by Tom Gamble
‘Harm her? You’ll frighten her to death!’
‘You are emotional, Harry. I suggest you return to your home and drink some of your whisky to calm your anger. I must do this—I thought you would understand. I ask you to remember what Lefèvre did to my family.’
‘I know, I know,’ mumbled Summerfield, feeling torn. ‘But, Jeanne.’
‘I promise I will not cause her any harm. Now go. And tell no one. I’m sorry, Harry—but remember that I will be able to find you easily if need be.’
Summerfield looked back at the merchant, opened his mouth to reply and then closed it. The threat was subtle, but understandable. If he understood clearly, he had no choice.
‘It’s a pity I have to terminate our contract like this, Abrach,’ he murmured, conscious of his weak, if not defiant attempt at striking back.
Abrach sent him a faint and rather sad smile.
‘As you say—a pity, Harry. I greatly appreciated meeting you. You were different. I will see to it that you are paid. Now, please go.’
25
Harry had been gone for almost an hour now. They had held each other until midnight and then, with the sound of Soumia’s voice reproachful, calling for her to go to bed, the painful leaving. Every time they had pulled apart, a strange, irresistible force brought them back together again into physical contact. He could not leave. Their bodies did not want it.
Her arms needed his skin, his lips needed hers. And as they both realised that each embrace lead them closer to the last, their kisses became more desperate, their hold on each other more painful until, like claws, their fingers had dug deep into each other’s arms, shoulders, back and buttocks, sending such burning shards of desire through them that she had felt like fainting. She had whimpered like a puppy, his hand covering her mouth to hush her and then he was gone, one last look with such an odd expression of desire, fear and pain all mixed into one, that it had frightened her.
Alone, it seemed as though he had drugged her, for Jeanne stood rooted in the exact spot where they had held each other, her mind and body limp, heavy and unresponding. She could not think. No words came. Just that pulsating heat, pushing through her, somehow holding her upright.
And then, after uncertain minutes had passed, the terrible loss, the sucking out of her of life. How she plunged. How empty her existence suddenly felt. She grew afraid, flashes of catastrophe filling her mind—an accident on his way back. A misunderstanding, a quarrel and then the moonlight on the raised blade as it struck down into the flesh between his shoulder and collarbone. He would be there, helpless and lonely, his body lying in the shadows of some back street, dying without her.
In her room, it was Soumia’s voice, a forceful whisper, that interrupted her.
‘Bed, Mademoiselle!’ the housemaid’s voice hissed from behind the door. ‘Turn the light off!’
‘Yes,’ she replied, fearful of how her voice sounded. ‘Sorry, Nanny—just reading my notes one last time.’
‘Studies!’ she heard Soumia’s voice, murmur irritably, her voice trailing off with an inaudible story as she disappeared into her room.
Jeanne walked to the open window and breathed deeply. Harry was somewhere out there, walking back home, perhaps already in his rooms. She smiled out into the night, eyes closed, calm now, and then switched off the lamp before going to her bathroom.
