Before long the Spaniard was on the move again. I was lucky, for not once did he feel the need to check behind him. We walked on steadily, the Spaniard rarely stopping to regain his breath. By midday we came upon a squat stone bridge that spanned the river with its broad arches. A man was struggling to maneuver his boat in the green shade at the foot of the bridge. Since the canyon magnified the smallest sound, I could hear his every grunt. He was unaware of our presence, and I was sorely tempted to greet him so that I could hear my own voice bounce off the cliffs and echo down the gorges of the Tarn.
When I looked up the Spaniard had vanished. Alarmed, I ran along the path to catch up, but even after I had left the village far behind, there was no sign of him. Loath to turn back, I pushed on. The path led me to a bare plateau, where I clambered to the top of a giant block of limestone. Arms outstretched for balance, I slowly turned in a full circle, searching the rugged landscape for any sign of my teacher. I saw nothing but rocky outcrops, trees, and sky. I had lost him.
The wind raked through what sparse vegetation clung to this exposed spot. It was desolate here. Leaning against a tree, long years dead—time and the elements had stripped it of every scrap of bark—I wiped the sweat from my brow and wondered what to do for the best. A shape passed in front of the sun, causing a shadow to flicker over me, and when I tilted my face skyward I saw a large black bird, gliding in a column of air, descending slowly from the heavens in vast circles, powerful and free. I slid my back down the bleached trunk and sat on the hard ground. I watched that bird for a long time, and forgot for a while that I was thirsty and tired.
I asked myself why I had bothered following the Spaniard in the first place, and soon my mind returned to the hurt, still raw, that my father’s departure had caused me. I recalled a happier time, remembering how, when I was an infant, my father would set me in front of him on his high horse, and we would ride together to the bustling village square. I would look down from that great height and smiling faces would greet me, and hands reach up, holding out apples or sweetmeats. I would say my childish thank-yous, twisting around on the horse’s neck to wave and smile as we trotted away, and then I would feel my father’s hand ruffling my hair and would hear him calling me his treasure, his sunshine. But now, even though I had come close to death, my father had abandoned me to a tutor’s care. You are no longer my own. Might my father ever change his mind? Could I persuade him to take me in again were I to return somehow to our estate? Or should I go back to Versailles, where I at least stood a chance of seeing Isabelle, and where I could prove to my father that I had learned my lesson?
It was getting late and I was a long way from the Spaniard’s house. I resolved to retrace my steps. Away from the river, and with the sun blanketed by thick cloud, I lost my bearings. The path had petered out and a growing anxiety gnawed at me. Even after two months of recuperation my health was not recovered. My scalp was painfully sensitive to any cold and I could sense a damp chill rising from the ground. I needed to drink and to rest but, having no choice in the matter, I pressed on. Presently, however, an uncanny sensation crept over me: The hairs rose on the back of my neck, and my heart began to race. I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder and straining to listen for signs that I was not alone. The wind continued to roar through the trees, and the unrelenting sound of it exhausted me. Was it only the wind that I could hear? Increasingly I could not ignore the sixth sense that told me that I was in danger. In mortal fear I spun around.
Running directly at me in a straight line through the trees was a lone wolf. Head held steady even in motion, its keen eyes were locked onto its target. In that heightened moment of terror, I seemed to escape the confines of my body and looked down at myself. I saw, with the dispassionate gaze of an observer, the wolf speeding soundlessly toward me, its long-legged gait smooth and efficient. This image of impending death mesmerized me: I saw its pricked black ears, its teeth that protruded from snarling jaws, its powerful claws, its coarse black pelt and the paler undercoat. Above all, I was drawn into the beam of its amber gaze that sapped my will to escape.
“Jean-Pierre, you fool! Run! Climb into a tree!”
The Spaniard’s words catapulted me into flight. I lurched toward the nearest tree, fear spurring me to leap higher than I had in my life. I caught hold of a stout lateral branch, clinging on at first by the tips of my fingers, and then, once my hands had found purchase, I swung my legs back and forth until I had worked up enough momentum to hoist myself up. Now I found myself bent double, the air knocked out of me, the branch digging into my belly. The whole tree bowed and shivered with my weight, causing a flurry of leaves to rain down. Out of the corner of my eye I detected a dark shape approaching fast. Grunting with the effort of holding on to the rough bark of the trunk, I heaved over a leg and straddled the branch, gripping it hard between my thighs. As the wolf leapt, I thought to retract my feet. Its jaws snapped shut on thin air. A ribbon of drool dripped from black gums. It started to pace impatiently beneath me, sometimes jumping up to snatch a bite at my dangling legs. Oh, how my skull ached! I gritted my teeth, and prayed that I would not faint, never taking my eyes off the wolf for an instant.
