Barbouze Page 3

  Neil watched him go, then went back into the cell. Van Loon grunted, half-asleep, ‘Who are you talking to?’

  ‘Some old Frenchman,’ said Neil. ‘He was dropping coins into the yard.’ He climbed down under the sackcloth, and Van Loon muttered, ‘Must be crazy!’

  Neil thought again about that whining sound he had heard earlier; he decided that it hadn’t been the wind after all. He wondered where he had seen that gaunt face before.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time they were up next morning M. Martel had already left. They washed at a well in the corner of the yard, and Neil noticed that the coins the Frenchman had dropped had now gone.

  They set off by eight o’clock, after a breakfast of jam and thimble cups of sweet gritty-black coffee. For the first four hours they trudged up through warm pines, round the shoulder of the mountain. At about noon they were given some grapes by a hermit living in a tree: a decrepit old man with shoes made out of slices of car tyres who sat on a bed of branches built between two pines. Soon after they came out over the sea. From here the path became a ridge winding up the steep pyramid of Mount Athos. Knotted olive trees clung by their roots high above the Aegean, which stretched out below like beaten silver. There was no wind. They walked all day, till the sun sank low and the sea darkened to copper-brown veined with shifting shadows; and in the distance they saw the Russian monastery of St. Panteleimon, its clumps of green cupolas bristling with crosses of dull gold.

  An hour later they reached the gates. They were given a whitewashed room with windows over the sea. The beds were laid with coarse clean linen, and there was even a washbowl and a Tilley lamp under a gold-framed photograph of Czar Nicholas II, with an inscription in Russian and French: ‘God bless and Protect the Ruler of All the Russias.’ Neil smiled at the thought of these ancient men perhaps believing that a Romanov was still enthroned in the Kremlin. Many of them — now shuffling in their high black boots towards evening prayers — would remember sleighfuls of fur-wrapped women sliding down the Nevsky Prospect to the opera. Or perhaps monks did not think about women, unless they were the ones who had fled here from unhappy love affairs. They were more likely to have memories of the crowded darkness of a Midnight Mass in St. Isaac’s Cathedral: of snow wastes and forests and wooden seminaries where moths flitted about the bowls of oil lamps on a summer evening.

  Van Loon was prodding the beds: ‘They are pretty rich, these old Russians, huh?’

  Neil nodded and began emptying his rucksack: shaving-case, socks and pants and cigarettes, and paperbacked editions of Conrad, Graves, Raymond Chandler, Roget’s Thesaurus and a couple of books on Greece.

  Van Loon unpacked only his bottle of ouzo, now barely two inches deep, and they shared it till it was empty and a bearded monk appeared to summon them to supper. The refectory was vast and dim, with peeling frescoes round the walls, musky with incense. There were less than fifty monks left in the monastery; they stood now along two wooden tables, heads bowed, as the abbot intoned a sepulchral Russian grace. Neil and Van Loon were led to places reserved at the head of the abbot’s table. Opposite them stood M. Martel. He gave Neil a stiff bow; and again Neil found the man’s face oddly familiar.

  The grace continued for a long time. Many of the monks began to grow restive, like schoolboys, muttering to each other and fidgeting with their pewter knives. As soon as it ended they clattered over the benches and began pouring out wine from earthenware jugs along the tables.

  Neil leant across to M. Martel and said, ‘Did you find what you were looking for last night?’

  ‘Looking for?’ The man’s face froze for a moment.

  ‘Yes — the gold coin you lost in the yard.’

  ‘Ah, that!’ He gave Neil a faint smile. ‘Yes, I found it’ He turned and introduced them to the abbot.

  Neil and Van Loon were sitting on either side of a bald wrinkled monk who spoke English with an American accent; he explained that he had left his home town of Kharkov in 1912 and spent his whole life on Mount Athos, except for a break of ten years between the wars at a Russian seminary near Wisconsin. His Middle-West accent was coloured with a Damon Runyan vernacular consisting largely of gambling expressions. He kept turning to them both and yelling, ‘C’mon, kids, let’s anti up with the vino!’, refilling their mugs every few minutes. Conversation with him was not easy as he was very deaf. At one point Neil asked him if he had ever been to Chicago. The old man bent his head sideways: ‘Come again!’

