Two Testaments (20 page)

“Why aren’t you here?” she said, her soul aching with the distance.

And then she knew. She
was
sharing Paris with him. In her mind, he was here beside her. Now she must simply put it on paper. She would write him every thought and impression, every fragrant wisp of the perfume in the spring flowers, every detail of this tableau.

It was their last evening in Paris and the only one for which everyone’s attendance was required. They had eaten at La Bonne Fourchette, a charming little restaurant hidden in an alcove off the rue St. Honoré. Then the whole troupe had literally danced through the streets of Paris, singing songs from Broadway musicals, until they arrived on the Île de la Cité and came to the Sainte-Chapelle.
Exceptionellement
, Sister Rosaline told them, the Chapelle was offering a concert of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” this night, and they had been fortunate enough to get tickets.

Once inside, there was still enough light in the sky to shine through the superb stained-glass windows in the upper chapel. “It is a jewel,” Gabriella whispered.

“Yes, indeed,” Sister Rosaline agreed, as the girls took their seats and strained to hear the nun’s whispered commentary. “The chapel was built in the thirteenth century, supposedly to house the Crown of Thorns. The stained-glass windows are the oldest in Paris and among the finest produced in the thirteenth century.”

Sitting in the beautiful chapel, her eyes feasting on the play of light through sublime windows, her ears tuned into the lyrical harmonies of one of the world’s favorite composers, Gabriella absorbed the superlatives with delight. This was a night to inspire. This was a night when the heavens themselves were singing out to applaud creation. Tonight it was perfect. Tonight she was sure that wherever David was, he could hear it too.

The letter had arrived in the bread, and as David unrolled the paper, a flattened poppy fell out. He held it in his hand as he read. Gabriella wrote as she lived, words tumbling out faster than she could put them together, covering page after page of onion-skin paper. She wrote of the orphans, of Anne-Marie’s appearance, of David’s absence and her fears. Of her sudden bonding with Anne-Marie. She wrote of Mother Griolet’s heart attack and their plan to send her to the Alps. She wrote of their scheduled trip to Paris.

She wrote as a woman sure of his love, and he was glad.

And now, she was surely in Paris with the rest of the young women in the program. He wished he could introduce Gabby to Paris himself. He laughed at the thought. He was sure that the two of them, the girl and the city, would get along quite well.

For a moment he forgot about the war that was ripping apart this little universe which had parenthetically become his home. Gabriella and Paris. Sisters in their depth, in their beauty and vitality. He would give anything to share it with her. Someday, he promised himself, he would.

Anne-Marie and Sister Isabelle had managed the orphans fine for the two weeks that Mother Griolet was in Switzerland, but with Sister Rosaline and Gabriella away, Anne-Marie felt less capable. Mother Griolet was back, looking healthier. But they had to make sure they didn’t let the old nun tire herself out. As it was, Anne-Marie felt exhausted. She collapsed on her cot while Sister Isabelle watched the children in the courtyard.

“You’re an answer to prayer,” Sister Isabelle had declared before the American girls had left for Paris. “If you weren’t here, we’d never be able to manage it. Not with Mother Griolet so weak.”

Anne-Marie did not believe in answers to prayer, and today, she thought, she didn’t feel like the answer to anything. The children were frazzling her nerves. Another morning with them and she might snap.

It did not help that she had received another letter from Moustafa. Not a love letter at all. Just the news of that little harki orphan, Hussein, coming to St. Joseph.

“Well, isn’t that just wonderful,” she had said to herself. “Just what we need.”

Immediately she felt guilty. How could she be so quick to give up, when only six weeks ago she had been the one fleeing Algeria? Couldn’t she still see the fear in the young boy’s eyes as he pleaded with her?

She was embarrassed by how quickly she could let herself become pampered by a safe lifestyle. A few short weeks ago, St. Joseph had been to her an idyllic haven. Now she longed to escape from its confines with her daughter in search of a little peace.

She put her head in her hands and sighed. What was really bothering her, besides plain old fatigue, was the note from Moustafa. She read it again.

New orphan scheduled to arrive. Jeudi 24mai 19h30SNCF.

That was all. David Hoffmann would have written something else to Gabriella, she was certain. David …

She hit her pillow with her fist. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe all of the kind, loyal words in Moustafa’s last letter were only that. Empty words. Were they true? She felt him being pulled by his people back into the heart of the war. He would never come.

Moustafa spoke French as well as he spoke Arabic, but his culture was completely different. How had she believed he could put that behind him? He was an Arab ostracized by his people. A tiny microcosm of a culture that had turned inside out.

