That could be one way of escape. Climb that netting, clamber onto the walls and down the other side. Max knew how to survive in the desert.
“You ask no questions,” Fauvre said.
“Just getting my bearings, I suppose.”
“Like one of my big cats looking for a way out of its pen.” Fauvre smiled. “You are safe here. You saved my daughter’s life. I am in your debt.”
“She’s helped me as well. There’s no debt as far as I’m concerned, sir. I mean, Laurent.”
Fauvre nodded. “Most teenagers I have known either sulk and mumble like a constipated camel or ask endless inane questions that an encyclopedia couldn’t answer. You do neither.”
Max did not like being patronized or having unwarranted praise put his way, but he was uncertain if that was what Fauvre was doing. It seemed to him that Sophie’s dad had very little experience with teenagers, despite having one as his daughter.
Change the subject. Find out more.
“How long have you been here?” Max asked, keeping his eyes on the curving route towards wherever it was Fauvre wanted him to go.
“I started looking for a place fifteen, twenty years ago. I ran the Cirque de Paris. I knew back then what was happening to animals in the wild. Already I was sickened.”
“And you were the trapeze artist?” Max said.
“And ringmaster with my big cats. I trained them.” Fauvre’s hesitation made Max glance at him. “I love them,” Fauvre muttered.
Max guided the golf buggy along the curved pathways. A broken wall gave way to what looked like an old arena. Nothing as grand as a Roman amphitheater, but the tumbled-down buildings around the space had created false tiers, like a small grandstand. Red, compacted dirt and sand made it look like a circus ring, except this space gave the appearance of an abandoned building site. Rusted steel girders lay at different angles, toppled against scaffolding; some lay smashed across old cars. Broken, low walls crisscrossed the space, while poles and ropes took a third of the area over on the western edge of the sand ring. It reminded Max of an army assault course set up for urban warfare. Fauvre indicated to Max to pull into the shade of a ruined building.
Abdullah sat in an overstuffed armchair, a canvas awning sheltering him from the heat as he sipped from a tall glass with sprigs of mint among the crushed ice. A cooler nestled at his side.
“Bravo! Bravo! Ma petite princesse! Encore!” Abdullah cried as he clapped.
Max raised a hand to shield his eyes. A puff of dust alerted him as the shadow that had been absorbed by the side of a wall sprang into life. It was Sophie. Like a marathon runner, she wore well-fitted shorts, tank top and cross-trainers. Dirt and sand caked her sweaty back-she’d obviously been training for some time. She kicked against an oil drum, leapt onto the back of an old donkey cart, flipped in the air and ran with aggressive determination at a rust bucket of a car. Max heard her grunt with effort as she threw her body across the hood, seemed destined to smash into a pile of dangerous scaffolding, but instead twisted her body, caught the layers of pipework in two hands and, with a gymnast’s skill, swung the weight of her body, using the momentum of her speed, to curl upwards and grasp one of the steel girders. She clambered like a monkey, using toes and fingers to grip the edge of the girder.
Ten meters up, the steel beam ended in space. Without hesitation she somersaulted into the air. Only then did Max realize a small hill of dirt was beneath her. After five meters she landed on her feet, opened her stride and raced to the bottom.
Finally, hands on knees, she bent over and sucked her recuperating lungs full of air. Sweat ran from her face, puckering the sand. Max hadn’t taken his eyes from her. Her slight frame belied her skill and strength. Fauvre glanced at him.
“Young women today are so independent. Stay clear of them is my advice. They can be the cause of great pain.”
Was that a warning from the unsmiling Fauvre? Telling Max to stay away from his daughter? Max brushed the sweat from his face.
“You are all right?” Fauvre said.
Max nodded.
“Then drive. Over there.” An edge had crept into his voice.
Perhaps, Max thought, there was a darker side to this man’s personality.
Max spun the wheel, wishing he had been honest and told Fauvre that he felt too ill to go on a sightseeing tour. But then he would have missed the incredible display Sophie had just given.
They drove towards an enclosure. Fauvre pointed at different caves and pits, the subject of his daughter replaced by that of his passion for the animals.
“It is mostly the big cats the collectors and hunters seek out. We rescue many of them and reestablish them around the world. I’ve had servals, ocelots, tigers, cheetahs, jaguars, leopards … and bears as well. They’re a favorite for the scum who trap and trade them. I’ll tell you something not many people know: A European monarch, only a couple of years ago, paid a fortune to a Russian peasant so he could shoot the village bear. The bear liked to drink beer. It would sit in the square and sleep, like an old man. And one day this king, this high-and-mighty person, arrived and shot it point-blank. He needed a bear to add to his trophy collection.”
Fauvre closed his eyes for a moment, as if the pictures in his mind had hooks in his heart.
The image of the brown bear that attacked Max on the mountain leapt into his memory. The power and fury of the huge creature still awed him. More than that-it was an affinity-complete awareness of what that bear’s existence was about. Smell is a powerful association for recall, and he could almost taste the wet-fur odor at the back of his throat.
Fauvre sighed. “The Chinese torture bears, did you know that? They keep them in bamboo cages, in a space they cannot even turn around in. Barbaric. They use their gall bladders for medicine. And we call ourselves the highest of the species.”
Max glanced at the man’s face. It was twisted in disgust.
“So I found this place. It took ten years of my life to get it like this.”
Max didn’t know how intrusive he could be with his questions, but if he didn’t start being pushy with this strong-willed man, he wasn’t going to get any closer to Zabala’s secret.
“Have you always been in a wheelchair?”
That drew a sharp look from Fauvre. “No. A tiger did this to me. My favorite tiger. He is called Aladfar.”
“That sounds Arabic,” Max said.
Fauvre nodded. “It’s the name of a star. It means ‘claws.’ From Arabic astronomy. Do you know anything about astronomy?”
The question was like a hypodermic being pushed into his chest. A sharp pain that went straight to the root of the disease eating away at him-that determination to find the final pieces to Zabala’s secret. And his killer.
So, Fauvre was playing games.
“I’m learning as I go along,” Max said noncommittally. “How did the accident happen?”
Fauvre let Max sidestep his probing question. “He is the perfect tiger. Three meters long, three hundred kilos. One day he decided to show me just who was in charge. He played with me as a cat plays with a mouse. He tumbled me and clawed my back. He broke my spine.”
“Was he shot?”
“Aladfar? I would kill the man who laid a finger on him. He is magnificent-and now we understand each other.”
Max knew that Aladfar was the massive tiger he had seen when he first drove into the Angels’ Tears. And it seemed the beast’s pit was where Fauvre now guided him.