She stood for long moments before the mirror, studying herself, occasionally giving an involuntary shake of her head. Was this the person in love? she heard herself saying. Was this really herself? Her skin was red where they had kissed and her lips hurt. Her pale green dress clung to her from the heat, both that of the June night and that of their bodies. It formed a patch of criss-crosses across her stomach, creases marking the place where they had pressed against one another. Slowly, she undid the buttons and peeled the dress away until she stood in her underwear. She felt moist between her legs and in a moment’s private embarrassment, she understood that it was not perspiration, but wetness from herself, her sex. And as if to strengthen the sudden discovery, she suddenly felt aware of the physical, the fact that she had swollen, like a flower in bloom, and that she was so full and burgeoning that she ached. It was more from curiosity than anything else that made her fingers automatically seek out the flower, explore and then withdraw, wet and lubricated. She brought her finger tips close to her face, shyly breathing in their scent, studied them as she rubbed the liquid between thumb and forefinger, thinking how strange and wonderful and foreign it seemed. Again she shook her head, looked back into her reflection for her eyes to catch another detail—the marks on her waist and upper arms, purplish stains where Harry’s hands had clutched her. When she remembered this, her head swam and her breathing became rapid, little spirals of desire darting through her heart and belly to her sex and sparkling out through her thighs to her lower legs in ever-increasing density. Again she felt weak, her hand automatically reaching out to steady herself. She was different—her eyes looked eastern as they narrowed with desire, her skin that tint her parents did not have, the blackness and thickness of her hair that was theirs neither, but Mediterranean. She was different—wild and burning like a gypsy. She was different—and proud of that difference. She was full of love, brimming so much with desire, a woman, not a girl and for a time, a few seconds perhaps, a few minutes, long minutes, so free. The feeling took her by surprise—a long, ever-rising and at the same time deepest surge, something more powerful than she had ever felt. An uncontrollable trembling came to her thighs and then the huge surge of convulsive energy, a bursting star. She held her free hand to her mouth and bit into her flesh. Her body throbbed, she leant forwards, hands on the washbasin and breathed as well as she could. And then, looking up, emptied, her eyes welled with tears, tears of happiness and exhaustion.
It was two o’clock before she finally padded across her bedroom and slipped beneath the cotton sheet. The night was cool and still. An insect bumbled lazily in the darkness and then left, back out through the half-open window of which she was too tired to rise and close.
Her last thoughts were of Sarah and a strange conversation, real enough for Jeanne to think that it had occurred, so dreamy that it also seemed part of her mind’s fall into sleep. In it, Sarah was telling her that her father had mentioned how she looked so unlike the other Europeans. A little too beautiful, a little too finely featured. Pied-noir. Jewish extraction, almost—like Sarah. In her dream, she and Sarah became sisters. They lived in the same house, not far from Harry’s rooms and strangely there was no mother. They all spoke in a bizarre mix of languages, sometimes French, sometimes English and at other times—totally comprehensible despite the fact—in an odd babble that sounded Spanish, but wasn’t. In her dream, Jeanne separated her letters, those written before Harry had told her, and those he had written after and hid them in different locations, her unconscious bringing back reality, for she had done exactly that the evening before—and making it all the more surreal. At last, her tiredness tinged with an exquisite sense of well-being, Jeanne’s mind drifted into sleep.
It was strange, but Jeanne felt his presence long before she opened her eyes and saw. A voice from somewhere inside her told her it must have been four o’clock and if she had opened her eyes straight away, she would have been surprised to see that it was exactly that. She whispered softly from her sleep: ‘Is it you?’ A noise, the movement of the curtains and a warmth treading lightly across her room. ‘Have you come back?’ She felt herself smiling. There was no reply. She forced open her eyes, let out a sigh and raised herself on her elbows, half-expecting to feel Harry’s lips brush against hers. Standing at the foot of her bed, hardly six feet away, was a stranger.
The seconds were without end. She did not move. Neither did he. She saw his eyes, made all the larger and striking in the dim light, wide and white and initially just as shocked as hers. He was dark-skinned, tall and heavily-built and she wasn’t sure, given the darkness, that he had a moustache. The fear crept upon her slow
ly, as did the realisation of the situation. He must have noticed, for his face began to change, turning from one of curious interest to one of fear itself—fear that she would panic. It was this face, and its desperate plea for calm, that forced Jeanne’s fear to rise even further, even faster. He held out first one hand, then another—palms outward—and when this failed to calm her, moved forwards. It was like a twig snapping. In a split-second, she had crawled back, still facing him, frantic until her lower back wedged painfully into the iron bedstead.
‘I know you are the daughter of Philippe-Charles Lefèvre, my child, and I want to talk to you,’ said the stranger in a soft, strained voice. ‘After all, I have a letter in which you said you wanted to see me. Remember?’
Jeanne stared back, unable to open her mouth.
‘I want to talk to you about the truth. About what your father did and the awful things that he does everyday to my people.’
Her fear had taken over and only a silent scream for help filled her mind that emerged as a growing whine from her lips. The stranger’s eyes glared wide and he brought a finger to his lips.
