The Sixth Key (10 page)

Rahn laughed. ‘What do you mean, ghosts?’

The man closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘If that were all . . . No. Shortly before Monti died, he took a trip to a
small town in Languedoc to see a priest. You will see it says something in the
notebook about an abbé, but there is no name. I don’t know where he went
exactly but he was gone only a few days. When he returned he was afraid for his
soul.’ His lips pulled at the cigarette and he let the smoke out with his
words. ‘Whatever the dangers associated with this book, they must be horrible.’

Rahn longed to be gone from the apartment;
underlying the smell of sardines and burnt toast was the burgeoning stench of
death and decay. He took the notebook and, after some cordial words, saw
himself out, feeling intensely disconcerted. In the corridor, pausing to wipe
his brow, he noticed a cheap print of a woodcut by Dürer. He had not seen it
before because it had been obscured by the door. It was the Apocalyptic Angel,
holding the key to the bottomless pit. Rahn paused. Was the Angel in the
woodcut banishing a demon to the bowels of Hell or was he setting it loose on
humanity? Rahn felt a crawling shiver and left quickly.

He returned to his hotel with Pierre
Plantard’s words weighing on his mind. He packed his bags, paid his bill and
left by the back entrance to take a taxi to the station where he was due to
meet La Dame. As the taxi passed the front of the hotel, Rahn saw a man
standing on the pavement smoking a cigarette and looking out at the street. He
couldn’t tell if he was the same man he had seen at the café the day before,
but something about him looked familiar: he was just an average man, average
height, average build.

He found La Dame waiting for him in Le Train
Bleu restaurant at Gare de Lyon station, wearing a bored expression. After a
moment’s complaint for the lateness of the hour he ordered Rahn a drink and sat
back smoking his Cuban cigar with a tense impassivity.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ La
Dame said finally.

Rahn realised that La Dame knew almost
everything now. What would it hurt for him to know a little more? ‘Apparently
Monti was a broker of secrets and he was working to find out something about Le
Serpent Rouge for a man called Aleister Crowley—’

‘The beast himself? Surely you know who he
is?’ He smiled from ear to ear. ‘He is the notorious magician! A terrible
dresser but charismatic – they say he signs all his correspondence with
the numbers six-six-six!’

Rahn took a sip. ‘Well, apparently Monti
wasn’t getting anywhere in his search for the grimoire and so he decided to
mention it discreetly, here and there, hoping to flush out anyone who knew
anything about it.’

‘Not discreetly enough, by the sound of it.’

‘So it seems. Anyway, this Pierre Plantard
says that Monti made a visit to a town in Languedoc to hunt around and while he
was there he met with an abbé. Whatever the abbé told him, it must have caused him
to draw the conclusion that the grimoire was incomplete.’

‘Really?’

‘Apparently there is a key missing.’

‘A key?’

‘A formula.’

‘Go on.’

‘Apparently Monti thought this key could be
found in Languedoc.’

‘Where did he get that idea?’

‘From me, so it seems.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, from Crusade Against the Grail. Did you
ever read it?’

‘Of course!’ La Dame said, seemingly indignant
at the accusatory tone in Rahn’s voice.

Rahn put down the brandy to look at him.

A hangdog grin spread over La Dame’s bearded
face. ‘To be honest, I only managed the acknowledgements. I wanted to see if
you’d mentioned my name – you can’t imagine my disappointment!’

‘I was mindful of your reputation,’ Rahn said.

‘But I haven’t got one.’

‘You illustrate my point quite exactly, dear
La Dame!’

La Dame gave him a laconic eye. ‘And what
would you say if I told you you’re an opportunist?’

‘I rarely give anyone the opportunity to say
such things, except for you, of course, and now that you have, I will respond
by saying that I find myself in esteemed and august company!’ He raised his
glass.

There was a nod from La Dame, to acknowledge
the acknowledgement.

‘So, what happened, did Monti find anything?’
he said.

‘No. After returning from Languedoc he grew
afraid. Not long after that he was found dead, and you know the rest, but
Plantard isn’t certain who is responsible: rivals; the owner of the manuscript;
or perhaps some metaphysical force.’

