Angel City (42 page)

“You'll need this. Not so much to get up, but for coming down. Lots of bending and tricky steps.”

He held it out to Harper. Harper stepped in the shed, took it.

“Cheers. Happen to have a flashlight?”

“You wish to go now?”

“Why not?”

“It's dark, that means it's dangerous. One slip, you fall; you fall, you're dead. It would be better if you waited for morning.”

“I'd just rather go it alone, not run into anyone.”

“This time of year the trail opens at ten. If you leave at dawn, you'll be up and down before you are noticed, if that is what you want.”

“That's what I want. How do I get there, back toward the fountain and out of the village?”

“You can't go that way. The villagers will have their shutters open by then. There is a gate at the back of my garden. It cuts through the forest and leads to the field. You cross the field, and there is the trail. None of the villagers will notice you if you go that way. Shiva will show you.”

Harper followed the man's line of sight to the open doorway. The huge white dog was sitting there, watching them.

“The dog?”

“He knows the way, you don't. You will become lost without him. He won't climb the trail, but he'll stay in the field and wait for you. When you descend the mountain, he'll show you the way back, through the same gate. Come, I'll take you to the house.”

Serge took off his apron, lay it on the worktable, walked toward the door. Shiva sat up to greet him.

“Mind if I ask you something?” Harper said.

Serge stopped. “What is it?”

“Why angels?”

Serge looked at the angel sculpture standing in the light, then at Harper.

“Because an angel passed this way once, stayed under this roof. At least that's the story in my family.”

Harper shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Is that so?”

Serge stared at Harper a moment.

“You do not believe me.”

“Try me.”

Serge cleared his throat.

“My family was one of the first families to settle this place, before there was a village, back in the late eighth century. They were nomadic shepherds from near Sant Pau de Segúries in Spain. They came here and became farmers. This house used to be nothing but a stone hut then.”

“Cathars?”

“Yes, but my family renounced the faith before the Inquisition to escape being burned with the others.”

“Right. Sorry for asking.”

“It isn't penance, making angels, if that is what you think.”

“I wasn't thinking anything. I was curious, that's all.”

“About what?”

“Angels.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Especially one who might've stayed under your family's roof.”

The man looked down at the dog, scratched the animal behind the ears.

“The story goes that after the Crusaders murdered the Cathars, they ransacked the fortress and the huts built on the cliffs outside the north gate, searching for treasure. When they found nothing, they leveled the fortress. Then the rains came, then the cold, then the Crusaders went home. My ancestors went to the field to bury the bones of the Cathars, but there were no bones to be found. There was only a great pile of sodden ash. It was terrible work. The ash had turned to mud, and you could easily sink deep into it and become trapped. It was growing dark, and my family gave up. Leaving the field, they found an angel buried in the ash. He was delirious, raving, weeping, his face blackened and singed. My family brought him to the hut and tended to him. Weeks, months. Then one day, he was gone.”

“How did they know he was an angel?”

Serge shrugged, looked at Harper.

“Because in his delirium, he told them this. He told them he had tried to comfort the souls of the Cathars as they burned to death. He told them he was overcome with their suffering. Who knows? Perhaps he was a Frenchman, someone with the Crusaders who stayed behind and was digging through the ash looking for bits of gold or silver. Perhaps he became trapped and, fearing revenge when he was rescued, he told my family he was an angel to save himself.”

“What do you think?”

“I think, back then, people had strange ideas about the world.”

“But here you are, nearly nine hundred years later, making angels from scraps of iron.”

Serge smiled again.

“I tried birds, horses. I tried avant-garde. Making angels is the only thing I'm good at. Come, I'll show you a place where you can sleep.”

“Actually, I'm not tired. Do you have a computer with Internet?”

“Some do in the village, not me. Too much information for me.”

“Do you have a TV?”

“In the kitchen. My wife likes to watch Spanish soap operas as she's jarring her vegetables and jams.”

“Can I get the History Channel on it?”

“Yes.”

He turned off the light. Harper stepped outside, and Serge closed the door.

