A Time of Miracles (3 page)

This is how, at the end of harvesttime, after they’ve kissed 127 times and counting, they witness the Terrible Accident.

WHEN
Gloria reaches this point in the story, I am kneeling on the bed, out of the blanket, no longer tired.

“Don’t leave anything out!” I say, pounding the mattress with my fists. “Not the wounded passengers, the ripped-open cars, the fire, or anything.”

Gloria rolls her eyes and, every time, waits for me to calm down. I lie on the mattress again, under the blanket, and wait until she decides to go on.

I count up to fifty as I look at the wallpaper that’s coming unglued. I pretend to be bored, and when my breathing slows, she continues.

“Zemzem heard the train first—”

I cut her short. “His hearing was very sharp, right?”

“Very sharp, Koumaïl. He came from a faraway region, from a people of hunters, and his father—”

“Was the chief of the village! I know! He could even hear the murmur of the dead.”

“Absolutely. That’s why Zemzem heard the creaking and
whistling of the train well before I did. He squeezed my hand hard because he understood that something unusual was happening. We started to run along the tracks, and suddenly—”

“The thunder!”

“A frightening roar, Koumaïl. Like a huge explosion, followed by an earsplitting noise that made your hair stand up on your head. Then a cloud of smoke rose. When we got to the train, all out of breath and sweating—”

“Just past the curve, right?”

“Yes, where the pear trees were growing. We saw that the engine car was on fire. The other cars had come off the rails, toppled over like dominoes. People were stuck under the wreckage, screaming. Those who had managed to escape were sitting on the ground in shock, while the fire spread to the trees.”

“People were burning? You saw them?”

“No, Koumaïl, I did not see them. It was the smell that was unbearable.”

“Like barbecued pork!”

“Worse than that. I can’t describe the smell. Zemzem told me to go and tend to the wounded, and he ran toward my father’s house to get help.”

“And to get the tanker truck, more than anything else!”

Gloria nods. She knows that I never forget any detail. I could tell this story myself as if I had lived it. But I prefer to listen to it.

“I rushed to the cars at the rear and helped two men lift a piece of wood that was crushing the legs of an old man. Around us, others were calling for help, but there weren’t
enough of us. I was able to get two children out of the fifth car through a gap. That’s when I heard a woman call for help.”

“
Ossecourédémoi!
” I shout in a high-pitched voice, trying to imitate a French accent.
Helpmehelpme!

“Exactly. ‘
Ossecourédémoi!
’ I slipped through the gap.”

I laugh, looking at Gloria. “You were as thin as a nail back then. You could squeeze through without a problem.”

Gloria pinches my cheek. She makes believe she’s annoyed with me, but I know she’s teasing.

“It’s true that I have put on weight, Monsieur Blaise. But let’s forget that for now. I slipped into the car and I crawled between the torn seats to the woman. She had rolled herself into a ball in a corner. There was blood on her face and in her honey-colored hair.”

From this point on I never interrupt Gloria. Each word she says is of the utmost importance.

“I came near her and discovered that she was holding a baby against her chest. She begged me with her eyes, and I understood what she expected of me.”

Gloria puts her hand on my forehead. She smiles with a tenderness that breaks my heart.

“This woman had a broken back; she could no longer move. I put my arm around the baby and took him. She made me understand that she was French and told me her name: Jeanne Fortune. Then she pointed to her son and whispered, ‘Blaise.’ That’s how I saved you. When Vassili and Zemzem came back with the tanker truck, I was standing under the pear trees. I was crying. The men began by putting out the fire, and then they took axes and chain saws
to cut open the cars and move the survivors out. I waited with you. You had fallen asleep on my chest. You didn’t see the men carry your mother away.”

I shake under the blanket, my eyes popping out. I can see it all: my mother’s ashen face, her honey-colored hair matted with blood, her body as limp as a cloth. Her eyelids are closed. She is lying in the scorched grass. Is she dead? I always wonder.