Why did I let myself love you? I could have been free. Truly free. Now you weigh me down, Moustafa. I am weighed down by your love, and it will suffocate me.

She sobbed into her hands. Weighed down by love. By an impossible love.

“Mama,” Ophélie said softly, entering her mother’s bedroom. “Mama! Why are you crying? What’s the matter?” She watched her mother brush the tears from her face, and then she rushed into her arms. “Oh, Mama!
Je t’aime!
My beautiful mother. Sometimes, when I wake up in the night, if I’ve had a bad dream, do you know what I do, Mama?”

Her mother shook her head.

“I tiptoe into your room and kiss your cheek, and then I thank Jesus that we are here together. I can always go back to sleep after that.” She sat down in her mother’s lap and wrapped her arms around her neck. There should not be tears in her mother’s eyes. “Why are you crying?”

Mama hugged her daughter tightly. “It’s nothing, my precious little one. Mama is just tired. Sometimes, when I am tired, I forget how wonderful everything else is.”

Ophélie snuggled even closer. She loved the feel of her mother’s fingers in her hair. “I know why you’re crying, Mama. You miss Moustafa, right?”

Her mother looked down.

“It doesn’t hurt my feelings, Mama. I know you miss him.” She studied her mother’s face, thinking hard for something to say. “When Papa came to get you in Algeria, didn’t he show you the picture I drew him? The picture of the ponies?”

“I … no, I haven’t seen it. Tell me about your picture, sweetheart.”

“I drew it when I was going to meet Papa for the first time. Well, not the first time, but the first time after I knew he was my papa. I wanted to take him something, and when Bribri suggested a picture, I just saw in my mind what I should draw. Ponies, different-colored ponies, all running to Jesus. There was me and Bribri and Mother Griolet and Papa, all running, and then you, you were the prettiest pony of all. And behind you, there was Moustafa. He was behind you.” She knitted her brow. “But I am sure he was coming. I saw it.”

Mama smiled, but it looked to Ophélie as if tears were still in her eyes. What else could she say to make Mama feel better? Ophélie took her mama’s hands and held them, as Bribri had done to her when she was sad. She looked straight into her mother’s face.

“Why don’t we pray? When we’re tired and afraid, Bribri says we must pray. She says that’s when Jesus comes to our rescue. He loves to be strong for us when we are very weak.” She frowned. “I think that is hard to understand, but I’m glad that He said it. Now let’s pray.” She closed her eyes and waited. Then she opened one eye, squinting up at her mother, who had a faraway look in her eyes. “Mama! Close your eyes,” she reprimanded. “And pray.”

Mama lifted Ophélie’s chin and brushed her fingers across the child’s face. “I don’t know how to pray,
ma chérie
. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know how.”

“Oh! Is that all?” Ophélie exclaimed happily. “Well, that’s no problem. I’ll teach you. Just like Bribri taught me. It’s very easy. You just say exactly what I say. Okay?” She closed her eyes again. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said softly.

“Dear God,” Ophélie said. After a moment’s silence, she whispered, “Mama, you’re supposed to say the same thing I say.”

“Yes, Ophélie … only …”

“What?”

“Nothing. I will follow you. Go ahead.”

“Dear God.”

“Dear God.”

Ophélie folded her little hands together, and in a voice full of innocent faith she began to pray. “You see that Mama is tired and sad.”

“You see that I am tired and sad.”

“And You say that You are strong when we are weak.”

“And You say that You are strong when we are weak.”

“So please be strong for my mama now. Oh, please, Jesus. Oh, please, bring Moustafa back to Mama. And Papa too. I know You can do it. I know You can.”

She had forgotten to wait for her mother to copy her words, but when she peeked again, her mother’s eyes were tightly closed and tears streaked down her face.

Ophélie hurried on with her prayer. “Please, God, make Mama happy again. Thank You so much for bringing her back to me. You listened when I prayed for Mama to come back. Please listen again. Amen.”

She sat with her head buried in Mama’s lap as her mother stroked her head. Sometimes, Bribri had said, sometimes the best thing is just to cry. So Ophélie let her mother cry while she prayed the same prayer over and over again in her mind.

13

“Look at this,” Eliane said, holding out a letter for Anne-Marie to see.

The French government was promising housing to the repatriating pied-noirs and offering loans to help them get on their feet. And meanwhile, the hotel Anne-Marie had found for Eliane and her children on the west side of Montpellier was adequate and the owner sympathetic to pied-noirs. He provided them with two little rooms with an adjoining door and breakfast and dinner served at the hotel, all for a reasonable price. Things seemed brighter.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been more help to you,” Anne-Marie apologized. “But we had our hands full with the orphans last week.”