Two Testaments (7 page)

Now El Amin held out his hand to Samuel, and Eliane saw her son’s bewildered expression. He shook his head and replaced the treasure, unseen to Eliane, back in his friend’s hand. But El Amin was smiling, the bright, confident smile of a six-year-old, sure of his gift. Something for Samuel to keep to remember El Amin. Samuel would have other friends in France, surely, Eliane reassured herself as she wiped her eyes. But he was old enough to understand what leaving meant. And his little heart hurt.

From across the field, another figure approached, waving, with a basket on her head. Madira! Eliane left the window and, picking up José, rushed out into the yard.

“I forgot to give you the oranges! Such sweet oranges for the trip. For the children.” She set the basket down, and the women embraced. They both knew the oranges were a pretext to say one last good-bye.

Eliane swallowed, but still her throat felt full, as if an orange itself were stuffed in the back and she was slowly choking.

Madira read the suffering. “It will be over soon,” she said ambiguously.

“I will never forget you,” Eliane whispered, her voice catching. It was pointless to promise letters. Her friend could not read. And a visit? Would she ever return to Algeria?

“El Amin,” Madira called to her son. The boys looked up suddenly, their eyes narrowed as if daring their mothers to pronounce the judgment. The end of a boyhood friendship.

Madira nodded, and El Amin came obediently to her. The sun was hot, and a quick wind stirred the sand so that the children shielded their eyes.

“Good-bye, Madira,” Eliane said. “God be with you.”

Madira smiled. El Amin waved to Samuel. The woman and child turned and walked across the field, past the orange groves and the olive trees. Samuel ran into the house as Eliane cradled the baby in her arms and watched them disappear in the horizon.

4

Anne-Marie stood looking out the bedroom window. The streets were silent even though the quarantine had been lifted that morning. There was nothing to see but black sky. A hard knot sat in her stomach and felt like it was growing like a cancer. She blinked back tears.

She heard Moustafa enter the room, but as he came gently beside her, she could not look in his eyes. She buried her head in his shirt, feeling suddenly sick.
I don’t want to go.
She only mouthed the words.

It had been almost simple for all these months. There had been nothing safe around them, so they had built their safety in each other. And she had let herself love him. But now this choice. Reunion with Ophélie meant separation from Moustafa.

He was a good man, her loyal friend. Even in betraying her those months ago, he had tried to protect her. To act her enemy so he could be with her. She loved him for his fierce devotion.

She had known he loved her all those years ago, though at first she had dismissed it as a silly infatuation. He was just a twelve-year-old boy. Her best friend. But he had never once faltered. Every time she had needed him, he was there. Year after year, despite all the times she had run, rebellious and afraid, into the arms of another.

And then the love had simply appeared at the doorstep of her heart one day months ago in that prison-like room in the Casbah, and she had said, “Of course.” So simple. There had really been only one other whom she had ever loved, and now, ironically, that man was taking her away from Moustafa again.

“Moustafa, come with me to France. Please,” she said, looking up at him.

He brushed his hand through her hair, his eyes still full of devotion. Then he tightened his embrace, lifting her off the ground as if she were a doll. He breathed heavily, burying his face in the nape of her neck. She felt his hot tears.

Two months ago they had said good-bye, but fate had brought her back to him. How many times had he saved her?

“I want to be with you always, Moustafa. Please. Please come build a life with me in France.”

He set her down, cupping her face in his hands. “Do you mean it, my
habibti
?”

She nodded and felt a smile cross her lips. “I mean it.”

He smiled too, and the gentle gesture made her ache all the more. He kissed her forehead, leaving his lips there, lost in thought, then took her hands in his and stepped back. She wished she were wearing something stunning. A low-cut cocktail dress that hugged her in all the right places. She wanted to be beautiful for him tonight.

“I cannot come with you now.” He brought her close to him again before she could protest. “But I will come. If you really want me, with all that will mean, I will come. First I must help my family escape. You know what independence will mean for the harkis. But somehow I will get my family away. And if you want me, Anne-Marie, I’ll come. You are all I have ever wanted.”

He brought his lips to hers, and when he kissed her, she felt stunning indeed.

The rumors had grown so that no one was sure what was fact and what was fiction. Whole families were being murdered on the way to the ferries. The time to leave was in the middle of the night. And carefully. David had been in Algiers for only a week, but he had seen enough to believe anything. He sat beside Marcus Cirou in the front seat of the old Renault 4 with its ripped upholstery. Marcus leaned forward in intense concentration, never taking his eyes from the road.

In the backseat Anne-Marie sat rigid, her hands in her lap, physically distancing herself from Moustafa, whose arm hung limply over her shoulder. David watched them in the rearview mirror as the car crept through the alleys of Bab el-Oued toward the sea.

