The Marks of Cain Read online

  Emma pointed decorously with her knife.

  ‘The food is…inside.’

  ‘Ah, sorry?’

  ‘It’s roasted bone marrow, Mister Quinn. That’s why you have a little fork, to dig the marrow out of the bone. Then spread it on those slices of toast. Delish.’

  He picked up the tiny fork. And put it down.

  ‘Call me Simon.’ He stared at the knee joint on his plate. ‘I’ll have a go at the bone in a minute.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Emma was happily working her way through her grey-brown intestines. ‘Shall I go on with my theology?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘The importance of Serpent Seed is this: the actual doctrine might only be affirmed by the tiniest Protestant sects, like Christian Identity in America, or by Midrashic strains of Judaism, but it ties in with a variant Pentateuchal interpretation which does have great significance.’

  ‘Are you talking in English?’

  She smiled. ‘I mean – there is a related and controversial interpretation of the early books of the Bible which has caused much pain and anguish over the centuries.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The problem of Cain’s wife. And so on.’

  ‘Ah…’

  They were nearing the nub. But Simon needed to eat something – because he hadn’t eaten all day. So he picked up his tiny fork and stabbed it into the surprisingly tender centre of the bone knuckle. A small, strange, wriggly blob of jelly emerged, pronged on his fork. The roasted marrow. It looked repugnant, yet it smelt quite good. He placed it on a slice of toast and took a deep breath and ate it.

  It was oddly delicious, despite the revolting texture.

  ‘See!’ said Emma Winyard, her handsome face smiling. ‘Not so bad after all.’

  ‘I guess…Tell me more about this heresy.’

  Emma had finished her intestines; she laid down her fork and knife and sipped some water, and leaned forward.

  ‘I’ll tell you in one go, as you tackle your bone. First thing to know is that there are strange hints in the Book of Genesis that Adam and Eve were not the only human beings around during the Creation.’

  Simon stopped eating, halfway through a mouthful of bone marrow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. There are some other odd and mysterious hints in the Pentateuch of non-Adamite humans – other races of already existent human beings, apart from Adam and Eve. For instance, in Genesis, the Bible tells us that Cain went out into the world: “And the LORD set a MARK upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.” Thing is: who on earth were these people who might find him? Theoretically, only Adam and Eve were around at the time. That’s in Genesis 4. So who was it Cain should be scared of?’

  Simon sat back. He looked at his laptop bag by his side. He wondered if he should be making proper notes. This was really quite intriguing information: it was also quite unnerving, this Biblical idea of different humans, of people already existing, yet separate: like a tribe of pale shadows.

  ‘That’s truly strange,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

  But the elegant Ms Winyard was distracted: she was sitting back once more as the waiter whipped away her starter, and placed another dish on the table. Her face lit up.

  ‘Pig cheek and butterbeans, one of my favourites.’

  The waiter now set a second dish in front of Simon. It was red and hot and looked like something…recently aborted.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I ordered you bloodcake.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  His phone was ringing again: very annoyingly. Simon glanced at the read-out. Fazackerly, it said, pulsing on and off. What had got the professor so agitated? He recalled the yellowing smile of the old man, and the over-elaborate metaphors of Darwinian struggle; he once more killed the call without answering. And this time he switched off the phone.

  Emma was checking her watch, with a flicker of irritation. ‘Let’s kick things along?’

  ‘Yes please. Sorry about all these interruptions.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Now we come to the Curse of Cain. To put it very briefly, this strange passage of Biblical verse, Genesis 9:20 or thereabouts, says that Ham’s father Noah placed a hex upon Ham and his son Cain, that they should become perpetual slaves, after Ham saw his father’s nakedness in a tent.’

  ‘This is a different Cain we’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes. It is complex. But a different Cain, yes – this is the grandson of Noah, son of Ham. He is also known as Canaan, the founder of the Canaanite people…’

  Simon was trying to enjoy his bloodcake, and failing. He pushed the plate away, suppressing nausea, and asked Emma to continue. She was happy to oblige.

