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I noticed that almost everyone in the half-full café kept stealing glances at him. The waitresses paid him particular attention.

I wasn't surprised to find out that he was friendly. When I came up to introduce myself, he whipped off his glasses, looked up and instantly asked me to join him. (I didn't give him my real name, just to be on the safe side. I called myself Bernard McLean.) He was younger than I expected, but the most notable thing about him up close was his eyes. They blazed at me, even though I had said nothing remarkable to him, nor was I—obviously—remarkable myself. It was as if his eyes were always lit up like that. An extraordinary energy came from him, an undeniable charisma.

I also wasn't surprised that he spoke English. His cool French accent didn't make his conversation difficult to follow: he had a way of almost caressing words. I imagined he could make them sound interesting in any language. He was a man of quick movements and thoughts. He examined me closely, as if learning every inch of my face, penetrating it and getting into my brain.

“So you are doing some work up at the Chauvet Cave?” I asked.

Those eyes twinkled. “How do you know that, American?”

“I saw you.”

“Yes, you were hiding in the bushes, watching.”

He
had
seen me.

“I have something I need to do there.”

“Need to, eh? Sounds like a mission.” He grinned
.
“
Une mission dangereuse?
”

“Yes, in fact.”

“Tell me.”

As I've mentioned, I'm a pretty good storyteller, just like Grandpa. And I really gave this tale all that I had. The heartbreaking story of a grandfather who desperately wants his dying wish fulfilled, for all the right reasons. What was interesting about this guy's reaction was how intrigued he seemed to be, and not just by the story, but by how I told it. He looked not only fascinated but genuinely amused. Those eyes sparkled and his eyebrows seemed to go up and down with the rhythms of my story. He looked like he knew when the climax was coming and anticipated it with great excitement.

“
Merveilleux!
” he exclaimed when I was done, so loudly that the whole café turned to him. I gave him a look that indicated I wanted us to be quieter.

“
Oui
,” he whispered, “
une mission très dange-reuse
.” He winked at me.

“Can you help me?”

“Help you get into la Grotte Chauvet? That is impossible—”

“But I—”

He leaned forward and spoke so quietly that I could barely hear him. “Which is exactly why I think we should try!”

I could barely believe what he had said.

“Really?”

“Really. You are now in the hands of Mermoz!”

The name was obviously supposed to mean something to me. He said it almost like a kid might, if he were telling you that he was the best player on his football team. I glanced around the café again. Every patron in the restaurant, and the owner and waitresses too, were sneaking peeks our way. The women seemed especially interested. It was beginning to dawn on me that I was sitting with an important man, but an awfully strange one.

“What—what do you do, sir, for a living?” I asked.

“Anarchist!” he shouted. There were a few giggles around us.

“Anarchist?”

“Communist!”

“Communist?”

“Rebel extraordinaire. And I write books.” He smiled. Now a few people nearby laughed out loud.

“You are an author?”

“I prefer artist or storyteller.”

“Like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?”

I thought his face was going to split with happiness. “
Oui! Oui!
Like
le géant de la France
! I am Mermoz! And you and I”—he lowered his voice again—“we have a wonderful story to create now. We are going to invent the story of the only boy to ever enter la Grotte Chauvet! But there is danger!”

“So I have heard.”

“And romance!”

“Romance?”

“Well, of a sort. This whole notion is romantic and thrilling and dramatic! Add to all of this the fact that, by good fortune, we have an added element that creates a good deal of tension.”

“Added element?”

“Time!”

“Time?”

“Tomorrow is the last day of a fifteen-day period when the scientists and special invitees are allowed into the cave. Human beings cannot be in there any longer than that or our presence, our very breath, might do damage to the cave drawings, you know. There will not be another such period for many months. And I, Mermoz, storyteller and documenter in literary arts, am one of those, invited by the president himself to tell the story of the inside of la Grotte Chauvet. Don't you see? We, therefore, have a clock on our story, sir. Oh, that is always a delicious thing! We must get you in and out of the cave by tomorrow. We have but twenty-four hours! That is a fabulous ingredient in our tale! It creates tension, my young American friend!”

He said the last sentence with a loud flourish and then looked sheepish. “I am getting too excited,” he said quietly. “Now, this is how I envision this story, this tale of the American boy entering la Grotte Chauvet against all odds.” He paused for a second. “I must tell you, however, if this does not work out as we plan, if you are found out while on the way to the cave or inside it, you must promise me here and now—on the watery grave of St. Ex—that you will swear that you have never met me, that I in no way helped you and that you will take your punishment, whatever it is, like a man, and suffer whatever the French authorities decide to do with you, without accusing me…Mermoz!”

“I-I suppose so.”

“You suppose?”

“I-I promise.” I didn't have any choice.

“I am the good guy in the story…but I can be the villain too.”

“Yes,” I said, though I didn't like the sound of that.

“If you are caught, I shall disavow all knowledge of you. In fact, I will pursue you along with the authorities and recommend your arrest.”

“Really?”

“But I must! Don't you see it? Ah, it would be a marvelous twist to the end of our tale! Very European!” His face grew serious. “But we shall not wish for that as our denouement. We shall do all we can to make this a happy tale, an American drama full of spills and chills with an American ending—which means a dull ending, but nevertheless, it must be done.”

“I hope so.”

“This, Monsieur McLean, is what we shall do!”

Though I was entering into this bargain with some concern, I was awfully pleased too. I had calculated correctly. I had stumbled upon possibly the only man who had ever been inside the Chauvet Cave who would find it exciting to break the rules and help someone else sneak in or, in this case, actually participate in such a crime.

“But,” he said, “before I begin, stand up please.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear at that moment. I was anxious to hear him tell our story—the spine-tingling tale of how he was going to get me into the forbidden cave. I wanted the details and I wanted them now.

