The Tenth Chamber

TEN

Luc had bypassed the usual channels and had gone straight for the top. The stakes were too high. If feathers were ruffled at his own university and with regional bureaucrats at the Department of Dordogne, then so be it.

The cave had to be protected.

He used the full weight of his academic position and his friendship with an important senator from Lyon to secure an immediate face-to-face meeting at the Palais-Royal with the Minister of Culture and her top antiquities deputies including the Director of the National Centre of Prehistory, a respected archaeologist named Maurice Barbier, who fortunately maintained a cordial relationship with Luc. The participation of Barbier’s Deputy Director, Marc Abenheim, was less fortunate. Luc had butted heads with Abenheim for years, and the two men had a mutual dislike for one another.

Working from a lavishly illustrated dossier replete with his photos, Luc requested an emergency protection order, an accelerated permitting process, and a sufficient allocation of ministry funds to secure the cave and begin its excavation.

Heeding advice from his senator friend, he glossed over the enigmatic Ruac manuscript to keep the high-level assembly focused on one issue at a time. And taking further advice, he liberally used the term, ‘Spectacular New National Monument’.

The importance of having another Lascaux and Chauvet from the perspective of international prestige and local economic development wasn’t lost on the group. Maurice Barbier was moved to a state of excitement that appeared to border on illness. Red-faced and nearly trembling, he declared that an emergency order would have to be immediately drawn up designating the cave a Historic Monument. A commission would be established to determine correct procedures and methodologies and to select the leadership of the excavation campaign.

At this, Abenheim, who had been silently scowling during Luc’s presentation, piped up and began to make the case for direct Ministry involvement, the implication being that he ought to head such a commission and personally take charge of the excavation of this new cave. Luc simmered at the unctuous performance. Abenheim was of Luc’s generation, a couple of years older, certainly as well credentialed in academic archaeology but, unlike Luc, he was not a field man. Luc viewed him as an autocratic bureaucrat, more like a pale, scrawny accountant than an archaeologist. Luc loved shovels and picks and the sun on his back. Abenheim, he imagined, had an abiding affinity to telephones and spreadsheets and fluorescent-lit government offices. Abenheim, for his part, undoubtedly saw Luc as a glory-seeking swashbuckler.

Barbier deftly deferred any discussion of leadership and urged the group to consider for now only the larger issues at hand.

The Minister took charge and crisply gave her assent to the protection order and the granting of emergency funds. She instructed Barbier to forward his recommendations on a commission and asked to be kept informed of all developments. And with that, the meeting was over.

Luc left the room whistling cheerfully through the marble corridors of power. Outside in the sunshine, he yanked off his necktie, tucked it into his pocket and went to meet Hugo near the Louvre for a celebratory dinner.

For a bureaucracy as Byzantine as the Ministry of Culture, the follow-through was executed at breakneck speed. Luc breathed easier when Barbier informed him two weeks later that the newly formed Ruac Cave Commission had designated Luc as the director of the excavation, with only a single dissenting vote. ‘You don’t have to guess who that was,’ Barbier joked, but urged Luc to try to keep Abenheim well informed and happy, if only to make Barbier’s life easier.

Then Barbier added in a tone panged with jealousy, ‘You’ll be made a Knight of Arts and Letters, you know. It’s only a matter of time.’

Luc replied sardonically, ‘If I have to wear a suit and tie for that, I’m not so keen.’

Within a week a military-style operation was loosed upon the Vézère valley. A detachment from the French Engineers Corps backed up by the local gendarmerie accompanied Luc to the Ruac cliffs where a massive bank-grade titanium gate was bolted into the rock face over the mouth of the cave. Power cables were dropped from the top of the cliff, closed-circuit cameras were installed, a prefab guard hut and Portaloos were placed in the woods above the site and sturdy aluminium cliff ladders with railings were hung over the edge providing easier access than trekking along the ledges.

When the convoy noisily rumbled through Ruac, Luc could see faces suspiciously peeking through lace curtains. Outside the café, the white-haired owner halted his sweeping, leaned on his broom and scowled into Luc’s slow-moving Land Rover with an irritable flicker of recognition. Luc resisted the boyish impulse to shoot the old man the finger but he did, as he would later regret, lay down a wickedly obvious wink.

