Two Testaments (15 page)

“Thank you, Mother Griolet,” Anne-Marie said. She rose to leave, then added, “And I was wondering, if I may ask. Have you had … any more news from Algeria?”

Mother Griolet reached out and patted Anne-Marie’s hand. “No, dear. Nothing yet. You’ll be one of the first to know if I do.”

The young woman paused, letting a hundred different emotions wash across her face. She sat back down.

“Will you pray to your god for Moustafa? He’s a good man. He is responsible for the fact that so many orphans left Algeria. Will you pray that he is safe?”

Mother Griolet watched lines of worry form on Anne-Marie’s brow.

“I do not know how to pray, but Ophélie says that your prayers are beautiful. And they work. You prayed for me, and I am here. Please,” she said, closing her hands around Mother Griolet’s. “Pray for Moustafa … and for David.” Anne-Marie turned away. “I don’t deserve your prayers, Mother Griolet. I am not good enough for your god. But these men, they are good. They deserve another chance at life.”

Mother Griolet gently pulled her old, rough hands out from under Anne-Marie’s and reached to touch her face. “Do not be so quick to judge yourself, Anne-Marie. You have perhaps some misconceptions about this God.” She stood up and went to the bookshelves. Pushing musty volumes aside, she brought out a small leather-bound Bible. “Take it, child. It is old and well used. I have many, you see. Read what our Lord says in the gospel of John, at the beginning of chapter 8. Read it and see that perhaps He is quite different from what you expected.”

Mother Griolet could feel God’s strength coming back. It was there whenever a lonely sheep needed to know of His love, and this lovely, broken woman certainly did.

Anne-Marie reluctantly took the small Bible and smiled almost apologetically. “
Merci, Mère Griolet.
Ophélie will show me. The gospel of John, you said? Chapter 8.
Merci.
”

As she left the room, Mother Griolet glanced again at the old santon, winked, and whispered, “The power, old woman. He is not done with me yet.”

Gabriella and Anne-Marie walked leisurely along the cobblestones, heading to the outskirts of the village.

“Close your eyes and smell,” Gabriella said. “The hyacinths so sweet, the cypress, the wild thyme, and rosemary. And then with those luscious smells in your mind, open your eyes and see the fields. The crooked vines with their sprouting green leaves, and the tall, splendid plane trees whose knobby limbs are beginning to sprout too. And the poppies. Everywhere the poppies.

“Oh, excuse me.” She felt her face redden as if Anne-Marie might guess the secret of the poppies. She had been so caught up in her own descriptions that she had forgotten who was with her.

“Whatever for, Gabriella? I love experiencing all of this with you. You’re a teacher even out of the classroom.”

“That’s just a diplomatic way of saying that I talk too much!”

“
Mais non!
I think it’s wonderful that you feel things so deeply.” Anne-Marie frowned. “For the longest time I have tried not to feel anything at all. It was too painful. But here, life seems to have flavor again.” She turned to face Gabriella and took her hands. “Thank you so much for loving my daughter. She told me all about the incident in Paris and David rescuing her … and you being here to care for her. And the crosses.” She turned and stared toward the open fields and breathed in deeply. “It’s such a beautiful story.”

“A tapestry,” Gabriella said.

“What do you mean?”

Gabriella shrugged. “Just a phrase Mother Griolet uses. She says God weaves lives together to make a beautiful tapestry. We can’t see the finished work, but He does. And I think she might be right.”

They began to walk again.

“That’s a lovely philosophy, but hard to believe,” Anne-Marie commented. “My life is not a tapestry. It’s a long, tangled piece of yarn, hopelessly knotted and unfit for use.”

“That’s an awful thing to say,” Gabriella blurted.

“I suppose it is. Maybe it’s hard for someone like you to understand. It’s just that my life has been so … different from yours.” She smiled. “You’re so good. So kind and thoughtful. I’m glad David loves you. He deserves you.”

She did not seem to notice how bright Gabriella’s cheeks grew as she continued. “I’ve done so many awful things. The only good I think that has come from my life is Ophélie. It’s a miracle that from something—” Her face grew red. “That fate could bring me such a wonderful child.”

“But you see, Anne-Marie,” Gabriella said softly, “that’s what Mother Griolet means by a tapestry. She says God specializes in bringing triumph out of tragedy.” She was silent for a moment. “That’s what has happened to me.”

“Really?”

Gabriella told Anne-Marie how her mother had been raped when Gabriella was a little girl and given birth to Ericka, the little sister who died before her sixth birthday. “I only found out a few months ago. Sometimes it still makes me so angry. But then Ophélie came into my life, and it was as if God said, ‘You see, life continues.’ Ophélie is helping me heal.”

“Helping you heal? What a strange thing to say.”