  ‘So what does this strange story tell us? Well, the Curse of Cain has been used by elements within the Abrahamic religions to justify racism and Zionism and especially the enslavement of black Africans. Because they were believed to be descendants of Ham and Cain.’

  ‘But how? I’m confused. Again.’ He shrugged. ‘Was Cain African?’

  She smiled.

  ‘It’s quite simple. The Bible itself says Ham and his son Cain should be slaves in perpetuity, for their sins – for the unseemly sexual act with Noah, exposing the drunken father. And that’s all. But early Jewish and Christian scholars say God went further, they claim Jehovah smote Cain with blackness. The Babylonian Talmud, for instance, categorically states “Cain was smitten in his skin” – i.e. turned black. The Zohar, the most important book of the Kabbalah, likewise says “Ham’s son Cain blackened the face of mankind”. And Africans thereafter descended from Cain…’

  ‘And it’s mainly Jewish, this theory?’

  ‘Oh no. No no. Christian church fathers were just as keen. An Eastern Christian work from the fourth century, the Cave of Treasures, openly connects slavery with dark-skinned people.’ Emma swallowed a big chunk of pig cheek, and explained: ‘Why all the fuss? Probably Africans were already being enslaved by this time, so foisting the Curse of Cain upon them was a good excuse to perpetuate the bondage of blacks. Throughout the Dark and Middle Ages there are many more scholastic references to Cain, blackness and slavery.’

  ‘And people used this doctrine during…colonial times?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Emma paired her knife and fork. ‘Spanish conquistadors, British imperialists, the French and Portuguese, many American slavers, they all seized on these pseudo Biblical passages to justify the hideous trade in Africans. The idea was either that God made different inferior races, when he made Adam, or he deliberately created a caste of black slaves when he cursed Cain. Ergo, slavery is OK.’

  She dabbed her lips with a napkin, and continued, ‘And the theory still has potency. Mormons only renounced the doctrine in 1977.’

  It was time to broach the underlying topic.

  ‘Emma, did you discuss this subject with a guy, name of Angus Nairn, a few months back?’

  Professor Winyard sat up.

  ‘Yes, I did. But…How did you know that?’ Her persistent smile faded. ‘I thought you were just a journalist researching racism?’

  ‘I am. But…there are other factors. And I need to know, what did Nairn want?’

  She frowned. ‘OK…Yes, Angus and I were quite close. He’s a rather eccentric…but rather charming young man. Very clever scientist. Scottish Presbyterian.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from him in ages. But I have been immersed in my studies…’

  ‘What did you, ah, talk about?’

  ‘Lots. He was interested in some strange things. The history of the Curse of Cain as it related to the Inquisition, the Basques and the Cagots.’

  ‘The Cagots?’

  ‘Yes, a tribe of French pariahs.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘Most people have never heard of them. They were one group of victims of this extreme Curse of Cain theology. Some Catholic priests thought they were of the sons of Cain, blah-de-blah, and persecuted them. There is a
strain in French Catholicism which is highly racist, and sometimes anti-Semitic, to this very day.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Remember French Archbishop Lefebvre? He was excommunicated for his extreme traditionalist views, opposed Vatican Two, and so forth. Some of his followers are outright Holocaust deniers. This strand of Catholicism had links to the pro-Nazi French puppet regime at Vichy. Some truly renegade French priests actually worked for the Nazis.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘As chaplains in concentration camps, for one.’ Emma glanced again at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I really have to go soon –’

  Simon nodded. ‘Just a couple more questions?’

  ‘Fire away. But quickly please.’

  ‘So what else did you and Nairn discuss?’

  ‘Oh…many things. We even had dinner a couple of times.’ She looked momentarily wistful. ‘He was particularly keen to know what happened to the results of the doctors’ tests: of the Cagots.’

  ‘Sorry? Tests?’