After the cave was shuttered and padlocked, Luc had his first restful sleep since the night of discovery. He’d been sick with worry over the threat of leaked information, vandalism and looting. That was behind him now.

The work could begin.

Yet, it was well into the autumn before a full-scale campaign could begin. One couldn’t just snap one’s fingers. There was a team to assemble, schedules to clear, equipment to sort out, accounts to establish, accommodations to arrange.

That last task, as mundane as it was, proved difficult. Luc was determined to find local accommodations, preferably in Ruac. Nothing frustrated him more than losing valuable time commuting to a dig. He was advised to contact the Mayor of Ruac, a Monsieur Bonnet, to see if there were houses that might be rented. Failing that, permission to set up caravans and tents in a farmer’s field with some access to water would suffice. He wasn’t against roughing it. In fact, camping improved the camaraderie in these kinds of enterprises. The lack of creature comforts usually begat a useful sort of bonding.

It was, to say the least, unpleasant to learn at the last possible moment that the mayor and the white-haired owner of the café were one and the same.

Bonnet pointedly sat Luc down at the identical plastic-clad table as before and wordlessly listened to his pleas with his meaty arms tightly folded as if he was keeping his guts from spilling out.

Luc employed every rhetorical arrow in his quiver: the mayor would be helping his café, his town, his country. His diggers would be good and respectful neighbours. He’d arrange for a personal tour of this marvellous new cave; if there was a Madame Mayor, she could most definitely come too. Surely, the mayor must be curious what all the fuss was about? Surely. As Luc doggedly pressed ahead with his one-sided conversation the mayor’s unshaven jaw remained fixed.

Luc wished he could have taken that wink back.

When he was done, Bonnet shook his head and spat out, ‘We like our peace and quiet in Ruac. No one here is interested in your precious cave. We’re not interested in your studies. We don’t want tourists. There’s no place for you to stay, monsieur.’ With that, he got up and left for the kitchen.

‘That went well,’ Luc muttered to himself on his way out the door.

A couple of dull-looking teenagers held their ground on the pavement, forcing Luc to step off into the road. They sniggered over his forced detour.

He was in the mood for a dustup, and had a fleeting vision of beating the daylights out of them. But he held his tongue and his temper and angrily climbed into his Land Rover. At least his window hadn’t been smashed again, he thought bitterly, as the village disappeared in his rearview mirror.

Thankfully, Abbot Menaud came to the rescue. There was a level, well-drained field on abbey grounds located behind the old stables, tucked enough out of the way that the monks and the archaeologists would hardly notice each other. He wanted no compensation, although he added a humble request to visit the cave when it wasn’t terribly inconvenient.

On a windy Sunday in October, the Ruac Cave team began arriving one by one at the abbey campsite. Luc had been there for a week with two of his graduate students, Pierre, a Parisian originally from Sierra Leone, and Jeremy, a Brit with a broad Manchester accent. They made an unlikely pair, Pierre, black as onyx, tall and athletic and Jeremy, colourless and puny, but they shared a schoolboy sense of humour and were grateful to be involved in something historic. They worked tirelessly setting up the camp and preparing a good welcome for the team.

Caravans were dispersed in a giant circle, like an Old-West wagon train protecting itself from attack. Each senior team member would have his or her own caravan, junior members would double-up and grad students would triple-up. Undergrads would have to make do with tents on the periphery. The caravans had reasonably comfortable bunks and the deluxe ones had small sitting areas with built-in desks. There was no electricity but each unit had a couple of mantle lamps. It was all very well thought-out and properly hierarchical.

But in the spirit of egalitarianism, Luc insisted on having the same-sized unit as his deputies. He carefully considered where to put Sara. Too close would send one message, too far away, another. He opted to assign her a caravan two away from his.

In the centre of the circle they erected a kitchen shed and pantry and beside it they raised a large canvas ridge tent with picnic tables for group meals in inclement weather. The final structure was a Portakabin building containing the excavation office and laboratory, complete with a generator to run the computers and a satellite dish for Internet. Near it, they dug a large fire pit for the obligatory evening campfires and ringed it with wine-crate seating.

