Two Testaments (38 page)

“David.”

“Yes, Father?”

“We are on our way to France?”

“Yes.”

“To your friends?”

“I hope.”

His father closed his eyes, and David thought he had fallen back asleep. “Son, I’m sorry about Moustafa.”

David cringed. What right did his father have to pronounce that name? To pretend to care? He was in the way. Out of place. “Yes. It’s tragic.”

“Thank you for bringing me along.”

David gritted his teeth. He did not want to make conversation.
Leave me alone, old man.
He stood up quickly. “I’m going to walk about a little.”

Walking was next to impossible. Every space was filled with the men who had stayed behind until now. Their large suitcases and bags stuffed with every imaginable possession gave evidence that the two-suitcase rule was being completely ignored. David pushed past a young man who held a rocking horse under his arm. The sight made him think of Ophélie. For the past few days he had almost forgotten that he had a daughter.

He tried to remember the good things that had happened before the harki massacre. He thought of Gabriella and relived every long conversation with her. Tomorrow he could hold her to his chest and let life start again. Surely there was a future out there.

But even as he imagined Gabriella coming to him, laughing, running, eyes dancing, he saw Anne-Marie behind her with a question in her dark, mournful eyes.
Where is Moustafa?

And if there were no Gabriella or Anne-Marie or Ophélie? A chill ran through him. No response. Just darkness all around in the thick, balmy air. The colors faded into one another, the black-green of the sea and the white caps blending into the indigo sky, which was tinged with purple and the faintest shade of crimson.

He stood silently for another hour or maybe two, watching the wake the ferry made in the water. When he finally walked back to where his father sat, the older man was asleep.

23

The train from Marseille to Montpellier seemed painfully slow, and yet David was afraid it would arrive too fast. He had resisted the urge to call the orphanage from Marseille. What if Anne-Marie answered? What if no one answered at all? No, it was better to show up in person and face the questions head-on.

His father was in no shape to wait for a bus, so David signaled a taxi. It was a lazy summer day in Montpellier. People sipped cool drinks in sidewalk cafés, and old men played
pétanque
beneath the shade of the plane trees. The mood was calm. No bombed-out buildings or shells of cars littered the scenery as they drove by.

He could not calm his racing heart in those few minutes riding to Castelnau. He rolled down the window; the heat was blistering. Sweat ran down his face.

Suddenly the cobblestones of Castelnau were bumping under the taxi’s tires, and St. Joseph’s tall spire, and then the whole stone facade, came into view, sitting peacefully at the back of the square as it had done for hundreds of years. The same fountain sprayed forth water; the same shops offered fruits and wines and bread and cheeses, their doors flung open.

The taxi driver let them off in front of the church. For a brief moment David hesitated, one arm supporting his father. He set down his bags and knocked forcefully on the parsonage door. Blood pumped in his ears.

“
J’arrive
,” came the sound of a jolly voice from within, and relief flooded through David. Ali had lied. All was well.

The door swung open, and Sister Rosaline stood wide-eyed before them. She looked from one man to the other, her expression changing from surprise to delight to confusion to worry.

“M. Hoffmann. God be praised! Come in, M. Hoffmann!”

David followed her into the hallway. “Sister Rosaline, this is my father, Roger Hoffmann. It’s a long story.”

“Well, he is welcome! Come in. Do come in.” She led them into Mother Griolet’s den; they sat on the faded brown couch while Sister Rosaline brought them each a glass of water. The nun, obviously flustered, said nothing but kept staring at the two men, shaking her head. Finally she spoke. “Let me go tell the others.”

David touched her arm. Leaving his father on the couch, he walked with her into the hallway. “Sister Rosaline, I … I …” His voice caught. “I don’t know how to say it, but … Moustafa did not come with us. He didn’t make it.” David broke into a sweat, caught the door, and felt his knees buckle under him.

“M. Hoffmann. M. Hoffmann!”

He pulled himself back into the den and collapsed into a chair.

Few things unnerved Sister Rosaline anymore, but she was obviously rattled as she hurried through the basement into the courtyard. It was David Hoffmann up there in the den. But so changed. He was unshaven, and his clothes were wrinkled and dirty. His black hair was long and unkempt, and a bandage covered the left side of his head above his ear. He looked thin and sad. Terribly sad.

