by Tom Gamble
Jeanne sat back. ‘Oh dear, do I look that stupid?’
‘I’m afraid so. But don’t worry—those who are not in love cannot see it. They just think you’re ill or half-witted.’
‘My parents, for instance.’
‘Perhaps. But we could also,’ added Sister Marthe, continuing excitedly, ‘look even further.’ Jeanne pursed her lips. ‘Yes. We could say that this particular face was meant for us. A unique sign, a message intended for two people happening to be together at the same place and at the same time among millions of others and in the context of time and history. It is love in Jesus’ face that we see.’
‘Sister Marthe—this is far removed from logical thought. Are you all right? The heat, perhaps?’
‘Don’t be silly! I’m just allowing my mind to stray, that’s all—and no impertinence, young lady. We are all, even teachers, allowed to imagine and sometimes what is imagined is nearer to the truth than any logical calculation can be.’
‘But you’ve never spoken like this.’
‘Of course not,’ replied Sister Marthe, sharply. ‘Could you imagine a class full of young post-pubescent girls, their minds filled with Clark Gable, fads, horses, Balzac and jazz music understanding all this? I certainly can’t.’
‘Sarah Bassouin, though.’
‘Oh, Sarah Bassouin! Heavens above—yes she is a good girl. And yes, she is in love. But Jeanne, there are many kinds of love—many burning shadows that the heart pursues. Sarah’s is one that approaches friendship more than anything else, a love that grew steadily and peacefully and without hindrance. I suppose we could say that Sarah’s love is healthy and written. It is a love that brings only happiness. Whereas others…’
‘Yes,’ said Jeanne, leaning forwards and resisting the temptation to openly admit to suffering from the other case.
‘Others experience true love. Though—’ Sister Marthe suddenly stopped herself and pondered for intellectual thought—‘though perhaps on reflection, the first case is the real true love after all. Oh dear, all so confusing.’
‘Yes!’ said Jeanne, indeed looking rather confused.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sister Marthe, suddenly realising Jeanne’s plight. ‘Where was I?’
‘True love.’
‘Oh, yes—or not. But in any case, a love that is born from the highest summit and the deepest ravine. One that, because it is almost impossible to obtain, causes both the greatest joy and the most profound sadness. It is a love born of being apart. A love that inspires great words. That offers one a closeness to spirituality and to God that no one else can hope to achieve.’
‘But does it succeed?’ By now, Jeanne was feeling quite distressed. Sister Marthe’s words seemed so laden with doom.
‘What? Oh, of course! But it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘It doesn’t depend on what, my girl. It depends—that’s all. Heavens, you look at such a loss, dear girl.’ It was true. For some reason, Jeanne was suddenly filled with the overwhelming desire to burst into tears. ‘What is meant,’ continued Sister Marthe, her voice suddenly returning to a calm sense of logic, ‘is that such love always succeeds, whether it be for only three days or thirty years. Nothing is certain. But what is certain is that it is worth living such a unique experience—not for anything on earth would I say the contrary.’ Silence. The Académie bell clanged dully, a sign that lunch break was over. ‘Oh dear—we haven’t eaten,’ said Sister Marthe, matter-of-factly.
‘But you—how do you know these things?’ The question had been on Jeanne’s lips since the beginning and she wasn’t afraid to ask anymore.
Sister Marthe looked directly at her and then at the crucifix. ‘My dear girl—I had a youth as well, you know.’
‘But you…but you can still recognise these things.’
‘Because I am still in love, my dear.’ The old lady looked away and clasped her hands. ‘It has never left me. For some years I kept the chagrin of my love and then, then I decided to keep only the joy of it. And now I love in a different way,’ she added, glancing once more at the crucifix and smiling, much in the same manner, Jeanne thought, as the odd expression of serenity. ‘Every day I am filled with happiness. And now,’ said the old lady, clearing her throat. ‘Let us return to class, shall we not?’
Jeanne rose, gathered her books and followed Sister Marthe to the door. At the threshold she turned and, biting her lip, looked enquiringly at the old teacher.
