Two Crosses (7 page)

Ophélie sat on a mattress in the upstairs office of M. Gady’s shop. She could hear the old man breathing deeply in the bedroom next door. She was glad he was asleep. Twice that day he had questioned her.

“You are sure you have nothing for me, little one? Nothing from your mother?”

Each time Ophélie had shaken her head. How could she trust him? There was no one to trust.

The old man had looked disappointed and concerned. He had hovered by the radio all day, cursing and repeating, “Crazy war, crazy war.”

Now, in the quiet of night, Ophélie carefully switched on the desk lamp and again emptied out the contents of the blue bag. The cross fell lightly onto the desk, along with a worn photograph and two small sealed envelopes. On one envelope was a simple word written in Mama’s hand. She knew what it said.
Ophélie.
Silently she unsealed the envelope and spread out the letter before her.

Three pink pages written in Mama’s smooth script. At the top of the first page she again read her name. She turned to the last piece of paper and saw the word
Mama
. These two words she knew. But the rest of the letter was a mysterious blend of lines falling up and down.

How could she ever know what Mama wished to tell her if she couldn’t read? She began to cry. She couldn’t tell M. Gady.
Please don’t be mad, Mama, but I cannot give him the bag.

She reached for the cross and slipped it around her neck and fastened it in the back. Mama had said the cross was good luck. Ophélie would wear it, and then Grandpapy’s God would bring her good luck. She put the letter and the other envelope back into the sack, pausing only to look at a small photo of Mama holding her in her arms. “Please, Mama, don’t die. I’ll learn how to read, and then I’ll know. Wait for me, Mama, wherever you are.”

Rachid El Drissi watched from his window as Ali approached his apartment, walking easily through the maze of buildings in the Casbah. The night was black, but Rachid knew that Ali could find his way through this neighborhood blindfolded. Ali slipped onto the outside stairwell and climbed it, crouching like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting sparrow. On the second floor he stepped through the window and pulled it closed behind him. The September air was heavy, suffocating, even at this late hour. Soundlessly he switched on the light, nodded to Rachid, and seated himself at an old, worn desk. He took out a manila folder.

“It must be done on Tuesday night. Look.” Ali put his finger on a hand-sketched map of several areas of Algiers. “Monoprix is here at the corner of the road.”

Rachid nodded. Everyone knew where the large department store was located.

“The bomb must go off here.” Ali drew a red circle around the street that ran in front of the store. “Everyone will be asleep, but word will travel quickly nonetheless. They will panic and run, and then
boom
!” He laughed. “It will be very convincing, yes?”

Again Rachid nodded, the sleepiness gone from his eyes. Tuesday he would test another of his little bombs. Small but effective. “Don’t worry, Ali. It’s no trouble.”

Ali turned to leave. As he closed the window behind him, Rachid brushed his fingers through his coarse hair and chuckled softly to himself. “Boom,” he whispered.

6

A lone swallow flew low to the ground outside Mme Leclerc’s apartment. From her second-story window, Gabriella watched as other birds joined their companion in weaving up into the air and swooping down to almost touch the ground. She thought of the French proverb she had learned in her childhood in Senegal: There’s sure to be rain if the swallow flies low. But she wished the rain would not come today.

David Hoffmann had asked her to join him for a picnic on the beach, with perhaps a ride on horseback through the marshes afterward. “The Camargue ponies are sturdy and sure-footed, even if you’ve never been on a horse,” he had said.

Gabriella had not mentioned that she once had a horse in West Africa; she only replied that she would go. She wanted to refuse, after their miserable afternoon on the Comédie, but she couldn’t. She felt drawn to him, as if he somehow needed her. “But I will watch what I say,” she told herself.

In spite of the ominous rumbling of clouds in a darkening sky, at precisely eleven the doorbell rang. The eager Mme Leclerc buzzed in their visitor, and Gabriella joined her teacher at the front door.

“
Enchanté, Mademoiselle
Madison
,” he greeted her. Moments later he was hurrying her along the cobblestones to his car, an old pale blue
deux chevaux
that, he told her, did fine on flat ground but could not climb a hill. If he was aware that his every movement was being observed, he gave no hint of it to the three women watching from the boarding-house windows upstairs.

The sun poked its face through the disturbing gray clouds as M. Hoffmann spread out an old blanket on the sand and motioned for Gabriella to sit down. He placed a basket beside him and took out sandwiches, cheese, fruit, fresh vegetables drenched in vinaigrette, and a bottle of red wine.

“I wish you would have let me fix something, M. Hoffmann,” Gabriella said.

“Don’t think that I am the preparer of such a feast. Mme Pons, with whom I board, is determined to marry me off and insists on fixing everything
comme il faut
for a proper picnic. Can’t beat a ham and Emmental cheese on a French baguette.”

He opened the wine and set the bottle in the sand. “And please, call me David … outside of class.”

For a moment he stared so intently into her blue eyes that Gabriella wondered what he was trying to see. She blushed and turned her head quickly away to gaze out on the Mediterranean.

“But I don’t want to talk about myself today. I want to hear about you. It must be quite a shock to find yourself among these prim and proper socialites after being raised among the savages.”

