A Time of Miracles (11 page)

“The strings are strange, but you’ll know how to play it,” I say.

The patriarch strikes the wood of the violin. He pinches the strings.

“It’s a very valuable gift, Koumaïl,” he says. “Each time we play it, we will think of you. This way we’ll keep listening to your soul.”

My heart tightens because I think of Fatima.

“If you see a very beautiful girl who comes near you to listen to the sound of this violin, and if her eyes are closed and she sings better than anyone else, tell her that I did not forget her.”

Babik smiles and promises to give the message. I kiss his prickly cheeks and I leave in a hurry before I cry.

Then the caravans are attached to cars and the procession begins. Panch, Titi, Sara, Angelo, and Nanosh are gathered against the windows to see me one last time. Gloria and I wave to them. Hoop Earring is not among them, and it’s better that way.

*   *   *

Gloria and I start going west quickly, our throats tight, once again seized with the awful feeling that we’ve left something of ourselves behind. I lecture myself in silence: Come on, don’t be sentimental, don’t be sad! If you look ahead, the future looks good! And I gather all the hope I have left and imagine the Eiffel Tower covered with snow, and my mother waiting for me near the golden angel of Mont-Saint-Michel.

As we reach the bottom of a hill, I suddenly realize that I walk faster than Gloria. I turn back to her.

“The gear is much lighter now and I’ve grown a lot,” I tell her. “Let me carry it.”

She stares at me. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Are you sure?”

I show her my arms, which have become muscular, and my legs, which are much thicker.

Gloria seems surprised. “Well, now I see that you’re right!” she says.

Without hesitation she puts the gear on the ground.

I am so proud to load it over my shoulders. “Soon I’ll be as strong as Fotia and Oleg,” I declare.

“And you’ll have a mustache as long as Vassili’s,” Gloria adds, laughing.

I laugh too. It’s difficult to imagine myself with hairy cheeks.

“Do you think my mother will recognize me?” I ask.

“A mother always recognizes her son, Koumaïl.”

I climb the hill easily, and as I reach the top, anxiety grabs me. I wait for Gloria and take her hand.

“Even when I’m all grown up, I’ll still need you, right?” I say.

Gloria does not answer. She breathes slowly as she walks, as if she wants to conserve air, and I pray that Nouka wasn’t wrong about her future.

“What everyone needs, Koumaïl, is a good place to live. Come on, tell me once more what you know about France.”

I walk at her pace along the road. I talk and talk and talk. Each word makes marvelous things appear on the horizon.

THE
last memory of my childhood is also the most painful one. It’s one I would like to forget, to pluck from my mind the way you pull out a weed in a garden, but it’s not possible.

It happens near the Hungarian border, per page 47 of my green atlas. A Greek truck driver dumps us in a large parking lot on the side of a highway. Gloria made arrangements with him, but now he’s scared of the customs checkpoint. He no longer wants to hide us behind the curtain of his cab, so he abandons us to our fate,
insha’Allah
.

It is dark and the wind is cold. We go into a service station to take shelter.

I like this place, flooded with light, where anyone can use the toilets for free, drink from the taps, warm up under the electric hand dryer, and admire the candy stand. This is the way it is in democratic and free countries: you come in, nobody asks you anything, and you can stroll quietly between the shelves. If you’re tired, you can rest on plastic chairs; no one bothers you.

“Sit down,” Gloria tells me. “Don’t go anywhere. Pretend you don’t exist. I’m going to try to make arrangements with someone else, OK?”

“OK.”

Gloria is the queen of making arrangements. First, she inspires confidence. Second, she speaks politely, and people always agree to help us, like the man at the Matachine did, and all the cart, car, bus, and truck drivers who agreed to take us from the Caucasus up to this point.

I look at Gloria as she approaches the counter where the truck drivers are having coffee. From where I sit, I can’t hear what she tells them. I only see her smile, knowing they must find her nice and reassuring. The drivers look at her with their big men’s eyes. They make room for her at the counter, and one of them orders her a coffee. Afterward they laugh, all of them together, and I can see that Gloria has red cheeks because of the warm coffee.

