Chapter Eleven: On the moon.
- Buon appetito!
- Chin!
At the terrace of the Trattoria San Benedetto, Jean-Pierre and Alexis Mourlon Juliénas toast. The last rays of winter sun shine on reflections dancing in the flask of Valpolicella. A spicy smoke hovers above the bowl of minestrone. A fresh breeze blows from the port of spray that combines a strong smell of tar, hints of grilled sardines and a touch of lead paint. The two passengers waiting
10:30 p.m., fateful moment of embarkation on the Corsica Express II. Since their arrival at Central Station in Genoa at the end of morning, they had ample time to validate their tickets, to walk the Via Balbi, Via Garibaldi, Corso Andrea Doria and some adjacent streets and have visited several baroque churches, admiring the facades of five or six palaces, is tail twenty minutes before the Gelatteria Macaggi (the better of the two Rivieras!), and monitored the comings and goings of ships in the Basin Delle Grazzi.
For nearly a week, Mourlon multiplied the wrong tracks, the double to thwart surveillance and Champagnole Caillac. He has booked several tickets over the Internet in the direction of Ireland, the Czech Republic, Lebanon, Turkmenistan ... His accomplice computer genius Alexis Julien has sent thousands of spam and hackers headbands on all departmental sites open to the public. Eight times Mourlon went to the agency Decize-Travel - the great displeasure of the employee trainee - to inquire about departure dates and rates varied excursions: the Romantic Rhine, at the bottom of the Chasm Padirac in Sologne "in the footsteps of Maurice Genevoix" at the Maison de la Radio "in the shadow of Jacques Martin, the Salon of Painters who paint with the mouth, the International Competition Throwing Tongs St. Peire de Tatane (Charente Sea), the Wisdom of Geese-the-Well fed Gargling (Marne-et-Oise) ... Even riding the Agency Cookoo Thomas Nevers to collect information on a dream holiday to the Orkney Islands, the fitness Vaux-en-Velin, internships bottle in Quiberon, weekend spas Spa, weeks of trekking in the Alpilles and fortnights Chaise Lounge in Saint-Placide-l'Allongé
... Then, without fanfare so that as surreptitious furtive at dusk, the journalist has slipped through the back door of a van borrowed from the funeral; wearing a fireman's helmet, wearing a large gray raincoat and nose shod with dark glasses, he sat on an empty coffin. The vehicle was driven by his friend Julian, who sang on leaving Decize the "profound morpionibus! "Rigor. And the expedition was directed by roads discrete to Menton and the Italian border.
extra precaution Juliénas parked his car near the church of Pieve, a tiny hamlet in the lower border of the Roya valley, after which the two men chartered a taxi to the station of Ventimiglia and they are mounted in the first train Genoa. Thus, in this sunny November day they arrived in the Ligurian capital.
- You are very sure that we have not spun? You know, the new RG feature, now ... And the PAF has super-powerful radar ...
- What are you talking bam, Alexis?
- The Border Police.
- Y has no borders with Europe, the Schengen area and the free movement ...
- Hold on! Freedom of movement for some, not all! Request immigrants!
- Do not worry. Everything went well until now. If it s'trouve, Commissioner Champagnole I am looking towards Cork, or the Maldives. As the brave Caillac, he alerted the Auvergne and Gascony brigades. And I, for one ... c'temps
- And what do you seek in Corsica? This is your friend ...
Stool - Tamburini!
- sorry. It is true that they are likely there. So he'll stay?
- Do you! I bought a small pied-à-terre there. Oh, two or three rooms, rented to tourists during the summer. Feet in the water. Or almost. Because the sea food beach each winter. When I go, my tenants leave me a corner. Currently, is free, given the season.
- No yucky, this soup. But z'auraient have cut vegetables.
- A Minestrone alla Spinola. No sacrilege, please!
- I dunno, myself. This is the first time.
- It's true that your food comes down to sandwiches and kebabs stained MacDos of fat.
- not everyone has your ...
- Come! The incident is closed. I recapitulate. Whenever I'm on board, you resume the train to Ventimiglia, tracking down a hotel you're there, if it's not too late. Tomorrow morning, you'll get the van, and you come home in France you work to make it to Paco. You have not lost the address. Then you return to Decize as quickly as possible.
- I've lost a lot of time. I must complete my blog.
- Not a word about our trip.
- Obviously, I expected a story on the pastures of Normandy.
- Do not forget the pie!
- The bridge l'évêque and Livarot.
