Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘No time!’ squealed Sarah, gleefully. ‘Come on—you know what old Marthe will say if we’re late!’

  ‘But the loo!’ replied Jeanne.

  ‘Should’ve gone before. Pisseuse!’

  ‘Sarah!’ gasped Jeanne. ‘Your language!’

  And so classes commenced. Sœur Marthe, age unknown and unfathomable, already puffing from the heat at this time of the day, seemed to single her out. Jeanne couldn’t keep her eyes from glancing down at her satchel and the hidden letter. Sister Marthe, her own eyes very much alert despite her Calvary—she was quite red in the face now and had brought out her habitual perfume flacon, an ornate bulb-like article filled with water and with a rubber pump attached to it that, when pressed, wheezed a spray of water onto her face—spotted her.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lefèvre,’ came Sister Marthe’s voice. ‘Am I right to conclude that you keep looking at your neighbour’s work?’

  Jeanne froze. ‘No, Sister.’

  ‘Then what are you up to, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Up to no good,’ came a comment from somewhere at the back and a collective, but restrained giggle spread through the class, brought to an abrupt end by the gargoyle-like grimace suddenly appearing on Sister Marthe’s face.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sorry, Sister Marthe,’ returned Jeanne, blushing furiously and diverting all her energy to sitting up straight and attentive.

  ‘You look a little flustered,’ continued the teacher.

  ‘She’s in love!’ came a whisper and this time, laughter and whoops, impervious to Sister Marthe’s glowering, rose up from the students.

  ‘That’s not true!’ returned Jeanne, immediately realising her mistake. For now, no one would ever believe her. The other students whooped loudly again.

  ‘Be quiet!’ shouted Sister Marthe, puffing from the effort. The class fell silent. Sister Marthe’s perfume pump wheezed flatulently. ‘Continue with the next paragraph, Lefèvre. Read.’ And so began Jeanne’s blurted, stumbling reading of Shakespeare’s The Tempest until Sister Marthe, herself seemingly under torture, almost pleaded her to stop. ‘Whatever is the matter, Mademoiselle? Are you ill?’

  Jeanne flushed a deep crimson, hesitated, then said: ‘I would like to go to the ladies’ room, please.’

  ‘That’s right, Sister,’ came Sarah’s voice. ‘She wanted to go at the beginning of lessons. Her bladder must be bursting!’ Again, the laughter.

  ‘Sarah Bassouin!’ shrieked Sister Marthe. ‘Just because you are leaving us for marriage, doesn’t mean you are exempt from civility! Now,’ continued the old teacher, mopping her brow, ‘why didn’t you simply put your hand up, my girl?’

  ‘I thought it was—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought it was just…but it isn’t.’

  ‘Lord,’ sighed Sister Marthe, phlegmatic. ‘You’re a little bit early this month—off you go. Quick!’

  Jeanne stood up, clutching her bag and made her way out of the classroom as discreetly as possible, unfortunately knocking over the parasol stand in the effort. A loud clatter rang through the classroom, again followed by giggles. She stooped down, helped by Cécile who had left her seat, and then disappeared behind the door, closing it with the vision of Sister Marthe’s eyes rolling heavenwards in despair.

  Once in the toilets, Jeanne locked herself in a latrine and sat down. She was breathless. The excitement was unbearable, almost like fear. Her hands trembling, she reached down and brought her satchel to her knees. The letter seemed so precious, so delicate. Again the faint smell of fleur d’oranger, faint though strong enough to overcome the odour of bleach in the small cubicle. She was afraid she might tear it in two and again she leant back and caught her breath. Sister Marthe would be wondering. And the others. Mustn’t be too long, the thought raced through her mind. Putting all her strength of concentration into the folded paper, she slowly peeled away the seal, whimpered when she made a slight tear, regained control of her fingers and continued until the seal was completely broken. The letter slipped out of the envelope and fluttered from her fingers to the floor. She picked it up, unfolded it and gasped—it was a poem!

  With past-midnight eyes

  the old, everlasting stars do shine

  as they do over endless hearts

  and endless words.

