Last Call For Caviar (19 page)

I was nearly at the head of the line when I had my next hit: four young Métis, their golden skin a glorious result of the mingling of their French, Arab and African blood. They were in curiously high spirits and good health to be waiting in line for medical care. Clad in Celtic green-and-white jerseys, their basketball shorts worn low on their hips with NY baseball caps worn at a jaunty angle, they lounged against the clinic wall. I handed the photos to the shortest one, who stood six foot, the number 9 emblazoned across his chest, and ran through my spiel one more time. I figured he’d be the man to talk to. Since he was sporting Rajon Rondo’s number, he was probably the point guard, and by default, he’d be used to calling the plays for his crew.

“Salut les Gars! Ca va? Celtics fans, I see.”

I could see them checking me out, and even though there was a significant age gap between us, they preened a little and didn’t seem to be perturbed by being accosted by an unknown female.

“You got it! You like basketball?” Number 9 answered, for the rest of the crew.

“Oh, yeah! I’m originally from California… and you know what they say: ‘West Coast is the Best Coast!’” I laughed.

I was greeted with a chorus of, “Naaaah! No way! Celtics are the best! What’s your team? Clippers or Lakers? Who’s your favorite? Chris Paul or Kobe?”

“For me, it’s big love…Kobe and the Lakers, of course! Though, Chris Paul? Now, he’s pretty damn fierce!”

I seemed to be bonding with the boys over b-ball, sports being the lingua franca around the world, and pressed my advantage.

“How about the final game, Celtics versus Lakers, for the championship back in 2010?” I could tell I had their attention now, as they crowded around. “Celtics were leading by thirteen points in the last quarter; it was over for the Lakers. Celtics hand the championship in the bag. Then, Derek Fischer hits a three-pointer, from midcourt, to turn it around, and from there, the Lakers went on a runnin’ and shootin’ rampage. Great series… really close and Celtics played well, but heartbreaker for your guys just the same.”

“I cried when they lost,” said the tallest of the group, breaking in to a sheepish grin that revealed a row of tombstone-sized white teeth that would have done a horse proud.

“Me too,” chimed in Number 5, who was wearing Kevin Garnett’s jersey.

“I hear ya guys. It’s a bitch when your team plays their hearts out, only to lose such a close game. But for me, it’s Lakers and Black Mamba forever! If only they could have kept playing…”

We stood there for a moment in silence, everyone most likely thinking about more innocent times. So much had been lost this last year, as the planet spun further and further out of control and society descended into madness and mayhem.

It was ludicrous to be lamenting the demise of the NBA in the midst of a refugee camp surrounded by human misery, but still, I thought wistfully.

The best looking one—sporting Paul Pierce’s number 34—with dreamy dark eyes and a slow grin, confided, “Don’t tell the guys… but I’m a Laker fan, too. Black Mamba, he’s cool.”

They passed the photos from hand to hand, but it was the point guard who answered for the group as a whole.

“Yeah, we know Dr. J. from Marseille. He used to play ball before. He’s a stand-up guy. Why do you want to know, again?”

I might have disarmed them a little, talking ball, but wariness was ingrained in their DNA from life on the streets. Though they were young and obviously athletes, the oldest, was perhaps all of twenty-four—there was a hard edge to them, as though they had seen a lot of life, regardless of their short span of years.

“I really need to find him.” I decided, then and there, to appeal to them on the most human level. “Julian is my man. We are in love, but we got separated from each other in all this fighting and madness that’s screwed up everyone’s lives. I came here today because I knew if people were hurting, he might be here. That’s who Julian is. He couldn’t stay away; he’d have to help. I’m trying to find him. If you know anything about him, please can’t you help me?”

This time it was Number 34 who answered. “That’s messed up what’s happened to you and Dr J. Yeah, we’ve seen him. He patched up a friend of ours ten days ago—pretty bad gunshot wound. That’s why we’re all here. Today, Sammy gets out of the clinic. We’re gonna take him home.”

That’s why they were one short of a starting lineup; their center must be the one with the bullet hole, convalescing inside.

“Would you know the procedure? Does his doctor have to check him out first?”

They shrugged, that characteristic French gesture; even North Africans do it like natives. “You’ll have to ask one of the nurses at the registration desk.”

The line had grown shorter while we spoke. We were almost at the entrance, with just a few patients still ahead of us. I should have gone to the back of the line and waited my turn, like everyone else who had stood here stoically for long hours in the sweltering heat. But I didn’t have the time. Father Dominic was long-winded on his best days, but I’d already used up two and a half hours. I decided to pretend I was hanging with these ballers and cut the line. I was so close. Fifteen more minutes—thirty at the most—and I would know if Julian was inside.

The waiting room inside of the clinic was ordered chaos: patients lined the walls, leaning on crutches, wounds swathed in grimy bandages, or squatting wherever they could find space on the floor. Nurses moved among them, clipboards in hand, performing triage as on a battlefield. The seriously ill vanished behind the double doors, leaving the rest clutching numbers and patiently waiting their turns.

I waited until my Celtic buddies had finished their inquiries; Sammy would be released in an hour. We said our farewells, and they took up quarters against the far wall. I stepped up to the desk.

The woman—salt-and-pepper hair cut militarily short, a name tag identifying her as Chloe—was all business: “Name, rank and illness,” she demanded. I understood she wasn’t being rude but efficient, cutting through the tangle of complaints in order to get on with the business of healing.

