by Tom Gamble
‘How dare you!’ shouted Jeanne and felt herself turning a blend of red and white—embarrassment and fear.
Her father sniggered and then became serious.
‘My dear girl—how sweet. I suppose it’s the age—I’d forgotten.’
‘Or didn’t notice.’
‘Don’t you understand, Jeanne?’ said her mother, looking sickly sweet. ‘It’s only normal to have feelings at your age. It’s as though one were trying to feel how it is to be in love.’
‘Well I’m not in love,’ protested Jeanne.
‘I should jolly well hope not,’ scoffed Lefèvre. ‘Especially with him. The man’s a pauper—one just has to look at his shoes. And he’s Anglican. And he’s much older than you.’
‘Seven years,’ said Jeanne, feeling wretched. It was as though she were betraying him. Why couldn’t she declare what her heart so wanted to shout aloud?
‘Seven years, is it?’ said Lefèvre, shaking his head. ‘That’s like a man of eighteen falling in love with an eleven year old. Rather unpleasant, if you think about it.’
‘But I’m not eleven.’
‘So you are in love with him?’ smiled her mother, knowingly.
‘No—no.’ Jeanne sat in silence, wrenched between telling the truth and bowing to her parents’ ridicule. It was useless. Even if she did say yes, it would only make them more intolerant towards Harry. ‘No,’ she said, finally.
The evening drew on and Jeanne, her body heavy with gloom, retired to the spare bedroom to rest before dinner. The world was against her—her parents the minions of all the bad luck and unhappiness piling upon her. She felt as though she were alone in the middle of a sandstorm that clogged her movements and her heart, slowly burying her. She wanted Baudelaire, her teddy. But she couldn’t even fetch him, her bedroom off-bounds while the police had carried out their investigation. Soumia was clearing up the mess and Jeanne imagined her trying to sponge away the stains of those ghastly hands on her bed. She shuddered at the thought. Maybe her parents were right. Maybe she was ill with the shock of it all.
Her eyelids grew heavy. She felt the heat upon her skin. Fever, perhaps? She thought again of Harry, wished she could reach him, tell him. She felt so lonely. In the hallway, so distant, it seemed, she heard Soumia’s voice, low and hurried. She was talking to her mother. With supreme effort, Jeanne strained her ears to listen: in the room, said Soumia’s voice—awful. And her mother’s voice, in reply, an appeal for calm. And then Jeanne’s eyelids closed. The next moment, unable to determine exactly how long she’d been asleep, her mother knocked at the door.
‘Come down to dinner, Jeanne. Quickly now—your father is hungry.’
Her father ate hurriedly. Mother had not been exaggerating. Hardly had Jeanne begun her second mouthful than her father was wiping clean his plate, completely engrossed with the operation and oblivious to Jeanne’s stares. Her mother caught her eye and a fleeting glimpse of apology came to her face. It was one thing Jeanne and she had in common—the value they placed on table etiquette. Lefèvre, head bowed, swabbed his lips and mechanically took a swig of wine from his glass before returning—the transition was striking—to a position of utmost poise and dignity.
‘I sent Mohammed off to find the Englishman. Shouldn’t be so difficult—can’t be that many whites living in the poor district.’
There was a silence, Jeanne restraining herself to be led into any show of emotion. She must remain calm, she told herself. Only then would they let her get back to the Académie and her friends and, hopefully, Harry.
‘We’ll invite the chap next time Wilding is back from his field studies. Not that long, I believe.’
‘That would be nice,’ chimed Mme. Lefèvre and turned to Jeanne. ‘Wouldn’t it, dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Jeanne, sullenly, without looking up.
Her father cleared his throat.
‘Soumia and Mohammed have tidied the mess in your bedroom, Jeanne. And mother has checked. It seems you may return to sleep there—if you wish.’ Jeanne looked up. ‘That is, if you think you won’t be too bothered. I think it may be a good idea to lock the window for the time being.’
‘Thank you, father.’
‘And…there’s something else, Jeanne.’ Her father’s voice sounded odd. Jeanne placed her fork down. ‘Soumia found some letters while she was cleaning your room.’
Jeanne’s heart missed a beat.
‘Letters?’
‘Yes. A dozen or so. These letters.’
