Two Crosses (54 page)

Tomorrow, surely, the skies would clear. Then she would bundle up Ophélie, gather up the picnic basket of goodies, and take bus 11 to the train station. The train to Nîmes, then the bus to the Pont du Gard.

She had never seen the imposing Roman aqueduct, but she imagined it rising out of the trees, and David Hoffmann standing in the middle of the bridge, waving slowly like a Roman warrior, beckoning to his family to join him in another adventure.

32

With great difficulty David put the note from Moustafa Dramchini out of his mind as he drove to the Pont du Gard to meet Gabriella and Ophélie. A frown crossed his face when he thought of Jean-Claude Gachon, a lunatic murderer, still on the loose. But David had made sure that no one was following him. This would be a private reunion, far away from the crazy business of the Algerian War.

A bright-pink package sat beside him in the front seat of his deux chevaux. He felt a sudden nervous twinge at the thought of seeing Ophélie. His daughter. What if she didn’t like him? He reminded himself that, although he had developed quite a reputation with young women, he had no reputation at all with little girls.

But Gabby would be there. Gabby would know what to do if things got awkward.

Today he would walk across the Pont du Gard hand in hand with “his women.” He laughed approvingly. Then he frowned. Only for today.

Afterward, somehow, he would tell them about Anne-Marie. Ophélie would let him go again, to find her mother. But Gabby. He shook his head. She would let him go, but …

All at once he was following signs to the Pont du Gard and pulling his car into the parking lot two kilometers away. There were no other cars. He stepped out into the nippy March air. The sky was still overcast.

His hands were sweaty at the thought of a bus approaching. He held the pink package under one arm and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Five minutes passed, but to David it seemed more like five days. He rehearsed what he would do. Ophélie would be holding Gabriella’s hand. Yes, of course. Hiding behind her, shyly. That was only to be expected. Children were usually shy around adults they didn’t know.

Then what would he do? Ah yes. He would walk forward and shake the child’s hand and then offer her the package. Maybe a kiss on the forehead.

No, no, no! It was all wrong. That was what his father had done after every trip when they were apart. Always a bright package and shake of the hand and a quick kiss on the forehead. So cold and mechanical.

A bus loomed ahead of him, coming from nowhere. He stepped back to let it pass and park. Yes, they were there! A little girl’s nose was flattened against the window. Her eyes were bright, and she was smiling. My, but she looked like her mother. How had he not seen it before?

The bus stopped, and he walked briskly toward it. Ophélie scrambled off and broke into a run. David opened up his arms, dropping the package, to receive her embrace. He bent down and she was in his arms, laughing and hugging him tightly around the neck.

“Papa! Oh, Papa!” she cried.

It surprised him how quickly the tears came. How naturally he picked her up and kissed her. “Ophélie,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Little Ophélie. You are such a beautiful girl. My daughter.”

He held her at arm’s length and stared as she stared back until they both burst into laughter. “Oh,” he said quickly, as if coming out of a dream. “I brought you something.” He reached behind him and retrieved the fallen package. “I didn’t know what to get you. I mean, it’s such a gift, such a wonderful gift just to have you and I …”

Ophélie laughed, a carefree, childish laugh. “Oh, Papa. I didn’t know what to bring you either. I only hoped that you would be happy to see me.”

He squeezed her again. “Oh, I am, my child. I am.”

From over Ophélie’s shoulder he looked up and saw Gabriella for the first time, standing with a picnic hamper in her hands. Her red hair was swept back from her face in a French braid. Her blue eyes twinkled. He wiped his eyes and motioned for her to join them, and she walked up behind Ophélie, smiling broadly. David pulled her close and kissed her.

Ophélie ripped open the bright paper. “A pony!” she exclaimed. “A pretty pink pony.” She turned to David and threw her arms around his neck again. “Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you. How did you know?”

Without waiting for his reply, she pulled a sealed envelope out from the picnic hamper and handed it to him. He held it softly, almost reverently.
Papa
was written across the front in Ophélie’s childish script. She had drawn large red hearts all around the word. He felt the tears coming again.

Carefully he unsealed the envelope and took out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he smiled. Six brightly colored ponies were running across a green field. The sky above was dark gray, but in the top right-hand corner a bright yellow sun spilled out its rays. The ponies ran toward it, a pink pony in the lead. In between the ponies and the gray strip of sky Ophélie had written
I love you, Papa. Ophélie.

“It’s an extraordinary picture, Ophélie! Thank you!” He caught her in his arms again. “Please explain it to me.”

Eagerly she pointed to the drawing. “The ponies are all of us. I’m the pink one. I’m leading us to Jesus. He’s in the sky, in the sun. And the red pony is Gabriella, because she has such long, pretty red hair. And then after her comes Mother Griolet. She’s the gray pony there, see? And you are the black one. You’re catching up with us and running to the sun. And the beautiful white pony with the black mane and tail is Mama. She is far behind, but she’s coming with the brown pony. That’s Moustafa.” Ophélie looked into David’s eyes. “How did you know to get me the pink pony?”

David glanced at Gabriella, who was blinking back tears. He wiped his eyes again. Before, he would have said coincidence. Now, he took his child’s soft, smooth hands, enfolding them in his own. “Inspiration,” he whispered, and Ophélie seemed to understand.

David replaced the drawing in its envelope, sliding it back into the picnic hamper. Arm in arm the three walked leisurely toward the Pont du Gard.

