Counterfeit Conspiracies (19 page)

The honking stopped. An older man, wearing one of those textured hats with a small bill that looks like a Greek fisherman's cap, exited the car and called out in a strong baritone, "
Mademoiselle, êtes-vous blésée
?"

My legs gave way, and I landed right where I stood. My upper arm burned, but I didn't want to look. Instead, I took several deep steadying breaths, trying to get some oxygen into my system and slow my heart rate. The crisis was over. I survived thanks to the old guy now walking my way.

  He stopped on his side of the fence and repeated the question. "I'm okay," I replied, my voice a bit shaky. I held up one finger. "Give me a minute, please."

He politely waited until I could get to my feet. I walked warily toward him. I wasn't sure if I could trust him, but his action stopped the person from shooting at me. Though it could just be a ploy to get me into the car.

I halted a few feet away from the fence. He began talking non-stop in French, and wearily I shook my head. "American. I only speak English, and very rusty French."

He frowned and said, "I will take to you to hospital."

"I'm okay. I don't need a hospital."

"But you are bleeding,
mademoiselle
."

At this point, I knew I couldn't avoid looking any longer. The wound wasn't good, but it wasn't as bad as it felt either. I definitely needed some stitches, but that was so not going to happen. Another jacket ruined, too. There was a big tear, and blood pretty much covered my sleeve. An additional rend on the side caused the material to dangle down past my knee. 

The Frenchman pointed to my back. Twisting, I saw it was torn as well. Probably from the fence. I returned my gaze to my arm, which continued to drip blood.

"Not just your arm." He pointed to my face. "There."

I touched the side of my face and found he was right. A narrow abrasion surfaced a little ways beneath my chin. No idea how I'd received that one.

"Please come with me,
mademoiselle
. My late wife, she would have had words to say to me if she saw me keeping you here, standing and talking rather than helping you. My name is Philippe Aubertine."

I figured if he was going to discuss his late wife with a total stranger, he couldn't be too bad. "I'm Laurel Beacham."

I didn't bother to lie. If he was a dangerous guy, he already knew who I was. If he was a good guy, what did it matter to him who I was? The reasoning seemed sound enough for me to head for the fence. He held the top wire up and helped me through. When he tried to carry my pack we had a little tussle, but he finally understood I wouldn't let it go and assisted me up the verge to his car.

He muttered something under his breath about crazy cyclists. Before loading me into the front passenger seat, he politely insisted on checking my back for injury. I dropped my pack and stripped off the jacket, doing my best to keep my damaged arm from him. If he'd ever seen a bullet wound before he'd know exactly what had happened to me.

The survey apparently revealed no blood or rip on the shirt. He took a bag from his trunk and I shoved the ruined coat inside. A beautifully laundered handkerchief smelling of lavender was placed into my hands. I pushed it against my arm and worked at not wincing. He helped me onto the seat, and I placed the pack and the bag at my feet. He carefully closed the door.

I swiped at my chin before reapplying the originally bright white, and now red, linen to my arm. My grimace couldn't be held back this time at both ruining the lovely material and the pain of the wound. I did my best to mop up the blood. Although I had ruined his hankie, I didn't want to ruin his upholstery, too.

Between most of one water bottle and his handkerchief, I cleaned up better than expected. To avoid shock, I also forced myself to choke down one of the sandwiches, thinly sliced beef on thick hearty bread that would have normally made my mouth water. Although the food tasted like chalk in my mouth, I knew I needed the sugar and the calories. The adrenalin dissipation had begun. I offered the other sandwich to my rescuer, but he declined with a polite smile.

We arrived at the town of Brioude. He insisted I needed medical help. A short discussion ensued regarding his wants and mine. I made a veiled reference to the incident and made him think someone, probably an abusive boyfriend, was after me. I finally convinced him I was all right due to his help and his handkerchief. He insisted I keep the handkerchief, and I insisted I really needed to get out of town.

