Two Testaments (27 page)

Yvette scanned the paper.

I am most heartily in favor of the removal of the disruptive children from the orphanage, which has, up until the present time, run quite smoothly. I cannot, however, approve the termination of the exchange program, as I do not see that it in any way reflects upon the problems the orphanage is now experiencing, being a completely separate program.

At the bottom Monique had signed her name.

“Well said, Monique!” Yvette cooed. “Do you mind if I copy it?”

“Go ahead. After all, it is your Mlle Caroline who started all the rumors about problems with the Franco-American program. Can’t you talk any sense into her?”

Yvette shrugged. “She’s jealous about your M. Hoffmann, so she claims that the classes are not up to college level. But it was a bit foolish of Mother Griolet to let M. Hoffmann go away again. What can I say?” She stopped talking, intent on copying every word of her friend’s objection.

Monique prepared the coffee, chattering as she moved about the kitchen. “Did you see the morning paper, Yvette? Over two hundred thousand pied-noirs have left Algeria so far. Pouring into our country without an inkling as to what they’ll do here.”

Yvette scribbled a moment longer and then set down her pen. “A mess. A huge mess is all I can say. Send them to the west side of Montpellier. They’ll be happy over there with the Arabs for neighbors.”

Monique nodded. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Picking up her cup of coffee, she asked, “Now what did you decide to fix for the girls’ supper tonight?”

“The asparagus was beautiful. I’ll have that
au gratin
for the
entrée
and then a leg of lamb with macaroni.” She laughed. “They’re always surprised when they taste the real thing. You know those Americans. They eat everything from a box.
Quel horreur!
Macaroni and cheese from a box.”

The ladies laughed and planned and, before separating, stuffed their petitions in an envelope and sealed it shut.

“What do you mean I have to call another depot? You’re the tenth person I’ve talked to today, and every single one of you is giving me a different story!” Eliane shook her bobbed head and slammed down the phone so hard that Samuel and Rachel looked up from their game in surprise.

“Mama, what’s the matter?” Rachel asked.

Eliane bit her lip, fighting back the tears. “Nothing, children.
Ça va.
Mama’s just a little bit tired today, that’s all.”

She stood by the window and watched the rain drizzle outside. She hated this hotel room. She was tired of being cooped up with the kids all day, especially on Wednesdays when Samuel and Rachel didn’t have school.

Not that school was pleasant for them. They reported with sad eyes that the other children made fun of their accent and wouldn’t play with them at recess.

And now this. The harki boy had left the trunk in Marseille. Her trunk! With her belongings. When Anne-Marie called to tell her, Eliane cursed, shocking the children. All those things that she cherished—baby pictures of the children, their silver cups, the old family Bible with the family tree inside, her grandmother’s set of Limoges china—all lost. Eliane felt sick just thinking of the heirlooms the trunk held. And of the stupid Arab boy who had left it there. How could he?

The porters in Marseille gave her little hope of finding it. No one could even direct her to the right warehouse where lost items from the ferries were stored. They just laughed and said it was probably pretty well picked over by now anyway. Behind the laughter, she could hear the sarcasm.
It serves her right
, she imagined them thinking.
The pathetic pied-noir, sending a trunk over at a time like this.

If she hoped to find the trunk, she would have to go to Marseille herself. But the thought of dragging her children around on buses in that chaotic city overwhelmed her. She would just have to wait for Rémi. His last letter had sounded very pessimistic. He had not yet received the cryptic warning—the suitcase or the coffin—but plenty of others had. With one month until independence, she doubted he would hold out much longer.

“I want to go home,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, God, how I wish I could go home.”

That night on the ferry, crossing the Mediterranean, she had clasped Anne-Marie’s hand and assured her that she had a chance to start over. That God would see them through. Eliane had believed it then.

She groaned to herself and felt that anger lurking again, below the surface. Why should life be easy when you can make it hard? That was her new motto for France, and she disliked the bitterness that was creeping into her soul.

Even at church she felt it. The stares, the cold, formal politeness.
Quel dommage
, she had thought.
We’re few enough Protestants as it is. Can’t we at least get along?
But every week it was the same—an aloofness that screamed,
You’re different and we don’t care to get to know you
. Finally she had stopped going to le Temple Protestant altogether.

Thank goodness for Anne-Marie and Ophélie. Their weekly visits were the bright spot in an otherwise dreary and complicated existence.

She picked up the phone and dialed another warehouse in Marseille. The phone rang on and on. No one answered.

Jean-Louis gladly surrendered his position in front of the class to Gabriella and took a seat in a chair beside the desk. He personally considered
Les Fleurs du
Mal
nasty, no matter how beautifully it was written, and he did not relish the thought of explaining it to these young women. As it was, he fixed his gaze on Caroline Harland’s shapely legs and let himself daydream.

