Last Call For Caviar (6 page)

Power loves a vacuum, and it looked like Slava thought he was the man to fill that vacuum. It probably wouldn’t be a coup d’état exactly; something more reminiscent of a Nazi-Vichy collaboration was in the works. Slava could supply all the security any Prince would ever need, protect his family and preserve the status quo in the Principality. He had the resources and manpower at his fingertips. He had vast sums of money at his disposal; he could buy and sell the ruling House of Monaco many times over.

Slava always preferred to operate in the shadows, so Monaco would have its beloved Prince as a figurehead. He knew how to play on weaker men’s fears; the murderous horde is at your door, but there’s safety assured in the embrace of a benevolent bear.

“Joe, I can’t believe the Prince would even be considering doing business with Slava.”

“I don’t know if he really is going to have a choice. The French are too distracted defending the Security Zone. The Prince needs to find allies he can trust—and quickly—to counter Slava’s power grab.”

“Mary Mother of God, any fool knows you never make a deal with a devil you meet at the crossroads. No matter how sweet or seductive it sounds. Once you’re in bed together, no amount of blow jobs will satisfy him; the only thing he’s interested in is your soul.” I shook my head in exasperation.

If Slava ever became the power behind the throne, Monaco would become Slava’s private gulag. Who’s to say his ambition and thirst for power would stop there? I lived just down the road. From Monaco, he would cast a big shadow. It wouldn’t be long before he was the de facto boss of the whole Cote d’Azur. Suddenly, the hordes at the door didn’t sound so bad.

“You know Maya, giants do fall.” The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye.

“I know, darling, but that usually involves beanstalks or slingshots.” I couldn’t help but smile, seeing his natural optimism once more resurfacing. “I take it you’re not going to leave this alone. Okay, then, David, how can I help you slay Goliath?”

“No cara. This isn’t your fight. I can’t let you get involved. If Slava does take over, I think you should give serious thought about going to join your sister Leah. This is not going to be a safe place for someone without family, for someone all alone.”

“Joe, I can’t argue with your logic. But leaving France is a one-way ticket; there will be no coming back. Leaving aside the price for a ticket to New York from Nice, there are so many desperate people fighting to leave; it might take six months before I could get on a flight. Moreover, no one even knows if in six months there will still be commercial flights or if America will let them land.”

“Those are all real problems, but you can’t stay! Let me think about it. I might be able to help you get back to America.”

“Yeah, but flying into a hell-hole like New York, unarmed and alone—Joe, that would be like checking into the psycho-ward, except all the paranoids and psychopaths will be on their home turf and armed, except me.” I finished my drink in one swallow as I warmed to my subject.

“And arriving in New York won’t get me to safety with Leah. I still have to find a way to cross the killing fields the rest of the States has become. What I need is a friend with a G6 or a Bombardier, who could drop me off in Oregon, or at the very least, open the hatch as they were flying over and let me parachute down. Or maybe there will be a wagon train heading west, like in the old days, I could join.”

“Maya, it doesn’t sound like you want to leave! At least promise me you’ll think about it.” His exasperation changed to realization. “A friend with a G6 or a Bombardier! You know… you just might have given me an idea.”

“Ok, ok, I promise I’ll think seriously about it, but I can’t leave just yet. Joe, I want you to help me with something first.” Taking a deep breath, I continued. “I want you to help me find Julian.”

“Maya, are you sure? The way he left you, afterwards you were a mess. It’s taken you this long to come back. Do you even have an idea where to start, or even if Julian wants you to find him?”

“No, I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. But can’t you understand? I can’t leave without trying.”

Of course I wasn’t going to tell him about Victoria the psychic and her claims about bonds of love that can’t be broken, or her prophecy that I would never know happiness until I was back in Julian’s arms. I wasn’t about to admit to anyone my insane and romantic delusion about soul mates, destiny and happy endings. Most of the time, I couldn’t even admit it to myself.

“Let me think…Where was the last place you heard from him?”

“I think he’s in Marseille. I just don’t know with any certainty. He’s somewhere out there in all that mess. His mother is in Marseille, and she was sick, last I heard.”

Of course, the old witch always played the sick card when she wanted to have her baby boy drop everything, and run to her side. “That’s probably where we should start looking, out there in the badlands around Marseille.”

“Ok, if I do this, you have to promise me that you’ll let me also start looking for a way for you to get to Leah. I’m serious. I don’t think you can count on Julian. He left you, and he’s not tried to contact you in months. I don’t see why you won’t at least move into Monaco. I can find you a place to stay. It’s getting too dangerous, living in your villa in France alone.”