We both—predator and prey—became conscious of the Spaniard’s low whistle. There was silence, then the air below me began to vibrate with a succession of menacing snarls as the wolf raised itself on its haunches, ready to spring. I saw the Spaniard approach, carrying a long stick in each hand. He seemed to glide rather than walk toward us, rotating the sticks, all the while, in the smallest of circles. The wolf turned his attention away from me and toward this other disconcerting two-legged creature. I wondered if I would have the courage to jump on the wolf’s back if it sprang at my teacher. But the wolf remained crouching on the floor, transfixed and growling. Presently its head started to move as it followed the circles the Spaniard made in the air. Now he made gentle clicking noises and took a step or two closer. For several minutes the Spaniard held the wolf’s attention in this manner, his gaze holding the animal, his voice soothing and sweet. Finally he stepped so close to the wolf he could touch him. For a moment he held his hand, palm outward, in front of the animal’s face, and then, very slowly, brought it to rest between the wolf’s ears. When he applied a little pressure, the animal slumped down so that he lay, flat and docile, on the ground. The Spaniard crouched down and dragged two fingers down the length of its muzzle several times in succession. When he took his hand away its yellow eyes were barely half-open. Now the Spaniard drew the tip of his finger in a straight line down the beast’s nose. With a slight flicker, its eyes closed. The prostrate wolf let out a long and breathy whine.
The Spaniard stood up and gestured at me to stay where I was and to make no noise. He stroked the wolf’s thick pelt as if caressing a favorite dog, then bent over to whisper into its ear. The animal awoke—not with a start, but calmly—and looked about him, barely acknowledging with a movement of its ears the presence of the man standing at its shoulder. The Spaniard patted the wolf firmly on its rump. “Go, now,” he commanded, pushing it forward, and the animal trotted away into the wood. When the animal had vanished from sight the Spaniard instructed me to climb down, holding out his arms to support me. I slid down the tree trunk.
“How did you do that?” I exclaimed.
“It is not so very difficult. A wise man taught me. If you can manage to keep alive for long enough I will show you the secret.”
“What a happy coincidence that our paths crossed at that moment!”
The Spaniard laughed and thumped me on the back. “Come, the light is fading and I still have not completed my errand. Will you accompany me?”
X
“Commit the path to memory,” the Spaniard said. “In case you ever need to return.”
When I asked why I should wish to do such a thing he told me to be patient: All my questions would be answered presently. As we walked from the river into higher ground, the wood became sparser, and here he started to point out an
y distinctive features: large boulders or fern-lined gullies, or a change in vegetation that might help me to recall the route. The Spaniard even plucked leaves from aromatic plants and had me crush them between thumb and finger, the better to recognize their scent. He indicated the position of the river behind us with his long-nailed thumb. “Notice too,” he said, “how sounds change close to the ravine.”
I nodded but was too tired for my teacher’s words to hold my full attention. I asked myself why, from the first moment he had encountered me, the Spaniard had devoted himself so wholeheartedly to my care. It was not the first time I had pondered this question and I had never found a satisfactory answer. I wondered too why this lively and companionable man saw—and, for that matter, trusted—so few people. And why had he not taken a wife when he clearly enjoyed the company of women? The Spaniard was a puzzle: an intriguing man who was full of contradictions. I also sensed that, for reasons I could not understand, the Spaniard had contrived to come between me and my own father. So, for all his kindness, I resented him.
“Jean-Pierre, are you listening to me?”
The Spaniard’s voice dragged me back into the windswept wood where the trees shook their branches like angry fists and caused storms of leaves to swirl around our feet.
“I must tell you that it was no coincidence that I was on hand to rescue you from the wolf. You were never out of my sight.”
“You were watching me!” I exclaimed.
“Watching over you.”
I came to a halt, shocked and offended—though in the circumstances I had no right to be. “Then why didn’t you come to my aid sooner? I was lost—”
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. “Error makes the best teacher.”
He commented coolly that had I agreed to accompany him on one of his walks there would have been no need for such a tedious ruse.
“When did you realize that I was following you?”
“I could hear you even before we had left the grounds of my house.”
“You heard me!” My pride was hurt. I had been so careful. “How could you hear me over the roaring of the wind in the trees?”
To stalk their prey in the mountains, the Spaniard told me, hunters listen beneath the wind. It is the same with fishermen: They look, at a slant, through the surface reflections in order to see what swims in the shallows. “Can you not hear your wolf?” he asked. The wind was agitating the trees, keening through the sandy undergrowth. I said I could not. With his forefinger, the Spaniard traced a rising note in the air, a distant wolf howl. At first I detected nothing and frowned, shaking my head. But then I caught it: Aa-ooooh! Like a hovering hawk spots the movement of a field mouse within the movement of rippling grasses, I heard it as a sound within a sound. All at once I understood. There was no trick to it. The wolf’s cry had always been there. It was a question of paying attention—a word that was constantly on the Spaniard’s lips.
“Listen, even when you think you have already heard. Especially when you think you have already heard. On city streets, in crowds, in conversation with someone you believe you know. Listen through what you think you hear. Cultivate the habit of paying attention.”
Then the Spaniard instructed me to lick my finger and hold it up.
“From which direction is the wind blowing?” he asked.
I raised my hand and pointed through the greenish gloom.
“Was the wind blowing across the gorges of the Tarn toward you or away from you?”
“Away.”
“So where is the river?”
Again, I pointed, and he nodded his agreement.
“You see? It is not so difficult. . . . Did you know that you were walking in a circle?”
