The Fleur-du-Mal flipped another switch and the steel cylinders began to rotate, so slowly it was barely perceptible, but just enough to give the spheres another dimension. They seemed to float or drift, and the markings seemed to swim as the stones turned in the light. We both stood mesmerized by their beauty and mystery. Then he said, “You may not agree, mon petit, on how I procured them, particularly the last one, yet this is perhaps the lone true instance where the end does justify the means.”
I didn’t agree; however, I did feel a sense of guilt because I was so excited about seeing the spheres and I couldn’t wait to study them.
The Fleur-du-Mal must have read my thoughts. “You need to lose your anemic, pathetic, obsolescent Giza morality, Zezen. Doing so would allow you to be much happier and probably do much better work. And while we are on the subject, I need to make one thing clear. I want you to tell Jack Flowers if he or any of his friends in Washington take any action whatsoever against Valery or me for the incident in Dallas, then they will sincerely regret it. I happen to have in my possession certain documents I removed from Blaine Harrington that clearly implicate several people in the Pentagon and other branches, people who could and would eliminate Jack and his entire family in one day. Jack is a smart man and I am sure he knows this to be true. But just remind him, mon petit, if you will.”
With little or no expression I told him I would relay the message. I then asked him to turn off the rotation of the cylinders and leaned over and felt the oldest sphere with my hands. Wherever it had been found, the stone had suffered from countless thousands of years of exposure to the elements. It was also the largest of the three, and its markings, or what was left of them, were spaced farther apart than on the other two. I walked around the sphere from Portugal and marveled at its sheer perfection. It was the smallest one, and its granite surface was infused with a reddish hue and had been polished until it was nearly smooth as glass. It looked as if its creators had only finished yesterday. The carved script was complex and sublime in every way. I glanced at the sphere delivered by Valery and thought back to the exhibit and Geaxi’s reaction to the Neanderthal bones.
“What do you make of the Neanderthal children’s bones found with this one?” I asked, pointing to the Caucasus sphere.
“I have no opinion … yet. That is one of the subjects we must investigate. The stones may reveal the reason in time. But, tell me, Zezen — what makes you so certain they are the bones of children? Because they are small and immature?”
My answer was another question. “Have you had any breakthroughs with the markings?”
“A few. So far, they are random and inconsequential, but there was something odd about each breakthrough, or rather each understanding. Each one came to me after waking from a dream. I awoke and could not recall a single place, image, or conversation from the dream, yet I knew the meaning of a specific marking. It is a language beyond speech. It is a language with no vowels, no consonants, and ten thousand nuances of meaning and expression. It is a language of dreams, Zezen … a language of dreams.” The Fleur-du-Mal walked over to the sphere found in Portugal. He ran his fingertips lightly over the markings, caressing the curve of the stone like a woman’s cheek and neck. “I have a name for them,” he said, letting his eyes roam from sphere to sphere.
“What is it?”
In a voice unusual for the Fleur-du-Mal, almost a whisper, he said, “Dreamstones.”
Later that evening, over a dinner served by yet another gray-haired Mannheim sister, Ilsa, the Fleur-du-Mal and I came to a working arrangement. He was adamant the spheres would stay where they were, with him. I could not have them moved to Paris, Caitlin’s Ruby, or anywhere else for study. However, I could have Opari come and live with me while I worked. I told him the others should have a chance to see the spheres, particularly his uncle, Zeru-Meq, who had a poet’s mind, and because any one of us could have a sudden insight. We negotiated and the Fleur-du-Mal compromised, saying he would allow the others open-ended visits, but only one at a time.
We both realized working together might become difficult, so we devised a variable shift schedule for our time in the milk barn. I would work days and he would work nights. All notes and observations would be written down in a common log to which we both had access.
“What if I want to leave?” I asked.
“Then leave,” he said. “You are not in prison, mon petit, except perhaps in your imagination. I will have the Mannheims assist you with any logistical concerns.”
I stared down at the fruit pudding that Ilsa had brought out for dessert. It was made from red and black currants and was delicious. I looked across the table at the Fleur-du-Mal. He was sipping cognac and preparing to light a cigar. I thought, how did I get here? How did this happen and how would it play out? It was crazy yet somehow it made no difference. All that mattered to me now were the spheres. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to admit it, but I was obsessed with them, and in almost the same way I had once been obsessed with killing the Fleur-du-Mal. I laughed out loud.
“Why do you laugh?” he asked, lighting the long Cuban cigar.
I shook my head back and forth. “Never ever did I expect to be in this … situation.”
“Nor I,” he said.
“Why do suppose we are doing this?”
“The answer is quite simple,” the Fleur-du-Mal said. He inhaled slightly, then let the smoke out slowly in a single stream. “We are, you and I, more alike than you might think. We are obsessed with the truth, Zezen … the truth.”
And thus began my long and strange alliance with the Fleur-du-Mal. The very next day I returned to West Berlin, then on to Paris by train to tell the others about this new, unlikely, and unexpected turn of events. Jack and I would also have to discuss Dallas and what the Fleur-du-Mal had said. I knew he was not lying or bluffing. Jack was no coward, but in this case I was hoping family would come first.
On the way to Paris, I stared out the window at the changing landscapes and couldn’t quit thinking about the spheres. In every passing tree and rock face, I saw the delicate and beautiful script, the intricate connecting patterns and weaves, all separate and moving backward and forward together. I kept seeing the sphere from Portugal over and over. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was the heart of the mystery. It was the one that would lead us to the Remembering.
The train arrived at the Gard du Nord Station just after sunset, and it was completely dark by the time I reached the Canal St. Martin and stepped onto the dock adjacent to the Giselle. Sailor was sitting in a folding chair, facing my direction, as if he was waiting for me.
“Well?” he said.
I laughed and hopped onto the deck of the Giselle. “Come inside,” I told him, smiling. “You won’t believe it.”
I gathered everyone around the long bench that served as a kitchen table and started talking. The true identity of the Beekeeper prompted groans, then comments of disgust in varying degrees. But when I mentioned the three spheres, it had the opposite effect. You couldn’t even hear breathing. I told them the terms of the arrangement I had made with the Fleur-du-Mal, adding that I had had little or no choice.