Two Testaments (40 page)

When David awoke, it was light, and he had no idea where he was. It could have been Rémi’s farmhouse or the ferry. It took him a moment to register that he was in Mme Pons’s apartment in his own room. He had no idea how long he had slept.

For the first time in days he looked in a mirror. A grisly, swollen face stared back. It seemed the most natural thing to do was to shower and shave. He was washing away months of fine Algerian sand that had seeped into his pores. If only he could wash away the pain.

The wound in his head had not seeped blood in the night, which seemed a positive sign. He found a pair of lightweight pants hanging in the closet where he had left them three and a half months ago, and put them on. He wrapped his torso with a thick white bandage. Carefully he pulled on a short-sleeved oxford shirt. The ribs still hurt when he moved too quickly.

The clay santon of the baker smiled at him from his desk. Poor Gabriella. What had he said to her yesterday? Had he said anything? And Anne-Marie … He intended to keep the promise he had spoken to her in the chapel. He did not yet know how, but he would keep it.

He remembered his father in the hospital and phoned to find out his condition. Stable, resting. Good. The old man needed complete rest, and that suited David fine.

He wanted more than anything to see Ophélie, and he finished dressing quickly. When he appeared in the kitchen, Mme Pons let out a scream, then cackled.

“
Ooh là là!
M. Hoffmann! You’re back.”

“Bonjour, Madame Pons.”
He kissed her cheek. “Please excuse me for frightening you. Thoughtless of me.”

“Let me fix you some breakfast. Poor M. Hoffmann. You are not well.
Oh là là.
” She bustled about her kitchen, whistling happily. “We were so worried, M. Hoffmann. And now you appear in my kitchen and frighten the wits out of me!” She chuckled. “I am very glad to have you back.”

Thirty minutes later David left the apartment with his belly full. The pure banality of another summer’s day with nothing much happening clashed with the memories of crowds of helpless refugees, of guns and knives. He forced Algeria out of his mind and waved at the women at the
marché
as they nodded and blushed.

He let himself into the parsonage, hurrying down the steps into the basement. The children were already in class. It surprised him to see Gabriella teaching. He walked into the classroom, which was crammed with desks and chairs and children and watched as Ophélie’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. David strode to his daughter’s desk, picked her up out of the chair, and hugged her tightly. Then he turned to Gabriella. “May I borrow my daughter for a little while?”

“Of course, M. Hoffmann,” she stammered.

He saw that she did not know what to expect of him. Holding Ophélie’s hand, he walked behind the desk, cupped Gabby’s face in his other hand and, to the great delight of the whole class, kissed her forcefully on the lips. The children cheered, and a few chanted, “Encore! Encore!” Little Christophe shouted, “
Oh oh, les amoureux!
” and everyone clapped.

“See you after class,” he whispered.

David and Ophélie sat on the warm grass in the shade of an olive tree in the courtyard and laughed for the longest time about nothing at all. Every few minutes Ophélie reached out and gently touched the bandage around David’s head.

“Does it hurt very much, Papa?”

“No, sweetie, not now.”

“You look funny, Papa,” she said and giggled.

“Tell me. Tell me what I look like.”

“Well …” She furrowed her little brow and thought. Then she exclaimed gleefully, “I know! You look like a palm tree! You know how its trunk is wrapped around and around, and then at the very top, there are these big, wide leaves bursting out and draping down like your hair, Papa? It is so long and curly on the ends.” She touched it with her fingers. David placed his hand over hers.

“I’m so glad to be with you, Ophélie. Papa has missed you so much.”

“Will you ever go away again, Papa?”

“Not for a long time,
ma chérie
. Don’t you worry.”

Ophélie’s face clouded. “But you couldn’t bring Moustafa back for Mama, could you?”

“No, Ophélie. I tried. Very hard. And Moustafa wanted so much to come.”

“But he won’t be coming, will he?”

David shook his head and felt the tightness in his throat.

She contemplated this revelation for quite some time, looking very perplexed. “But I know I saw him coming, Papa. I know it.”

He took her in his arms, and she cuddled in his lap. “There are things we can’t understand,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, Ophélie. So sorry.”

“Oh, Papa. It’s not your fault. It’s just that Jesus has another way. That’s all.”

He stared in wonder at Ophélie. He did not understand her words, but he marveled at her faith. Perhaps healing would come to him through the faith of his small daughter. It made him smile to think so.

24

Ali watched the fury and debates among the political factions with little surprise. He backed Ben Bella, the man who had, after all, been named as the perpetrator of the War for Independence back in 1954. Soon after that, Bella had been arrested by the French and spent five long years in jail. Nonetheless his presence during the war had been keenly felt. Now was Ben Bella’s chance, Ali felt sure.

