…the question is precisely to know whether the past has ceased to exist‚ or ceased to be useful …
Bergson
1947
I’m trying to take stock of Paris‚ to rethink it. The convulsions that shook the world seem‚ in the eyes of those wilfully short- sighted people who reduce them to human proportions‚ to have subsided for a long period. I don’t believe it. Nowhere in this City of mine‚ so thoroughly explored‚ so probingly questioned‚ so deeply penetrated‚ have I found the torpor‚ the weary calm that are symptoms of a lasting peace. People are tired‚ it’s true. Tired and disillusioned. They’re fed up with everything. But not the City. It’s still edgy. Just as there remain‚ to the great disadvantage of arms manufacturers‚ enormous quantities of ordnance that have not yet been destroyed‚ are indeed being carefully preserved‚ there is pent-up rebellion beneath the paving stones. Anything could happen.
The events I’ve chosen to record are only the most spectacular manifestations of forces that – out of fear‚ ignorance‚ everyday stupidity – are deemed ‘obscure’. But it’s now an indisputable fact that the most innocent words‚ the most harmless gestures in certain places and at certain times acquire an unwonted importance and weight‚ and have repercussions that far exceed what was intended.
It’s a joy‚ a pleasure to discover in Paris an oasis of calm – they’re rare – and to visit it sometimes‚ returning from aggressive streets there to immerse yourself as if in a warm and placid lake.
The Place Dauphine is one such oasis. You feel somewhat captive in this shady‚ semi-provincial triangle‚ where the inhabitants are all known to one another by name and wouldn’t know how to greet one another without a smile.
I’m particularly fond of Suzanne’s grocery-cum-bar. She and her husband run a shop a few square metres in size that somehow manages to accommodate‚ in an amazingly restricted space‚ dried and cooked vegetables‚ tinned foods‚ litres of vintage wine‚ and the tiny bar counter behind which reigns Monsieur Suzanne‚ in other words Old François. At what is considered the time of day for an aperitif‚ the place is invaded by as mixed a crowd as you could hope to find. It ranges from drab young housemaids‚ who refer to themselves as ‘governesses’ here‚ to certain illustrious members of the bench who are not above standing a drink to persons of a disreputable and scruffy appearance (the jail is near by)‚ or indeed clinking glasses with the gaolers and wardens of the Prison Service.
It was there‚ on a day ‘unlike any other’‚ that I met one of my old friends. A documentary work I was trying to put together was the reason I’d gone wandering round Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. At the corner of Rue Ste-Croix and Rue Aubriot there’s a shabby little café with a Virgin watching over it‚ forbearing and indulgent‚ just like all the naive devotional images‚ Christs and saints installed by the populace of ‘working men and women’ for their ‘own personal use’. I was proposing to chronicle the events that this congenial watering-hole might have witnessed‚ and depict the characters who’d surely drunk here over the course of bygone ages.
In the thirteenth century‚ a period when the present Rue Aubriot was known by the name of Rue à Singes [Monkey Street]‚ one of the most interesting and colourful characters in the neighbourhood without a doubt was Sieur Michel de Socques. Before coming into possession of considerable wealth‚ this gentleman must have been some kind of strolling player or exhibitor of animals: for he devoted the rest of his life to assisting the former and offering a home to the latter. Whenever there was fear of certain types of epidemic‚ animals of exotic origin had to be placed in quarantine before their owners were allowed to exhibit them ‘in the thoroughfares of the fair city’. So Sieur Michel would take in the animals whose exhibitors couldn’t afford to keep them in isolation without their help to earn a living. His residence‚ ‘Monkey House’‚ gave its name to the street. A nearby passageway has retained this designation.
