Happy Hour by Patrice Chaplin

Author:Patrice Chaplin [Chaplin, Patrice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2016-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Garcia said that if we accepted the Frenchman’s invitation it would be too dark to return by the panoramic route. Not having got over the outward journey, all those rocks, I said we should not put ourselves first. After all, Monsieur Privat was the master of Rennes-le-Château. Garcia said we’d take the motorway from Rivesaltes, cutting the journey time by half.

Monsieur Privat stood between a reproduction of Poussin’s painting of a tomb, Et in Arcadia Ego, which had been strongly linked with the Abbé Saunier mystery, and a coded plan of buried treasure from older times, when the area was known as Reddae. The plan was inked out on parchment and would thrill the Americans. It had signs and incomprehensible words — Cellis, Arcis, Regis, Etina. We were still in the tower. All around, the sky turned mauve against distant hills and rocky inclines.

‘Why did he build this?’ asked Garcia.

‘To hold his book collection.’

‘No. Really.’

‘I have no idea.’ Monsieur Privat showed us the estimates for the work as given to the priest by his architect Eli Bot. ‘And here are his household accounts kept by the maid. You can see a sharp difference before the scrolls and after. The same can be found in my household accounts but the other way round.’

It was still hard to understand exactly what had brought Monsieur Privat, self-described as a French businessman from North Africa, to this uncommercial hilltop. If it had been for treasure he didn’t look as though he’d found it.

He wasn’t over-keen to entertain us in the Villa Bethania, but that’s where the drink was. The villa was kept private. He was somewhere between moving in, moving out and sinking down. Old books in piles in a corner. Saunier’s? ‘No. They’re from the thirties.’ They were damp and covered in mould. They may have been the maid’s books. Some of Abbé Saunier’s original lavish wallpaper, with hand-painted landscapes, young trees, inlaid with gold, birds, butterflies and large white flowers, still existed. In front of these creations Monsieur Privat had laid out his own. In what resembled a shrine, stood tinted photographs of a lovely woman, the same woman at different ages in different locations.

‘My wife.’ The way he said it indicated she wasn’t any longer.

‘Is she deceased?’ said Garcia respectfully.

‘I don’t know.’ He opened an embossed book which contained more photographs. She was undeniably alluring. More, unfathomable. An Algerian film star?

Monsieur Privat wrenched the cork off a bottle of white wine and looked around for some glasses. There was a certain amount of chaos. The kitchen had got the better of him and he tried to keep that door shut and us out.

‘I would like you to help me.’ He looked at both of us.

I said, ‘We’re not together. We’re — ’

‘Neighbours,’ said Garcia. ‘Our combined resources are probably not equal to what you require. You must wait for the right man from Spain.’

‘What exactly do you need?’ I asked to be polite.

‘The treasure.’

Garcia’s eyes swivelled towards the door. He needed to be off.

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