He wasn’t prepared for what they saw at the port. An army of people was spread across the docks like frightened nomads. Women with small children asleep in their laps, men pacing nervously, smoking cigarettes and blowing blue puffs into the cool night air. An exodus. Like the Israelites with Moses. The pied-noirs were running from Algeria, and only the sea stood in their way.

He climbed out as Moustafa helped Anne-Marie from the car. With a simple nod of his head, Marcus was off. Anne-Marie clutched Moustafa’s arm and let out a low moan. “Look at all the people. We’ll never get out of here.”

There was a faint edge of panic in her voice. David was determined to stifle it. “I’ve heard it may be a day’s wait, perhaps two. But our turn will come. Don’t worry.” She limped between the two men onto the nearest docks. At their feet people lay sleeping, oblivious.

“It’s still a few hours till dawn. Try to sleep, Anne-Marie. There’s nothing to fear.” David shuffled around several families huddled together and found a space near the edge of the dock. He sat down awkwardly. Moustafa joined him, offering his hand to Anne-Marie. She did not speak but, as if in a trance, took his hand and seated herself beside him, staring ahead at the smooth black sea. After a moment she rested her head against the small suitcase she had been carrying, pulling her legs up beneath her. She closed her eyes. Moustafa pulled off his coat and covered her with it.

Dawn was just breaking over the city of Algiers when Hussein arrived at the docks, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A scowl was on his face, which he hoped covered his fear and that other painful sensation somewhere inside. He had left the house even before his mother awoke as he had done on the three previous mornings. She never questioned him but waited anxiously each day. One day he would not come back, and after a while she would turn mournful eyes toward the other Arab women who wept for their lost sons, and they would understand.

The docks were humming with activity. Hundreds of pied-noirs crowded together, clutching children and small suitcases. From the distance it looked to Hussein like victims from some natural disaster, waiting at a shelter for help. He saw their rescuer, looming out at sea, slowly approaching the docks. A paquebot, one of those huge ferries that could carry hundreds of people. It was a pitiful scene. Ali would gloat, but Hussein took no pleasure in it. He simply felt drained, weak, and afraid.

He stuck out in this crowd with his soft brown skin, and he could not ignore the cold, harsh stares as he squeezed in and out of the mob, looking for Anne-Marie. Ali’s instructions were clear. He was to find her, show her a drawing of the Huguenot cross, and plead for help. The story was made up in his mind, and he kept repeating it until it seemed more true of his life than what he had actually lived.

By four in the afternoon the crowds had thinned. Two ferries had already left the port, and there was hope for a third before dusk.

“You see, we’ll be on the boat by tonight,” David said in an almost triumphant manner.

Moustafa touched Anne-Marie’s face with the back of his hand. She felt the stiffness in his fingers as she placed her hand over his. She tried to smile, but it caught on her lips. She was hungry, and her legs were beginning to throb.

She had tried to push away thoughts of the last time she stood on these docks. Then they had been deserted, except for the handful of children with her … and one of Ali’s snipers. The throbbing in her legs reminded her of the bullet wounds, the fall into the icy water … and Moustafa, appearing out of nowhere. Moustafa her savior. Moustafa her lover. In only an hour, maybe two, she would touch his lips with her fingers to seal in the memory, and then she would whisper good-bye.

“I think I’ll walk about a little,” she said. She brought her thin jacket closer together, fastening a button. The wind had picked up, and the whitecaps on the sea were blowing along rapidly as if in a hurry to catch something.

Mingling among the people, she listened to snatches of conversation and watched the dull, tired faces. A young woman was struggling to nurse a baby, calling out to two children who chased each other. Something in the woman’s face looked familiar. Anne-Marie found herself staring. A young boy dashed past, stepping on her toe.

“Samuel!
Mais alors!
Calm down!” the young mother called. She looked up at Anne-Marie. “
Je suis desolée
. Sorry.”

“It’s nothing.” She leaned down to where the woman sat. “Eliane?” she whispered. “Is it you? Eliane Cebrian?”

The woman removed the baby from her breast, startled. She looked quizzically into Anne-Marie’s eyes. “Yes, but do I know—” Then she gave a short gasp, and her face lit up in a broad smile. “Anne-Marie! Anne-Marie Duchemin! I would have never recognized you. You’re so … so changed.” Her voice betrayed concern. “How are you?”

Before Anne-Marie could answer, Eliane chuckled, but it was a bitter laugh. “How indeed, if you’re here with the rest of us,
n’est-ce pas
?” She shook her head. “Anyway, sit down. Are you alone? Is your daughter …”