On bears and popinjays (parrots) there was an admittance toll levied‚ which was paid at the Passage du Petit-Châtelet‚ in front of the Petit-Pont. As for monkeys‚ ‘The Rules Governing the Trades of Paris‚ by Etienne Boilève‚ Provost of this City’‚ lays down the following:
‘The Merchant who brings a Monkey to sell must pay four deniers: and if the Monkey belongs to someone who has bought it for his own amusement‚ it is exempt‚ and if the Monkey belongs to an exhibitor‚ the exhibitor must give a performance for the toll-collector‚ and in exchange for his performance be exempted on everything he buys for his needs: and minstrels too are exempted in exchange for singing one verse of a song.’
What this amounts to is that the animal exhibitor‚ instead of paying the four-denier toll the merchant has to pay‚ would pay his due in songs and capers. Hence the expression: payer en monnaie de singe‚ literally‚ to pay with monkey money‚ ie avoid paying a debt‚ with fine words and empty promises.
So it was that after a pleasant stroll‚ my mind filled with gladdening thoughts‚ I quite naturally returned to the banks of the Seine and crossed the first bridge I came to.
It was evening. At Suzanne’s‚ the regulars were as usual chatting quietly‚ sipping an inoffensive rosé. The man who came in was tall‚ bony and dark-haired‚ wearing a wide- brimmed hat and long khaki cloak‚ probably of military provenance.
Even then we were all intrigued by this new arrival: you never see a strange face at Suzanne’s at this time of day.
The guy went up to the counter and ordered an anisette. To pay and raise the glass to his lips he used only his right hand. Another glass. And another. Now where had I seen that face before? The collar of a large-checked shirt could be glimpsed under his cloak. That‚ the hat and the distant gaze more or less placed my man: he must work in a circus.
The guy noticed some little bags of macaroons hanging on the wall. He pointed to them‚ and said to Suzanne‚ ‘How much?’
Still using only his right hand he tore open the packet‚ crushed one of the macaroons on the counter and‚ having tasted it‚ started to slip a tiny mouthful of cake inside his hermetically buttoned-up cloak. A hand emerged‚ a minute woollen-gloved hand‚ which grabbed the morsel. From under the cloak came a crunching sound.
Next to me at the back of the shop sitting on the only possible chair was Old Angélique‚ a somewhat simple-minded Breton woman. She does cleaning and shopping errands on the island‚ where any spurious ingenuousness is banished.
Angélique tugged at my sleeve‚ pointing to the hand that snatched the pieces of macaroon. ‘What’s that?’
There were a good ten or twelve of us asking ourselves the same unspoken question. The man then undid three buttons and perched on his shoulder a little old man‚ with beard and moustache – of cotton wool – black eyes that darted in every direction‚ a long turned-up nose‚ gloves‚ leather boots‚ black knitted trousers‚ a red jacket with a long hood.
The perfection of this impersonation amazed us. For the man must have had to tame his monkey with infinite patience to reach the point where the animal was prepared to tolerate this get-up – which didn’t seem to bother it at all – and especially the papier-mâché nose and the mask of make-up.
The evening hour‚ fading light‚ peacefulness‚ and relaxed atmosphere reigning that day conspired to transport us within a few moments to a world of enchantment.
Angélique insisted. ‘But what on earth is that‚ sir?’
‘This? It’s a dwarf‚ madame. As you can see‚ it’s a dwarf‚ a very old dwarf.’
‘A dwarf? But what … what kind of dwarf?’
‘One of our forest dwarfs‚’ said the other‚ unruffled. ‘Some still exist in my country.’
‘That’s just incredible! He’s not mechanical?’
‘Indeed not.’ (He bent down a little.) ‘Give him a piece of cake. You can shake his hand.’