- If you want to contact me in Corsica, caution!
- Dam Safety. Okay. I will send coded messages to your boyfriend Stool.
- Tamburini, I tell you!
- Burini, if you prefer. You can count on me. I tested the code zero-seven. Besides, I use it regularly with correspondents in Paris. Not the slightest flaw. Coverage beyond reproach: it communicates military bulletins of the war of 14, if the anti-terrorist cops arrive to decrypt something, they will be for expenses. But it would be more efficient with the code zero-zero.
- Ah, yes! That is what I seek.
- And you think to find?
- We'll see. Must go faster ... especially
- That Champagnole, I got it.
Chapter Twelve: After the storm.
A plume of black smoke flew from the chimney. At the end of his journey, the Corsica Express II finally manages to cross the pass. It is true that a strong wind sweeps the Tyrrhenian Sea this morning. And the port of Bastia is poorly exposed. The pilot gave up five times to overflow the green buoy; gusts dangerous gap car-ferry to the pier. This time it's good. With a delay of three hours and twenty-five minutes, passengers from Genoa see the end of their torments.
- Phew! said Jean-Pierre Mourlon.
The night was terrible. Too short. Agitated. Tossed in his bunk, irritated by the grinding plate, smacking a door and fall of various objects badly stowed, Mourlon tried unsuccessfully to sleep. This trip reminded him of an already eventful journey in pursuit of Agnan Fumerol. Before their brief friendship ...
Alerted to six hours by the sound, the passenger ran from the bar to gulp down an espresso firmly packed. Alas, since the death of Pavarotti and the burning of Cinecitta, the Italian quality is poor, the bottom of a tiny plastic cup, an infamous black slop hardly dissolve a sugar cube that undoubtedly comes from a marble quarry ; The taste of the drink is bitter price is outrageous, the server is forced smile, the drinker can not curb faces and retching heart. Meanwhile
docking, Mourlon attempts to climb on the upper deck, but pitching is more violent and stairs become oblique, again, a sly wind plate heavy doors. Since access to the outside is too dangerous, the journalist merely to observe, through a rain-swept window, the flickering lights of the city Bastia.
And the cons-time alternate. On several occasions, the captain explains, for sound intermediary that "Ladies and gentlemen of the passengers are prrriés attendrrre in cabins because entrrrrée in porrrt Bastia rrrendue is difficult because of the wind" with trrraduzzione in italiano e in lingua inglese. Until the lull saving ...
On the Place Saint-Nicolas, two men run between the chairs and tables with rattan terraces, scattered by the storm. They are looking for a haven (no, they are not in Le Havre, inattentive readers!), Seeking shelter where they can taste, dry and warm up some. Philippe Tamburini, used the 365 real bars in town, hesitates between the Imperial, a large tavern with leatherette banquettes, the Emperor - not to be confused with nearby competitor - the Thalassa, visit backpackers, and Café de la Place, ancient temple of football. To avoid offending sensibilities, he decided to attend in turn each of these high places of leisure island, to lead to several varieties of Muscat, to comment on it with inevitable knowledge the latest political gossip sportsmen and to go and check if the air of the Old Port and the roses offered by boui-bouis docks are worth a visit. With in passing a small snack seed watered a vintage Patrimonio. Jean-Pierre Mourlon, suitcase in hand and knapsack on back, following his cicerone, drink with him, laughed at his jokes, a little behind the leg after the eighth stage and wondered exactly where, when and how will end tour host.
Then Tamburini confesses
- gonna have to call Toy!
- Who's that? Your secretary?
- No, my wife, Maria Anghjula. She was waiting for lunch. The roast will ...
- Being burnt. Not be alarmed now, we have an alibi: the delay of the boat.
And the expedition towards the sea breeze, famous den of thieves, Philippe Tamburini not hesitate to haunt from time to time. Between two wines, or rather between a cooked and two overflow drains, the two friends are quietly in the afternoon, much of the evening and the rest of the night. They attend, silent witnesses and embarrassed, a long transaction between buyers and suppliers of infra-red guns, rocket launchers, anti-tank guns used fraudulently or imported from Serbia. It must provide the hooded independence of various persuasions!
a quarter past six, long enough before the onset of a first ray of sun on the waves, Jean-Pierre Mourlon Tamburini and Philip finally reach the parking lot of the marina which is parked in double rows, the Simca 1000 of the former banker. It hastens to snatch the windshield a dozen commercials, three minutes for illegal parking and two nationalist tracts, he throws it carelessly into the pond nearby. And rolls the cart.