As they rounded the corner, an enormous three-tiered aqueduct spread across the river before them. David sighed. “There it is.” He admired again the elegant posture of the ancient bridge that gracefully arced its way across the tempestuous waters.

“It’s absolutely magnificent,” Gabriella said.

David lifted Ophélie onto his shoulders for a better view. “It’s the tallest of all known Roman bridge-aqueducts, you know. A hundred and sixty feet high. The bottom two tiers have extremely wide arches—fifty to eighty feet. Surprising, even for the Romans. And the upper tier has thirty-five smaller arches, you see. The top is covered with huge flagstones that are twelve feet wide. Although it’s forbidden, many a tourist searching for a thrill has walked on the top.”

“No thanks,” quipped Gabby. “I had my thrill in Raymond’s territory in Les Baux.”

“
Oh, non, Papa!
I would never want to walk up there! Never.” Ophélie had one arm around David’s neck and held her stuffed pink pony with her other arm.

“I understand,
ma chérie
. Don’t worry. It is, however, quite an impressive view.”

Gabriella gasped. “Do you mean to say you’ve been on top? You’ve walked across on a stone slab one hundred and sixty feet up with only the sky to catch you if you fell?”

David grinned. “Surely you aren’t surprised, my Gabby. But not just the sky. The Gardon River welcomes you below. It’s usually very peaceful and not too deep. But you see how high the waters are now, and violent from the flash flood yesterday. Never fear, though. The Pont du Gard has withstood many a flood. Ingenious the way it was built. Some of those stones weigh over six tons. Imagine!”

“It’s beautiful, Papa. And so big! One must feel very tiny to walk on it.”

“Ah, you will see how it feels,
ma petite puce
. We’ll walk across the bottom tier. There’s no danger there. And then you can climb to the top and walk through the actual aqueduct, where the water ran.”

Both Gabriella and Ophélie looked at him suspiciously.

“Again, perfectly safe—you’re completely enclosed,” David assured them. He smiled and continued, “But we can’t picnic down on the beach as I’d hoped. With the flood, it’s totally covered. But there are many other spots in the woods. Come along.”

It was well after one o’clock when they reached the base of the huge bridge. The overcast skies cleared, showing patches of blue interspersed between the frothy gray clouds.

“We may see the sun after all, girls,” called David. He stepped onto the bottom tier of the bridge, motioning for Gabriella and Ophélie to follow. It was twenty feet wide, and on one side a road had been built. They walked across in silence, Ophélie clutching David’s right hand and Gabriella walking beside him on the left.

“We’re about sixty feet up here. Amazing that this thing has withstood two thousand years of use.” He ran his fingers over the stones of one of the arches that rose up to form part of the second tier.

Gabriella walked near the edge of the bridge. “It’s still dangerous, David. Anyone could just plunge right over, even here. There are no guardrails.”

David laughed and pulled her back toward him, hugging her and kissing her softly on the forehead. “You and your vivid imagination, Gabby. Don’t look down. Look out. Can’t you just imagine the Romans walking across the waters on this masterpiece?”

Ophélie interrupted. “
Papa, j’ai faim.
Please, may we eat?”

There was not another soul about. “Is there any reason we shouldn’t spread our blanket out here?” David inquired.

Gabriella shrugged. “Sounds okay to me.” She spread out Mme Leclerc’s plaid woolen afghan beside an arch. They leaned against the huge stones to rest their backs, and she pulled out sandwiches and cheeses and yogurts and salads from the basket.

“A real feast—I’m sure Mme Pons helped plan it,” David said, chuckling. He eyed the wine bottle tucked into the straw basket. “What have you told those dear women anyway, Gabby?”

Gabriella smiled. “Nothing. I only said Ophélie and I were going to a picnic, and we might meet someone else. Can I help it if they are always planning and scheming?”

Ophélie leaned back against her father, cuddling the stuffed pony, and sighed. “I’m so happy to be here with you, Papa. And with you, Bribri. I can’t ever remember being quite so happy in my whole life.”

“I know just what you mean,” replied Gabriella, beaming.

David stretched out his long legs and pulled Ophélie onto his lap. He tickled her lightly, and her childish laughter echoed out over the noise of the busy river. She squirmed, but he held her tight. “You can’t get away from me, girl. Not up here, you can’t.”

He held her still, and Gabriella watched him soften. The child and the father. Ophélie resembled the picture she had seen of Anne-Marie, it was true, but she saw something of David there too. The way she tilted her head, the dark eyes that sparkled and flashed.

Looking at the two snuggled happily by the enormous arch, Gabriella felt a rush of emotion. It was so simple, after all. Just the three of them, together. As if all the centuries were standing still, frozen in a gentle smile on the Pont du Gard at this precise moment. A father and child on an ancient bridge. And a woman, she thought, a woman who loved them both.

Gabriella was never sure afterward what had been the order of events in that wild moment. David had suggested that Gabriella ask a blessing for the food, which had pleased and surprised her. Then Ophélie had leaned forward out of David’s lap to hold Gabriella’s hand. Likewise, David had reached out to hold her other hand. The instant his hand touched hers, a gunshot fired from far off. At first Gabriella had looked toward the woods to see. It was a second’s reflex. But when she glanced back around, Ophélie’s eyes were wide, and a sickly expression covered her face. They both screamed. David lay collapsed by the arch, his hand clutching his shoulder. Fresh blood seeped through his fingers.

“David!” Gabriella screamed. “David!”

He groaned, “Get down. Flat on your stomach.”

Another shot rang out, and a bullet ricocheted off the stone arch as they lay flat on the cold stones.