Two Testaments (25 page)

“I hope you enjoy couscous, M. Hoffmann,” Ali Boudani commented.

“Indeed I do.” He had been looking forward to such a meal. He smiled unconsciously, thinking of steaming lamb and vegetables heaped on top of the tomato-tinged wheat grain.

Two women, their heads covered with scarves, brought out an overflowing, enormous round porcelain bowl. The men ate from the “common bowl,” as it was called, each dipping his spoon into the mound of couscous that sat in front of him.

They spoke loudly, in Arabic. Roger followed little of the conversation. As the bowl was taken away and a green salad brought out, Ali Boudani changed to French, addressing him. “The FLN has appreciated the aid your country has given to our refugees during the war.”

“I can assure you that the American aid will continue after independence.”

“Very helpful, yes. Independence is only five weeks away.” Ali raised his eyebrows, and the other Arab men nodded approvingly.

A bowl full of large oranges was set on the table, and the men attacked the fruit with eager, greedy hands. Ali held one up to Roger. “See what beautiful fruit we produce in this land? We have much to offer the world.”

Roger began cautiously peeling the fruit, as if with one wrong move it might explode on his plate. “I have several proposals to present to you during these few days together.”

“Excellent.”

“And several US executives are ready to negotiate prices on oil and gas in the southern Sahara.”

“Yes, we have heard. The oil is most attractive to you Westerners.” He bit into the orange, and its juice sprayed forth in a little gust. Ali laughed.

The meal ended with a rich cake for dessert. Ali wiped his face with a cloth napkin. “Tomorrow morning we’ll meet again. For now, I am sure you are quite tired from your trip. Mahmud will show you to your room.”

Roger did not protest. He was exhausted, his head spinning from an evening in Arabic and French. The other four Arabs rose, bowed slightly, and filed through the door that transformed into a kitchen cupboard as it swung outward.

“You understand that secrecy is of utmost importance,” Ali confided, as they stood alone in the hidden room. “Many things in this country are best kept secret. Our little negotiations included.”

“Of course.”

“Well then,” he said, pushing the door outward, “we’ll meet again tomorrow. Good evening, M. Hoffmann. A pleasure to see you here.” He gestured to the elderly Arab who waited by the entrance to the apartment. “Mahmud, M. Hoffmann is ready. Oh, and, M. Hoffmann. I’m sure you recognize the risk of wandering around the Casbah alone? You are a bit conspicuous.”

“Don’t worry.” Roger spoke smoothly. “I’ll stay put until one of your friends comes to get me.”

“Very good.
Bonsoir
.”

Roger followed Mahmud through the whitewashed apartment and into the alleyways of the Casbah. He was sure he would not sleep. There was much too much to think about. Images of what he had seen driving from the airport flashed before him. Hollowed-out buildings, carcasses of bombed cars, shattered glass in the window fronts of neighborhood stores, filthy slogans painted on the sides of buildings, empty apartment buildings. Algiers was a skeleton of what it had been. If its people hoped to rebuild it, they would need plenty of American aid.

When Gabriella’s second letter made its way across the sea and into David’s hands, he devoured every word, hungry for some happy news. He thought of her standing before him, her creamy-white skin, the bright-blue eyes and long, blond lashes, and her fine, small nose. He imagined her shaking her thick red hair, sending it dancing in every direction. He imagined these things, and his heart ached.

He read her words and let himself be carried away by her enthusiasm for Paris. It moved him that she had caught every thought and detail and saved it for him. She was right. He had been there with her, and her letter gave him a window into her soul. She was struggling with her emotions, wondering what was next.

I know what is next for us, Gabby. I hope I know.

He needed to feel the hope that radiated from her words. Hope was fleeing fast in Bab el-Oued. Death was stalking the streets. He wished he could paint the blood of the lamb on the doorposts, wished that Almighty God would promise him protection, as He had the Israelites.

Last week it had been the postmen killed. Ten of them. This week the boulangers. Shot down in cold blood. No one was safe. He heard the clock ticking in his mind. A few more weeks, a month at best. And if they did not leave by July 2, the clock in the bomb would certainly stop ticking for Moustafa, and his life would simply be blown away.

David picked up his pen and started a reply. What could he promise her?

Gabby, dear girl! I’m afraid that I am having a hard time trusting in your God over here. Nothing makes sense. Pray that I will understand and, if it is not to be understood, that I will not persecute myself with trying to figure it out.…

He was sorry for the anger and bitterness that crept into his letter. He changed the subject to the class she was teaching for him.

