Two Crosses (18 page)

They sat in her salon for a few minutes, each drinking a
sirop
.

“She speaks such beautiful French, David,” Mme de Saléon commented. Then, directing her gaze at Gabriella, she inquired, “Where did you study?”

“I grew up in Senegal. My schooling was in French,” replied Gabriella.

Mme de Saléon nodded and talked on, making pleasant conversation. Several minutes later she shooed them out of the apartment. “To the cours Mirabeau, you two. David will tell you all about it. I’ll expect you for supper at seven thirty.”

By eleven thirty the biting chill of the mistral had calmed, and the sun began to warm up the cours Mirabeau. David directed Gabriella to a chair at an outdoor café on the north side of the wide, straight boulevard. Four rows of magnificent old plane trees on either side of the avenue stretched their limbs toward the center, forming a type of rustling canopy above the street and the pedestrians.

“Down there at the end of the road is a statue of
le bon roi René
, count of Provence in the middle of the fifteenth century. He’s holding the famous muscat grapes in his hands. He’s the one who originally thought of harvesting them for the apéritif we drink today. Very sweet and pleasant, if you don’t drink too much. You should try it.”

“Perhaps I shall later, at Mme de Saléon’s.”

“After lunch I’ll take you to that spot where Cézanne painted many of his finest works. You’ll be surprised.”

“A view of Mont Saint-Victoire?”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been reading my art books to keep up with my distinguished professor.”

David let out a hearty carefree laugh she hadn’t heard before. “Your distinguished professor, eh?” Leaning closer, he whispered, “And what may he offer his most illustrious pupil?”

For a moment Gabriella thought she would reach out and touch his face with her hand. He caught her look and held her gaze with his eyes, then reached his hand across the table and interlocked his fingers in hers.

“I’ll have the usual,” she whispered, afraid to look away, afraid that a simple blowing of the wind would destroy the magic of Aix on the cours Mirabeau.

The drinks consumed, they sat for a moment in silence. Then David stood abruptly and said, “It’s time to eat.”

As if on cue, she was standing too, as he fumbled for the francs and let them jangle on the table.

“I know. I’ll get the bread.” She laughed to think of how he was so adamant that she try every different type of bread and cheese France offered. Turning to look back at him, she said, “I remember: only
pain de seigle
for us today.”

“Hurry on with you, girl.” He waved to her, smiling. “They close in five minutes.”

She walked along the cobblestone streets of the
vieille ville
until she reached the boulangerie David had indicated earlier. The best pain de seigle in town, he assured her.

The short, dark-haired man behind the counter greeted her cautiously.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

“Bonjour. Un pain de seigle, s’il vous plaît.”
He turned quickly to retrieve the loaf, but Gabriella stopped him. “Oh, no. Wait a minute. I think I’d rather have the
pain de campagne
. It looks delicious.”

“You are sure,
mademoiselle
?” he questioned, replacing the other loaf.

“Yes, sure.” They hadn’t yet tried this kind either. She was pleased with the thought of surprising David. She placed five francs on the counter as the man wrapped a piece of thin tissue around the brown loaf and taped it in place. He handed her the forty centimes of change.

“Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

“
Bonne journée
,” she replied and trotted down the cobblestones and back to the cours Mirabeau, where David waited with the straw bag Mme de Saléon had filled with rice salad, pâté, cheeses, and wine.

“Where shall we eat, David?”

“How about by the Fontaine des Quatre Dauphins? There are a few private residences from the eighteenth century with their beautiful inner courtyards—what the French call
hôtels
—on the road that I’d like you to see.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She followed him across the boulevard and onto a street behind the Cours. Sitting down beside the fountain, Gabriella started to talk. “I never realized that Cézanne was a contemporary of Gauguin—they lived together and were such good friends—” But her chatter was interrupted by David’s harsh demand.

“Gabriella! What have you done? This isn’t pain de seigle!” He grabbed her arm and clutched it so fiercely that Gabriella gave a quick jerk back.

“For goodness’ sake, David, you’re hurting me! Why does it matter? I only thought it might be fun to try something different.”

Immediately David relaxed his grip. “Of course, you’re right. I’m sorry, Gabby.” He composed himself and said softly, “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I’d really like the pain de seigle. Could you please run back and get me a loaf?”

“But they’ll be closed, David.”

“Maybe not. Go.”

