Two Testaments (46 page)

After the orphans were snuggled on their beds for nap time, Anne-Marie quietly made her way to the parsonage and up to Mother Griolet’s apartment, which Sister Isabelle had assured her was unlocked. The rain had stopped, and from time to time a ray of sun peeped out from behind thick gray clouds.

Anne-Marie did not turn on any lights but made her way to the bedroom. The corpse looked very white in the room’s shadows. Anne-Marie stood transfixed in the doorway. She did not feel worthy to go in.

“I came to tell you good-bye,” she whispered. “I wish I could have known you better. But anyway, I thought you would want to know that … that I believe. In spite of Moustafa, in spite of the war and this place closing and David going and now you … I still believe. I can’t tell you why. I think you must know that better than I. But wherever you are now”—she looked upward—“for I know you are with Him if ever anyone is, well, I just wanted you to know. Thank you.” She took her gold chain with its strange cross in her hands, tracing its outline with her fingers, and whispered again, “I believe.”

27

The Place at the port in Philippeville was busy with activity. In the heat of midday, the Arab woman quickly bought her pears and peaches, a head of lettuce, carrots, potatoes. The mood was happy today, but every time she came into the square, she remembered the massacre that had taken place over two weeks ago.

Algeria was free. A shaky freedom. But oh, the price!

The vendor weighed the fruits and vegetables and handed them to her. “Allah be praised. It’s a good day!” he sang out in robust Arabic.

She merely nodded and placed the items carefully in her straw basket. She was neither old nor young, a soft, timid woman who had never married and who spent her days caring for her elderly father. The people of Philippeville called her Selma, which meant “peaceful one,” although her real name was Fatiah.

She was respected as a wise woman and a healer. Day and night hurting people appeared at her door. Without a sound she moved her hands slowly, thoughtfully over their bodies or prepared strange herbal dressings. Those who were healed did not leave money. They left chickens and vegetables and olives.

Selma pulled her white scarf around her neck as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. She knocked four times, pausing in between each rap. It was their code.

Her father opened the door, relief in his eyes. “You were not followed?”

“No, Father. All is well. How is he?”

The old man smiled. “Better. You will see. He’s opened his eyes.”

Selma set down her basket in the tiny kitchen and hurried into the darkened room at the back of the apartment. A young man lay perfectly still on the bed, his olive skin glistening with perspiration. She bent over him, and his eyes flickered open. They were soft brown in color, kind eyes, fearful.

“It’s okay. Don’t be afraid,” she whispered as she gently brushed his thick black curls away from his face. She held a glass of water to his lips, and he drank. “You’re going to be fine.”

The young man opened his mouth, trying to speak, but his words were garbled.

“Don’t worry. You’ll speak in time. Rest now. You’re safe here.”

She left the room, closing the door behind her. “It is good, Father. He’s awake. We’ll have to move him soon.”

But where? It had been their question for these seventeen excruciatingly long days. Where could they hide a harki man? She stood out on the tiny balcony with its wrought-iron railing, staring into the square. Seventeen days ago she had stood there with tears streaming down her face, watching the bodies and the terrible stillness before the Algerian army men had carried the dead away to nameless graves. Then out by the sea, she had seen it. A movement amid the stillness.

With quivering legs she had walked out into the terrible heat of the afternoon, the stench of death overpowering her. She had covered her entire face with her white veil, stepping over bodies, trying not to look at the faces with their wide eyes filled with their last feeling: terror. There, by the water, a young man lay bleeding, pulling himself slowly toward the water.

Now he lay in her bed.

She forced herself to think about preparing lunch and not about the backbreaking struggle to bring the man, nearly dead, here. Not the agonizing fear that had gripped her every moment, that the madmen would come back and kill her as well.

The young man had lived. It was a miracle that even she could not explain. He had lived, and now he had opened his eyes. Allah be praised.

Later in the afternoon Selma tiptoed back into the bedroom where the young man lay. His head was turned toward the door, his eyes open. She lowered her eyes and sat down in the chair by his bed. She reached down to retrieve a cool rag that lay in a small bucket by the bed. Day and night she had sponged cool water over his body, trying to bring the fever down.

As she touched his forehead with the cool rag, the young man opened his mouth. “Thank you,” he said with difficulty.

She glanced at him, smiled, then again lowered her eyes. She felt almost embarrassed to be with him now that he was awake. For days she had cleaned his wounds and sponged his body while he slept. But now he knew what she was doing.

She gave him a drink of water, which he sipped quickly. Before, it had been almost impossible to get him to drink liquids, and they had feared he would die of dehydration. At times he had come into a sort of semiconsciousness, where he would drink. But always his eyes had remained closed.

He made another sound. She leaned closer. “What is it?”

“Bro … brother?”

Selma shook her head. “I do not know. You were the only one.”

His eyes were intense. “Tell me.”

She had no desire to recount it again. “I found you by the dock at the edge of the water, crawling out from under two other slain men. You had been stabbed twice.”

“When was this?”

“You’ve been here over two weeks.”

