“Circumstances? Circumstances are the excuses of the incompetent!”
Now a little spark had appeared in the eyes of the older woman. “Well, I will admit to incompetence, Miss. But you have not heard me out!”
Valerie bit back a short, sharp answer and resisted the impulse to slam out of the café. This woman, her mother, was the only source of information about her family. Curiosity was beginning to override her anger.
“All right, then. Did you know who my father was?”
Mme de Vichsser dropped her cup with a clatter. “What? What do you take me for, Miss?”
“I can’t know, can I? I don’t know anything about you.”
“Your father and I were married when I was seventeen.”
“Where is he?”
Here it came. What was she going to say? Maryana de Vichsser hesitated. Not only had she put all that behind her, not only was she writhing with the shame of choosing such a man, but this was his daughter. What would she think? Surely the girl would despise her. But she had prepared herself for that. She sighed, “Sit down again and I will tell you.”
Valerie remained standing, trying to still her thumping heartbeat. Then, knowing that this might be her only chance to discover where she really belonged, she slowly drew out her chair and sat down again.
“You must know first that he died a long time ago. His family ran a large Moroccan restaurant in Brussels. Your father was handsome, looked rather like that old film actor, Omar something. I fell for his fine words and exotic eyes. I had no future to speak of, just perhaps inheriting my father’s little shop for the rest of my life. I was very young, very romantic. He courted me, and then we were married.”
“What was he like?”
Maryana hesitated. “I am afraid he was not a very good man. He and his family were involved in some kind of racket, and the local Mafia. When I found out about the dirty work, I tried to get away, but they needed me to cover for them. I have nothing more to say about your father.” Her bitter memories of violence and brutality were coming back with force. She closed her lips tightly lest she say too much, and squeezed out, “He became very, er… unkind to me, and when I discovered I was pregnant I was absolutely terrified...”
Oh, yes, indeed. He had begun to talk of renting her body to strangers and had broken her arm with his last beating. “I was afraid of what he might do... I began planning how to get away. And just then, there was some sort of row with the syndicate and he had to leave town, and while he was gone, I picked you up and crept away with whatever I could find in the house. I was going to my mother, but when I reached the shop, it had burned down and nobody was there. I dared not apply for aid, lest he find me. I changed my name and dyed my hair, but he was a ruthless man. If he found me with a baby girl, he would kill us both.
“And worst of all, I couldn’t feed you. I had nothing, and we were hiding in cellars, with no way to buy or warm milk for you. You were hungry all the time, and I could not keep you quiet; my heart was in my throat every time you cried, lest they find us. I had to take you somewhere where they would care for you. If the police found us, they would have taken you away. If the Moroccans found us – I dared not think. If we continued as we were, you would starve.
“Yes, I was incompetent, and just nineteen, and alone. But I saved your life.”
Valerie sat still, trying to absorb all this. She asked, finally, “What happened to him?”
“A few years later he was shot in some kind of gun battle, some settling of accounts in the underworld I guess... It was in the papers... Children need food and clothes and lessons and supervision, none of which I could provide.”
“They also need their mothers...” Valerie uttered in a low voice, breaking her uncomfortable silence.
Mme de Vichsser regarded her with a sad smile.
“It’s easy to be competent with a full purse, my girl. If you want to look for your father’s grave I will give you his name.”
Valerie shook her head. “I’ve always thought I was Belgian. Now I am Moroccan and – Russian.” Her head was spinning.
“It’s good to have choices,” replied her mother. “It took me years.”
The waiter came by and eyed the untouched, cold teacup and the tepid Coke. “Perhaps mesdames would care for another?”
Mme de Vichsser glanced at him and nodded. “Thank you. And bring some pastries.”
Valerie was still too bemused to speak. They sat in silence surreptitiously eyeing one another, perhaps seeking likenesses, until the waiter returned with fresh drinks.
“So, who is de Vichsser, then?” Valerie asked at last.
“A very kind man who asked me to marry him, some time later. He was Flemish, and worked as a conductor on the trams. He was nothing like your father. We lived peacefully, like good friends, and he made me put behind the past. It was a quiet life, full of contentment. He’s gone now. I loved him, we had a fine companionship. But we never managed to have children.” She lowered her gaze and then looked up at Valerie. “Perhaps that was my punishment for what I had done to you.” Suddenly Maryana’s tone altered.
“Such an odd thing! His mother was called Valerie, like you. I never told him about you. I was so ashamed.” She stared into her tea. “I wonder why? At the time, I thought it was because of your father, but now I think it was because I had abandoned you.”
She looked up and reached for Valerie’s hand. “Do you understand? There was never one minute that I didn’t think of you, and wonder how you were, how you were doing in school, did you have friends… I went to the orphanage again and again, begged them, but they would never tell me anything. Finally, now that you have left, one of the sisters took pity on me and told me your name and that you were attending the Police Academy. I was so proud!” She bit back tears. “I’ve longed for this moment for most of my life, it seems, and here we are!”