‘Oh! goodness me! It’s for real!’ Angélique was ecstatic. ‘Let me tell you‚ sir‚ in my country too‚ in Brittany‚ we have forests like yours. And I was told that dwarves lived there‚ farfardets we call them. As well as goblins riding white mares‚ and then women who are taller‚ but mean no harm‚ the milloraines. Well‚ I believed in all that‚ as if it were the Gospel‚ until the age of fourteen. Yes‚ sir‚ fourteen. And then I went to work in Rennes‚ and they told me it was all humbug. Then‚ since I’d never seen any‚ in the forests or on the heath‚ I didn’t believe in those dwarves of yours any more. But here I am at the end of my life – you see‚ I’m getting on for sixty-eight and not in very good health‚ monsieur – and I can believe in them again‚ really and truly‚ for good and all? Ah‚ monsieur! If you only knew how happy you’ve made me!’
Everyone was choked. No one dreamed of making fun of the good-hearted woman. The man with the monkey was having a private conversation with Suzanne.
Angélique rummaged in her skirts‚ drew out a large battered-looking purse. In it were a few small notes‚ carefully folded. ‘Monsieur‚ this is worth celebrating. François‚ give everyone here a drink. It’s not that I’m very rich‚ but that’s done me good‚ ah la la‚ that’s made me happy.’
‘That’s all right‚ dear‚ you keep your money‚ we wouldn’t dream of taking it‚’ said François‚ filling the glasses.
The man put his monkey away‚ buttoned up his cloak‚ and said goodbye with a smile addressed to all. He cast a glance in my direction. A knowing glance. Now fancy that. He was at the door when Angélique called out to him‚ ‘Hey‚ monsieur! Where was it that you found your dwarf?’
With a very broad sweep of his hat‚ ‘In a legend‚ madame.’
The man with the monkey had on the quiet given Suzanne a thousand francs‚ to pay for Angélique’s bag to be filled with provisions after he left.
Now I’ve placed him. It was the Gypsy from Rue de Bièvre‚ Gabriel‚ who was my godson for seven years. He’s simply shaved his beard off. He must have been living abroad for quite a while: you can tell from his accent.
When I leapt out of bed on Sunday I didn’t need to waste much time wondering how to spend the morning. Even if I’d decided otherwise‚ my shoes would have walked me to the St Médard market. I had fun poking about among those humble old bits and pieces‚ shook hands with the Captain‚ ran into La Puce‚ La Lune‚ Trouillebave. But that wasn’t the only reason for coming. The Gypsy had agreed to meet me. By himself this time: he only takes his monkey out for two hours in the evening.
His name’s not Gabriel any more‚ but Mikhail. His new ‘godfather’‚ my successor‚ is Rumanian. We shall soon make each other’s acquaintaince: Mikhail – since that’s what we must call him – has invited both of us to a feast that his clan is hosting to celebrate his forthcoming marriage. There‚ eating straight out of the family cooking-pot‚ we shall savour together the niglo (hedgehog) of true friendship. Mikhail is for the time being manager of the travelling circus-cum-theatre that his future in-laws own. He let me see a photograph showing the eyes of his betrothed. Only her eyes. The rest of her face was concealed by a piece of white masking paper folded over‚ stuck down on the back. Apparently‚ ‘among their own’ – I don’t know whether this term includes the entire race or only one clan – this is the custom for a very specific period during the betrothal.
We went to Olivier’s‚ where naturally I spoke to him about Keep-on-Dancin’‚ goatee-bearded Klager and the ‘ill- intentioned prayers’ that people offer up in front of the sign of the Quatre-Sergents.
‘And you thought you were an expert on Paris‚ that you knew it all. I could teach you a lot more things I’m sure you don’t know‚’ he said to me.
‘Gladly. You’re making my mouth water. But how long are you going to keep me dangling?’
Olivier called me over into a quiet corner.
‘Have you heard the rumours going round?’
Apparently‚ they want to abolish the market‚ ‘our’ market.
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘The police authorities‚ of course.’
‘But that would be heinous‚ and idiotic. Why? For what reason? And under what powers?’
‘The normal powers of the local administration. They’re perfectly entitled to revoke a concession that may have existed for centuries but isn’t registered in any written text. It would help us out if you could write a few articles on the subject.’
‘That’s certainly within the realms of possibility.’
