Two Crosses (17 page)

Emile Torrès cursed as he crossed the Seine on the Pont Saint-Michel. He had lost the girl and he had missed the informant. He knew the rules. Whatever information this man had, he could not wait around to find out. The whole night had exploded into chaos. The child was gone.

She would return to the shop if she could, he reasoned. He cursed again. But he had already searched there. The old shopkeeper had told him nothing. Terrified and shaking, he could only repeat, “The little girl didn’t have the bag. Her mama said there would be a bag.” And then Emile had put a bullet in his head.

Emile had torn the place apart, but the old man was right. No bag. But surely the child knew something. Emile’s head would roll if Ali did not get the information. God forbid that the child lay at the bottom of the Seine with the Algerians.

He headed back toward the Left Bank and the little épicerie, where the waiting game would continue. And if he did not find the child, he knew his next step: an obituary in the paper and a changed name. He could start over. He had done it before.

David fled the épicerie immediately. One thing was obvious: the child was in danger. He carried her back through the dark streets of Paris, covering her with his jacket. He arrived at his hotel at eleven o’clock. Ignoring the puzzled look of the concierge, he carried the child up two flights of steps and unlocked the door.

Carefully he laid her on the bed. Removing his jacket and the ripped shirt, he inspected her leg. The bleeding had stopped. The bullet wound was clearly visible, having entered the child’s left thigh just above the knee. He saw another small hole on the other side of her leg and shook his head in relief. The bullet had gone straight through. Perhaps he could avoid the hospital. Elevating the leg, he washed the wound with warm water. From his small suitcase he took out a white T-shirt. As he bent over the child to wrap her leg, her eyes fluttered open.

“M. Gady?” she whispered.

“M. Gady isn’t here, little one. I found you by the bridge. What is your name?”

“Where is M. Gady?”

“I cannot take you to him tonight. It is not good for you to move with this wound.”

Tears welled in the child’s eyes. “Mama! I want my mama.”

“Of course you do.” David softened his tone. “Where is your mama? We’ll find her tomorrow.” He looked at the child’s fine face. A beautiful child. Such striking features. He pushed away a memory.

“My mama is lost. The bad men took her away.” Suddenly the little girl looked up at David with new fear in her eyes. “Are you bad? Do you want to kill me too?”

David smiled. “No, I’m not one of them.”

Relief spread across her face. “I’m not trying to be mean,
monsieur
, but … it’s just that I can’t tell who is good and who is bad anymore.” She clutched the bedsheet in her small hand, wiping her eyes with a corner.

David patted her hand. “I don’t know your mother or the bad men, but I’ll try to help you. Perhaps you can tell me where your father lives?”

The child sniffed. “I don’t have a father. It is only Mama and me. But now she is gone. You will have to ask M. Gady. He’ll tell you.”

“Of course. Now try to sleep. What is your name, little one?”

“Ophélie.”

“And your last name?”

“My name is Ophélie. That is all.” She closed her eyes, and he covered her with the bedspread. Soon she was asleep.

David sat wearily in the room’s lone chair. What a fiasco. The riot, the missed contact, the police, the shootings. And now this.
I can’t tell who is good and who is bad anymore
, the child had said.

“Neither can I, little Ophélie,” he whispered to the sleeping girl. “Neither can I.”

E. Torrès, whoever he had been, was no more. An obituary in the morning paper had announced the fact, stating cause of death unknown. David scoffed. Of course the papers would not reveal the truth. He did not know what had really happened to M. Torrès, and he was sure he would never find out. A wasted trip to Paris. And now he was stuck with a little girl whose mother was gone, who had no father, and whose sole friend was an old man who lay dead in his apartment.

The pharmacist had kindly explained what to do for the child’s wound, and David had cleaned it carefully, applied ointment, and covered it with a bandage to prevent infection.

But Ophélie still refused to talk. David was only
monsieur
to her, and this he preferred. Yet he could not simply abandon her in the streets of Paris.

“I have to take you to the police,” he said, exasperated. “They’ll find your mother for you.”

Ophélie burst into tears. “No! No! Please,
monsieur
. Not the police. They will kill me. They have already tried. Only M. Gady. He’s the only one.”

“Ophélie, M. Gady is dead.” David said it flatly, tired, forgetting he was talking to a child.

Ophélie stared at him with wide eyes brimming again with tears. “He’s dead? No … how do you know?”

“I found him in his apartment. He … he was shot.” David held her hands. “Little Ophélie, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but you must understand. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t live here in Paris. Tomorrow I must leave to go home.”

He tried again. “Listen, do you know why bad people would take your mother and kill M. Gady? Think hard.”

Ophélie turned her eyes away. She shook her head. “No, I don’t know.” Suddenly she grabbed his hand. “Take me with you,
monsieur
. Please take me with you. I’m afraid to stay here.”

He shook his head, bewildered. “Ophélie, I can’t take you with me. I can’t keep a little child.” He sighed and thought of Gabriella. She would know how to talk to the girl. He was getting nowhere, and he had a train to catch in twelve hours.

13

Gabriella pulled a lightweight V-neck sweater over her starched white blouse. She looked at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink in the corner of her room. This morning she liked what she saw. Caroline’s pale-blue cashmere brought out the blue of Gabriella’s eyes against her creamy white skin. She patted a little blush across her freckled cheekbones and began to brush her thick hair.

