The Inquisitor's Key (25 page)

Avignon
The Present

ELISABETH BROUGHT DESCARTES’S COFFEE AND MY TEA;
by now, she and Jean considered the detective to be a regular fixture at breakfast—the rule rather than the exception—and I made a mental note to ask, when I settled my tab at the end of my stay, if they needed to add an item to my bill: “Descartes’s breakfasts, 40 euros.” It no longer startled me to see him tuck a croissant into his pocket; I halfway expected him to start showing up with a Thermos and a lunchbox so he could load up on coffee, fruit, cheese, and baguettes.

This morning Descartes was branching out. He loaded the grain mill with oats, bran, and sunflower seeds, pressed the button, and presto, out came fresh-ground muesli, which he topped with dried cherries and fresh yogurt. He sampled the concoction, smacked his lips, and nodded in approval. “
Bon
. Healthy, too.” He took a bigger bite. “So, I’ve been looking for connections between
the church in Charlotte and the research place that contacted you.”

“The Institute for Biblical Science?”

“
Exactement
. As we thought, it’s no coincidence. The preacher, this Reverend Jonah, he’s on the board of directors of the institute. And the scientist—”

“Newman, right? Dr. Adam Newman?”

“
Oui,
Newman. Guess what else he is doing?”

“Uh…calculating the exact moment when the Antichrist will appear?”

“Ha! Maybe that, too. But for sure he’s working on—”

He was interrupted by a phone call—my phone, not his. I glanced at the display.
Tennessee Bureau of Investigation
. I felt a surge of dread. The last call I’d gotten from this number had brought word of Rocky Stone’s death in Amsterdam. “Sorry, Inspector, I need to take this.” He nodded as I answered.

“Doc? It’s Steve Morgan at the TBI. I hope I’m not waking you up.”

“Not at all. I’m just having breakfast with a French detective. But why aren’t
you
sleeping? Isn’t it two in the morning there?”

“Three,” he said. “I had some news I thought you’d want to hear. We swooped down tonight—us, the DEA, and the FBI—and rounded up the outfit that killed Rocky and his undercover agent. We owed it to Rocky. The guy he had the shoot-out with in Amsterdam—”

“Morales?”

“Yeah, Morales. The feds recovered his cell phone. It was a gold mine: all his contacts. We picked up one of them in Tennessee, two in Atlanta, four in Miami.”

“Is that everybody?”

“No, but good enough for now,” he said. “The top guys are in Colombia; they’re out of reach, at least for now. But we got everybody who had a direct connection to the Sevierville operation. You can quit looking over your shoulder now—at least on this account.”

I drew a deep breath and let it out. “That’s a relief. Have you told Rocky’s wife yet?”

“I’ll go see her at a decent hour. After she’s had a chance to take the kids to school. She’ll be glad we got these guys, but it’ll be tough for her to hear, too. She’s still a wreck.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll go see her and the boys when I get back from France. If you get a chance, tell everybody I said ‘good work.’ I’ll do my part at the trial.”

“Thanks, Doc. Stay safe.”

I laid the phone down and picked up my tea. The sun was bright and the day would get hot, but not for another hour or so, and the warm mug felt good cradled in my hands. I took another breath to reground myself in the garden, in Avignon, in the case at hand. “Sorry, where were we?”

“The Institute for Biblical Science. Newman, the scientist.”

“Oh, right. Can you tell if he’s an actual, for-real scientist? Not some charlatan who bought a Ph.D. online?”

Descartes shrugged. “I don’t know where he got the Ph.D., or how good it is, but he’s a molecular biologist. So he’s trying to make the perfect red cow for Israel, using DNA from the cow that was almost perfect. He—”

“Wait. They’re not just breeding cows, they’re
cloning
cows?”

“
Oui.
Cloning. Trying, but they do not succeed yet.”

Alarm bells were tolling like crazy in my head. “And he’s working with this preacher, Reverend Jonah—the guy who wants to switch on the doomsday machine? And these guys want the bones from the Palace of the Popes? Why?” But I already knew the answer, even before I finished the question. “Good God, they’re hoping to get DNA from the bones. They want to clone Jesus. The high-tech Second Coming of Christ.”

“Sure,” said Descartes. “If you can clone a cow, why not Jesus?”

I set down my cup and raised my arms. “Because it’s crazy and impossible,” I sputtered. “There can’t possibly be undam
aged DNA in those bones—not nuclear DNA, not the kind you’d need for cloning. Maybe,
maybe,
there’s mitochondrial DNA, but that’s just little pieces; it’s not the whole set of blueprints.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Very sure. Besides, it’s not unique to individuals. It gets passed down from mother to child, generation after generation. Your mitochondrial DNA is identical to your mother’s, Inspector. And to
her
mother’s. And her mother’s mother’s.”

