Two Testaments (50 page)

Moustafa awoke with a start as the trunk tilted and was lifted from the car. The horn of a ferry sounded loudly beside them. A chill ran through his body.

“We’ve been waiting in the car for the ferry. It’s here now,” Rémi whispered through the small opening in the trunk. “There are no crowds. We’ll be getting on very soon.”

Peering through the small hole, Moustafa could make out a few suitcases in the predawn light. There were shouts and commands. Fear struck him like a cold knife. He could almost feel it slicing through him as the soldier’s knife had done in Philippeville. Blood pumped in his ears. His body rebelled, every joint tingling with sleep. Now he was swaying slightly, now the trunk bumped against a railing, now it was lifted at a steep angle. The gangplank! Would he make it?

A French officer cursed Amar. “Who is he?”

Moustafa listened for Rémi’s calm reply. “A worker. Helping me with my things. He’s not leaving on the ferry.”

At long last the trunk was placed on the ground. The odor of gas made Moustafa’s head swim.
Take me home
, he thought.
Oh please, someone, take me home.

Sometime later, Rémi spoke again. “I can’t get you out just yet. You’d be spotted. Can you hold on?”

Moustafa groaned back his response. Sharp, terrible pain from his wounds and his cramped position shot through him. He longed to sit up straight for only a minute. He struggled to take a drink of the water. The fumes from the boat rushed upon him again. His head felt so light, so very dizzy … then everything went black.

Several times during the ferry ride, Rémi came and lifted the lid of the trunk and helped Moustafa step out and stretch his limbs. He walked him cautiously to the bathroom, which was nearby. But Moustafa saw that Rémi was afraid of trouble, even in the middle of the sea. He did not stay out for long.

Each time he climbed back into his cage, he dreaded the claustrophobic feeling when the lid was shut. He rested his head against his knees and thought of what was on the other side of the sea. His stomach churned with every rise and swell of the waves. He longed to cry out. Instead he repeated that same verse in his mind. Eventually he dozed off.

Hours later he felt a wet splash on his face and opened his eyes to see Rémi’s concerned face peering down at him.

“Moustafa! Moustafa!” Rémi cried, and tears came into his eyes. “We made it. You’re alive, and we’re here! France. Marseille!”

Rémi put both hands under Moustafa’s armpits, slowly lifting him to his feet. Again Moustafa was overcome with dizziness. He fell against Rémi’s shoulder.

“Hold on,” Rémi said. “Sit down a sec.” He lowered him back into the trunk.

Rémi placed the canteen to Moustafa’s lips, and he drank in several long gulps. He rubbed his temples.

“Ready to try again?”

This time he was able to stand, and, leaning heavily on Rémi, he stepped with one leg, then the other, out of the trunk. Immediately his legs buckled, and he collapsed in Rémi’s arms.

They sat down together with a bump and burst into laughter. Every joint in his body burned with pain, but still Moustafa laughed, an uncontrollable laugh, until tears ran down the faces of the two men, and they held each other in their arms.

“Is it true? We made it?” Moustafa took in his surroundings. They were in a secluded area of the port, just off the docks. The ferry floated peacefully five hundred yards in front of them. “How did you manage to get me over here?”

“A few friendly sailors. Listen, I’ve got us a hotel room. I’m taking you there. I’ll get you something to eat, wash you up. You can rest while I look for the other trunk. Do you mind terribly? I promised Eliane.”

“No, of course not. Will you call her? Will you tell them we’re here?”

“Don’t worry, Moustafa. I’ll take care of everything.”

They laughed again, until their sides ached and their faces were stained with tears.

“People will think we’re drunk!” Moustafa said.

“But we are,” said Rémi. “We’re drunk with life!”

It took a while for Rémi to get Moustafa to the hotel, although it was only a block away. The old building was located in a seamy, foul-smelling part of town, and the room backed up on a putrid alley. But the room had a bed and a sink. After changing Moustafa’s bandages and coaxing him to eat a small quiche purchased at the boulangerie around the corner, Rémi left him to sleep.

He looked at his watch. He had only an hour to get to the warehouse where the lost baggage was stored before it closed for the day. He called a taxi and directed the driver to the side street the sailors had indicated, then paid the cabbie with his newly changed French francs, leaving a sizable tip. “I’ll make it worth it to you if you can be back here in an hour to pick me up.”

The cabbie nodded, grinned, and mumbled, “
Bonne chance
.”

The warehouse was immense and, on first glance, completely disorganized. The soldier in charge was a young man, barely more than a boy. He slid the heavy wooden doors open and gestured for Rémi to go inside.

“A bunch of junk I tell you,” the soldier muttered. “What are you looking for anyway? And when was it lost? We arrange things by month.”

Rémi lifted his eyebrows. It didn’t look as though they arranged things at all. “A big wooden trunk with black metal casing.” He thought for a moment, counting backward in his head. “It would’ve gotten here around the twentieth of May or thereabouts. Yes, a good two months ago.”

The young soldier scratched the stubble on his chin, eyeing Rémi with distrust. “An old trunk you say?”