The sky outside was a bright cobalt blue. It seemed to her the perfect weather for a day in Aix with David. She wanted to look mature and beautiful. She wanted him to stare at her and smile and approve. Especially when she met his “friend.”

Even as she readied herself for the outing, a nagging voice played in the back of her mind.
Don’t go
, it warned. She pushed the thought away as she tied back her hair with a soft-blue ribbon that matched the sweater.

She must have tried on seven of them, all cashmere, before Caroline had announced, “The blue one is perfect, Gabriella. You look smashing. He’ll be all over you.”

She stood back from the mirror and rose onto her tiptoes, but she couldn’t see below her waist. Climbing onto the bed, she stood up and looked toward the mirror again, this time catching the reflection of her lower torso. The sweater fit nicely, enhancing her curves. Her plain navy skirt somehow took on new life beside it. She felt slim and graceful and feminine.

After sitting back on the bed, she reached for her Bible but couldn’t bring herself to read it. She did not want any advice today. “I’m twenty-one, and I deserve to have fun,” she said in a whisper, arguing with her subconscious.

No one answered her. She glanced in the mirror again and then left the room.

David’s deux chevaux was not reliable for trips longer than fifty kilometers, he had explained as he bought two round-trip train tickets to Aix. Seated next to Gabriella on the two-hour trip, he seemed cheerful and approving, not mocking.

“You look lovely, Gabriella. You’re radiant.”

“Well, it was Caroline who loaned me the sweater. I mean … I don’t have anything cashmere; it’s so expensive.” She could feel the heat mounting in her cheeks. Why did she say these things?

“Cashmere or not, you are lovely.” He touched her hand and gently pulled it to rest on his leg, stroking her fingers as he talked. “You will love Aix, Gabby. It’s one of the most elegant of all French cities, with its twenty-one splashing fountains and its thermal waters, which people have flocked to for their
cure
for two thousand years.

“The old part of town is charming,” he continued. “And of course we’ll visit Cézanne’s studio. He lived and died at a little house in the city, but he went to his studio outside of Aix every day to paint.”

“I feel as though I already know this region, from all the slides you’ve shown us of his work.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful to discover the area after seeing it through Cézanne’s eyes. He caught it all. The whitish blue of the mountains, the green shrubbery of Provence, the sunbathed houses with their red-tiled hats.”

He took her arm in his as the train pulled into the station, and they stepped out onto the platform. As they walked into the sunlight, a gust of wind slapped against their faces.

“Yes, M. Mistral is here too.” He pulled her close as she shivered and fumbled to button her dark-blue peacoat.

They walked briskly through the narrow streets to the center of town. Gabriella relaxed with his strong arm around her. She almost dared not breathe, so intensely she wished for this moment to last.

David seemed not to notice, as he excitedly pointed out a historical landmark here, a bubbling fountain there, the elegant seventeenth-century facades on the buildings.

“I’m not walking too fast for you, am I?” he questioned suddenly. “How is your ankle holding up?”

“Fine. It’s fine.”
As long as you keep your arm around me
, she wanted to add.

“We’ll drop off our bags at my friend’s house. It’s right off the place de la Libération.”

For a moment Gabriella tensed. She had no desire to meet his friend.

They walked toward a huge three-tiered fountain flanked by bright flowers. A roundabout encircled it, with cars dodging in and out of the four side roads that turned off like spokes on an enormous wheel.

“Right down here on boulevard de la République.”

The road was wide and stately, and David strode confidently past the shops on the left side of the street.

“She lives above the
pâtisserie
. On the third floor.” He stopped in front of a heavy door and pressed the bell with the name
de Saléon
written beside it. “You ring twice, pausing in between. That’s our signal.” He laughed, not noticing Gabriella’s suddenly sour expression.

Immediately a window three floors up flew open, and a woman’s head appeared.
“David!
Quel plaisir! Allez! Montez.”

Gabriella squinted in the sun to see the woman’s face, but she couldn’t distinguish anything about her.

A loud buzzer sounded, and David pulled the door open, motioning to Gabriella to enter first. “The button is on the left, just there.” He pointed to the shining orange button that Gabriella knew to be part of every French stairwell.

They climbed the winding marble staircase slowly. As they reached the third floor, a door opened and a smiling woman of about fifty-five bustled out to greet them. Her auburn hair, pulled back in an elegant chignon, was flecked slightly with gray. She was dressed in a sophisticated green tweed suit.

“Madeleine, so good to see you!” David set down the bags and warmly embraced her with kisses on each cheek. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Gabriella Madison. Gabriella, Mme de Saléon.”

“
Enchantée, Mademoiselle Gabriella.
My, but you always pick the pretty ones.” She winked at David.

Gabriella’s face showed every sign of relief as she beamed back at the attractive woman.
“Enchantée, aussi.”
Yes, was she ever pleased to meet her. So there was no lovely young mistress after all.

“Come in, come in, and I’ll show you to your rooms. I’m sure you’re anxious to be out and about Aix, but you will have a drink? Something light? The trip was easy,
non
? And the change of trains in Marseille no problem?” She threw up her hands and touched her hair. “But of course, with David there is never any problem. Such a fine young man.
Et
très beau, n’est-ce pas?
” She leaned toward Gabriella, who nodded, blushing.