The Devil and Miss Prym Page 8

  “What’s going on in this place?” asked the lad selling the bread. “Did someone die?”

  “No,” replied the blacksmith, who was there too, despite it being a Saturday morning when he could sleep until late. “Someone’s having a bad time and we’re all rather worried.”

  Chantal couldn’t understand what was happening.

  “Go ahead and buy what you came to buy,” she heard someone say. “The lad has to get going.”

  Mechanically, she held out her money and took the bread. The baker’s lad shrugged his shoulders—as if abandoning any attempt to understand what was going on—gave her the change, wished everyone good day and drove off.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask what’s going on in this village,” she said, and fear made her speak more loudly than good manners usually permitted.

  “You know what’s going on,” the blacksmith said. “You want us to commit a murder in return for money.”

  “I don’t want anything! I just did what the guy told me to! Have you all gone mad?”

  “You’re the one who’s gone mad. You should never have allowed yourself to become that madman’s mouthpiece! What on earth do you want? What are you getting out of it? Do you want to turn this place into a hell, just like it was in the Ahab stories? Have you lost all sense of honor and dignity?”

  Chantal began to tremble.

  “You really have gone mad! Did you actually take the wager seriously?”

  “Just leave her,” said the hotel landlady. “Let’s go home and have breakfast.”

  The group gradually dispersed. Chantal was still trembling, clutching her bread, rooted to the spot. Those people who had never agreed about anything in their lives before were, for the first time ever, in complete accord: she was the guilty one. Not the stranger, not the wager, but she, Chantal Prym, the instigator of the crime. Had the world turned upside down?

  She left the bread by her door and set off towards the mountain; she wasn’t hungry or thirsty, she didn’t want anything. She had just understood something very important, something that filled her with fear, horror and utter terror.

  No one had said anything to the baker’s boy.

  Something like this would normally be talked about, either with indignation or amusement, but the lad with the van, who delivered bread and gossip to the various villages in the region, had left with no idea of what was going on. It was clear that everyone in Viscos was gathered there together for the first time that day, and no one had had time to discuss what had taken place the previous night, although everyone knew what had happened in the bar. And yet, unconsciously, they had all made a pact of silence.

  In other words, each one of those people, in their heart of hearts, was thinking the unthinkable, imagining the unimaginable.

  Berta called to her. She was still at her post, watching over the village, though to no avail, since the danger was already there and was far greater than anyone could possibly have envisaged.

  “I don’t want to talk,” said Chantal. “I can’t think, react or say anything.”

  “You can at least listen. Sit down here.”

  Of all the people she had known, Berta was the only one who had ever treated her with any kindness. Chantal did not just sit down, she flung her arms around Berta. They stayed like that for a long while, until Berta broke the silence.

  “Now go off into the forest and clear your head; you know you’re not the problem. The rest of them know that too, but they need someone to blame.”

  “It’s the stranger who’s to blame!”

  “You and I know that, but no one else does. They all want to believe they’ve been betrayed, that you should have told them sooner, that you didn’t trust them.”

  “Betrayed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would they want to believe that?”

  “Think about it.”

  Chantal thought. Because they needed someone to blame. A victim.

  “I don’t know how this story will end,” said Berta. “Viscos is a village of good people, although, as you yourself once said, they are a bit cowardly. Even so, it might be a good idea if you were to go somewhere far away from here for a while.”

  She must be joking. No one could possibly take the stranger’s bet seriously. No one. And anyway, she didn’t have any money and she had nowhere to go.

  But that wasn’t true. A gold bar awaited her and it could take her anywhere in the world. But she didn’t want to think about that.

  At that very moment, as if by some quirk of fate, the stranger walked past them and set off for his walk in the mountains, as he did every morning. He nodded and continued on his way. Berta followed him with her eyes, while Chantal tried to spot whether anyone in the village had noticed his greeting. They would say she was his accomplice. They would say there was a secret code between the two of them.

  “He looks worried,” said Berta. “There’s something odd about him.”

  “Perhaps he’s realized that his little game has become reality.”

  “No, it’s something more than that. I don’t know what, but…it’s as if…no, no, I don’t know what it is.”

  “I bet my husband would know,” Berta thought, aware of a nervous fidgeting to her left, but now was not the time to talk to him.

  “It reminds me of Ahab,” she said to Chantal.

  “I don’t want to think about Ahab, about legends, about anything! All I want is for the world to go back to how it was, and for Viscos—for all its faults—not to be destroyed by one man’s madness!”

  “It seems you love this place more than you think.”

  Chantal was trembling. Berta hugged her again, placing her head on her shoulder, as if she were the daughter she had never had.

  “As I was saying, Ahab told a story about heaven and hell that used to be passed from parent to child, but has been forgotten now. Once upon a time, a man, his horse and his dog were traveling along a road. As they passed by a huge tree, it was struck by lightning, and they all died. But the man failed to notice that he was no longer of this world and so he continued walking along with his two animal companions. Sometimes the dead take a while to register their new situation…”

  Berta thought of her husband, who kept insisting that she get rid of Chantal because he had something important to say. Maybe it was time to explain to him that he was dead, so that he would stop interrupting her story.

