Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

Julien was not at all happy about turning into a courier for the Resistance; all his arguments against their activities were unanswered. But if he had not delivered them, then either Julia would have done so or the opportunity to get her out of the country would have been lost. And every time he handed over his package, he also delivered a message: When will she leave the country? Are you nearly ready? Each time the same reply came back: Soon. With a list of more names to go on more false papers. Each time he suppressed the feeling that nothing would ever get done. Bernard was his friend.

The paintings and prints were Bernard’s passport, which he carried with him to show to soldiers, militia, and police who might stop him, wondering why he was in a particular place at a particular time. Look, he would say, I am taking these to a potential client. Times are hard, but even so some people remain interested in art. What he did on these peregrinations no one truly knew; his biographer, who published a book on him in 1958, failed to discover much about his activities. The book alluded to events of importance without ever managing to pin down much, and thus perpetuated the air of mystery that had always been his style. His role was shadowy, using the aura of London’s approval to impose himself on the disparate groups who would have as cheerfully killed each other as the Germans. Persuading them to work together, pursue a common policy, giving neither too much nor too little to all the factions that sprouted up. Ensuring that none became too big or powerful, a need that required him, on occasion, to sow dissent and mistrust. He was not liked but, despite the fact that he had nothing except his own personality and a fitful advance knowledge of gold and guns dropped by aircraft on dark nights, he was feared and respected, in his element.

He settled in Nîmes, where he was unknown, and rented a small shop, which he opened as an art gallery. He did the job properly, and even began to enjoy it. He assembled enough paintings to put on little exhibitions, and invited members of the German army to private views. He gave speeches of welcome at parties, talking about the ability of art to overcome differences in politics. Clichés about the contrast between arts of peace and war dropped from his lips. It was cheeky of him; the paintings were not of the sort to appeal to the military mind, but he found the reputation he acquired more than useful. In public he was considered at best an apolitical merchant, solely interested in making money. At worst he was detestable as a collaborator on the make, going out of his way to make the occupiers feel at home. In between these opinions lay the space he needed to get on with his work.

Sometimes, though, he even sold something. One afternoon, a captain from the intelligence bureau in Nîmes, a man from Hamburg, a linguist who had heard only ten days previously that his wife and two children, his father and mother, had been killed in a bombing raid, came into the gallery. He had not been able to do his work analyzing signals picked up from the constant chatter of radios to the south, uncoded, terse remarks that, sometimes, could be made to reveal a glint of gold. He no longer thought it mattered; he knew the war was lost and suspected, for the first time, that he didn’t care much.

He’d been wandering the streets for more than an hour by the time he passed by the rue de la République, and came into Bernard’s little gallery because he wanted a distraction from his own mind, constantly churning over the same memories and thoughts.

He spent nearly an hour staring at the etchings, thoroughly worrying Bernard, who had never been detained by any image for more than a minute. He thought initially the Gestapo was about to swoop down on him and knew there was nothing he could do about it: He was not so foolish that he kept a gun anywhere near him. Then he noticed the tears coming down the officer’s cheek, and took reassurance from the spark of light reflecting in the liquid as it ran through the stubble on his pallid face.

“Who are these by?” the officer asked eventually. “Who is he?”

“She,” he corrected. “An artist called Julia Bronsen.”

“They are magnificent.”

Bernard looked at them. Truth to tell, he had never really looked at them before, and saw nothing special now. But he knew his job. “Ah, yes. They are special, indeed.”

“I will buy them all. How much are they?”

Bernard gave an outrageous figure. The man looked disappointed, so Bernard lowered it, a little. He bought all eight.

“I would like to meet this woman,” he said as Bernard wrapped them up—in newspaper, it was all he had.

“Not possible,” Bernard said. “She lives a long way from here. Besides—”

“She would not want to meet me?”

“She is Jewish.”

The captain nodded. “Then at the least please convey to her my profound admiration for what she has achieved here.”

He bowed, with a little inclination of his head, and walked out of the shop. Julia was absurdly pleased when she heard the story.

THE ACCUSATIONS against Gersonides and his servant came just before the first soldier guarding the pope fell sick and died. Until then, all in the papal palace, its new but unfinished walls rapidly reinforced and barred to the world, had dared to believe that what could keep out men could keep out death itself. They had, after all, nothing else to put their faith in, and they could do little except hope and patrol the walls. The hope was misplaced, although the newness of the building—much of it not even complete or decorated—seems to have offered some protection; by the time the soldier fell, many thousands had already died in Avignon itself.

The charge was not leveled by Ceccani himself, of course; that would have been far too obvious. He merely indicated at the correct moment that he had believed the report the moment he had heard of it, and gained praise for his efficiency and vigilance. Rather, one of his palace creatures, a priest from a good family who hoped for advancement, leveled the charge, going to the palace seneschal. Again, the paper lay in the cardinal’s archive, and was read by Julien in Rome.

“I saw the Jewess pouring liquid from a phial into the well last night,” he said. “It is the well which provides water for His Holiness.”

It says much for the seneschal that, although a shiver of terror ran down his spine at the words, he still kept calm and tried to ensure that the correct procedure was followed. Even in such times, even for a Jew. He was not so much a good man, but he was a good soldier, and believed in order, correctly followed. This was fortunate, and for Cardinal de Deaux it was vital. Had the seneschal barked out orders then and there, the soldiers would have run to Gersonides’s chamber and killed him and Rebecca within minutes.

THE ARRESTS WERE the opportunity Ceccani had been praying for; almost daily he heard more of the way that morality and order were crumbling as men recoiled from what they saw all around them. License and lust spread their tentacles throughout the world, men turned from priests and the church and cursed God; unless they could be given some hope, then all authority would crumble.

He sought an audience with Clement, to try once more to make him realize the size of the disaster sweeping the world. Not the numbers dead, but the effect it was having on the living.

“Daily, I get more and more reports; I hear of men and women, complete strangers, coupling in the streets, in full view of passersby. Husbands and wives abandoned, even sold to others. I hear of children thrown into the streets to starve, of men killed for no reason, of priests insulted and spat upon, of churches spurned. All authority and all law is crumbling, Holiness, and rather than bring men back to God, making them see their sins and repent, the church is thrusting them further away. It is a matter of urgency that order be restored and that a lead be given. All they are crying out for is direction. And you must give it; you must stamp your authority on this situation now.”