Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 02 - The School for Mysteries (20 page)

Chapter  43

Phillipe guided them around the cathedral, weaving inside and out on walkways high above the main floor. “This site was discovered 3,000 years ago—1,000 years before Christ, by Druids from what the Romans called Hibernia, but which is now called Ireland.

“It sits on a great limestone plain. The name Chartres comes from Celtic word
cairn
which means
place of the altar.
The Druids stayed here for 1,000 years.

“When Julius Caesar was conquering Gaul he reported a strong tribe of Celts here,” Phillipe said. “Their Druid priests established a cult here devoted to the Black Madonna. And they defied the Romans. Shortly after the death of Jesus Christ, Joseph of Arimethea brought a small group of early Christians here, along with the Holy Grail, and they dedicated the site to the Virgin Mary.”

Phoebe followed the men through the narrow stone passages that ran above or ducked underneath the flying buttresses. Christophe stopped and touched a simple carving on the wall, “Here is an autograph left by one of the early masons.”

It was a star. Phoebe tried to picture a man tapping it out with a chisel and a heavy hammer, hoping to leave his mark for people to see a thousand years later. Christophe and Phillipe stopped a few more times and touched other similar signatures in stone like a triangle or a cross.

Something about the way Christophe touched the cross made Phoebe ask, “Did you know him?”

He looked at her and smiled with his eyes.

“Various sects convened here from the east and west,” Phillipe said, “and then for 200 years, from 1000 to 1203, this was the home of the greatest school in Christendom. It was an increasingly heretical school that taught a Christianity based not on rote belief or passive faith, but on direct personal
experience
of Christ and the spiritual world that was attained through a meditative practice.”

They went into the cavernous attic space that was above the vaulted ceiling, but underneath the roof. They walked along the boards that had been laid across rafters so they wouldn’t be standing on the ceiling itself. It was amazing. Shafts of light came in through small trefoil windows spaced at regular intervals.

Phillipe led them down a tight spiral stone staircase to a walkway with long balconies that overlooked the interior. They were much lower now, but still quite high above the main floor.

“We’re standing on the Triforium,” Phillipe said. “The triforia in pagan temples were used for conversation or business. In the Christian basilicas they were usually reserved for women.”

Phoebe looked around this mezzanine level of the cathedral.
Another freakin pipe organ
, she noticed. She was getting pipe organ PTSD. They were like a gigantic nightmare version of an accordion or a boombox for dinosaurs. “This is my third pipe organ in four days. They freak me out.”

Phillipe shrugged and exchanged a look with Christophe.

As the three of them stood there, side-by-side on the high balcony, a choir filed into the choir stalls down below and began to sing the most beautiful song Phoebe had ever heard in her life. “What are they singing?” she asked.

“It is an old arrangement of a Matins prayer
O Magnum Mysterium.
They are singing in Latin, ‘
O great mystery….” said Phillipe.

Magnum Mysterium,
and a
School for Mysteries,
Phoebe thought to herself. Her whole life was one big mystery these days. Phillipe led them down to the main level. They walked in silence, surrounded by the unearthly beauty of the choir singing the heartbreakingly gorgeous prayer.

“Most holy sites were built with an east to west axis that coincided with the rising and setting of the sun,” said Phillipe. “All except for Chartres. Here the central nave is canted to the northeast so rays from the sun fall on the altar and light up the central axis of cathedral on the midsummer solstice.”

Phillipe checked his watch. He’d done that several times during their tour. He led them to the center of the nave. Christophe stood behind her and put a hand on each of her shoulders as if to steady her.

As the choir sang about great mysteries, the miracle of the building unfolded in front of her—the sun began to pierce the gloom of the interior. Phoebe watched the light move as the sun rose.

“Today is the summer solstice,” Christophe said.

Phoebe looked at him over her shoulder. There were tears in her eyes.

“This is a gift to you from
Le Seigneur
. It is our thanks for saving Nicolas.”

They stood for several minutes watching the sun perform its magic illuminating the interior of the cathedral.

“If you look down at your feet you will see that we are standing atop a famous labyrinth.”

Phoebe did as she was told and noticed the large maze delineated by the different colors of stone in the floor.

“Many structures are aligned with rising or setting sun on the summer or winter
solstice, or spring or fall equinox,” Phillipe said. “Chartres is created to capture the light from the summer solstice.
In the ancient Essene community where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found, the largest room of the communal building at Qumran is aligned with the summer solstice. So is Stonehenge.

