Two Testaments (8 page)

“My daughter is in France. I’m going to meet her.”

“Oh, well, what a relief. How wonderful. We should make the next ferry, from the looks of it. How good to have a chance to catch up after so long.”

“Yes, that will be good.” Anne-Marie stood. “I’ll be back, then. I’ve only to retrieve my bag. A friend is watching it for me.”

Eliane laughed again, and it was the musical, carefree laugh that Anne-Marie remembered from years ago at her neighbors’ farmhouse. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere, as you can see!”

When Anne-Marie reappeared from another part of the crowded dock, she looked to David suddenly years younger. Her gait was stronger and her eyes held a flicker of surprise.

“Moustafa! David! You’ll never believe it. I’ve run into my neighbor, the woman who lived next door to us while I was growing up—Eliane Cebrian. Remember her, Moustafa? I haven’t seen her in years.” She was almost breathless with excitement. “She’s over there with her children. Isn’t it wonderful? We’ll be on the same boat. Come with me, Moustafa. She’ll be so happy to see you again.”

“You go along, my
habibti
. I’ll come shortly,” Moustafa said softly. “I want to get you a few things to eat. From the looks of it, they won’t be serving couscous on board.”

“No, you’re right. Not couscous. And I’m starving. But where will you find anything?”

“I’ve been watching the crowds. There must be a little
épicerie
and a few cafés not far away. Now where will I find you?”

She pointed to the adjoining dock. “You see, near the front. She has a baby in her arms. No, not there—further away. See? A little boy is running beside her.”

“Yes, I see. Who would believe it! Eliane Cebrian. Good. Then I’ll be back in a little while.”

David watched the young couple, feeling awkward. It was as if he were not there with them.

Anne-Marie glanced toward him. “Do you want to come with me, David?”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll go with Moustafa. It looks as though we won’t be waiting long.” He pointed to the sea, where another paquebot floated into view in the distance. “Save me a spot if I’m late.”

He was sorry the moment he spoke, because the carefree expression left her face at once. “I’m kidding,” he said. “Go on. Find your friend. We’ll be back soon.”

He left with Moustafa, following a handful of men who were heading toward shops in the distance. Across the wide boulevard that emptied onto the port, they walked behind the chic stores into a small street running perpendicular to the boulevard. He could see a boulangerie sign near the end of the street.

David was not thinking of anything but a good
baguette
filled with ham and cheese when three youths appeared from nowhere—Arab boys. They were laughing, but there was anger in their eyes. The tallest, wiry and thin, spoke with disgust in his voice. “Well, if it isn’t another hungry pied-noir going to stock up on bread before the long trip to France. And he’s here with a harki boy. Everybody knows what happens to harki boys, don’t they?”

He motioned to his friend, shorter, sullen, no older than seventeen, who stepped forward and drew a switchblade. “Aren’t we in luck today,
les gars
? Two for the price of one. Doesn’t look like you’ll be taking that ferry ride after all.”

David felt more anger than fear. They were merely boys, threatening with knives. He was ready to fight; his shoulder ached, but at least his arm was free of the sling. But before he had a chance to react, Moustafa pulled out a revolver and pointed it at the boys. “Leave us!” he yelled. “You think you own Algeria and everyone in it. You think murder is a game. Get out.”

The three boys scrambled away, one of them turning to curse him: “You’re done for, harki boy. You’ll never leave this country alive.” They fled down the alley.

David placed a hand on Moustafa, who was trembling violently. “Let’s get out of here. I shouldn’t have let you come down to the docks. It’s too dangerous. Did you know those guys?”

“No. But they know us. They know every last stinking traitor and their families. That kid was right. We’ll never get out of here.”

“Good thing you had that gun. I didn’t know—”

“I never leave the apartment without it.” He chuckled without humor. “A gift from the last person who tried to kill me. One of Ali’s men.”

They bought several sandwiches and a bottle of water, but David had lost his appetite. The harkis would be massacred, just like the Jews. There was no escape for them. Didn’t anyone care?

His mind was whirling now, wondering. If Anne-Marie had a friend on the boat now, a companion to help her make the trip, maybe … could he not finish his mission?

But what was his mission? At first it had been Operation Hugo, the mission to help Anne-Marie rescue those children threatened by Ali Boudani. That he had accomplished, yes, but his mission was also simply to help Anne-Marie—the mother of his child. This would be his final help to her. First she would have Ophélie, and then she would have Moustafa. She would have her impossible love.

He was unsure, almost angry at himself for thinking of it. Gabriella would not understand, and neither would Ophélie. Mother Griolet needed him. But the mission.…

“Where will you go, Moustafa?” he asked softly.

