Martin Walker - The Caves of Perigord

“Then came the 1960s, and the revolutions,” said Clothilde. “We had the political revolution in Paris that got rid of de Gaulle, then the sexual revolution, the intellectual revolution.”

“The what?” asked Manners.

“Structuralism. France’s great contribution to the age. Everything had to be reinterpreted. There were no authors, only texts, and your reading of it was as valid as mine, worth no more and no less than the considered opinion of the most learned professor.”

“Intellectual revolutions must always begin by discrediting the existing professors,” Malrand. said with a smile. “How else can they be pushed aside to make room for promotions for the brilliant young revolutionaries? The phenomenon is not unknown in politics.” He turned to Clothilde. “So, structuralism invades the caves?”

“Indeed, Monsieur le President. Only in this case, the attack came from my teacher, Andre Leroi-Gourhan. He made a statistical and rigorously structural analysis of the cave paintings and found them divided between male and female symbols. There were quite enough phallic symbols and vulvas to justify this approach, but it must be said that this fit with the spirit of the times.”

“There was neither phallus nor vulva before the 1960s?” mocked Manners. Precisely the question she was thinking, thought Lydia, but did not presume to ask.

“Oh, every generation has to think it discovered sex for itself,” said Malrand. “My grandfather talked of la belle epoque before 1914. My father waxed lyrical about the delights of the Jazz Age. And of course, we had the war. But continue, madame. The poor celibate priest, the Abbe Breuil, is confounded by the assault of the sexual organs.”

“He was not much of a priest,” Clothilde said. “He spent all his time in caves. But Breuil had trouble with sexual organs. There’s a famous cave painting in Africa, which he identified as the White Lady or the White Goddess, which is what everybody called it until somebody noticed that she sported an impressively erect penis. I’m surprised that even a priest could have missed it.”

Manners was now blushing, Lydia noticed, and much as she was enjoying Clothilde’s performance, she rather approved of his reaction. To her sudden dismay, she felt the President’s foot brush against her own, and stay there. Heavens, what on earth was the protocol of rejecting a presidential pass at his own luncheon table?

“The whole point of structuralism was that it was supposed to be an all-embracing system, a theory of knowledge that could explain and account for everything,” Clothilde went on. Malrand was clearly fascinated. “So after the phallic symbols, Leroi-Gourhan had to bring all the rest of the cave art into this male-female dualism.”

“Male and female animals, I suppose. A bit like Noah’s ark,” suggested Manners.

“Not at all, Major Manners. Leroi-Gourhan suggested that that was a grand plan behind the cave art, and he found enough sexual symbolism to conclude it was used for initiation ceremonies into sexual adulthood. The problem was that with some obvious exceptions like the bulls or the pregnant horses, it was often not easy to tell which was male and which was female among the animals. So Leroi-Gourhan decided that all the bison were female symbols and all the horses were male.”

“I thought you said some of the bison were visibly male and some of the horses were pregnant?” objected Manners.

“I did. But when did a French intellectual ever permit some tedious little fact to stand in the way of a sublime theory?”

“Magnificent, madame,” laughed Malrand. “You make this Leroi-Gourhan sound like some politicians I know. But even if this ingenious theory is now exploded by the wisdom of the present day, you have established the predominant role of France and French scholarship in this field of prehistoric art. The good Abbe Breuil, the inventive Leroi-Gourhan, and now our new experts such as yourself.” He bowed courteously to Clothilde. The fun and games were over. Time for the President’s business. Lydia noticed, with only a slightly spiteful glow of pleasure, that Malrand had not asked Clothilde to call him Francois. “So, madame, you are persuaded that this tragically vanished example of cave art comes from the hands that gave us Lascaux?” Malrand asked.

“Hands in the generic sense, Monsieur le President. Not a single pair of hands. A group, a culture, a tradition that created Lascaux. Yes, of that I think I am convinced.”

“So, French without question.”

“I would stake my reputation on that, with the smallest caveat that this could just possibly have come from the Altamira culture of Spain. I doubt it most strongly, since the stylistic traditions are markedly different. But I must warn you that Spain would certainly feel entitled to make a claim. We shall have to move quickly to secure this treasure for France.”

“Which is to say that my ownership of the item would seem to leave me a choice of buyers,” smiled Manners.

“Possibly-if you can show that your father was ever in Spain,” flashed Clothilde. “We know he was here in the Dordogne.”

“Indeed so, but you seem to suggest that an auction between Paris and Madrid might be in prospect.”

“It is to avoid such an outcome that we have offered the reward,” she retorted briskly, before looking across the table to the young woman opposite. “Lydia, you must see the justice of our case.”

Lydia, feeling distracted by the pressure of Malrand’s shoe upon her own and hoping it would not mark the silk, muttered something about its being Manners’s decision, and all a bit academic unless they got the thing back.

“What I don’t see,” said Manners, with labored reasonableness, “is why this single painting is so precious to you. You have one big cave full of the things, dozens of other caves with other works. What’s so special about this one?”

“Perhaps I, as one who knows a little of public opinion, might try to explain,” said Malrand, silencing Clothilde’s eager reaction by simply talking over her.

“Madame’s estimable museum at Les Eyzies, thanks to a generous state grant that I authorized, is being rebuilt, greatly extended, and modernized,” he began, sitting up in his chair. Lydia suddenly had a vision of him at a public meeting, and took advantage of his movement to slide her shoe gently from beneath his. She crossed her legs, putting her feet out of temptation’s way.

“It will become an even greater attraction for the tourist trade, on which this region depends for much of its prosperity, if it were to include, as the highlight of the collection, a genuine example of the finest example of prehistoric art in the world. Since we do not know where it comes from, we can hardly put it back. We are therefore free to display it, as the new museum’s prime exhibit, the Mona Lisa of the Louvre of prehistory.” He bowed graciously to Clothilde, who turned bright red.

“The publicity alone will bring crowds,” he went on sonorously, as the maid brought some plates of a temptingly pink lamb. Scents of rosemary and garlic arose. He poured some of his red wine for Lydia, Clothilde, and Manners, half-filled his own glass, and raised it to the table.

“Eventually, no doubt, the search for the lost cave will catch the attention of scholars, the imagination of the public, and the curiosity of schoolchildren. The good citizens of Les Eyzies and the Dordogne in general, with their hotels and restaurants and shops, will reap the advantage. And France will benefit from the advance of knowledge and the wider dissemination of her unique place as the custodian of the art of humanity’s ancestors.” The President paused, and looked around the table. “I think I can guarantee you that there will be no difficulty in finding state funds to ensure this happy outcome, whether for a greater reward, or indeed, Major Manners, as compensation for your loss. Your family deserves well of France, and we are a generous people.”