Lefèvre’s hand moved to his lap and produced a bundle tied together with string. He placed them on his wiped plate and looked keenly at her. Jeanne felt the blood drain from her. She began to shake.
‘In normal circumstances,’ came her mother’s voice, ‘We would simply have left them where they had been found.’
‘You—you’ve read them?’
‘The last bears a signature—Abrach,’ said Lefèvre, his voice emotionless. ‘Tell me Jeanne—is there a connection with the person who broke into your room?’
‘I—’ Jeanne’s voice faltered. She felt like dying. Thank God they hadn’t found the ones bearing Harry’s name.
‘During questioning he said his name was El Rifni,’ continued Lefèvre. ‘But, it is essential that you tell us the truth.’
Silence.
‘Perhaps,’ whispered Jeanne. ‘I’m—I’m not really sure.’
‘Did you have a liaison with this Arab, Abrach?’ Her father’s voice was cold and direct and Jeanne felt herself flinch.
‘No, father.’
‘It is the truth?’
Jeanne raised her head, the shame bringing tears to her eyes.
‘Yes, father. I’d never seen the man. The messages arrived at the Académie—I don’t know how.’
Lefèvre studied her for a few seconds, glanced across at his wife and then let out a sigh.
‘Well, that’s some good news, at least. However,’ he continued, his voice changing back to a stern calm. ‘The fact remains that this Abrach has been sending you—sending you the most perverse correspondence. Why in earth’s name didn’t you tell us?’
‘Love letters,’ said Jeanne, the words escaping her lips as though it were the most natural occurrence in the world.
‘Tacky. And smutty,’ said her father, mechanically. ‘Hardly the sort of letters your mother and I exchanged. Naturally, I would have been surprised to learn that they had been written by the Arab who introduced himself into your room. But Abrach is an indigenous name. It is quite improbable that a native knows how to write so well and yet—there are mistakes that no Francophile of good education would make.’ Lefèvre placed his hands slowly on the table, letting his words sink in. ‘I will remain calm, Jeanne. But I now demand that you tell us all about this. Before anything else happens.’
Saturday passed and with it, a visit from Sarah Bassouin and her father. While Jean Bassouin joined Lefèvre and Colonel Le Guédec, Sarah joined Jeanne in her room, officially to revise for exams.
The door closed and with Soumia’s footsteps returning downstairs, Jeanne’s first reaction was to fling herself into Sarah’s arms and cry. She had never felt so miserable in her life. Everything had soured and gone wrong. The world was against her.
They sat on the side of the bed for some minutes, holding hands. Sarah’s words of comfort turned inexorably to the Académie and all the gossip. Sister Marthe had suddenly become lyrical, giving them, of all things, love poems to study; several policemen had questioned old Quasimodo at the gate; Aude’s brother had joined the army and entered officer school at Saint Cyr. Henri had arranged for a honeymoon in Biarritz in August and the best of all, the very best and most important—was that Cécile had lost her virginity. At this, Jeanne let out a shriek.
‘Who with? How?’
‘With Edouard.’
‘Edouard!’
‘In his parents’ attic.’
‘Edouard?’ repeated Jeanne, incredulous. ‘The shy, dithering stamp collector! Bu
t he kissed me!’
‘Cécile says he’s a lion in bed—though perhaps that’s Cécile’s imagination.’
Jeanne remained silent, her mouth agape, only for a surge of self-pity to then rush through her. ‘But what about me?’ She felt her eyes begin to sting and the imminent bubbling of tears. ‘Everybody’s living and me—I’m just confined to this prison—rotting! Sarah—what an awful existence. I feel like dying!’
‘Nonsense!’ said Sarah, raising her eyes heavenwards and once more taking hold of Jeanne’s hands. ‘You’re living an adventure! All the girls are dead jealous. Oh, don’t worry,’ she added hastily, ‘I haven’t gone into any details. But everyone knows about the incident. Everyone knows you’re in love. Even Sister Marthe!’
‘Oh, God!’ Jeanne shuddered and let out a wail of despair.
‘Jeanne? Are you all right?’ came her mother’s muffled voice from below.
‘Yes!’ called back Sarah. ‘Just tackling algebra, Mme. Lefèvre!’ Sarah led Jeanne back to the bed and sat her down. ‘Look—I’ve something for you. You see—a letter. It’s not over, Jeanne. Your love still comes to the orange grove and soon you’ll be able to see him.’ From under her dress, Sarah pulled out an envelope and handed it across. ‘A bit sticky, I’m afraid,’ apologised Sarah. ‘Had to peg it to my suspender.’
