“We have to move that,” he said, so David put his things down, too. They were in a space only a few feet square, and it took a minute just to figure out how to divide the labor. As Ascanio pushed on one edge of the slab, David pulled on its upper rim. It rocked a few inches, then settled back into its age-old groove.
“Again,” Ascanio said, and that time the slab rolled to one side, just enough for Ascanio to slip through. The scabbard of his sword scraped against the stone. “Quick,” he said, extending his arm back through, “hand me my pack.” David did, then handed his own through, too, before scrunching down, as if trying to worm through a rubber tire, and into a rocky tunnel. A string of lightbulbs, all of them off, dangled along the roof. Ascanio was already removing the cap of his jug, and motioning David to move past him.
As soon as David had, Ascanio bent over and, walking backwards, began sloshing the gasoline in a long trail along behind them. They moved steadily down the tunnel, David leading the way now, until Ascanio’s jug was empty. They were standing above an iron grate, and when David directed his flashlight beam into it, he could see a steep fall, and hear, at the bottom, the ebb and flow of river water.
Ascanio tossed his own empty jug aside, opened David’s, and they continued on, with Ascanio dribbling gas behind them all the way. Wine racks rose on either side, until they came to some steps leading into an old-fashioned scullery; beyond that, in the kitchen, they could hear the sound of a radio playing. Ascanio put a finger to his lips as he reached up with the harpe and cut the cord that connected the lightbulbs strung the length of the tunnel.
Then, creeping behind the last of the racks, they peered out between the bottles to see a woman with her gray hair in a long plait bustling about the kitchen, tidying up. She wiped the counter clean, put some stray dishes in the dishwasher, then turned it on.
Surveying her domain before closing up for the night, she said, “Que faites-vous vers le haut là?”—What are you doing up there?—to a kitten with its paws up on the center table. She flicked off the radio, put on her overcoat, and deposited the kitten into one of her voluminous side pockets. Then, tying a scarf under her chin, she left, leaving the room illuminated only by a night-light above the stove and the red glow from a wall clock advertising Cinzano.
The clock continued to tick, the freezers—two of them—hummed, and the dishwasher gently rattled its plates, but there was no sign of further activity. Finally, Ascanio crept out from behind the rack, and after glancing out the kitchen door, came back and began to shake the remaining drops of gasoline onto the floor. When the jug was empty, he tossed it out of sight under the sinks. He stashed his flashlight in his backpack, then, gripping the hilt of the harpe, he whispered to David, “La Medusa?” It was as if he was asking him if he wanted a beer.
“Yes,” David said, relieved to discover that his own voice was firm and determined. He wiped the grime from his glasses and looped the wire sidepieces firmly back behind his ears. “La Medusa.”
Chapter 37
There had been no sign of the Maserati on the lonely country road, but several times Escher had come to junctions and turnoffs, and at each one he had to stop and look for fresh tire tracks. Once or twice, he followed what turned out to be dead ends—spurs that ended in vineyards or empty barns.
But whenever he came on a small store or gas station, he pulled in and asked if anyone had seen his friends go by, in their brand-new silver Maserati. Fortunately, it was the kind of car they were likely to remember. At one station, a teenager working the register said it had gone by about an hour ago and pointed toward the town of Cinq Tours.
Escher had purposely looked puzzled, as if he’d forgotten something, and said, “What’s in Cinq Tours?”
“Fuck if I know. You want to buy anything?” he said, anxious to return to his video game.
Escher bought a pack of Gitanes and got back in the car. He fished his flask out from under the seat, had a shot of whiskey to restore his spirits, and headed on. Twenty minutes later, he had to pull over to let a flock of sheep amble by. When he asked the shepherd about the car, the man said not a word, but jerked his staff toward Cinq Tours again. It was getting late, the sun setting, and none of this was going to get any easier after dark.