- At this hour, it is quieter. The blues are in bed, the traffic is flowing and I can make better ditches.
In second gear - due to a clutch failure - that the vehicle crossed the fifteen kilometers from the marina the home of the Tamburini.
The wife of former banker, drawn with difficulty from his sleep, without Renaude accepts the explanations he provides. She is no fool ... he just has to breathe the breath of both men.
By late morning, Jean-Pierre Mourlon settles in his pied-à-terre of the waterfront, deserted by tourists since September. A quick inspection of the two parts is sufficient to evaluate the restorations carried out before next season: paper torn, chipped crockery, cutlery ware, refrigerator ransacked and cracked mattresses. Fatigue, it collapses on a couch, wrapped in his sleeping bag and fell into a pit of sleep. *****
Chapter Thirteen: Nec mergitur. While his wife
Anghjula Maria sets the table, Philip Tamburini zap from one channel to another. As their guest tonight, Jean-Pierre Mourlon he smugly read the cultural page of an old number Corse-Matin, seated on the throne toilet
- Jean-Pierre O, come quick! Jean-Pierre!
- What? The burning bush? Beyond the sea?
- No, come quickly. On TV ...
- Well what? On TV? What do you see?
- Lenoir! It is in Ruquier!
- Lenoir-Fools ... you not my gu ... Lenoir, you know he's dead. Drowned in Lake ... Lake finally in Switzerland, the response journalist, buttoning his pants.
Yet we must get to the obvious. The little bearded grinning, it's Joel Lenoir. The show has just begun. Around a table in the shape of heart, Ruquier Lawrence and his band are, as every evening, authors, celebrities, starlets, the fun that "make the news." Perched on a stool between the art critic and Stevie Boulay télépsy Gerard Miller, Joel Lenoir answered questions put to him by the insidious petulant Christine Bravo. It is there to tell the extraordinary adventure that comes to live: unwittingly plunged into the chilly water of a lake in Switzerland, he was immediately propelled to the opposite shore by the explosion of an airbag that experience has inspired a new novel, NEC mergitur, which will certainly be the bestseller of the month.
However, airtime which is offered must not exceed three minutes twenty-six and the hosts are now looking to the concerns of the other two guests of the day: a white-haired scientist and inexhaustible expert at Dendrology stopwatch, and a penniless old baroness who has invented a pair of molds, a very effective tool to capture the valves oblong to taste these excellent bivalves without dirtying your fingers. Throughout the show, Joel Lenoir is a more contained, gnawing at the bit waiting to be questioned again. After two jokes
libidinous Pierre Benichou during the brief exhibition of a stripper Afghan burkha transparent, Joel Lenoir, is again under fire from the sunlight, under the eye of the camera and grouped under fire questions he mutters an "uh! " two "Hm! "Three" well, then! "Is pulling a nose hair, smooth bottom edge of his beard and scratching the occiput. The show closes
in laughter unanimous, with the imitator in Crimea Florence Foresty Madam de Fontenay.
- So I roast, how are you?
- Gentle, craquouillant, to the point, answered politely Mourlon, on which the hostess darts a look compelling.
- Ah, if you had tasted one yesterday ... the wife continues Tamburini. I have invited neighbors to finish. It is true that you, you were still at large. With the storm ... and stops my Filou you imposed, more ...
- Ttttais-tttoi, stammers Trickster designated above. Jean-Pierre had a stomach ache. Digestion upset. With the tub. He needed a little lift, before facing the corners.
- You mean your zig-zags of a drunkard! The road is all right ... far from Bastia
Anghjula Maria laid upon the table a strong odor of cheese, real cheese made from sheep, eight months old, yellowed and hardened in the basement, left behind by worms and gnats; it cut short any discussion. The cat in the house fled through the flap, the canary falls asleep in his cage, ceiling light flickers. Stop the flies buzzing. Teeth contrast with effort, quivering nostrils eaters and their jaws chew.
- Let's talk about code, Jean-Pierre.
- Ah, the code!
- Yes, the code! What is it you want the code?
- Well, you worry doubts ... If you come so far is that your track ...
- My track brings me home. Kyrnéa, it is in Corsica.
- was the Corsica, the time of the Greeks and Etruscans.
- About Greeks, he must remain vestiges ...
