Last Call For Caviar (18 page)

The most gorgeous smile lit up his face as he nodded. He made his way to my table and sat down. I didn’t fall in love with him in that instant. That happened at eight the next morning, while we were having breakfast together on the terrace of a small café by the port. We’d spent the whole party together, laughing and dancing. And in the early morning hours, we went for a walk by the harbor, talking with an ease that made me know something extraordinary was going on. I remember the moment when a shaft of sunlight fell across his eyes, which were so clear and deep I got lost inside them. It was like looking through crystal-clear waters to the bottom of the sea.

We still might have gotten past this if he hadn’t received that call. We’d always been quick to make up. I could never stay angry with him for more than ten minutes; he’d do something to make me laugh, until I couldn’t hold on to my righteousness any longer, no matter how hard I tried. Once he had softened me up with laughter, he’d carry me off to bed and keep me there until I couldn’t even remember what disagreement had set us off.

But that call changed everything, and though I didn’t realize it at the time, the possibility of reconciliation slipped through our fingers right there. His mother had had a heart attack and was being rushed to the hospital in Marseille.

His mother was Italian, and that pretty much says it all. Like the proverbial Jewish mother whose worst fear is that her darling boy marries a Shiksa, Italian mothers are renowned for thinking that no other woman is good enough for their sons. To compound matters, she was Sicilian, though raised in France, which only ramped up the possessiveness. Need I mention that she was an expert in vendetta and the casting of the maloccio?

I always felt an itch between my shoulder blades, like I had a bull’s-eye painted on my back, when she was around. I often thought it would be wise to sprinkle salt around my house, or hang charms as protection to ward off the evil eye. Julian’s mammina could make a damn fine lasagne, but though we pretended to get along, we both knew we were locked in combat, wrestling for Julian’s heart and soul.

Julian’s father, who had also been a doctor, died when Julian was ten, leaving money in trust that had paid for his medical studies. Julian was her only son. Though she practiced many ruses, including illness—refusing treatment unless administered by her son, Il Dottore, was her most effective ploy—this heart attack seemed like the real thing.

Julian left within the hour, not bothering to pack. His clothes still hung in the closet. He never returned my house key. And that, more than anything, gave me hope that one day he intended to come back.

One of the last things he said to me as he was walking out the door was this: “Maya, you should turn your phone back on and check your messages.”

I immediately did and listened with a sinking heart, “I’m coming home now. I want to make things right with you. Je t’aime, ma petite cherie. J’arrive.”

I looked at the time of the message in my call log: 2:57 a.m. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed the lap dance, after all. Maybe I burned more than just his clothes that day.

The fight hung between us in the weeks that followed, coupled with mutual stubborn pride not to be the first to bend by asking forgiveness. Eventually, separation and distance loomed between us, as unyielding as a granite wall that could only be worn down over the ages, one grain at a time.

Now, the Security Zone separated us also. We were trapped on opposing sides. Large tracts of uninhabited land along the perimeter made it impossible for the military to seal the zone; insurgent raids showed they could exploit this weakness to slip through and cause havoc before melting back across. Passing through no-man’s land to look for Julian in Marseille wasn’t an option available to me.

But in the buffer zone, a tent city occupied by the many thousands of refugees displaced by the fighting had sprung up. It was exactly the kind of situation in which Julian thrived, where his medical skills and experience of operating in wartime conditions were desperately needed. There, in the refugee camp on the shores of Lac Saint Cassiens, were displaced people caught in the crossfire. There would be doctors tending the sick and humanitarian groups distributing food and clothing. I might not find Julian there, but I was certain to find someone who knew him, of him, or about him.

The nuns of Laghet had been collecting clothing and food to distribute in the refugee camp next week, and I volunteered to assist them. Although their habits and cowls should protect them from danger, their mission to a crowded refugee camp would be no Sunday picnic. I asked Bilal to come along and provide additional security for the trip.

I didn’t really know what I would say if by providence I found Julian, but events were speeding up and this might be my last chance to try. If nothing more, before I left France, I would gaze—perhaps for the last time—into his sea-green eyes. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all I had…

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CHAPTER 21

L
AKE
C
AMP

Fighting on the peninsula of Saint Tropez closed Autoroute 8 from Antibes westward to all traffic, except military, or officially-sanctioned transports and convoys. So Father Dominic, the nun posse and I were forced to crisscross the back country on less—frequented country roads.

We came to the first checkpoint about ten kilometers from our destination, Lac Saint Cassiens. Father Dominic and Sister Stanislas rode in the lead vehicle of our small convoy, a twenty-four-foot U-Haul truck loaded with food and clothing. They presented the necessary documents to the soldiers manning the barricade, and we were allowed to proceed towards the refugee camp. Bilal drove the Sanctuary de Laghet’s van, with Sister Therese Cayline, and Sister Lucilla riding shotgun. I rode in the back, squeezed between the wide hips of Sister Bernadine and Sister Marie-Timotee, half-buried by an avalanche of goods that wouldn’t fit in the truck.

