Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  Summerfield smiled. Jeanne Lefèvre, in her uniform and conscious of it, smiled in return and they simultaneously looked away.

  ‘Lunch lasts for an hour and a half. I have to be back for two,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

  ‘We’ll get back on time,’ said Summerfield softly. ‘Tell me—when did you understand it was me?’ Their eyes met. She noticed the little glint of irony in Summerfield’s expression, the sad and merry lines around his grey eyes and she laughed and it was as if the stiffness had suddenly gone from her.

  ‘Straight away,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘The reference to water, the river—stones.’

  ‘I was hoping you would. I had kept it in my pocket for some weeks—a mad thought that one day I’d hand it to the woman I was writing to.’ Summerfield leant forwards. ‘I almost gave it to your friend—Jean Bassouin’s daughter.’

  ‘Sarah?’ Jeanne’s voice rose, a little indignant.

  ‘I thought she was you.’

  Jeanne frowned. ‘But you knew who I was.’

  Silence. Summerfield leant back again, fished in his pocket for a cigarette he had rolled before coming. ‘Jeanne—I want to tell you something.’

  ‘I asked at the hotel for you, but you weren’t there. I met your friend, Jim Wilding.’

  ‘I must tell you something,’ continued Summerfield, trying to lead her back from her tangent.

  ‘I made up a story about handing you a book—I think he thought it strange that I wanted to see you in person.’

  ‘Jeanne—’

  ‘It’s how I found out where you were—it’s only if he asks you any questions—’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’ Summerfield exhaled. His voice was calm, flat. Jeanne looked at him questioningly, her deep brown eyes widening slightly. ‘That’s what I had to tell you. Before we go any further.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Okay—’ Summerfield shook his head—‘No, I’m not being very clear. It was me—I did write those words.’

  ‘You just said you didn’t.’

  ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘You see—the letters—in fact I didn’t know who you were.’ A fleeting look of panic followed by a barely controlled uneasiness came over her face—it was like an ebbing wave. ‘Don’t worry,’ added Summerfield. ‘It doesn’t mean that I wasn’t true. It’s just—just that in the beginning I was writing on another person’s behalf, but the words were and are mine.’

  Silence. Summerfield could see her mind working fast to comprehend. She fought for some seconds, unsure of whether to speak, whether her words were the right words. And then she found them, almost flinched.

  ‘You were making it all up.’

  ‘No—yes, in the beginning. He gave me a description, told me of his feelings towards you. I imagined you. It’s why I confused you with Sarah—in some ways you look quite alike.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘And then, little by little I understood who you were. I learnt to appreciate what you were—your thoughts and your words. I’m sorry.’

  Again some hesitation, searching for clarity. She looked at him very directly.

  ‘And this man? What if it’s this man I’ve fallen—’ she hesitated, checking herself—‘and not you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ said Summerfield, his own voice now carrying a pitch of indignation.

  ‘This is awful—’

  ‘It’s confusing—’

  ‘No, it’s awful!’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Summerfield, lowering his eyes. ‘I’m sorry—but I thought it was right to say this.’

  ‘Of course you were right.’

  ‘I don’t want to trick you, Jeanne.’

  ‘You did, though.’

  ‘God, yes I did—in the beginning. But then something happened—it was that one single line you sent back. Barely ten words—so simple. They snapped something in me. You were—you are—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come across, both in mind and in body.’

  Jeanne blushed. She seemed quite totally lost.

  ‘Really,’ she finally said, neither question nor affirmation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she blurted. ‘I…’ She looked down, then focused on the thick dusty leaves of an orange tree. ‘I suppose I meant to say…um—thank you,’ she said again.

  ‘Ah.’ Summerfield pulled a face. ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeanne, looking at him.

  Summerfield returned her stare and nodded.

  ‘Good.’

  He wanted to reach across—was this the moment? But then again, it was almost as if it was expected of him. The rebelliousness bubbled inside him. Damn—I’m twenty-eight! Stop dithering, man. ‘Look—Jeanne. It’s…it’s time we went back,’ he finally offered.

