Grosse Fugue by Ian Phillips

Author:Ian Phillips [Phillips, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780956999221
Publisher: Alliance Publishing Press
Published: 2012-04-12T03:00:00+00:00

Reuben had already decided what to do. Without prevarication, he would go straight to the Abbé and present the letter. But first, another severing.

“Gaston, this is where we must part. We will need to cross the border as pilgrims among a host of other pilgrims, and besides, you must get back to Toulouse before curfew. I have no words to express our gratitude but here, this is the fare we agreed, plus a little on top, and the key to our house. The rent is paid for five years. I hope that someday we may meet in happier times. Go in health, my friend.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. I, too, hope that a better world may see our rendezvous.”

Sarah came up to the little, dishevelled chauffeur and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, her voice breaking with emotion. “Take care of our little home. We look forward to seeing you there when this is all over. And if … if we don’t return then perhaps you’ll plant a peach tree, and when you taste its fruit for one small moment you will maybe remember us, no?”

He could say nothing, but with eyes rimmed with red he went over to Leah and Moses, shaking their hands while gently rustling the children’s hair. He turned and, with no glance over his shoulder, slid into the driver’s seat, revved the engine … and was gone. They all watched the car until it disappeared from view, obscured by an evergreen cluster that hung over the road at a gentle right-hand bend.

Leah placed a restraining hand on Reuben’s arm. “Reuben, I’m going to go in, not you. After all, I got the letter and it may mention me. Besides, I feel, well, you know, parental, as if this is my baby, my contribution – so I’d like to see it through.”

Even Moses couldn’t argue, his instantaneous change of hue owing more to dread than rage, draining blood from his face and temples.

Reuben saw the strength of her position and handed back the precious envelope. As one, the family watched her as she pulled the hood of her brown cape up over her head and strode purposefully off towards the door, visibly shuddering as she mingled with other pilgrims, on crutches, deformed, rotten with disease, entering to say the rosary in the hope of intercession.

With the experience of Toulouse behind her, she was now steeled against the expectation of being overwhelmed. So she was taken aback when the atmosphere was completely the opposite: an air of quiet contemplation filled the domed building, the silence broken only by the insistent, dull muttering of the devout throng that knelt at timeworn pews or waited for a confessional booth to be vacated. Leah quickly sized up the building, her only interest being where the Abbé might be found. Feigning prayer, her hands open-webbed over her eyes, she watched to see from where sacristan or curate emerged or which transept they used when leaving the Basilica.

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