Ran Away (10 page)

Through the barred gate January could see the church was brightly illuminated, its doorway crowded with men and women clearly well off and dressed to advertise that fact. The elderly lay-brother who kept the gate produced a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t have to go inquire of the Mother Superior as to whether she would see these decidedly un-rich visitors or not  . . .  And no, he knew nothing of any Jewess taking refuge in the convent. What kind of a place did they think this was?

In time, however, St Peter (as Ayasha irreverently described him) shuffled away to see if Mother Marie-Doloreuse had a few moments before the beginning of the Mass. January was reminded of the butlers in the houses of his pupils who
would see
, as they said,
if Madame were at home
, when everyone knew jolly well that Madame was at home and watching out the drawing-room window to see if she wanted to have anything to do with the caller or not.

The convent bells struck seven. January quietly gave up all hope of getting anything resembling dinner before he reported to the Opera at half-past eight. Maybe the same pastie vendor would be in the Rue St-Christophe on their way back across the island?

The judas opened in the convent gate, and St Peter announced in an aggrieved tone that the Mother Abbess would see them, and then took good care to herd them in a long circuit by the convent wall, as far as possible from the ladies in their lace pelerines and the gentlemen in their tall beaver hats in the church porch.

The Mother Abbess will see you
meant, of course, that the Mother Abbess would sit on one side of a wooden window-grille curtained in purple velvet, and hear their voices, and permit them to hear hers.

‘It gratifies me to learn that any soul should repudiate the Devil and flee the gates of Hell,’ proclaimed the sweet, steely soprano from the other side of the curtain. ‘Yet you are mistaken, if you think that my nephew Arnoux would be involved in a  . . .  a
deliverance from a seraglio
, like a character in some cheap romance. Though worldly considerations have forestalled him from taking Holy Orders until such time as his brother’s wife brings forth a son, yet his only bride has ever been the Church, and he has been a faithful lover.’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested January, ‘your nephew acted out of pity for the girl. If that is the case, I assure you that members of the girl’s family here in Paris have expressed themselves willing to take her in.’

‘What sort of Christian are you, sir?’ The Abbess sounded scandalized. ‘When a soul lost in darkness seeks the light, do you think that any
true
Christian would send them back into the abyss? Probably you do,’ she added bitterly. ‘So deep has this country gone into atheism. Even His Majesty – a priest himself and God’s representative on Earth! – stands in need of a reminder of his duties.’

‘Forgive me,’ said January, in his most contrite voice, ‘if I have expressed myself ill. When the girl’s family begged me to seek her, I only asked myself if there were anyone now in Paris, whom she might have seen in Constantinople.’

‘And you heard from my nephew the Marquis that his brother Arnoux taught French there, to ladies in the households of the Sultan’s officials. How that man loves to boast of vainglorious trappings! But I assure you, M’sieu Janvier: Arnoux would never compromise his family in the eyes of – I will not say the King. His Most Christian Majesty is a true Son of the Church. Arnoux would never run his family afoul of the King’s ministers, hollow men, nameless souls themselves who would spit upon the Host, if by doing so they could curry the favor of those who have for five centuries enslaved and desecrated the very Tomb of Our Savior.’

January glanced sidelong at Ayasha: this was an extreme view to take of such conservative gentlemen as Villèle and Polignac and others who had approved of the Anti-Sacrilege Act, merely because they might be expected to object to giving offense to one of France’s chief allies. From the wall of the parlor – recently wallpapered to cover the damage done during the Revolution – a small oil-painting of St Theresa frowned disapprovingly, as if she detected January’s lie.

‘Whoever sent you,’ the old nun went on, ‘you may inform them that neither my nephew, nor I myself, have any knowledge of this unfortunate girl. Yet you may tell them also that all Christians applaud her courage and wish that more here in France shared it.
Who is not with us is against us
, the Apostle says. If this girl should ever come knocking upon our gates, seeking the truth of salvation, we – God’s
true
Church – shall welcome her among us, and let the Devil and the Sultan and all the wealthy Jews who seek to buy the King’s favor with their ill-got pelf break their teeth with gnashing, that a single soul has run away to the Light.’

