The pink brick buildings and tall church spires of Toulouse gleamed on the horizon. A stiff wind careened across the plains, buffeting the Renault with eerie unpredictability. Miniature cyclones of dust rose up on the road ahead.
Laurence’s posture was tense. When she picked up Zari that morning, her eyes showed evidence of a sleepless night, and her navy blue blouse had an uncharacteristic wrinkle down the front. Most of Zari’s attempts at conversation had fallen flat. And the brooding, preoccupied expression on Laurence’s face seemed to deepen as their journey progressed.
“The wind comes from all directions and does not know which way to go,” she complained now, slowing the car as they came to a toll crossing.
Zari produced some change and Laurence tossed it in a metal basket that emptied into a machine. The coins rattled as they slipped into the mechanism.
“Gum, please.” Laurence jerked her head at her handbag.
Zari fished around for the foil packet of nicotine gum and handed over a piece.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The city archives were housed in a nineteenth-century former water reservoir that had been modified twenty years ago to store municipal documents.
Inside, an artificially blond, middle-aged archivist examined them with cold blue eyes, explaining tersely that she—and only she—would be turning the pages. Laurence and Zari agreed to her terms, flanking her at a narrow metal table.
The notary’s record book was not nearly as ornate as the prayer book they had examined in Perpignan. The thin cover was bound with rust-red paper painted to resemble marble. The yellowing pages were fragile, their brittle edges flaking away. Each page was filled with the notary Jean Aubrey’s slanted script, the ink a faded brown. Under each description of a transaction or agreement was his mark, a complicated and whimsical design that resembled a coat of arms with long feathering tails shooting off in four directions. The other parties’ signatures appeared below or alongside his, if they appeared at all.
When they got to the entry that Zari had flagged, Laurence had a whispered consultation with the woman. Reluctantly, the archivist peeled off her magnifying visor and handed it to Zari.
“Tenez,” she said gruffly.
“Oh! Merci,” Zari said in gratitude, slipping the contraption over her head. She stood and awkwardly leaned past the archivist’s shoulder to get a better look.
Her eyes were drawn immediately to the signatures. The notary, Jean Aubrey, had made his flamboyant mark below the lines of script. To the left of that, three names were listed. First, another swirling concoction of self-promotion that was the signature of Lord Esteven de Vernier, one of the governing leaders of Renaissance-era Toulouse. And under that, in simple, faded letters, Arnaud de Luz and Miramonde de Luz had inked their own signatures.
Zari pulled the magnifying visor off and thrust it at Laurence. Between them, the archivist, whose intensely floral perfume could not mask an underlying scent of stale cigarette smoke, sat silently. Her white-gloved hands gently held the edges of the book open on its squishy bean bag support.
“Are there other records from this notary?” Zari asked the archivist.
“We have one more of his register books. But it is in very bad condition. We don’t allow it to be handled.”
“I didn’t see that one in the digital records,” Zari said.
“Because it is not there. As I said, we don’t allow it to be handled.”
Zari looked at Laurence.
“I’ll talk to the director,” Laurence said.
They took photographs of both documents. Finally, after offering their thanks to the unsmiling archivist, they headed downtown to find a café.
Laurence forbade Zari to pore over the photos while they ate.
“It is not healthy to do anything else when you are eating,” she explained. “Americans are so proud of this ‘multitasking.’ It is a sign of a cultural malady.”
Zari looked at Laurence’s stubbed out cigarette in the ashtray between their plates. “Smoking and eating is multitasking.”
Laurence rolled her eyes. “It is not the same.”
Zari nearly blurted a retort, but thought better of it and stabbed a forkful of salade frisée aux lardons instead. The plate was beautifully arranged: bitter greens, perfectly balanced vinaigrette, thick crumbles of bacon, and two toasted slices of baguette spread with goat cheese. She ate rapidly, eager to get back to the document.
“Zari!” Laurence held up a hand, her eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. “Calm yourself. Those words are five hundred years old. They can wait a few more minutes for you.”
“I can’t help being excited.” Zari jiggled her leg under the table. “I’m freaking out over here, to be honest.”
