by Tom Gamble
‘How interesting.’
‘Yes,’ said Summerfield, not without irony. ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever succeed, but at least I’m trying. And in any case, it’s a direction.’
‘A direction,’ voiced the young woman.
‘A path. And even if it’s not the right one, it will inevitably lead to another—perhaps even a crossroads.’
‘You speak like an Arab, Mr Summerfield. They are full of such contemplation.’
Summerfield laughed. ‘I’ve grown to like them. I—’ he checked to see if he hadn’t shocked her—‘I enjoy their company. They are far removed from what we Europeans think.’
‘I agree,’ said Jeanne Lefèvre. ‘I suppose it’s because I’ve lived here all my life, but I feel very close to them. I almost consider us one and the same.’
‘I don’t suppose some would be happy with that,’ grinned Summerfield. ‘The colonel, perhaps.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, the colonel is a fine fellow. Very nice—like an uncle at times.’
‘But he has to do his job,’ commented Summerfield, ruefully. ‘And very thoroughly, no doubt.’ He stopped himself. His young companion was looking at him curiously. ‘I apologise if I sound cynical,’ said Summerfield, lighting another cigarette. He offered it across but the young lady shook her head. ‘It’s just that I saw some of his men in action in the city. Thorough is a light word to use.’ She looked baffled. Summerfield shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Adult things.’ At this, the young woman reacted.
‘I am an adult, Mr Summerfield. I’m twenty-one—nearly twenty-two. Soon, I shall be leaving for France and university. You can talk to me of such things—I do understand.’
Summerfield was about to apologise once more, when they entered a small, lattice-work enclosure. It was the smell, the sudden razor sharp nip of scent that filed his nostrils. Somewhat startled, he looked around as if searching for something. It was a small, luxuriant herb garden. Thyme, chives, mint, cumin, pepper and cutting clear through the rest, that delicious smell—what had the servant called it—savory.
‘This is—’ he began, his look of bewilderment turning to a smile—‘this is heaven!’
Jeanne Lefèvre giggled and held a hand to her mouth. ‘You look like a little boy! Who is the child now!’ she added, somewhat impertinently. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘No—no, don’t be sorry,’ smiled Summerfield. ‘I deserve it. It’s just so wonderful—it was like entering Eden or something!’
‘How do you know Eden was like that?’
Summerfield held up his hand. ‘Now that is going too far,’ he reproached, jokingly. He halted, turning full circle to breathe in the fragrances. ‘And you? You mentioned you studied.’
A moment’s hesitation. The young woman wrapped her shawl closer to her and she gave a little shrugging motion of her shoulders. ‘Well, to use your own words, what really is important—although of course my studies are important—is…’
‘Yes?’ Summerfield frowned.
‘A wonderful story I am living.’
Summerfield stopped and turned to her, curious. His felt his heart warm and for a second her words, so clear, so truthful and devoid of bad intent, melted a hole in him. ‘That’s very good,’ he found himself saying and he gave a slight nod of encouragement. ‘Go on.’
‘I don’t know why I should be saying this—I shouldn’t really,’ added the young woman, avoiding his eyes. ‘I suppose it’s because I’ve had to keep it a secret for so long. And,’ she added, raising her head and with her voice full of curiosity, ‘it seems so much easier to speak of it to you—someone different.’
‘A stranger,’ added Summerfield, nodding, ‘Yes, it is easier to talk to someone you don’t know, or someone from afar about secret things. We feel protected somehow.’
‘I think I’ve fallen in love,’ continued the young woman, a little surprised by her own audacity. ‘In fact, I’ve never been in love so I’m supposing I am in love. And it’s wonderful.’
‘He is a lucky man,’ said Summerfield, suddenly feeling a tinge of fatherliness towards his young companion. She was so sweet. She reminded him of a kitten, curling up to sleep.
She laughed softly. ‘I’ve never seen him.’
‘Sorry?’ Summerfield glanced keenly at her.
‘No!’ She looked up. ‘Never. It’s all so gentle—by correspondence. A most incredible thing happened, Mr Summerfield, though you promise never to tell.’