‘And if you could try and trace the origins of that concession in the City archives. Apparently it goes back a very long way.’
‘Sure. I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘Let me know what you find out‚’ said the Gypsy. ‘If your research confirms what they say in my family‚ you’re in for a few surprises.’
‘How on earth … in what way can a Gypsy community’s folklore have anything to do with the St Médard market? In fact‚ do you mean the market‚ or the church?’
‘Both. The church is a place of pilgrimage assigned to us‚ some of us at least‚ from way back: every seventh generation. No more questions for now. You’ve work to do.’
What a City of marvels! I turned myself into a detective‚ and followed the trail through indecipherable manuscripts and old books. It was in the City that the story began. Here it is.
The present Rue Chanoinesse‚ which winds its way in the shadow of Notre-Dame‚ was not in the Middle Ages disturbed by the noisy presence of our motorcyclist guardians of the peace. It was called Rue des Marmousets: on the site of the motorcycle garage was the corner of Rue des Deux-Ermites. And there‚ until 1884‚ it was possible to gaze on the remains of a generally neglected monument‚ so-called Dagobert’s Tower‚ which included a ninth-century staircase set into the masonry‚ of which the thirty-foot handrail was fashioned out of the trunk of a gigantic oak tree. Here‚ according to tradition‚ lived a barber and a pastry-cook‚ who in the year 1335 plied their trade next door to each other. The reputation of the pastry-cook‚ whose products were among the most delicious that could be found‚ grew day by day. Members of the high-ranking clergy in particular were very fond of the extraordinary meat pies that‚ on the grounds of keeping to himself the secret of how the meats were seasoned‚ our man made all on his own‚ with the sole assistance of an apprentice who was responsible for the pastry.
His neighbour the barber had won favour with the public through his honesty‚ his skilled hairdressing and shaving‚ and the steam baths he offered. Now‚ thanks to a dog that insistently scratched at the ground in a certain place‚ the ghastly origins of the meat used by the pastry-cook became known‚ for the animal unearthed some human bones! It was established that every Saturday before shutting up shop the barber would offer to shave a foreign student for free. He would put the unsuspecting young man in a tip-back seat and then cut his throat. The victim was immediately rushed down to the cellar‚ where the pastry-cook took delivery of him‚ cut him up‚ and added the requisite seasoning. For which the pies were famed‚ ‘especially as human flesh is more delicate because of the diet‚’ old Dubreuil comments facetiously.
The two wretched fellows were burned with their pies‚ the house was ordered to be demolished‚ and in its place was built a kind of expiatory pyramid‚ with the figure of the dog on one of its faces. The pyramid was there until 1861.
But this is where the story takes another turn and joins the very best of black comedy. For the considerable number of ecclesiastics who had unwittingly consumed human flesh were not only guilty before God of the very venial sin of greed; they were automatically excommunicated! A grand council was held under the aegis of several bishops and it was decided to send to Avignon‚ where Pope Clement VI resided‚ a delegation of prelates with a view to securing the rescindment if not of the Christian interdiction against cannibalism then at least of the torments of hell that faced the inadvertent cannibals. The delegation set off‚ with a tidy sum of money‚ bare-footed‚ bearing candles and singing psalms. But the roads of that time were not very safe and doubtless strewn with temptation. Anyway‚ the fact is that Clement VI never saw any sign of the penitents‚ and with good reason.