‘So there,’ said January as St Peter conducted him and Ayasha out of the cloister house and across the cold twilight of the grounds toward the gate once more.

‘Did you tell her that Shamira was a Jewess?’

‘St Peter might have  . . .  Now you’ve got me calling him that.’ Better that, he supposed, than Papa Legba, who was the voodoo equivalent of the Heavenly Gatekeeper and whose marks had a way of turning up on the old saint’s statues in New Orleans churches  . . .  ‘But I don’t think either you or I mentioned the Sultan to him.’

He stopped at the side door of the convent church, at the unaccustomed sound within of applause. St Peter beckoned impatiently, but January gestured –
Let me behold this
– and the lay brother stood back, wearing the expression of a sulky bulldog, while January stepped to the rear of the crowd.

It was fortunate that he stood half a head taller than any man in France and a head taller than most, for the little church of St Theresa was packed to the doors. Those gentlemen in their swallow-tailed coats and the ladies in Brussels lace clustered up almost to the tall grating of barred iron that stretched clear across the room before the altar. Diamonds flashed around most of the feminine throats in the assembled watchers, and diamonds glittered also in the hair of the girl who stood before the altar, on the inner side of the grate: a girl of fifteen or sixteen, clothed in Italian silk of pink, rust, and gold. She had just turned toward the audience – family and friends of the family, January knew – hence the applause, and her face almost glowed with the exaltation and joy that very young girls can feel, when they are the center of attention and can make a splendid gesture with all eyes upon them and only them.

All eyes including God’s.

A panel opened behind the altar. Chanting in their sweet voices, the nuns emerged in their coarse black habits, their dark veils; at their head walked a tall woman whose resemblance to the Marquis de Longuechasse was striking, even at that distance and in the dimness of candlelight.

The nuns stripped the diamonds out of the girl’s hair, and from her wrists and hands, and threw the jewels to the floor at the feet of the man who stood next to the altar, the man whose crimson garments gave him a look of flame. They took the girl by the hands, led her to the open panel, where other nuns waited with a dark screen. Behind this they would, January knew, swiftly change the girl’s dress from the ostentatious gown to the black habit of a novice, so that all who watched would not only
know
that their sister – daughter – cousin – friend had forsaken the world for the glory of the Church, but would also
see
it, acted out like a pageant.

Then the girl would kneel among them before the altar – or in some orders, he knew, lie on the stones with her arms spread in the shape of the Cross – as a black curtain descended on the inner side of the grate.

Your sister – daughter – cousin – friend is dead to the world
.

She has gone on to the wonderful mysteries of marriage to Christ
 . . .  Which too frequently, January knew also, consisted of endless sewing, reading the lives of saints, and trying to fit into a community of women no more educated than oneself, with very little to do.

Yet how many little girls – and he could see the boarding pupils of the convent gathered like an angel choir to one side, watching their former friend – saw only the ecstasy of doing what everyone wanted you to do, with all eyes upon you, like a bride? Like young girls dreaming of their wedding, without a thought about the life that lay beyond.

Lights, candles, sweet voices chanting. The black screen was moved aside, and the Mother Abbess led the new nun forward.

The girl’s face was filled with a wild joy, which January hoped, for her sake, meant a genuine religious vocation and not simply the overwhelming thrill of the occasion.

Mother Marie-Doloreuse’s face held triumph, and pride that not only glowed but burned. Not only had another soul been led into the light, but was also
shown to all
to be led into the light. And led
by her
. A lesson, to those still in darkness.

And yet with this triumph to proclaim, she took the time to tell us that her nephew had nothing to do with Shamira’s disappearance, and that we should go away
.

He took Ayasha’s hand and backed from the church, before the black curtain fell.

SEVEN

D
amp mist rose from the Seine as they crossed the Étoile. January checked his silver watch, an expensive bauble he’d bought for himself upon his arrival in Paris ten years before, just prior to receiving the news that his mother’s protector – the man who was going to finance his education in France – had died. It looked like they would actually get back to their room in time for him to gulp down something resembling dinner before he had to race to the Opera  . . . 