“Shiva, move,” he said.

The dog led the way through the dark. The garden was long and narrow. They passed the main door of the house, walked around the corner to a small stone patio. Serge pointed farther up the garden.

“The gate you need is back there. Shiva will be waiting for you.”

Harper looked around for the dog. He'd wandered off to his spot under a tree with a view of anything coming or going.

“Right.”

“Come, my wife always leaves food in the kitchen in case I'm hungry.”

Serge walked across the patio, opened the door into the house. Harper rested the staff against the side of the house and went inside. There was a candle burning on a table. A plate of white cheeses, a baguette, a bottle of wine, and an empty glass.

“I hope you enjoy cheese. We're vegetarians in this house. But they're very good cheeses. Bethmale, Rogallais, Bamalous; all from the village, and the wine is from Corbières. My wife baked the bread.”

“No, cheese is fine. I've been thinking I should become a vegetarian myself.”

Serge looked at Harper, nodded.

“So should every person in the world.”

There was a box-shaped television on a metal stand next to the kitchen table. Serge turned it on, found the History Channel.

“I don't need the sound up,” Harper said.

“No?”

“I'm fine with the picture. I've seen most of the episodes before. Watching the pictures helps me pass the time.”

“I understand. Are you sure you will not need a room to rest?”

“No, I'm fine.”

Serge nodded.

“I understand. I will leave you to your peace and join my wife in bed. The stars will fade in four hours. You can set out then, Shiva will lead you. By the time you reach the trail to the fortress, it will be safe enough to climb.
Vos pregui slitz com a casa.
”

Harper ran the words:
Make yourself at home.

“Cheers.”

Serge walked through the small sitting room and up a set of creaking stairs. Harper poured a glass of wine, had a long swallow. He cut a slice of Bamalous, ate it with a piece of bread. It was good.

II

O
NCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A GIANT CATERPILLAR WHO WAS
very clever and wore a silly hat on his head. And his name was Pompidou, and he lived on snowflakes. Big ones, fat ones. And he flew around the world and beyond the moon.”

Max pointed at the drawing of the moon in the notebook.
“La lune.”

“That's right, honey, that's the moon. See the loon in the
lune
. There are his eyes and his nose and his mouth. And see funny old Pompidou with his funny hat. It's just like the hat on Mommy's head, isn't it?”

Max looked up at his mother, saw the hat on her head, and touched the brim.

“
Lune
, moon.”

“No, that's my hat, the
lune
moon's down here, in the book.”

They were sitting on the floor of Max's room. Katherine on a blanket, Max on her lap, the two of them surrounded by pillows like a fort. The lantern was on a nearby stool and it cast light on their faces. Monsieur Booty lay at her feet like the Sphinx. All-knowing, all-seeing, waiting for the moment when there'd be a break in the proceedings for food.

They'd been in the garden earlier, where Katherine was trying to calm down from the firing range fiasco. She'd stormed off the range, telling Officer Jannsen to go fuck herself with a two-by-four from the Carson lumberyard. The sun in the garden calmed her down, and she laughed watching Max walk in circles, arms out from his sides to find his balance, before falling on his butt and giggling with delight because, for some reason, he found the idea of falling on his butt amusing.

Molly came by with some of her tofu pizza at lunchtime. It was the special at the diner that day, and she knew Max loved it. Molly also heard the house was running low on her homemade apple juice and she brought a jug of the fresh stuff. Max was very happy to see her, and the pizza, and the apple juice. He quickly made a mess of his face and hands. Molly couldn't stay, had to get back to the diner and work on dinner. She gave Max a big hug.

“Why, you're just the cutest little bug in the yard,” she said.

“Boogy bug, Mowy.”

“You betcha.”

On the way out, Molly saw Katherine looking unlike her chipper self. Told her to come to town for some huckleberry pie. Picked the berries herself, Molly said.

Katherine smiled.

“Thanks, Molly. That sounds really good.”

“Good? Girl, I make the best huckleberry pie in the American Northwest. Good ain't got nothing on me.”