Notre-Dame had not yet disappeared from the bright horizon when these prelates of ours‚ their feet already sore‚ anticipating the hardships of their journey decided to stop in some suitable place and discuss what decisions should be taken. They circled round Paris‚ skirted the estates of the Comte de Boulogne bordering the Bièvre‚ and found at a place called Pont aux Tripes (Tripe Bridge) – more or less the site of the Gobelins intersection – a welcoming inn where the owner didn’t mind being overrun by the Grand Provost’s footsoldiers. Having eaten their fill‚ and appreciative of the generous fare provided by their host‚ our clerics postponed their journey till a later date and settled round the small market town of St-Médard. They very soon found themselves in need of replenishing their funds. They turned themselves into mendicant friars‚ some calling themselves Hubains‚ that’s to say‚ ‘those cured of rabies by St Hubert’; the rest‚ Coquillards‚ who’d made the pilgrimage‚ so they claimed‚ to Santiago di Compostella or Mont-St-Michel. Thus divided into two allied bands‚ our ‘penitents’‚ who were somewhat forceful in getting the tardy traveller to donate alms‚ were not however looked on with a favourable eye by their rivals: the Rifodés‚ Malingreux‚ Francs-Mitous and Piètres – highway robbers all of them – were only too anxious for a chance to pit themselves against these intruders. It duly arose. One autumn night in 1352 Monsignor Jean de Meulan‚ formerly Bishop of Noyon and recently appointed Bishop of Paris‚ was returning to his estate that lay just beyond the church of St Médard‚ along the Rue de ‘Mont-Fêtard’. Armed horsemen were escorting his carriage. But his guard would have had to yield to the attack launched by a gang of brigands determined to rob the bishop and his entourage if the former ‘Penitents’‚ alerted to what was happening‚ had not come running and fought a pitched battle. Jean de Meulan was able to regain his property‚ safe and sound.
In gratitude for their intervention‚ perhaps due to some lingering scruple in which a kind of vocational biais may be detected‚ he absolved the Coquillards and Hubains‚ granting them permission to sell‚ on his land and adjoining meadows‚ all kinds of goods and objects whose provenance would not be questioned.
And as Pope Clement VI was unable to intercede on their behalf and solicit any indulgence from Heaven‚ that’s why the souls of those ill-fated prelates‚ priests and monks too fond of good eating have been stewing for centuries in the cooking-pots of hell.
The authorities who exercised control over the land round St Médard‚ and were responsible for policing it‚ changed many times. But throughout the ages‚ despite the unheavals and disturbances of History‚ the concession under which the St Médard market operated remained in force. Until now.
The Gypsy was reading the Aboi de Paris‚ rubbing his chin. He was smiling.
‘So‚ what do you think of it?’
‘That’s it. That’s exactly right. Let’s go for a walk.’
He put the periodical in his pocket‚ and at the first newspaper stand bought another five copies of the same issue.
‘I’d love to know what your people have to say about St Médard.’
‘Try to free yourself for a couple of hours‚ and come with me. I’d like to introduce you to my family. We’re camped over by Montreuil.’
There were doe-eyed children swarming under the caravans. One of them‚ a tiny thing with his bottom in the air‚ had nose-dived into the dog’s bowl. And the mutt was so tickled by this that it frisked about and every so often‚ with its muzzle‚ nudged the toddler into its bowl again. Two adolescent girls were carefully combing and smoothing the fur of a good- natured brown bear eating a beetroot.
A man holding a long piece of rope was making a young horse with no harness circle round an imaginary ring. The half-wild animal would rear up‚ its mane flying out‚ rising on its hind legs and flailing the air with its hoofs – then set off again‚ subdued‚ seething with resentment.
A little monkey I thought I recognized was searching the hair of an old woman busy feeding fresh twigs into a crackling fire. A hearty soup bubbled and simmered in the copper pot with a handle and feet made of sturdily wrought iron.
There were some women scrubbing dishes and linen all mixed up together in a tub. Mikhail seemed to be regarded as the boss. Everyone cast meek and vaguely fearful glances in his direction. Mikhail grabbed a stick lying to hand‚ went up to one of the caravans and knocked twice on the shutter‚ and then once again. The door opened. A slender girl of regal bearing‚ with her hair loose‚ descended the four steps.
‘My wife‚’ said Mikhail.
She smiled graciously‚ extending her hand.