‘Metaphysical! You mean like a curse?’

‘I don’t know exactly.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said De Mengel is working for the English
Lodges.’

‘English Masons! A nasty lot! Watch out for
them, Rahn.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘So, that is why De Mengel wants you to find
this Le Serpent Rouge – so he can deliver it to the English? The
scoundrel!’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’

‘And what does Plantard say?’

‘Plantard is the one who told De Mengel about
me. It seems he is a fan of Hitler and used De Mengel to get me here so I could
find it for him. The thing is, Monti never did set his eyes on the grimoire.
For all I know, it may not even exist!’

He took out the notebook and gave it to La
Dame.

‘What’s this?’

‘It belonged to Monti. It’s full of bits and
pieces: appointments; notes to remember; this and that; a list of addresses;
the usual sort of thing. But what interests me is what Monti’s written towards
the back – my name and references to the grimoire.’

Rahn watched La Dame’s
face change from frown to deeper frown.

*
17th January

Reference,
Magic ceremonial.

The
Grimorium Verum once reprinted in the French language. Based on the Keys of
Solomon. Of the Italian version there have been two modern editions, both
poorly produced.

The
book of True Black Magic is known only by the edition of 1750. The Grand
Grimoire reappeared at Nismes in 1823 and is, moreover, in all respects
identical with the work entitled the Red Dragon or Le Dragon Rouge, of which
there are several examples.

The
Grimoire of Pope Honorius is exceedingly rare in the original, but is better
known by the reprints of 1660 and 1670, though these also are scarce. There is
an edition dated 1760, and this commands a high price among collectors (known
as
Le
Serpent Rouge
?).

Abbé d’Artigny
was presented with an MS. copy of this grimoire, which was much more complete
in all its keys than the printed editions. Possibly it represented the
transition of the Sworn Book of the Theban Honorius into the Spurious Papal
Constitution, which certainly reproduces the motive and moves in the atmosphere
of its prototype.

But all
are incomplete (the last key still missing).

Otto
Rahn, Crusade Against the Grail, page 93 — a skeleton key —

*Abbé knows!

La Dame raised his brows.
‘So which one of these are you looking for, the Grimorium Verum, the Grimoire
of Pope Honorius, or this Sworn Book? And look at the cover of this notebook,
Rahn! Positively diabolical!’ He gave it back, appearing glad to be rid of it.
‘As Sancho would say, I have been considering how little is got or gained by
going in search of these adventures that your worship seeks – in other
words, I don’t see why you have to always find yourself mixed up in these
things, but this time you’ve gone too far! Doesn’t it bother you at all that
your name is in a book owned by a man who was murdered looking for the same
thing that you’re hunting? If Sancho were here he’d suggest you follow your
idea of finding a place to hide in the mountains!’

‘But as Don Quixote would say, it is requisite
to roam the world, as it were, on probation, seeking adventures, in order that,
by achieving some, name and fame may be acquired – until today I would
have agreed with you, but you’ve managed to miss the most important point.’

‘What point? I didn’t know there was a point!’

‘There is always a point!’ Rahn observed.
‘When I mentioned a skeleton key in my book, it was in reference to the
treasure of the Cathars.’

‘You mean the Apocalypse of Saint John, or the
Grail?’

‘Both, but to be completely truthful, I was
speaking metaphorically – it was a literary device. And now, because of
it, Monti has linked Le Serpent Rouge to the Cathar treasure.’

‘And how would it be linked, do you have a
clue?’

‘Not a one!’

‘Well, you’ve done it,’
La Dame said.

‘Done what?’

‘You’ve always wanted fame and grandeur! To
have every man cry out the instant they saw you: “This is the Knight of the
Serpent, who vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty
strength!” You’ve become notorious.’

‘One mention in a notebook hardly makes one
notorious. And anyway, I think you’re talking about yourself. Sancho Panza was
the one who wanted material gain. Don Quixote didn’t go into battles and
adventures for opportunities and fame but for a higher gain – something
Sancho Panza never understood.’

‘That’s because he always bore the brunt of
those ill-fated adventures, being the only sane one of the two,’ La Dame
retorted.