Then as they passed the lane that led from the Champs Élysées toward the Beaujon Hospital two men came from the other direction, talking quietly, and turned up the lane. At the sound of their voices Ayasha looked sharply back, but January caught her arm and steered her on without change of pace. As soon as the men had gone on, however, he said, ‘Can you get to Hüseyin Pasha’s house? Not by that lane –’ he nodded back toward the one they’d just passed – ‘but going around by way of the Church of St Philippe? Quickly.’

‘Those men were speaking—’

‘Arabic,’ said January. ‘They’re Sabid’s grooms. The man with the broken nose is unmistakable. Go, quickly, get in through the stable gates and don’t let them see you. Tell
Sitt
Jamilla I need to speak to her at La Marseillaise at once.’

Madame Dankerts of the Cafe La Marseillaise, in addition to good Flemish batter-cakes and strong coffee, cheerfully provided January with paper, pen, and ink. He had no intention of leaving his colleagues at the Opera to attempt the overture of
La Cenerentola
without a first cornet, and he fully expected to have to impart his information to Jamilla by means of a letter.

But Ayasha must have made astonishing speed to the Rue St-Honoré, for he was only up to his third batter-cake and
the only reason I can think of for Sabid to keep watch upon your house is
 . . .  when his wife and two black-veiled forms appeared in the café’s door.

‘This true what Ayasha say?’ The Lady took the seat opposite in a dark swirl of gauze. ‘Sabid men watch house?’

‘They do. I recognized two of them – there have probably been others.’

Her brows pulled together below the edge of her dark
hijab
. ‘Then is
not
he who took Shamira?’

‘No. But it may mean he’s looking for her; that he knows she’s escaped. What would he do if he found her? If he had her in his power? Kill her?’

‘Not first.’ Jamilla’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘Sabid – Hüseyin – hate.’ She tapped the faces of her two fists, like the butting heads of rams. ‘Long time. Hüseyin spies in house of Sabid in Constantinople. Spies tell him Sabid take money like a street whore, from French, from English, from Austrians. Men who make gun, make steamboat, make boots. Give Sabid money. Sabid tell Sultan: to be modern, to be like West, Empire need gun, need steamboat, need boots. Sabid say,
I get them for you, for such a price
.’

‘And is this true?’ asked January.

‘I know not. But Hüseyin tell Sultan, and Sultan very angry. Send Sabid away. But, Sultan still need
farangi
gun,
farangi
steam-engine. Hüseyin fear, Sultan call Sabid back while Hüseyin away.’

‘Not an unreasonable fear. I doubt Sabid is the only modernizer in Constantinople – nor the only man around the Sultan to be taking bribes to get his favor.’

‘It will go ill for Hüseyin,’ said Ayasha softly, ‘if this Sabid does return to favor.’

‘Worse than ill,’ agreed Jamilla. ‘
I will make you weep,
Sabid say.
I will make you curse the light of the day when you spoke against me
.’

‘And he followed him all this way here, only out of hate?’

‘Not hate only.’ Jamilla glanced around the little room, as if she expected the hook-nosed, scar-faced grooms of her husband’s enemy to be sipping coffee at the next table. ‘In Constantinople, my husband hear of
farangi
–
Inglis
– send bribe unto Sabid, and later Sabid cheat the
Inglis
, I know not how. This man my husband go to England to seek. Sabid wrote the
Inglis
a letter, and this letter, my husband will send unto the Sultan, that the hand of Sabid, the lips of Sabid, the seal of Sabid all bear witness to treason.’

‘And does Sabid know this?’ asked January.

‘I know not. My husband now careful. I careful  . . .’

‘And those
salopes
in the kitchen talk like monkeys,’ finished Ayasha. ‘Else why does Sabid send men to watch the house, save to learn whether Shamira is still there or not?’

‘If he’s sending men to check,’ pointed out January, ‘that sounds as if he isn’t sure. If there were a spy regularly in the household, he would be. Is there one in the house who is of a height to counterfeit Shamira? Of a shape to be taken for her, in her clothing, at a distance?’