‘Don’t worry, young lady. I understand—and I shall accordingly be tolerant with you. I have great faith in your ability to pass the entrance examination. Go now.’
It had been a tiring day and once Jeanne had finished dinner she disappeared upstairs to her bedroom with a series of yawns that sent her parents exchanging glances. Closing the door behind her, she was caught between busying herself with homework, reading the message Sarah has retrieved for her or falling onto the bed to rest. She chose the latter, her body drained of strength and lay there on her back gazing up at the ceiling.
Her mind wandered—Sister Marthe, the conversation and the delightful discovery. She suddenly felt a very deep liking for the old lady and found it hard to imagine how she had managed to wear such a mask of authority and narrow-mindedness for so long. And then Sarah, the surreptitious handing over of the message under the desk and later, their hurried few minutes of conversation in the toilets. For Sarah had had quite a fright, crossing paths with a tall, heavy-set native who had given her the oddest of looks as she emerged from the orange grove. It was as though he had been expecting someone. His eyes had seemed enquiring, returning constantly, in the few short seconds that Sarah hesitated on the path, to her hand and the folded message before gesturing an excuse. Jeanne had thought the mystery man the messenger she had become accustomed to, but the physical description didn’t fit. A loose-fitting suit, Sarah had said. A large face, placid if it hadn’t been for the circumstances, and the trace of a moustache. Next time, they would go to the hollow together, for safety. And permeating her thoughts, a flitting presence every few moments, Harry Summerfield. She wondered what he was doing, imagined his face and for some reason saw him sitting in a café, sipping a tea and smoking, his gaze looking out into the crowd, directly at her.
At last, with great effort, she crawled to the side of her bed and withdrew the envelope from her satchel. She felt her heart immediately beat faster. Unlike the other messages, Harry’s did not smell of orange essence but paper and a slight hint of sweat. Sometimes the paper showed a crinkle where his palm had rested in the heat and humidity of his lodgings in the old city. There was something dark, savage and forbidden about all this—so remote from her genteel surroundings. One day, she hoped he would take her there, secretly and there they would lay, his arms around her, with the smells and noises of the old city reaching them from outside.
She unfolded the note, glancing across at her bedroom door to check it was locked, and read.
Dearest Jay,
I write with news that you will soon be receiving a message through the usual channels. It is the last message written on behalf of my benefactor, though I hasten to add that the words are true and directly from my own thoughts and feelings for you. I have made it clear to the concerned that it will be the last message. Try not to have any negative feelings for him, for he is a good man. Hopefully, I shall soon be able to speak to you about all this.
The days pass with an emptiness I had not thought imaginable. Each time I return to the grove, my hope surges with the thought that perhaps I will find you. That we may share precious moments in each other’s company. I ache just to hear you, just to see you and it seems as if my evenings, these all so long evenings, are taken with reading and re-reading your words. Your little pyramid—greatly appreciated—takes place of honour on my desk and it has become a symbol of my hope in seeing you soon.
In fact, I believe we have a secret helper in the guise of our W. I received an envelope from him today, intended for your father
, with an accompanying note apologising for the loss of his address. Do you see? W has entrusted me with bringing it to your house—sacré W! I intend to inform your father of my visit, planned for Thursday of the coming week. I hope, with all my heart that he will invite me to stay to dinner so that we may at least be in each other’s presence for a few stolen moments.
Lastly, I would like to thank you, Jay, simply for being alive and for filling my thoughts and days. May Thursday come with great haste. Dearest, warmest regards,
Magpie
Jeanne lay back, the letter held close to her, a feeling of warmth spreading throughout her body to culminate in an overwhelming smile. She laughed aloud, her mind suddenly filling with Sister Marthe’s remark about the Mona Lisa and felt herself shake with joy. She must look so very silly, but she didn’t care.
Surely enough, the following day upon arriving at the Académie, the smartly dressed young Arab—Mercury, as Jeanne had fallen into the habit of calling him—brushed past her in front of the gates and slipped her an envelope into her hand before disappearing.