Summerfield felt his heart seize up.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise, of course. But I—’
‘Several months ago I suddenly received a letter from a man—in the street, of all places.’
It was like a strong current forming. A current that gathered speed and swirled around a centre point, sucking Summerfield in. Suddenly, thoughts ran at him, shapeless. He smelt the clear peppery lemon scent of the herbs. The very smell on the letters he had received. Not Abrach’s scent, but—
‘And we kept up our correspondence,’ continued the young woman, oblivious to the turmoil in Summerfield’s mind. She shook her head. ‘Although he hasn’t written of late—and I’m afraid. Perhaps he has forgotten. Perhaps something has happened. I’m confused.’
Silence. In a single moment, it seemed as if the whole world had for years meant to bring Summerfield to this point, to this garden and the young woman. A whole stretch of time that made up his life, condensed into a single point no bigger than the tip of a needle, though more powerful than the highest mountain or the deepest ocean. He saw the young woman looking at him. He must have appeared frightening, for he saw her expression inexorably change from one of melancholy to wariness.
‘Forgive me,’ said Summerfield, his voice sounding shaky. ‘It reminded me of something similar, that’s all.’
‘Oh dear,’ fretted the young woman. ‘I’m sorry, too. I hope I didn’t bring back any sad memories.’
‘Not at all,’ blurted Summerfield, finally regaining composure. ‘On the contrary—you managed to bring me the best memories a man could have. Listen—there is no need to worry. Your story will not end. Not yet. He will be in touch, I’m sure.’
‘I do hope so.’
‘He will.’ Summerfield turned to the garden once more. ‘May I take some?’ he asked, bending down to seek out the savory. ‘This is delicious.’
‘I use it to scent my letters,’ said the young woman.
Summerfield couldn’t prevent a laugh from escaping him. ‘The fragrance is so much like you, I imagine. Clear and true.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing.’ Summerfield shook his head. ‘Remind me your name.’
‘It’s Jeanne.’
‘Listen Jeanne—’ Summerfield put his hand to his jacket and searched an inside pocket—‘I talked to you about my writing. I would like to offer you something I wrote—I’d appreciate it greatly if you read it and tell me what you think.’ The young woman gave him a strange glance, frowning at his hurriedness. ‘A writer needs some objective feedback. I’ll never succeed if not.’ His hand reappeared holding a folded letter and he offered it across. The young woman hesitated, then took it from his outstretched hand and began to unfold it. ‘Not now, though. It’s not the right moment,’ said Summerfield gently, laying a hand on her forearm. He withdrew it, conscious that she might be offended at the gesture. ‘I’ll get all embarrassed.’ Jeanne folded it back in place and held it in the palm of her hand. ‘Look,’ said Summerfield, beckoning at the sky. ‘The old stars—they live like us. Sometimes hard to see and hidden. Other times shining bright.’
‘Silvery points in night’s pincushion,’ said Jeanne. ‘I shall never be bored of them.’
Summerfield looked at her from the corner of his eyes, felt himself shudder with the sudden rush of feeling to his heart. ‘That’s perfectly true,’ he said. ‘Perfectly true.’
18
When all was said and done, and all the guests had left and the lights went out, and th
e noise of tidying from below—chinks and bumps and chimes—reached her; when Mohammed’s voice went soft with Soumia and there was a laugh and unsuspecting smells of the earth and leaves nipped the air of her room in bud, Jeanne reached for the letter, unfolded it with care, her thoughts straying vaguely back to the odd Englishman with his odd shoes and odd behaviour. She read, life coming upon her and she shone like the moon over fields of rippled grass and trees.
If you were a river, then I would be your banks, streamlined and crumbling and flowing with your life. And if you were a river, then I would be your willow, sagging with the weight of love, keeling with desire. And if you were a river, then I would seek your source and trickle on down until from joy I smile. And if you were a river, you would flood me with everything that is woman and I would pledge to carry you from the darkness that is land to sea. And if you were a river, then I would be your swan and grace your course with all the pride and beauty your vitality would have won. And if you were my river, running strong and cutting deep, then I would be your river bed where the souls of all lovers sleep. And if you were my golden river, I would be your reeds and lisp in the wind a whispered song on the ripples in your heart; and if you were a river, then I would be your seasons and thaw you evermore when froze and mellow your flow in every burning day that rose.