I was in the middle of nowhere. The gaudy clothes‚ the horse’s white coat made the surrounding landscape‚ which was flat and rather squalid‚ take on a different hue. This Gypsy encampment could have been located in any corner of Europe‚ America‚ or Asia Minor.
‘All we need’s a bit of music‚’ I said.
‘Stay with us‚’ said Mikhail. ‘You shall have some this evening.’
There are things he’d like to tell me‚ loads of things‚ revelations I await with impatience. But these fail to come. What the nature of his latest qualms is‚ I do not know. So I can’t attempt to allay them. He finally makes up his mind‚ without conviction‚ and opts to question me.
‘Have you ever needed to be forgiven for something serious?’
‘That depends. If you mean‚ have I ever committed a serious sin‚ probably yes. But have I thought of “seeking forgiveness”? To start with‚ from whom?’
‘Not from your fellow men.’
‘Then no. Definitely not. You can’t redeem a wicked deed: you can‚ if possible‚ make amends. I’m willing to be punished for all the ill I might do. I want to pay my dues. But I don’t believe that past deeds can be cancelled out. Nor the intentions a person might have had. The intention: that’s the important thing in my view.’
‘You don’t recognize any other judge?’
‘No. Besides‚ I’m more severe than anyone else. For me‚ any notion of humility‚ of submission‚ is unthinkable.’
‘So you reject the very principle of confession.’
‘Absolutely. It offends me. Infuriates me. It’s a humiliation‚ a degradation I can’t accept.’
‘Of course‚ that’s a valid point of view.’
We were walking through the grassy rises and depressions of that outlying area. We circumvented an animal carcase. A tyre ring‚ worn down to the canvas‚ lay abandoned among the nettles. Mikhail picked it up and put it on his shoulder. I wonder what use he can possibly make of it.
After a pause: ‘But if you felt there existed inside you‚ in your physical body‚ something bad‚ impure‚ taboo …’
‘There’s always penicillin.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
He expended his anger by giving a hefty kick to all the tins that lay in his path.
‘How am I going to get you to understand?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never had that experience.’
He decided to change tack.
‘Have you never had the impression‚ whether it took the form of a memory‚ intuition‚ or whatever‚ of having lived in some previous age?’
‘Oh‚ yes indeed. Actually‚ in two different ages‚ a little over two centuries apart‚ which I could pin down to within a few years.’
‘And where was that?’
‘And it was really you‚ you’re not just identifying with some other character?’
‘No. Exactly the same person‚ with same face‚ the same body‚ in every detail.’
He looked relieved.
‘Some common ground‚ at last. Now‚ I hope you’ll be able to understand.’
Mikhail’s family-in-law belong to the same clan. They’re all more or less cousins. I’d noticed they had more sophisticated‚ more highly developed features than most of their like: no thick lips‚ clearly separated eyebrows‚ broad foreheads‚ ears that originate at the level of their eyes and not above. They live in a patriarchal community under the rule not of a ‘leader’ but as is customary among the Gypsy people of a king‚ not elected by his subjects: it’s an hereditary position. Now‚ according to family tradition – which corresponds to a very deep-rooted belief – every seven generations‚ it’s the very same king who reappears to regenerate his dynasty. The authority of his forefathers and descendants‚ ‘kings’ too but mere links in the chain‚ is infinitely less great than his. Which is absolute and extends to every domain. The crown princes – the eldest sons – are expected to procreate as soon as they become physically capable of doing so: that’s to say‚ between thirteen and sixteen years of age. Which leads to a ‘reincarnated’ sovereign every century‚ more or less. The law of the clan lays down that on his death the king should not be buried but cremated and his ashes scattered to the wind.
A detail arises at this point that caused Mikhail to hesitate a long while before revealing to me the secret of a tradition that‚ appalling as it was‚ no one will ever dare to violate. A funeral banquet‚ organized according to an immutable rite‚ will bring together the dead king’s sons‚ and more generally speaking all his male descendants. Among other classic delicacies‚ they’ll have to partake of the deceased’s brain‚ heart and testicles‚ prepared however it suits them.
