The Remembering (26 page)

The Fleur-du-Mal flipped another switch and the steel cylinders began to rotate, so slowly it was barely perceptible, but just enough to give the spheres another dimension. They seemed to float or drift, and the markings seemed to swim as the stones turned in the light. We both stood mesmerized by their beauty and mystery. Then he said, “You may not agree,
mon petit
, on how I procured them, particularly the last one, yet this is perhaps the lone true instance where the end does justify the means.”

I didn’t agree; however, I did feel a sense of guilt because I was so excited about seeing the spheres and I couldn’t wait to study them.

The Fleur-du-Mal must have read my thoughts. “You need to lose your anemic, pathetic, obsolescent Giza morality, Zezen. Doing so would allow you to be much happier and probably do much better work. And while we are on the subject, I need to make one thing clear. I want you to tell Jack Flowers if he or any of his friends in Washington take any action whatsoever against Valery or me for the incident in Dallas, then they will sincerely regret it. I happen to have in my possession certain documents I removed from Blaine Harrington that clearly implicate several people in the Pentagon and other branches, people who could and would eliminate Jack and his entire family in one day. Jack is a smart man and I am sure he knows this to be true. But just remind him,
mon petit
, if you will.”

With little or no expression I told him I would relay the message. I then asked him to turn off the rotation of the cylinders and leaned over and felt the oldest sphere with my hands. Wherever it had been found, the stone had suffered from countless thousands of years of exposure to the elements. It was also the largest of the three, and its markings, or what was left of them, were spaced farther apart than on the other two. I walked around the sphere from Portugal and marveled at its sheer perfection. It was the smallest one, and its granite surface was infused with a reddish hue and had been polished until it was nearly smooth as glass. It looked as if its creators had only finished yesterday. The carved script was complex and sublime in every way. I glanced at the sphere delivered by Valery and thought back to the exhibit and Geaxi’s reaction to the Neanderthal bones.

“What do you make of the Neanderthal children’s bones found with this one?” I asked, pointing to the Caucasus sphere.

“I have no opinion … yet. That is one of the subjects we must investigate. The stones may reveal the reason in time. But, tell me, Zezen—what makes you so certain they are the bones of children? Because they are small and immature?”

My answer was another question. “Have you had any breakthroughs with the markings?”

“A few. So far, they are random and inconsequential, but there was something odd about each breakthrough, or rather each
understanding
. Each one came to me after waking from a dream. I awoke and could not recall a single place, image, or conversation from the dream, yet I knew the meaning of a specific marking. It is a language beyond speech. It is a language with no vowels, no consonants, and ten thousand nuances of meaning and expression. It is a language of dreams, Zezen … a language of dreams.” The Fleur-du-Mal walked over to the sphere found in Portugal. He ran his fingertips lightly over the markings, caressing the curve of the stone like a woman’s cheek and neck. “I have a name for them,” he said, letting his eyes roam from sphere to sphere.

“What is it?”

In a voice unusual for the Fleur-du-Mal, almost a whisper, he said, “Dreamstones.”

Later that evening, over a dinner served by yet another gray-haired Mannheim sister, Ilsa, the Fleur-du-Mal and I came to a working arrangement. He was adamant the spheres would stay where they were, with him. I could not have them moved to Paris, Caitlin’s Ruby, or anywhere else for study. However, I could have Opari come and live with me while I worked. I told him the others should have a chance to see the spheres, particularly his uncle, Zeru-Meq, who had a poet’s mind, and because any one of us could have a sudden insight. We negotiated and the Fleur-du-Mal compromised, saying he would allow the others open-ended visits, but only one at a time.

We both realized working together might become difficult, so we devised a variable shift schedule for our time in the milk barn. I would work days and he would work nights. All notes and observations would be written down in a common log to which we both had access.

“What if I want to leave?” I asked.

“Then leave,” he said. “You are not in prison,
mon petit
, except perhaps in your imagination. I will have the Mannheims assist you with any logistical concerns.”

I stared down at the fruit pudding that Ilsa had brought out for dessert. It was made from red and black currants and was delicious. I looked across the table at the Fleur-du-Mal. He was sipping cognac and preparing to light a cigar. I thought, how did I get here? How did this happen and how would it play out? It was crazy yet somehow it made no difference. All that mattered to me now were the spheres. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to admit it, but I was obsessed with them, and in almost the same way I had once been obsessed with killing the Fleur-du-Mal. I laughed out loud.