  She seemed as surprised as he. ‘Yes,’ she answered hurriedly, looking around for belongings she didn’t have. ‘I suppose it is.’

  Summerfield rose and helped her up. He noticed the shape of her legs beneath the cotton dress of her uniform, the white socks rolled at the ankle and felt his heart wince with longing and with pity. The poor girl—he’d really made a mess of things.

  They stood now, heads above the hollow and with a view of the fields. Jeanne flattened out the creases in her dress.

  ‘Harry—I want us to continue writing. We’ll leave the messages here, under a stone or something. Or look—in the wall over there,’ she said, pointing to what looked like the remains of the old irrigation channel. We’ll use secret names like secret lovers.’

  Summerfield nodded. ‘I think I understand. Yes, I’d like that, too. It’s all a bit of a shock—again, I’m sorry.’

  Jeanne gave a slight shake of her head and smiled.

  ‘It can’t be easy for you. And I appreciate your honesty.’

  ‘But not only write,’ added Summerfield, doubling back on the conversation. He became suddenly serious. ‘But see each other again.’ And with that, he leant forwards, rather stiffly, and kissed her on the cheek.

  A moment’s silence. ‘Thank you,’ said Jeanne, softly and as she lowered her head she smiled.

  They began to walk, climbing out of the hollow and taking the path back through the orange grove.

  ‘I should like to tell you about this man I mentioned,’ said Summerfield. ‘Just to make things fair. I have to write one last message on his behalf—when you receive it, know that it was I who wrote it. After that, if you do wish for us to end, then I will understand and respect your decision.’

  Jeanne grinned, almost cheekily.

  ‘Send the message first. And then I’ll see.’

  Summerfield stopped in mid-pace for a second, head to the side, observing her. She really was unique, this one. She really was quite wonderful.

  The day passed, and another. The recollection of their first meeting was shed in the turning of the days—like a tendril of cotton clinging to a branch in a breeze, fluttering then gone. There were moments he remembered with absolute clarity suddenly lost, erased from his memory no matter how hard he tried to bring them back. The gaps became wider, information non-retrieved. A hollow. But there were other instances when her smile came back to him, a gesture, a puzzle piece of eye or arm. A warmth. He found himself thinking that two days were too long. And another thought, creeping into his sleep, that he was hardly good enough for her.

  Later that week, Summerfield accompanied Jim Wilding to the station in what the American hoped was his last trip to Mauritania.

  ‘If all goes well,’ said Wilding, as they took a last beer together at the hotel, ‘I’ll be back in six to eight months. I’ve wired back home for some vacation and I can’t see them refusing it. Remember, Harry—Libya, Algeria. Hey,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘I could even show you back home—why not the States?’

  Summerfield agreed, carried along by Wilding’s enthusiasm. He felt light, optimistic—anything seemed possible at that particular mom
ent, and the question of where he would find the required money, or even if he would still be in Africa, didn’t dent his sense of contentment. He looked back at Jim Wilding and grinned, conscious of the fact that every two minutes or so Jeanne Lefèvre came into his thoughts and that she made him feel like smiling.

  ‘Good,’ said Wilding, giving him a curious look. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’ The American sat back into the deep, leather seat in the hotel lobby and sipped on his glass. ‘By the way, Harry—how’s the reading going?’

  ‘Reading?’

  ‘Yeah—that book, uh—what was it? Fleurs something by Baudelaire. The book Lefèvre’s daughter gave me for you.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Summerfield sat up. ‘Les Fleurs du Mal. Yes, curious thing.’

  ‘Most curious,’ smiled Wilding, trying to eke out a clue. ‘When they told me Mrs Lefèvre was calling for me, I thought it might have been the mother. Thank God it wasn’t.’ Summerfield hummed in reply. Wilding sipped. ‘So?’

  Summerfield looked up. ‘So what?’

