Last Message Read online

  I would never admit this to anyone else, but I knew from experience that Canadians were a lot more international in their outlook than Americans. It always shocked me when I heard my cousins really get rolling in a conversation, not only about things that were happening in their own country, but also in America (though they always called it “the United States”) as well as in Europe and South America and even Africa, for God’s sake. My buddies and I back home had enough trouble keeping informed about local politics! They didn’t know anything about the Great White North, even though Canuck-land was just a few miles away over the border. I remember correcting them when they referred to Canada’s president, instead of prime minister.

  So, I figured these two guys at Pont d’Arc might have actually found out something about the Ardèche region before they came here. Americans, of course, rarely did that before they traveled. We just showed up. Canadians were usually pretty friendly too. I stepped toward them.

  “Hey, guys!” I shouted.

  The first one, the guy in the Leafs shirt, was looking back toward his friend. But he turned around, saw me and answered right away.

  “Hey, man. American, right?”

  God, even the Canucks can pick us out over here.

  “Yeah, from Buffalo.”

  “Oh…man, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said straight-faced. Then he smiled. “Just kidding!” He slapped me on the shoulder.

  “You guys been here for a while?”

  “Good guess, Sherlock,” said the Molson dude, coming up from behind.

  “You ever heard of the Chauvet Cave?”

  “Sure,” said Maple Leaf, “it’s right up there.” He pointed slightly to the northeast and up the cliffs. “Checked it out before we came over, found the exact location on a satellite map, pretty interesting.”

  Bingo.

  “But you can’t go there,” Maple Leaf said.

  “I know.”

  “We’re here for the kayaking, man, and the babes.”

  “And the wine,” said Molson.

  “What if I wanted to go up there? How would I do it? I just want to see it from a distance.” Every Canadian I ever met pretty much minded his own business. It was a national characteristic. These guys would never ask me exactly why I was interested in the Chauvet Cave.

  “There’s a path that leads right from the lot here,” Maple Leaf offered right away. “It isn’t marked. It’s all very secret, you know, une place sacrée.” He laughed. “But if you walk over there”—he pointed at a spot at the far end of the lot—“and look into the shrubs, you’ll see it. It’s the only path at that end of the lot. It’ll take you up to a place where the scientists work. They get there by a little road that goes off the main one a little ways back. We had a brewski in town with one of the tall foreheads working there. He wouldn’t say much about it, but he told us about another path that leads from their buildings up to the cliffs. It takes you to the cave. He made a point of telling us that it was sealed off and under surveillance.”

  “But we aren’t interested anyway,” said Molson. “Too many girls and too much boating going on. I mean”—he looked up at the blue, sunny sky—“check out the rays, man. And besides, I hear they’re pretty strict about protecting that cave. We’d rather spend our time out here”—he motioned at the gorgeous Pont d’Arc and the river—“in the company of les femmes, than in some French jail.”

  “Adiós, Americano!” said Maple Leaf, and off they went.

  I watched them walk away, wondering if it was advisable to even look for the trail without learning more about what exactly was up ahead. But I wasn’t about to turn back now. At least, I reasoned, I can check out the buildings. I’ll make a decision about what to do when I get there.

  I was surprised at how quickly the buildings came into view. I must have walked uphill for about three or four minutes, tops, and there they were, in an opening off a small road, with a compact parking lot. The buildings weren’t fancy; they looked like housing for the military, a group of concrete structures with barely a sign. I guess that made sense. It wasn’t as if they appeared to be trying to hide anything—they just weren’t looking to attract attention. There were about a dozen cars in the little lot. As I stood there, a good hundred feet away, a car pulled up and a man got out, wearing glasses and sporting a frizzy hairstyle that could be best described as neglected. He was dressed in brown shoes, beige pants and a short-sleeved, green-and-white-checked shirt, an awfully boring look for a Frenchman. He was carrying a big briefcase and didn’t even notice me as he slammed his door, locked it and marched off across the lot toward the front entrance to the biggest building, his head down, muttering to himself. At the door, he was greeted by a man in a uniform. After they’d smiled at one another and exchanged a little conversation, the unfashionable guy headed off into the building and the other man, the one in the uniform, turned and looked right at me. I expected it to be just a glance, but he seemed to notice that I was looking his way and stepped out from the doorway and stared at me. I moved back down the trail I’d come up.

  But I didn’t go very far. Once I was almost out of sight, I squatted down and peered through the underbrush at the man. After a few seconds, he re-entered the building.

  The Canadians had said that the path that led up to the cave was on the other side of these structures. As I got up from my crouch, I could actually see what I thought was the path in the distance, or at least its outline through the underbrush on the far side of one of the buildings, winding its way up the cliffs, then disappearing where it met a field of fruit trees. There were woods beyond that and the sheer limestone cliffs in the distance. Could that really be the path? Vanishing into a field and then into the woods?

  I decided that if I left the lower path I was on and plunged into the trees, I would come out on the little road that led to the parking lot, far out of sight of the guard or whatever he was. I really didn’t think he would be able to see me. Then I could crouch down and move through more trees until I was at the far side of the buildings, and pick up the path to the cave on the other side.