The refugee camp sprawled along the shores of Lac Saint Cassiens, less than a forty-minute drive from the front lines. It was so close, the explosions from the rocket launchers pounding Saint Tropez lit up the sky at night.

There was no gate or fence enclosing the inhabitants, just a gauntlet of manned checkpoints through the tunnel of trees that led to the lake. Since the convent was designated a humanitarian organization, we were waved through and directed to the parking lot of a lakeshore restaurant that had been commandeered as a distribution center for donated food and aid supplies.

The camp had sprung up in the last month, when people fleeing the southwest had been channeled by the authorities to this former camping ground nestled in the back country. None of the refugees were allowed to penetrate any further eastward into the Security Zone unless they could prove they had family resident there and willing to accept them. For the lucky, the camp was a place to regroup, a transit station on the way to relatives who could provide shelter.

There was water in abundance here, so the most basic survival needs would be met. However, the vast concentration of refugees was already overwhelming the ecosystem and polluting the waters of the once pristine lake. Vegetation for kilometers in each direction had been trampled by thousands of feet, ground beneath the wheels of thousands of cars. The camp was a sea of dust, everything coated by a layer of grime. Thunderheads massed overhead, and when the rains came, the camp would become a churning field of mud.

Cholera is always a threat when so many are packed in such proximity without proper sanitation, or latrines. Even an animal has more sense than to defecate where it eats. Children played tag and splashed about in the waters of the lake, while feces floated and shoals of rubbish formed along the shoreline, not more than thirty meters away.

The camp sprawled in every direction like a twenty-first—century Woodstock, without the bands or the love. People staked out what ground was available as they arrived, and with each new wave of refugees, new encampments popped up overnight. Like a rotten cancerous growth, the camp spread every day further around the lake.

There were people living in tents, others in campers, some even sleeping in their cars, but the instinct to seek the familiar was strong, and people were congregating with others like themselves, whatever the common denominator, forming tribes. Refugees from the same towns banded together in one encampment; others gathered according to the color of their skin. For others, belief in Allah or Jesus decided their allegiance. Most had fled with few possessions before the violence and terror. But you could sense, simmering beneath the surface, some also brought their mistrust and prejudices too, waiting for the opportunity to be at each other’s throats once more.

It took less than half an hour to unload the trucks, with help from the distribution center volunteers. Father Dominic, Sister Stansilas and Sister Marie-Timotee met with the camp administrators to see if there was an area where they could set up for Communion and Confession. Bilal and I tagged along with Sister Therese Cayline, Sister Bernadine and Sister Lucilla, who, like carnival barkers, walked the grounds drumming up business for the saving of souls. Two male volunteers from the distribution center accompanied the Sisters of Mercy. We carried knapsacks filled with small bags of dried fruits, nuts and chocolate, which we distributed as we spread the word that Mass was to be said in two hours, followed by a service of Confession to any who needed to unburden their souls.

I helped to hand out fruit and candies. As the word spread of the nuns’ visit, we found ourselves wading through a crush of lost humanity. I tried not to be overwhelmed by the stench of unwashed bodies pushing close and the sea of hands reaching out to grab at the food. Faces were a blur, except for the desperation screaming from their eyes. Bilal’s fierce scowl—a convincing imitation of an All Black rugby player intimidating his rivals in a ritual pre-game Haka minus the tongue-wagging—and our escorts from the distribution center helped clear a space between us and the jostling crowd. Slowly, we penetrated deeper into the mob.

I glanced at Bilal’s scowling face. I knew he was already regretting that he’d agreed to this outing.

“Maya, are you sure you want to do this? I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Abdul charged me with your safety!”

“I know, Bilal, I’ve put you in an awkward spot with Abdul. I’m sorry for that.” I had to shout to be heard over the din of voices clamoring for food. “But I told you… I was coming here today—with or without you!”

“This is crazy! How do you expect to find him in this crowd?” Hundreds of people pressed in on all sides.

“Julian might be here… right this minute, as we speak. I have to try and find him. Don’t you understand? This might be my only chance. They’ll clear off when we run out of food. Just wait.”

He only grunted in resignation at my stubbornness, and kept clearing our way.

I saw rivulets of sweat running down the stout face of Sister Bernadine. I imagined the weight and heat of her cowl and habit under the summer sun. I heard her heavy breathing and reached out to steady her as she stumbled. But like the rest of her sisters, she had only words of comfort and a gentle smile for all who crossed her path. Only too soon, our knapsacks were empty, and much of the crowd melted away. I realized that any aid we offered today was just a drop in a sea of need; only the devout and desperate stayed to listen to the Sisters’ words of hope and redemption in these troubled times.

I listened with half an ear to the murmur of their voices, but I wasn’t here to proselytize or shepherd the faithful back into the fold. I sought to understand the layout of the camp and look for any sign of a medical center or a first aid tent.

I knew it was a long shot—finding anyone who had news of Julian, and I didn’t even know if he were working here under his own name. But I had brought along photos of him to jog memories if his name alone didn’t suffice.