- I dunno, I ... Y Panagiotti well, the furniture dealer ... Ah! yes, and then Achilles Papadacci, you know, the half brother of my cousin Hector, son of Timothy and Agathe. They are called the Greeks, because they come from Cargese. Because at Cargese, once it was all Greek.
- Well, come to Cargese! *****
Chapter Fourteen: In the orb of Saint Spiridon.
- So this is an iconostasis! J'me figured something smaller, like an altar. Philippe
Tamburini eyes widen. Barring the choir of the Greek church, a partition consisting of all the tables this golden saints venerated by the faithful. Jean-Pierre Mourlon a magnifying glass, a camera slung over his shoulder and a Greek dictionary in the pocket, carefully examining every inch of the iconostasis. Behind them, two tourists sturdy Germanic, kneeling on the prie-dieu, whispering and leafing through their guide Merian.
This morning, very early, Philippe Tamburini has released its 1000 Simca garage. After checking the oil level, tire pressure, spark plugs, belts and fuel, it started in a cloud of dust and went to honk the mini-villa Mourlon friend. The latter, while stuffiness and unkempt, was installed in the vehicle.
- I listened to the weather on Frequenza Mora. Apparently the neck Vizzavona is snowy. As for Vergio, no question of climbing since the beginning of the month. Do you think we will come to pass?
- For added security, I decided to follow the coastline. Route de Calvi is extra now. Then it turns, but we will have time to admire the scenery.
Thus the Simca 1000 was a slender tower of the Corsican coastline. Still in second gear, except downhill. With, of course, some essential stops for refueling ... First-calva cafes in the early morning, then Casanis late morning, a hearty meal at a restaurant in the Ile-Rousse, the various coffee-growing between Calvi and Porto, to celebrate the arrival, a bottle of white Pianiccia at Xavier, at the entrance to Cargese.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon when, in an oblique light in the euphoria, the two men crossed the lanes of the village towards the two churches.
- It's like Colombey here ...
- You said it. But there is no great Charles. Just the little Charlot, the shrimp fisherman. I you will present it. Charlot Stefanopoli I did my military service with him. Another Greek. We will certainly be useful.
- And the Greek church is that?
- Smallest. You'll see is the inside that is Greek, the exterior does not look.
The spectacle lens glued to the eyepiece, Jean-Pierre Mourlon shot every detail of the iconostasis. He fought against the complicated menus displayed on the screen of his new digital camera, in turn triggers the flash-red-eye, macro shooting, various tones, the quick-view button, the stabilizer and destabilizing it unintentionally erases previous films, he re-recorded, duplicates and moves a few blurry images, it leafing anxiously manual for his machine, blithely mixing The photometric system, los requisitos del sistema und der Selbstlösernahaufnahmenmodus.
on hearing the musical syllables of the latter compound word, both tourists Germanic - Austrian protest soon they - approach the apprentice photographer and show him the necessary adjustments.
- But what do you shoot, dear Môssieur?
- The orb of Saint Spiridon, ladies ...
- Ladies! I introduce myself, Hildegard Schatzl nurse whispers the most vigorous of the two Austrians. And here is my friend the Baroness Gudrun Elfriede von Habsburg, a descendant of our authentic late imperial family. One who employs me. I'm his lady companion. We will check our Reiseführerbuch what is your holy Spiridon among these revelers with bloated faces illuminated.
sooner said than done. Page 432 of Merian guide presents a sketch commented on the iconostasis. Saint Spiridon is a tall lanky, dressed in a sheepskin, because everyone knows that Saint Spiridon was a shepherd in Arcadia, he was sentenced by a pagan tyrant to eat all the sheep thought to the last bite of meat, he died of indigestion, and since his tragic death, it is invoked by all candidates and obese to dieting.
- And you want to see her ... how do you say, sir? ... Its Zobe?
- The orb, his aura, you understand me? The small circle of light surrounding his head ...
- Ach so! his Nimbus, no, Heiligenschein, its holy light, as we say. And it is not his ... bob, is not it? Philippe
Tamburini, red as a pepper Balagne, had enough. He whispers in the ear of Mourlon:
- Hey, it is pretty hilarious, the chick. It scares me a little when she spoke of his Führer, just now ... And its Zobe ... So there! ...
- not alarmed now, the Führer is his book. The hour is grave. I already found a clue. So come not distract me.