“Yes, this is one of our medical staff,” she said as she handed me back Julian’s photo, “but I don’t have the doctors’ schedules available here. I haven’t seen him today. He might be scheduled for surgery later today or tomorrow.”

“Would it be possible to leave a message for Julian? Please, I really need to contact him.”

“This is an emergency clinic in a refugee camp.” Chloe gestured to the misery surrounding us and continued, “Not a switchboard, and I’m not an operator. We don’t take personal messages for any of the doctors here. I’m sorry.”

“Of course. I do understand, and I’m sorry to bother you with this. I can see you’re swamped and doing an incredible job here. But is there anyone else I can talk to? Leave my name with? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important. This is the only place I know where to look for him.”

She glanced at me, and I saw something soften as understanding dawned in her eyes. She leaned closer and whispered, “Look, why don’t you try and catch one of the other doctors on their break? They’re usually around back at those picnic tables by the lake. Doctors smoking cigarettes…You would think they would know better, but they’re the worst. I really hope you find him. He’s one of the good guys.” She was already looking past me, on to the next medical emergency.

As I rounded the building and took the path towards the lake, I passed a group hurrying towards an open door at the back of the clinic, everyone wearing surgery scrubs. Bilal shadowed me, ten meters back, keeping an eye on my perimeter. Even though we hadn’t run into any trouble so far today, this refugee camp was un-policed, and I knew what had happened to Joanna at the camp in Nice. A woman wandering alone on the path by the lakeshore could stumble upon misfortune in a blink of an eye.

There was a lone figure wearing scrubs, sitting on the weathered planks of a picnic table, smoking a cigarette and staring out over the ruffled gray waters of the lake.

I glanced behind me to where Bilal loitered on the path. He tapped his watch and looked pointedly at me. It was past the time when we should have been heading back to meet up with the Sisters. This doctor, who so far had ignored my presence, lost in his own world of thought, was my last chance. I took a deep breath and began.

“I’m really sorry to disturb you on your break, but Chloe said you might be able to help me locate this man.” I handed him the photo of Julian and introduced myself. He listened, still staring off into the distance, while I explained my quest in broad strokes.

He glanced at it briefly, and then looked up. Light gray eyes, in a network of fine lines as though they had been baked into his weathered skin by the scorching rays of a desert sun, met mine—eyes so clear and fathoms deep it seemed they could see forever. I knew in that instant that a patient had died today. When I interrupted his lonely vigil, he’d been mourning one more life forever lost.

He introduced himself. “I’m Johan Tetcher.”

We shook hands, and he continued. “I worked with Julian in Afghanistan. The Charahi Qambar refugee camp outside Kabul, but I don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of the place.”

“Well, actually, I have heard of Charahi Qambar. Julian told me a story about one winter when he was there with Medicines sans Frontiere. There’d been a really heavy snowstorm. There were children in the camp whose families had fled the war from Helmand Province in the south. They’d never seen snow falling before, and they were so excited and running around playing in it. They kept asking, ‘What is it? What is it? Is it sugar from God?’”

A smile creased his face. “Sugar from God. I remember…I was there, too. So you do know Julian. What can I do for you?”

“I need to find him. It’s urgent. Will he be here today?”

“Julian is supposed to be here today. He’s coming up from Montpellier, but with the blockades, he mustn’t have been able to get through. Damn, we need him here! We just heard an hour ago, Saint Tropez has finally fallen. Rumor has it the insurgents have Russian weapons. There’s not much that can stop them until they hit Frejus. I don’t give a damn which side wins; I’ve seen too much war.” He took a long drag from his cigarette.

“What’s going to happen to the camp? Will these people be safe?” I thought of the thousands of refugees with nowhere else to go.

“That depends. If the rebels get as far as Cannes, that will put this camp behind the lines. The military patrols will pull back, and that means very soon there will be no more food or aid from the authorities running the Security Zone,” Johan said. He gestured towards the camp at our backs and shook his head with disgust. “These will be the ones to suffer, cornered here like rats. That’s when things will really get ugly. These damn wars—the refugees are the ones who’ll pay with their lives.”

The wind was picking up, ever larger whitecaps skittering towards the far shore. Huddled here on this bench, our backs bent before the coming gale, the world was shrouded in shades of charcoal gray, the taste of doom bitter upon the air.

“How will they survive?”

“I really don’t know, but we’re not closing down the clinic or pulling out yet. These people deserve better than that, after all they’ve been through. Somebody has to try and help.”

The storm was almost overhead, and time had run out. I had to get back to Father Dominic and the Sisters.

“Listen, Johan, would you give Julian a message from me?” He nodded his head, so I continued. “Tell him I came here looking for him and to please contact me. Please tell him I might have to leave in these next months… to Oregon, to my sister. That I’ll wait as long as I can. It’s important. I need to see him. He knows where to find me.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell Julian I met you. That you came here to find him. I’m sure he’ll be glad to have news of you, but you better get going and meet up with those nuns. It looks like the weather is going to take a nasty turn soon, and you don’t want to get trapped here. I wish I had time to hear the Mass. It’s been so long.” A wistful longing came into his eyes.

He saw me hesitating and then he read my thoughts. “Maya, you can’t wait here for Julian. This camp is no place for you. You don’t understand what can happen to a woman alone here; you wouldn’t be safe. There’s no telling when he’ll be back. It might not be for days. And when he gets back, with this damn storm and the casualties that are going to start coming through from Saint Tropez, he’ll be too busy trying to save lives to have to worry about your safety, too. I promise I’ll tell him. Go. There’s nothing more you can do here.”