One section of the dilapidated barn was assigned to male portable latrines. Another section was for the women. Two sets of cold-water showers were rigged, the best they could do under the circumstances.

That was it – for better or worse, this was going to be their village, but Luc was quite sure that once the team laid eyes on the cave, no one would be grousing about living conditions.

On the dawn of the day, Luc admitted to himself he was nervous about Sara’s arrival. As a rule, he thought more about work than emotions. So, what was making him jittery? He had legions of ex-girlfriends. When he reconnected with old flames by happenstance or design it was usually all very lighthearted. But that morning, sitting at his desk, drinking his coffee, he felt a gnawing hollowness. Their ‘item’ years seemed far-away and washed-out like an over-exposed photo. He remembered certain things clearly enough, mostly about the way she looked, even the way she smelled, but forgot others, mostly about the way he had felt.

Always a slave to punctuality, she was among the first to arrive, and when Pierre knocked on Luc’s door to let him know Sara Mallory was there, he felt a quivering in his belly, schoolboy nerves.

She looked small and light and lovely.

She was apprehensive too, and frosty. He could tell by the way her peach-glossed lips were pressed together in a forced smile. He greeted her and pecked both cheeks in an official manner, as if they had never been intimate. Her skin was fine, almost translucent, showing the pink blush of capillaries under the surface. Before he backed away he got a whiff of her hair. No chemical fragrance; the scent was hers alone and he remembered the way he used to enjoy pulling out the clip and letting her light-brown hair spill over her chest where he nuzzled its tan silkiness against her breasts.

‘You look well,’ he said.

‘So do you.’

She had her own style. She turned a masculine black leather motorcycle jacket feminine with a turquoise silk scarf that matched her eyes. Her suede skirt and calf-length boots fit tight over maroon tights.

‘How was your flight?’

‘Uneventful.’ She looked at the ground. ‘Can I put my bags somewhere?’

He paced the circle, waiting for her to come out of her caravan. The midday sun was bright but at this season it failed to warm the earth much. She hadn’t changed clothes; he was glad of that. She looked good, very like the Sara he had known.

‘Is it okay?’ he asked.

‘Better than most.’

‘We have good funding for a change.’

‘So I understand.’

He smiled and gestured towards the abbey. ‘Before the others arrive, I want to show you the original manuscript.’

Dom Menaud was happy to once again retrieve the book from its resting place in an inlaid rosewood box on his desk. But the old monk seemed uncomfortably fussy around Sara’s prettiness and he quickly excused himself for Sext prayers.

Left behind, they sat in opposing armchairs. Luc watched her turn pages, taking delight in every raised eyebrow and facial twinge. She held the book on her lap. The tightness of her skirt pinned her legs demurely together.

She finally looked up and said, ‘Everything about this is extraordinary.’

‘As advertised?’

She nodded. ‘And you still haven’t had it translated?’

‘We’re working on it. What do you make of the plants?’

‘They’re somewhat stylised. Not exactly camera lucida. I have some ideas but I’d rather not commit yet. I need to see the cave paintings first. Is that okay?’

‘Of course! I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We’re just at the beginning of a long process.’

She closed the book and handed it back avoiding his eyes and suddenly said, ‘Thank you for including me on the team. It was good of you.’

‘The entire commission was supportive. You’ve developed quite the reputation.’

‘Still, you could have gotten someone else.’

‘I didn’t want someone else. I wanted you.’

He regretted the poor choice of words but he couldn’t take them back. Her response was an icy, mute stare.

Through the abbot’s window Luc saw a taxi approaching. Relieved, he said, ‘Ah, another arrival.’

By nightfall the entire group of principals had checked in. The last to show up was the Israeli, Zvi Alon, who drove his own rental car, and after being shown his caravan, complained that he had no need for all that space.

Also there for the occasion, at the insistence of the Minister of Culture, was the culture editor from Le Monde. In exchange for exclusive access to the opening day of the excavation, the publisher had agreed to embargo their reportage until clearance arrived from the ministry.

Luc felt the evening required a touch of ceremony so after a dinner of a thick lamb stew he assembled everyone around a dancing fire, broke out several bottles of decent champagne and delivered a short welcome address in English.