“She had only fainted, I’m sure,” Gloria goes on. “Ambulances came from town. I wanted to board the one that was taking your mother away, but the doctors kept me from doing so. There were too many wounded! I had to make room for them. Zemzem came near me. I showed him the baby. He put his hand on your cheek and said that you were a miracle. You opened your eyes then. Like you understood.”

Night came a long while ago. I can hear the familiar noises of the Complex—voices in the hallways, footsteps on the floor above, as well as the vocal exercises of Miss Talia, a former singer in the national opera. I can’t feel totally sad when Gloria tells me about the Terrible Accident and my mother’s broken back. It’s as if she’s telling me about something that happened long ago, sort of like a legend.

Gloria gets up and pours herself a last cup of lukewarm tea. My body is heavy on the mattress.

I yawn. “You looked for my mother everywhere with Zemzem but couldn’t find her,” I say. “Her name wasn’t registered at any of the hospitals, right? And even if you had wanted to give me back, no one wanted to look after a baby. So you kept me.”

Gloria sighs. I see that she’s tired, but she knows that I won’t leave her in peace until the end of the story.

“Everything became complicated because the war started,” she goes on. “In fact, the train hadn’t derailed by accident. It was sabotaged. The orchard was requisitioned by the militia ‘for the war effort,’ or so they said. They took the house, the trucks, and even the trees! They left us only a shed. The army drafted Zemzem and my brothers. Before they left, each of them gave me a precious gift.”

I know the list of precious gifts by heart.

“Fotia gave you his radio, but he forgot the battery,” I say. “Oleg gave you his stringless violin. Iefrem, his green atlas. Dobromir, his warm lambskin blanket. And Anatoly, a poetry book that you’ve lost.”

As always, I end up with the same question. “And Zemzem? What did
he
give you?”

Gloria puts a finger over her lips and answers that it’s a secret. What Zemzem gave her is so precious and so beautiful that she can’t say anything about it. And as always, I am disappointed. I badger and plead, always in vain.

Gloria smiles at me. “One day, maybe, I’ll tell you.”

“When?”

“One day.”

Defeated, I sigh and ask for the end of the story.

“After my brothers and Zemzem had gone, I went to my father and mother. I told them that I was leaving too. I was responsible for you, and I had to take you away from the soldiers and the bombs. Liuba gave me her kitchen utensils. Old Vassili gave me his samovar and said, ‘You see, I knew
you would be leaving. Go, my daughter, and find a place where you can live a happy life.’ ”

“That’s why he nicknamed you Gloria Bohème,” I say. “ ‘Bohème’ means that you’ll always be free and can cross all borders.”

“Yes, Koumaïl. And then Vassili pulled on his suspenders to make them snap. He didn’t want to talk anymore.”

Suddenly Gloria looks sad. She lies down under the blanket on the other mattress; I can see her stomach, which rises like a hill. She coughs and coughs and coughs—enough to tear her throat out.

I swallow to undo the knot that strangles me.

“One day you’ll find Zemzem and I’ll find my mother,” I say, hoping to make her feel better.

The log in the stove is almost burned. Gloria gets her breath back.

“And my father?” I ask. “You didn’t see him in the train car?”

“No, Koumaïl, I did not see him.”

The Complex is now silent.

“Go to sleep, little miracle,” Gloria whispers to me in the pitch-darkness. “Tomorrow life will be better.”

THERE
are all sorts of people in the Complex, including peasants who’ve been driven off their farms because of land requisitions, laborers who’ve lost their jobs, old people who’ve gone soft in the head, sailors without ships, women without husbands, deserters, a meditating monk, and Miss Talia, who used to sing at the opera. There is also Abdelmalik, a tall black teenager.

Abdelmalik lives right next to Emil, in the garbage shed near the Complex. No one dumps garbage there now, but the stench is embedded in the walls. And no matter how hard Abdelmalik washes and scrubs his skin, he stinks like rancid butter and putrefied peelings.

“Sorry,” he says each time he goes to someone’s apartment.

At first you hold your nose; after a while you get used to it.

According to Emil, Abdelmalik is nineteen years old and escaped from jail. It’s in jail that he learned to fight.

“He had to!” Emil explains to me. “In jail, if you don’t fight, you’re dead!”