  ‘In 1610, during the worst persecutions of the Cagots, the King of Navarre ordered that the Cagots be anatomically assessed by his court physicians. To see if the pariahs were really –’ Emma Winyard did air quotes, with her fingers ‘– “different”. The results of these tests were never revealed. But we know that soon after that, the upper hierarchies of the church began to emancipate the Cagots, and to end the persecutions, though it took them centuries to eradicate the bigotry amongst the lesser clergy and peasantry. Same goes for the Basques.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Basques were also persecuted, as witches. The irony is that the Basque witch burnings were stopped by the Spanish Inquisition. An Inquisitor named Salazar sacked and prosecuted the witchfinders. He had the French witchfinder, De Lancre, who was obsessed with the Curse of Cain, removed from his judicial position.’ Emma smiled, quietly. ‘It rather goes against the image of Rome and the Inquisition, as terrible persecutors of heretics and minorities – the truth is, the Catholic elite were actually a force for good, as regards the Basques and the Cagots, at least.’

  ‘What happened to the results of the Cagot tests?’

  ‘That’s precisely what Nairn wanted to know.’ Emma Winyard picked up her handbag, preparing to leave. ‘I told him the Inquisition kept all their files on the Basques quite secret, likewise the records relating to the Cagots.’

  ‘I’m guessing…the documents were sent to Rome, to the Vatican library?’

  ‘Yes and no. Recall that the Inquisition was run by the Dominicans – the black friars – or the Dogs of God, as they were called, because of their zealotry and sadism. It’s a medieval pun on their name. Domine Cani. Dogs of God!’

  ‘Gotta love those medieval puns.’

  ‘The Dominicans were the great witch burners of the medieval era. Two Dogs of God wrote the Malleus Malleficarum, the “Hammer of Witches” – the witchfinders’ Bible. Gosh, it’s nearly three o’clock.’

  The lady was now standing. Simon stood and shook Ms Winyard’s hand, as she apologized, elegantly.

  ‘I’m sorry to dash. The Guildhall library shuts at four. But I can answer your last questions – you want to know what happened to all these fascinating archives.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Very well. Some rightwing Dominicans were especially keen on the Curse of Cain. They believe it to this day. They refused to relinquish materials which, they felt, supported their cause. At the same time the Pope didn’t want a schism – Popes never want a schism! – so a compromise was reached.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The documents relating to the Cagots and the Basques were stored in great security. They were kept at the Angelicum, the Dominican University in Rome. For centuries they were safe. But then, after the war, after the Nazis, this was not felt to be a safe place, for such…provocative data. You can see the problem.’ She smiled, gently. ‘So what happened? The rumour is that they were spirited away to somewhere even more secure. But that is just a rumour. The answer to your question, the tantalizing truth is: no one knows for sure! Scholars have speculated on this matter for decades. Deducing what happened to the Basque and Cagot materials. It’s quite the theological crossword puzzle.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Me? I suspect the archives were just destroyed and all this conspiracy stuff is candyfloss. And that’s what I told Angus Nairn, to his disappointment. But there it is. And this is where I must leave you, before my entire day disappears.’

  ‘OK…thank you so much.’ Simon felt sated: he was still digesting the strange lunch, and the even stranger information. ‘Thanks again. This has been hugely useful. Clarifying things.’

  The professor said it was nothing.

  Her smiling face disappeared down the spiral metal stairs. Paying the bill and pocketing the receipt, Simon descended the stairs a few moments later.

  In the street he hailed a cab, feeling a pleasurable rush of accomplishment as he did so. He’d earned this cab ride home: he’d done some good work. He could sit in the back of the big London taxi and smoke a fat if metaphorical cigar.

  But then he remembered. Fazackerly. As the taxi sped past the clock repair shops and glass-walled apartment blocks of Clerkenwell, he took out his mobile and listened to his voicemails.

  The first message was long, incoherent and discursive. The professor said he was sitting in his office for the last time and he had some new theories he thought might interest Simon. He waffled about ‘ecclesiastical opponents of my research’. He mentioned a Pope. He apologized for going on so long, and being a ‘garrulous old bachelor rather feeling the pinch of mortality’; the voice message actually went on so long this apology was silenced by the end of the allotted timespan.

