Two Crosses (21 page)

Anne-Marie spoke in a cold, harsh tone. “Kill him if you wish. He is worse than the rest of you. Get his stinking body away. But I won’t talk here. Take me to Ali.”

“I can make you talk, you trash.” He swerved angrily, the gun now pointing at her.

In a flash, Moustafa grabbed him by the neck. Rachid lashed back with his elbow, striking Moustafa full in the stomach, but the young man held on. With one hand he gripped Rachid around the throat and with the other he grasped for the gun, which Rachid circled wildly above him.

“Anne-Marie!”

She had grabbed the old chair and now brought it down on Rachid’s skull. The gun went off. Moustafa fell backward with Rachid on top of him. Again Anne-Marie brought down the chair on Rachid’s back.

With a cry Rachid pulled himself off Moustafa, waving the gun madly about his head. “You!” he moaned, then fell at Anne-Marie’s feet.

Her hands trembling, she pulled the gun from his grip. “Moustafa? Are you hurt?” There was panic in her voice.

Moustafa crouched beside Rachid. “Not badly. He shot himself when you hit him with the chair.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Give me the bottle.”

Anne-Marie did not move.

“The bottle. The pill. Now!”

“I can’t.”

Moustafa was standing. Grabbing at her sleeve, he ripped the little bottle out. “Leave if you don’t want to watch.”

Still Anne-Marie didn’t move.

Moustafa took a tiny pill and slipped it under Rachid’s tongue. “Rest in peace, you coward.”

He watched Anne-Marie run out into the night air and heard her gag. Instantly he was by her side, holding her as her body was racked with dry heaves. He locked the door with Rachid’s keys and tucked the gun into his belt.

“Come now, Anne-Marie. Do not give up now! To life!”

15

“In the later years of his life, Coleridge was reconciled with his friend Wordsworth. After Coleridge’s death, Wordsworth declared that he was ‘the most wonderful man that I have ever known.’”

David’s lecture comparing the literature of Coleridge and Wordsworth was ordinarily one of his favorites, but today he felt dissatisfied as the young women left his class. November was coming to a close. For the past month Gabriella had politely addressed him as M. Hoffmann in class, but otherwise she avoided him. It was his own fault. She hadn’t understood what he’d tried to tell her that day in the courtyard after Aix. But the truth would only hurt her more.

So in class David kept his composure. He laughed and winked and charmed the students with his witty comments. But he never tried to touch Gabriella after the others were out of sight. Only in his mind did he reach out to the poppies and long for the laughter that haunted his dreams.

He left the classroom, briefcase in hand, walking away from the parsonage and through the town toward Mme Pons’s apartment. The fruit stand outside the entrance didn’t tempt him with its polished red apples and thick orange clementines. He quickly let himself into his room and closed the door, leaving his briefcase by the bed, then took a seat at the small desk. Opening his lap drawer, he brought out a stack of papers. An old photograph sat on top of the stack, and he brushed it with his hand, as if he could touch the face of the young woman who stood beside him in the picture, frozen in place, smiling out of the picture without a care in the world.

How I wish I knew where you were. You asked for my help, but I don’t know where else to look.

He dropped the photograph and covered his face with his hands. Gabby’s silence was not the only quiet he feared. Yesterday’s paper lay on the floor. David reached down to retrieve it and reread the headline: T
WENTY
K
ILLED IN
T
ERRORIST
A
TTACK IN
A
LGIERS
.

Gabriella hardly touched the delicious noon meal Mme Leclerc had prepared. Stephanie had already asked for seconds while Gabriella played with the noodles and meat in the
boeuf bourguignon
.

“Gabriella, do you think your parents will be happy to see their daughter so thin after her year in France?
Ooh là là!
You will ruin my reputation as the best cook in Castelnau.”

Gabriella smiled as she set down her fork. “Now, Mme Leclerc. You know it’s nothing to do with your cooking. Surely you have had other boarders who were homesick?”

“Homesick, yes. But for a whole month! You’ve hardly eaten a thing for all of November. It’s not right!”

Stephanie laughed. “Yes, and the less you eat, the more is left over, and I always seem to find room for seconds! Imagine what
my
parents will say!”

No one said a word about David Hoffmann, but Gabriella knew what they were thinking:
She’s not homesick; she’s lovesick.
They were right.

Mother Griolet noticed Gabriella’s quiet restlessness more than anyone. She prayed daily for the private battle the young woman fought with her God. She watched her leave the parsonage quickly after classes and return only when she was scheduled to work with the orphans. Gabriella stayed away from the American professor and clung to the children, especially Ophélie. One life to fill up the hole left by another.