‘At any rate,’ Rahn ignored him, ‘I think
Deodat will shed more light on it, considering his library has practically
every heretical text known to mankind.’ Rahn looked at his pocket watch. ‘Time
to go.’

He wanted to be away and was glad when they
found the appropriate platform and a porter to take his bags.

‘Give my regards to Deodat,’ La Dame said,
following the train’s slow shuffle. ‘Keep me posted and if you need anything,
just call . . . and remember: a clear escape is better than a good man’s
prayers!’

Rahn watched his friend until he had
disappeared from sight. A sense of freedom swept over him. Hopefully he had
left the ordinary man behind, or for that matter anyone else who may have been
following him. He nodded at this thought and went to find his carriage.

The Writer of Letters paused and I realised that it was late. He
insisted that I stay the night and soon I was being led to a frugal but not
uncomfortable guestroom. I didn’t sleep well and woke early, just before dawn,
lying awake for some time thinking. It was quite ludicrous that I didn’t know
anything about my host – a man with no name who lived in a cemetery in
the middle of a lagoon. Moreover, I had no clue why he’d asked me here or what
he wanted with me. I fancied that he was an admirer of Otto Rahn, perhaps even
a distant relative, who needed a ghost writer to tell the adventurer’s side of
the story – as a form of literary redemption. But all this didn’t explain
the uncanny help he had given me over the years or the strange game he was playing
with me now.

I dressed and ventured out to look at the
cemetery in the daylight. It was cold and eerie at this early hour, with the
sun rising and the fog lifting between the shadowed cypresses. As the light
melted the night away it fell on monuments of astonishing variety: classical
marble statues and headstones pointing the way Heavenward for the souls of the
dead to follow. To my surprise, many plots were decorated with fresh bouquets
of daisies and roses, carnations, gladiolus or chrysanthemums. On quite a few
headstones there were even coloured photographs of the deceased behind glass or
Perspex – strange disembodied pictures of life on dead stone. I stopped
to read a few: a young dancer; a father of six; and a young man who died in a
motorcycle accident. Every inscription a summary of a life lived all too
briefly.

I followed the grassy track without aim. The
cemetery was a labyrinth, divided into many parts, each with its own
nationality and religion and character. The most humble section included long
rows of tombs set into drawers stacked one on top of the other that were
accessed by rolling ladders; a library of bones! What looked like the wealthier
section was filled with large, stately, unattached family chapels adorned with
neoclassical ornamentation. I saw some that were good examples of modernist
architecture, and here and there caught a glimpse of freestanding sculptures by
well-known artists. I passed into a section that housed a number of nineteenth
century–style Gothic ruins hidden by a tangle of shrubs and trees.
Overgrown paths almost indiscernible in the long grass led to cracked, fallen
stones of famous residents. Among the neglected, the poet Ezra Pound was still
lovingly remembered.

I paused to take in the wistful sadness of the
place – after all, was there a happy way to die? It was cold and so I
kept walking, the leaves crackling under my feet and the trees rustling in a
stiff breeze. Without noticing it, I found myself in the French section, where
I came upon an old monk sweeping a grave. It was hard to say who was more
startled, he or I.

‘Proibito! Non permesso!’ he shouted. His
ancient face was a tempest of wrinkles beneath the monkish cowl.

I told him in my best Italian that I was a
guest, though I couldn’t give him the name of my host.

‘It is forbidden for you to be here,’ he said,
waving. ‘Go away! Go away! Do you hear? I won’t tell you anything, nothing at
all! I don’t want anything to do with you!’ He turned away and began walking
hurriedly in the direction of the monastery, looking over his shoulder once or
twice to make certain I wasn’t following him.

The man was eccentric and no wonder, living on
an island with only the dead for company. The grave he’d been cleaning was
marked by the figure of a lion man carrying a staff and a key, and entwined by
two serpents.

‘This is his favourite grave.’ The Writer of
Letters was behind me, looking rested and calm but his eyes were penetrating. I
wondered how long he had been standing there.

‘Do you know what that figure is?’ he asked
me.

‘It looks like a cross between a Hermetic and
a Mithraic symbol. The staff of Hermes also has two snakes entwining it, and I
think this figure, the lion man, is Mithraic, am I right?’