Descartes considered this. “Jesus had the same mitochondrial DNA as his mother,
oui
?”

“
Oui,
Inspector.”

“So: the same as the Virgin Mary.” He raised his eyebrows. “Another virgin birth, then,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“But mitochondrial DNA can’t be cloned into a human being,” I practically shouted. “It’s scientifically impossible.”

He shrugged. “All it takes is another miracle,
et voilà.
”

I wanted to take him by the collar and shake him. “Damn it, Descartes, these aren’t even the bones of Jesus!”

“Ah, you are wrong, Docteur—they
are
the bones of Jesus. There is scientific proof, remember? The carbon-14 report from Miami. The bones are two thousand years old.”

“That was total bullshit, Inspector. Stefan faked that. You know that.”

“But the preacher, he does
not
know. He has faith in this report. If we tell him it is bullshit, he won’t believe us. He will say
we
are controlled by demons.”

Despair clutched at my heart, and I found myself thinking the unthinkable.
Is the crazy preacher right about the end of the world? Is it time?

AVIGNON
1335

IS IT TIME?
SIMONE COUNTS THE STRIKES OF THE
bell ringing in the Carmelite church—ten—and realizes with despair that he has another hour to wait. To wait for her.

He sets to work tidying the studio but quickly realizes that it’s hopeless. The place is a mess; it is, after all, a workshop, crammed with brushes, boards, fabric, pigments, solvents, and a thousand other implements and ingredients. He uncovers the small portrait, then covers it again, so he can watch her face as he unveils it. Realizing he has no chair to offer her, he rakes brushes and tools off the worktable, shoves them underneath it, and drapes the rough boards with a clean drop cloth. He paces, then perches restlessly on the table, then paces again. Sixty minutes is an eternity.

Finally the bell begins to toll eleven, the hour of Mass, through the iron latticework of the steeple. By the second peal, he knows that she will not come. She
should
not come, he re
alizes—it could compromise her, and he would not wish to add that to her troubles. But then there is a knock at the wooden door, which he has left slightly ajar, and his heart surges when she calls his name.

“Yes! Please come in! I feared you would not come.”

“I feared you would not be here when I did.” Laura de Noves smiles. “What a lot of worry we’ve both wasted, Master Simone.” She is wearing a black shawl around her shoulders and a black scarf over her head; they mute her beauty and the elegance of her dress, but even so, she must surely have been the most striking woman in the streets of Avignon.

“Was it difficult for you to get here?”

“Not very. I only had to poison my husband and strangle my maid.”

Again he is startled and delighted by her humor. He wishes he could spend hours learning her habits of conversation, of mind, of movement. But he knows this will likely be his only chance to indulge his curiosity.

She points a silk-gloved hand at the small covered rectangle on the easel. “Is that it? Is that me?” He nods. “And did you fix my eyes?”

“I think so. I hope so. And did you bring your looking glass?”

“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?” She pulls a small silver-handled mirror from some inner pocket, some secret fold of the dress.

“I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I don’t always keep my promises, Master Simone, but I do try.” She smiles, though the smile has sadness in it. He sees the poignancy in her expression at the same moment he hears the poignant chanting of the Carmelite nuns. She lays the mirror on the worktable, then unties the scarf and folds it, setting it on the table, too, followed by the shawl. Picking the mirror back up, she inspects her hair, adjusts the cloisonné comb in some infinitesi
mal way Simone can’t detect, and then walks to the easel. “Show me, Master Simone. How did you describe what you’ve painted—my ‘own true self’? Show me my own true self, Master Simone.”

Nervously, as if unveiling his very first painting for the very first time, the grizzled artist takes the cloth by the upper corners and lifts it. As it slides slowly up the picture, the threads catch now and then on the textured paint; the slight rustle of the moving fabric is the only sound in the room. Then he hears her breathe—a quick intake, almost a gasp. He dares to breathe now, too, and risks a glance at her.

He is shocked by what he sees. He’d hoped she would smile, perhaps even laugh or clap her hands in delight. Instead, she looks like a mother who has just witnessed the death of her only child. Her eyes are filled with anguish; her right hand flutters across her lips and chin and neck; her left hand, still holding the mirror, drops to her side. She closes her eyes and hangs her head, and her shoulders begin to shake.

“Oh, my lady, I have displeased you. I…don’t know what to say. Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, please.”

“You have deceived me, Master Simone,” she whispers. “This is not…my own…true…self. Perhaps it once was. But not now. I am not that woman now. Perhaps I never was.”

