The Three Evangelists

II

THAT WAS HOW IT STARTED.

He had been down on his luck-for how long now? About two years.

And then finally, a gleam of light at the end of the tunnel. Marc kicked a pebble, sending it about five metres up the street. It’s not so easy on the pavements of Paris to find a pebble to kick. In the country, yes. But who bothers in the country? Whereas in Paris, you sometimes really need to find a pebble and give it a good kick. Sod’s law. And, like a little ray of sunlight in the clouds, he had had the good luck, about an hour ago, to find a very suitable pebble. So he was kicking it along and following it.

His pebble had now taken him all the way to rue Saint-Jacques in the Latin Quarter, not without one or two problems. You’re not allowed to touch it with your hand, it’s strictly feet only. So, anyway, the bad luck had lasted two years now. No job, no money, no woman in his life any more. And no way out in sight. Except, perhaps, the house, or if you prefer, the ‘disgrace’. He had seen it yesterday morning. Four floors, counting the attics, plus a bit of garden, in an out-of-the-way street, and all in a totally tumbledown state. Holes everywhere, no central heating, an outside lavatory with a wooden door and latch. If you screwed up your eyes, it looked fantastic. If you opened them properly, it looked like a disaster area. On the other hand, the landlord was willing to let it at a peppercorn rent, in exchange for the tenant doing it up a bit. This house might help him get out of the hole he was in right now. What was more, there would be room for his godfather. Somewhere near the house, a woman had asked him an odd question. What was it now? Oh yes. The name of a tree. Funny how people know absolutely nothing about trees, yet they can’t live without them. But maybe they’re right. After all, he knew the names of plenty of trees and where had that got him?

The pebble went off-piste in rue Saint-Jacques. Stones don’t like going uphill. It had rolled into a gutter right by the Sorbonne, what was more. Well, farewell the Middle Ages. Farewell all those monks, lords and peasants. Marc clenched his fists in his pockets. No job, no money, no woman and no more Middle Ages. How pathetic. Skilfully, Marc propelled the pebble out of the gutter and back onto the pavement. There’s a trick to doing that. And he knew all about the trick, just as he knew all about the Middle Ages, it seemed to him. Don’t even think about the Middle Ages. In the country, you never have to confront the challenge of getting a pebble back onto a pavement. That’s why one can’t be bothered to kick a stone in the country, even though there are tons of them there. Marc’s pebble sailed smartly across rue Soufflot and manoeuvred without too much difficulty into the narrow part of rue Saint-Jacques.

Two years, then. And after two years of that, the first reaction of someone down on their luck is to look out for someone else down on their luck. Seeing friends who have succeeded, when you have made a complete mess of your life, aged thirty-five, only makes you bitter. At first, OK, it’s interesting, it gives you ideas, and encourages you to try harder. But then it begins to get on your nerves and makes you bitter. Well-known fact. And Marc wanted at all costs not to become bitter. It’s pathetic, and even dangerous, especially for a medievalist. Dispatched with a solid thump, the pebble reached the Val-de-Grâce.

There was someone else who was in his position, or so he had heard. According to information recently received, Mathias Delamarre was very seriously down on his luck, and had been for some time. Marc liked him, liked him a lot in fact. But he had not seen him for the last two years. Maybe Mathias would come in with him and rent the disgrace. Because even if it was a peppercorn rent, Marc could only manage about a third of it. And the landlord wanted a reply right away.

With a sigh, Marc negotiated the pebble to a telephone box. If Mathias agreed, he might be able to say yes to the deal. But there was one big problem about Mathias. He was a specialist on prehistoric man. As far as Marc was concerned, once you’d said that, you’d said it all. But was this the moment to be fussy about a man’s academic speciality? In spite of the terrible gulf between them, they liked each other. It was odd, but that was what you had to hold on to, this strange affection, and not the peculiar choice Mathias had made to study hunter-gatherers and flint axeheads. Marc could still remember the phone number. Someone answered, saying that Mathias had moved, and gave him the new number. Doggedly, he dialled again. Yes, Mathias was in. Hearing his voice, Marc breathed again. If a guy of thirty-five is at home at twenty-past three on a Wednesday afternoon, it’s a sure sign he’s in grade A trouble. Good start. And when he agrees, without more ado, to meet you in a down-at-heel café in rue du Faubourg Saint-Jacques, that tells you he is likely to agree to anything.

All the same.