‘It’s a Leoncetophaline, the guardian of the
World of the Dead, and you’re right, it is both Mithraic and Hermetic.’

‘There’s no name and no date on this grave.’

‘No. Do you see the inscription?’

I recognised it. It was part of an alchemical
verse attributed to the famous alchemist Basil Valentinus. But before I could
answer, the Writer of Letters appeared suddenly aware of the time and the fact
that the cook had prepared breakfast and we should not delay. Obviously, he
wanted the mystery of the grave to hang in the air between us, creating
suspense, and he achieved his aim.

Later in the library, he
took me to the shelves full of ancient books bound in leather. Some books were
covered in studs; others had studs only on the bindings. One exquisite
manuscript was decorated with a great rosette of gold over a large raised cross;
its spine was covered in gilding and its fore page was emblazoned with the
title written in impeccable calligraphy:

El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha

Primera edición Mexicana
Conforme a la de la Real Academia Española, hecho en Madrid en 1782. Además del
análisis de dicha Academia, se han añadido las notas críticas y curiosas del
Señor Pellicer, con hermosas laminas…

‘That’s the Mexican edition that Rahn and La
Dame were looking for when they first met,’ the Writer of Letters said. ‘I
mentioned it yesterday. It is very rare – there are only three copies,
one in the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, another in the Biblioteca Nacional de
Mexico; and this one, of course.’

At this point the Irish monk entered with a
tray on which sat two glasses of mineral water.

‘Do you know,’ the Writer of Letters said,
‘many people fall into the pit of thinking that Parzifal, the Grail knight in
Wolfram von Eschenbach’s poem, was more important than Don Quixote to Rahn. But
this is only because they didn’t know him like I do.’

There was no need for a mental calculation.
The Writer of Letters didn’t look old enough to have known Rahn. Still, I
decided I would play along. ‘Are you saying you knew him?’

His grey eyes widened a little. ‘I know him
perhaps better than anyone else.’

‘Do you mean he’s still alive?’

He hesitated for just a moment. ‘That depends
on what you mean by “alive”.’

I didn’t know what to say to this oddity.

There was sudden amusement in his voice. ‘You
were wondering if I wanted you to ghost write his story, am I right? Don’t be
so surprised; it is a logical conclusion but an erroneous one. You see, logic
is useless sometimes.’

‘What am I doing here then?’

‘I told you that this is for you to tell me.
This is your story – remember? I’m just a character, your mouthpiece.
Isn’t that what characters do for their writers, answer their questions?
Exorcise their demons? Writing books is better than psychoanalysis, and cheaper
too if you ask me. Perhaps that’s why the first natives who saw written words
were terrified. They believed that letters were evil spirits dancing on the
page and their primitive intuition was quite correct, for at times they are
exactly that
– the tormented soul content of writers! That
is why I call this my garden of good and evil, my cemetery of thoughts, the
angels and demons of men’s souls,’ he said, with a wave of the hand.

He was right about one thing: the library did
remind me of the cemetery outside. Its atmosphere was weighed down by time and
nostalgia. After all, the authors of these books were long dead, their words
lying on shelves like the broken fountains and fallen angels of better days.

‘So, what haunts an author like you?’ he
asked.

I found myself inarticulate. ‘I don’t know;
failure, I suppose. Sometimes I feel life is just an endless attempt to
remember something that is doomed to lay forgotten . . . like these books.’

‘Well, the ancients knew how to open and close
the door of memory,’ he said, ‘but the best we modern men can do is to try to
pick the lock. Speaking of which, shall we?’

I looked at him questioningly.

‘Shall we pick the lock?’ He gestured to the
two winged chairs.

Before sitting down he poked thoughtfully at
the fire until it blazed. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to diverge for a
moment,’ he said.

‘Are you taking me to one of those galleries
you spoke of?’

‘Yes, to that dimension where everything that
has ever occurred in history, exists in space. You see, in order to understand
Rahn’s predicament, his love of the Cathars, his attachment to the south of
France, we have to look in the gallery called Matteu,’ he said, and once again,
with impeccable diction, he began.