“What do you mean? Tell me, I beg you—I cannot bear this.” Never in all his years of painting has his work inspired such hope followed by such despair, and never in these years has he been brought to tears by a critic. Yet Simone of Siena, Knight of Naples, is crying now, too, and the chanting nuns seem to give voice to his pain. “Where is the fault? What is untrue? How have I disappointed you so badly?”

“You’ve put flesh and blood on your canvas, Master Simone. You should have painted stone instead. Marble, covered with words. I am nothing but stone and verses now. Even my heart has turned to stone. My husband prefers his mistress; the man who
claims to love me sings my praises to everyone but me.” She turns away and steps behind the easel so she will not have to see the portrait any longer.

Simone does not speak for some time. Finally he shakes his head. “Oh, poor woman. Oh, foolish man—what has he done to you?”

He takes a step toward her, looks closely at her face. “Perhaps you are right; perhaps I have not portrayed you faithfully. It was difficult to see your features well in the dim light of the church, from so far away. I should take a closer look, in this light.” He is an arm’s length away now—closer than he has ever been to her, except for that brief conversation in the cloistered garden. He reaches out, tucks the stained knuckle of his index finger beneath her chin, and lifts her head slightly. He leans closer, adjusts his hand so that he holds her chin lightly between thumb and index finger, and then turns her head slowly from side to side, scrutinizing the planes and highlights and hollows of her face. “I did my best,” he says at last, “but you are right, I must confess. I did not capture your true self. Here, for instance.” Lifting his other hand, he brings his index finger to a spot just above the right corner of her mouth. “You have a little mole right here.” He grazes it with his fingertip—perhaps he strokes it lightly, or perhaps his finger is simply trembling. “I failed to see this mole. I’m sorry. I should have included it—it punctuates the line of your mouth.”

He leans back to glance at the portrait, but his hands do not leave her face, and now his finger traces her upper lip. “I am sure I have the bow of this lip right,” he says, “but I fear that I have not given enough ripeness to your bottom lip.” He slides the finger along her lower lip now, pressing slightly; the finger catches and tugs on the lip. She is quaking now, and her breath is fast and ragged. He takes the lip between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and rolling it, and she gasps, then whimpers softly. “Your jawline,” he murmurs, stroking its edge, “I know I did not get that wrong. But these wisps of hair on your neck, I could
not see them in the gloom.” Both his hands now float across the loose tendrils of hair; he does not touch the skin of her neck, only the down, and it feels to her as if a spring breeze is caressing her. His hand returns to her mouth, his fingers tugging and teasing the front of her lips, then grazing her teeth, then easing between their edges. “If only the Mass had made you smile,” he whispers, “I could have shown your teeth.” He presses the edge of his hand against them; they part slightly, taking in the meaty flesh and then clamping down, causing him to groan. Her face is flushed, her breath is ragged, and her pupils dilated almost to the outer edge of her irises. He slides his other hand down her arm and lifts it, raising the mirror. “Look in this glass again and tell me now: Is this a woman of stone, or of flesh and blood and fire?” She stares at the image she sees there; her breath catches, her knees buckle, and she sags against him. He lifts her with his paint-stained hands and sinewed arms, carries her to the table, and with exquisite tenderness begins to undress her.

HE MAKES TWO SMALL CHANGES IN THE PORTRAIT,
painting bare chested as she cleans herself with a damp cloth he has handed her. Near the corner of her mouth, he adds the mole, and on the bodice of her dress, between her breasts, he adds a small tongue of flame. As he finishes the flame, she buttons her dress, smooths the silk, and repins her hair. She inspects herself once more in the mirror, comparing herself with the portrait. This time she smiles as she tucks the glass back into the hidden pocket. They do not speak. She takes the paintbrush from his hand and lays it on the ledge of the easel, then places his hand on her breastbone, exactly where he has portrayed the flame. Pressing his hand tightly against her, she kisses him on the mouth, and then on each cheek, and then she slips out the door and into the street that will carry her from him.

The final, fading notes of the Carmelite choir waft in through
the open door, entwining with the dissipating scent of her perfume and their musk. He wanders to the table, picks up the cloth she has used, and presses it to his face, inhaling their scent. It is the scent, he thinks, of forbidden fruit. The fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

The next day he bundles up the portrait and sends it to Petrarch. He puts no note in the package; nothing but the picture. Besides breaking faith with Giovanna, Simone has broken faith with the man who is both his client and his friend. He knows this, and he suspects there will be a price to be paid, a penance to be done. But it must be a private penance, he resolves, one that he must impose on himself; a burden he must carry alone, to spare the feelings of those he has wronged. Inextricably bound to his memory of how she caught fire beneath his touch, Simone will bear the burden of his secret guilt.