Valerie, for her part, was too stunned by all these revelations to respond at all. It all seemed unreal. Something out of a film.
Mme de Vichsser went on, “I would so love to remain in touch with you, my child. I know I have no right to ask it. But if you… if you could see your way to… ” The brimming eyes were imploring for some reaction, some response.
Almost without realising her estranged daughter clasped her hands. “Yes, we should get to know each other. I think I would like that.” Sometimes Valerie surprised herself.
* * * *
Only sixteen months after their reunion, the former Maryana Alexandrovna and current Anna de Vichsser passed away, beaten by a rampant, rare cancer. They had become acquainted, but not really close, not yet. And now she had to repeat all the pain of burying a mother for a second time. Fate had not granted her enough time to share the trivial routine moments that everybody takes for granted, even to squabble like mother and daughter, to live a simple life together like other mothers and daughters on this planet.
And so Mme de Vichsser’s small ground floor apartment, in the same Woluwe Saint Lambert building where, by chance, lived Keith MacFarland whose life she had saved not long ago, fell into the hands of her daughter, Valerie, her only heir.
At first Valerie planned to sublet it, as if she feared to dwell in the space where her real mother had lived so long, as if she feared the ghosts of the past, and even a re-opening of the pain of abandonment...
Then came her dreadful accident on the ice and the long months in hospital before she recovered enough to be released. The hard impact of her head on the ice had caused permanent damage to her optic nerve, and two operations and prescription glasses could only do so much. There would be headaches and dizzy spells for the rest of her life. Never again would she be able to work long hours at a computer screen, much less perform the active duties of a police officer. Her sense of smell had been affected, so that food no longer had any taste; it was like eating cardboard or wet paper towels. Although she had missed the swearing-in ceremony, she still received her degree, but her health no longer met the required qua
lifications. So her dream of active police work had melted away, along with any future she might have had in the police force.
But there was a very small ray of light in the misfortune. The department decided that as they had invested quite a lot in her training, they would find her some undemanding work to do in a department for which she would not need such strong eyesight. Valerie was put to the internal sorting and distribution of mail in the police headquarters in Brussels. All incoming post at the central police directorates in Brussels went every morning through her hands before distribution to its various destinations. Every morning she watched enviously as her colleagues, wearing the uniform that she had only once put on herself, gathered to perform their daily duties. She listened bitterly to the professional chat about forensic matters, and incidents encountered on patrol as they served the citizens. The deathbed promise she had made to her mother, Melanie, to help her fellow man could not now be fulfilled. Ever.
In time, Valerie slowly grew accustomed to her new miserable work, her truncated new life, in the same way she had accepted all the previous blows. She had no other options. There was no way to study anything else, or to devote herself to another job that required any kind of reading or using a computer. Resigned on the surface, her heart was clenched with self-pity and rage at her terrible misfortune and all its consequences, never to have had a real chance at a normal life with the few people whom she had loved. After a while, her anger settled into a general hostility towards those around her, to all the oblivious lucky ones who could do work they liked and live with loved ones. Her face, already deformed by the broken nose and several follow-up operations, took on a permanent scowl, and her dysfunctional eyeballs stared prominently from under her scarred brow.
Even Paola was leaving her. She had met The Right Man. Valerie had to listen to bridal rhapsodies until she felt sick, and finally Paola moved with her new husband to another district of the city. Valerie decided then that the time had come to leave the small flat in Saint Josse and move into her mother’s flat in Woluwe, hoping that the passage of time had somehow quieted the ghosts of the pain and sorrow of the past. After some small renovations, she moved into the flat some late October.
One day, she happened to be in the first metro carriage on her way to work at the same time as Keith MacFarland. Her mother had told her about meeting him the night that kind Irishman had been trapped in the flooded lift. Valerie had thought she might like to make his acquaintance; he was someone who had actually known her mother. And he sounded pretty decent. It was the first time she had felt any flicker of interest in anyone since the accident.
On her third day in the new flat, she took the lift to the sixth floor and rather hesitantly rang the bell of MacFarland’s flat, but there was no reply. With a sigh, she thought, “Well, I can try again.” But so far, he had never seemed to be in.
This morning she had woken with a foul headache and double vision. These symptoms occurred now and then to remind her that life was sometimes just too hard to live. She directed her steps heavily towards the station, wondering if she had enough of the pills and potions that were supposed to control them, glaring at her fellow passengers who were looking pain-free and well rested. She hated them. Them, and herself and her whole life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sixth Stop: Merode – Selim
Selim’s mother was dying. He sat by her bedside clasping her hand in his, wondering how he would manage without her. Ever since he could remember, Emine had stood by him, even protecting him from the twins, who had early discovered that being a year younger and yet three sizes bigger meant that their ‘big brother’ was ripe for bullying. They had a special bond from the early days in Istanbul and throughout all their time in Europe. She had taught him to read early while the twins were off playing ball. She had taught him about being kind to the weak and been proud of his success at school, although, of course, also appreciating the lesser accomplishments of the boys. That didn’t save Selim from their envious retribution, though. He had been relieved when they married young and moved into houses nearby.