  Countless they are

  Both those silvery

  points in night’s pincushion

  and metaphors for eyes,

  heartbeats, fate and foolery:

  for there are some ageless stories

  that are born to live

  and live they do—like stars.

  Jeanne felt her body slide from under her. She opened her eyes. Somehow, she had ended up on the floor, slumped in a crouching position in the confines of the cubicle. She was unable to gauge how much time had passed, but it felt like the years in the poem—endless. She had fainted. Good God, she had fainted, she said to herself, as though asking for confirmation. She tried to get up, slipped back down and drew a deep breath, this time heaving herself up to a sitting position. Quickly, she folded away the letter, her fear now that of losing it. She chose not to put it back into her satchel, instinctively tucking it under the waistband of her skirt to the elastic of her drawers, against her skin, and covered it up with the folds in her blouse.

  When she opened the door to the classroom, she was met with silence. The girls were sitting a test and Sister Marthe, for an instant eyeing Jeanne with suspicion, then with concern, nodded to her to sit down. Poor Jeanne. She could not, for one second, concentrate. The text appeared aggressive, the letters blurred. Again she felt herself reddening. She must have been staring at the test paper, for a hand suddenly appeared on her desk top. It was Sister Marthe’s, with wrinkles, liver spots and all. Jeanne closed her eyes, fearing the worst—fearing that she would ask her to stand up. She saw it all: the letter would slip out and fall to the floor; Sister Marthe would ask her to read it in front of the whole class. The shame, she said inwardly. Instead, the hand rose to rest, surprisingly lightly, on her shoulder. She looked up. Sister Marthe’s face was different. There was a softness in it. The old teacher raised her eyebrows, a sign for Jeanne to rise. Silently, without fuss, she followed Sister Marthe out into the corridor.

  ‘You are in trouble, Jeanne.’ The Sister’s voice was gentle.

  Jeanne shook her head. ‘No, Sister. I’m very tired, that’s all. A little fatigue.’

  This time Sister Marthe shook her head. ‘You obviously have something worrying you, Jeanne. It would be wise to talk.’

  Jeanne hesitated and a little whimper escaped her lips. ‘I’m sorry, Sister Marthe—I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  The old lady pursed her lips and the gargoyle came fleetingly back to her expression, then disappeared. ‘In that case, I prescribe a day or two of rest over the weekend. No going out, especially with Sarah Bassouin and those parties of hers. I shall write a note to your parents. Off you go. Home—Friday is finished for you.’

  Jeanne could not have hoped for a more awful turning of events. Before she knew it, Sister Marthe had accompanied her to the infirmary and attended time enough for the nurse, a small, wiry woman called Mme. Hubert, to administer Jeanne two doses of quinine. The ghastly liquid was so bitter it brought tears to her eyes. She sat there, on the side of one of the two beds in the drab little room, painted pea-green, while Nurse Hubert went on to take her blood pressure.

  Her heart was beating fast—not so much from the fact that she could feel the letter against the skin of her hips, but rather through the fear that nurse Hubert would ask her to undress for further examination and discover it. The envelope had become limp with her perspiration, a clinging presence against her hip, a source of growing irritation that turned into an annoying itch. She fought to stay still.

  Twenty minutes later, Nanny Soumia appeared at the door. ‘I knew something was wrong!’ she fretted, giving the nurse an all-knowing scowl.

  ‘Nothing so serious,�
� replied Nurse Hubert, ‘Most likely just a case of stomach cramps. Make sure she drinks a lot.’

  ‘I knew it!’ shrieked Soumia—nurse had touched her on a nerve-end. Jeanne winced with embarrassment.

  ‘If it continues after this evening, call the doctor—just to make sure,’ added nurse Hubert, frowning. She reached into a tray and pulled out a form. ‘Now,’ she said, turning to both Jeanne and Soumia. ‘I need your signatures—or your mark—just here, at the bottom.’

  Nanny Soumia took the pen. ‘I can write,’ she said, almost in defiance and signed, her tongue protruding from between her teeth, taking the utmost care with her loops, before passing the pen on to Jeanne.

