I peeked through the wavy glass beside the door and knocked,
anyway. No answer. I opened the door and entered a foyer, dimly
lit by streaks of sun from large windows and French doors on the opposite side
of the house. It was quiet. Where were his wife and kids? To my right a doorway
revealed the dining room. On my left a hall led deeper into the house. Hoping
it led to the library, I headed down the shadowy corridor. A worn oriental
runner in soft, rich colors muffled my footfalls. I poked my head in a few open
doors, and tried one closed one. A set of stairs descended to darkness. I
closed it quickly and passed by the other closed doors. Finally, on my
right, I came upon a tall set of doors, the type that slide into the
walls. They were cracked just enough for me to slide through.
I
did, but stopped when I turned and faced the room. Shelves of books, there
had to be thousands, covered the walls. The rows of books stretched upward from
the floor to a ceiling at least twenty feet in height. Many of the books were
old, the leather covers cracked and colored by age. Déjà Vu again caressed the
furthest reaches of my mind, and my eyes moved to a certain section of the
shelving. Placed beside it, as if on purpose, the rolling library ladder
beckoned. Before I realized what I was doing I moved to the ladder and climbed.
Both hands gripped the stringers as I scanned the book titles, searching,
searching ... and then they fell on the one I sought. I'm not sure I breathed
for several moments while I stood staring at the leather spine of Lolita, by Nabokov.
Could
it be? Was this actually the book that hid the secret space, hidden within the
old walls of the library, Vernon had written about?
I
closed my eyes. This was silly. I was here to interview my friend and fellow
writer. Of course he drew his inspiration from his surroundings. I laughed at
the ridiculous notion that came unbidden, the feeling I had fallen into some
crack in reality and was floating through the pages of his book.
I
climbed back down the ladder.
Still,
it was hard to turn my back without knowing what was hidden behind the Nabakov.
The empty space I was sure was there seemed to call to me.
I
turned myself from it, and noticed, for the first time, a large wooden desk positioned before a set of windows partially obscured by heavy curtains. Stacks
of paper, multi-colored folders, what looked like the printed pages of a
manuscript, neatly arranged across the desk top, sat alongside an antique
letter opener and a small magnifying glass. An ornate ashtray inlaid with mother
of pearl sat along the right edge of the desk, an unlit but half-finished cigar
balanced along its edge. The image of Vernon with his cigar made me smile, and
then I noticed the two large crystal wine glasses, both half-full of a dark,
ruby-red liquid, and my smile grew. He wouldn’t be long.
I
stepped toward the window to see if he was on his way up, and froze.
Someone
sat in the large wingback chair facing the desk.
The
back of the chair faced me but I could clearly see the top of a man’s head, his
hair a golden brown, and his left hand resting on the arm of the old wingback.
Welts
and scars crisscrossed the hand, and a dark silver ring adorned the man’s
wedding finger. It covered the entire length of his finger from the knuckle to
the hand. Along the top of the ring was a white stone of some kind, and set
into that stone was a luminescent cross, a red cross.
The
hand rose from the arm of the chair and gestured. The man wanted me to sit
behind Vernon’s desk.
Slowly, I moved toward
the desk, never taking my eyes from the wingback. The man’s legs came into
view. A pair of boots made of worn brown leather, which reached his knees, were
evenly spaced on the floor. As I moved closer I saw a large floppy hat on his
lap, and when I reached the edge of the desk I was able to see the side of his
face.
He faced the window, not
me, and sunlight fell on the strong lines of his jaw, his cheek, and forehead.
Long flowing hair fell below his shoulders, and softened the planes of his
profile.
I reached for the edge
of the desk and gripped the cool wood, reassuring myself that it, this room,
and the man sitting in the chair, existed.
No sooner had that
thought occurred when the man turned to me. “Hello, Paige.”
Sweet Jesus. He did exist.
His eyes bored into me, dark
pools of mesmerizing intensity. It was as if I were falling into them. I
resisted the urge to move closer, to peer deeper. They beckoned as if doorways
to secrets and places I desperately wanted to pursue. It unnerved me.
Until he smiled. “It’s a
pleasure to meet you, finally. Have a seat behind the desk. We have much to
talk about.”