He sounded urgent and firm, and she did not hesitate. Back across the cours Mirabeau and up the cobblestone road she ran, feeling like a rebuked child.
He is impossible, demanding,
she thought. Somewhere again in her mind she heard a piercing reminder:
Don’t go!
Once again she pushed the voice away, but it kept chanting in her mind until she felt cold fear run down her back.

Something is wrong here, Gabriella. Something is wrong with this dashing young American. Get away!
But she continued on. As she reached the store, the boulanger was just pulling down the corrugated siding and locking the door.

“Monsieur!
” Gabriella cried loudly. “Wait! Could I please have a pain de seigle?” She slowed to a walk, out of breath.

He seemed to pay no attention, not even looking at her, but quietly he muttered, “You must go at once. Tell your friend the neighbor’s bread is better. Now leave!”

Bewildered, she turned to go. What did he mean? Why was he suddenly so angry, just as David had been? And then the chanting words in her mind:
Something is wrong. Get away!

Gabriella had never experienced a vision from heaven, but she believed God communicated in an inaudible but real voice to His chosen people. And she knew this was the voice she was hearing.

But where do I go, Lord?

The sounds of the open market and pedestrians’ feet on the cobblestones suddenly seemed magnified, and she realized her heart was racing.

Then instantly David was there, walking toward her with a look of fear on his usually indifferent face. He didn’t slow down as he passed her. He whispered, “Leave Aix, Gabby. I don’t know you. Take the train. Go home.”

His tone conveyed an urgency that struck new fear in her heart. Quickly she began brushing past the vendors in the marché, slipping beside the man selling cheese as he cried after her, “
Mademoiselle
, come try the St. Paulin!”

She limped past the butcher with the dead chickens hanging upside down from the awning above his table. She grazed the table displaying an array of pigs’ hooves and weaved wildly among the fruit and vegetable stands, hearing again and again, “
Mademoiselle!
”

She never looked back, but she could feel the eyes of someone, unknown and unnoticed by the busy scene at the marché. Someone was following, and the knowledge of that had shattered David’s cynical, confident air.

She reached the place de la Libération. Just five more minutes, and she’d be at the station. Gabriella did not look back to see a handsome man with hazel eyes and thick brown hair deftly stepping around the vendors in the market, following the bright flash of red hair in front of him.

David continued walking away from Gabriella, but as he turned down a small side street, he paused to watch her twist in and out through the market. Farther behind, a man followed in her steps. David groaned. She stood out like the first red poppy in a field of sunflowers.

What had he done? What should he do now?

It would be so easy to let the man suspect the girl, and he could go free. But how could he do that? Pushing aside his bitter thoughts and angry desire for revenge, he ran down the side street and mingled in the crowd of the marché, far behind the fiery blaze of Gabriella’s hair and the dark-haired man who stretched out silently behind her like a long shadow in the afternoon sun.

Jean-Claude Gachon knew the red-haired girl was scared. With his small pocket camera, he clicked several pictures of her limping through the street.

You think you can get away so easily? Hop a train, and I will leave you alone?
He jogged on behind her.
The train will not leave for thirty minutes, and that is plenty of time for another small accident. Or perhaps you will be more helpful this time. I know more than you think.

He paused at the corner of the road by the post office, watching the young woman continue her frantic flight. He heard a slight noise behind him and turned to see a bottle of wine lifted above his head. Too late, he raised his arms to protect himself. The bottle crashed down, the glass shattering on his head.

The train ride from Aix was without incident. Gabriella got off in Montpellier and walked along the place de la Comédie all afternoon, embarrassed to return to the inquisitive stares of her housemates.

When she went back to the apartment, it was dark. The girls had gone out for the evening, and Mme Leclerc discreetly prepared her a bowl of soup, asking no questions. The phone rang twice, and each time Gabriella started, hoping it was David. Surely he would check on her.

But David did not call.

The night seemed like an endless dark tunnel, offering no sleep, no soft bed of thoughts, nothing but hovering fear and a heavy heartache. Again and again she rehashed the events of the day. The enchantment of the train ride, their walk through Aix, her relief at meeting Mme de Saléon, the pure pleasure of sitting with David on the cours Mirabeau.

Then the stupid mistake with the bread. The bread! Something had been terribly wrong in Aix, and she was sure that it concerned more than a misplaced pain de seigle.