My best bet was to start with any medical aid center, even the lowliest tent, and show the photos to any personnel working there, or even to patients awaiting treatment.

It was noon. I had at least four hours to search before Mass and Confession were over. I didn’t need to confess any of my own sins. Bilal made peace with his God according to his own custom, so while the nuns were occupied with their mission, Bilal and I slipped away to tend to mine.

I had no luck with the photos I showed to the residents in our immediate vicinity, so we struck out on foot, towards where one of the volunteers had pointed out a clinic a klick and a half down the shore. We stayed on the bike trail that encircled the lake in order to avoid stumbling on any confrontation with the inhabitants of the camp.

To my right, the lake looked gunmetal gray, a reflection of the darkening thunderclouds overhead. A stupor lay over the camp; people lay listlessly around their campsites as though stunned, panting heavily like animals run to ground by a hunter’s hounds.

The wind was quickening, beating a whitecapped path towards the far shore. The storm would break by late afternoon, and the denizens of this camp were destined to pass a wet miserable night, without the comfort of a campfire’s warmth and light.

There must have been a hundred people waiting to be treated outside the cinder block clinic. I left Bilal smoking one of his foul Turkish cigarettes in the shade of a tree about twenty meters from the entrance. I asked him to wait there. He would only intimidate and silence the very people I needed to talk to.

I started my questions with the last person waiting in line, asking for what seemed the thousandth time, “Have you by chance been treated by this doctor?” A shake of the head and I moved on to the next. When I was halfway to the clinic’s entrance, I saw the first glimmer of recognition.

“Why do you want to know?” asked a slender young girl of about nineteen, with two small boys in tow. The eldest, who might have been nine, had his right arm in a cast. Her dark hair was pulled up high in a sleek ponytail, the liquid brown of her oval eyes, the aquiline nose, the left nostril adorned with a tiny red gemstone, and her dark olive tint identified her as from the Maghreb, most likely Moroccan. They studied the photo, and I sensed I was finally on the right trail.

“He’s my friend. I need to find him. Please, can you help me? Do you know him, or have you seen him working here in the clinic? He’s a surgeon from Marseille. I was told I might find him here.”

I saw her weighing me up, taking in the skin a couple shades lighter than her own, the blue eyes, the tangle of curls streaked with copper and gold. Then, the shutter came down as she handed me back the photo; her decision was made. I was other, not from her tribe. In these times, it was better not to trust anyone unknown. She shook her head and turned her back, steadfastly ignoring any further queries on my part.

I swallowed my disappointment. I was sure she’d recognized Julian. I tried to think how I could persuade her to trust me, when the smaller of the two boys tugged at my arm and piped up. He had the same liquid ovals and the nose in miniature—sans the jeweled adornment—as the girl.

“That’s Doctor Julian. He fixed my brother’s arm and gave him a pin because he was brave and only cried a little bit. He gave me one, too.” The little informer proudly showed me a pin with the logo of Medicin sans Frontiere, stuck crookedly through the collar of his worn t-shirt.

I glanced at the girl, who’d moved out of earshot, her back still resolutely turned away. I squatted down till my eyes were level with his and surreptitiously slipped him one of the bags of chocolate I had had the foresight to reserve. It disappeared into his pocket in a flash. Looking in those twinkling brown eyes, the corkscrew curls that haloed his baby face, I had the distinct impression the kid was an old hand at these games of selling information, so I didn’t feel guilty about taking advantage of his innocence and giving him a bribe. I showed him the photos once again and asked him his name and the name of the town where he was from.

“So, Ismaila, you said Doctor Julian fixed your big brother’s arm. When was that? Was it here at this clinic? Or back at your home in Le Lavandou?”

“It was here.” Ismaila gestured towards the clinic. “It was after we ran away from home and came to live here. He hurt it the night when there were all the big explosions. Alisha—she’s my auntie—was so scared and crying. Bachir, too. But I wasn’t scared.”

I believed him—no mistaking the excitement shining in his eyes—as he treated me to a seven-year-old’s fine impression of K-rocket launchers’ firing: “Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM! Ka-BOOM!”

“Ok, Issy, that’s a great impression, very realistic. I got it. That’s really good, but settle down for a second.” I handed over another bag, this time with nuts. He looked at the nuts with considerably less enthusiasm than at the chocolate, his lower lip jutted out in a pout.

“Is your brother supposed to see Doctor Julian today?” Before he could answer, the girl Alisha came over and yanked him back in line. As he was being towed away, he turned towards me with a naughty grin, and nodded his head.

Even though I knew I couldn’t take the word of a young rascal like Ismaila to the bank, my heart jumped at the thought that Julian was inside the clinic at this very moment, setting someone else’s broken limb, removing a bullet or stitching up a knife wound. My instincts had been right. This boy had seen Julian. He’d been here in the refugee camp. In that moment, Julian seemed so near.

Ignoring the scowl from Alisha, I moved closer to the front of the line and showed the photo of Julian to the next person, and asked my questions for the thousandth-and-first time, “Have you been treated by this doctor? Have you seen this man?”