“Why do you laugh?” he asked, lighting the long Cuban cigar.

I shook my head back and forth. “Never ever did I expect to be in this … situation.”

“Nor I,” he said.

“Why do suppose we are doing this?”

“The answer is quite simple,” the Fleur-du-Mal said. He inhaled slightly, then let the smoke out slowly in a single stream. “We are, you and I, more alike than you might think. We are obsessed with the truth, Zezen … the truth.”

• • •

And thus began my long and strange alliance with the Fleur-du-Mal. The very next day I returned to West Berlin, then on to Paris by train to tell the others about this new, unlikely, and unexpected turn of events. Jack and I would also have to discuss Dallas and what the Fleur-du-Mal had said. I knew he was not lying or bluffing. Jack was no coward, but in this case I was hoping family would come first.

On the way to Paris, I stared out the window at the changing landscapes and couldn’t quit thinking about the spheres. In every passing tree and rock face, I saw the delicate and beautiful script, the intricate connecting patterns and weaves, all separate and moving backward and forward together. I kept seeing the sphere from Portugal over and over. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was the heart of the mystery. It was the one that would lead us to the Remembering.

The train arrived at the Gard du Nord Station just after sunset, and it was completely dark by the time I reached the Canal St. Martin and stepped onto the dock adjacent to the
Giselle
. Sailor was sitting in a folding chair, facing my direction, as if he was waiting for me.

“Well?” he said.

I laughed and hopped onto the deck of the
Giselle
. “Come inside,” I told him, smiling. “You won’t believe it.”

I gathered everyone around the long bench that served as a kitchen table and started talking. The true identity of the Beekeeper prompted groans, then comments of disgust in varying degrees. But when I mentioned the three spheres, it had the opposite effect. You couldn’t even hear breathing. I told them the terms of the arrangement I had made with the Fleur-du-Mal, adding that I had had little or no choice.

After I stopped speaking, Opari asked the hardest question to answer. “Why would the Fleur-du-Mal have a ‘change of heart’ concerning the Remembering? He has never done so before concerning anything. Why this? Why now?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think we’re stuck with him.”

One day later we took a train to San Sebastian and met with Geaxi, Zeru-Meq, and Mowsel. Zeru-Meq cursed loudly when he found out the truth about the Beekeeper. Mowsel asked at least a dozen questions about the spheres and their markings. Geaxi listened in silence to every detail, then stated her wish to be the first in the rotation of “guests” to study the spheres. No one had any objections, and we all agreed the study should begin as soon as possible.

The Fleur-du-Mal had given me a telephone number to call when I was ready to return. I made the call and identified myself to the woman who answered. In a thick German accent she told me to be at a specific intersection in West Berlin at a certain time on a certain date, just as I’d done on my first visit. It would become a pattern.

On May 13 Geaxi, Opari, and I stood on a corner only two blocks from the Brandenberg Gate in Berlin. It was 3:15 in the afternoon. An old black Mercedes sedan pulled to a stop and a door opened. The three of us climbed into the backseat. Our driver was about sixty years old with bushy salt-and-pepper hair and a grizzled two weeks’ growth of beard. He introduced himself as Hans. As I was to learn later, he was the youngest of the Mannheims.

When we reached the farm an hour later, the Fleur-du-Mal was standing at the end of the long driveway, waiting to greet us. His black hair was neatly tied back with a green ribbon, and he wore his ruby earrings. His pressed pants and shirt were made of fine Egyptian linen. He was fully relishing the charade of playing the host. He bowed slightly to Opari, said hello to me, and seemed genuinely surprised to see Geaxi as the first “guest” Meq.

“Ah, Geaxi,” he said with a wide smile. “How is Malta? I have always loved your little island.”

Geaxi adjusted her beret and ignored the remark. In a flat voice she said, “I understand you have treasures.”

“That I do, that I do.” He turned and motioned for Hans. “First, let us get you settled in your cottage. Hans will show you the way. Dinner is served at six o’clock and afterward I shall take you to the milk barn.”

