Andrew Crumey: The Secret Knowledge

“Others viewed less clearly but no less certainly. We know beyond question the manner of Pierre’s death. It’s the motive that I can’t fathom. But for the police the case is closed, likewise for Pierre’s family. It seems, mademoiselle, that you and I are the only persons interested in discovering the truth.”

Finally she understands the reason why he has made himself known to her. “What should we do?”

“We can try to make enquiries of our own; but unless there is some further evidence, perhaps an unknown aspect of Pierre’s life, a shadow that marred his happiness…” He stares penetratingly at her. “Can you think of anything at all?”

She says she can. The new friends, Pierre’s disappearance, even the symphony; she tells Carreau everything, and finishes by bringing from inside the collar of her dress the fine gold chain that has been hanging round her neck, at the end of it a small key.

“This is what he gave you?” Carreau is transfixed as though by a priceless treasure; he peers closely at what she holds, longing to touch it. She removes the chain from her neck.

“Pierre was so insistent that I have it; at the time I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Afterwards it seemed so inadvertently prophetic. Yet now…”

“Did you ever see the writing desk? Do you know where exactly it is situated in the house?”

“No… in his room I suppose. I can never go there, I wouldn’t be admitted.”

“But I can go.” Carreau extends his palm. “I shall pay the parents my respects.”

“And get Pierre’s music? How?”

“I shall find a way, trust me.”

She gives him the key, still on its fine chain, feeling as if she is giving up her own child, and in the moment when his fingers curl around the prize to take it from her, she is gripped again by doubt, and by the thought that in trying to save Pierre and his work she is really betraying him. “Give me something in return,” she exclaims.

“You want payment? Some kind of pledge?”

“Only your word. Promise that you will bring it back to me, and the music. I’ve lost Pierre once already, I can’t lose him again. Do this for me, Monsieur Carreau. Do it for our friend.”

Carreau smiles thinly. “We shall both have what we want, Mademoiselle Courvelles. Trust me.”

She feels she has made a terrible mistake; for some days afterwards there is no word from Carreau, she wonders if he is simply an unscrupulous music dealer willing to prey on a grieving woman in order to obtain a manuscript. A letter arrives, which she at first assumes must be from Carreau, though as soon as she begins to read, she realises it is from another.

My dear Mlle Courvelles,

I extend profound condolences and share your grief. Allow me to offer some recollections of our late friend, and believe me when I tell you, they are not without importance.

Pierre would frequently join me, along with several companions, at one or other of our favourite cafés, the popularity of each establishment being proportional to the leniency of its owner in allowing us credit. On one such occasion the topic for discussion was the nature of genius, there were six or seven of us round the table, our half-filled glasses politely and indefinitely preserved from being emptied, our impoverishment dignified by the richness of a conversation that brought Mozart, Michelangelo and Dante to a place favoured by thirsty dockers, as well as less honest members of the working class, male and female, of a kind you probably cannot imagine. I tell you this, mademoiselle, not so as to cast doubt on the honour and integrity of our friend, but merely to remind you that any young man of spirit and intelligence moves naturally, like a colourful fish in an aquarium, between the light of the surface, and the darker regions beneath.

A voice interrupted us. “Ha, genius!” We turned and saw at a neighbouring table a man alone, unshaven, dressed like an office clerk but so dishevelled as not to have been previously conspicuous. He was, in short, a drunk of the kind every watering hole knows, and before him on the table stood a glass of cognac. “You want to know about genius? I’ll tell you about genius!”

We were all of us in good humour and ready for some sport. “Do tell, then,” said one of us, an actor I shall call Duchêne. “But not for the price of another glass, since we don’t have a sou between us!”

The drunk nodded with a bibulous smile, his eye gleaming. He rummaged inside his dirty jacket that I saw to be torn at the elbow, drew out a gold coin as bright as the filling in his tooth, and flicked it on his thumb, catching it in his hand. We waited for him to speak. He kept smiling, flicking.

“Well?” Duchêne said at last. “Is that all?”

We were about to turn from him when he stopped, reached out, and passed the coin to my friend. “Look carefully,” he said.

Duchêne inspected the object, finding its brightness belied an unexpected antiquity. “It’s from the eighteenth century.” He looked up at the stranger. “Is it real?”

The man gave a shrug of indifference. “Depends what you mean. Study it closely.”

We examined the coin, passing it among ourselves. It was Pierre who spotted the pretence.

“This is fake,” he declared. “It feels too light.”

The man nodded. “It’s made of glass. Belonged to my great-great grandfather who had it made in Switzerland — that and a thousand others.”

“He was a counterfeiter?” one of us asked.

“We could use his talents!” another laughed.

Our companion allowed us our moment of frivolity. “He needed money in order to carry out a certain mission of what you might call a philosophical kind. This was the only way.”

“Did he go to the gallows for it?” asked Pierre.

“No, he escaped, taking his precious papers with him.”

Here, we recognised, was an artist of that all-too familiar kind, the bar-room raconteur. We had nothing to offer, we told him plainly, except our ears. Yet this seemed enough for him.

“My great-great-grandfather had acquired secret papers from a society formed by Jean-Bernard Rosier.”

“Never heard of him,” said Duchêne.

“No,” said the man, “I wouldn’t expect you to. He’s not a name you’d ever have come across in respectable literature.”

“Then what about disrespectable?”

“Perhaps,” said the man, retrieving the coin that was handed back to him, its lustre less enticing now than the gleam of mystery. “I’m no Rosierist, I’m a humble engineer with too much of a taste for the ladies and the race track and the bottle. Yes, sirs, I’m a bum, I’ve not lived long and already I’ve wasted my life. But you gentlemen, you’re interested in genius, and that’s why I wanted to tell you my little story. Now I’d better leave.”

“No, wait.” It was Pierre who spoke. “Tell us more about Rosier’s society. Was it political? A sort of freemasonry?”

“Best left alone,” replied our companion, who, having emptied his glass and seen that there was no prospect of replenishment, rose with only a little unsteadiness to his feet.

“Your name, monsieur?” It was I who asked.

“Minard.”

All were ready to see the strange fellow leave, except Pierre. “I want to know more about Rosier,” he said abruptly.

Minard eyed him with a sparkle of mischief and a shadow of enigma. “In that case you shall have to search hard, my friend, because I have told you all I can. Though if ever you go to the Blue Cat, especially on a Friday night, you might see me there.”