  ‘Have you ever been to Chicago?’ Neil repeated, louder.

  The monk thought for a moment, then nodded: ‘It is twelve miles from the sea.’

  Neil gave up.

  The abbot was talking to M. Martel in French, telling him about the illuminated manuscripts in the monastery library. The Frenchman listened intently, asking specific questions about the Sanskrit writings and some ancient texts that were believed to have come from Persia.

  ‘You would do better to go up to Simonpetra for the older works,’ the abbot explained. ‘Here we have mostly Russian writings from the Middle Ages. We lost many beautiful texts,’ he added, ‘when the Communists attacked us after the war. Those were bad times. They came here with rifles and there was shooting up in Karyes with the gendarmerie. They even brought women — women who carried guns and laughed at the old monks who could not understand.’ He shook his bearded head, and the wrinkled monk shouted at Neil, ‘I read a couple o’ books of Mr. Arnold Bennett! You ever read him?’ Neil said he had. Beside him the abbot was telling M. Martel, ‘Before I die I should like to leave the mountain for a few months and see what the world outside is like.’

  ‘When were you last there?’ asked M. Martel.

  The abbot thought for a moment. ‘I left St. Petersburg as a novice fifty-seven years ago.’

  The Frenchman smiled grimly: ‘You will find things very changed.’

  The abbot nodded: ‘Yes. But there is nothing wrong with change. Life is a great country that must be advanced across, not retreated over. It is the things that have not changed that I fear most — like the violence and cruelty of Man.’

  ‘Violence is sometimes necessary,’ M. Martel murmured.

  ‘It is never necessary,’ said the abbot gently. ‘Violence is an act of stupidity, of impatience and intolerance. It achieves nothing, it only destroys. God did not create Man in order that he should be violent.’

  ‘Man has to defend himself against his enemies,’ said M. Martel. ‘Do you think that stupid and wrong?’

  The abbot paused. ‘That is a hard question. I can only answer by saying that I believe we should always try to reason with our enemies.’

  ‘Reason!’ cried the Frenchman. ‘Reason with the Communist bandits who came to burn your Sanskrit writings, to pillage your oneels and jeer at your monks?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the abbot, ‘even with them. We have been attacked and pillaged many times. By the Turks, by pirates, by ignorant godless men who came with no motive but to destroy us. But God understands and he protects us.’

  While the abbot had been speaking, Neil had sat watching M. Martel. The man’s eyes were a luminous ice-grey, and his hands had tightened round his mug of wine till the knuckles were bone-white. He was listening to the abbot with a small, cruel smile. ‘Monsieur l’Abbé!’ he said at last. ‘You talk of Turks and pirates. But all that was many years ago — before my time or yours. You talk of the Communist guerrillas. They came and burnt your old manuscripts, and the gendarmerie fought them in Karyes. You were lucky then. The Communists were beaten back — defeated by the forces of order. They had no time to destroy you, to wipe you off the face of the earth so that all this’ — he waved his long hands round the vaulted refectory — ‘all this would be nothing!’ He paused, his eyes fixed on the abbot with a fierce glare.

  ‘Yes, you are protected, Monsieur l’Abbé!’ he went on, with controlled passion. ‘Protected by these walls, by the Greek Government. It was not you who defeated the Communists. When one has to make decisions that
will affect history it is not so easy to sit over wine talking about — pacifism!’ He almost spat out the word; then sat back and sighed, his fingers loosening round the mug of wine as though a great tension had been released within him.

  The abbot inclined his head: ‘There is much wisdom in what you say, Monsieur. Many great men have felt as you do, and it is not for any of us here to pronounce you wrong.’ He passed the wine round and was silent.

  Neil glanced at the Frenchman, who was chewing a lump of bread and staring at his plate. He decided that he did not much like M. Martel.