I knew not to push it any further today; at least I got him to grudgingly agree he would start the search. I also knew Giovanni was my best shot at finding Julian. I couldn’t do it alone. But living in Monaco—maybe very soon under Slava’s iron fist—would be like living in a cage. I’d rather take my chances in France.

“I want you to come with me in a couple of weeks; on June twenty-first, there’s going to be a Midsummer’s Eve party given by Sheik Sakr bin Zayed from Abu Dhabi. There are some people I want you to meet. Maybe they can help you out.”

“To find Julian?”

Giovanni didn’t even need to answer; the look he gave me said it all. This would be a part of the quid pro quo. He would only help me look for Julian if he knew I was making an effort to get to safety.

It’d been so long since I’d put on a party dress and kicked up my heels. I couldn’t help thinking the old saying, “Nero fiddled, while Rome burned,” applied to Monaco. The party here was still swinging; collective denial reigned. It might be fun. So when in Rome…

“Ok it’s a deal.” I stuck out my hand. I knew Giovanni wouldn’t be above emotional blackmail and manipulation if he thought it was in my best interests. I also knew, however it played out, he wouldn’t let me down.

.

CHAPTER 7

A
NCIENT
S
ONGS

It was hard going with these ghosts on my back—all of them jostling for shotgun—as I climbed the remaining traces of the old Roman Salt Road to the Tete de Chien. From the way they were elbowing each other for position, it would appear even the dead enjoyed a nice view.

I stopped near the top to drink from my water bottle. The Med, a wide expanse of blue of such intensity it hurt my eyes, stretched to the horizon before melding into the sky. The outcroppings of stones on the mountain were bleached by the relentless sun. The granite cliffs carved by ancient winds reminded me of old bones: spines thrusting from the earth, skeletons scattered on a long-ago Roman battlefield. Even the fields of wildflowers seemed placed there, like bouquets on graves, honoring the fallen dead.

With my back aching from the strain, I felt a kinship with those Roman slaves who’d hacked a road through this nearly vertical terrain to build a monument, the Trophee des Alpes, in tribute to Caesar Augustus’ conquest over the southern Gallic tribes.

I’ve been climbing these trails—following in their sweat, and bloody footsteps—for years now, ever since Death and I had established a nodding acquaintance. So many of my loved ones are gone now, some like my daddy or Blue to old age and disease. Others succumbed to the madness of what our world has become.

While I walk these trails of ancient rock and endless sky, I feel the ache of their passing deep inside me and wish I could have done more to help them find peace while they were still alive. I try and understand the demons which so tormented Adam that the only escape he could find was hanging at the end of a rope. The despair of living that dogged Laurent’s footsteps as he walked out into the California desert—into an isolated box canyon where only rattlesnakes and coyotes roamed—and put a gun to his head.

And the ones like Kai, lost amongst the ruin of Japan, or Julian, who had vanished. They were only missing, but I couldn’t know whether they were still alive.

I felt the heat of the sun melting into my skin as I struggled up the last hundred meters to the top. I rested for a few minutes in the long shadow of Octavian’s monument to pride. I perched on a chair of stone carved into the hillside like a throne from an ancient race of giants. The whole coast spread below me: the red rocks of the Esterels past Cap d’Antibe to the west, down to the rooftops of the Palace on the Roche, and heading east to the hills in Italy.

My destination was the sanctuary of Notre Dame de Laghet, nestled in a valley about five klicks away. But there was another purpose to my trek: I was scouting a fall-back location in these hills—off the beaten track and easily defended—where I could stash some supplies in case I needed to flee the coast.

Local legends say the Madonna works miracles at Laghet. People have been going there for about four hundred years to be healed, to find solace and peace in her grace. I don’t know if it’s true. But some energy keeps drawing me back there. So often, in fact, some of the sisters of the Dominican order that tends the sanctuary—I think of them as nymphs of the evening in the Garden of Hesperidia—look on me as a likely convert, and coquettishly asked if I desire to have a deeper relationship with the Seigneur.

As I once explained to Sister Marie-Timotee, I think there are many ways to the light. I’m not locked into one spiritual belief system, though I am quite drawn to the idea that through forgiveness we can find redemption. I admire the nuns’ generosity of spirit and sincere welcome to troubled souls, regardless of their faith. I don’t think it matters which path we take—whether it be Buddhism, Islam, Judeo-Christianity or any of the multitudes of the world’s faiths—as long as we are going towards the same source, the same light.

Sister Marie-Timotee couldn’t really agree with my logic and made me say twenty Hail Mary’s to show I was playing in her house. But that exchange put to rest any ideas of measuring me for a habit and cowl.

For some reason I can’t explain, here at Laghet is where I feel close to the ones who’ve passed over. I’ve lit a thousand candles so their souls can find peace, because here is where I thought they should rest. I promised to visit often, to hold them always in my heart.