I kept my eyes on him as
I moved to the chair, a simple wooden swivel office chair, and sat. Using my
notepad as an excuse, I placed it in front of me and pulled myself from his
gaze. I pretended to study the list of questions for a moment, but my composure
was blown. When I looked up, the man's bemused smile revealed he knew it,
too.
"Vernon has been
called away for a bit. A mutual friend of ours had some stories that needed
telling. I told Vernon I would stand in for him. Besides...he said you’ve been
dying to meet me.”
I pinched myself in the
upper leg.
He laughed then, a
melodic rumbling that started somewhere deep within him and echoed off the
walls of books. It was the most beautiful laugh I’d ever heard. It pulled me
from my wonderment and I smiled.
“That’s better. Now, you
came to do an interview, to hear what Vernon has up his sleeve, to talk
about The Arimathean. I believe I can help you with that.”
I took a deep breath,
flipped over my page of notes to a fresh blank page and began.
“Who are you?”
Again, he
laughed. “Really, Paige? I think you know the answer to that, but I’ll
play along. My name is Arnaud Tousseau. At least that is the name I’ve used for
the last seventy years. My real name, the name I was born with many years ago,
is Gaspar de Rouse.”
At the sound of that name
I accepted that I had, in fact, crossed over a plane of mortal existence and
entered a world beyond my understanding. Either that, or I was fast asleep in
my bed dreaming the most vivid and life like vision of my life.
“Or perhaps, a
combination of both,” he said.
“You’re reading my mind.”
How could this be a dream?
“Of course I’m reading
your mind, and perhaps you are dreaming. Would that make this any less real?
What do you actually know of dreams? Do you know what they are and can be, who
uses them as portals into the minds of men?”
He stood. He was tall,
the long jacket he wore almost touched the floor. He reached across the table
and pushed one of the wine glasses toward me, lifted the other, and gently
touched the glasses together. The haunting peal of tiny crystal bells floated
away across the room.
“Here’s to dreams, and
the beings who inhabit them.”
He took a drink, gave me
a wink, and sat again.
“I have so many things I
want to ask you. I don’t know where to start. I wasn’t prepared. For you.”
“Ask me about wine.”
“Wine?”
“Yes. You love wine. We
have that in common although I think your love of Beaujolais could be better
placed.”
I smiled. Vernon hates
Beaujolais and had teased me about it on more than one occasion.
“But it isn’t really the
Beaujolais you love, is it?” he mused, studying me.
No, it wasn’t. Savvy.
Crafty, too. I’d have to work to get answers to my questions. “What’s your
favorite wine?”
“Syrah. Old French
Syrah, the kind they make in southern France. It is imbued with the centuries of
men, winemakers and farmers, who have worked and trod that stony ground even
longer than I have lived. There is one in particular I have an affinity for. It
comes from a small vineyard hidden away from the eyes of most mortals.”
“What’s it called?”
“Domaine Templier.”
“Domaine Templar.”
“That’s right.”
“You were a Templar.”
“I am a Templar, Paige.
I will be a Templar until the day I die. There are those who walk the earth
today who claim that mantle. They have no idea what it means to take up the
cross, to give your life to it.”
“You’re referring to Dominicus
and the organization he belongs to, aren’t you?”
“Yes, The Order of The
Broken Cross, as they call themselves. They profess to be the rightful heirs to
the lineage of the Templars and while those who begat their coven were indeed
Templars, they were traitors...as is Dominicus.”
“So you’re the last of
the real Templars?”
“Perhaps.”
“What does that mean,
perhaps?”
“It means that while you
are asking the questions it is I who is giving the answers, some of which will
not be forthcoming. Next question.”
Something in
the cast of his eyes, the sudden lack of a smile, steered my questions in
another direction.
“How old are you?”
“I’m seven-hundred and
fifty-six years old.”
I stared at him for a
moment trying to prod my mind into acceptance of what this all meant and what
to say to him.
“What’s the greatest
thing you’ve witnessed in all your years?”
He thought for a moment,
spun the glass, lost, it seemed, in the swirling liquid. “Mankind. I’ve seen
them achieve so many great things, create such amazing civilizations. I’ve
watched in wonder as artists, scientists, inventors have transformed the lives
of men. Even now I can scarcely believe how the world has changed.”
“You say Mankind, as if
you are no longer a part of it.”
“I’m still a man, Paige.