‘Have you read it? Everyone seems to be reading my things.’
‘Of course not,’ frowned Sarah. ‘I wouldn’t want you to read mine.’
‘But you showed me yours,’ said Jeanne, sniffing. ‘Even the intimate bits. When Henri put—’
‘That’s different,’ interrupted Sarah. ‘We’re betrothed. Nothing can stop us. Now, open the letter.’
Jeanne began to un-peel the seal, stood up—a reflex—and extracted the letter alone by the window. Sarah began to busy herself with the maths books though Jeanne knew she was observing her.
There were Harry’s words and Jeanne’s heart brimmed so suddenly with joy that she had to steady herself. It was like lifting into the air inside an aeroplane.
Dearest Jay,
I am fraught with concern and so desperate because I cannot hold you, comfort you. I am aware of what happened and I feel so terribly angry. Not least because part of this is my fault. You see—I know the person who gave you such a terrible fright. I am sorry, so sorry, my dear. Even if I am indirectly responsible, it is as though I had caused the pain. I imagine the horrible scene. Forgive me.
The hours pass in emptiness and I learn. I learn that time is a poison, that when you are not there to soften the days, it sours my thoughts and spirit to the darkest of moods. You seem to be the only true thing in this life. A truth kept from me by these awful events. And my world is a lie without you.
But listen to the breeze in the morning. See how the sun makes the flower burst. Feel the sigh of the stars on your skin from their lonely distance. And you will understand that I am standing by your side. That, if you turn your head slightly, you will see me smiling. That, if you close your eyes and reach carefully into the shadow, you will touch my lips with your finger tips and feel their tender caress upon your skin.
I will go to the orange grove every day, my love. And I will wait. And one day you will come.
The softest of kisses,
Magpie
‘You’re not going to cry again, are you?’ said Sarah, distrustfully, bringing Jeanne back to reality. She shook her head in a daze. ‘Thank God,’ added Sarah. ‘Look on the bright side, Jeanne. All this waiting will surely turn you both into fiery beasts when you finally get round to making love.’
‘Sarah—you dirty so-and-so!’ cried Jeanne, picking up a cushion and clubbing Sarah on the head.
The cushion fight lasted a full five minutes and sent them collapsing onto the bed, breathless and soaked in sweat. They lay side by side, letting out whimpers and giggles.
‘My parents found some letters,’ said Jeanne at last.
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Yes, but thankfully not those signed by Harry. I really can’t fathom why I chose to separate them. But I’m grateful.’
‘Rather. The other man—’ Sarah’s voice was soft, curious. ‘D’you think he loved you? What a strange way of going about things.’ Jeanne hummed an acknowledgement. ‘What was he like?’
Jeanne raised herself onto an elbow and looked at her friend. ‘Who?’
‘Come on—the man who entered your room,’ insisted Sarah.
Jeanne lay back and grimaced. ‘Quite tall, portly, dark-skinned, a native—hands that would…would crack a neck in two with no problem,’ she added, her mind flashing with the image of her father. ‘I think he was the man who followed you in the orange grove.’
‘Urgh.’ Sarah shuddered and reached across to take Jeanne’s hand. ‘Must’ve been hideous. And rather scary—almost in a pleasant sort of a way,’ she added, in afterthought.
‘What d’you mean?’ Jeanne frowned, perplexed.
‘A dark shape in the night, entering your room. A man. A native. He comes to your bed and observes you in your sleep.’
‘Sarah…’
‘His hand, perhaps. Perhaps he reached out and touched you in your sleep.’
‘Sarah! You’re really strange!’
‘It’s like in a book,’ defended Sarah. ‘Just imagining, that’s all.’
‘Well, imagine the worst fright you’ve ever had and multiply it by a hundred. That’s what it felt like.’
Sarah sighed and was silent for a moment. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Jeanne. Listen—I’m terribly hot. Let’s go down to the kitchen for a glass of lemonade.’
‘Good idea,’ said Jeanne and rose, her mind still perplexed. Perhaps Sarah wasn’t altogether wrong. There had been something exquisitely exciting about it—like falling out of a tree and gripping on to the last branch. Her heart pounding in her chest. Fear and exhilaration.