When all the old ghosts of my past were finally distracted, kicking back and enjoying the serenity of the sanctuary, I would steal away, jump in Jean Paul’s taxi and race back down the hill to my home, leaving behind those dearly departed where they belonged.

But damned if those sneaky souls didn’t, one by one, find their way back. Within days of dropping them off, there they were, haunting my dreams again. I kept hauling their tired old asses up that hill, but they kept crowding back in. I guess it’s survivor’s guilt, but I’ve been carrying their weight for so long. Now, like an old mule who’s been their beast of burden, I just want them to leave me alone.

It’s always during the last kilometer of the trek where I feel as if I’m struggling through a membrane of weird energy. Especially if I’ve come here in the last dying rays of a winter’s twilight, the barren branches stark against the sky, I imagine myself like Frodo and Sam, passing through the lands of Mordor. It’s not as though there are Orcs or Goblins to bar my way, but bleakness, a sort of sadness of the soul, lays heavy on the land.

People and pets become more aggressive here; dogs lunge at their fences, snarling in fury; drivers pass each other recklessly. On several occasions, I’ve come within a hairsbreadth of being sideswiped by a car coming up fast from behind, a blast of car horns and shouted curses making me jump to the safety of the shoulder.

The air always feels colder on the final approach to Laghet, the chill and dampness seeping into your bones. It feels like something old and malevolent must still curse the land.

As soon as I step foot into the valley that shelters Laghet, the sunshine and peace come flooding in, dissipating the chill in my soul. Typically, I first visit the crypt in the shadowy grotto at the foot of the sanctuary’s walls to light my candles in front of the altar before the statue of the Madonna. Like so many other supplicants, I’ve taped up photographs of those I hold dear, on the rough-hewn stone walls, amidst the cast-off crutches and other mementoes attesting to healing experienced and blessings received.

I place a white candle in front of the picture of Julian. In the flickering candlelight, his amber-flecked green eyes are lit by an inner glow. Against the smoothness of his golden skin, I trace the line of his nose, the curve of his sensuous lips, the light stubble that shadows his strong jaw line. Photographs are all I have left of this flesh-and-blood man, and one day I fear they will fade like the memories I still cherish of our moment in time.

Lighting candles and praying are magical rituals, whether sanctioned by the Holy Church of Rome, or practiced by a priestess in a voodoo temple. There isn’t a whole lot of difference: supplicants pray before statues of saints and icons, burn incense to dispel or summon unholy spirits, and bargain with their gods.

Today, I leave the grotto and climb the worn stone stairs that lead into the sanctuary walls, following the corridor to the chapel. I wish it were time for the evening service of Compline; the lilting voices of the Sisters lifted in harmonious praise of their lord always fills me with peace. It’s too dangerous to be out on these roads on foot at night, and even though it’s daylight on hallowed grounds, I’ve got my Glock hidden in my bag.

I enter the dim interior of the chapel and dip my fingers in the holy water before making the sign of the cross. I take in the richly decorated walls and columns covered in an intricate trompe l’oeil of faux marble, paintings of saints, and other symbols of God and power. My eyes are drawn towards the statue of Notre Dame, and inevitably upward, following the line of the architectural sleight of hand, towards the soaring vault overhead.

A faint trace of incense from the last Mass still lingers, and the air around the shadowed altar amid the flickering flames of the votive candles is thick with the rustling spirits of old. As always, I feel these spirits’ weight and my vision swims for an instant. There is a very ancient mystery here, housed within walls men have built. I stay for an hour in contemplation, laying down my burden of sorrow and confusion at the Seigneur’s feet, as the sisters taught me.

Half an hour later, I climb out of the valley, following the trail along the ridge, looking for the switchback that ascends to the old observatory, the Astrarama.

I don’t know what it was I felt at Laghet, but when I was troubled, I was drawn there. There is an ancient power in residence, healing to any who are enfolded in its embrace. The Sisters believe this healing light comes from the divine intervention of Notre Dame de Laghet.

I think there are sacred sites like Laghet scattered across our globe, pulsing with the light and energy of the universe. Mankind has built temples on these sites and created religions to harness and channel this immense power.

To me, God and the universe are one and the same. Everything under creation, whether sentient or non-sentient, comes from the same source, the same spark of light of creation and expansion that has existed since the dawn of time.

I don’t need the walls of a church or the ritual of religion to feel connected to God, though at times, in places like Laghet, the walls and the rituals do bring comfort. I see the face of God across the skies. I feel Him when I swim in the clear waters of the sea, climb through these hills surrounded only by nature, or when I scan the heavens on a moonless night through the lens of a telescope.

Then, I feel the world sing to me, and I hear and understand its song.