Two Testaments (57 page)

“And what about you? And Anne-Marie?”

“I don’t know. At first I thought it was too soon to speak of marriage. I didn’t want to impose.” He made a tight fist. “I think I’m afraid that, now that she has the farmhouse, she won’t want me. In Algeria the bridegroom presents his bride with a lot of gold jewelry. Many men work for years to be able to have this dowry. I have nothing to give her.”

David thumped his friend’s head playfully. “You’re crazy! Anne-Marie would do anything to be with you. And she is pied-noir. She’s not bound to Algerian customs.” His voice grew serious. “She’s a very loyal woman. And she loves you with the right kind of love.”

“Yes, I know. I know.”

“I’ll be going now.” David turned in the doorway. “Don’t wait too long, Moustafa. She needs to know.”

He had said the phrase almost glibly to Moustafa. An answer to prayer. But as David walked out of the hospital toward his car, he did not feel glib. How did this God work? It was too far above and beyond him to be understood. In his rage and folly and helplessness, he had jumped into a polluted harbor and screamed out foolishly for Moustafa. It had been a weak and desperate attempt. Yet God had used it, supported it with His own divine design, to save Moustafa’s life.

When Anne-Marie saw Moustafa at the hospital that day, she was bubbling over with news about the farmhouse in Lodève.

“The harkis are moving to the city. M. Krugler is already working among them. Can you imagine, Moustafa? We can all move there, you and your family, Ophélie and me. We can help him with his work.”

Moustafa, who was sitting up in bed, pulled her close to him. “I don’t want you to think I am taking advantage of a good situation,” he joked, “but, Anne-Marie … I want you to marry me. I want us to be together forever. Will you?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It is a yes, my love.” She pushed the curls from his face and kissed him softly.

“I didn’t believe this moment would actually arrive. I am so very thankful.” He furrowed his brow. “But I have nothing to give you, my
habibti
.”

“Hush now, Moustafa. You have given me yourself, forever. It’s far better than I had hoped. It’s a miracle.” She kissed his lips, his forehead, his hands. “Rest, my love. Get well. I will be waiting for you. Now we have a place to call our own.”

Gabriella slept straight through the night and late into the next morning. It was an exhausted, deep sleep without dream or movement. When she woke, her mother was sitting in a chair by her bedside, reading.

“Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Mother laid down the book and brushed a few hairs from Gabriella’s face. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Groggy.” Gabriella sat up in bed, stretched, and yawned. “But better. Much better. And I’m starving.” She hopped out of bed, her feet touching the cool tiles, and went toward the large oak armoire. Opening the heavy doors, she asked, “What have I missed, Mother, while I’ve been sleeping?”

She heard her mother laugh, and at the same moment, she gave a gasp. Hanging in the armoire was an exquisite white wedding dress. She felt the smooth, cool silk. “What is this?”

“Well, my dear, it seems that while you have slept, your charming fiancé has planned a wedding. Would you like to know the date?”

Gabriella gulped. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Her mother smiled and crossed the room to give her a hug. “It’s planned for August 25. Everyone insisted we must wait for Mme Pons and Mme Leclerc to return from their
vacances
. That will give you time for a honeymoon before David needs to be back for orientation in the exchange program.”

As she spoke, her mother took the dress from the armoire and draped it across the bed. “It will coincide nicely with our plans too. We can stay to help with the children while you and David are away and still get back to America by September 15 when Jessica and Henrietta’s school begins.”

As if in a trance Gabriella undressed and lifted her arms as her mother slipped the dress over her head.

“Oh my, there are a hundred buttons in the back,” her mother commented. She led Gabriella to the mirror over the porcelain sink. “But at least you can get an idea.” She pulled the dress closed in the back and fastened a few buttons.

“Mother,” Gabriella said in wonder, “it’s the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen. Where did it come from?” She turned to the side, admiring the snug bodice and the modestly sloping neckline. “Am I dreaming? You tell me my wedding has been planned while I slept, and now my dress has appeared magically in my armoire.”

“It came from St. Joseph. You should have seen Sister Isabelle’s face last night when David announced that the wedding would be taking place in Castelnau. I thought she might pop with excitement. She raced out of the room and reappeared with this dress, which was apparently given to St. Joseph years ago by a wealthy woman in Castelnau. Even though the Sisters saw no need for it, they couldn’t bear to give it away. It’s been waiting all these years for you.” She examined Gabriella, walking around her. “Just a few small alterations, and it will be perfect.”