It was then that first Soumia’s voice, then Mohammed’s, gave a muffled shout from behind her bedroom door. The man grimaced, almost in pain and then his face hardened.
26
Two days had passed and the strange, intricate whine of dawn prayer reached Summerfield like the wind creeping through a crack in the door. He opened first one eye, then the other, felt a surge of well-being seep through him and stretched gloriously in his bed. The word Jeanne came to him before anything else, her name more than just a person, but a state, a philosophy, a reason, an absolute. He grinned, stretched again, followed it up with a loud groan of pleasure, and rose.
He had slept all of four hours, woken in the night by the sound of an explosion in the east and the crackle and patter of gunfire. At first, he had automatically linked the incident to Jeanne and had spent a fraught ten minutes, worried nauseous, cursing the fact that there was no way to contact her, before Abdlakabir called up from below gleefully informing him that the independence fighters had struck a military depot near the old palace.
He felt curiously energetic. Perhaps it was like that—four hours or eight, with anything in between either too little or too much. He put some water to boil, gave yesterday’s bread a squeeze to check its edibility and dipped his finger into a jar of honey and olive oil that Mrs Abdlakabir No. 2 had given him the previous week. The taste was soft and smooth and indecisive, still strangely foreign to Summerfield’s tongue, though wholesome. He dipped in his finger another time and sucked it as he walked over to the window and drew back the linen cloth that served as a curtain.
Night still reigned—just. Gun metal in colour, it subsided slowly and turned an ever-clearer shade of purple before his gaze. The prayer seemed to last longer than usual. Once, from the rooftop, he had seen the district Imam beginning the ascent to the top of the minaret before prayer. Small, bent-backed and with a smooth clarity of skin that gave him a most benevolent aurora, the Imam had been lugging a large, copper megaphone over his shoulders. Summerfield had watched as the old man, obviously used to the ritual, turned about-face and wriggled through the small, ancient entrance to the minaret backwards and then disappeared with a scraping sound.
Summerfield let himself be carried on the wave of his good spirits, his mind busy with memories of Jeanne and their long and heady embrace barely forty-eight hours before. She was so close in his thoughts that he smelled her scent, felt the warm press of her belly against his groin. His sex began to stiffen and he stepped back with a grin, not wishing Mrs Abdlakabir No. 1 or anyone else for that matter to witness his noble erection.
It was precisely at this moment, which also coincided with the water coming to boil, that he heard muted footsteps in the street below. They hurried closer and then two dark shapes, huddled together as one, scurried into view. It was all too quick for Summerfield to register. Preoccupied with the boiling water, he stepped back, walked over to the stove and took the pan off the hob, only to hear a dim knock on his neighbour’s door below, followed by a silence then more footsteps.
Summerfield cursed under his breath, annoyed at the fact that the disturbance had caused a dramatic wilting of his member. He stood still, listening, the pan still in his hand. Then came the sound of someone coming up the steps to his door. A moment of alarm shot through him, his mind flashing back to the gendarmes and their flailing sticks. Quickly, he replaced the saucepan and looked around, desperately seeking a weapon. A soft knock. Summerfield seized the saucepan again, slopping the steaming water onto the floor at his feet.
A voice, hardly a murmur, said: ‘Harry Summerfield—it is I, Badr.’
‘Badr?’ Summerfield relaxed. ‘Good God—just in time for tea.’
‘Let us in—quickly.’ Badr talked louder, his voice carrying a sense of urgency and Summerfield immediately moved to the door, drawing away the bolt.
‘What? Abrach, too?’ Summerfield’s eyes fell on the merchant’s ashen face, his eyes bloodshot and swollen with pain. ‘My God! Whatever happened? Jesus Christ—your head. Come in—quick.’
‘Abdlakabir is bringing medicine,’ hastened Badr as he helped Abrach through the door to Summerfield’s bed.
Summerfield closed the door behind them and hurried over. He darted a glance at the merchant. Several, small rivulets of some pink, viscous matter ran from Abrach’s hairline down across his forehead. He had obviously been hit with an object. There was no other trace of injury, but why so much pain? ‘Where is he hurt? Show me. I have some medicine left.’