“Yes, about this high. It had little openings built in the front and the back. If you’ll just show me where to start looking, I won’t bother you anymore.”

The boy frowned, kicked the floor, and pointed in a vague direction. “Over there, I think. This isn’t my normal job. I’m just filling in.” He followed Rémi, peering over his shoulder.

Rémi shuffled through the piles: two torn duffel bags with clothes strewn on the floor, a yellow leather suitcase tied around the middle with a piece of string, several children’s toys. He spent twenty minutes sifting through the lost items in this part of the warehouse.

“You’re sure this is all you have from the month of May? Is it possible it could’ve been put elsewhere?”

The soldier shrugged. “Have a look if you like.” He let his arm circle the whole room, a slight smirk on his face.

Rémi felt irritated. “Surely it’s still here. I must find it.”

“What kinda stuff have you got inside?”

“Nothing of much interest to anyone else. Photo albums, china, a few books. Family papers.”

The soldier scratched his head. “And the trunk, is it valuable?”

“No, it’s not the trunk I want. It’s the contents.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. You leave me the trunk if we find it, and you can have all the stuff inside.”

Rémi’s head was throbbing. In frustration he grabbed the boy by the shirt collar. “Look here, do you know where that trunk is?”

Grudgingly the soldier led him to the other end of the warehouse. He disappeared behind row upon row of suitcases; eventually he lifted away some smaller boxes to reveal the trunk.

A smile broke out on Rémi’s face. He hugged the soldier, who recoiled and cursed. Rémi paid no attention. “You found it!”

The boy reddened. “Yeah, I saw it here a month ago. I was planning to take the trunk for my mom’s birthday. You know, to store quilts in.”

“You can have the trunk, my boy. Take it! But first help me get it out of here and find me something else to put my things in.”

They heaved and pushed aside suitcases and finally managed to dislodge the trunk. For a moment Rémi dared not open the top. What if everything was gone?

The lid fell open, and Rémi laughed again. Papers scattered inside. One broken teacup. But it was all there! The family Bible, the pictures of the children. He found himself brushing away the tears that stung his eyes.

The young soldier came back with several cardboard boxes. “Will these do?”

“Absolutely.” Carefully, delicately, Rémi placed his wife’s treasures in the boxes, and for the first time in many weeks, he let himself imagine what it would be like to hold her again. To kiss her soft lips while the children grabbed on to his legs, squealing, “Papa!”

At the bottom of the trunk in the open center space where the boy had sat, a letter marked “Anne-Marie” lay amid the fallen papers. He recognized Moustafa’s handwriting. The documents for the Duchemin will were there too, with the sealed letter from Anne-Marie’s father.

By the time the taxi drove up to the old warehouse, Rémi had carried three full cardboard boxes out to the curb. He placed the boxes in the taxi, a simple smile answering the puzzled expression on the cabbie’s face. As they drove off, Rémi waved to the young soldier, who was sitting contentedly on top of his empty treasure chest.

It was with trembling fingers that Rémi dialed the number and let it ring. The receptionist answered and explained that Mme Cebrian had left for the afternoon, gone to an orphanage just out of town.

Rémi woke Moustafa. “Do you feel up to a train ride to Montpellier?”

Moustafa grinned. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“And I found this.” Rémi handed Moustafa the letter. “Thought you might know what to do with it.”

“Do I ever.” He made a feeble effort to comb his hair, staring in the cracked mirror above the sink. “I wonder if she’ll know me. I look like some wild man escaped from the jungle.”

“Escaped. That’s the important word.”

A taxi took them to the train station, where a porter helped Rémi with the trunk, duffel bags, and boxes. Moustafa waited on a bench, and it struck Rémi as odd and sad that Moustafa had nothing to bring with him. No clothes, no bags. He had escaped with his life.

As Rémi helped him onto the train, the Arab grinned a very tired grin, clutching the letter for Anne-Marie in his hands. “It’s all I’ve got for her. All I have in the world.” He collapsed into the seat on the train. “Somehow I think it will be enough.”

Fortunately there was so much work to be done at St. Joseph that Anne-Marie could not let herself analyze her thoughts. After the inexplicable beauty and peace of the last two weeks, reality had suddenly hit her full in the face. The orphanage was closing, and she had nowhere to go, and no one to go to.

She felt the hollowness as she entered the cool chapel. It was solemn and still once again, empty of the throngs of people who had come on Saturday. On this Monday afternoon only the scent of the flowers rising to greet her bore testimony to the moving funeral forty-eight hours earlier. Sister Rosaline had asked her to bring a few of the bouquets downstairs to add a little color to the dining hall. Anne-Marie chose a bouquet of roses and Gerbera daisies and another of blue, pink, and white carnations. She found herself praying in her head.
Strength for today, God. Just for today.

Immediately a verse came into her mind, the verse Mother Griolet had shown her only a few days before her death. She had patted Anne-Marie’s hands and said with quiet confidence, “This is what I have held on to in the times of deep pain, my child. He will get us through one day at a time. It is enough. He says so.”

Anne-Marie had memorized that verse, and now she repeated it to herself:
But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought of the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.