Very few possessions could excite Gabe. For all his money, he could count on one hand the items that were meaningful to him.
‘Where did you get it?’ he added.
‘Pearlis,’ Gabe thought he heard Reynard say.
‘Pardon?’
‘A long way from Paris,’ Reynard laughed as he repeated the word, and there was something in his expression that gave Gabe pause. Reynard looked away. ‘Apparently it’s from a twelfth-century scriptorium. But, frankly, they could have told me anything and I’d have acquired it anyway.’ He stood. ‘Have you noticed the tiny inscription?’
Gabe stared more closely.
‘Not an inscription so much as a sigil, in fact, engraved beautifully in miniature onto the quill’s shaft,’ Reynard explained.
He could see it now. It was tiny, very beautiful. ‘Do we know the provenance?’
‘It’s royal,’ Reynard said and his voice sounded throaty. He cleared it. ‘I have no information other than that,’ he said briskly, then smiled. ‘Incidentally, only the scriveners in the scriptorium were given the premium pinion feather.’
‘Scriveners?’
‘Writers … those of original thought.’ His eyes blazed suddenly with excitement, like two smouldering coals that had found a fresh source of oxygen. ‘And if one extrapolates, one could call them “special individuals” who were … well, unique, you might say.’
He didn’t understand and it must have showed.
‘Scribes simply copied you see,’ Reynard added.
‘And if you extrapolate further?’ Gabe asked mischievously. He didn’t expect Reynard to respond but his companion took him seriously, looked at him gravely.
‘Pretenders,’ he said. ‘Followers. Scribes copied,’ he repeated, ‘the scriveners originated.’
Again they locked gazes.
This time it was Gabe who looked away first. ‘Well, thank you doesn’t seem adequate, but it’s the best I can offer,’ Gabe said, a fresh gust of embarrassment blowing through him as he laid the feather in its box. He stood to shake hands in farewell, knowing he should kiss Reynard on the cheek, but reluctant to deepen what he was still clinging to as a client relationship.
‘Is it?’ Reynard asked and then smiled sadly.
Gabe felt the blush heat his cheeks, hoped it didn’t show in this lower light.
Reynard looked away. ‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he called to the waiter and mimicked scribbling a note. The man nodded and Reynard pulled out a wad of cash. ‘Bonsoir, Gabriel. Sleep well.’
Something in those words left Gabe feeling hollow. He nodded to Reynard as he headed for the doors, toying briefly with finding another bar, perhaps somewhere with music, but he wanted the familiarity of his own neighbourhood. He decided he would head for the cathedral — Notre Dame never failed to lift his spirits.
Clutching the box containing his swan quill, he walked with purpose but deliberately emptied his mind of all thought. He’d taught himself to do this when he was swotting for his exams ‘aeons’ ago. He’d practised for some years as a teenager, so by the time he sat his O levels he could cut out a lot of the ‘noise’, leaving his mind more flexible for retrieval of his study notes.
By the time he reached his A levels, he’d honed those skills to such an edge he could see himself sitting alone at the examination desk: the sound of the school greenkeeper on his ride-on mower was removed, the coughs of other students, the sounds of pages being turned, even the birdsong were silenced. At his second-year university exams, the only sounds keeping him company were his heartbeat and breathing. And by final exams he’d mastered his personal environment to the point where he could place himself anywhere he chose and he could add sounds of his choice — if he wanted frogs but not crickets he would make it so. Or he could sit in a void, neither light nor dark, neither warm nor cold, but whatever he chose as the optimum conditions.
He was in control. And he liked it that way.
Curiously, though, when he exercised this control — and it was rare that he needed it these days — he more often than not found that he built the same scene around himself. Why this image of a cathedral was his comfort blanket he didn’t know. It was not a cathedral he recognised — certainly not the Parisian icon, or from books, postcards, descriptions — but one from imagination that he’d conjured since before his teens, perhaps as early as six or seven years of age. The cathedral felt safe; his special, private, secure place where as a boy, he believed dragons kept him safe within. And at university he believed the cathedral had become his symbol — substitute even — for home. As he’d matured he’d realised it simply represented all the aspects of life he considered fundamental to his wellbeing — steadfastness, longevity, calmness, as well as spiritual and emotional strength. However, in the style of cathedrals everywhere it was immense and domineering, and if the exterior impressed and humbled, then the interior left him awestruck.
Gabe had sat for his Masters and then finished his PhD, writing all of his papers from the nave of this imaginary cathedral. The pews he deliberately kept empty to symbolise his isolation from others while he studied. The only company he permitted in the cathedral was that of the towering, mystical creatures of stone, sculpted in exquisite detail. They supported the grand pillars rearing upwards to the soaring roof and each was different and strange.
A curiosity was that he knew what they were, although he’d never seen them in life. He also allowed that his cathedral — when he wasn’t within its care — was regularly populated by worshippers and knew that every person who entered the cathedral belonged to one of the fabulous creatures. Pilgrims didn’t have to know before they entered which was their totem. They could walk into the cathedral and one of the creatures would call to them … talk to their soul. Gabe had no idea how he knew this, for he had never seen anyone in the cathedral.
But which creature did he belong to? That was the single image he couldn’t evoke. He couldn’t summon a scene in which he saw himself entering the cathedral and feeling the pull of his creature. He was either outside the cathedral admiring it, or within it … but he couldn’t participate in the life of the cathedral. It had never mattered though — the cathedral of his mind had protected him and given him peace and space.
Gabe hadn’t needed the cathedral in a long time. In fact, tonight was the first time in possibly as long as three years that he had thought about his old haven. Was he feeling threatened by Reynard — is that why the cathedral was in his thoughts and why he was drawn to Notre Dame this evening? Gabe understood the clever machinations of the mind — how it could trick and coerce, manipulate oneself and others. And somewhere during the course of this evening he had been left feeling ‘handled’. Gabe gave a soft growl.
He’d been skirting the Tuileries; gorgeous on summer nights, but a little too dark for comfort on a winter eve like tonight. Cars whizzed down the wide boulevard of the rue de Rivoli but he barely noticed them. He was looking for one establishment and there it was, next to the equally celebrated hotel Le Meurice. Angelina was an early 1900s tea salon and café, once known as Rumpelmayers. The rich and famous had frequented it and still did, although these days it was on the pathway of the tourist stampede. It was closed though tonight. Gabe was deeply disappointed, especially since he could already taste his first sip of the famous Chocolat L’Africain and now would have