Mother was not to be seen. She and Soumia had probably left for the market to shop for fruit and vegetables. Jeanne and Sarah made their way to the kitchen and served themselves lemonade from the larder.
‘Ludovic—Henri’s friend, you remember—’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Jeanne, gulping down the bubbles.
‘Returned from the United States. He said they’ve got machines that create ice.’
‘Heavens—we could do with that here.’
‘Rather. Apparently, only the very rich families and only the very few have them. They’re called refrigerators. They put food and drink in them and it keeps it fresh for weeks and weeks.’
‘It must be fun to live in America,’ said Jeanne, distantly. ‘They seem to be dancing all the time. At least, that’s what the films show us.’
The kitchen was a welcome break from the heat outside. The girls sat and took off their shoes, their toes touching the cool floor tiles until they warmed and only then placing their soles fully upon the surface. Both drew their dresses up above their knees and sat there, insouciant, sipping on their lemonade.
In the silence, they could hear the low rumble of the men in the adjoining study. Unconsciously, Sarah stood up, opened the window and craned her neck.
‘Probably talking about the war,’ whispered Sarah and pulled a face which was meant to imitate a stuffy Le Guédec. Jeanne rose and joined her. She could hear the men’s conversation, distinct words despite the muffled tones. Her father was speaking:
‘Abslem El Rifni, Colonel. Then Le Guédec, with his slight stutter: yes, I’ve s-set up road blocks. Informers—locals working for us. They report to Lieutenant Feldsman. An Alsatian—good man, v-very thorough. Her father again: It’s astonishing how the past catches you up. I had no idea—. Jean Bassouin: the revolt turned quite brutal, I believe. Lefèvre: had to set an example—if not, the whole country up in arms. Quite, affirmed the Colonel: and my men will s-see to it that El Rifni is hunted down and arrested, rest a-assured. In the meantime, I propose keeping up the safety measures. Someone to accompany my daughter and the house staff, came Lefèvre�
�s voice. And a permanent guard on the house and at the office, Philippe-Charles, don’t you think? A murmur of affirmation. You’d think they’d have learnt their lesson. Oh, the occasional gesture of discontent. D’you call murdering police officers an occasional gesture of discontent? I want that man removed, his possessions confiscated. Unacceptable—Should have raised the village to the ground years ago—all of it. Get the army to see to it now, will you? Sorry? said Le Guédec, hesitant. Destroy it—completely. It might even flush the madman out into the open…’
Jeanne drew back from the window and served herself another glass. Her father had been pitiless, though she supposed he was right. When she rejoined Sarah at the window, the men had changed subject. As Sarah had so rightly guessed—the war in Europe. Her father’s voice, though, sounded more determined than on previous times the subject had been approached. ‘It’s almost a question of weeks, gentlemen. The only official thing remaining is the rubber stamp on it all. Bassouin: blast Hitler and his mad designs. All of Europe will be set on fire. Le Guédec: a little alarmist, Jean. If we and the British can get enough modern equipment to the right places in time, then we’ll knock them out within a month. Lefèvre: they say the nature of war has changed. Le Guédec again: tanks and engines and planes—unstoppable. Berlin is a two-hour flight from Paris and two day’s driving. We have the best-equipped army in the world, gentlemen. The most men under arms, the biggest tanks, the fastest motorised units. Bassouin: and young Charrier has joined up—officer material. Might just finish his training in time. I fear it may generalise, said Lefèvre. And Le Guédec: mobilisation is only a signature away from reality.’
The sound of a knock on the study door. It must be mother coming back. Jeanne peered into the hallway. It was Mohammed, a large brown envelope in his hand. The study door opened and Jeanne heard her father’s voice, preoccupied:
‘Ah, yes—thank you, Mohammed. Put it in the tray, would you. I’ll see to it later.’ Mohammed briefly disappeared, conversation at a halt and then reappeared, closing the door behind him. Immediately, from behind the wall, the sound of the three men speaking in low, grave voices started up again. From the kitchen the girls listened on for a few moments more. Lefèvre’s voice became predominant. Jeanne heard her father distinctly: ‘we must begin to put our native troops on a footing. More training. Paris demands a Moroccan brigade.’ She drew away and closed the kitchen window, giving Sarah a furtive glance.