Miracle (23 page)

“I envy your attitude.” Sebastien nodded farewell to his patient and stood up. The man’s house was part of a government project to upgrade life-styles in the remote villages. Built of concrete, with dirt floors covered in straw mats and screened openings that served as windows, it was grand by local standards. His wife and children looked healthy, though thin. They perched on a bench in one corner, watching Sebastien with fascination.

Sebastien studied the man’s grin for a second longer. He loved the idea of fitting people back together, mending them in the most elemental way. Only a surgeon received such clear proof that they
were
mended. The proof sat, smiling, before Sebastien’s eyes, neatly healed. He allowed himself few moments of victory here on the Côte d’lvoire;
there were few to be had. It was a very French attitude to admire the aesthetics of a scar and be concerned that it didn’t mar the beauty of the body.

Work had been his salvation since he’d left America. It forced him to forget everything but the day-to-day business of keeping people healthy and alive, a venture not so easily accomplished in a place where doctors were few and resources slim. It demanded a dedication that left Sebastien little time to consider his own past, his loneliness, his restless hopes for returning to America, to Amy.

Shrieks filled the air outside the tiny house. A wiry, chocolate-skinned matron burst into the room. The patient’s wife and children huddled and covered their heads. The patient scurried over to them and watched the old woman worriedly.

She glared at Sebastien, who bowed slowly, along with the interpreter, who held out his robed arms in supplication and began trying to calm her, while attempting to decipher the angry stream of Baoule that poured from her mouth.

She stomped her sandaled feet. The force of her fury made a large leather bag swing wildly from the leather strap over her bony, bare shoulder. The bright cloth draped over the opposite shoulder slipped down, revealing a pendulous breast. She jerked the cloth back into place without a glance and continued berating Sebastien. Inside her cotton shift was a regal body filled with wrath.

“This is the village medicine woman,” the interpreter explained when she finally paused for breath. “She says that you are sneaking into her village to doctor her people without permission. After you left last time she had to purify everyone you touched. Your rudeness is making the spirits unhappy.”

Sebastien was well acquainted with the customs of the major tribes, but he avoided patronizing such nonsense whenever he could. This time, however, tradition had caught up with him. He bowed to the medicine woman again. “I would be honored if she will forgive my rudeness.”

The interpreter translated. She spat and answered with obvious disgust. “Madame Toka says you—”

A tall man ducked inside the house and straightened ominously, his gray boubou swirling around him. He jabbed a finger at Sebastien’s patient and muttered something. He and the man began arguing in loud voices.

“This is the man who cut him,” the interpreter yelled to Sebastian.

Madame Toka stepped between the two feuding men. She added her commands to their verbal melee. Sebastien stared at the chaos and enjoyed its entertainment. The interpreter began tugging at his arm and yelling that they should leave.

Sebastien shook his head. “I intend to protect my handiwork.”

The intruder pulled a short knife from a pocket in his robe. Shoving Madame Toka aside, the man advanced on Sebastien’s patient, who cowered.

Sebastien took one long step forward and swung a fist at the attacker’s head. He felt the dull sting of his knuckles connecting with bone, but he also felt pleasure. It was rarely so easy to find an outlet for his anger and frustration. The man swung drunkenly and slashed at him. Sebastien sidestepped the knife’s downward arc, but it caught the right side of his chest at a point just over the breast-pocket button of his khaki workshirt.

The heavy blow was like a hammer striking. Grimacing in pain, Sebastien slammed his fist upward into the man’s jaw. The man’s eyes rolled up and he sank to the floor. Sebastien staggered back, numbly raising a hand to the tunnel of fire that had burrowed into his chest.

If he’d been stabbed through a lung he might not live long enough to reach the hospital in Abidjan. He would die in his Land Rover on a dirt road surrounded by alien forest. He would never see Amy again. He feared that consequence most of all. But when he looked down at the hand he had plastered over the right side of his chest, there was no blood. Slowly he drew the hand away. There was only a rip in his shirt.

Madame Toka made purring sounds. Her eyes wide, she came to him and peered closely at his chest. Sebastien fumbled inside his open collar and retrieved the long silver
chain he wore. At the center of it was the video game token Amy had given him. The token now bore a deep dimple in the center.

Madame Toka grasped the whimsical piece of metal and stroked it with her fingertips. She crooned to it. The interpreter’s breathless words finally penetrated Sebastien’s amazement. “She says you are blessed, Doctor! You are, you are! How amazing!”

Sebastien passed a hand over his forehead. He was sweating with relief. This meant nothing, of course. Sheer luck. A small miracle. Miracle. It pleased him. It pleased him so much that he threw back his head and laughed for the first time in months. Amy would be flattered by this story. He could barely wait to tell her.

“
Gris-gris
,” the medicine woman said, still stroking the token.

“She’s very impressed. She says that this is your sacred charm,” the interpreter explained. “
Your gris-gris
. She says that some important spirit must be looking after you.”

Sebastien’s chest ached. He would have a terrible bruise where the knife had sunk into Amy’s video token. He rubbed the spot, distracted. “Nonsense.”

But he gently removed the cheap, dull bit of metal from the medicine woman’s fingers. Protective of his private faith, he slipped the token back inside his shirt. It slid into place with a comforting warmth against his skin. He was too much his mother’s son to ignore a sign from the spirits.

