'The knight searching for the Grail?' she asked.
'Percival was the first of many and the only one who actually saw it.'
'It has been a while since I read Eschenbach,' Herr Bachman said.
'The gist of it is that Percival found his way to the Castle of the Fisher King. At a banquet, Percival witnessed a procession of knights and ladies carrying an ivory lance and a gold chalice through the great hall. Blood dripped from the tip of the lance continuously, but all of it was caught by the chalice. As Percival watched he was fascinated, of course, but he had been warned about talking too much, since he was such a young man, and so he was afraid to ask about what he had witnessed. That was his undoing. If he had only made enquiry about it, the Grail would have been his, the Fisher King would have been healed of his lameness, and the dying kingdom would have bloomed with life again. As he failed to do that, he fell asleep and awakened sometime later utterly alone in a wasteland.
'Once I realised Eschenbach's story was not a fairytale set in a far-away land but was actually an allegory about the fate of Cathars - who had not yet perished but were on the verge of extinction when Eschenbach wrote his story - I began to read about the local families, and realised the Grail Castle of Eschenbach's romance was Montségur, the last fortress of the Cathars still able to resist the Vatican's army. At that point I had to come here and see everything for myself.'
After lunch Rahn took them into the
Grotto de Lombrives.
With its jasmine-coloured columns and glistening crystalline stalactites hanging like the teeth of a shark, the cave was one of the great treasures of southern France. Deep inside they found the Cathedral, a subterranean vault that was larger than Europe's grandest cathedrals.
'The Iberians worshipped their sun god here, long before the Greeks arrived,' Rahn told them. 'After the crusade began in 1209, the Cathars in the Ariège valley gravitated here for their services, since the Church had reclaimed all their churches and replaced the sympathetic priests with Dominicans - the Order which conducted the Inquisition.'
Later in one of the side vaults he showed them a faded painting of a lance dripping blood into a cup. 'It is the Blood Lance that Percival encountered in the Grail Castle,' Rahn told them. 'The image was more popular amongst the Cathars than the Cross and for good reason. It represented knighthood and had no equivalent within the church. So it became their emblem of faith.'
'If the Lance always bleeds,' Elise observed, 'and yet the cup is never filled, it must symbolise the eternal and unrequited passion between the lovers.'
Rahn looked at her with interest. 'I had not thought of that,' he said, 'but it is certainly something to consider.'
'But would they have understood the symbolism of the male and female in the cup and the lance?' Bachman asked. 'I mean isn't that sort of thing a modern concept?'
'I expect for a Cathar the power of the image was the blood itself, not the Lance or the Cup. They would have understood the image as an expression of continual renewal and potency.'
'Like their passions,' Elise whispered.
Summer, 1931.
There was no explicit understanding, certainly no pact, between the three of them. No one, least of all Herr Bachman, attempted to established boundaries or even to discuss the nature of what they were pursuing. But in the days that followed all three of them became increasingly comfortable with their evolving relationship. The Bachmans were good travellers. They were curious about the countryside and local customs, even the dialect, which was peculiar to the region. Herr Bachman asked numerous informed questions about the fortresses. He had fought in the war and had briefly attained the battlefield rank of major before his discharge. Elise was more affected by the love affairs, and followed the marriages
and the families and the affairs of the heart with the
enthusiasm of a woman addicted to nineteenth century French novels. Rather than growing jealous of his wife's obvious affection for their guide, Bachman would sometimes take occasion to leave them alone. Not for long and rarely in perfect privacy, but he seemed to give them their freedom at least to talk for a few moments. As the days passed Rahn was frequently tempted to say something during these moments of solitude - to ask about visiting her in Sète or perhaps coming to Berlin the following winter. He was desperate to know if her interest was something more than flirtation, which even her husband now seemed to encourage. The truth was he was falling in love, and though he knew he had no hope of persuading her to leave her husband's fortune, he was willing to do anything in order to have an affair with her.
Still, one word too far and it could all be ruined. He had no idea if she understood what she had inspired, nor any notion of how seriously she took their flirtation. She certainly enjoyed his company, but that was not the same thing as meeting him after she was sure her husband had fallen asleep! If something was going to happen, he was determined that she must first give a signal, but no signal came. She was happy talking with him alone or in the company of her husband. She grew comfortable settling quite squarely on his lap and letting the miles roll by. Sometimes she leaned back against him, her lovely hair blowing over his face. He was a fantasy for her; that much he had determined. How seriously she took the fantasy, he could not decide. Sometimes it seemed she would fall into his arms if he only had her to himself long enough. Sometimes he was sure she would protest violently if he were even to ask for a kiss.
At dinner one evening following a day scrambling over the splendid ruins of Minerve in the north of the region, Herr Bachman suggested they dispense with formalities. They were going to be travelling together for a few more days and it was silly not to relax a bit. They had become friends, and they weren't still in the nineteenth century, after all! He was Dieter. His wife was Elise. Rahn answered that he liked to be called Otto.
There followed, as custom demanded, a toast to their new friendship - and the pleasant shifting of grammar from the
Sie
of strangers to the
Du
of intimates. They made a night of it, Bachman losing his habitual stiffness and seemingly pathological fear of impropriety. Elise as well was less cautious, more prone to laugh. With the shifting of grammar and the use of personal names, it became obvious to all three of them that the tour must end, but their friendship ought not. They must stay in touch! A visit now and then, letters to keep informed. It was only natural amongst friends!
Very late in the evening, the waiters hovering in the shadows to encourage them to finish their party, Bachman said, 'If you are falling in love with my wife, Otto, it is perfectly fine with me.' At Rahn's look of surprise, Bachman added, 'I mean it! Only do not make a fool of me! I will not be any man's fool!'
