The Cleaner of Chartres (10 page)

Chartres

At the top of the ladder that led to Alain’s eyrie, Agnès came face to serious face with the Blue Virgin.

‘I’ve never seen it, her, I mean, so close.’

‘Ah, that’s what I meant by God’s-eye view. She’s great, isn’t she? Along with those three’ – he gestured towards the three windows below the Western Rose – ‘she’s almost the oldest thing here. One of her own miracles.’

The blue-clad Madonna on her ground of ruby, with the solemn Christ child on her knee, stared grave-eyed into the eyes of Agnès, who involuntarily touched the silver chain at her neck. ‘She’s wonderful.’

‘Yes. It almost makes you believe in her.’

‘You don’t believe in her?’

‘I don’t believe she was the Mother of God. But I don’t believe Jesus Christ was God’s son either. That is not to say I don’t believe.’

‘What, then?’

‘Have some sausage.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Wine?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’ And ‘What, then, do you believe?’ she repeated when he had poured her out a cupful of dark coffee from a silver thermos.

‘I don’t believe in Christianity, or Judaism, or Islam, or Hinduism, or even Buddhism, though I’m quite drawn to that. But I think they all have something important to say. But so does paganism for that matter.’

‘I don’t really know what paganism means.’

‘Well, the Greeks were pagans, for example. I wouldn’t be without the Greeks. The Platonists, who taught here – there was a famous school in Chartres – claimed there were two doors to heaven: the door of winter, which let the light in, and the door of summer, which let it out. Plato claimed that the gods entered by the first door and left by the second.’

She thought about it. ‘I like that.’

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘But it’s true,’ she said. ‘I remember at the convent being glad when the winter solstice was passed because it meant it would get lighter in the mornings and we didn’t have to go to chapel in the dark.’

‘You didn’t like chapel.’

‘No. Well, sometimes. I liked Christmas.’

‘Christmas is all pagan. Jesus was probably born in September.’

‘How do they know?’

‘What?’

‘About Jesus.’

‘Oh, from the date of the census. They were in Bethlehem because people were required, for the census, to return to the place of their birth. Bethlehem was Joseph’s hometown. Anyway, that dates the birth, but, you know, it doesn’t matter for people who believe Jesus is the coming of light.’

Agnès tried to imagine what Sister Véronique would say to this. ‘I don’t think the nuns would agree with you.’

‘No, they wouldn’t. The think theirs is the one and only “truth” but the fact is that all religions are a hotchpotch. And they all have things in common. See these arches.’ He pointed again down the nave. ‘The pointed arch was one of
the
key marks of Gothic architecture – what they called the “new style”. But if you look at them they’re the spitting image of some of the Islamic arches. The Muslims didn’t care for rounded arches. They thought they brought the spirit back to earth.’ He made an arch in the air with his forefinger. ‘The point rises upward to heaven’ – he pointed his finger – ‘and, the Muslims would say, towards new life. They felt that created a higher aura. The crusaders brought captive Muslim masons back to Europe and they had a hand in developing our building styles. Some became quite famous. People in the prejudiced West today forget that Islam was a very sophisticated culture long before ours, with a highly developed grasp of mathematics, particularly geometry, and philosophy – spiritually they were streets ahead of us. But you’ve got me going now. Sorry to be a bore.’

‘No,’ said Agnès, who had closed her eyes. She was imagining herself a captive infidel being brought back in chains to France. ‘I’m not bored. Really.’ She fingered again the silver chain round her neck.

‘You’re Catholic, you said?’

‘No. I was just brought up by nuns. I don’t know what I am.’

‘You’re Agnès. Which is all you need to be.’

‘It would be nice to know where I came from.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I was found,’ Agnès said. ‘In a basket in a wood.’ How odd to be telling this stranger.

‘Then you’re a princess in disguise!’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it like that,’ Agnès said, laughing.

She found herself laughing again as he described his various jobs and their many setbacks and the people he encountered through them. Despite his protestations of not wishing to bore her, he continued to instruct her about the cathedral. But he wasn’t at all boring like Sister Véronique. Information bubbled out of him like champagne.

‘But why is it so yellow?’ she complained after he had explained the thirteenth-century process of making plaster – sand and powdered limestone. She didn’t like the custard yellow.

‘It always was that colour. We’ve simply cleaned it up. People imagine the cathedral was all dim and dark as it is now. But in its hey-day it was covered with paint. And if you think the ceiling’s gaudy take a look up here at the keystones.’

But instead she looked down at her watch. It was close to 8.30 a.m. and she still had the ambulatory floor to sweep. ‘I must go.’

‘Sure.’

She started hurriedly back down the ladder. Towards the bottom, her left foot became trapped in her full skirt, so that she swivelled about and slid awkwardly down the last few rungs to the floor and fell against the screen door and on to the altar dais.