But he insisted. He smiled and motioned for me to get to my feet. I stood up. First, he looked down at my shoes and put one of his beside one of mine, as if comparing. Then he leaned forward, his face coming within inches of mine. He had done almost the same thing while we were sitting. He was one of those people who like to get inside your personal space. It was a bit unnerving.

But this time, he didn't say anything. In fact, after he examined me for a while, our eyes at exactly the same height, he nodded his head as if confirming something, slapped his spectacular glasses back onto his face, turned abruptly and walked away.

“Meet me first thing tomorrow morning, about eight o'clock, in the parking lot of the scientists' buildings,” he barked over his shoulder. In seconds he was at the door. He opened it with a shove and exited. It sprang back and slammed. Many of the café patrons were staring at him as he left. I was suddenly alone at his table, left to pay his bill, suspended in that frustrating and yet fascinating moment, sort of like at the end of a chapter in a novel when the author has primed his readers into a state of excitement but then pauses before he reveals what happens next.

FIFTEEN

INTO THE GREAT CAVE

I was there exactly on time. And so was Mermoz. In fact, he was sitting in his car—another battered old Citroën—completely naked. Or at least, he appeared to be. He was looking around to make sure no one was watching, and his hand was covering his face as he motioned to me with just a slight movement of his head. I reluctantly opened the door and got in. I say “reluctantly” for obvious reasons. I was wondering if he was some kind of a pervert. But I was big and strong and confident in my ability to protect myself and, more importantly, at this moment he was the only way I could get into the Chauvet Cave. The
only
way. And besides, he was a famous writer. How weird could he be? That seemed like a stupid question almost the moment I thought it.

It turned out that he wasn't naked. He was wearing a small hat…and a pair of boxer shorts.

He was also completely bald. And I mean completely. He hadn't one strand of hair left on his head, or on his chin, for that matter. Because his hand had been over his face, I hadn't noticed his brand-new cue-ball look when I first saw him through the car door. I had also been mesmerized, once again, by his eyes. He wasn't wearing his spectacular sunglasses. Those brilliant blue peepers had locked on me the instant they saw me and that was really all I had looked at.

“But you're—” I said.

He held up his hand to silence me. “This,” he said, “is our plan, our—shall we say—story.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled and then paused. “I noticed yesterday, that you, my extraordinarily tall young American friend, are exactly the same height as Mermoz.”

That was what the eyeball-to-eyeball stare had been all about.

“Mermoz is also a remarkably attractive and young-looking man, just like yourself.”

Okay, that was weird. I wanted to disagree, but he was kind of right.

“Our story begins with those facts as its launching mechanism.”

Then he told me his idea, our plan. It seemed fraught with problems and yet the more I thought about it, the more it appealed to me. It was imaginative, to say the least, as unbelievable as a work of fiction in some places, and very dangerous in others (which certainly gave me pause). But wild as it was, it just might work. That was all that mattered at that moment. So I agreed to do it.

He reached down below the seat and brought up a plastic bag, which contained a blond goatee, unmistakably the beard of the great Mermoz, and many curly blond locks of long hair, unmistakably the former property of his head. I had thought that he had shaved himself bald. But the great Mermoz really
was
bald! He handed me the bag. “Do not tell anyone!” he muttered. Then he reached into the backseat to retrieve a pile of clothing. His unique sunglasses sat on top. “I have more than one pair,” he said with a smile.

Half an hour later, I was walking up the trail toward the cave with the other scientists, wearing the blue-gray coveralls issued only to those few fortunate individuals allowed into the sacred Chauvet space. On my head was a white helmet, complete with a light. The whole thing was strapped tightly around my chin. Mermoz's long blond wig was pushed down over my own hair, his goatee stuck to my chin, and his dark glasses were on my face, adjusted tightly to stay put. As instructed, I had my head down and was saying absolutely nothing, even when others addressed me.

“Another one of those days for the great Mermoz?” asked one of the scientists.

“He's a weird one,” whispered another.

As Mermoz had helped me get into disguise in his little car—a not inconsiderable feat—he had coached me.

“I am known as a moody sort, my young American friend, some say a manic depressive, but I say not! Mermoz is merely an artist! Some days I am the life of the party, while other times I do not speak, at all, to anyone. Some days I keep my head down and my thoughts to myself. They have seen me like that once or twice already this season.” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “It is perfect! You are my size, disguised as me with my hair and beard, my spectacles, my special-issue coveralls and hat, and you are young and beautiful like me…and you can remain silent!”

He had taught me to say just one phrase, and to say it exactly as he did: “
Je ne parle pas aujourd'hui.
” I am not talking today
.

But that was just part of his plan. The rest of it really worried me. I was turning it over in my mind as I walked up the hill, my heart pounding. In fact, my anxiety was almost overshadowing the fact that I was about to enter the legendary Chauvet Cave, about to see if it contained the meaning of life, about to fulfill the most difficult assignment my grandfather could give me. Finally I would live up to his expectations. If I did this—and it grew nearer with every step—I would certainly no longer be just “okay.” I would be a worthy McLean.

But could I actually pull this off? Would the security guy (who was walking farther back in the group) figure it out? Was I insane to go along with Mermoz's bizarre plan, something right out of a novel? It was only going to get tougher from here.

The rest of his plan, the last part, kept bothering me.

“Should you be successful,” Mermoz had said in the car, “I shall drive the getaway car!” His face lit up with excitement. “I will meet you in the parking lot afterward and take you, at high speed, back down the mountain and to your lodgings! Where, by the way, are you staying?”

I hesitated. “I…I won't need you to take me all the way. Just drive me to Vallon and I will get home by myself.”

Mermoz nodded with a twinkle in his eye. “You are a smart boy. Keep such information close to your chest!”