The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) (11 page)

The three stretched when free
from the Chevy.  The rest at the cabin had not been enough to fully
recover from the travelling of the last few days and the morning ride added to
the toll.

They made their way to the base of
the tower to wait for the elevator that would take them to the
restaurant.  A ticket booth stood at the end of a vacant velvet roped
lane.  A small red sign next to the booth read ‘30 minutes from here’.

“What is 30 minutes from here?”
asked Nicole.

“Since there is nobody else
waiting it doesn’t mean anything.  If there was a line, it would take that
long to get inside,” said Cameron.

“No line, do you think they are
open?”

“We’re about to find out.”

Cameron thought the booth was
empty.  He stepped up to the window and found a stocky Indian woman with
thick glasses and a tight ponytail sitting on a stool beneath the short
counter.  The woman’s back was flat against the wall and she was staring
intently into a paperback held a short distance from her face.  The novel
was titled ‘The Potter’s Daughter’ and there was a picture of a woman standing
beneath a willow tree on the cover.  The story must have been good because
the woman did not notice Cameron until he tapped the window and even then, she
did not look away from the book.  The Indian woman simply said, “How
many?” in a tone that was somewhere other than the small white shed where she
sat.

“Three for the restaurant,” said
Cameron.

Without looking up, she lifted
her hand above her head to a terminal on the counter, and tapped the keyboard
three times.  “Sixty-nine dollars please.”

“Just to get to the restaurant?”

She sighed, tilted her head to
the terminal screen, and then slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Three for the sky pod is
twenty-five fifty.  The tickets can be used toward the price of your
meal.”

Cameron gave her the money in
exchange for three passes.  The woman went back to her book and gave no
further acknowledgement when he wished her a good day.  Cameron rolled his
eyes and turned back to Marie and Nicole.  He extended his arm down the
velvet-roped path toward the elevators.  “Right this way,” said Cameron.

They entered a glass-fronted
atrium housing six elevator bays.  One set of elevator doors was already
opened.  A squat older man sat near the door on a short-pillowed
stool.  He took the passes Cameron handed him, scanned them with an
optical reader, and then handed them back.  “Step to the back please,”
said the man.  The three did as the older man requested and stepped to the
back wall of the elevator.  Next to the man was a metal panel with a key
in the lock.  The man placed his fingers on the key and gave his hand a
quick turn, opened the panel, and then flipped a switch that caused the
elevator doors to shut behind them.  “Hold on,” said the man and then he
turned a knob above the door switch.  A light in the panel flashed green
and the floor rose below them, pushing at their feet with a soft sudden
thrust.  The horizon filled the glass wall and below them two large glass
panels in the floor of the elevator looked down on the shaft that, at the speed
they were lifting, fell away beneath them.

“Whoa,” said Nicole.

“This is the fastest elevator in
North America,” said the squat man.  “You’ll never ride anything like it.”

“I should say not,” said Marie.

The glass carriage brought a
literal levity to their day.  Over the next minute the horizon dropped
below them and the buildings of the Toronto skyline, the parts they could see,
shrunk to miniatures.

The elevator slowed to a
stop.  “Welcome to the Sky Pod, see you after your meal.”  The squat
man smiled and opened the doors.

* * *
* *

Toronto

The three entered the restaurant
through a small wood paneled lobby.  Dark walnut furnishings accented the
room and glass walls slanted out over the city and the lake far below.

The Maître d’ stood behind a
computer topped podium.  He greeted them and tapped an image of the
seating plan on the computer display.  A virtual table lit green.  He
looked up at the three, smiled, and directed them toward the corresponding
table at the edge of the room.

Marie and Nicole, fascinated
with the view, were drawn to the huge windows.  Cameron looked to the
interior.  He had heard of the infamous wine cellar, the world’s
highest.  Through double cherry doors, Cameron could see redwood racks
stocked with bottle after bottle of wine.

“Incredible,” said Marie, gazing
to the shore far across the lake.

“It certainly is,” said Cameron,
still looking at the wine cellar.

Cameron, Marie, and Nicole each
took a seat at their window side table and the Maître d’ placed menus in front
of them.  A waiter sidled up to him and then stepped to the table as the
Maître d’ stepped away.

“Hello,” said the waiter, “my
name is Christophe.  Would you like sparkling water today?”

“That would be fine,” said
Cameron.

“May I tell you the specials we
have today?”

“I believe we know what we will
be ordering,” said Marie.

Cameron had not yet opened his
menu.  He looked across the table to Marie.  Her eyes were fixed on
the waiter’s.  “I understand that you have swan, white swan.  We
would like that.”

The waiter’s smile fell away and
his brow dropped.  He quickly scanned Marie, Cameron, and then
Nicole.  Nicole was lost in her gaze across the lake and indifferent to
the waiter’s presence.  If the waiter was trying to be nonchalant in his
reaction, he failed.  He fixed his eyes back onto Marie and then composed
himself.  His smile returned, tightened and hubristic, “Excellent choice
Madame.”  Marie handed the waiter her and Nicole’s menus, as did
Cameron.  “I will alert the chef,” said the waiter, he nodded, and then
went to the kitchen.

Cameron turned to the window and
tilted his head to the side,  “I have to say, that was efficient.  I
have never had white swan.”

“Nor will you Mister Kincaid,
the white swan has long been a symbol of the Cathar.  They have been
waiting for us.”

“They, you mean they are Cathar
as well?”

“In a matter of speaking. 
There have always been those that help us.  The believers who adhere to
the Cathar ideal but are not austere.  They do not aspire to become
Perfects.”

“Like laymen?”