It scared him to think that school was almost over for her. What was she planning next? They had never discussed it. Never had a chance to see past that blissful, fragile moment when they had acknowledged their love.

I am coming back as soon as I can, Gabby
, he wrote.

He wanted to add,
And the only prayer I can pray is that you will wait for me
. But that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t ask her to wait when he himself had no idea what was next.

He signed the letter with a heavy heart. Too many unanswerable questions. Waiting. It had always been for him the hardest part.

The whole neighborhood of Bab el-Oued had dried up like a withered vine. With the massacre of pied-noirs at the end of March, the dream of an
Algérie française
had died. Now what was left of the pied-noir population huddled inside their apartments, terrified.

It was late afternoon when the old Arab crept through the silent streets with a young Arab girl following him like a faithful puppy. It was not a safe time for an Arab to roam through Bab el-Oued, but Mahmud knew Ali too well to argue. He was paid to obey orders. Yesterday the order was to retrieve Roger Hoffmann at the airport. Today, a quick visit to make sure Hussein’s information was good. The child went along to lend credibility to his task.

He found apartment number 28 on the second floor of a nondescript building that sat in the worst section of the neighborhood. He knocked quickly on the door, eyeing the child. “It’s almost time for you to play your part.”

A middle-aged man, pudgy with greasy gray hair, answered the door. He looked at the two visitors suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Please, sir,” the young girl pleaded. “Please let us in. I am a daughter of a harki. Please! This is my grandfather. Hussein gave us this address.”

The stocky little man opened the door reluctantly, looking about the hall. “Come in. Just wait here in the entry.”

Mahmud patted the child on the head approvingly. Presently a tall man, of striking resemblance to Roger Hoffmann, strode into the room. He was no more than twenty-five, almost as tall as his father, black hair and eyes, with the same angry, confident look on his handsome face.

Mahmud cleared his throat and bowed slightly. “Sir. Please forgive the imposition. We have taken a great risk in coming here. For me, I will stay and face my fate. But for the girl, Fatima. She deserves a chance like Hussein. He has told us how good you were to him. He thought perhaps—”

“Who has he told?” David demanded.

“Us. Only us.”

“I told him to speak to no one. I don’t believe you.”

The child looked up at Mahmud, worried. The old Arab spoke softly, “Do not be angry with the boy. He has not told others. He hesitated to tell us, but you must understand. We are like family.”

Fatima grabbed David’s wrist and began to sob. “Please,
monsieur
! Please take me to France! They will kill me here! Please … Hussein said you were kind. He said you would help!”

Mahmud watched David Hoffmann closely and noted with satisfaction that his face softened. Fatima was a pretty child, almost ten, already skilled in the ways of her real grandfather, Ali Boudani. She would grow up to be a beautiful, dangerous woman.

“Let me think about it. How can I reach you?”

Mahmud quickly spoke. “Do not trouble yourself,
monsieur
. May we call again in a few days? Would that give you enough time to decide?”

David rubbed his chin, his eyes flashing angrily. “Two weeks. I’ll expect you in the afternoon. Good-bye.”

He showed them into the corridor and closed the door. Mahmud squeezed the young girl’s hand and smiled. But they did not say a word until they were safely out of the neighborhood and climbing back through the alleys of the Casbah.

Ophélie saw many things that she never spoke about. Her life had taught her to observe and keep quiet. Even now, in the safety of the orphanage, even with so many who loved her, she did not always reveal what she saw.

She watched the new boy, Hussein, carefully. He was not a handsome boy. His dark hair was wiry and unkempt, his nose flat and wide. He had large, round eyes and thick lashes. Mama said he was Hakim’s age, but he looked much younger. Perhaps he was ashamed of his size, Ophélie concluded. He did not seem one bit happy to be in France, even though Mama said he had begged her to take him with her.

He kept to himself and only spoke when directly asked a question. Even then he would turn his eyes down and give a one-word response. He needed a friend, Ophélie decided, and she was determined to be that friend.

She sat beside him at supper and smiled brightly. “How are you today, Hussein?” She watched his face darken.

“
Ça va
,” he mumbled.

“Are you very mad at me, or is it just because you are in France?”

He looked up at her, surprised. “Mad at you? No, it’s not that.”

“Don’t you want to make friends?”

He nibbled a piece of bread. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Oh.” She furrowed her brow, thinking. He was a very stubborn boy! “Would it make you very angry to tell me about my papa and Moustafa? I miss them so much, and I know you have seen them. Could you just tell me that? It doesn’t mean we’ll be friends. Please.”