“Newgrange in Ireland is aligned to the winter solstice. T
he Parthenon, and the copy of it in Nashville, is aligned with the winter solstice.”

Phoebe looked around at the amazing colors of the stained glass. “These windows are fabulous.”

“There are almost two hundred of them,” Phillipe said. “They were saved from damage during World War II by a few dozen elderly local people who removed all of them and hid them in just five days.”

Phoebe’s rapture was crushed when she heard something she hadn’t anticipated. It was the muted, but unmistakable screeching and groaning of the ultimate buzz kill. “Please tell me they’re not about to fire up that pipe organ.”

Phillipe was smiling, but Christophe maintained his inscrutable calm poise. The opening notes of the tune were not what she expected. It wasn’t Bach. It was The Who. “Holy moly. That’s
Baba O’Reilly
!” Phoebe said.

Then she remembered Christophe asking about someone named Armand and the rapid French he’d spoken to Chantelle. “Is that Armand?”

“Oui.” Christophe said.

“This is great!”

“
Exactement
.”

“Why not
Stairway to Heaven
?”

“He has done that one before and gotten into trouble,” said Phillipe, “so he dare not do it again. He may get into difficulty for this, also, but Christophe assured us you had earned it.”

It was about noon on the longest day of the year. Phoebe already felt like it was the longest day in her whole life and they were barely half way through it. “Would you like to have lunch?” Christophe asked.

They strolled through the streets to the restaurant Chantelle had recommended. Phoebe’s body clock was totally messed up. Her sleep and her meal times had been wildly disrupted. She guessed it was early morning in White Oak, but wasn’t sure.

The meal was fabulous of course. They sat at the outdoor café for a couple of hours. Phillipe, Christophe, and the waiter debated every aspect of the feast in great detail. She had to admit she felt a lot better afterwards. Finally Christophe searched her face and asked, “Are you ready for your encounter with
haute couture
?”

Phoebe drew a deep breath and nodded.

“You will be astounded at what half a day in Paris can do for you.”

He was right.

Chapter  44

It was amazing to experience life as it existed for Christophe. Wherever he went the cosmos seemed to stop whatever it had been doing for the previous eons so it could revolve around him instead. And the massive displays of cheek kissing were beyond comical to Phoebe.

The first stop was at a hair salon. “The colorist here is a genius,” said Christophe.

“I didn’t realize you colored your hair,” Phoebe said, “It looks so natural.”

“Of course it looks natural! It
is
natural. I meant the colorist here has the skill to do highlights that actually match my hair. All the women want this color. Many try, but very few can achieve it.”

Christophe supervised the famous stylist as he worked on Phoebe. The man was obviously agog to have Christophe standing so close. Twice he broke off what he was doing to Phoebe and approached Christophe, once with a comb and once with a brush, but both times he changed his mind at the last moment. There was no need to touch Christophe. Nothing could be done to improve on perfection.

Phoebe’s new haircut looked surprisingly good. She’d been afraid she might end up with blue or pink stripes, but they left her color natural. When the clothes shopping began, things got even more amazing. They were met by a representative of French Vogue and taken to a private salon in a beautiful limestone mansion on rue de la Paix. Stylists from the major fashion houses and boutiques descended on Phoebe and brought
everything
—not just slacks and blouses, but undergarments, shoes, coats, hats, and bags.

Christophe explained that
couture
came from the word that meant to sew and told Phoebe, as if he was talking to a small child, that clothes looked better if the sewing happened after you were measured, rather than before you arrived. He said it wasn’t good to purchase from a store and try to make yourself fit inside whatever they already had hanging around.

Phoebe pointed out that he was wearing off the rack Levis and a Hanes t-shirt.

“Some people are naturally made in the sizes the designers know look the best.”

He said he wanted her to get a well-rounded understanding of fashion, so he had invited houses from several nations to assist her—Christian Marie Marc Lacroix from France, Cristobal Balenciaga from Spain, and Valentino Garavani from Italy.

Hermes and Gucci had some wonderful things, Christophe conceded, but they began as saddle makers and this should never be forgotten. Some of the pieces were specially-made prototypes presented to Christophe by designers for his opinion. Should they go in this direction? What did he think?

Phoebe had very little say about any of it. She was worried that she would end up looking ridiculous, but of course she didn’t. Christophe selected only classic pieces that made Phoebe look elegant for the first time in her life. And the tweaks by the tailors worked magic. This was indeed the secret to looking good and feeling comfortable, custom fittings.