They talk a long time while I stay on my chair, without moving, as inconspicuous as a ghost. A lot of things go through my head, and I think about what we’ll be able to do when we get to France, like eat butter croissants or Camembert cheese. I think about that because I am hungry and I wish Gloria would hurry up, otherwise I’m going to faint.

Finally I see her arm in arm with one of the drivers; they go toward the service station exit. Quickly I grab the gear to follow her, but she motions to me firmly and mouths, “Stay there! I’ll be back.”

Upset, I put the gear at my feet and I wait. Now I feel uncomfortable, alone in the middle of all the drivers who
come and go. To seem more at ease, I take my catalog out of the gear.

I turn the pages so often that they threaten to come loose. I learn by heart each tiny detail about the storming of the Bastille; about Napoléon, who died on Saint Helena; about the Métro and Coco Chanel, the symbol of French elegance. I learn how to use the public toilets and that Eugène Delacroix’s head is on the one-hundred-franc bill. I learn the hours of Galeries Lafayette, the big department store, and the top speed of the Paris–Lyon TGV, which is the jewel of the French railway system. I can even list all the castles of the Loire Valley—Chambord, Azay-le-Rideau, Chenonceau, Amboise.… But none of it matters if Gloria leaves me in this service station.

What could she possibly be doing with this truck driver? I wonder.

Just as my anxiety becomes unbearable, Gloria appears at the door. She’s alone, out of breath, her hair undone, and she has a box of cookies in her hand. I jump to my feet.

“I thought you had forgotten me!” I tell her.

“Nonsense, Monsieur Blaise! You know very well that I would never forget you! You do know that, don’t you?”

She gives me the box of cookies and explains that everything is settled. The truck driver agreed to take us to France. He’s waiting for us.

“The problem is that there’s only one seat in the cab,” Gloria says.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll cheat a little. I’ll stay with the driver
in front, and you’ll climb into the trailer without being seen.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. That’s the only way.”

Gloria is shaking. I think she looks strange, but it’s not the time to dawdle. In agitated gestures she explains what I’m supposed to do.

“Walk behind me, discreetly, up to the truck. The driver must not see you, do you understand?”

“Understood.”

“Then slip into the trailer and hide at the back. Don’t move from there until we reach France. Do you understand?”

I nod, although the plan doesn’t make me happy.

Gloria removes her Jeanne Fortune passport from the gear and orders me to hold on to the rest. If I get cold, I’m supposed to wrap myself in Dobromir’s blanket. If I get bored, I’m supposed to look at my atlas.

Gloria puts my passport in my jacket pocket, the one that closes with a button, and she tells me to take good care of it because it’s the most precious thing that I own.

“Do you know what to say if someone asks to see it?” Gloria says.

I nod. “I tell the truth: my name is Blaise Fortune and I am a citizen of the French Republic,” I say.

“Can you say it in French?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Me, I’ll be all right,” she says with a wink. “You know that I always manage!”

Gloria holds me tight against her, and I can hear her
heart drumming in my own body as if we were just one. She kisses my forehead and my cheeks with such urgency that it makes me dizzy.

“Come on, Monsieur Blaise, let’s go! I told the driver that I needed to use the toilet before leaving. He must be wondering what I’m doing.”

She trots to the door and I follow a few steps behind her.

We cross the large parking lot, where lots of heavy trucks are parked. Without losing sight of Gloria, I slip in and out between all the wheels. Finally Gloria stops near a big, muddy truck that has a Spanish license plate. This is it.

She is near the cab, where the driver is waiting. She turns back toward me and points to the rear of the truck. I answer by raising my hand, my fingers making the V sign for “victory.” Gloria does the same. I smile and tiptoe off.

When I manage to lift the cargo door, a suffocating smell grabs my throat. I realize that the truck carries livestock, and I can’t help thinking that I couldn’t be unluckier. But now isn’t the time to be choosy.

I go inside and shut the cargo door.

It’s so dark that I can’t see the tip of my nose; impossible to know exactly what kind of animals I’m dealing with. I hear some scraping, some growling and breathing. I move forward, feeling my way, hurting myself against who knows what. The engine starts just as I knock my head against the back wall.