Sister Rosaline wrung her hands. This was not the homecoming they had envisioned. An afflicted M. Hoffmann with an even weaker man in tow and no Moustafa at all. What was she to do? She had immediately understood what David Hoffmann could not say. Moustafa wasn’t coming. Ever.

Everyone was eating dinner in the refectory. She reflected that it was a good thing she had been in the basement of the parsonage, or no one would have heard M. Hoffmann’s knock. She entered the dining hall without making a fuss, thankful for the noise. Mother Griolet sat at a table with Gabriella and several children. Sister Rosaline fiddled with her headpiece, casually approaching the table.

“Mother Griolet,” she said in her lightest voice. “Could I see you for a moment?” The others must not guess. Already they sat on pins and needles, desperate for news. But this was not the time to have it.

“Yes, Sister. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all, only I’m afraid I need a little advice.” She helped the old nun up, wishing she did not have more distressing news to share.

As soon as they were in the courtyard, she whispered, “M. Hoffmann has just appeared looking
affreux
. And he brought with him his father of all things!” She lowered her voice to where it was barely audible. “But it’s not who he brought with him that matters. It’s who did not come.” She met the nun’s green eyes. “Moustafa … the man they call Moustafa is no more.”

“Dear Lord,” Mother Griolet said. “Dear Lord.”

“They are in your den. I thought it not wise to announce it.”

“No, of course not. You were right. Take me to see M. Hoffmann.”

They hurried off, their black robes swishing together in the hallway.

Sister Rosaline had not minced words. David Hoffmann did look terrible. Mother Griolet shook his hand, wrinkling her brow, then took a seat next to him.

The other M. Hoffmann was sprawled out on her couch, his eyes closed. She remembered when he had stood before her so many years ago, a tall, distinguished-looking man.

“Let me call
les urgences
. Your father must get to a hospital at once. From the looks of it, you should see a doctor too.”

“Yes, of course,” David mumbled.

The young man was so obviously shaken, so completely exhausted. He hardly resembled the capable young teacher she had known.

“I am deeply grieved to learn of Moustafa. It is a terrible tragedy,” Mother Griolet said.

“Yes. Terrible.” David’s face was ashen underneath his black stubble.

Sister Rosaline came back into the den. “An ambulance will be here shortly.”

“Thank you.” Mother Griolet smiled softly at the Sister, then turned to David. “Do you wish to see Gabriella alone?”

He held his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mother Griolet placed her hand on his head, praying silently. Then she gently said, “I’m so very sorry, David. Let me call Gabriella. The others will not have to know yet.” She stood shakily, and David stood with her, offering his hand. “David,” she said at last. “God does not waste our suffering. It always serves a purpose.”

It was not at all the reunion Gabriella had expected. When Mother Griolet whispered for her to go to her apartment because David was there, she caught her breath. Then Mother Griolet cautioned, “He is not well, and his father is with him. An ambulance is coming to take them to the hospital. Go alone, just for a moment.”

Gabriella tiptoed through the basement hall, her mind racing, asking herself a hundred questions. When she came to Mother Griolet’s den, she stopped short. An older man, looking like a hobo, lay asleep on Mother Griolet’s couch, his clothes torn. And David—yes, surely it was David—sat with his head in his hands, fresh blood seeping from a bandage around his head.

For a moment she could not bring herself to speak. She swallowed hard. “David?” she whispered.

He sat up quickly and looked at her. “Gabby,” he said, and a weak smile came to his face.

She covered her mouth with her hand, but the gasp escaped. It was not so much the way he looked that shocked her. She had seen him badly injured before. It was the hopelessness in his dark eyes. She stood frozen, unsure of what he needed.

But then an emotion stronger than her uncertainty washed over her. She loved him. That much had not changed, whatever else had. She came to him and carefully cradled his head in her arms as he leaned against her breast. “David. You’re here. It’s going to be fine now.”

“Dear Gabby.” He took her hands and softly kissed them. Outside, the sound of a siren shrilled. “Come with me … please.”