“Freaking out?” Laurence pushed away her half-eaten salad and lit another cigarette. “Why do Americans say such things?”
“What about you?” Zari retorted. “J’ai le cafard, for example. Explain why ‘I have the cockroach’ means ‘I’m depressed.’”
Laurence fell silent. The thin gold chain around her neck was strung with a simple circle of gold. A wedding ring, Zari suddenly realized.
“It is not easy, Zari.” Laurence’s voice was low and halting. “Look around.”
Everyone but Zari seemed to be smoking at the tables clustered around them.
Zari watched a man at the next table light up an unfiltered Gauloises, the stench of which never failed to nauseate her. “Yes,” she admitted. “It must be torture.”
Her eyes fell on Laurence’s necklace again.
“My husband’s wedding ring,” Laurence said absently. “I wear it on our anniversary.”
“Today...?” Zari put down her fork.
Laurence nodded. “Yes.”
All at once Zari understood why Laurence had been so testy. Grief threatened to engulf her, an all-consuming sadness that she tried to mask with a cloud of smoke.
“I’m sorry, Laurence,” Zari said. “Smoke to your heart’s content—I won’t say another word, I promise.”
Laurence stretched her lips into a thin ghost of a smile. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun, the cigarette dangling from her fingers.
Zari settled back in her chair, her mind on the swirling rust-red letters scrawled across the notary’s book. Whatever message they contained, Laurence was right. Those words could wait a few more minutes to be discovered.
After their plates were cleared, after their tiny cups of espresso had been served and drained, Laurence nodded at Zari’s messenger bag. It was time.
Zari fished her laptop from her bag and slid it over to Laurence.
“‘Sale of wool cloth: Folio 70r, dated July 26, 1504,’” Laurence read aloud. She stopped and glanced up. “I will do my best to translate, but this is not modern French.”
“‘In the year and on the day aforesaid,’” she began, “‘we, Arnaud de Luz, journeyman cabinetmaker of Ronzal, and my wife Miramonde de Luz, sell to you, Lord Esteven de Vernier, merchant of pastel and wool, each and all of the bolts of fine dyed merino wool fabric which were made from the fleeces of sheep from the Abbey of Belarac...’”
Laurence’s voice faltered and she looked up at Zari for a moment, her eyes aglow. “‘We promise to deliver and to transport this fabric to you in the summer of 1505,’” she went on. “‘If the fabric is not of the same quality of the samples we provided, we obligate ourselves personally and all our present and future property.’”
“A sale of fabric to a merchant in Toulouse,” Zari said blankly. “I thought we were onto something huge. But this?” She slumped in her chair. “Fabric?”
“This is huge, Zari. First, we know they were married. We were never sure before exactly what their relationship was. Now we have proof.”
Zari stayed silent, but she sat up a little straighter.
“We knew from the mortuary roll that Mira had a close relationship with the abbess of Belarac,” Laurence said. “You thought the abbey might have raised merino sheep. Now we know that is true. This helps your case, do you not see?”
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but—”
“This woman, Mira. She was forgotten, lost to history,” Laurence interrupted. “And think what you did. You learned she was a nun. And then you learned she was a member of the family of Oto. And then you learned Arnaud de Luz made panels for her and went to a cave in Aragón with her. And now you find out she was married to him! All of this, about a person who lived five hundred years ago. It is fantastic, what you have done.”
“Why are you suddenly the optimistic one?”
“Because I have a reason.”
“You do?”
“When the archives open up again at Bayonne, you will know that every bit of evidence you find about Arnaud means something, because he was Mira’s husband. That alone is something to celebrate.”
“But that’s not until next summer.” Zari’s voice flared with worry. “I need to have a solid paper to present in Bordeaux this spring.”
“No one will accuse you of being lazy. You are studying the archives in every city and museum in the entire region. Just keep searching, Zari. Keep asking questions. That is all you can do. And you’re very good at it.”
Laurence lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled.
They both watched the thin plume of smoke twist upward into the blue sky and disappear.