What a day. The sacred and the profane. The pinnacle of each, back-to-back.

It was like shopping, in reverse. They acquired box after box of amazing things without the need to go anywhere or pay for any of it.
No please, just take it. It would be such an honor to have your friend wearing our humble offerings.
Despite what Christophe said about them being jumped up saddle makers, Hermes was Phoebe’s favorite store. The pleated scarf and shawl displays in the window at 24 rue Fauberg St. Honore were positioned around antique samurai armor in which the countless tiny plates were held together with hundreds of exquisite ribbons. Phoebe was moved to tears, yet again.

“Culture is man’s way of reflecting back up to God what it is like to be here on the earth. Every culture has different gifts,” said Christophe, as he watched Phoebe’s longing perusal of the Hermes silks. “Each makes a different artistic contribution. The talent of the French is
style
. Your genetic line is from Scotland. Scotland is not known for its fashion.”

“You mean because the men wear skirts and carry pocketbooks made from dead badgers?” Phoebe asked. “It’s humiliating to admit it here, on the sidewalk in front of Hermes, but my primary fashion objective for the previous three decades has been to wear clothes that look don’t look any worse with blood or vomit on em.”

She wondered about Christophe. Which culture’s gift to the world was the Lord of Blondness. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“My genetic line is from Denmark.”

He’s a Great Dane
, Phoebe thought, struggling not to laugh. She felt a little bit sorry for him. It must be hard to be from a country that was famous for a deranged verbose prince and bad pastry, neither of which actually originated there.

When her whirlwind makeover was concluded, Phoebe said, “I’ve never seen such groveling worship of one human by so many others.”

“They cannot help themselves,” Christophe said.

“Maybe
you
should help them.”

“If I did that, they would go from happiness to sadness—and you would not have anything to wear tomorrow.”

Phoebe looked at all the boxes and bags. In France, the containers were as beautiful as the contents. They’d walked past a sidewalk display of fresh vegetables where she’d almost swooned when she saw bundles of asparagus tied with purple silk ribbon in a bow. “What’re we gonna do with all this stuff?”

“The overflow is kept at
Le Seigneur’s
. We often need to travel on short notice, and this way we can pack quickly.”

It was getting dark. Finally, the longest day of the year was nearly over. Christophe told Phoebe that they were tasked with picking up a
voyant
for the return trip. Phoebe had no idea what that was, but learned that it meant a seer. “Are you a
voyant
?” Phoebe asked.

“No,” Christophe said.

“You’re a mind reader, though. You’ve done it to me several times.”

“No one is allowed to read another’s thoughts literally. That gift is not given to anyone. We are protected from each other in that way. The downside of this is that people get tortured for information.

“But if we are still, open, reserve subjective reactions or judgment, and cultivate a deep interior silence, we can sense the movements of each other’s souls, especially if we are in close proximity to them. That is what real intimacy is, spiritual intimacy.”

“But what about all the psychics you hear about? Some of them can know things about other people that are obviously true, things that the rest of us wouldn’t have been able to know.”

“You will enjoy our passenger,” he said, “She can explain these things to you on the return flight.”

According to Christophe the individual they were to take back with them had become aware of significant impending events and been given a message from the spiritual world that needed to be discussed with
Le Seigneur
in person.

When they arrived at the Ritz to make the pickup, Phoebe discovered the seer was a glamorous lady named Caterina Abatangelo, who had to be in her seventies at least. The lady looked her age and was beautiful. Her most striking assets were her cheekbones, aristocratic nose, and a beautifully styled luxuriant mane of pure white hair. She reminded Phoebe of the legendary high fashion model Carmen dell’Orefice who was still working in her eighties.

Caterina and Christophe exchanged the ritual of four kisses that Christophe had assured her was the correct way to greet friends in France. Left cheek, right cheek, then repeat. The magnificence of the hair swishing during that kiss was sufficient to stop traffic throughout Place Vendome.

As she was getting into the car that would take them to the airport, Caterina took Phoebe’s hand. Then she looked up in surprise. She waited until Phoebe was seated next to her in the back, with Christophe and the driver in the front, then Caterina leaned over and whispered, “I realize this will sound silly, but I am quite serious. You will soon become involved with a tall dark stranger.
Several of them
in fact,” she said smiling and wiggling her elegant eyebrows. Then she tightened her grip on Phoebe’s hand and leaned even closer to whisper softly into her ear, “And one blond.”