- Okay, okay! I leave you in gallant company. I'll take a little waiting for you. Rendezvous at the Bar of Crustacea. You see the other church. Well, it's just behind. At a time when
the last tourists returning to their buses at a time when the Greek church sexton ringing the Angelus last, arm in arm with the robust nurse, Jean-Pierre Mourlon arrives at Crustacean Bar, where her friend waits , spread gently in a hammock. The journalist is not proud. He managed to take five shots of the sacred halo, halo yellowish, dotted with small print unreadable.
The key to the code zero-zero-it would be one of those chicken scratch? Why the big Agnan Fumerol did he choose such a secret? Who is able to decipher this mysterious writing which, a priori, is no more Greek qu'hébraïque or arabic? Jean-Pierre Mourlon dismisses these questions to contemplate his new chubby profile conquest. *****
Chapter Fifteen: A Night at the Club.
- Sure, yad'la place. The last group left on Saturday and I expect not before Christmas. You gonna open a bungalow right on the sea
John Ianuccelli Vitus, the keeper of Club Mediterranee, laying his pipe on his desk, he carefully closes the volume V Theatre Complete Pirandello, the wrench wins rack, adjusts his cap and unfolded his long frame. It
Charlot Stefanopoli, the regiment buddy Phil Tamburini, who found the solution. As it was getting late in the terrace of the Bar of the Crustacea, as the venerable Simca 1000 would not start despite the best efforts of its highly skilled driver, as the last room of the Hotel de la Marine was not available, such as Baroness von Habsburg had returned to his yacht and suddenly dismissed his nurse, he had to find shelter. And, in Cargese, lodging best known is the Club Mediterranee.
- You hit it, the aminches! The manager is in Ajaccio. Party for a week with TF1 announcer. So I'm only master and journeyman. And then you make a service, as a favor to Charlie, and a favor to Charlie is to work in my own interest, is not it Charlie?
- C'flibustier of Vitus, there will still rob me of my pond crawfish, so when the opportunity ... You can not know as he is clever. Finally, we get along well anyway ...
- And they teamed up to competition bowls.
- We teamed up and you win!
- The not listen, guys! Charley is a braggart! While
GALEJ so, both Cargésiens lead visitors to the beautiful bungalow where they will spend the night: Jean-Pierre Mourlon and Austrian in the master bedroom, Tamburini and his box of Muscat in the living room. The former banker depletes small gulps bottle after bottle, cradled in bliss by the waves, punctuated by the squeaking of the bed where his two companions exerted to move towards European ... Finally, intoxicated by a gray wine, mingling with the dawn fingers with pink color of the bottle, he collapsed on a pseudo-Persian carpets and delve into the orb of Saint Spiridon.
The next morning, in the backroom of guardian Mourlon communicate via the Internet - and under the protection code zero-seven - Photos of Saint Spiridon the computer expert Juliénas. The latter, after some clever manipulation, illegal colors by Photo-shop, enlargements of pixels, large prints on the printer super-precise Internet-based Decize, concludes that the legs of flies listed on the halo of St. Spiridon are in no case of written characters. This is not the Cyrillic, or Armenian, or the Cambodian Tifinar even less (the ancient alphabet of the Tuareg), nor of the Phoenician and Akkadian original. This does not match no Indian decoration, any tattoo ritual Melanesian any African scarification. The expert offers his interpretation: the facetious Agnan Fumerol have experienced its désécriture the halo of the saint which should reasonably be a verse from the Bible. Which? Mystery.
- But, my dear Jean-Pierre, we will find the original entry in my Reiseführerbuch is an edition of 1978. Your friend could not wipe Fumerol not erase the Bible before that date.
- It has not erased the Bible, Hildegard my treasure. He has erased a sentence.
- Well, I found the reproduction of the ikonostasis. Oh, it's too small. We will not find, mein Gott!
- No rush. I will scan your book and friend ... Jul
Jean-Pierre Mourlon did not have time to name the computer. A solid grasp hit his shoulder, extended by a sleeve light blue, decorated a little above the crest of the regulatory National Gendarmerie (Corsican legion).
- Mr. Mourlon, please follow us. You are under a mandate ...
- What! What?
- Lieutenant Spaladini, brigade of Cargese. We ordre de vous convoyer à Ajaccio. Vous êtes recherché…
*****
INTERMEDE : hommage à Philippe Tamburini et à son modèle.
"Mr. Tambourine Man"
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Though you might hear laughin', spinnin' swingin' madly across the sun
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seein' that he's chasing.
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me In the jingle jangle
morning I'll come followin 'you.
You can listen to that song by Bob Dylan on Deezer.
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