He was also glad of the help of his sisters-in-law with the care of Emine.
She was resting now, presumably dozing, until he looked at her face and found her eyes gazing intently at him as though she wanted to speak. But her voice was as faint as the whine of a gnat’s wings.
“Salim. The red box.”
Salim? “Was she that bad really? She couldn’t even speak his name?” But the carved red box was the one on her dresser, the one where she kept her mother’s ring.
“You want the box?”
She looked at him, pleading. He rose and brought it to her. She was unable to open it herself; he had to turn the little key and lift the lid for her. Her fingers wandered over its contents, though what she sought seemed to be the envelope lying on top. He lifted it out and put it in her hand. She pushed it back and pointed to him, then her hand fell weakly back onto the bedclothes and her eyes closed.
The envelope was addressed to him, unsealed. Flabbergasted, he opened it. She was watching him again and moved her head weakly in a nod.
The letter began:
“My darling boy,
“I promised your father before he died that one day I would tell you this story, but somehow I kept putting it off, and finally realised that I was afraid.
“I think of myself as your mother, and I didn’t want that ever to change. I didn’t want you to change, above all. So I decided to write it all down, and one day, when I was feeling very brave, I would give it to you. I suppose that if you are reading this, either I found the courage – or I never did. But my boy you must know this. It is, after all, your secret.
“Many years ago now, we were living in Turkey, just outside Adana. Those were terrible days. The Israelis had invaded the Lebanon and frightened refugees were streaming in across the Syrian border. Every day they were passing through our village. One late summer evening there was a little tap at our door. I opened it to find a ragged young couple with three small children and a baby, fainting with exhaustion.
“Does the Koran not command us to give charity to the travelling stranger? They begged for a little food and water. They had somehow slipped over through Syria where they had fled from Palestine. Conversation with them was difficult; none of us spoke the other's language, but we understood that they hoped to find some relatives in Istanbul. We let them stay for a while to rest, and shared what we had. So many glasses of water they drank, like camels! They must have been walking in the heat for hours without water.
“I was already pregnant with your brothers, and very interested in babies. I asked the girl if I might hold her little one. As soon as I took that child in my arms and looked into his little face I was lost. His big dark eyes spoke to my heart. And he smiled at me. I twisted up inside when he waved his little hands as if asking for help. I kissed him on the head. I wanted to keep him in my arms forever. The couple looked at one another, then they looked at me and gestured: ‘You keep him.’
“I was horrified! What kind of parents would just give away their child to a stranger? They didn’t deserve him! I screamed at them, ‘Oh, shame! To commit such a sin on your own child!’ Seeing my rage, they backed away, trying to say something. They finally made us understand that this child was not theirs. By fits and starts and gestures and even little pictures, they informed me that this baby had been found crying in a Palestine house filled with blood, where the whole family had been slaughtered by Israeli soldiers. It had been a terrible night in that village.
“By some miracle the baby had survived but was now orphaned, and there was no other family to care for him. There might have been another child, but no one knew its fate. And these ragged young folk had barely a penny to their name.
“He reached up and put a warm little hand on my cheek. He wanted to be mine. I clutched him close to my chest and the rascal smiled up at me with eyes bright with love. The pair in my belly reminded me of their presence,
and I thought how much love and care would be theirs. And what would happen to this little mite, in the terror and confusion of the times?
“I instantly realised that I would not let anyone or anything separate me from this baby. I turned towards your father who was watching, and asked him with my eyes, and he nodded, ‘Yes!’ with a tender smile. We were nearly destitute but, compared with the poor wretches who had knocked on our door that night, we were safe and rich. When it is the will of Allah, anything is possible.
“That baby was you, my beloved son...”
Selim sank into the chair. No, this could not be true. He clasped the letter to his breast, speechless and lost. It had never crossed his mind that he was not the real child of Emine. His heart was ready to break.
His world had been shattered. Suddenly he was alone, floating unanchored, a stranger among strangers. His mother was not his mother and he was not Selim. He did not know who he was.
There was more: “Your real name, they told us, was Salim El Amin. So we decided to keep the same name in Turkish, Selim. We went and registered you as our own child. Things then were much easier than today; in all the confusion nobody could check on all the necessary documents. We told them you were delivered at home by a midwife. We had to pick you a birth date.
“A few months after the twins came, we heard from your father’s brother in Belgium that there were jobs in mining to be had. We packed up immediately and came here. We’ve tried to settle in, but it has been quite difficult and painful. But you know that, my son ... and now you know all.
“I hope you will forgive me some day for keeping this secret. I couldn’t risk losing you! You are mine by all the laws of Allah and of man.”
He took her hands. “No, Anneh, I can’t accept this. You are my mother, always.” He kissed her brow. Her forehead was chilly. “Oh, Anneh, no, Mother, don’t go!” Her weakened look, overflowing with maternal love and supplication, defeated him. Unable to help himself, he caught her in his arms.
The Next Stop Page 21