Gabriella gasped and turned toward him, anger and indignation sparkling in her eyes. “How dare you—” she began fiercely, only to stop when she saw the amusement on his face.

“I’m sorry, Miss Madison. I just can’t resist getting a reaction whenever possible. I’m glad to see the missionary has a bit of fire in her character!”

Gabriella did not mean to start crying; it just happened. Tears burned her face as she stood and glared at him. “Why did you invite me out today? Didn’t you criticize me enough on the Comédie? If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’d rather go back to Mme Leclerc’s. Right now!” And after a moment’s silence she added, “Please.”

David’s strong hand found hers and led her back down.

“Forgive me, Miss Madison,” he said, and his voice sounded genuine for the first time. “You’re right. It’s very rude to invite a girl out and criticize her from the start. It’s just my style, you see. Please don’t cry.” He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of his khaki pants. “Here. Dry your eyes. And please stay. I can’t eat all this food alone, and Mme Pons would be furious to know that I had ruined my chances with yet another lovely lady.”

Gabriella wiped her eyes and removed her hand from his grasp. “I’ll stay,” she stated flatly. “But only for the sake of the food and Mme Pons. And, of course, because I don’t want to get on the bad side of my distinguished professor.” She was surprised at her own biting tone.

“
Chapeau
, Miss Madison. I stand rebuked. Let’s talk about something else. I really would like to know about a young woman who can quote Pope and Donne and who has lived a life so different from that of the other girls at St. Joseph. They only want to talk of shopping and marriage and sex.”

Gabriella’s eyes met his without blinking. “Trying to get another reaction,
monsieur
?” But this time she was smiling too.

She looked again toward the dark blue of the sea and spoke as if to the rolling waves that lapped upon the fine, dusty sand. “I loved my life in Senegal. My parents moved there years ago, before I was even a thought. They gave up a lot of luxuries like modern transportation, a life free from malaria, because they believed in what they were doing.

“I grew up with the nationals and felt quite at home as the only white-skinned child, besides my sisters. I learned several tribal languages because we moved four different times. And I learned French, the trade language.” Gabriella’s voice grew vibrant as she spoke about the life she had left only a month earlier.

“I had a small mare. I loved galloping down the beach on her. We could ride for hours without meeting another soul. And always, when we turned around to ride back home, the hoofprints were gone, washed away like a forgotten memory. When I told my father this one day, he made a lesson of it. He said, ‘There are some footprints that never disappear. You must leave footprints that are worthy of being followed.’

“I often think of Daddy’s words, because I’m not sure anybody would want to follow in my steps.”

David was staring at her with the same fixed gaze that had caused her to feel uncomfortable when they had first arrived at the beach. But now she understood what she read in his eyes. It was admiration.

He leaned forward, almost touching her hands with his, and asked, “What do your friends call you, Miss Madison?”

Instinctively she shifted her weight back, away from him. “I’m always introduced as Gabriella. I love long names, and I don’t want to give mine up. But friends can call me whatever they want. That’s the privilege of friendship, isn’t it?”

“Then, if we can be friends, I shall call you Gabby.”

David swallowed the last sip of wine in his glass. “You are sure you don’t want any?”

“No, thank you, really. I’m not used to wine. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.” She raised her eyebrows and waited for his reaction.

He laughed. “Ah, Gabby. Did your mother warn you of what dashing young intellectuals might try to do to a beautiful idealist when she came to France? You are right to be on your guard.”

“I have a question for you, the wise teacher.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.” He scooted closer and stretched out his long frame on the blanket, resting his chin in his hands. He looked up at her, squinting at the sun behind her head. “From this position I have the feeling that I’m in the presence of an angel. Your hair is magnificent.” He paused, then said softly, “You are magnificent.”

“Please don’t, David,” she replied, hesitantly using his given name. “I know your game. You’re afraid of my question, so you’re trying to divert my attention by embarrassing me. Well, it won’t work. So tell me this … you admire the poets who had such great faith, like Pope and Donne and Herrick. How can you admire their work and yet deny their God?”

David was sifting sand through his fingers and didn’t answer immediately. “I have a question for you. How can you admire a ‘wise teacher’ and yet deny his advances?”

He reached toward her playfully, but she turned away, disappointed.

The clouds had returned. Gabriella stood up and said, “It’s time to go home.”

“It is indeed. We’ll save the Camargue ponies for another day.”

Quickly they filled the picnic basket with leftovers as the sky grumbled impatiently. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, and David took Gabriella’s arm and hurried her up the beach until they passed the dunes and came to the road where the deux chevaux was parked. By the time they reached the car, they were drenched.

David laughed, holding his arms out to catch the rain. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

Gabriella smiled and brushed the rain off her face as she climbed into the car. Her hair clung to her like a mass of wet noodles. “I’m afraid your poor car is in for a treat.”

“Never mind. This old beater has seen worse.”

Gabriella did not speak on the way home, but she counted the rushing beat of her heart and wished with all her might that she were safe in her small room behind a closed door where David Hoffmann could not read her tumultuous thoughts.