan and Anfán, beside themselves with excitement, got down and began gathering them up. What a small thing a bullet is, a tiny globe, apparently so inoffensive. And yet, properly directed, it will kill soldiers and generals, kings and paupers alike. Not that any of this entered Anfán’s thoughts. He and the dwarf began playing marbles with them. He was still a child—an accomplished survivor, perhaps, but a child first and foremost. Standing watching them in the carriage bay, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia.

  It was the first natural silence I’d heard in twenty days, the time I’d been in the trenches. Twenty days and nights, putting up with the thundering cannons and the insidious sound of the sappers’ picks. And now nothing but forest around me, the trill of birds, and the air clear of artillery smoke and resounding trumpets. Plus a child, and a dwarf with a funnel on his head, playing marbles with the instruments of death. Yes, infancy will always be our time of subversion.

  While they amused themselves, I investigated the rest of the cargo. There were two blankets covering something in one of the corners. Lifting them off, I discovered a hefty trunk. It had three locks, which took my breath away: I knew what those three locks signified.

  I’d shared a tent during the siege with, among others, one of the army paymasters. One of those asses who reckon themselves important because they rub shoulders with the top brass. He wasn’t high up enough to sleep in the officers’ tent, but he turned up his nose at sharing with the rank and file. So we were saddled with him. He talked constantly. I’d get back to my camp bed, exhausted from the trenches, and he’d be at it straightaway—blah blah blah. It didn’t matter if I had been on a day or a night shift, he’d be there waiting—Prattler Paymaster, as we began calling him. His problem was that he worked only one day a week, so he’d spend the rest of his time gossiping and going on at anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot.

  Well, one day this nuisance paymaster was showing off a key he had, which was for the chest that held the army’s wages. The money chests, he told me, had three locks, and the keys were held by different people—one by the paymaster, one by the field marshal, and one by the supervisor general. Prattler Paymaster crowed about having met the supervisor general. But you tell me, what other kind of chest on an army vehicle would have three locks?

  I didn’t have the three keys, but, having studied at Bazoches, I did not need them. I found a mallet and chisel there in the carriage and, employing my acute sense of precision, hammered off the locks. When I opened the top, there inside were dozens of small cylindrical sacks, packed tightly together in two rows. Each with a wax seal bearing the Bourbon fleur-de-lis. I broke one open, and coins came tumbling out. There must have been wages for an entire regiment there, at least. Mother of God.

  Have you ever had an abandoned treasure trove fall into your hands? The sensation is very much akin to that of love at first sight: Your heart beats harder, your hands tremble, and a happy nervousness takes hold of you. And you are overtaken by a terrible desire to flee with it.

  I slammed the top shut, startled by the discovery. Nan and Anfán were still playing marbles.

  “Here, boys!” I said, a Judas smile on my face. “Go back to the driver’s body and check his pockets, will you?”

  A brazen lie to give me a chance to get clear of them. By the time they’d realized what was happening, I’d already set off, cracking the reins on the horse’s backs. Nan and Anfán ran uselessly after the carriage.

  “Monsieur, monsieur!” shouted Anfán. “Don’t leave us here, please. Take us to Barcelona!”

  Turning in the seat, I saw his little head, his matted locks blown by the wind, his pained expression . . .

  But now, much to my regret, I have to halt my tale, because Waltraud the dunce interrupts, sniveling, whinging, calling me a heartless so-and-so. Why the sudden sentimentality? Can’t you see what these two were like? Anfán was a born thief—how could I possibly have him and this chest along on the same journey?

  All right, all right. I’ll confess something to you, if it’ll make you feel any better.

  I pulled on the reins and stopped the carriage. The truth is, I felt a pang of compunction. After all, I’d secured myself transport, plus booty, thanks to this pair. Seeing me stop, and with their hopes renewed, they ran harder to catch up. When they got within twenty or so feet, I threw a few coins in their direction.

  “All yours! Bread and wine’s on me!”

  And I cracked the reins again.

  Deep down, you see, I’ve always been a good person.

  Departing Tortosa as swiftly as the wounded horses allowed, I was struck by the perilousness of my situation. There were patrols everywhere, from both armies, and constant skirmishes. But in reality, the two armies were the least of my problems. The south of Catalonia had been ravished by war, and there were bands of looters, bandits, and deserters of six or seven nationalities, to add to my beloved Miquelets, who were the worst of all. I was on my own with just a pistol, and for company an altogether appealing chest full of coins. I have rarely been so pleased to see the sun go down. To my right was a narrow path leading through the middle of a field of overgrown wheat. Possibly a place to hide for the night. The lack of recent harvests had left the wheat to grow implausibly high. At the end of the field was an irrigation canal. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better: The tall ears of wheat would screen me, and here was water for the horses and me. I took their torturous harnesses off.