  When supper was over he and Van Loon groped their way up to their room. Neil opened the door and struck a match. He saw at once that there was something wrong. The moon glared in across the sea, on to a large black metal box in the middle of the floor. A pair of steel-backed hairbrushes lay beside the washbowl, under the photograph of the Czar. On the bed, where Neil’s rucksack had lain, there was a pigskin suitcase with silver fittings. The match went out. He was just turning, when a powerful light flared into his face. A voice from the door said in French, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Neil stepped back and blinked. ‘I’m sorry —’ he put a hand across his eyes — ‘we must have the wrong room.’

  Monsieur Martel swung the torch on to Van Loon, round the walls, on to the black metal box, then back to Neil. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said again.

  ‘I told you — we made a mistake. We’ve got the wrong room. They’re all alike.’

  ‘Get out!’ said the Frenchman.

  Neil stared into the light, began to flush with anger, then shrugged and said, ‘Certainly. And thank you for your good manners.’ He turned to Van Loon: ‘Come on, let’s get out of here!’

  Martel did not move: ‘Wait! I’m sorry. I thought for a moment —’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Neil. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘No, wait!’ The Frenchman stepped back and closed the door: ‘I didn’t mean to be discourteous. I thought for a moment that perhaps —’ He paused, the torch pointing at the floor.

  ‘You thought perhaps we had come to steal something?’ said Neil.

  Martel hesitated: ‘I have some valuable things in here. There are people who might try —’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Neil, ‘we both made a mistake. Goodnight, Monsieur Martel.’ He started towards the door.

  ‘Stay and have a brandy,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I have some excellent Armagnac.’

  ‘Armagnac!’ cried Van Loon, ‘O.K., we accept!’

  ‘Bien!’ Martel strode across the room and lit the Tilley lamp, pumping up the pressure till the gauze bulb glowed a livid white that made his face look like a skull. Neil stood reluctantly by the door. ‘Sit down, sit down!’ said Martel, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with only two glasses.’ He opened the pigskin case on the bed and brought out the brandy.

  Neil and Van Loon sat on the other bed. The Frenchman poured out two tumblers, handed one to Neil, took the other and sat down on a chair beside the black box. There was a heavy silence. It was broken by Martel.

  ‘What are you both doing on Athos?’ It was not so much a polite opening to conversation as a blunt question that demanded an answer.

  Neil gave it: ‘I’m writing a book. My friend here’s going round the world.’ He passed the brandy to Van Loon: ‘And you, Monsieur Martel?’

  The Frenchman hesitated, his eyes sliding away from Neil’s. ‘I am here for my health. I was advised to take a holiday.’

  ‘You’re French, of course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Paris?’

  The man’s eyes flicked back to Neil and the lids made a fluttering movement like a pair of camera shutters. ‘No, not from Paris. I’ve spent most of my life overseas. I’m a professor — retired now.’ He paused, his luminous grey eyes still on Neil: ‘What is your book about, if I may ask?’

  Neil sipped his brandy, trying to relax. There was something very unnerving about those eyes. ‘It’s supposed to be about Greece — when I can get down and write it. I’m aiming at an experimental travel book, working some of the ancient myths into background of life in modern Greece.’

  Martel had leant forward, his fingertips pressed together: ‘That is an idea with interesting possibilities. If I may be immodest, I once published a book myself — on the Islamic countries.’

  ‘Are you a professor of Arabic?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve studied a little classical Arabic.’ He poured out more brandy and for the next few minutes he talked to Neil in scholarly detail about the complexities of Arabic semantics, and how the language had degenerated as it spread west from Egypt to the Maghreb.

  Van Loon yawned.

  ‘I’m boring you,’ said Martel.

  ‘No, no!’ said Neil, embarrassed and annoyed with Van Loon.

  There was a pause. His eyes strayed round the room and settled on the black metal box in the middle of the floor. ‘How do you travel about on Athos, Monsieur Martel?’ he asked.

  The Frenchman’s eyes followed Neil’s to the black box. ‘I have a mule I hired in Karyes.’

  Neil nodded. Van Loon sat with his square hands hanging between his knees. Neil felt it was time to go. He was draining down his brandy, when Martel said, ‘Did you have any trouble coming to Athos?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yes — trouble with the police. Were you stopped at all?’