“I was not!” I protested. “I’m not a fool—I walked in a straight line.”
He ruffled the hair on the back of my head, good-humoredly. It was a gesture I associated with my father. And I said, before I could stop myself, “You are not my father, Signor! And never will be!”
With these words I surprised myself and hurt the Spaniard. I witnessed the effect of my outburst in his dark, liquid eyes. It was a look that reminded me (I admit it was an unworthy thought) of a faithful dog unjustly kicked. I thought too of the day in the orangery when, nostalgic for Spain, he had implied that he remained in France only on my account. The Spaniard swung away his gaze and stood with his back to me some ten paces away; I stared at his broad shoulders and bowed head but could not bring myself to apologize.
He turned around to face me. “I have only ever desired to be of service to you.” He pulled out a hip flask from his pocket, took a swig from it, and offered it to me. I declined. The wind carried the smell of brandy to me. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he said: “I have delayed long enough. You are strong enough now to hear what I have to tell you.”
I sensed the muscles in my neck contract into two taut cords. The Spaniard’s expression was solemn. If whatever he had to tell me was this upsetting, I might prefer to remain ignorant of it. He reached inside his green surtout and pulled out an object, which he put into my hands. I recognized the familiar touch of soft leather.
“My purse?”
“You were not robbed, Jean-Pierre.”
“I don’t understand—”
The Spaniard sighed once more. “It was not a thief who attacked you, but an assassin. Alas, we do not know his identity—”
“An assassin!”
The idea was absurd. Why would anyone want to kill me? A long silence passed between us.
“Surely it couldn’t have been my brothers?”
“All your brothers were three days’ ride away on your father’s estate.”
“Surely not Montclair! Unless pushing over a prince demands a death sentence!”
“The Prince de Montclair and his father were playing cards with Monsieur at the time.”
“Then if you don’t know who it was, how can you be sure that it was an assassin?”
“Because a Swiss Guard happened to witness the attack. It is how we know that a hooded and masked figure brought a rock down upon your head. From his description, it is a miracle the blow did not kill you. He believed that something had caught your eye, something on the ground, because the angle at which you held your head meant that the rock glanced off your skull, slicing through your scalp instead of crushing it.”
The Spaniard thrust his arms into the air and drew them violently down, reproducing the action of a man intent on removing the life from my body. There was something affecting about the way in which he did this. It was clear to me that he had tried to picture the details of my attack many times over. All the same, his mime was difficult for me to stomach, and summoned up waves of nausea that conjured up the weakness and pain I felt in the first days of my recovery.
“You were doubly lucky because then a remarkable thing occurred. As the assassin lifted the rock a second time—to finish what he had started—a gang of beggar children rushed at him. By the time he had recovered his balance the Swiss Guard had arrived and he fled—”
“But I still don’t understand why you think his purpose was to kill me. He could have been a thief who was interrupted as he tried to steal my purse.”
The Spaniard held up a forefinger and shook it from side to side in the manner of a dowager declining the soup course. “The Swiss Guard insisted that his cape was made of excellent cloth, and that he wore the boots of a gentleman, the boots, perhaps, of a courtier. No, this was not a man who would risk his skin for a few paltry coins.”
Now it was my turn to relive the details of the scene: the quiet, cobbled square, a distant rumbling of wagons, the soaring voices of the choir through the open church door. I pictured myself felled by that excruciating blow. Suddenly I tasted the blood in my mouth, could smell blood, saw fat, glistening drops of it splattered over stone and over scarlet petals. And, there, looming over me, was my hooded assailant, hands raised high, clutching his murderous rock. Merciless . . . What was I to him? What expres
sion did his mask conceal? Hate? Exhilaration? Indifference? And then to be saved by a pack of child beggars! The same, I supposed, who had scampered after the coins I had thrown into the gutter.
“Signor,” I asked, “did he hurt any of the children? I should like to repay them for their courage—”
“I have already rewarded them.” The Spaniard permitted himself a smile. “Though I hear they were on the point of rewarding themselves before the Swiss Guard intervened. If they managed to hold on to their bounty, which I doubt, none of them will have gone hungry since that day—”
“They saved my life—”
“True. Salvation often comes from unexpected quarters. One of them also gave chase. He witnessed the assassin mounting a white horse. He had paid a boy to hold it for him, in readiness for a swift departure.”
A gust of wind shook a fresh crop of leaves from the tree canopy, and they skittered over the sandy ground at my feet. “Who do you think attacked me, Signor?”
“It is a riddle whose answer I have been unable to discover. Until I can, I cannot permit you to return to Versailles.”
We fell silent and presently I began to tremble—with physical exhaustion, with the chill wind, with the shock of it. The Spaniard removed his surtout and wrapped it around my shoulders. This time, when he pushed his brandy flask toward me, I accepted. I was little used to strong liquor and my eyes watered as the fiery liquid burned its way into the pit of my stomach. I pulled the jacket tight around me. Who would want me dead, and why? I was no one.
“Could you manage to walk a little farther?” the Spaniard asked. “We are close to a place where I shall build a fire and where you can rest.”