She caught Gabriella in her arms and hugged her fiercely. “Oh, dear child. I know this is all so wild and new. And of course, we are only half-serious. David is waiting to know what you think.” Her voice faltered for a moment.

“Mother, what do
you
think? Am I crazy to marry him so soon?”

“Gabriella, when I was twenty-one, I had been married two years and you were on the way. We moved to Africa only weeks after our wedding. It was so hard to be far away from everyone. We struggled. But God drew us close because we only had each other and Him.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Gabriella twirled around again, sneaking another peek in the mirror. Then she put her hand to her mouth. “There’s no time to waste. I’ve got to find David! We have so many plans to make!”

Ophélie stepped into the room and studied Moustafa. He looked very peaceful, asleep in his hospital bed. She tiptoed to the side of the bed, bent over, and kissed his tangled hair. Its smooth, tight texture had always fascinated her.

His eyes flickered open. She had always liked his eyes too. They were a delicious-looking chocolate brown, warm, inviting.

“Ophélie,” he murmured. “Dear child, how good it is to see you.”

She grasped his hands. “Oh, Moustafa! I knew you would come back! I knew you were not dead. You were the very last pony to come, but you made it.”

He wrinkled his brow. “Pony?”

Ophélie produced her colored picture. “See,” she said, pointing to the brown pony running behind a group of others. “See, that’s you. You caught up after all.”

“I remember now, Ophélie. You drew it for your papa. Yes, he showed it to me in Algeria.”

Ophélie threw her arms around Moustafa’s neck, burying her head in his curls. “I knew you would come back. I prayed to God every day. And now everyone is here. No one is lost. Even Mother Griolet, see here?” She pointed to the gray pony. “She has just gone ahead of us, to Jesus. I wish you could have known her.”

“Me too, little one.”

She touched his cheek. It was wet. “Did I make you cry?”

Moustafa shook his head and swallowed. “Happy tears, Ophélie. Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh yes! I know what happy tears are!”

Moustafa scooted up in bed, took Ophélie’s hands, and asked, “Has your mama told you the good news?”

“About the farmhouse?” she said eagerly.

“Yes, the farmhouse, but … has she told you that we are all going to live there together? You and Mama and me.”

She furrowed her brow. “No, she didn’t say it.”

“I’m going to marry your mama, Ophélie. Is that all right with you?”

Ophélie clapped her hands together. “Oh yes. Oh yes! Now I see. It will all work out. Papa will marry Bribri, and you will marry Mama. Then it will be like I have two mamas and two papas.” She laughed, then grew serious. “I guess it wouldn’t work for you to marry Gabriella and Papa to marry Mama?”

Moustafa laughed. “No, dear, I don’t think so.”

She contemplated the idea. “Then this will be fine. I’m a very lucky girl.” Then she said, “Your mama is outside with someone else who wants to see you, Moustafa. Hussein. Please don’t be mad at him. He’s been so worried.”

Ophélie left the room, and Moustafa closed his eyes, exhausted from his visits. He heard the door open again but did not look up at once. He had no desire to see the boy.

“Moustafa …” said Hussein.

“Hello, Hussein,” Moustafa said. Suddenly he felt the room draw round him, close and confining. Almost suffocating. He felt a stab of hatred, remembered helping the boy, remembered learning of his betrayal. He couldn’t bear to look at him.

There was no sound, and at length Moustafa opened his eyes. Hussein stood in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped, looking very small and very vulnerable, like a frightened puppy.

“Come sit down, Hussein,” he said, but the words were dry in his mouth, like cotton.

Mechanically the boy obeyed. He stared blankly around the room and sniffed twice.

“How are you, Hussein?”

“Fine.”

“Doing okay in France?”

He nodded.

“I’m glad you got out of Algeria.”

Suddenly the boy burst into tears, leaned forward, and grabbed Moustafa by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I don’t know how you got here, Moustafa, but seeing you here means that maybe, maybe I can go on.” He sobbed for a moment, out of control, then composed himself. “I know what I did was wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid. Can you forgive me?”