Finally, he agreed to drop me where I could catch another ride. Honestly, I'd reached the point I didn't really care where the next objective led. I just wanted to be on my way.

The car stopped, and he pointed out the direction I should take to get transportation. I pushed euros his way, but he refused to accept anything for the ride or the handkerchief and tipped his hat to me as he drove away.

Not surprising, my hands still shook, but I needed to start moving. I'd wanted to be out of the car but now felt slightly bereft, as though I had lost my safe place. I pushed away the feeling and stuffed the bag holding my ruined coat into a trash bin. At least it was still fairly early in the afternoon, and I wouldn't miss the warmth too much.

My jacket might not have made it, but I had, and so had my shirt, except for a small drop of blood in the ribbing around the collar. I dug in my pack and found a long sleeved black tee to pull on over the short-sleeved one. If the wound started bleeding again, maybe the black color would cover it up a bit.

I heard a lot of noise coming from the direction the man indicated. I turned the corner and found myself in the midst of a mass of people crowded around several buses and an ancient building I assumed was a depot of some kind. I saw no sign indicating the building's purpose, but swarms of people surrounded the place, along with all their packs, bags and duffles.

I readjusted my pack, and held on tightly as I pushed my way through the throng to find a door. A lot of shouting and good-natured jostling occurred. My ears picked up something about costumes and contests and what sounded like a retelling of what happened the previous year.

It was a struggle to separate one conversation from the group. Between everyone talking fast and my poor French, I gave up. Next time I would spend time learning about the region rather than simply concentrating on the map. I definitely should have paid more attention in French class.

I maneuvered through the open doorway and fought through the noisy backpackers, trying to reach the service desk. I kept a sharp eye peeled for anyone who seemed out of place. As well as anyone who seemed out of place and with grab-happy hands. There were so many people.

By accident, I happened across a queue. I didn't recognize the line at first for what it was because there was little forward movement. I kept in place until we finally reached a desk of some sort, where an obviously suffering man sat, smoking a gitane while sorting, stamping, and counting euros. Eureka!

Ten more minutes passed before I was able to maneuver my way back to what appeared to be the end of the queue. Within seconds, seven more people filed in behind me. This must be the right place.

Again, I cursed my interest in my biology lab partner the two semesters I took French. In fact, some might say a little knowledge was a dangerous commodity in a place known for its people's fierce national pride.

Fortunately, the long-haired guy in front of me took pity on my feeble attempts to communicate with the uncooperative person behind me, and interrupted my struggles at trying to be understood. He touched my arm and shouted over the din, "I speak English."

With a sigh of relief, I turned away from the woman who had surveyed my efforts not to butcher the French language with ferocious contempt and what I was sure were colorful names and expletives, and found myself looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes. He was about a head taller than me, with a casual air that said young and carefree. His brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, a style which tugged at the romantic in me. I read curiosity and admiration in his eyes, too. Good. I could use those to my advantage.

I took a deep breath and projected my voice to be heard over the noise. "Thank God. I fear two semesters of college French didn't prepare me for the real world. The only thing I really learned in class was I didn't have an ear for languages. A great disappointment to my grandfather's plans for my future."

He smiled. "I too have a disappointed grandfather who is very angry that I left him alone in our shop during this very busy time of the year. As he put it, 'to waste time playing children's games.'"

  I returned his smile with interest, and his features relaxed into the face of a man who knows he has struck gold.

"I read about Le Puy-en-Velay in my guidebook." I pointed to the ancient and battered copy of
Let's Go, France
I held in my hand. "And decided to visit. But I somehow missed it was such a popular site." I motioned at the surging throng of humanity surrounding us. "What's going on here anyway?"

He laughed, showing off beautiful white teeth. "I'm afraid you managed to pick one of the busiest times of the year to visit Le Puy-en-Velay. It's the
Fêtes Renaissance du Roi de l'Oiseau."