He realized he must have nodded off when he was awakened by a thin ripple of laughter in the classroom. He straightened up in his chair, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back on his nose, and turned his attention to Gabriella, whose face was bright red.

She smiled weakly at Jean-Louis. “As I was saying, some of Baudelaire’s poems were censured and literally had to be cut out of the collection of verses before the volume was put on sale. Soon after that event, Baudelaire died of paralysis at age forty-six.”

He thought she was handling a delicate subject extremely well and resumed his contemplation of Caroline’s figure—until she suddenly caught his gaze and raised her eyebrows. Jean-Louis was sure he blushed all the way to the top of his bald head.

When Gabriella asked the young women to read several poems silently, he slipped out of the room, giving her an appreciative nod. He walked down two flights of steps into the basement and stood outside the children’s classroom.

Jeanette was going over multiplication tables. He did not enter the room but contented himself to stand outside and listen to the nun’s firm, happy voice. Something tugged within his heart. Something much different than the quick rush of excitement that the sight of Caroline’s legs brought him.

He told himself that Jeanette’s voice sounded as strong as ever. He told himself that she was in fine shape. He recalled her as a young woman with sparkling, mischievous eyes and a wonderful, ringing laugh. He reached into his pocket and brought out a yellowed envelope. The ink was faded, but her name was still legible on the outside.

Jean-Louis turned the envelope over and over in his hands. Perhaps the time had not yet come. He walked back through the basement, up the stairs, and out into the gray drizzle, tucking the envelope safely back into his coat pocket.

17

Hussein was weary from fighting off sleep. The other boys had long since closed their eyes, and their peaceful breathing testified that all were asleep. He got out of bed and with shaking hands pulled on a pair of pants over his pajamas. He reached into the drawer and fumbled through the clothes until he touched the revolver. The silencer was in place. He had prepared it in the afternoon. He tucked the gun into his pants, his pajama top concealing it. Not that it mattered, he told himself. Everything was perfectly quiet.

Hussein made his way down the hall and slipped into the girls’ dormitory. Ophélie was sleeping so peacefully, a smile on her lips. Her brown hair fell over the covers, and one arm hung outside the sheets. Hussein touched it lightly.

“Ophélie,” he whispered. “Ophélie. Wake up. It’s Hussein.” He shook her lightly, and after a moment, the child’s eyes fluttered open. Immediately Hussein put his hand over her mouth. “Shh. Don’t make a sound. Come with me. I have the most beautiful thing to show you.”

Ophélie rubbed her eyes and sat up, frowning.

Hussein smiled weakly. “I thought of you. How much you love to imagine. I wanted to …” He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry. “To show this to you, since you’ve been so kind to me.”

The little girl’s eyes brightened as she slipped out of bed. Hussein took her hand and led her through the hallway. He pushed on the door leading out to the courtyard, but it was locked. Panic seized him.

“Oh,
zut alors
! We can’t get out.” His head spun.

Ophélie tugged on his sleeve. “We can get out through the bathroom window. Hakim did it once. It’s too high for me to climb up, but if you help me, I can do it.” She gave him a mischievous smile.

He felt his resolve slipping. “But how would we get back in?”

“Oh, that’s easy. You just get Mother Griolet’s chair. It’s always in the garden. Hakim put it under the window and climbed back in. Come on.” She grabbed his hand, leading him toward the boys’ bathroom. “This is fun!”

Hussein saw that she was right. If he stood on the toilet, he could open the window and then hoist himself up. He hesitated a moment. He had been so sure that it must be done in the courtyard. Now he wished he had just shot the child in her bed while she slept.

“Okay, Ophélie, you come first. Just stand on my shoulders and see if you can open the window.”

She did so easily, climbing through the opening and dropping lightly to the ground outside. Hussein followed quickly.

The sky had cleared after the afternoon showers, and the stars flickered by the hundreds. In the middle of the dark expanse sat a bright white full moon. Hussein sighed with relief. For some strange reason it mattered that he had not lied to her. Not yet.

“It’s sooo pretty!” Ophélie strained her neck upward and stared at the scene. “Thank you for showing me. It’s so quiet and peaceful. I hope Papa is staring at the same sky right now and remembering how much I love him.”

She was whispering as if in a dream. Hussein slowly backed away from her, pulling the revolver out of his pants. He wondered how many shots he would have to fire to make sure she was dead.

He brought his other hand up to steady the first.
There is no God but Allah
, he repeated silently, desperate to regain his concentration.
This is for Ali, for Ali, for Allah.

The little girl still stood with her back to him and head upturned, as if mesmerized. Sweat poured down Hussein’s face.
Do it now!

“Do you ever think about heaven, Hussein?” Ophélie asked, still looking at the stars.

Fire! Kill her now before she turns around and sees what you will do.