  Then Simon listened to the second message.

  It wasn’t a message. At least, it wasn’t an intentional communication as such. It was obviously a call made by accident, when the redial button on a mobile is pressed by error, by sitting on it, or knocking it in a bag.

  Fazackerly had called Simon the second time by mistake. And the second call was the sound of someone in unspeakable pain. Maybe, surely, horribly – someone dying.

  It was grotesque. Simon sat in the back of the taxi, the sweat like beads of clinging and frozen dew on his forehead: listening to this terrible recording.

  The beginning of the message was a kind of low, groaning sigh. In the background was a buzz. Like a distant buzzsaw heard in a forest. Lumberjacks at work. The moaning was sincere and despairing, a mixture of fear and pain; then it accelerated to ferocious panting. And then came the gurgling, a rasping, choking gurgle, like someone gargling hot vomit, unable to breathe. And all the time in the background was that terrible buzz.

  The most piercing aspect of this horrifying message was the one discernible word – ‘Stop’ – between the gargles and the final, terrifying rasps. That word was enough to identify Fazackerly.

  ‘Stop,’ said Simon, rapping fiercely on the taxi glass.

  They were just two hundred yards from the GenoMap offices.

  The cabbie braked, abruptly. And turned his puzzled face.

  Simon threw a twenty pound note at the taxi driver, then he raced out of the taxi – down the elegant terraces alongside Gordon Square. He found the old battered door, it was half open. He kicked upstairs, and upstairs again, taking the stairs three at a leap. Desperate now.

  Inside. He was inside the lab and the GenoMap offices. The machines were cold and unused. The hydroshear and the centrifuge were silent. It all looked normal, or the same as before. The dusty machines. The emptied desks. The place deserted. The doors open. A gonk left on a table by some departed scientist. A grinning gonk.

  Where was Fazackerly? Maybe it had all been nothing? Maybe he had misinterpreted that terrible second message?

  This panic returned when he heard the buzzing. It was the same buzzing as on the phone. Like a wood-saw heard through endless leafless trees in a snowbound forest. Someone cutting logs
away over there, in the black and white distance.

  There. It was emanating from the corner of the lab. It was one of the machines Fazackerly had shown Simon on his perfunctory tour of the lab. The industrial-sized microwave, used for sterilization and antigen retrieval and histology and –

  He rushed over. The enormous wardrobe-sized machine was whirring away. It was cooking, busily cooking, like a happy and humming housewife. There was something inside the oven.

  Simon knew, of course, and of course he didn’t want to know. He averted his face, then he turned around again, fighting the desire to run into the street, to flee in disgust and dreadful panic.

  Pressed against the tinted glass pane of the vast microwave oven was a face. A cooked and sweated old face, drooling liquid from the white and crinkled nostrils. Fazackerly was inside the oven. Broiled but unbrowned. His skin was bleached and pink, one poached eye was hanging from the socket.

  The buzzing stopped. The microwave pinged.

  21

  The wound in his hand was healing, but the pain was still there. And the anxiety was relentless.

  David was standing in the sunlit garden of the Cagot house, winding bandages around his blooded hand. The garden was overgrown, with fallen trees and ivied paths and flowers growing from the tumbledown walls. But the garden was also big, and hidden from everywhere, and it got the air and light, unlike the damp and sinister hallways of the ancient Cagot house. A good place to talk. A good place to think about your beloved grandpa’s Nazi connection.

  As he tied the last bandage, David felt a grief, inside him, not far from the surface, from the conversation with Madame Bentayou. He had been mulling over their remarkable dialogue, and every time he reached the same inevitable conclusion. It did make horrible sense. They must all have been prisoners, at Gurs – José, Granddad, Eloise’s grandmother.

  The facts certainly pointed to incarceration at the Nazi camp; moreover, the hidden wealth of his grandfather, the guilt and the furtiveness, seemed to imply some kind of profiteering. Or something. Even collaboration.