19
Abrach sat on the upholstered rear seat of his new acquisition, a 1932 Ford T, and smiled, glancing backwards through the rear window at the billowing wake of dust the car sent up. Summerfield turned, bouncing as the automobile hit a rut on the dirt road. Black shapes, people and carts and animals trudging either side, appeared then disappeared like ghosts in the shroud of sand and dust that reminded him of London fog. He smiled wanly back at the merchant and nodded.
‘I thought I would offer you a sightseeing tour,’ beamed Abrach. ‘Get you out of the city. I’d always wished to own a car,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Like the French.’
Summerfield nodded again. Despite the interest he showed in the occasion to visit the countryside, he felt uneasy in Abrach’s presence. The man’s generosity was great and every time he gave Summerfield something, it was a tug-of-war between a friendship and respect that was still pulling them together and Summerfield’s desire to end the contract between them.
Summerfield thought incessantly of Jeanne Lefèvre. Their walk in the garden had been like a dream and the impact of his discovery had taken a day to hit him. The following afternoon, sitting at his desk, the events suddenly slotted themselves into a logical order and the realisation was total and crushing. Had she read his message? Had it been the right thing to do? Once more, he had found himself cursing his impulsiveness. He wasn’t even clear-headed about his feelings for her. How could they get in contact? What, how, where, who, when? A hundred questions and for the moment, no clear answer.
And Abrach. An invitation to spend two days touring. Summerfield looked out of the car window at the plain and the distant hills, but his mind soon strayed, almost instantly, to his conversation with Jim Wilding.
The American had warned him. Jim had thought the situation dangerous, destined to fail and Summerfield’s intention was to terminate his contract with Abrach before it all got out of hand. But here he was, in the very presence of the man who had chosen Jeanne Lefèvre as the target for his love and he couldn’t utter a single word about it. In all appearances, it had got out of hand. It was too late. And the more he inwardly cursed himself, the more Abrach seemed to offer him his gratitude and friendship. Fate, it seemed, had in all appearances decided to play a vicious game with his conscience, testing and teasing him so that the more he approached the moment to tell Abrach, the further it wriggled from him.
They passed through a collection of crumbling stores and ragged houses on the road. Abrach tapped on his servant’s shoulder and told him to slow down for Summerfield to look.
‘Do we need petrol?’ he added, once more tapping the driver on the shoulder. And then, turning back to Summerfield: ‘I shouldn’t want us to end up taking a mule back to the city!’
Summerfield gazed out of the window at the poor little halt on the road, a shanty town of a village in all appearances. Here and there, miserable looking men clustered in groups, squatting by the side of the road with their ware displayed on shreds of blanket and cardboard—one or two bars of soap, a rusting jerry can filled with petrol, a couple of packets of rice or grain. Midway through the cluster of shacks, a checkpoint set up by a squad of gendarmes who, although not stopping them, stared suspiciously at the car and its Arabic and white skinned passengers. Hardly daring to glance back, Summerfield saw one of the military policemen lower his head to speak into a radio but whether it was intended for them he couldn’t tell.
Once out of the village, Abrach let out a sigh, then grinned. ‘They always make me feel a little uneasy,’ he said, smoothing out his gown.
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Ah, yes—your surprise encounter in the old city,’ intoned Abrach, with a note of philosophy in his voice. ‘Today, Harry, I should like you to visit my region, my village.’
‘Is it far?’ said Summerfield. Conversation was expected.
‘Not too far, I believe,’ answered the merchant. He spoke rapidly to the driver and turned back. ‘He says we shall be there in two hours. In fact,’ he added, pointing ahead through the windscreen, ‘it’s over there—in the foothills, a little to the south.’