She carried it with her through the morning, as she had done with the others, slipped out of view inside the waistband of her dress. Instead of hurrying to lunch before Sister Marthe’s planned blank exam, she went to the toilets to read. Again the smell of orange essence as she pulled the letter from its envelope, but this time she associated it with Harry. It was a beautifully written message and the reference to waves fell with such coincidence and such signification with the very thoughts and emotions she was experiencing that she thought it a sure sign. The uncertainty she had felt over the last few weeks evaporated. A certainty filled her. Almost destiny. He was the one—Harry Summerfield. And it frightened her.
Another coincidence—Sister Marthe’s blank geography exam, the subject of which was wave formation! As Jeanne’s mind grappled with the scientific aspect of the question, it also worked in parallel with great wonder at the turning of events. It was strange how everything seemed to lead back to her heart—as though the whole world was helping her to achieve her dream.
23
‘How is Mr Wilding?’ enquired Mme Lefèvre, nodding for the servant, Mohammed, to leave them.
Summerfield shook her hand, conscious of the eagerness in her voice for the American and also the total lack of concern for himself. ‘He’s fine, Mme Lefèvre. He sends his regards. And also apologises for not popping in before leaving.’
‘Such a gentleman,’ said Mme Lefèvre, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Come. I believe you have an envelope for my husband.’
Summerfield followed her across the chequered floor of the entrance hall and remembered the last time he’d been there, the evening of the dinner, and his deliciously serendipitous meeting with Jeanne. Passing the dining room, he caught a glimpse of Soumia, the house maid and her customary frown of distrust. He gave a nod of his head and smiled, but she didn’t seem to recognise him. A madhouse, he thought silently and felt a sudden pang of pity for Jeanne and her stuffy surroundings. No wonder she wanted to go to Europe.
Mr Lefèvre was in his study, pouring over some documents on his desk which he hastily arranged as Summerfield walked in. How could this anodyne, frail-looking little man be the cause of murder and of burning, thought Summerfield, almost shaking his head. Lefèvre rose, straightened his shoulders with a grimace and walked over. His first reflex, noted Summerfield, was to give his shoes a glance.
‘Ah yes, the Englishman—Mr Bonnyfield.’
‘Summerfield,’ corrected Summerfield, following Lefèvre’s regard. His boots were crinkled but shiny—he’d made an effort to buff them with some of Abdlakabir’s sheep’s fat.
‘Please, do sit down—my apologies. I believe you have a document for me.’
Summerfield nodded, a little taken aback by the man’s abruptness. He sat down in one of the linen armchairs just as the telephone rang. Lefèvre remained standing, a clumsy silence filling the room and finally he picked up the receiver. Summerfield’s mind flashed momentarily with the village in the foothills and the sound of Abrach’s voice.
‘What? A guard on the house? Two?’ said Lefèvre, turning his back on Summerfield and dropping his voice. ‘Most appropriate. Who, you say? Yes. No, no I can’t say as I have. Hmm. Good—well keep me informed. Goodbye.’ Lefèvre placed the ear-piece back on the telephone set and once again an embarrassing silence filled the space between them.
‘Yes—’ another clearing of the throat—‘a tea, perhaps, Mr Summerfield?’
‘That would be nice. Milk, please. I haven’t had a proper tea in ages.’
‘It must be difficult for you,’ answered Lefèvre, at last sitting down and Summerfield wondered if there was any irony in the man’s voice. ‘Tea, Soumia—with milk for our English visitor.’
Again the silence. Summerfield noticed that Lefèvre was staring at him with unfocused eyes. Was it is his jacket? A stain, perhaps? he wondered and then realised that Lefèvre’s gaze was for the large brown envelope he was still holding in his hand. His first reaction was to hand it across, but then, on second thoughts, he refrained—keep the old trout on the hook, he said to himself and smiled at the Frenchman.
‘How is Jeanne?’
‘My daughter?’ Lefèvre frowned, seeming to have difficulty in understanding why he should ask.