Alain, just behind her, jumped gallantly to help her up, just as Madame Beck, with Father Bernard trailing behind, stormed into the nave.

‘It was quite obscene,’ Madame Beck excitedly informed Madame Picot on the phone a mere half an hour later. ‘There she was in the man’s arms right by the altar, her skirt up showing her all to anyone who cared to look. No prizes for guessing what had been going on there.’

‘Did you ask her about the little dolly, dear?’ Madame Picot was suffering some nervousness on this score.

‘I didn’t have a chance. Father Bernard didn’t know where to look. He was so upset I had to give him a cup of coffee. He’s only just gone, in fact. I suggested he should talk to Father Paul.’

•   •   •

The Abbé Bernard did talk to the Abbé Paul but mostly because he too feared Madame Beck. He had been confused rather than upset by what he had seen, mainly because it seemed to cause such a to-do in Madame Beck to find Agnès being helped up from the floor by a young man. A nice young man, he had seemed to the Abbé Bernard. Still, he was grateful for the coffee, and the
éclairs
, which were quite delicious, and he promised to have a word with the Abbé Paul.

‘But what is it she minded? I’m not sure that I quite . . .’ the Abbé Paul asked, when, in answer to Bernard’s request for ‘a word’, the dean had asked him round for a drink.

The Abbé Bernard was no longer sure. Not that he’d ever really grasped in the first place what it was that Madame Beck wanted of him. She talked so fast and seemed so very cross. It reminded him of the times his mother had scolded him and he had gone to bed in tears. Of course in his mother’s case it was excusable. She had had a bad time and no doubt, as she had often told him, he was a very trying child.

‘I think she was concerned about the scaffolding,’ he decided. ‘Something to do with its being dangerous for Agnès.’

The Abbé knew Madame Beck all too well. A concern for their cleaner did not strike him as probable. ‘I don’t see . . .’

‘Agnès cleans for her too,’ the Abbé Bernard explained. ‘I expect she’s worried for her. Nice girl,’ he added mournfully. For all he had enjoyed the
éclairs
he would much rather have spent the morning chatting to Agnès.

The Abbé Paul offered Bernard more wine. Best to see Agnès himself, he decided. He was aware that Bernard was adrift over the matter and that generally his colleague was losing his grip. His heart bled for him. A dear man who should probably never have entered the priesthood.

But which of us should, wondered the Abbé Paul, pouring himself another glass of wine.

Le Mans

The visit to Jean Dupère’s farm had acted as a tonic not only to Denis Deman’s spirits but also to his resolution. His was a disposition to take things hard but also to take them high. A conscientious, if rather plodding, father and a frivolous, wilful mother had bred a contradiction in the son’s nature. He cared – cared passionately – for the things he cared for but his conviction was liable to waver and be derailed. Jean Dupère’s peaceful farmstead, the pleasing old-fashioned furniture and time-worn chattels, the old man’s simple fortitude, his undramatic acceptance of his illness, had galvanized Denis Deman. And the warmth his host had expressed for the younger man rekindled his memory of his father’s shy pride in his only child. He was aware that his father believed that he himself could have, maybe
should
have, done better in life and hoped that his son would do better than he had managed, hampered as he was by a slender ambition and a silly, vain wife.

It was the wife, Denis’s mother, who had prompted him to flee his home and settle first in Paris, after medical school, then later in Rouen. He was aware that his mother’s highest ambition for her son was for him to marry a local girl and settle down near her, to assure her, with the death of a much older husband, a well-tended old age. This had no doubt contributed to the fact that, despite an attractive appearance and, when it was convenient, his mother’s easygoing way with the opposite sex, at forty-five Denis Deman remained unmarried. That it was rarely ‘convenient’ was a testament to Denis Deman’s fundamental seriousness. He didn’t ‘put it on’ – he had too high an opinion of women for that – but he had more than an inkling of how sexual charm could sometimes be useful.

If he had failed to employ it with Dr Nezat, it was because he had met the situation as nervous, to use a favourite phrase of Jacques Germaine’s, as a kitten. He had been too much in fear of her professional judgement and his own bad conscience. But his conscience had now been awakened to a higher purpose. And there was a ready excuse to hand.

He had found the matchbox, which by now he associated with the array of smoking equipment he had observed in Jean Dupère’s comforting kitchen, in his pocket when he undressed that same night. It was a testament to the benign effects of that evening that his first thought was not self-reproach but the idea that he might use it as another excuse to visit Le Mans. The matchbox containing its small turquoise treasure had become a kind of amulet.

He decided to ring rather than write. ‘Dr Nezat?’

‘Who is this?’ Her tone was disconcertingly like that of Mother Catherine.

‘Denis Deman. We met, you remember –’

‘Yes, yes, of course. What can I do for you?’