At my puzzled look, he explained. "It literally means, the, 'Renaissance Festival of the King of the Bird.'  In the sixteenth century, it began as a competition to pick the best archer of the region. The celebration today has become a way to return to the past." He smiled. "And a reason to party and act the fool. I'm Rollie," he said, offering his hand and holding mine for a beat too long.

I finally pulled away to adjust my pack unnecessarily. I didn't particularly plan to mislead, him but his interest was exactly what I wanted. I could use him to quickly find out things about the area.

He went on to explain about the celebrations, the stores, the craft booths and entertainments associated with the Renaissance such as acrobats and dancing bears, and a horse riding competition called "King of the Bird."

Never a big fan of renaissance festivals, I listened with half an ear in case there was something I could learn to aid in my search for the cathedral with the black virgin and the chapel of relics with its painting of
The Seven Liberal Arts,
and ultimately my search for Simon, Moran, and the sword.

His voice was a pleasant accompaniment to my thoughts as I planned what to do when I reached the place. I knew Jack would show up probably sooner rather than later and be the thorn in my side he had been since our first meeting.

I noticed Rollie stopped talking to me, and we finally reached the ticket counter. He stepped aside and waited for me to deal with the attendant, which was exactly what I wanted. I began muddling through my terrible schoolgirl French to explain my need to purchase a ticket. The girl behind me sighed loudly and made what sounded like a rude remark about
stupide
Anglaise
to her friends.

The ticket master apparently spoke only French, or didn't want to speak English to me, and rattled off a rapid spate of words that sounded like he was consigning me to the devil. At any other time I would have given him exactly what he deserved, but time was of the essence.

"I need a ticket to Le Puy-en-Velay," I repeated several times in English and attempted fractured French, "
J'ai a bi—"

Before we ultimately exchanged blows, Rollie jumped to my rescue, and said, "
Mademoiselle a besoin d'acheter un billet pour Le Puy-en-Velay."

The clerk again shook his head and rattled off another series of words that apparently meant 'no way on earth,' and for emphasis shook his head again.

Rollie turned to me, disappointment evident in his dark eyes. "There are no more tickets for this bus. You will have to wait for the next one."

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, no. No way. I so was not going to wait around for another bus. "Didn't you just buy your ticket?" I asked Rollie.

"No. I have purchased mine many weeks ago," he said. "I am so sorry. I should have realized you wouldn't have a ticket since you didn't know about the festival."

I looked around like an idiot for a sign I could understand but there wasn't anything posted. "What's this line for?"

"It is to buy tickets when they are available," Rollie reassured me. "But it is also the line to have your ticket stamped to get on the bus."

"Rollie, I'm willing to buy a ticket from anyone to get on this bus." I smiled. "Would you ask around and see if someone is willing to make some money by selling me their ticket and wait for the other bus?"

"If it is that important to you, I will gladly offer you my ticket and I will wait."

I didn't want to buy his ticket. I wanted him with me to help get me where I needed without further mishap or misunderstanding. I needed to buy someone else's ticket. Gallant I didn't want or need. "Did I misunderstand? I thought we . . . I mean, I was looking forward to riding on the bus with you."

His eyes smiled before his mouth did. He had beautiful teeth. "As was I. But we can meet up later at a place I know."

"No, Rollie, please ask anyone around us if they will sell their ticket to me at a premium. I'm willing to pay extra to compensate anyone willing to wait for the next bus."

A sullen voice spoke from behind. "I'll sell for three times the cost."

Of course, it was the bitch behind me, the one who had pretended she spoke little or no English.

As she and Rollie argued over the inflated amount she requested, her friends steadily pleaded with her to stop.

This happened to be a phrase I had heard directed at me many times in my French class whenever I'd attempted a translation.

"
Ne faites pas ça
' '
arête ca
!" her friends called desperately. "
Jourdan! Jourdan!"

The clerk waded into the fray, yelling and gesturing for us to move out of the line. The people directly around us caught onto the drama and threw out their opinions and proposals. The poor souls in the long line behind also shouted their displeasure. I had no idea what they were saying. I simply ignored everyone and concentrated on the task.