  I had yet to finish setting up camp when he appeared.

  He came into the clearing from the same path I’d taken. He wore an ample black cape. With this garment and his tricorn hat pulled down over his eyebrows, he appeared to float out of the wheat. In alarm, I reached for my pistol, which I had left
in the carriage. What was this figure doing here, so far from anywhere, civilization as well as the war? I pointed the pistol at him. “Do you come armed? Identify yourself.”

  He continued moving toward me and simply said: “Pau.”

  I didn’t know if this was his name or a declaration. (Pau means “peace” in Catalan but is also our word for “Paul.”) Keeping my guard up, I came back at him, matching him for ambiguity, raising him on the sarcasm: “Fallen off your horse?”

  The man flashed a quick smile. He held his cape open, showing himself unarmed. His shirt had wide sleeves that fell back when he held up his arms. What I then saw, my dear vile Waltraud, I have never seen again: ten Points, one after the other, tattooed on his right forearm. The tenth, just beneath his elbow, stood out.

  The indelible ink marked skin far older than the man’s expression; he had a venerability but also seemed in excellent physical and mental shape. Ten Points! The ideal engineer, a perfect Maganon. My suspicion gave way to astonishment and admiration. Still smiling that inexpressive smile, he came and stood before me.

  “And you?” he said, his voice neutral.

  “At your service,” I said, lifting my right sleeve and showing my five Points.

  He drew a little closer. “Where have you come from?”

  “Tortosa.”

  “And where are you bound?”

  “Barcelona.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where my father lives?”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing’s certain.”

  It seemed more like an interrogation than a dialogue, but a Point Bearer never questions his superiors, who, in turn, must know all a subordinate has to tell. Nothing must be kept from them. I couldn’t take my eyes off his forearm and the tenth Point. He stepped to one side and surveyed my little camp: the carriage, the irrigation canal, the high wheat surrounding us like living walls.

  He was every inch the Ten Points. He seemed to listen, rather than look: the objects around, the insects, the general environment, even the transparent air, spoke to him, only too happy to confess all. Then he made a gesture: He raised a hand as though telling an orchestra to stop playing. He looked at my carriage for a few moments. “What’s inside your vehicle?”

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  “Exactly.”

  Though I was a product of Bazoches, even so, I shuddered.

  It was a warm night. He took off his cape and rolled up his sleeves. My eye settled on his forearm again.

  The world of engineering, its practical spirit in direct opposition to the symbolic, here gave one small concession. For the glorious tenth Point was smaller than the preceding ones. That is, when an engineer reached perfection, his prize was a point that strongly resembled the first: a simple circle.

  He asked me, “Who is your teacher?”

  “It was Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban. He’s dead now.”

  “A good engineer, yes, a very good engineer,” he whispered respectfully. “He lives on in you. Remember him.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “I didn’t earn this fifth Point. I failed to find a certain Word.”

  “Well, you’ll have to carry on looking.”

  “I’ve given up on it all,” I said. “Even if I were to persevere, who could ratify my fifth Point? Vauban is dead, I know no other teacher, and anyway, I wouldn’t want anyone else to take me under his wing. So, enough.”

  He smiled faintly. “Everyone says the same thing. Until one day they graze the sky with their fingers. And from then on, they would rather die than give up on that glory.”

  In spite of my respect for him, I couldn’t but smile incredulously. Noticing this, his tone changed, becoming imperious enough to subdue kings. He raised his voice. “If a teacher is what you need, you will find one, whether or not he has the Points. There’s no getting away from your search for this Word, and when you find it, you will know you are worthy of your fifth Point.”

  I wanted to say something but failed to find the right way to express myself—with the proper respect. In any case, he was the one directing this conversation.

  “Lay out your mat,” he said.

  I obeyed.

  “Lie down. Shut your eyes. Sleep.”

  I was asleep before he finished speaking.

  It would be very interesting to include here my dream that night. Unfortunately, when I awoke, I couldn’t remember it. I was left with nothing but a fleeting trace. The blurry image of a young woman, naked, with violet-colored skin and a very dark pubis, somewhere in a blazing landscape. I spent weeks trying to fully recall the dream. She had the most sorrowful eyes. Suddenly, legions of white beetles attacked her, swarming all around her and running up her ankles. She called out for my help. But everything melted away before the meaning of the dream became complete. Trying to decipher it, I turned the dream over in my mind hundreds of times.