I put the gear down and sit on the vibrating floor. This is it. We’re leaving! I wrap myself in the lambskin blanket, then open the box of cookies. I savor each bite. Because when you’re alone in the dark, and it stinks to high heaven,
you have to gather strength from everything or you sink into despair.

The sway of the truck rocks me, and I think that Gloria is right when she says that you have to be confident and that you have to follow your path the way the Gypsies do, without worrying about borders.

I tell myself that in twenty-four hours we will be in France. Our ultimate refuge! The country of human rights. The country of the poet Charles Baudelaire.

Yes, within twenty-four hours we will be at the end of our journey and the beginning of a better life. In twenty-four hours I will take Gloria through the peaceful streets of Montmartre. We will walk down the Champs-Elysées and stuff ourselves with butter croissants. And there, at last, we will be free and happy. Forever.

BUT
dreams are only dreams, and I did not go to Montmartre. I did not guide Gloria through the labyrinth of small streets. We did not walk down the Champs-Elysées, and no butter croissants were waiting for us on our arrival.

Customs officers who were controlling commercial trucks on the highway near Sarreguemines, in Moselle, discovered me on December 13, 1997, among a cargo of pigs.

As far as I know, they were looking for drugs or smuggled goods. But I was the only contraband they found when they opened the cargo door of the trailer. I was sleeping, my head resting on the gear. I had managed to drift off despite the frightful smell of excrement.

I had had nothing to drink since the service station. My throat was on fire, my lips were dry. The truck driver could not believe his eyes when he saw me and swore loudly in Spanish.

The customs officers pulled me out of the trailer by the
collar of my sweater. I wasn’t quite awake, so I didn’t have time to think and grab the gear.

I landed on French soil and looked for Gloria.

She was not there.

I rushed toward the driver, begging him to tell me where she was, but he didn’t understand anything I said, and I smelled so bad that he kept walking away from me, holding his nose. Then the customs officers pushed him into a car.

“Gloria! Gloria!” I shouted. There was no answer. Only the sounds of traffic on the highway and the wind.

The customs officers dragged me to a van. I fought them as I kept shouting “Gloria,” so they handcuffed me. That’s how it is when you confront the authorities.

They forced me to climb into the van, and I suddenly thought of the small weasel and of Hoop Earring’s warning, but it was too late. I had fallen into a trap set for humans. The door of the van closed on me, and we left the highway. Where was Gloria? Where could she be? I panicked. My head was empty and the steel of the handcuffs was cutting into my skin. I collapsed and cried, “
Helpmehelpme!
”

Later, between two hiccups, I explained: “
Mynameisblaisefortuneandiamacitizenofthefrenchrepublicitsthepureand
simpletruth.
”

I repeated that twice, three times, like a prayer, like a song, but it was as useless as shouting in the desert. The officers sighed. They seemed upset.

I put my head on my knees.

Gloria had disappeared. Maybe she had fallen out of the truck? Maybe she was hiding? Maybe something horrible
had happened while I slept with the pigs? I did not know what to think.

I was almost twelve years old, the gear was in the smelly truck, and I was without Gloria in the country of human rights and the poet Charles Baudelaire.

Never in my life had I been so scared.

AT
first I saw nothing of France except for walls, doors, gates, dormitories, and corridors.

People talked to me. I didn’t understand a single word. They offered me food, but I wasn’t hungry. I was sad and I spent my time trying to hold back my tears.

I was waiting for Gloria, you see. I hoped to see her appear at any second, behind each door, around each corner, but she never did.

When your feet ache, you can always pretend that they’re somebody else’s feet. But when you’re filled with sorrow, it’s impossible to believe that your heart isn’t bursting in your chest. So I stayed in my corner, paralyzed, unable to fight the despair that was eating away at my soul.

I
was finally transferred from a holding zone to a shelter, where a man named Modeste Koulevitch came to see me.

He was a white-haired man with a flabby chin that folded over the bow tie of his suit. He looked like an orchestra conductor. I wondered what he was doing there—had he escaped from the national opera like Miss Talia?