Denis explained that he had something of Agnès’ and would like to come to visit again to give it to her.

‘Can it not be sent?’

‘I’d rather not. It is a little relic found with her when she was abandoned – which has only just come to light.’

He detected a certain curiosity in Dr Nezat’s response, which was that if he would like to name a date, she would make sure she would be available to meet him.

Easter was early that year. Denis Deman drove down to Le Mans on Good Friday, taking care to check that his spare tyre was securely in the boot. He had mentioned his previous difficulties over parking and Dr Nezat, having expressed surprise that he was able to take the day off, said that she would see to it that a parking space was reserved for him.

His new mood must already have had an impact, as she met him as an old friend, and once in her office offered him a cigarette over another cup of Nescafé.

‘Thank you, I don’t any more.’

‘I shouldn’t but otherwise I put on so much weight.’ Dr Nezat patted her hips. ‘So what is it you have brought for the girl? I told her you were coming.’

‘Did she react?’

‘As you know with her it’s hard to say what is going on.’

Denis Deman decided it was time to take the bull by the horns. ‘You asked me whether I thought it was likely she had committed the crime. To be frank with you, I think it most unlikely. Not a shred of concrete evidence was discovered to connect her with it. No weapon was ever found.’

‘And the child was not hers.’

‘Not at all,’ said Denis decisively. Had she ever imagined so, the fault would be entirely his. ‘Her child is, I imagine, quite elsewhere.’

‘It is true that she never refers to the boy now.’

Denis took a calculated risk. ‘If I may unburden myself to you, Dr Nezat, this is all my doing. I became alarmed. For some reason I connected her with the assault and questioned her about it. She seemed to admit to the crime but with hindsight . . .’ Damnable hindsight.

‘What I don’t see,’ said Dr Nezat, neatly tapping her ash into an ashtray bearing an image of the Mona Lisa, ‘is why you connected her with the crime in the first place.’

In the split second before Denis answered her, the legacies of his father’s honesty and his mother’s guile hung in the balance. The mother’s legacy won. Outright admission of his sorry part in this story would not help him to solve the problem he had created. ‘It was a foolish fancy born of fear.’

‘Of course she’s had a history with knives,’ said Dr Nezat helpfully. ‘And there was also the fact that the child in the case was the same age as the one she lost.’

‘Exactly. Though I’m bound to say that the only person, as far as we know, she ever wounded was herself.’

‘I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to take a stab at those dreadful nuns,’ said Dr Nezat and smiled so broadly that Denis Deman began quite to like her. ‘Come on. Let’s take her your surprise.’

Perhaps because he was fearing worse this time, Agnès looked to him a little better. Her acne seemed less pronounced and her expression was more alert. She recognized him at once and smiled her winning smile. ‘Doctor.’

‘Agnès. Good to see you again.’

‘It’s nice to see you too, Doctor.’

‘Agnès,’ he said, sitting down next to her, ‘I’ve brought you something.’ He produced the matchbox from his jacket pocket. Over his shoulder, he could almost palpably feel Dr Nezat’s curiosity rise. ‘The man who found you found something in the basket where you were lying. He wanted you to have it for your sixteenth birthday. He gave it to me to give to you now.’

Agnès took the matchbox and held it as if she didn’t plan to do more than look at it. Then very slowly she pushed it open.

Denis had considered whether to polish up the complex surround of tarnished silver in which the turquoise stone was mounted and decided against it. She should have the relic of her mother precisely as it was. ‘The stone is turquoise. The silver will easily clean up.’

Agnès said nothing at all for some minutes. She sat staring at the little semi-precious gem in the palm of her hand. Then she looked up at Dr Nezat. ‘May I have my ears pierced?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Dr Nezat, who once more was smiling broadly.

Back in her office, after an hour during which Denis had managed a sustained conversation with Agnès, Dr Nezat pronounced that his visit had been a success. The visit had started a strand of hope in Dr Deman. Perhaps he might exert some influence over Agnès’ treatment. But how to do it? Dr Nezat would not, he suspected, easily surrender any of her medical authority. The father and mother were weighed again and once more the balance came down on the mother’s side. ‘Dr Nezat, you have been enormously kind. May I have the pleasure of giving you dinner this evening?’

‘How charming of you.’ Dr Nezat consulted her diary and declared that by a stroke of good fortune she was free. She suggested a restaurant they might meet in – he having no local knowledge from which to choose one – and suggested he leave his car in the hospital car park; parking in the town was hell, she explained, and anyway most of their staff were off for the Easter holiday.

Denis Deman, who had brought nothing for an overnight stay, went out and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste and some razors from the nearby pharmacy and some socks and underpants from Monoprix. After checking into the expensive hotel, also recommended by Dr Nezat, he went back and bought a shirt and a tie.