  I felt a little ridiculous, given that I was sure there was no law against being near the scientists’ buildings—you just couldn’t go in without an invitation. People must have meandered by here from time to time. They probably even got much closer to the cave than this. And I doubted the guard would do anything other than watch me if I reappeared in the parking lot. But I didn’t want him watching me, not given what I intended to do in the very near future. There was no way I could take the chance of him recognizing me. That might make things very difficult at a delicate moment.

  So I sneaked through the trees, up the little road, around the buildings and, sure enough, found a path. I made certain I was out of sight of the buildings before I left the trees and got onto the trail. It was relatively flat here. There was the field up ahead, revealed now as a vineyard. It was curious to think that someone owned this land and cultivated part of it this close to the legendary cave.

  The path didn’t stop at the vineyard: it merely wound around it and then headed upward. First it entered the woods. I tramped through them, sensitive to every little sound, wondering at times if the bird calls were signals from security people who were watching me and about to swoop down and arrest me. But that seemed ridiculous.

  The path was narrow and certainly not well marked, but that made sense. I’d worn my hiking boots and could hear the twigs and pebbles crunching under my feet. It was a warm day and I was starting to sweat. Soon I came to a place where I could rest—a rocky ledge that stuck out from the cliffs. It was amazing. You could look down over the gorge from here. I saw the scientists’ buildings, their little parking lot, the bigger parking lot, the river and the Pont d’Arc far below. But I didn’t want to pause for long. The steep path led onward and upward, through underbrush and into the cliffs.

  Off I went. But after ten or fifteen minutes of walking, much of it still steeply upward, I was ready to stop. I was beginni
ng to doubt that this was the way. After all, I had no proof, just the words of a couple of Canadians who had a drink with a scientist. Perhaps he had purposely given them the wrong information.

  But then I heard something. In fact, I heard someone. He was whistling.

  I was exhausted and had been walking with my head down, not looking more than a few yards in front of me. I didn’t bother to raise my head now. I quickly left the trail, almost jumping into the underbrush, and scurried a good ten feet away. I crouched down. Only then did I slowly turn and raise my gaze up the cliff in the direction I had been heading. Almost directly above me and no more than half a dozen car lengths away, I saw a man dressed in what looked like gray-blue coveralls, wearing a white hard hat with a light attached to it, sitting on a large plastic container in a tiny open cave. He appeared to be waiting for someone. I looked away from him and my gaze followed the path past him. It narrowed and became a wooden walkway. And then I saw it.

  Thirty feet or so farther along, the walkway ended in four smooth, expertly-surfaced stone steps. The steps led into the cliff. Right into it! I took a chance and moved forward a little so I could see better. I could now make out that the steps led up to an opening, and in that opening was a huge steel door, built right into the cliff! It was like a portal to a magical world.

  Then I heard voices. I dropped to the ground. Several people were coming up the path behind me toward the man in the little open cave! There were about five or six of them, all dressed in those gray-blue coveralls, all with helmets and lamps. As they neared, they came within a few feet of me. I held my breath. They were chatting happily, a sense of excitement in their conversation. Mostly it was in French, but it was interspersed with bits and pieces of English. It was obvious to me that they were talking about the cave, mostly because they were using all sorts of big, scientific words. I noticed that the guard from the buildings was with them. He was now dressed in those coveralls too and was leading the way, not saying anything. They must be about to enter the cave!

  As I looked up, one of the men caught my eye. He was the most animated of the group and used the least scientific vocabulary. He was making fun of some of the things the other men were saying and offering comments about the weather, the beautiful day, the smells and sounds. Their conversation was sprinkled with enough English for me to understand. He was much taller than the rest and his curly blond hair cascaded down his shoulders. A goatee grew wildly from his chin, extending almost halfway down his chest. He wore a pair of circular sunglasses, the frames a startling yellow-and-purple pattern, and I noticed a bright red shirt under his coveralls. He was teasing the only female, a young woman wearing black, horn-rimmed glasses and a short haircut. I could see that she was nervously fiddling with her hair, as if to make it presentable under her helmet. Some of the man’s comments made her blush and look down at the ground. It was obvious that the blond man was a very different sort from the others. At one point, he pretended to run toward the cave, as if he were making a break for it and attempting to get in without clearance. Though some of the others laughed, the guard didn’t.

  They approached the man sitting on the container just inside the little cave to the side of the walkway and spent a few moments talking with him. Soon he unlocked the big container, drew out strange-looking shoes and foot-wide square lights attached to battery packs on belts, handed them out and then let the whole party by. When they had gone, he trudged down the path, right by me, obviously on his way back to the buildings. Luckily, he didn’t spot me.

  The group grew silent as they neared the main cave at the end of the wooden walkway. Even the blond man didn’t say anything. I edged out to the path, peered up through the underbrush and watched them. Now I could see that there was a key pad on the wall next to that magical steel door and above it was a surveillance camera! My heart sank.