‘His hands,’ said Badr, grimly, looking towards the door. ‘I only hope we were not followed.’
‘Followed?’
‘The police, Mr Summerfield.’
‘Shit.’ Summerfield opened his mouth and there came another knock. Badr moved forward, one hand quickly lifting a flap in his gown to produce a pistol, and carefully opened the door. It was Abdlakabir, trembling with the effort of having carried a steaming basin up the steep stairway. Badr quietly thanked him, mumbled something quickly so that Summerfield couldn’t hear and closed the door, bringing the basin and a bag over to the bed.
‘Master,’ whispered Badr, gently tugging on the cape that covered Abrach.
Abrach looked up, distant, tears falling silently from his eyes.
‘I thank you, Badr. I am afraid it is dirtied,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
Badr shook his head, glanced at Summerfield.
‘I am sorry, Mr Summerfield. We had to act fast and your rooms were closest. I will see quickly to the wounds and then we shall be gone.’
Summerfield hesitated. He felt quite useless.
‘Please—is there anything I can do?’
Badr gave a little grin and said calmly: ‘As you said—a little tea would be a good idea.’
Summerfield nodded and turned, glancing back as Badr carefully pulled away the cape that covered the merchant. Abrach was in what remained of a yellowish suit, stained with sweat, singed as if by flames and rather too small for his frame, the strength of his arms having the effect of shrinking the sleeves. The sleeves—Summerfield shuddered—were almost black, stained up to elbows in blood. And then the merchant’s hands. Summerfield swore, too fascinated by the sight to move. From the upper knuckle to the tips, Abrach’s fingers were an unrecognisable bunch of tangled keys. They were so unlike fingers that Summerfield stared on, discerning what he thought were fingernails, discovering a flattened and embedded gold ring, until Badr’s voice, both firm and surprisingly gentle, brought him back.
‘Master—please look away,’ he said to Abrach, bending towards the merchant’s hands and exploring how he could disentangle the mess. ‘Abdlakabir has bought ointments and gauze, but nothing else.’
‘Wait—’ Summerfield breathed deeply and stared at Badr. ‘I have some morphine—Abrach left it when he took care of me.’
‘God is great,’ breathed Badr with reli
ef and nodded for Summerfield to fetch it. ‘It was fate that made him leave it.’
‘It was help and concern for a friend,’ said Abrach, suddenly looking round, his eyes avoiding his hands, and giving Summerfield a painful smile. He turned his head to the side once more. ‘Though Allah might also have had a part in it,’ he added, respectfully and not without a hint of humour.
Summerfield returned, gave Abrach an encouraging nod and prepared the syringe, screwing the little needle to the glass cylinder with trembling fingers.
‘Sorry—I’ve got the shakes a little. Here we are.’ He pushed the needle carefully into the aperture of the small phial of liquid morphine and drew back the pump. ‘You do it, Badr.’ Badr looked at him and shrugged. Summerfield turned to the groaning merchant, fighting a sudden urge to be sick. ‘Abrach, how do we do this?’
‘Lower hands—two doses. Look for the vein—no, not that one.’ Summerfield drew the needle across Abrach’s hand, glancing up with amazement at the man’s calmness—how Abrach could actually look at his own destroyed fingers and at the same time direct operations was beyond him. ‘That’s the one. Please, Harry—quickly now. I believe I’m going to faint.’
Summerfield pushed and felt the needle pop through Abrach’s skin. Abrach didn’t move—it must have been minimal compared to the pain of his fingers. Immediately, Summerfield applied pressure to the syringe and the liquid emptied, almost stubbornly, into Abrach’s swollen vein. He quickly handed a piece of cotton to Badr, took the young man’s thumb and pressed it onto Abrach’s skin where the blood had begun to form a bubble. Then the other hand. A strange, almost female laugh escaped Abrach’s lips.
‘You’re as good a doctor as I, Harry. I thank you.’
Summerfield looked up into Abrach’s exhausted eyes and smiled. And then Abrach fainted.