  ‘So what was it all about?’

  ‘The book?’

  Wilding pulled a reproachful face. ‘She was cute.’

  ‘Different,’ said Summerfield, non-committing.

  ‘Not as pretty as Bassouin’s daughter.’

  ‘Different,’ repeated Summerfield and saw Wilding sigh, giving up on the chase. ‘And what about Jean Bassouin?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Wilding, happy to change subject. ‘Well, he’s an interesting guy. I’ll meet up with him again to talk business. I think I convinced him, if not the others. He’s very forward-thinking.’

  ‘And quite of a free spirit, too. I appreciated his views on this country.’

  Wilding tilted his head in agreement and was lost in what Summerfield recognised as a momentary lapse into nostalgia. The hands on the lobby clock were turning. He would soon have to leave.

  ‘We had fun over the past two weeks, Harry. It was good to see you.’

  Summerfield nodded and smiled. ‘Likewise.’

  ‘And you’ve changed yet again, Harry.’

  ‘Changed? Goodness, you’re keen-eyed.’

  ‘Have to be, Harry—searching the ground for clues is my job. Yes, changed—ever since you left for a couple of days with your boss.’

  Summerfield placed his empty glass back on the table. ‘Abrach. Yes, I suppose it’s relief,’ he said, reaching for his tobacco. ‘I finally managed to tell him about my wish to finish the contract. And it’s thanks, in part, to you, Jim.’

  Wilding held up his hands. ‘Any decision is always ultimately the choice of its taker—or should be.’

  ‘A pity, though,’ continued Summerfield, still thinking of the merchant. ‘He’s been good to me. A good man, all told—honest. He seems to have lived quite a lot, although he doesn’t directly say it. Hopefully, one day, I’ll introduce you to him.’

  Wilding nodded. ‘Fine by me. When I’m back next time. I also mentioned him to Bassouin—if he’s such a rich guy, then Bassouin should know of him. Maybe we can all meet up.’

  ‘You told—Bassouin?’ Wilding sat back, shocked. ‘But you knew it was bloody delicate,’ returned Summerfield.

  Wilding hesitated, for once lost for words. ‘Hell, don’t worry, Harry—I just mentioned his name.’

  At the station, they shook hands as Wilding boarded the train. The whistle blew and the steam from the ageing locomotive belched in protest at having to set to work.

  ‘Sorry about that, Jim—back at the hotel, I mean,’ said Summerfield apologetically, from the platform.

  Wilding cocked his head. The train creaked slowly away. ‘That’s ok, Harry. I should’ve kept my big trap shut. Things’ll be fine, though. Next time I’m back, we’ll all meet up.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Summerfield. ‘Take care. Let’s hope you don’t find petrol!’

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ Wilding called back, grinning as he held aloft crossed fingers. ‘By the way—I’ll be sending you an envelope!’

  ‘What?’ The train whistled once more, gathering speed and Summerfield creased up his face in an attempt to hear.

  ‘An envelope!’ shouted back Wilding, grinning again. Summerfield mimed incomprehension. ‘You’ll know what to do with it!’ added Wilding, laughing and then he was gone.

  On his way back now, Summerfield walked the length of the colonial station and instead of turning right towards the medina, suddenly changed his mind and headed for the district where the Académie was located.

  It was one-thirty in the afternoon and the streets were almost deserted. The air was warm-to-hot, but a dry breeze from the plains occasionally buffeted his skin, making the walk tolerable. He was filled with a sudden urge to be near her—in a place which had known her presence.

  Nearing the Académie, he took to an adjacent road dotted with a row of bungalows destined for the families of the military and what looked like a depot of some sort, deserted but for a couple of lorries and a wandering dog. The road soon dwindled to a track and rose through a thicket of thorny, thirsty-looking bushes before giving a view from its crest of the large plain filled with its fields.

  Summerfield hoped he would somehow find her there, in the grove they had chosen as a meeting place, even if—and giving his watch a glance just to check again—the time allocated for her lunch break had come to an end fifteen minutes before.