“Pio, we have a distinct problem.” Frowning at the path in front of him, Jeff walked along beside Pio Beaucaire with his head down and hands shoved into his trousers pockets. Pio had the same distracted look. They walked the perimeter of the de Savin vineyard, both of them oblivious to their surroundings. Ordinarily Jeff would have reveled in the dark greenery sprouting on the trellises and the fresh springtime scent of the air. “I’m afraid that in the past few months I’ve developed an even more self-serving reason for helping you.”

Pio clasped his hands behind his back as they walked.
“Everyone has selfish reasons for everything he does, dear boy. I’m not surprised to hear you admit yours. What is it?”

Jeff exhaled wearily. “Sebastien was right, I’m afraid.”

“Right about what?”

“Amy Miracle. She’s unique.”

“
Mon dieu
! Not you, as well.”

“Oh, I don’t have any illusions about her. I certainly wouldn’t let her near my bank account.”

“A man has far more vulnerable areas than that.”

“Not this man.”

“But what makes her so special?”

Jeff spread his hands. “She’s … she’s just so damned determined to be taken seriously. And things have always gone so badly for her. I have to admire her courage.”

“Those are not reasons to love her.”

“I didn’t say that I loved her. But … God, she’s still a kid. She just turned twenty. She hasn’t sharpened her claws yet, and that’s appealing. I wouldn’t mind liking her intensely for a while.”

“Hmmm. Well, I’m pleased, then. You are even more inspired to help me do what’s best for her, and best for Sebastien.”

Jeff grunted. “I don’t know if it’s what’s best for her, but that’s not really important. I’d leave her happier than I found her—or at least wiser.”

“And she is agreeable?”

“She is
vulnerable
,” Jeff countered with a grin. “And that’s nearly the same thing.” Becoming serious again, he shook his head. “Pio, I don’t want the last payment on our deal. This is the end of it. I don’t think she’s going to cause you any problems. I don’t want to be a spy anymore.”

“My God, you’re joking, aren’t you? Now is not the time to become sentimental. Do whatever you wish with the girl. You’ll still get your money. All you have to do is keep me informed of her whereabouts and intentions.”

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t do this any longer. I don’t have much guilt, Pio, but I
do
admit to some. Sebastien calls me every few weeks. And every time I make it sound as if Amy’s so busy that she never mentions him. But this time
he told me that he’s planning to come back to the States and see her when his duty is over in Abidjan.”

Pio sighed. “I’m not surprised. His father says that he’s ignored several inquiries from hospitals in France. Sebastien could have a position on the staff of the finest private hospitals in the country, but he has refused to make a decision.”

“Amy sold the Ferrari.”

“No!”

“She won’t tell me why she did it. Or what she wanted the money for.”

“She has plans, that one! She is going to leave school and chase Sebastien! You wait and see. As soon as he’s finished in Africa, she’ll be after him.”

“I suspect that you’re right. I didn’t want to tell you this before, but she’s been planning all along to find a job in France as soon as she graduates. That’s almost two years from now, however.”

Beaucaire rammed both hands through his white hair. “
If s
he stays in school.”

“Precisely.”

“I will phone
le comte
immediately. He will know what to do. He always has ideas. You can’t desert us now.”

“I’ve been offered a very good position on the staff of a drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation center in California,” Jeff told Beaucaire. “I have to leave in about six weeks.”

The man’s shoulders slumped, but after a moment he held out his hand. He and Jeff shook solemnly. “Excuse me,” Beaucaire said. “I have plans to make. I wish you’d reconsider.”

“I want privacy. I have my own plans for Amy and myself.”

“Can’t you tell me—”

“No. What little honor I have has finally risen to the surface.”

“Forgive me if I do what I must, without your help.” Pio pivoted stiffly and walked away.

“Amy, there’s some old geezer here to see you. He looks like a fat Lome Greene. Ask him where Little Joe is.”

Amy looked up from an economics book. Mary Beth lounged in the doorway to her bedroom. “Who is he?”

“Says his name is Mr. Beaucaire.
Mister
, right? No first name. And he gave me an ugly look. Like I ought to be scrubbing toilets somewhere. Go see him. He’s in the living room.”

Amazed, Amy hurried there. Mr. Beaucaire stood by a window, staring at Mary Beth’s menorah on the sill. His black suit gave him an especially imperious air. Why had he made the long drive to the campus? He’d never shown any interest in her before. She fought her shyness and crossed the room to him confidently, smiling. “Hi there. It’s nice to see you again.”

He lifted pale eyes to her in surprise, then swept them over her baggy shorts and T-shirt. Finally his attention returned to her face. “Forgive me for taking so long to visit.”

She gestured awkwardly toward the sprung sofa. “That’s okay. Have a seat. Please, I mean.”

He settled slowly onto the couch. Her nerves humming, she forced herself to sit in a chair without fidgeting. He cleared his throat. “Tell me about your studies.”

“I’m majoring in business. International business.” She hesitated, then rattled off several sentences in French. His expression remained neutral, but she thought disdain flickered in his eyes. She halted, shrugged, and smiled. “Well, I’ve got a lot more to learn. I know my accent is terrible.”

“After you graduate you hope to work in France, hmmm?”

Amy wasn’t certain that she should announce that fact. “I haven’t decided for sure.” She couldn’t restrain her question any longer. “I, uhmmm, I guess that Sebastien is doing fine in Africa?”