To entertain us, Abdelmalik shows us his moves in the courtyard or on the roof of the Complex when it’s not too windy. We make a circle around him, and he bounces from one foot to the other, his fists at face level.
Whoosh!
He punches the air. He bends down to skirt his imaginary adversary’s counterattack and
thwack!
A kick! He turns, he twirls. His arms smash invisible jaws, his legs cut and whip. We clap our hands in rhythm. It looks like a dance.

“Uugh,” Emil sighs. “It’s too easy! I’d like to see a real fight with a real opponent.”

“We should ask Sergei,” I say.

We all agree. Sergei is the only one who would know how to fight against Abdelmalik. But we’re too afraid to ask him.

On some days old Mrs. Hanska gives us lessons. She boasts that she was once headmistress of a school for young girls. We don’t really know what that means, but the way she swells her chest when she says it makes her look important. According to her, this qualifies her to teach us the essentials.

No one grumbles because school is a good distraction from our chores and roughhousing in the stairs. We squeeze into Mrs. Hanska’s tiny apartment: The first to arrive plop on the couch, the chairs, and the floor. The last ones to get there have to stand, their backs against the front door. It’s fine in winter because we keep each other warm. But in summer Mrs. Hanska’s apartment is crowded with wet foreheads and dripping temples.

Mrs. Hanska teaches us to read. She picks random
subjects for her lessons from the pages of a worn-out book and makes us repeat a lot of things that we don’t understand—like proverbs; the list of the Seven Wonders of the World; the Richter scale, used to measure earthquakes; the twelve feats of Hercules; and the planets of the solar system. But she also makes us learn recipes, songs, the capitals of the world, and the names of flowers.

My knowledge is vast and varied. At almost eight, I can hardly write my name, but I can recite from one to ten the mineral hardness scale without any mistakes: talc, gypsum, calcite, fluorite, apatite, feldspar, quartz, topaz, corundum, diamond.

One day when Mrs. Hanska is teaching us a Christmas song, Miss Talia rushes into the apartment. “That’s enough!” she shouts, her face all red.

She steps over those of us who are seated on the floor and plants herself in front of the group. Then she opens her mouth and lets out a continuous, single-note sound. With her right hand she suddenly makes a gesture as if she’s zipping her mouth shut. Total silence follows. She smiles.

“Your turn!” she says.

Timidly we open our mouths. Thirty different sounds clash against each other. Miss Talia frowns and zips her mouth again. Silence. She scratches her chin, looking puzzled, then lets out the same single note, which she repeats over and over until we’re all able to produce the same sound as her.

“Phew!” she sighs. “I can’t promise you that we’ll sing
La Traviata
someday, but we might be able to celebrate Christmas without bursting our eardrums.”

News that Miss Talia, former singer at the national opera, is teaching music to the children spreads in the Complex. This gives other people ideas! One by one, grown-ups knock on Mrs. Hanska’s door to offer their services, which is how we learn

Before long we have school every day, and the Complex becomes, as Gloria puts it, “the university for the poor.” I store all the information in my head, not caring whether I’ll ever need to use it. The knowledge piles up in my brain and keeps me company.

When spring comes, we ask Abdelmalik to teach us the art of fighting. He agrees, and so we find ourselves in the courtyard bare-chested, dancing from one foot to the other. With fists raised to face level—
whoosh!
—we punch the air. We bend down to avoid the counterattack and
thwack!
A kick! Our hands smash jaws, our thin legs cut and whip; we are dancing with Abdelmalik.

All of a sudden creepy Sergei appears in the courtyard. He’s holding not his razor but his old pair of boxing gloves. He comes near Abdelmalik.

“You stink!” he provokes him.

“Sorry,” the other says.

“Wimp!” Sergei shouts. “What did they teach you in jail?”

Sergei puts his gloves on. He shakes a little because he drinks too much, but he’s scary anyway.

“So? What did they teach you? Come on! Show me!”

Abdelmalik turns around to give us a look of apology.
Bam!
Sergei takes advantage of this and sends him a right hook to the nose! A murmur of fear and excitement ripples through our group.