“Heal my heart. My memories. That’s what I mean.” Gabriella suddenly knew she must confess. “I was afraid that when you came back, you would steal away Ophélie … and David … from me.” She blushed. “You see, I’m not so kind after all. I was so jealous of you.”

“Of me?” Anne-Marie asked, incredulous. “Oh, Gabriella. I’m happy my daughter loves you. I would never steal that love away. Someday, when you have children, you’ll know that assurance that your child will always love you. You wonder why, but it is so. Even after the most awful things. I’m happy she has other adults to love her too, like you and Mother Griolet … and David.” She met Gabriella’s eyes. “David loves you, Gabriella. Don’t be afraid of me. I hope he comes back and marries you and you have lots of children.”

Gabriella chuckled. “You’re the kindhearted one around here, Anne-Marie. But I can’t think of marriage and children right now. Too much is uncertain. And I have enough children on my hands at the moment.”

“I don’t see how you do it all. You have your own classes plus the one you’ve been teaching for David. And then the children.… You’re so busy.”

They had reached the edge of a hill and stood observing the vineyards below.

“Oh, I love everything I do. It’s just when I get tired and start feeling sorry for myself that things go wrong.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Anne-Marie asked.

“Often enough to keep me humble. When you see all the garbage inside you, the pride and self-pity, you can’t get a very big head.”

Anne-Marie sat down on a large rock and folded her arms around her knees. “I’m sure your garbage is nothing compared to mine. What are a few well-justified selfish thoughts compared to a … a girl who has slept with cruel, filthy men? Who has condemned whole families to be murdered? I wish my sins were as small as yours.”

“But you’ve survived!” Gabriella exclaimed. “You’re different now. You’re strong. I’m just innocent and naive.”

“Well, I hope you’re not ashamed of that!”

“No, of course not.” Gabriella brushed back her hair. “Anyway, in God’s eyes, sin is sin. I mean, any sin is big enough to keep us away from Him—a bad thought or a murder. And yet no sin is so big that He won’t forgive it. That’s the remarkable thing about God.”

Anne-Marie wrinkled her brow. “That’s not what I’ve always heard. Anyway, confession seems so pointless. All the people I’ve ever known just confessed to the priest so they’d feel okay long enough to go out and do the same sins again.”

Gabriella patted her hand. “Well, see what God has to say about it. Sometime read the story in John 8.”

Anne-Marie narrowed her eyes. “Have you been talking to Mother Griolet about me?”

“No! I mean … what do you mean?”

“That’s just what she said to me this afternoon, before I came to see you. She gave me a Bible and told me to read John 8. Now that is strange.” She seemed lost in thought.

“Tapestry, Anne-Marie. Tapestry. Read it then. You’ll see.” Gabriella watched the young woman huddled on the rock and knew she had found a friend. She reached over and hugged her tightly. “That’s what Americans do,” she said quickly, feeling Anne-Marie stiffen to her touch. “That’s how we welcome a friend.”

Anne-Marie glanced up and softly touched Gabriella’s face. “Tapestry,” she whispered with a smile.

Yvette placed ten francs on the counter as the baker, Pierre Cabrol, handed her three baguettes. “I hear Mother Griolet is having problems with her superiors. Such a pity for that good woman, but really, it just won’t do to have all those other children at St. Joseph.”

Pierre’s wife, Denise, had come out from the back of the shop.

“They’re so loud,” Yvette continued. “Lucie Lachat lives right next to the church, and she says the noise is deafening at all hours of the day and night.
Ooh là là!
”

Denise nodded. “It’s as you say, Yvette. The Sisters take those children on a walk in the afternoons, with your little redheaded boarder, I might add. And what a racket. It’s all the little Arabs.
Mal élevés
they are. No manners at all.”

Pierre cleared his throat. “You women! Leave the poor woman alone.
Mais alors!
She
almost died two weeks ago of a heart attack. Why don’t you go over and help her with the wild little Algerians if they bother you so much? It’s a fine thing she’s doing. A child is a child. And an orphan, an orphan.”

Yvette shrugged and bid him good day.
Now what has gotten into Pierre?
she wondered as she left the shop.
Everyone knows what those Arab children will do to the reputation of Castelnau.

Sister Rosaline looked around the refectory table at Sister Isabelle, Gabriella, and Anne-Marie. “It has to be a secret until we arrange all the details. Then we’ll let her know, and she won’t be able to argue a bit.”

“Right,” Gabriella said. “Now let’s go over what each of us is doing. Anne-Marie, could you teach the children in the mornings, with Sister Isabelle’s help?”

Anne-Marie bit her lip. “Yes, I think so. If Mother Griolet will leave her lesson plans. And if that’s okay with Sister Isabelle.” She looked questioningly at the nun.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure we’ll manage just fine. But that will leave you alone in the mornings until eleven thirty to prepare for lunch, Sister Rosaline. That won’t be too much on you?”