Gabriella appeared in the doorway of her office, interrupting the old nun’s thoughts. “
Bonjour, Mère Griolet!
I’m ready for the afternoon adventure. Is Ophélie here?”

“Yes, my child. She’s thrilled to have the afternoon alone with you. She’s been brushing her hair for half an hour.” The nun met Gabriella’s eyes. “You’re a blessing to those children. And you are hope for Ophélie. You see it,
non
?”

Gabriella blushed, and Mother Griolet added quickly, “I’m not telling you these things for you to get a big head, as you Americans say. God has gifted you with the children. He has done it to help a stubborn little old lady in an orphanage. You’re strong, Gabriella. Remember that.” She grasped her hand and held it for a moment. “Don’t be afraid. God is with you. Thank you for being with Him.”

She pronounced the last phrases with great care, and Gabriella raised her eyebrows.

“I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, Mother Griolet. But you don’t dare. It’s more than simple encouragement for a lovesick girl, isn’t it?”

“Go on now, have your adventure. Show little Ophélie the house you lived in when you were here as a child.” But as Gabriella left the office, pulling the door shut behind her, Mother Griolet added, “And be strong.”

The bus ride from Castelnau through Montpellier to the west side of town took thirty-five minutes.

Ophélie chattered excitedly as Gabriella pointed out different landmarks. “I love riding on the bus! Oh, it’s such fun! So big!”

Gabriella smiled at her. “We’re almost there now. The next stop is ours.” She glanced down at the directions Mother Griolet had scribbled for her.

At first the old nun had balked at the idea. “There’s no need to go back over there. I’m not even sure the mission still owns it.” But at Gabriella’s insistence, she had telephoned and arranged the visit.

The bus came to a halt and the glass doors parted to release an eager little girl and her maîtresse. The air was cold as they stepped onto the sidewalk, but the wind was not blowing.

“It’s just a short walk from here,” Gabriella said. She searched her coat pocket and brought out a five-franc piece, which she handed to Ophélie. “A treat from me. You may buy a pastry at the first pâtisserie you find.”

“Oh thank you, Gabriella!” Ophélie’s eyes danced with anticipation, searching the street for a store. “May I try that boulangerie over there? Look, there are pastries in the window.” She tugged on Gabriella’s coat, pulling her toward a window front filled with delicate-looking confections. “What would you choose if you were me?”

“Well, that’s a good question, Ophélie. Let me see. The
éclair
is filled with cream and topped with chocolate. Or look at the
mille-feuilles
. All the thin layers of pastry with cream in between and a chocolate-vanilla-swirled icing.”

“Look at that one. It looks like a person!” Ophélie pointed to two balls of pastry stacked on top of each other, like a snowman with a chocolate hat.

“Oh, that is called a
religieuse
. Can you see it, Ophélie? It’s like a nun with her black scarf and robes. And inside the pastry is that same thick, delicious cream.”

“That’s what I want! A religieuse! Like Mother Griolet. I’m sure it will be the sweetest pastry in the whole wide world!” She hugged Gabriella tightly before she ran into the store, her long hair, braided in two pigtails, flying out behind her.

Moments later she returned to the sidewalk, beaming as she held the little religieuse in its paper doily. “This is my first pastry, Gabriella. Mama never had the money for pastries.”

“She is wise, your mama. You mustn’t waste money on pastries. Just this once, a special treat for a special girl on a special day. Come along now.”

The mission house looked much the same as the other houses that faced the busy avenue. Its facade was sturdy, built of cement blocks and then stuccoed in the light-coral color typical of the Midi. Four pairs of heavy wooden shutters had been painted a grayish blue. They stood open, displaying the large single-pane windows that blinked back the sun’s reflection.

Gabriella rang the doorbell by the street entrance. Moments later a tall, blond young woman holding a baby in her arms opened the door.

“Gabriella Madison! Welcome!” the woman said. “And this must be your little friend, Ophélie.
Bonjour!
” She reached out with her free hand and stroked the child’s head.

“Oh dear. I hope we didn’t wake the baby,” Gabriella said.

“No, no. She had just gotten up. I’m Barbara Butler, as I told Mother Griolet when she phoned. Did you realize that our parents know one another, Gabriella? They met at a training conference years ago in the States. Your parents are in Senegal, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. And yours are in the Belgian Congo, I remember. Mother didn’t tell me that you would be here in Montpellier.”