  Once home, Jeanne had hoped she could slip up to her bedroom and hide the letter. Her mother had decided otherwise. Instead, Soumia led the young woman to the veranda and seated her in the wicker armchair usually reserved for her father. Presently, her mother arrived, with Soumia reappearing at her sides carrying the tea tray.

  Jeanne’s mother was tall, pale and doted with a sort of serenity that spoke of manners and good company and a certain belief in boundaries that were not to be overstepped. Her eyes were steady and grey, her lips rather thin and delicate—lips that Jeanne knew both capable of uttering the softest compliment and the bitterest reproach. She had never quite managed to obtain her mother’s attention in its entirety. Over all the years, their time together invariably left Jeanne with a sense that something was missing.

  Jeanne’s mother, dressed in one of her lemon-yellow dresses (she had several in her wardrobe), sat down next to her and took her hand.

  ‘Sister Marthe phoned through before you left. How are you, my dear?’

  ‘She said she would write a note,’ replied Jeanne, a frown creasing her forehead. It seemed almost like treason. ‘She didn’t have to phone. There’s really no need to worry, mother. Just a little tired lately.’

  Her mother made a nodding motion with her head. Was that a smile Jeanne could detect? ‘It seems to be a long-lasting tiredness,’ said Mme Lefèvre, sending a glance to Soumia, a sign for her to leave. ‘Nanny informed me of the same occurrence—almost a week ago. Tell me,’ she continued, her voice calm. She poured tea and offered a cup across. ‘What sort of tiredness is it? Perhaps an Edouard tiredness?’—the words emphasised, as though held aloft in a pair of tweezers.

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Silly it may sound,’ returned her mother, her lips showing a fleeting trace of amusement. ‘But really—your father and I have noticed that he seems to loiter every time we meet.’

  ‘He’s a little serious,’ replied Jeanne, suddenly quite interested in the conversation.

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe he collects insects.’

  ‘Stamps, mother.’

  ‘Much the same thing,’ continued her mother. ‘A nice boy. His father is one of Papa’s friends—a good position, too.’

  ‘Is that a criterion for matchmaking, maman? I thought that disappeared with the turning of the century.’

  ‘Don’t be so impertinent, dear Jeanne. I was just mentioning that it would be preferable to get to know a young man whose parents are—are one of our own kind, that’s all.’ She looked up, saw the shock on her daughter’s face and smiled again. ‘Edouard is indeed a nice boy.’

  ‘And he indeed seems to like me,’ said Jeanne, exploring.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied her mother, sipping her tea. ‘Nice and… dreadfully boring. In fact, quite like his father—but for heaven’s sake don’t tell. Could you imagine, Jeanne, being made to accompany him to the souk every week to choose his specimens—beetles, cockroaches, spiders—oh!’

  ‘I said he collected stamps, mother!’ said Jeanne, joining in with her mother’s laughter.

  ‘You did, my dear, you did.’ A silence, while they both gathered themselves. Her mother sipped again and placed the dainty tea cup back down on the tray. She looked across. ‘Jeanne, I do wish you to fall in love, of course. It would make a relationship more special. More…lasting, perhaps.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. But not now—and not with anybody.’

  ‘You mean, court each other like you and papa did?’

  Her mother’s lips seemed to grow thinner, almost disappear. ‘Yes, dear—like I and your father. Now,’ she added, drawing breath. ‘You seem better, already. I imagined a little chat would do some good. But you still haven’t mentioned what it is that’s causing your state. If it isn’t Edouard…’

  ‘The exams,’ offered Jeanne, knowing full well that her mother was aware they were some months off. ‘The weather—’ Her mother cleared her throat, ever so softly, obviously a sign. Jeanne sighed. She thought of the letter. What would her mother’s reaction be? What would her father say—he’d probably have guards placed around her night and day. She sighed again. ‘It’s me,’ she said, finally, catching her mother unprepared.

  ‘You?’

  ‘I—I’m beginning to feel…that I’m different, mother.’

  ‘Different?’ Again the word held in her mother’s tweezers. ‘Of course you’re different—we all are.’

  ‘Mother, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a woman who is neither like you nor papa.’

  Her mother gave a little snort. ‘Firstly, woman—perhaps the word is a little too precocious, Jeanne.’