Two weeks later, a courier brings him a package from Petrarch. It contains twenty-five florins—the balance of the fee for the portrait—and a poem. Petrarch has actually done it: taken Simone’s jest in earnest and penned a poem praising the portrait. Simone scans the poem’s opening lines, which declare that if all the best painters competed for a thousand years, they could capture only a fraction of Laura’s matchless beauty. The next lines proclaim, “Surely my Simone was in Heaven, the place my gracious lady comes from; there he saw her, and portrayed her on paper, to prove down here—where souls are veiled in bodies—that such a lovely face exists.”

Martini reads it a second time, and then a third. “Where souls are veiled in bodies,” he says aloud, shaking his head and adding, “foolish man.” He crumples the page with the strong, stained hands that gripped her ardent flesh.

A FEW DAYS AFTER RECEIVING PETRARCH’S POEM
and money, Simone receives a new commission, for a project he
hopes will distract him from his longing and guilt: frescoes in the papal palace—in the pope’s own bedroom! The room is high in the Tower of Angels, the massive stone fortification that Pope Benedict’s army of workers has created during the past year. Just fourteen months ago they notched the massive foundation blocks into bedrock; now, the masons are capping the tower with crenellated battlements.
Curious,
Martini thinks.
Siena’s cathedral, dedicated to God, took fifty years to complete, but this immense structure dedicated to the pope—papal palace, fortress, and strongbox—has sprung up overnight.

Simone identifies himself to a guard at the tower’s entry portal. The guard inspects him, clearly finding him lacking or distasteful in some way—perhaps it’s the odor of turpentine, or perhaps it’s the scent of foreigner that the French guard detects. Nevertheless, the guard waves him in, pointing to the back of the room. “Go see Monsieur Poisson. Architect and master of the works.” Poisson is hunched over a mountain of drawings, invoices, receipts, and notes. He looks up, weary and bleary, as Simone bows and announces himself in French. “Simone Martini, painter of Siena, at your service.”

“Martini? Ah, yes, Martini—you’re here to help the French painters in the pope’s chamber.”

Simone shrugs. “I prefer to think that the French painters are helping me,” he jokes, but Poisson doesn’t notice.

He leads Martini up two stories via a spiral staircase built into one corner of the tower. The pope’s chamber, the fourth floor of the square tower, measures some thirty feet square, with walls twenty feet high: room for buckets and buckets of paint. Martini counts two dozen workers—a third of them masons and plasterers, a third of them painters, and a third of them spectators or bosses, he can’t tell which. Scaffolds scale every wall, from floor to ceiling. At floor level, painters weave in and out of the legs of the scaffolds, covering a blue background with loops and swirls of golden vines, their branches populated by legions of
birds. A level higher, a troop of plasterers has just finished applying a fresh coat of smooth plaster, and painters elbow them out of the way, eager to apply the blue background paint. They must work swiftly, applying not just the background but also the vines and birds, before the damp plaster dries. On the third and highest platforms, masons are applying the base coat of rough plaster to the top courses of bare stone. It is this level, the last five feet of wall below the ceiling, that Martini has been hired to paint—this, plus the deep recesses where windows have been notched into the massive walls.

Simone can’t help feeling disappointment. The best part of the room—the largest, lowest portion—has been given over to the French painters, and clearly it’s being wasted on them, these daubers with their simple swirls of gold on blue. Child’s play! Simone could paint vines and birds left-handed—with his eyes closed!

He clambers up the ladder to the top level of scaffolding—his level—and surveys the bustling room from there. He has not yet settled on the theme for his frescoes, but he knows it will be something far more challenging, far more impressive. Something with depth, detail, and drama; something that will move the pope to point to the scenes and say, “Bring us the painter who has done these, that we may reward him and exalt him above all other artists!”

His reverie is interrupted by a shout from below. “Martini!” He looks down; the chief of the contingent of French painters, Jean d’Albon, is waving to catch his eye. “We need to mix more tempera,” d’Albon says. “Can you bring us more eggs? Twenty eggs?” Simone glances at the clay pots in which the powdered pigments of red, blue, green, and gold have been stirred with egg yolk to moisten them and glue the paint to the plaster; indeed, the pots are nearly empty. Simone considers refusing—is d’Albon assigning him this menial errand simply to establish the pecking order?—but, in fact, all the French painters appear to be busy,
and d’Albon puts his hands together in prayer posture, bows slightly, and adds, “Soon, when you are hurrying to finish your magnificent frescoes, I will bring eggs to you.” Simone can’t resist smiling—d’Albon will almost certainly never play the errand boy; he has apprentices for that—but the good-humored offer acknowledges that Simone is d’Albon’s equal, and the other painters cannot fail to have noticed the gesture.