Holding his glass aloft, he declared he was honoured to be their leader. He lauded the French government and the CNRS, the French National Centre for Scientific Research, for acting expeditiously, and he was pleased to have the full commitment for a probationary year of study with the likelihood of a further triennial programme after the preliminary report was filed.

He made the introductions. Team Ruac, as he called them, consisted of the best and the brightest in their disciplines, an international group of geologists, cave-art gurus, lithics, bone, and pollen experts, conservationists and cavers known to each other through years of collaboration and debate. There was even a bat expert, a diminutive man named Desnoyers, who shyly bowed at his introduction then disappeared to the periphery like a small roosting winged mammal.

Finally, Luc acknowledged his cadre of students, many from his own programme at Bordeaux, and instructed Pierre and Michael to pass out Team Ruac fleeces with the official logo of the excavation – a stylised bison.

Just then, there was a commotion from near the stables and a short fat man, led by a lantern-shining aide, called out, ‘Hello! Hello! I’m sorry I’m late. It’s Monsieur Tailifer, the Council President from Périgueux! Where is Professor Simard? Is it too late to address the group?’

Luc welcomed the hyperventilating politician from the local préfecture, gave him some champagne and a crate to stand on then politely listened as he subjected the gathering to an overly long, overly flowery, overly obvious speech.

Afterwards, Luc and Monsieur Tailifer chatted by the fire and drank another glass. The politician waved off an invitation to visit the cave saying he was far too claustrophobic to do any spelunking but he would be an excellent ‘above-ground’ advocate for their work in the area. He mentioned he was already thinking about a future tourist attraction, a ‘Ruac II’ facsimile cave for the mass public, similar to Lascaux II, and wanted to know what Luc thought about that. Luc patiently observed that they hadn’t yet begun to study ‘Ruac I’ but in the fullness of time, many things were possible.

When Tailifer asked how they had come to camp on the grounds of the Abbey, Luc told him about his amusingly rude treatment by the Mayor of Ruac and hearing this, the politician clucked knowingly.

‘He’s a disgrace, that Bonnet, a jerk, if I may say, but please don’t quote me,’ he spat heatedly. ‘I don’t know him well, but I do know him. You know why they say he and his village are so unfriendly?’

Luc did not.

‘The legend is that the town got filthy rich from piracy! You never heard that? No? Well, that’s probably a fairy tale but it’s a fact there was a famous hijacking in the Périgord in the summer of 1944 during the war. The Nazis had a very rich cargo on a military train, huge deposits looted from the Banque de France, art work, antiques and such, all headed to Bordeaux for transfer to German naval authorities. The Resistance struck the main railway line, near Ruac, and made off with a fortune, maybe two hundred million euros in today’s money, and some very famous paintings, including, it’s rumoured, Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, all on their way to Goering personally. Some of the loot made it to de Gaulle in Algiers and was put to good use, I’m sure, but a lot of that money and the art disappeared into thin air. The Raphael was never seen again. There’ve always been rumours that the good people of Ruac developed their charming ways because they’re still covering up for the theft, but you know how these stories go. Still, don’t ever ask anyone in that village about the Resistance and the train robbery or you might get shot yourself!’

Tailifer’s aide reminded him of their next engagement and the man hurriedly finished his drink, handed Luc his empty glass and excused himself.

Luc tried to find Sara in the crowd but was buttonholed by the Palaeolithic art expert, Zvi Alon, and Karin Weltzer, the Pleistocene geologist, who wanted to talk about the next day’s logistics. Luc couldn’t decide who was pushier, the bald, bullet-headed Israeli or the pugnacious German woman in bib overalls. While he was calming both of them down and giving assurances their needs would be well met, he noticed that Sara and the young Spanish archaeologist, Carlos Ferrer, were chatting.

He was about to join them when the Le Monde editor, a phlegmatic senior journalist named Gérard Girot, approached Luc to catch his personal thoughts on the momentous occasion. Luc politely accommodated him and the man began scribbling furiously in his notebook.

Out of the corner of his eye, Luc saw Sara and Ferrer slip the light of the camp fire for the darkness.

He still had champagne in his glass and he found himself gulping it down.