And what of his own chances? He deserved a high place in this new government, whatever form it took. But would he have it? Would the others in the FLN recognize his shrewd leadership abilities? He had never questioned this before, but now he thought he read the slightest hint of pity in their eyes when they came to visit him. Surely not! He deserved a place in the new government, and he would have it!

The lack of news from Hussein irritated him. It would be easy enough to kill the boy’s mother, but what if Hussein never knew of the threat? How to contact the boy? Fatima was eager to prove her worth, but it was much too dangerous to send her to France.

Ali paced in his cubicle, his walk now punctuated by a heavy limp from the bullet wound to his calf. It would heal. So would the wound that had come so near his heart. Rest, the doctor pleaded. But now was not the time to rest, not when the new republic was being birthed. It was time for fast, cunning action.

He spat his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it with his toe. As for Hussein, there was nothing to do but wait for news. The boy was a faithful follower. He had been trained well. He would not let Ali down.

Whatever Gabriella had expected when David got back, this was not it. She gathered her books for the children’s class and spoke politely to Mme Leclerc over a
tartine
and cup of hot chocolate.

“So he has come back for you, Gabriella.
Ooh là là!
I knew he would.”

Gabriella kissed her lightly on the cheeks, a forced smile on her face. “I’m off! I’m teaching the children this morning.”

Perhaps Mme Leclerc was convinced of David’s loyalty, but she wasn’t. All she wanted to do was to listen to him, to care and understand, but he was avoiding her. After the kiss in front of the children two days ago, he had not come back to talk. Gabriella had the most awful feeling that he was trying to choose between her and Anne-Marie.

She felt sick inside. Sick about Moustafa. Angry that David would not explain his actions. Why had he kissed her in front of the children if he wasn’t even sure of his feelings toward her? What was the matter with him?

She reprimanded herself. He had witnessed beastly acts, murders, the death of a friend. She must give him time.

She let herself into the classroom and spread the French grammar book out before her. Today she was teaching the children the difference between
et
and
est
. Pronounced the same way, but the meanings of the two words were completely different. It was simply a matter of memorizing a rule.

Why couldn’t life be that simple? The rule said that David had written the words
I love you
in black and white. If he had written it, it should not change. That was the rule.

The worst part was that she could not confide in Anne-Marie. A sort of tension hung between them. They smiled at each other politely and talked of the children. But so much was lost. Gabriella had imagined them ecstatic upon the return of Moustafa and David, laughing, dreaming dreams. Two couples in love.

Instead there were two women for one man, and in spite of all that David had promised her in his letters, in spite of the fact that Anne-Marie had assured her that David was right for her, Gabriella doubted. She was not making it up in her head. It was happening. What she had hoped would be the happiest time at St. Joseph had turned into a time when she dreaded running into either of them.

When Hussein heard the news about Moustafa from Ophélie, it made him sick. He did not dare go to David Hoffmann and beg for help now. He was responsible for Moustafa’s death. He felt a sharp pain, like a knife in his stomach, when he saw David striding over to him after class. He prepared himself to look indifferent.

“Hello, Hussein.” David held out his hand. “Glad to see that you made it safely to St. Joseph.”

Hussein took his hand without meeting his eyes.

“Let’s take a little walk. Just the two of us.”

With his hand heavy on Hussein’s shoulder, David led him out into the streets of Castelnau. He walked him straight to an apartment. “This is my place. I thought we could talk better here.”

Hussein felt a chill go down his spine. He half expected David to produce a knife.

“Tell me everything, Hussein.” David’s eyes were intense, penetrating. “I am not going to harm you, but I want the truth. You owe me that much.”

Hussein bit his lip. Curse it all. He still had the explosives. Why not blow the whole place up, himself included? He said nothing.

“Hussein, it’s not your fault about Moustafa. Ali didn’t kill him. It is not your fault.”

So the American was trying to soften him up. If only he knew.

“Hussein, listen.” Now David took him by the shoulders and shook him forcefully. “I lived there. I saw what young boys were forced to do. It’s not your fault.”

The strength of David’s hands on him somehow brought comfort. His mother’s hands were strong like that. Before he could stop himself, he was clutching David and crying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry about Moustafa. I’m sorry about the trunk.”

David’s voice was calm, soothing. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He trained me for it. For months he trained me to be strong. I was afraid he would kill me. Kill Mama. Can’t you see? I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hate you both so it wouldn’t matter. But it did matter. I prayed every day to Allah that Ali would not kill you. And now …”

“He didn’t, Hussein. It wasn’t Ali. It was a massacre. Moustafa died in a massacre.”

Perspiration formed on Hussein’s forehead. He thought of little Ophélie. This man’s daughter. How close he had been to pulling the trigger. He felt nauseated and dizzy.

“I’ll do anything, M. Hoffmann. Anything. Only please don’t send me back there. Please!”