Summerfield followed Abrach’s outstretched finger to a distant, low-lying stretch of land behind which, in layers and shades of grey, the hills grew into the mountains of the Atlas. He nodded and smiled. ‘Why does the driver keep putting his fist on the windscreen?’ he said, asking a question that had been plaguing him ever since leaving the city.
Abrach raised his eyebrows. It was so natural a gesture to him that he had failed to notice. ‘You mean this?’ he checked, mimicking the driver and stretching out his arm with fist clenched. Summerfield nodded. ‘For stones,’ replied Abrach, grinning. ‘Other cars, lorries—they make the same clouds as us. It’s to stop the windscreen from shattering if a stone hits it.’
‘I see,’ nodded Summerfield and, as if to back up Abrach’s explanation, a passing lorry automatically sent the driver’s fist as a wedge against the glass. ‘Interesting. Does it work?’
Abrach raised his eyebrows again and looked heavenwards. ‘Inchalla. I’ve never been hit by a stone.’
They drove on, the leaf-spring suspension bending and bouncing over a particularly rutted section of the road. One such pothole lifted the driver off his seat and his head smacked with a loud, dull thump on the sparsely padded roof. As if to make up for the embarrassing event, he began hooting aggressively at the walkers on the roadside, followed by a string of abuse when a goat strayed suddenly across their path. Once again, on relative flat, Abrach’s face became serious.
‘And now business, Harry. It is time,’ he said, his eyes glazing over wistfully for a fleeting moment. ‘We must now recommence our correspondence with the young woman. And I ask you, Mr Summerfield, not to spare any passion.’ Summerfield glanced away and nodded. ‘But first, I received this,’ continued Abrach, reaching inside his gown and bringing an envelope from his pocket. ‘A rather strange message from the young woman in question. It seems she mistook someone for myself. Hence the necessity—the rather urgent necessity—to speed up the proceedings before she escapes.’
‘Escapes?’ said Summerfield, surprised by the merchant’s use of words.
Abrach laughed. ‘Of course not—just a figurative remark. I imagine you can interpret this as a mark of my concern. The young lady has been in my heart far too long for me to want to give her up for someone else.’
Summerfield took the envelope from Abrach’s hand. ‘We may have to concede that it is possible,’ he said, waiting for Abrach to give him a sign to open it. The merchant nodded, both for Summerfield to read the message and in answer to his words.
‘A younger
man—a Frenchman, no doubt… She is bound to meet plenty of young suitors in her milieu.’ Abrach seemed lost in his thoughts for some seconds, then exhaled. ‘Yes, very likely Harry. But I am philosophical. I see this as a test and as a challenge, both for her and for me. If she is true, and what she writes is what she means, then I shall one day win her.’
‘If you have not already won,’ said Summerfield, unfolding the message and breathing in the faint scent of savory. It made him smile. He looked up to see Abrach staring at him. ‘The exchange of words has been very encouraging,’ he explained, with tact, looking the merchant in the eyes. ‘Perhaps it was an error to have made a break in the process.’
Abrach’s face hardened and his eyes drew almost shut. ‘No,’ he said, pinching his fleshy chin. ‘No, I believe it was the right thing to do. Read and perhaps you will see my point.’
Steadying himself against the jolting car, Summerfield donned his spectacles and held the paper with both hands. He had to read through the message twice.
I recognised it was you. Such words do not come from any man, nor even any particular man. They are words brought in from the desert and the mountains as if by magic, blown in on the winds to take their place on paper. And the wind shapes your writing, with its loops and attack and lines and dots. Why had you never told me your name? Why the secrecy? Once again, I ask you to meet me. I am burning; a candle whose flame now dances and falters in the wind, then ignites and burns bright. Write soon. Tell me where we can meet.
Summerfield did not wish to raise his head. His heart drummed wildly. Letting out a sigh of irritation, trying to control his emotions, he feigned reading a third time. Thank God she hadn’t written his name—perhaps she had forgotten it. His heart winced. Between his shoulder blades, the sweat turned cold and made him shiver. And at the same time, he burned, for she had answered him, recognised him. It was all so damn close to Abrach finding out that a stab of panic darted through him. It was time, said a voice. Tell him—now.