Always a slave to punctuality, she was among the first to arrive, and when Pierre knocked on Luc’s door to let him know Sara Mallory was there, he felt a quivering in his belly, schoolboy nerves.
She looked small and light and lovely.
She was apprehensive too, and frosty. He could tell by the way her peach-glossed lips were pressed together in a forced smile. He greeted her and pecked both cheeks in an official manner, as if they had never been intimate. Her skin was fine, almost translucent, showing the pink blush of capillaries under the surface. Before he backed away he got a whiff of her hair. No chemical fragrance; the scent was hers alone and he remembered the way he used to enjoy pulling out the clip and letting her light-brown hair spill over her chest where he nuzzled its tan silkiness against her breasts.
‘You look well,’ he said.
‘So do you.’
She had her own style. She turned a masculine black leather motorcycle jacket feminine with a turquoise silk scarf that matched her eyes. Her suede skirt and calf-length boots fit tight over maroon tights.
‘How was your flight?’
‘Uneventful.’ She looked at the ground. ‘Can I put my bags somewhere?’
He paced the circle, waiting for her to come out of her caravan. The midday sun was bright but at this season it failed to warm the earth much. She hadn’t changed clothes; he was glad of that. She looked good, very like the Sara he had known.
‘Is it okay?’ he asked.
‘Better than most.’
‘We have good funding for a change.’
‘So I understand.’
He smiled and gestured towards the abbey. ‘Before the others arrive, I want to show you the original manuscript.’
Dom Menaud was happy to once again retrieve the book from its resting place in an inlaid rosewood box on his desk. But the old monk seemed uncomfortably fussy around Sara’s prettiness and he quickly excused himself for Sext prayers.
Left behind, they sat in opposing armchairs. Luc watched her turn pages, taking delight in every raised eyebrow and facial twinge. She held the book on her lap. The tightness of her skirt pinned her legs demurely together.
She finally looked up and said, ‘Everything about this is extraordinary.’
‘As advertised?’
She nodded. ‘And you still haven’t had it translated?’
‘We’re working on it. What do you make of the plants?’
‘They’re somewhat stylised. Not exactly camera lucida. I have some ideas but I’d rather not commit yet. I need to see the cave paintings first. Is that okay?’
‘Of course! I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We’re just at the beginning of a long process.’
She closed the book and handed it back avoiding his eyes and suddenly said, ‘Thank you for including me on the team. It was good of you.’
‘The entire commission was supportive. You’ve developed quite the reputation.’
‘Still, you could have gotten someone else.’
‘I didn’t want someone else. I wanted you.’
He regretted the poor choice of words but he couldn’t take them back. Her response was an icy, mute stare.
Through the abbot’s window Luc saw a taxi approaching. Relieved, he said, ‘Ah, another arrival.’
By nightfall the entire group of principals had checked in. The last to show up was the Israeli, Zvi Alon, who drove his own rental car, and after being shown his caravan, complained that he had no need for all that space.
Also there for the occasion, at the insistence of the Minister of Culture, was the culture editor from Le Monde. In exchange for exclusive access to the opening day of the excavation, the publisher had agreed to embargo their reportage until clearance arrived from the ministry.
Luc felt the evening required a touch of ceremony so after a dinner of a thick lamb stew he assembled everyone around a dancing fire, broke out several bottles of decent champagne and delivered a short welcome address in English.
Holding his glass aloft, he declared he was honoured to be their leader. He lauded the French government and the CNRS, the French National Centre for Scientific Research, for acting expeditiously, and he was pleased to have the full commitment for a probationary year of study with the likelihood of a further triennial programme after the preliminary report was filed.
He made the introductions. Team Ruac, as he called them, consisted of the best and the brightest in their disciplines, an international group of geologists, cave-art gurus, lithics, bone, and pollen experts, conservationists and cavers known to each other through years of collaboration and debate. There was even a bat expert, a diminutive man named Desnoyers, who shyly bowed at his introduction then disappeared to the periphery like a small roosting winged mammal.
Finally, Luc acknowledged his cadre of students, many from his own programme at Bordeaux, and instructed Pierre and Michael to pass out Team Ruac fleeces with the official logo of the excavation – a stylised bison.
Just then, there was a commotion from near the stables and a short fat man, led by a lantern-shining aide, called out, ‘Hello! Hello! I’m sorry I’m late. It’s Monsieur Tailifer, the Council President from Périgueux! Where is Professor Simard? Is it too late to address the group?’
Luc welcomed the hyperventilating politician from the local préfecture, gave him some champagne and a crate to stand on then politely listened as he subjected the gathering to an overly long, overly flowery, overly obvious speech.
Afterwards, Luc and Monsieur Tailifer chatted by the fire and drank another glass. The politician waved off an invitation to visit the cave saying he was far too claustrophobic to do any spelunking but he would be an excellent ‘above-ground’ advocate for their work in the area. He mentioned he was already thinking about a future tourist attraction, a ‘Ruac II’ facsimile cave for the mass public, similar to Lascaux II, and wanted to know what Luc thought about that. Luc patiently observed that they hadn’t yet begun to study ‘Ruac I’ but in the fullness of time, many things were possible.
When Tailifer asked how they had come to camp on the grounds of the Abbey, Luc told him about his amusingly rude treatment by the Mayor of Ruac and hearing this, the politician clucked knowingly.
‘He’s a disgrace, that Bonnet, a jerk, if I may say, but please don’t quote me,’ he spat heatedly. ‘I don’t know him well, but I do know him. You know why they say he and his village are so unfriendly?’
Luc did not.
‘The legend is that the town got filthy rich from piracy! You never heard that? No? Well, that’s probably a fairy tale but it’s a fact there was a famous hijacking in the Périgord in the summer of 1944 during the war. The Nazis had a very rich cargo on a military train, huge deposits looted from the Banque de France, art work, antiques and such, all headed to Bordeaux for transfer to German naval authorities. The Resistance struck the main railway line, near Ruac, and made off with a fortune, maybe two hundred million euros in today’s money, and some very famous paintings, including, it’s rumoured, Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, all on their way to Goering personally. Some of the loot made it to de Gaulle in Algiers and was put to good use, I’m sure, but a lot of that money and the art disappeared into thin air. The Raphael was never seen again. There’ve always been rumours that the good people of Ruac developed their charming ways because they’re still covering up for the theft, but you know how these stories go. Still, don’t ever ask anyone in that village about the Resistance and the train robbery or you might get shot yourself!’
Tailifer’s aide reminded him of their next engagement and the man hurriedly finished his drink, handed Luc his empty glass and excused himself.
Luc tried to find Sara in the crowd but was buttonholed by the Palaeolithic art expert, Zvi Alon, and Karin Weltzer, the Pleistocene geologist, who wanted to talk about the next day’s logistics. Luc couldn’t decide who was pushier, the bald, bullet-headed Israeli or the pugnacious German woman in bib overalls. While he was calming both of them down and giving assurances their needs would be well met, he noticed that Sara and the young Spanish archaeologist, Carlos Ferrer, were chatting.