  “It was a long, uphill walk, the sun was beating down on them, and they were all sweating and thirsty. At a bend in the road they saw a magnificent marble gateway that led into a gold-paved square, in the center of which was a fountain overflowing with crystal-clear water. The man went over to the guard at the entrance.

  “‘Good morning.’

  “‘Good morning,’ the guard replied.

  “‘What is this lovely place?’

  “‘It’s Heaven.’

  “‘Well, I’m very glad to see it, because we’re very thirsty.’

  “‘You’re welcome to come in and drink all the water you want.’ And the guard indicated the fountain.

  “‘My horse and dog are also thirsty.’

  “‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said the guard, ‘but animals are not allowed in here.’

  “The man was deeply disappointed for he really was very thirsty, but he was not prepared to drink alone, so he thanked the guard and went on his way. Exhausted after more trudging uphill, they reached an old gateway that opened onto a dirt road flanked by trees. A man, his hat pulled down over his face, was stretched out in the shade of one of the trees, apparently asleep.

  “‘Good morning,’ said the traveler.

  “The other man greeted him with a nod.

  “‘We’re very thirsty—me, my horse and my dog.’

  “‘There’s a spring over there amongst those rocks,’ said the man, indicating the spot. ‘You can drink all you want.’

  “The man, his horse and his dog went to the spring and quenched their thirst.

  “T
he traveler returned to thank the man.

  “‘Come back whenever you want,’ he was told.

  “‘By the way, what’s this place called?’

  “‘Heaven.’

  “‘Heaven? But the guard at the marble gateway told me that was Heaven!’

  “‘That’s not Heaven, that’s Hell.’

  “The traveler was puzzled.

  “‘You shouldn’t let others take your name in vain, you know! False information can lead to all kinds of confusion!’

  “‘On the contrary, they do us a great favor, because the ones who stay there are those who have proved themselves capable of abandoning their dearest friends.’”

  Berta stroked the girl’s head. She could feel that inside that head Good and Evil were waging a pitiless battle, and she told her to go for a walk in the forest and ask nature which village she should go to.

  “Because I have the feeling that our little mountain paradise is about to desert its friends.”

  “You’re wrong, Berta. You belong to a different generation; the blood of the outlaws who once populated Viscos runs thicker in your veins than in mine. The men and women here still have their dignity, or if they don’t, they at least have a healthy mistrust of one another. And if they don’t even have that, then at least they have fear.”

  “OK, maybe I’m wrong. Even so, do as I tell you, and go and listen to what nature has to say.”

  Chantal left. And Berta turned towards the ghost of her husband, asking him to keep quiet; after all, she was a grown woman, indeed, she was an elderly woman, who shouldn’t be interrupted when she was trying to give advice to someone much younger. She had learned to look after herself, and now she was looking after the village.

  Her husband begged her to take care. She should be wary of offering advice to the young woman because nobody knew where matters might end.

  Berta was taken aback because she thought the dead knew everything—hadn’t he been the one to warn her of the dangers to come? Perhaps he was getting too old and was beginning to get obsessive about other things besides always eating his soup with the same spoon.

  Her husband retorted that she was the old one, for the dead never age, and that, although the dead knew things of which the living had no knowledge, it would take a long time before he gained admittance to the realm of the archangels. He, being only recently dead (having left Earth a mere fifteen years before), still had a lot to learn, even though he knew he could offer substantial help.

  Berta enquired whether the realm of the archangels was more attractive and comfortable. Her husband told her not to be facetious and to concentrate her energies on saving Viscos. Not that this was a source of particular interest to him—he was, after all, dead, and no one had touched on the subject of reincarnation (although he had heard a few conversations concerning this eventuality), and if reincarnation did exist, he was hoping to be reborn somewhere new. But he also wanted his wife to enjoy some peace and comfort during the days still remaining to her in this world.

  “So, stop worrying,” thought Berta. Her husband wouldn’t take her advice; he wanted her to do something, anything. If Evil triumphed, even if it was in some small, forgotten place with only three streets, a square and a church, it could nevertheless go on to contaminate the valley, the region, the country, the continent, the seas, the whole world.

  Although Viscos had 281 inhabitants, Chantal being the youngest and Berta the oldest, it was controlled by a mere half-dozen individuals: the hotel landlady, responsible for the well-being of tourists; the priest, responsible for the care of souls; the mayor, responsible for the hunting regulations; the mayor’s wife, responsible for the mayor and his decisions; the blacksmith, who had survived being bitten by the rogue wolf; and the owner of most of the lands around the village. It was he who had vetoed the idea of building a children’s playground in the vague belief that Viscos would one day start growing again, and besides the site would be perfect for a luxury home.

  It mattered little to the rest of the villagers what did or didn’t happen to the place, for they had their sheep, their wheat and their families to take care of. They visited the hotel bar, attended Mass, obeyed the laws, had their tools repaired at the blacksmith’s forge, and, from time to time, acquired some land.