  Unfortunately, I was too much of an insomniac in those days. The dream slipped through my hands like a fish. Very frustrating.

  The following day, I climbed back up in the carriage and set out again for Barcelona. I didn’t bother to check if the chest was where I’d left it. A Ten Points would never bother with such trifles.

  Now, eight decades on, eighty times around the sun later, I believe I know who this twilight man was. A moment—I must breathe.

  He was no man. He was le Mystère itself, traversing this earth with the indifference of a beekeeper seeing a few upset beehives. He came across a curious bee and lingered over it for a few moments.

  He must have been at a loose end.

  14

  All morning long I drove along a route flanked by pine-covered mountains. And at midday came across the thing I’d been looking for, my want and deliverance.

  An inn stood on the floodplain that opened out to my right. Its main building was a shoddy adobe construction, a long rectangle with a thatched roof. There was an old man in front of it, digging a grave for a dead mule lying there. Stopping the carriage, I got down and approached him.

  I passed myself off as a modest businessman looking to join a civilian convoy. He was almost completely deaf.

  “You’re looking for protection?” he yelled, holding a hand up to his head like an ear trumpet. “Okay, well, the boys are inside. They escort carriages. The more travelers who club together, the cheaper it ends up. And they’ve got a gift for negotiating at checkpoints with soldiers, whichever army they’re from!”

  “Can I get myself something to drink?” I said, handing him a couple of coins. “I’m parched.”

  “Go in and help yourself—though with this heat, the wine will be warm,” he replied, pointing to the main building. “Wait, though: If you help me bury this mule, I’ll give you all the wine you want, free. People come along,” he complained, referring to his customers, “and as soon as their mounts have a rest, they’re so worn out, they drop dead! What am I supposed to do with them? Why don’t you tell me that, eh, eh?”

  Yes, that was exactly what I needed to do at that moment, bury dead mules. I didn’t bother to excuse myself but headed straight into the adobe building.

  The table inside looked like the Last Supper. Drinking and talking at the tops of their voices, twelve gruff, very drunk men, half sitting with their backs to me, and those on the other side obscured by the way the light fell. At first I didn’t pay them any mind, nor they me.

  I went over to a bar made of some rough planks set over a line of casks. There was a pitcher hanging from a post on one side. I took a couple of swigs—it was a rancid-tasting herb wine—and then heard a voice behind me.

  “Come and join us, friend! You’ll find our liquor far preferable to that vinegar.”

  It was worth getting off on the right foot with them, so I went and sat at the center of one of the benches. Only then did I get a proper look at their faces.

  Scars. Earrings. Beards rough enough to sand rocks with. Heavy bags under their eyes,
and eyes that scanned you for where best to stick a knife—in your windpipe or just under your chin? And this was an escort organized by decent citizens? The most harmless out of them all must have been saved from the scaffold five times, at least. And sitting straight across from me, my old friend: Ballester.

  I went whiter than blanched asparagus. The look Ballester gave me was thick with hate. He said just four words.

  “El botifler de Beceit.”

  Waltraud has forgotten who Ballester is. He was in the last chapter! That fanatic young Miquelet briefly captured by the Bourbons, an utter animal who’d be only too happy cutting off my two ears and using them as a handkerchief.

  Ballester’s words brought the revels to a halt. The twelve primitive apostles turned to look at me in unison. I was speechless. Under normal conditions, my Bazoches senses would have picked up on Ballester’s presence before I entered the inn. But I’d given up on engineering, and I’d been so eager to find an escort, it had made a common mole of me. I was as ashamed as I was frightened.

  Ballester pulled out an enormous and very sharp dagger—likely the one he’d slit the captain’s throat with in Beceite. I wanted to flee but didn’t make it halfway to the door. I was pushed to the floor by four sets of hands, and Ballester came round and stood behind me. As he brought the point of the dagger to my jugular, I cried out: “Wait! I’ve got something you want!”

  If ever you find yourself in such a situation, do as I say and skip trying to be clever. Go straight for the words that will be most appealing.

  “A chest full of money!” I cried, half suffocated by the terror and the blade at my throat. “Right outside!”

  All thirteen of us exited the inn, me with my chin up high due to the knife prodding it in that direction. The old man was still digging the mule’s grave. Tears began to run down my face.

  “Make it easy on yourself,” said Ballester. “Spit it out, and I’ll let you choose the way I kill you.”

  “My carriage!” I said, pointing to it. “You’ll find something of interest in there. I swear to Christ!”