Pain registered on his face. “Where am I?”

“In Philippeville. In my apartment. It looks over the square where it happened. That’s how I found you.”

“Take me—Algiers,” he choked.

“I have no car, nor does my father. Do you have someone in Algiers?” She felt a terrible pity for him. Surely anyone from his family would have long since been killed.

“Friends. Pied-noirs. Help me, please.” He closed his eyes and seemed exhausted with his effort to speak.

Selma wiped his brow again. “If I find a car, do you know somewhere to go? It is so extremely dangerous for you now.”

“Yes,” he mumbled with his eyes still closed, and Selma was not sure what he meant.

The last bag was packed, and Rémi Cebrian put it into the old car. He had salvaged every possible item that he could transport from the farmhouse. There were two suitcases, a large duffel bag, a cardboard box, and the trunk. He was determined not to lose this one. Rémi ran his fingers over the little openings he had installed in the front and back of this trunk, just like the other. But no one would be hiding in this one.

Abdul and Amar followed him back into the farmhouse, where Madira was preparing their last meal together. The scent of the couscous greeted them in the den.

“El Amin! Quick. Help me get the food on the table!” Madira called to her son, and the young boy went into the kitchen.

They all sat down, and Rémi bowed his head; the others did so too. “God our Protector and Provider, thank You for this food. Be with my friends.” He paused and sniffed. “Have mercy upon them, protect them. Grant me safe passage. Amen.” There was a stinging in his chest at the thought of really leaving. He wanted to get it over with now.

“Remember, Abdul. This house is yours, for your family. You keep it. The fields, the groves, it is yours as we have spoken. You have all the papers.”

“Yes, M. Rémi. We’ll see what happens. We’ll do our best to keep the house.”

“Will Samuel ever come back to play with me?” El Amin blurted out.

Madira regarded her son sadly.

“I cannot say what will happen,” Rémi said to the child. “I know he misses you.”

The sound of a car pulling up to the house startled them all. Rémi’s eyes darted to Madira, who immediately took the boy to the back of the house. The men stood up, quickly positioning themselves by the windows, where the rifles lay. Rémi shook his head, disgusted. So close, and now was the FLN coming to his door?

They watched as a veiled Arab woman stepped out of the car and waited. Perhaps it was a trap. She glanced back at the car, then tentatively walked toward the house. When she came to the door, she spoke slowly and distinctly.

“M. Rémi Cebrian. I have come from Philippeville to bring you a friend whom you thought dead. Moustafa Dramchini is in the car. Please help us bring him to the house.”

Rémi’s mind whirled. Moustafa! Impossible. Had Ali somehow cooked up another scheme? “Who are you?”

“My name is Fatiah; people call me Selma.”

Rémi peered through the window, trying to see the car. An old man sat in the passenger’s seat. “Show me Moustafa,” Rémi called.

The veiled woman bowed and returned to the car. She opened the door to the backseat and bent over. A few minutes later, with the woman supporting him, a young man sat up.

Rémi’s eyes grew wide, and without hesitation he raced out the door. He stood beside the car, calling softly, “Moustafa? Moustafa!”

Moustafa laughed weakly. “Rémi. You are still here.”

“Yes.” He felt his eyes well up with tears. In another hour he would have already left for the docks.

Carefully Abdul, Amar, and Rémi lifted Moustafa from the car and carried him to the worn couch in the den. When Rémi turned around to thank the woman, she was gone. The car was disappearing from sight in a stream of dust.

Rémi did not leave for France that day. Instead he called the same doctor who had helped him three weeks ago. When the doctor saw Moustafa, he cursed lightly. “You again? My son, what has happened now? Weren’t two bullets enough for you?”

Removing the bandages, he examined the wounds and gave a low whistle. “You’re mighty lucky, lad. It’s a wonder you did not bleed to death. And how they kept the infection out … amazing.”

The doctor went to speak with Rémi. “He was sliced up in the chest and the side. How long has he been here?”

“Just an hour. A woman brought him here. We thought he was murdered at Philippeville with the rest of the harkis.”

“
Bon sang.
He’s worse than a cat with nine lives. What will you do with him?”

“I’ll take him with me.”

“Rémi, are you mad? No one will let him on a boat. You know that. They’ll get him for sure, and I guarantee you he won’t survive another wound.”

“But if I had a way, doctor. If I did, could he travel? Could he sit up?”

“What are you thinking?”

Rémi nodded to the car. “There’s a trunk in the car. It has already worked once. We smuggled a boy over to France. Moustafa would fit.”

The doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking skeptical. “It’s quite a risk. He is so weak. If you could wait a few more days … feed him well. Get a little strength into him. Then perhaps.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“
De rien.
You take care of yourself, Rémi.”

“I will. And you? You’re still determined to stay?”

“As long as I have work to do, I’m staying right here in Algiers. Good-bye.”

Rémi watched the doctor go. Then he called to Amar, and they took the heavy trunk from the car. Setting it in the den, Rémi smiled at Moustafa. “Looks like I’m not through packing after all.”