  The guard punched in a complicated code—about twenty numbers that he touched with lightning speed. It was apparent that only he knew that code. Then he opened the door. I leaned forward, my face completely exposed, and as I did, the man with the colorful glasses turned around. I pulled my head back. I didn’t think he saw me. But he looked my way for a moment, shook his head and then turned back toward the cave door. From where I was, I couldn’t see much inside the door, just a dark opening as each and every member of the group entered it with a sort of quiet reverence. As they stepped through the opening, they all put on the special shoes the man had handed out. When they went into the cave, it seemed as though they walked downward. Then the door closed and they were gone. It was as if they had disappeared into another dimension.

  I crouched there for a long time, listening to the near-silence: just the wind, the songs of a few birds, and the sound of moving water barely audible far below. Then I got to my feet and walked up past the little cave where the man had sat on the container, along the narrow wooden walkway, and toward the door. It was indeed steel, not much taller than me and not particularly wide. Well aware of the surveillance camera, I didn’t come close. I imagined what the scientists were seeing in there.

  How in the world was I going to get in?

  FOURTEEN

  THE KEY TO THE CHAUVET

  As I rode back through the beautiful Ardèche in a cab I had hailed in Vallon, I thought about my situation. At first, it seemed impossible. But then I started to think, really think. Grandpa often said there was always a way to do something, no matter how difficult it was to accomplish. All you had to do was work at it and use your imagination. Perhaps that was what he was trying to teach me right now.

  It took me almost all the way to Arles, but eventually it came to me.

  The cave was heavily fortified and protected. But there were people who did get into it. The scientists or the other experts, the men and women who worked in those buildings lower down in the gorge. They went in and out every day.

  There was only one way to enter the Chauvet. I had to go in with them.

  When I got back to my hotel I started to consider how I could possibly do that. Then I remembered the blond guy, the one who seemed so different from the others, so unconcerned about the rules.

  By the time I went to bed that night I had a plan. I’d bought a few postcards in Vallon, so I wrote one to Vanessa. I’d do the one for Shirley later, and the one for Leon. I needed my sleep. I set my cell-phone alarm to wake me very early the next morning and slipped under the covers.

  Despite the early hour, my waitress was at the café when I arrived. She was wearing nothing but a very long white T-shirt with some kind of a design on the front, a skinny belt and tennis shoes and just a dash of makeup to make her look fabulous. As she approached, the drawing on her shirt became clear—The Little Prince. She had worn it for me.

  She smiled at me and said, “You are still alive and not in jail, so you must not have tried to enter la Grotte Chauvet?”

  “No. I’ll do that today.”

  She looked concerned. “Remember, you do not have to do it.”

  “Yes, I do.” I tried to say it with conviction, but it didn’t come out that way.

  She leaned down and squeezed my hand. “No, you do not.”

  I wanted to kiss her. Not on the mouth, not like she was my girlfriend or anything, but like she was a friend. Despite my relationship with Shirley and my interest in Vanessa, I wanted to kiss this French girl in Arles. It was kind of confusing.

  I was in the cab on the highway up to the Ardèche before eight o’clock, so nervous that I couldn’t keep my legs from shaking. This time, I had the cabdriver drop me at the Pont d’Arc parking lot. As I had suspected, there weren’t many people there yet. Tourists aren’t exactly early risers. So I sat down and waited. The people I wanted to see arrived about an hour later.

  “Hey!” I called out to the two Canadians, who seemed to be wearing the same shirts they had on yesterday.

  I cut to the chase. Last night, when I was going over the events of the day trying to figure out how the heck I might get into the cave
, I had thought about these guys and the fact that the scientist they had been drinking with had told them stuff no one else would talk about. I believed that they’d been speaking to the guy with the long blond hair, and that he was perfect for me and my mission.

  When I described him, they agreed that it was the same guy and told me where they had met him.

  I walked to Vallon and found the café. By the time I got there, it was past prime breakfast hour, but not so late that my target wouldn’t be there. I guessed—correctly—that he liked to take his time in the mornings. Sure enough, there he was: long blond hair falling toward the table, yellow-and-purple-rimmed sunglasses on, lenses black as night, low on his nose. A thick, well-thumbed paperback sat on his little table in front of his drink, and he had his head down, writing in a lined notebook. His long goatee actually touched the pad as he wrote.

  I noticed that almost everyone in the half-full café kept stealing glances at him. The waitresses paid him particular attention.

  I wasn’t surprised to find out that he was friendly. When I came up to introduce myself, he whipped off his glasses, looked up and instantly asked me to join him. (I didn’t give him my real name, just to be on the safe side. I called myself Bernard McLean.) He was younger than I expected, but the most notable thing about him up close was his eyes. They blazed at me, even though I had said nothing remarkable to him, nor was I—obviously—remarkable myself. It was as if his eyes were always lit up like that. An extraordinary energy came from him, an undeniable charisma.

  I also wasn’t surprised that he spoke English. His cool French accent didn’t make his conversation difficult to follow: he had a way of almost caressing words. I imagined he could make them sound interesting in any language. He was a man of quick movements and thoughts. He examined me closely, as if learning every inch of my face, penetrating it and getting into my brain.