“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Just get Anne-Marie back to France.”

“I’m not going back. Not yet.” He spoke with conviction.

“What?” The young Arab wrinkled his brow in disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“I’m staying with you. I’m going to make sure you get to France. I’m doing it for her.”

“You’re crazy, David Hoffmann. You can’t. The harkis aren’t your problem.”

“You saved my life back there. I figure if I stick around long enough, I might be able to return the favor.” He saw the distrust in Moustafa’s eyes. “Please, Moustafa. It’s the least I can do for you. The least I can do for her.”

Moustafa narrowed his eyes. “You really mean it, don’t you? You really are a crazy American.” He shook his head and cursed, but David saw a glimmer of hope in Moustafa’s eyes.

It was almost dusk when Hussein saw her. He blinked twice to be sure. She was sitting on a small suitcase, her straight black hair thrown back as she talked animatedly to a short, plump woman holding a sleeping baby. Yes! The fine, thin face, the small nose and dark eyes, the thick brows. Ali was right. Once she must have been beautiful. Now she looked disheveled, out of place, like the rest of the pied-noirs.

Nervously he inched toward her on the dock. She was only fifty feet away. His mouth went dry and his mind blank. Who was he? The story Ali had invented for him seemed trapped somewhere in the back of his throbbing head. He retrieved the note from his pocket.

When he reached the two women, it was the other one who noticed him first and motioned with suspicious eyes to Anne-Marie. Even before she had turned around, Hussein was on his knees beside her.

“
Mademoiselle Duchemin?
It is you,
non
?” He thought of his mother, and that brought the necessary tears to his eyes. “I’ve been searching for you all these weeks. Please, please, will you take me with you?” He leaned forward and whispered. “My father has been murdered, my mother too, and my cousin’s father. And last week, my cousin and his mother disappeared. They will kill me too if I stay. Please. I have heard you have a safe place in France for harki children.” He produced the note with its funny cross and cryptic message.

The woman called Anne-Marie stared at Hussein, her mouth open. It took a moment for her to speak. “Where did you get this?”

“From Mme el Gharbi, before she was killed. She said if I would only show it to you, you would understand.”

“You knew Mme el Gharbi? You know her children?”

For a brief moment Hussein panicked. He could not remember the names of the children. “I do not know them well.”

The woman with the baby was staring pitifully at him. “Whatever is he talking about, Anne-Marie?”

The young woman did not look at her friend. “It’s too long to explain right now. Perhaps later.” She took Hussein’s hand, and the gesture startled him. He pulled back in fright. “No, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

“Hussein.”

“I … I don’t know what to say to you, Hussein. Perhaps, yes, surely there would be room for you at the orphanage.”

Hussein fell on his knees again, head bowed. “I will do anything. Only don’t leave me here. Please. They say you are a woman of great mercy. Prove it to me, I beg you. Prove it.” He buried his head in his hands and prayed to Allah that she would say yes.

The giant paquebot huffed and steamed into port, crawling slowly to the dock. Its decks were completely empty, and it looked like a forlorn whale rising out of the sea in a children’s fairy tale. David was walking briskly in front of Moustafa and reached the docks first. Moustafa caught up with him and produced a bag full of sandwiches. One glance assured David that there would be no mention of the incident with the Arab youth. But at the right moment he would tell Anne-Marie of his decision.

It was not like him to act impulsively. Something within was propelling him to do so. Something strong and final. Moustafa would get to France. He was convinced he could get Moustafa’s family on another boat soon. They would all flee within the next weeks, while there was still room, before the rest of the harkis turned on their heels and ran. Anne-Marie would have that. He did not dwell on the other part: the disappointment in Gabby’s eyes when only Anne-Marie descended from the train. The betrayal she might feel. Later he would have time to explain to Gabby.

A young Arab who looked no more than ten was sitting with the women. Moustafa had slowed his gait and was eyeing the boy suspiciously.

Anne-Marie stood and caught Moustafa’s arm. “See, Eliane. It’s as I told you. Moustafa is with me.”

The woman called Eliane rose and embraced Moustafa with a kiss on each cheek. “I never expected such a reunion between old neighbors.” She had chestnut eyes, cheerful, kind eyes.

Moustafa reached out for the baby. “Rémi’s littlest son I suppose?”

“Yes, the other two are over there. Restless.” She cleared her throat. “Rémi brought us here last night. He’s back at the farm now. Anne-Marie tells me you won’t leave.” The woman touched his arm. “Moustafa, if you ever need help, go to Rémi.”