  ‘Only by the official who checked our visas. We didn’t see any police.’

  ‘Which way did you come?’

  ‘Through Ierrissou — over the Xerxes Canal.’

  Martel nodded slowly, as though to himself: ‘So you didn’t come by boat to Daphne?’ He stood up and emptied his glass: ‘Well, Messieurs, it’s getting late. I have to be up early tomorrow.’ His stiff grey face stretched into a smile.

  At the door, Neil turned: ‘Monsieur Martel, do you mind if I look at that gold coin you lost last night?’

  The Frenchman stared at him for a moment: ‘Certainly.’ He stepped over the other bed, opened the pigskin bag and drew out a slim leather case like a jewel box. Inside, set in a cushion of black velvet, lay about two dozen coins. Most of them were small and misshapen, black or yellowish brown, almost bald with age. Martel lifted one out that was larger than the rest, about the size of a florin, bearing the stamp of a heavy Roman profile.

  ‘Voilà!’ He placed the coin on Neil’s palm. Neil knew by the weight that it was gold; he turned it over and saw a series of almost illegible numerals.

  ‘Those are what makes it valuable,’ said Martel, ‘special numbering for money in circulation outside Rome. This coin was used to pay off Brutus’ troops in Egypt. The date shows that it must have been minted after his murder in Alexandria.’

  Neil saw a loving passion in the grey eyes, as the man laid the coin back in its velvet bed. ‘It is safe there,’ he said, snapping the case shut, ‘I carry it about with me as a talisman. When I have problems, I keep it in my hand. It has always brought me luck.’

  Neil smiled, wondering what problems M. Martel had had last night as he paced the gallery at Zographou at half past two in the morning. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Martel.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ said the Frenchman, ‘and please excuse my behaviour earlier this evening. I have been under some strain lately.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Neil, smiling.

  He and Van Loon went along the passage to their room. As the door closed, Van Loon said, ‘He is a pretty odd fellow that, huh?’

  ‘A mad professor,’ said Neil.

  ‘Not so mad. He is frightened.’

  Neil laughed: ‘What would he be frightened of here? You’ve been drinking too much.’

  ‘I don’t know what he is frightened of,’ said Van Loon solemnly, ‘but he is frightened of something.’

  ‘You go to bed,’ said Neil.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was not until several days later that they again heard of M. Martel. They had come
down off the mountain and arrived in Karyes, the administrative centre of the peninsula. It is no more than a couple of wooden streets, a church, a police station manned by a posse of men lent from the mainland, and a café where the monks come to play dominoes and read the newspapers.

  They reached the town in mid-morning after six hours’ march from the last monastery, walking down the Street of the Holy Ghost, where travellers are forbidden to smoke, wear a hat or ride a donkey: and entered the café, sweating and in need of a drink. The only person inside was a young gendarme in a grubby uniform who sat alone over an empty glass of ouzo. He came over and joined them, leaning across the table and whispering in English, ‘You have cigarettes please?’

  Neil offered him a packet of Patras filter-tips. The boy helped himself to five, lit one and stowed the rest away inside his tunic, then sat down and ordered three ouzos. ‘Here no cigarettes,’ he said, ‘I come from Salonika. I come here first with cigarettes, guitar, radio, everything. But the monks take them away. It is like prison here.’

  The ouzos came and the boy swallowed his in one gulp.

  ‘There can’t be much work for you,’ said Neil. ‘Why do they have police here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is sometimes trouble.’

  ‘Has there ever been trouble?’

  ‘No.’ The boy looked into his glass and thought for a moment; ‘Not trouble. But sometimes perhaps funny things happen. Yesterday a big boat come in the night — it come to Daphne and a man get on it. We hear this from the monks.’

  ‘Is that bad?’ said Neil.

  ‘Not good. Everybody who come to Athos must be controlled. This man come down from the mountain with much luggage — big boxes and things, and get on the boat and goes. The police know nothing.’

  ‘Did anyone see this man?’

  The boy looked at his empty glass and called the waiter. ‘He had white hair — that is all I know.’ He ordered three more ouzos.