  ‘I’m twenty, mother—nearly twenty-one.’

  ‘And I find it particularly insulting to hear you speak of difference,’ continued her mother. ‘Whatever’s different about you, my girl?’

  ‘The colour of my skin,’ said Jeanne, perhaps too quickly. ‘My features,’ she added, only causing further damage.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ cried her mother, making Soumia suddenly appear on the veranda. ‘Go away,’ ordered her mother in the same breath. ‘Ridiculous and insulting. A little girl’s fantasy—the poor little orphan syndrome. Jeanne—I could expect this from a girl of six and not—as you pretend to be—a woman of twenty.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Jeanne, wanting to justify herself, but her mother made a waving motion with her hand.

  ‘Go up to your room and take a cold bath, girl. It will calm your wild mind. I don’t know what it is that is causing this behaviour, but it must disappear in time for dinner. Do you understand. I want no further discussion on the matter.’

  Jeanne hesitated then, seeing there was no use in continuing, rose and walked away. Dinner with her father, would surely see her crucified—forbidden to go out for the next month. God, how she felt miserable.

  Jeanne finally found herself in her bedroom. She locked the door. Falling onto her bed, exhausted, she gazed at the ceiling for a long time, concentrating on the rise and fall of her chest, the heaviness disappearing from her limbs that became light, almost floating. After some time, she moved her hand to her hip pulling away the folds of her blouse tucked into her skirt. Her fingertips touched the letter, hot and damp and gently pulled. It would not come loose. It was stuck to her. She unclasped the waistband of her skirt, prised it apart and pulled down one side of her knickers. On her side now, propped up by her pillows, her free hand gently peeled away the envelope. There was ink on her skin—her dull skin—and the scent of orange essence. Again, she felt light, slightly dizzy. She lay on her back, the envelope between her hands. The seal came away in tendrils of glue. The letter, unfolded, smelled heavy, overpowering. She read and time passed, unimportant, unnoticed.

  The last trial in her day, dinner, was a most bizarre occasion. Jeanne had descended at eight sharp, freshly washed and clothed in her pyjamas, determined to keep her composure. Her father, still in his working suit of white linen, back hunched and balding, the epitome of the government civil servant, accepted her kiss without moving from his seat at the table. Mother sat to his left, reading through the newspaper he had brought her back from the office. From time to time, she made a comment and engaged in a brief exchange with her. When Soumia served dinner, the conversation turned to her father’s day at w
ork, the situation in France and in Europe, the Hindenburg disaster that, although some months old, had etched in their memories forever with the newsreel they’d watched at the Pathé picture house. Jeanne’s father, rinsing his mouth with local table wine, enquired how she was. Glancing across at her mother, Jeanne replied that she had been a little tired, but was now feeling better. Her mother said nothing, kept a mysterious silence and let herself drift along with the turn of conversation.

  Jeanne returned to her room at nine, relieved and filled with mild surprise. Had mother been showing a sign of feminine solidarity? Perhaps, thought Jeanne, they were at last to be real friends, real equals.

  Switching on her bedside lamp, again she read the poem. And once more, time passed, irrelevant. She had never been impulsive, never been in love. But she wanted to. She wanted to feel that great and noble feeling that some of her friends had experienced, had talked about. They had said it was like flying higher than any bird, on a current that just kept lifting you upwards, towards the sun and heaven. At other moments, they said it sent you plummeting desperately, uncontrollably downwards until it seemed you would die. And at the last instant, when all seemed lost, it would shoot you upwards again to soar high and free. They said it did strange things to your heart and sent the most exquisite shivers through the whole of your body. There were things, too, that they did not speak about, but which Jeanne, together with the other avid listeners, could imagine—dark things, forbidden things, things that went beyond upbringing and frontiers and colour and race. It was as if everything that stood for order was shattered. A soft and violent anarchy. Jeanne wanted to feel that. It seemed, at that precise moment, that her entire life had been devoted to leading her to this point in time.

  She picked up her favourite pen and withdrew a piece of paper from a drawer, conscious that something grand and beyond her mortal control was about to take place. She was about to live, about to taste the world and all its glory. She began to write her reply.