“The milk barn?”

The Fleur-du-Mal was already walking away, toward the massive front door of his farmhouse. Over his shoulder, he said, “Tell her, Zezen,” and kept walking.

Hans said, “Zis way, please.”

Around nine o’clock we left the farmhouse and followed the Fleur-du-Mal down the path leading to the milk barn. It was a clear night and the moon had yet to rise. Venus was low and bright and looked as if it was hovering over the top of the barn. The Fleur-du-Mal laughed and said, “It seems we have a torch to light our way. Perhaps a good omen, no?”

He opened the door and flipped the switch. Geaxi was speechless when she finally saw the three spheres together, lit by the bank of lights and lined up on their stainless-steel cylinders. She walked in slow circles around each of them, pausing occasionally and reaching out to feel the markings. She touched the sphere from Portugal last and jumped back with a shout, as if she’d been shocked. “This stone is warm,” she said.

“That is impossible,” the Fleur-du-Mal replied. He rushed over and laid his palm across the top of the sphere. He gave Geaxi a quizzical look. “This sphere is cold as a tombstone.”

I reached out and felt the stone. It was cold. I glanced at Geaxi, trying to read her expression. She gave nothing away. She looked back at me and I knew she was absolutely serious and telling the truth. For whatever reason, the sphere from Portugal felt warm to her touch. Before we even started our study of the spheres, another mystery had appeared.

We began in earnest the next morning. We had no set pattern or routine. Each of us spent time alone with each sphere, and all of us, including the Fleur-du-Mal, spent time together discussing the problems. We studied and speculated, examined and meditated, agreed and disagreed. Opari, Geaxi, and I spent our days with the spheres while the Fleur-du-Mal spent his nights with them. We truly expected a breakthrough right away. After all, why not? The Fleur-du-Mal had previously deciphered a word or two, although he didn’t call them words. He referred to the markings as “dreamings.” Opari and Geaxi had extraordinary facilities with languages from every corner of the world. They could have an insight at any time. And of course, everyone expected me to have a complete breakthrough and be able to read the entirety of the message, whatever it might be. I even expected it to happen. In Russia I had “read” a phrase and a word in only a few minutes. Now I had all the time I wanted, and I was obsessed with the spheres. I could think of little else. “Today,” I kept telling myself, “today I will find the key and unlock the mystery.” But it didn’t happen. Study became struggle and infatuation led to frustration. Seasons passed in rapid succession, dressing and undressing the landscape like a fashion show. The rotation of Meq “guests” began and continued, with each one delivered and driven away by the Mannheims. Some stayed longer than others and all returned time after time. Still, nothing happened. Not a word was deciphered. Weeks became months, and months became years. Throughout the turbulent sixties, while the rest of the world was changing with abandon around us, we spent our time sneaking in and out of East Germany, obsessed with solving a riddle carved on three silent granite spheres, a riddle that refused to give up its secret.

On occasion, Opari and I would return to Paris for a few days or weeks, however long it took to revive our spirits, away from the spheres and the dark umbrella of the Fleur-du-Mal. Twice on these “holidays” we received sudden and sad news, the kind you never want to hear and can never change. In September of 1965 Cardinal had been enjoying his retirement by going on a deep-sea fishing vacation with several other men to a small resort on Great Abaco Island in the Bahamas. During the night of September 6, Hurricane Betsy, a storm that would later pummel Florida and the Gulf Coast, roared across Great Abaco Island with winds measured at 147 mph. They sheared the roof off the small resort and demolished everything else for the next three hours. By dawn, twelve people were dead and dozens had been injured. Cardinal, Dr. Bikki Birnbaum, was among the dead. Jack flew to the island and claimed his body, then buried him in a church graveyard not far from his home overlooking the Potomac. Cardinal’s death affected Jack deeply. Less than two years later, he decided to retire himself. He wanted to spend more time in St. Louis with Carolina. The Vietnam War was, according to Jack, “already beyond the point of no return.” He said he’d been in the spy business too long and added, “This war has nothing to do with me, and I want nothing to do with it. I’m going to watch baseball instead.” Jack hired a man we could trust named Michel to take care of the
Giselle
year-round, while we could come and go as we pleased with no questions asked.