II
Los Seres Southwest France
A few miles to the east as the crow flies, in a lost village in the Sabarthès Mountains, a tall, thin man in a pale suit sits alone at a table of dark, highly polished wood.
The ceiling of the room is low and there are large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth, keeping it cool despite the heat outside. The shutter of the single window is closed so it is dark, except for a pool of yellow light cast by a small oil lamp, which stands on the table. Next to the lamp is a glass tumbler filled almost to the brim with a red liquid.
There are several sheets of heavy cream paper strewn across the table, each covered with line after line of neat handwriting in black ink. The room is silent, except for the scratch and draw of the pen and the chink of ice cubes against the side of the glass when he drinks. The subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. The ticking of the clock marks the passage of time as he pauses, reflects, and then writes again.
What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and what we did. An imprint, no more. I have learned much. I have become wise. But have I made a dfference? I cannot tell. Pas a pas, se va luènh.
I have watched the green of spring give way to the gold of summer, the copper of autumn give way to the white of winter as I have sat and waited for the fading of the light. Over and over again I have asked myself why? If I had known how it would feel to live with such loneliness, to stand, the sole witness to the endless cycle of birth and life and death, what would I have done? Alaïs, I am burdened by my solitude stretched too thin to bear. I have survived this long life with emptiness in my heart, an emptiness that over the years has spread and spread until it became bigger than my heart itself.
I have striven to keep my promises to you. The one is fulfilled, the other left undone. Until now, left undone. For some time now, I have felt you close. Our time is nearly come again. Everything points to this. Soon the cave will be opened. I feel the truth of this all around me. And the book, safe for so long, will be found also.
The man pauses and reaches for his glass. His eyes are smudged with memory, but the Guignolet is strong and sweet and it revives him.
I have found her. At last. And I wonder, if I place the book in her hands, will it feel familiar? Is the memory of it written in her blood and her bones? Will she remember how the cover shimmers and shifts its colour? If she undoes the ties and opens it, careful so as not to damage the dry and brittle vellum, will she remember the words echoing back down the centuries?
I pray that at last, as my long days draw to a close, I will have the chance to put right what once I did ill, that I will at last learn the truth. The truth will set me free.
The man sits back in his chair and puts his hands, speckled brown with age, flat on the table in front of him. The chance to know, after so very long, what happened at the end.
It is all he wants.