‘And her friend,’ added Summerfield. ‘They were at the dinner you invited Mr Wilding and I to.’
‘Ah, yes—exact. In good health, I should imagine.’
‘Good,’ said Summerfield. ‘And what about the situation?’
‘Nothing to report,’ said Lefèvre, as though speaking to an official and then hesitated. ‘You do mean Europe.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Umm.’ Lefèvre pondered and Summerfield understood he was weighing up the risk of starting a conversation. ‘Worsening,’ was all Jeanne’s father said, choosing to stifle it. ‘Is that tea coming, Soumia?’ he added, calling out. As if by a trick of a hat, the housemaid suddenly arrived with a tray and served tea in rather a Moroccan style, from great height and with a noisy bubbling as the liquid hit the porcelain cup. Lefèvre, he noted, declined the offer.
‘The letter,’ said Lefèvre, as Summerfield picked up his cup and sipped. Goat’s milk—the tea had rather a sour taste.
‘Yes,’ said Summerfield, placing back the cup and picking up the brown envelope. Lefèvre leant forward. ‘Jim sent it through several days ago,’ added Summerfield. ‘I’m afraid he mislaid your address.’
‘Yes, quite,’ said Lefèvre, ‘You informed me of the fact. May I—’
‘It’s probably something about his findings and possible business.’
‘Well, Jean Bassouin’s really the man for that. Still—’
‘Shall I take it to Mr Bassouin in that case?’
‘No, no!’ Lefèvre’s voice could hardly contain its irritation. ‘Please—Mr Summerfield—I do thank you for bringing it, but I have much work to do.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Summerfield.
‘Especially given the gravity of the events in Europe—you do understand.’
‘Of course,’ repeated Summerfield and at last, wondering whether Lefèvre would implode, handed across the envelope which the Frenchman immediately opened. The documents were extracted and then there was a silence as Lefèvre read. After a few moments, Lefèvre looked up.
‘It’s all in English!’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘No—hold on. There’s a note in French.’ Lefèvre’s eyes peered closely at the small, hand-written note, not of Jim’s writing. ‘Apologies…’ read Lefèvre, skipping the formalities, ‘I know that Harry Summerfield has had translating experience—perhaps he can help. Perhaps he can help!’ repeated Lefèvre, sitting back with a fatalistic sigh. The Frenchman lifted his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, Mr Summerfield—when can this be translated by? And I imagine you will also be charging a fee.’
A deadline and a sum were arranged and Summerfi
eld was just saying to himself what a crafty blighter Jim Wilding was, when Mme Lefèvre walked in with—Jeanne.
‘Jeanne!’ spluttered Summerfield, standing up.
‘My daughter,’ said Mme Lefèvre, looking momentarily lost. ‘Jeanne, that’s it. You remember her.’
‘’Er—of course,’ said Summerfield, regaining his composure. ‘We had a very interesting talk.’
‘About the garden,’ added Jeanne, walking across to him. She wore the most wonderful smile. ‘Harry—I may call you Harry—Harry simply loved the magnolias.’
‘Yes—magnificent,’ returned Summerfield, conscious of the fact that from somewhere outside, from quite afar, Jeanne’s mother was saying something about the English and their gardens. ‘So—how are you, Jeanne?’
‘I’m well,’ said the young woman, her eyes large and soft and, from Summerfield’s point of view, most moist.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice trailing off.
‘Yes, what?’ It was Lefèvre, bringing him back from flight. ‘Mr Summerfield?’
‘What? Oh, excuse me. I suddenly felt a little tired. I do apologise.’
‘My daughter is complaining of tiredness too, at the moment,’ said Mme Lefèvre, her voice sounding a little anxious. ‘You young people. It’s probably all that free time you have.’
‘Work never makes one feel tired,’ added her husband, gruffly. ‘At least not me.’
‘Papa—wouldn’t it be nice if Mr Summerfield were to stay to dinner!’
Lefèvre looked as though a glass of water had been thrown in his face. ‘Can’t this evening, I’m afraid,’ he said quickly. ‘Too busy.’