  The landowner never went to the bar. He had learned of the story through his maid, who had been there on the night in question and had left in high excitement, telling her friends and him that the hotel guest was a very rich man; who knows, perhaps she could have a child by him and force him to give her part of his fortune. Concerned about the future, or, rather, about the fact that Miss Prym’s story might spread and drive away hunters and tourists alike, he decided to call an emergency meeting. The group were gathering in the sacristy of the small church, just as Chantal was heading for the forest, the stranger was off on one of his mysterious walks and Berta was chatting with her husband about whether or not to try and save the village.

  “The first thing we have to do is call the police,” said the landowner. “It’s obvious the gold doesn’t exist; and besides, I suspect the man of trying to seduce my maid.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, because you weren’t there,” the mayor insisted. “The gold does exist. Miss Prym wouldn’t risk her reputation without concrete proof. Not that that alters things, of course, we should still call the police. The stranger must be a bandit, a fellow with a price on his head, trying to conceal his ill-gotten gains here.”

  “Don’t be idiotic!” the mayor’s wife said. “If he was, surely he’d be more discreet about it.”

  “All this is completely relevant. We must call the police straightaway.”

  Everyone agreed. The priest served a little wine to calm everyone’s nerves. They began to discuss what they would say to the police, given that they had no actual proof that the stranger had done anything; it might all end with Miss Prym being arrested for inciting a murder.

  “The only proof is the gold. Without the gold, we can’t do anything.”

  Of course. But where was the gold? Only one person had ever seen it, and she didn’t know where it was hidden.

  The priest suggested they form search parties. The hotel landlady drew back the curtain of the sacristy window that looked out over the cemetery; she pointed to the mountains on one side, to the valley below, and to the mountains on the other side.

  “We would need a hundred men searching for a hundred years to do that.”

  The landowner silently bemoaned the fact that the cemetery had been constructed on that particular spot; it had a lovely view, and the dead had no use for it.

  “On another occasion, I’d like to talk to you about the cemetery,” he said to the priest. “I could offer you a far bigger plot for the dead, just near here, in exchange for this piece of land next to the church.”

  “Nobody would want to buy that and live on the same spot where the dead used to lie.”

  “Maybe no one from the village would, but there are tourists desperate to buy a summer home; it would just be a matter of asking the villagers to keep their mouths shut. It would mean more income for the village and more taxes for the town hall.”

  “You’re right. We just have to ask the villagers to keep their mouths shut. That wouldn’t be so hard.”

  A sudden silence fell. A long silence, which nobody dared to break. The two women admired the view; the priest started polishing a small bronze statue; the landowner took another sip of wine; the blacksmith tied and untied the laces on both boots; and the mayor kept glancing at his watch, as if to suggest that he had other pressing engagements.

  But nobody said a word; everyone knew that the people of Viscos would never say a word if someone were to express an interest in purchasing what had once been the cemetery; they would keep quiet purely for the pleasure of seeing another person coming to live in that village on the verge of disappearing. Even if they didn’t earn a penny by their silence.

  Imagine if they did tho
ugh.

  Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives.

  Imagine if they earned enough money for the rest of their lives and their children’s lives.

  At that precise moment, a hot and wholly unexpected wind blew through the sacristy.

  “What exactly are you proposing?” asked the priest after a long five minutes.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  “If the inhabitants really can be relied on to say nothing, I think we can proceed with negotiations,” replied the landowner, choosing his words carefully in case they were misinterpreted—or correctly interpreted, depending on your point of view.

  “They’re good, hardworking, discreet people,” the hotel landlady said, adopting the same strategy. “Today, for example, when the driver of the baker’s van wanted to know what was going on, nobody said a thing. I think we can trust them.”

  Another silence. Only this time it was an unmistakably oppressive silence. Eventually, the game began again, and the blacksmith said:

  “It isn’t just a question of the villagers’ discretion, the fact is that it’s both immoral and unacceptable.”

  “What is?”

  “Selling off hallowed ground.”

  A sigh of relief ran around the room; now that they had dealt satisfactorily with the practical aspects, they could proceed with the moral debate.

  “What’s immoral is sitting back and watching the demise of our beloved Viscos,” said the mayor’s wife. “Knowing that we are the last people to live here, and that the dream of our grandparents, our ancestors, Ahab and the Celts, will be over in a few years’ time. Soon, we’ll all be leaving the village, either for an old people’s home or to beg our children to take in their strange, ailing parents, who are unable to adapt to life in the big city and spend all their time longing for what they’ve left behind, sad because they could not pass on to the next generation the gift they received from their parents.”

  “You’re right,” the blacksmith said. “The life we lead is an immoral one. When Viscos does finally fall into ruin, these fields will be abandoned or else bought up for next to nothing; then machines will arrive and open up bigger and better roads. The houses will be demolished, steel warehouses will replace what was built with the sweat of our ancestors. Agriculture will become entirely mechanized, and people will come in to work during the day and return at night to their homes, far from here. How shaming for our generation; we let our children leave, we failed to keep them here with us.”