I never stopped being a man. I simply no longer live my life as a man. I live
it as if I am some sort of extraterrestrial being walking unseen and unnoticed,
for the most part, among beings who look like me.”
Something had crept into
his voice, a shadow had fallen across his face. I realized it was loneliness.
“What is the worst thing
you’ve seen in all these years?”
There was another long
drawn out pause before he answered. “How little the souls of humans have
changed. For all the advancements around us mankind remains what it has always
been, fierce, warlike, and destructive of each other. I’m never surprised by
the savagery of men. As a warrior myself I understand it. It is part of us just
as it is part of those we call angels. They exist in a state of perpetual
war...why not us?”
He drank from the glass
again and looked me in the eye. “Try some of the wine, Paige, and then lighten
up a bit. Ask me something fun.”
I sipped the wine. It
really was wonderful. Fun. Hmm. “Vernon’s hinted in the book that you’ve had a,
how should I say this? Someone special in your life--I mean, you’re seven
hundred years old, but you're a man....”
I made a mess of the
question, which elicited another of his addicting chuckles. “I don’t want
to spoil Vernon’s stories so I will only agree with your statement, I am a
man.”
My cheeks burned. I
tried to salvage it. “I mean, love, in general. Not just romantic love, but
people you have loved, and...”
“Lost. Yes.”
“Tell me,” I leaned
forward. “About love. And loss. Please.”
“It’s a burden. And
it’s liberating.”
“Will you tell me about
the burden you bear?”
“Mortal moments are
fleeting. One lifetime is often not enough to move beyond our own imposed
boundaries and know true love.” He smiled. “Being immortal frees me to love in
ways... in a way that can't quite be understood these days. To love a man in
friendship, deeply and unconditionally. And accept his. To love a woman until
your souls shatter. I would not have known those loves in one lifetime. Loss
teaches us to love. To not waste time. The curse of loss is the most inspiring
teacher.” He smiled, sadly, and then continued on in a mischievous tone. I do have a few, shall we say, guilty
pleasures that ease my burdens. I have a weakness for beauty. I drive an Aston
Martin. I collect art of the old Masters, and new ones. I love great wine.” He
raised his glass, tipped it to me, and drank the rest in one swallow.
My eyes were drawn back
to his hand as he held the glass to his lips. The ring flashed in a ray of
sunlight and the red stone, fashioned into a cross, dazzled my eyes as a wave
of warm invasive light enveloped my mind.
I began to panic for a
moment as I realized that the room, the man seated before me, even the chair
upon which I had been sitting only a moment ago were all gone and that I was
floating somewhere disconnected from reality.
I felt the sudden urge
to cry out when I once more heard his voice, Gaspar’s.
“It’s okay, Paige. Our
time together is over, for now. We’ll meet again. It may be on the pages of
Vernon’s books or it may be in some other way but we will meet again.”
As Gaspar’s voice faded
away the panic and fear was replaced by a warm feeling of security and wonder.
I felt an overwhelming urge to sleep...in peace.
A sound, far off
intruded incessantly keeping me from the sleep I now craved. A damn phone. In a
semi-comatose state I reached out and retrieved the phone that sat beside my
bed only half conscious of where I was.
“Hello.”
“Paige?”
“Hello? Who is this.”
“It’s Vernon, Paige, are
you asleep? You were supposed to be at my house at noon for our interview. What, did you drink too much crummy Beaujolais last night?”
I sat straight up and
looked around the room. My room. I mumbled something into the phone,
something that drew a laugh and a question from my friend. But it was what was
lying on the night stand that held my attention.
A golden medallion,
attached to a long gold chain of heavy links, was propped up, leaning on the
bedside lamp. It was shaped like a star and in the center of the medallion was
a red Templar cross ringed by words, SIGILLVM TEMPLI XPESTI. And beside the medallion
was a sheet of paper. I reached out and lifted it. It was heavy, luxurious,
like no other paper I’d ever felt. Written in a beautiful cursive script was a
short sentence, “To, Paige. With love and
affection. G. de Rouse.
“Paige? Paige? Are you
there?”
The Arimathean, the follow up to Slow Boat To Purgatory is
set for release in early summer 2012. Look for it on Amazon. You can keep
track of Vernon and his writing at Vernon J Baker.
Interview with Vernon Baker, here.