  Picking his way through the increasingly dense orange groves, he arrived in the little hollow and stood for a moment, still and silent. The grass looked flattened and there were traces of footprints in the dust by the old irrigation wall. Perhaps they were from their meeting, three days before. But then again… He smiled, a warm feeling running through him that perhaps she had been there, just minutes before. Instinctively, he looked for a sign and his chest heaved a little in disappointment when he couldn’t find any. The word failure darted quickly through him—what if she didn’t care? What if she wasn’t thinking about him with the same intensity as he thought of her? He exhaled, swore silently at himself and exiled the nagging thoughts from his mind. Lowering himself into the sunken irrigation channel, he ran his hand over the ancient bricks, tugging gently. At last, in roughly the spot to which she had pointed, one came loose, filling the palm of his hand with pale pink grit. Strangely, he took the utmost care with placing it on the floor of the ditch, afraid that it might lose its shape and be unable to return to its niche. He crouched down and peered into the small cavity—there was a paper inside, folded into a small, thick, uneven square. On it was written For Magpie from Jay—the pseudonyms they’d given themselves. A rush of joy swept through him and he smiled.

  I meant to say so many things, to meet you on the same level. This time, Magpie, the stone that you are proved lighter and clearer than the water. I forgot my ways, the strong current that I believed I was and became a fish, darting under rocks, shy in the shade of the water plants, evasive. I shall do better. But I am happy—for even hiding, along my silver sides flashed the reflection of you, the stone.

  Summerfield sat in the hollow and read the message three times. From his pocket, he brought out a pencil and a notepad that Abrach had offered him some weeks before. A kind of drunkenness filled him; a happiness for everything simple on earth, the simplest and most truthful being the fact that Jeanne Lefèvre had entered his life, a presence in half the moments of his days.

  I recognised you, dear Jay, and we met, briefly by the river that was you, our tongues timid with numb words. We talked for so few minutes and when you were gone that day, and evening drew on, I remembered your face in the shade of the orange trees and the crescent moon of your smile. For hours I remembered and lit candles in the night. And, stargazing, as solitary travellers do, the wind blew in from the south and I opened my mouth, sucking in the air, sucking in you.

  When can we meet again? Give me the day and I shall be there.

  When he had finished writing his reply, he slid back into the trench, carefully folded his paper and wedged it firml
y into the back of the cavity. Then he replaced the brick, filling the edges around it with a little earth and climbed back out. He stood there for long moments, smoking a cigarette and looking out, his eyes unfocused, over the shapes in the fields on the plain. And then, turning and full of warmth, he picked up several small, flat stones from the floor of the hollow where the grass didn’t grow and arranged them in a little stack at the foot of the nearest tree as a sign.

  That evening, when he sat at his desk in his room, long and empty moments ticking by over the empty sheet, he realised it was more difficult than he had thought. One last poem, Abrach had said. It was as if his mind had split the question in two, a clear division between the words he wrote on the merchant’s behalf and those born of his own true feelings. He could no longer invent for something he saw as unreal, of no use.

  Several times, he rose and paced the room, pottering about with useless tasks or else spending long minutes at the window, smoking. He concentrated on the professional which rose reticently inside him, only to be turned back by some inner refusal, like a door closing in its face. He grew angry with himself, consequently crushed and ripped the sheets of empty paper and threw them into the bin. He slammed his writing desk shut and gave an almighty kick at his shoes. One took off, shot across the room and hit a saucepan, dislodging it from its hook with a loud clatter.

  ‘I don’t want to do it! Jesus, I can’t!’ he shouted, only for a voice to rise up from below—his neighbour Abdlakabir.

  ‘Is everything all right, Sidi Summerfield?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I heard you calling to Jesus.’

  ‘I’ve lost something, that’s all.’ And then, calming down, suddenly grinning: ‘thank you, Abdlakabir—I’ll find it.’