“Yeah, well, if Anne ever lets me out of prison, I'll do that.”

“Now what are you talking about? Trouble on the home front?”

“That's a nice way of putting it.”

“Oh c'mon, sweetie. There isn't a couple on the planet that doesn't have its ups and downs. And don't forget, Annie-girl loves you to bits.”

“You think?”

“I know so, girl. I'll be seeing you.”

Molly left, and Katherine sat in the back garden with Max. She watched him crawl over the grass as if searching for four-leaf clovers. Knowing Max, he probably was.

Clouds rolled in, then the rain.

Katherine picked up Max.

“Nap time for you, buster. And I think I just might join you. I'm beat.”

She carried him into the house and up the stairs. She laid him on the changing table, changed his diaper. She carried him into the bathroom, parked him on the floor, ran a washcloth in warm water, and washed his face and hands.

“Stay put a sec. I need to clean my teeth.”

No sooner had she started brushing than Max made a break for it and crawled into her bedroom. She called after him with her mouth full of toothpaste.

“Come back here, you. Don't you know we're in a lockdown drill?”

She finished brushing her teeth, splashed water on her face, grabbed a hand towel. She stood in the doorway of her bedroom patting her face with the towel. She watched Max crawl straight for the cardboard boxes of things left to her by Marc Rochat. He reached up, grabbed hold of the rim of the nearest box, and pulled himself to his feet. He looked at his mother, bounced up and down on his bowed legs.

“What's on your mind, Max?”

“Goog.”

Monsieur Booty appeared from nowhere, walked to where Max was standing. The beast stood on its rear legs, front legs on the rim, looked inside the box, and sniffed.

Mew.

“So it's the both of you up to no good, huh?”

Katherine tossed the towel back to the bathroom sink. She walked across the room, looked down into the box. Marc Rochat's sketchbooks lay atop boxes of candles. She saw the lettering on the cover of the top book:

piratz

Une histoire drôle de Marc Rochat

pour Mademoiselle Katherine Taylor

She looked at the two of them.

“You two are starting to scare the crap out of me. You know that?” She looked at the book. “Or maybe I'm just scaring the crap out of myself. You, fuzzface . . .”

Mew.

“. . . you were there in the cathedral. So you I give a lot of room to be nutty.”

She looked at Max, remembering she was already pregnant while hiding in the cathedral.

“Come to think of it, so were you, Max.”

She looked out the window. It was raining hard now.

“And it feels like none of us ever left.”

She walked into Max's bedroom, spread a blanket and pillow on the floor. Max and Monsieur Booty watched her through the connecting door. She came back into her own room, put on the black floppy hat and lit the lantern. She headed back to Max's room, lantern in hand, bending down to grab
piratz
from the cardboard box along the way.

“C'mon, gang, let's take a spin through beforetimes. See what happens.”

She stood the lantern on the stool, sat on the blanket, and made herself comfy. She rested the sketchbook on her lap, looked back through the connecting door. Max and Monsieur Booty were still standing with paws on the rim of the cardboard box, looking at her, looking at each other.

“Well, c'mon,” Katherine said. “Beforetimes waits for nobody.”

Max dropped on his butt, rolled to his hands and knees, and charged. Monsieur Booty brought up the rear, taking swipes at the fuzzy slippers on Max's feet. Max climbed onto Katherine's lap, shoved his hand in her mouth.

“Oh, thank you very much. Here, turn around and sit. Here's some apple juice.”

She handed Max his sippy cup and he went at it. Monsieur Booty looked for space on Katherine's lap, found none, and made like the Sphinx at her feet. The more she read from
piratz
, the more Katherine felt as if she were back in the little room between the bells.

“And an evil wizard named Screechy lived in an ice castle and wore a pointy hat with a rooster on top and stole a big diamond that was a future-teller. And there was a band of funny pirates with wooden swords and paper hats, riding on Pompidou's back and flying just above the waves of the Boiling Seas of Doom on their way to the land of Saskatoon where—”