And then‚ even if they’re on the other side of the world‚ they’ll have to hurry to reach Paris and come to do penance at St Médard‚ praying in earnest for nine consecutive days. At St Médard‚ and nowhere else; for only there is the sin of cannibalism absolved.
‘Now‚ you’re free to regard me as a savage.’
‘Not at all. I wasn’t expecting to hear what you’ve just told me. It’s still too fresh in my mind. And anyway‚ far be it from me to pass judgement. But have you already attended such a meal‚ experienced a ceremony of this kind?’
‘No. The last “Great King” was cremated on the island of Oléron‚ in 1880. It’s a problem in France‚ for we don’t have the right to dispose of our dead‚ or even to transport them.’
‘So what will you do next time?’
My question seemed to provoke in him a certain unease.
‘Everything’s arranged. He’ll be shut up in a box filled with salt and the caravan will travel until it finds some uninhabited or remote spot‚ far from any village‚ in the Landes‚ for example.’
‘And where have you got to in your dynasty?’
‘My father’s the present king‚ he’s number six‚ and the oldest son is me.’
It was my turn to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Gabriel himself‚ Mikhail here‚ destined for the cooking pot!
‘So you’re the reincarnated king. But how old are you?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘No children yet?’
‘Sixteen‚ including four daughters.’
‘And it’s only now you’re getting married?’
‘For the fourth time.’
‘I didn’t know your people practised polygamy.’
‘They don’t. I’m allowed to. No one else is. I’m allowed to do anything.’
‘But how come you were a rag-picker when I met you?’
‘All of us‚ the kings just like everyone else‚ are obliged to spend some time alone and in extreme poverty. It’s the oldest member of the clan‚ not necessarily the king‚ who decides when it’s time to go and how long the ordeal’s to last.’
‘What determines that decision? His mood? His judgement? Some sixth sense?’
‘Certainly not. With us‚ it’s much more complicated. Accounts have to be settled.’
On this point‚ he refused to be drawn any further.
‘I can’t understand why your people pretend to profess the Catholic faith while on the other hand their customs seem contaminated with pagan practices from the most distant past. Not to mention this ritual cannibalism‚ which is a little too reminiscent of the nineteenth-century travel journal. Admittedly‚ in that case‚ it was happening in a place like Caffre or Papua New Guinea.’
‘I want to show you something.’
The back of a caravan is set up as a shrine. A flame flickers on a glass of oil. A faint smell of incense hangs in the air. Vases attractively filled with fresh flowers stand on the shelf that serves as an altar. An extraordinary virgin of blackened silver is in the centre of an icon.
Dominating all this is a polychrome wooden crucifix. It’s very old. Of Hungarian or Rumanian craftsmanship. It’s no ordinary Christ figure: the head is raised‚ the eyes look skywards. The left hand‚ detached from the cross‚ is raised in a gesture of farewell – or appeal. The effect is ungainly.
‘Listen carefully.’
He makes two rapid movements to indicate the two structural elements of the cross. From top to bottom‚ from left to right.
‘That’s time. That’s space. They’re mutually restrictive‚ they imprison each other. A man cannot conceive of one except in terms of the other. True or not?’
‘That’s quite true. It’s indisputable. We weren’t made to transcend those givens.’
‘Indeed. Man stuck in the middle. Right? At zero point. We can’t escape that. We’ve no right to. That’s Christian humility for you. That’s obedience. That’s discipline.’
He gives a contained sarcastic laugh. His eyes are shining. An insane pride is stamped on his brow. He points to the free hand.
‘There‚ that’s our secret‚ our … my heritage. We’ve managed to escape. To transcend everything. We’re no longer subject to any constraint. Think about that. Often.’
Time‚ the x-axis. Space‚ the y-axis. The rest of us stuck in the middle. I promise you‚ Mikhail‚ to think about it much more often than I’d like to.