'That goes without saying,' Rahn answered cavalierly. He shifted his gaze to Elise. 'The real question is whether Elise has any interest.'
'I cannot help you with that! Women are impossible to comprehend! Are you interested in his honorable affections, my dear?'
Mortified at her husband's crass behaviour, Elise fixed her gaze on her wine glass. 'You are quite drunk, Dieter. I think we had better get to our rooms.'
But Bachman was in no mood for his bed. He went on for a while about the custom of the Cathars to write letters to their lovers pledging their eternal passion. It wasn't really such a bad idea so long as it left marriages intact. He did not mind at all if they were in love with one another so long as it remained pure! 'Eye batting is another matter,' he muttered with less humour. 'That much has been going on from the start between you two!'
*
Later, on the stairway, Bachman nearly toppled over, and Rahn had to help Elise get her husband up the last steps. Once inside the darkened room he asked if she needed help getting him to bed.
'If you don't mind! He's already out, I think!'
She was furious with Bachman, who was usually better than this, and maybe irritated as well that Herr Rahn had not protested at Bachman offering her affections like a market place panderer -
pure intentions
or not! After they had dumped him on the bed, Rahn bent down on one knee and started untying his shoes. It was a very decent thing to do, she thought, but slavish as well. He was their guide not a valet! 'I'll take care of him,' Elise said.
Rahn looked up at her. 'It is no problem. I have had a night or two like this myself, and it is really best to get one's shoes off.'
Elise was breathing hard from the exertion of wrestling with Bachman, but it seemed to her suddenly as if it was from the excitement of their being finally and completely alone. 'Let me get that!' she said, and brushed his shoulder with her breast as she bent to remove Bachman's second shoe. She had not meant to do it, but for a moment she did not pull back.
Bachman forgotten, Rahn pulled his arm away but only so that he could touch her hair, pushing it back from her face to a have better look - or to kiss her, she could not be sure!
Elise dropped her husband's foot and stood up as if scalded by his fingers. 'Go to your room, Herr Rahn.'
He stood, but he did not retreat. He faced her squarely, his smile not nearly so drunken as she had imagined. 'Will you come with me?'
'Go! Or I will tell Dieter how you have behaved!'
'I don't think you will.' He took her hand, and though she shook her head as he held it, she could not force herself to pull away from him. 'I think you want to come with me,' he said. He moved closer, meaning to kiss her if she would let him.
'Maybe I do,' she said, dropping her chin away from his advance. 'Maybe I want you more than you can know, but what I want and what I will do are two different matters entirely. Now kindly leave!'
Rahn smiled, convinced at last, and turned toward the door. 'I expect a great many people envy your husband his wealth.' He stopped at the door and leaned against the door-jamb quite comfortably. 'I know almost any man would envy him for having such a beautiful wife, but do you want to know why I envy him?'
'I haven't the slightest idea, nor do I care to hear your nonsense.'
'It is the loyalty you show him. If you were mine I would not risk—'
'But I am not yours.'
'Not tonight.'
'Not ever, Herr Rahn.'
'It's Otto, or have you forgotten already?'
'Go!' she whispered, 'and close the door behind you.'
Alone, Elise did not sleep. She thought instead about the young man in the next room. She heard him moving about, then undressing. She heard the springs of his bed, and thought, 'I could be there instead of here. I could have all that I want as easily as knocking on his door. And no one need ever know. . .'
Why she didn't go she could not have said.
Friday March 7, 2008.
Malloy's plane landed in London. Three hours later he was in the air again and headed for Hamburg. By mid-morning he passed through customs and saw a well-built sandy haired American holding a sign for Mr Thomas. The man was in his late thirties and had an open friendly face, broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a wedding ring that looked welded in place. 'I think you're looking for me,' Malloy told him.
'I'm Josh Sutter, Mr Thomas.' Sutter passed his business card, which Malloy took without offering his own.
'It's T. K. Nice to meet you.' They shook hands.
'My partner has got our ride at the kerb.'
The ride was a bright red SUV they had rented the day before. The partner was Special Agent Jim Randal. Randal was polite but more suspicious than his partner. He wanted ID. These were presented on all sides, two badges and Malloy's suitably worn and faded State Department ID with his title, Certified Public Accountant.
Randal was probably Sutter's age, but he looked older and certainly more jaded. He carried some extra weight and was losing his hair. After a few sentences about the weather and Malloy's flight, Malloy was willing to bet Randal was New York born and raised. Sutter's accent had touches of New York, but it originally came from the Midwest, somewhere north of Chicago, he thought. Wisconsin, maybe. Sutter certainly had the manner of an honest hardworking farm boy who has moved to the city. Despite their overt differences Malloy could see these guys were long-time partners and good friends.
'Royal Meridien okay?' Josh Sutter asked.
'Is that where you two are staying?' Malloy asked.
'The German detective who's working with us got us a discount.' Big smile at this. Who didn't like a five star room on a government per diem?
'Nice rooms?'
'They're great!'
'Sounds good.'
Having bugged the FBI agents' rented SUV a matter of hours after they had landed in Hamburg, David Carlisle knew that a Mr Thomas from the State Department had been dispatched from New York. Carlisle had assumed Mr Thomas was an alias of Thomas Malloy and proceeded to the airport for his first look at the man. Carlisle followed at a discreet distance as Malloy and Sutter left the area and joined Agent Randal, who was waiting in the SUV. Once their vehicle pulled away from the kerb, a taxi slipped forward and Carlisle climbed into the front seat beside Helena Chernoff. 'Is it definitely Malloy?' he asked her.