“We have no hierarchy as
such.  The austere Cathar
are
Perfects and all
other believers are Credentes.  The dedications of the believers range from
follower and supporter of the traditions to that of austerity.  Nicole and
I are Credentes.”

“Perfects and Credentes.”

Not shifting her view from the
water, Nicole spoke, “Not everyone that has accepted the true belief is
prepared to separate from this world.  For some it takes many lives. 
They are still bon gens.”

“Good people.”

“Yes, the good people, the pure
ones and those that strive to be pure.  The followers of the true faith.”

“And women, they can be either
Credentes or Perfects?”

“The bon gens have always
believed in female equality.  It is yet another reason for the Rex Mundi
to despise us.  All souls are equal, and through their reoccurring
physical manifestations may take the form of either man or woman.”

“That does not sound like
equality to me,” said Cameron.

“How so?”

“I just heard you say that women
are treated equally perchance they were men in their last lives, that does not
sound like real equality.”

“That is not how we see
it.  We see souls without gender, equal regardless of their previous
manifestations.  We were the first to believe that the New Testament was
for everyone, not only the church.”

“I bet that went over well too.”

Cameron did not need to see past
the swing doors into the kitchen to know there was a disturbance.  The commotion
was audible to the table.  Raised whispers over raised whispers
escalated.  The excitement of the kitchen staff caught the attention of
the Maître d’ strolling beside a row of window tables.  Cameron saw the
Maître d’ turn toward the kitchen, brow down, mouth agape, and hands spread
away from his chest.  The Maître d’ was in an exchange with someone out of
Cameron’s view.  The Maître d’s eyes went tight and he stepped fast into
the kitchen.  The whispers died down and then the Maître d’ slid his head
into view from the doorway.  He peered at the table, said something
Cameron could not make out, and then moved back to the kitchen.

“Well.  You have their
attention,” said Cameron.

“As we should,” said Marie.

* * *
* *

Toronto

Christophe came out of the
kitchen a moment later carrying a large tray, his chin high and eyes set
forward in the stance of a professional.  The Maître d’ trailed behind
Christophe, his posture as disciplined as the waiter.  The gold foil of a
champagne bottle poked out of the silver bucket tucked under the Maître d’s
arm.  Their march as uniformed as any soldier’s, the Maître d’ and
Christophe made a sharp right angle turn toward the table.  A tall lean
bus boy scurried out of the kitchen carrying a stand for the bucket in one hand
and a stand for the tray in the other and maneuvered around them to get to the
table first.  The dance could not have been choreographed any
better.  The bus boy set up the stands, and as swiftly, Christophe and the
Maître d’ interwove around him resting the platter and bucket then set to work
immediately.  “Monsieur, Madame, Madame,” said the Maître d’.  He had
not spoken when seating them and now the words rushed from his mouth, “I am
sure that you will find this bottle to your liking.”  He held the
champagne above the table, turned from the table to the platter and picked up a
large knife.  Cameron had performed this trick many times himself and knew
what was coming next.  The Maître d’ lifted the knife high above the neck
of the bottle and then brought the knife down onto the cork with a pop,
releasing a small spout of bubbly foam.  Christophe placed four small
plates of food on the table, two in each hand, and then produced three flutes
from the tray.  As each flute was placed in front of one of the
restaurant’s special guests, the Maître d’ filled them with champagne.

Marie and Nicole held hands and
recited the Lord’s Prayer.  Cameron smiled across the table at Marie when
the prayer was finished and she returned the smile in her eyes.

Christophe placed four more
small plates onto the quickly crowding table and the bus boy leaned over
Cameron’s other shoulder to fill the water glasses.

“Today you will be having an
assortment of tastes from our kitchen.  I am sure you will find them
appropriate and to your liking.”  Christophe gestured to each of the
plates and began to list off the delicacies that occupied them.  “Here you
will find morels stuffed with garlic and almond, olives anchova, pesto rossa
made with sun-dried tomatoes and bell pepper, no cheese in this,” Christophe
winked after he added that necessary qualifier.  He then went to the next
plate, “Wild mushroom, morel again, and asparagus ravioli, also no cheese,
zucchini carpaccio, crispy eggplant with tomatoes and basil, baby artichokes in
a black truffle sauce, and lastly, chanterelle mushroom on wheat berry risotto
with sage leaves.”

Christophe stood straight and
placed his hands together in front of him.

“The presentation is excellent,”
said Cameron, “very…  Provencal.”

“Very good Monsieur,” said
Christophe, then closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Christophe then glanced down at
Marie.  Cameron could tell that Christophe was obviously waiting for a
comment.  Marie placed both of her hands flat on the table, looked across
to Cameron, and then surveyed the foods Christophe had presented.

Christophe drew his next few
words slowly, “Our apologies Madame, perhaps we have offered too many mushroom
dishes?”

Languidly Marie turned her head
up toward Christophe, his opened mouth smile turning to an inviting gape, his
head beginning to droop.  “Disappointing,” said Marie, “mushrooms in any
form disagree with me.”  Christophe’s head shot back up and his smile went
full, “I am sure Madame will find these mushroom’s very much to her liking.” 
The Maître d’ approached the table slightly nudging Christophe for position and
produced a plate domed with a silver lid.  “I think you will find these
sweets to your liking as well,” said the Maître d’.  He placed the plate
on the table and bowed.  Christophe and the bus boy bowed as well. 
“Bénisse, personne n'est content que nous,” they said almost in unison. 
Marie and Nicole bowed their heads back at them and repeated the
greeting.  The Maître d’ then, along with the bus boy, turned away from the
table and headed back toward the kitchen.  Christophe lifted his hands,
still clasped together, to his chest, “If you need anything, let me know. 
The bus boy will be bringing some bread shortly.  We are baking it fresh
for you.”