by Tom Gamble
Summerfield exhaled noisily. ‘I can’t not go,’ he added, finally. ‘Don’t you understand?’
‘No, I don’t.’ A silence overcame them, the twittering of a bird seeming entirely out of context, mocking.
‘I have to go, Jeanne,’ sighed Summerfield, at last. ‘It’s like a—like a voice from somewhere inside me. Unexplainable.’
‘Harry—perhaps it’ll all be called off. Perhaps they’ll find a way.’ There was a note of conciliation in Jeanne’s voice, desperation even, and she leant closer, her hand gripping on his.
‘You’ll wait for me. Here. And I’ll come back once it’s finished and then we’ll be together. It’s simple!’
She looked at him, fear and love and longing mixed into one, and they drew together.
29
She was wearing a silver chain around her neck with the sweetest silver crucifix and next to it, hanging on a silver thread, the hand of Fatima. Summerfield watched her, almost in reverence, captivated at how such a beautiful being could exist at all, as she reached behind her neck and unclasped the chain. The movement accentuated the shape of her breasts through her blouse—her waist and flat little tummy. Summerfield looked on, smiling broadly. His head shook in wonderment. A sad little smile appeared on his lips as she stepped forward with cupped hands and offered him the necklace.
‘I can’t,’ said Summerfield. ‘It was for you.’
‘Please,’ whispered Jeanne. ‘I love you so much, I would give you everything I have.’
‘And I too.’
‘I want you to wear it, Harry. I want you to be protected and with God’s help you’ll return safely from this stupid war that is coming.’
‘And you, my love? Don’t you think I am worried sick with the thought of you leaving for France? I feel powerless, ridiculous. With money I could take us both far away.’
‘Money,’ murmured Jeanne. ‘My parents have money and they live in a pretence of happiness, a prisoner of it. Do you know why my father doesn’t ask for a posting back to France? Because he wouldn’t have his servants and his soldiers and his power. That’s why.’
Summerfield pulled a face. ‘Well, a little of it wouldn’t do any harm. I’m looking for steady work, Jeanne—maybe teaching. I want to be ready for us. I want to offer you a good life.’ ‘You are my good life, my love. I feel so strong that all the annoying and bothersome problems that can happen have no effect. You lead me through my days, Harry. I am yours, for you save me.’
‘Come,’ said Summerfield, feeling as though his feet were going to lift from the ground and send him floating among the branches of the orange grove. He took her cupped hands which she poured into his, sending the silver chain slipping into his fingers. He kissed her softly on the lips and then her hands. When he raised his head their eyes met and locked with such intensity that he felt a fire rising from somewhere deep inside his stomach, the flames of which licked his eyes and made them shine with tears of happiness. He raised his hand, letting the necklace trace the shape of her shoulders beneath her blouse and she shivered. Then, brushing across the open neck, slipping down into the smooth curve of her chest and beyond, the silver wriggling into her breasts. Jeanne giggled, squirmed a little and closed her eyes. She whispered something he could not hear and he murmured something back, equally as incoherent, the language of love, a noise with more meaning than any word.
He wanted her, here, now. Wanted to violate this sweet and innocent beauty with his manliness. Pulling her down suddenly into the grass and dried leaves of the hollow, their lips met with ferocity. He clawed at her blouse, her bra, forcing apart the hindrance of clothing to seek her breasts, her belly, her armpits, her mouth and once again her belly. Her hands gripped tightly onto his shoulders, holding on as though afraid to fall into some precipice without him. And then her skirt, a movement of protestation, but his hand prised open her knees and slid upwards into the overwhelming, intoxicating softness of her inner thighs. Her sex was hot, her knickers drenched and his fingers slipped beyond into her open cunt, her flower, the Sacred. Jeanne let out a cooing sound, like a bird and the instinctive thrust of her pelvis pushed against him. She came with a cry like a note of music and called out his name. The silver necklace fell onto her belly. Fumbling clumsily with his trousers, his sex lumbered forwards into space and Jeanne stared momentarily at it with a mixture of fear, surprise and expectation. And then he mounted her, suddenly gentle, nudging her legs farther apart. Again their eyes met, a fraction of a second, and he kissed her eyelids, each one, tenderly and he entered her. A gasp escaped her lips, a little cry and she winced. Softly, very softly Summerfield pushed into her and withdrew, pushed back and withdrew. The pain disappeared from her face, but she was still tense, still afraid of what would happen. He spoke in whispers to her, loving words that soothed and encouraged. She was tight around him and his sex quickly ached with a need to release its load. The surge of orgasm seeped inexorably up from his balls, buzzed along the shaft of his sex and gathered in force and energy at the base, ever swelling from the gathering charge. He gasped once, twice and withdrew from her to discharge over her thighs, his back arched, as if the wild animal were gripping onto the neck of its prey. Jeanne let out a little cry as she watched, a cry of awe more than anything else. Summerfield stared back, aware that his face would probably scare her and lowered himself onto her body with a kiss. There was blood on his hand—her blood.
‘I have spoiled you, my love,’ he whispered.
She shook her head. She was crying. ‘You have made me alive. I’m so happy.’
‘I totally, incredibly love you, Jeanne,’ murmured Summerfield and in a spontaneous, unconscious gesture, took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently rubbed it across Jeanne’s sex. ‘Look,’ he said, softly. She smiled at him, unsure and peered with him at the pinkish red stain on the cotton. ‘This is your beauty—your passage into womanhood. I am honoured, my love.’
Conscious of their nudity, they quickly dressed, Summerfield giving her the handkerchief and turning his back as she tucked it into her knickers. Once finished, he took her hand and they sat together, knees drawn, leaning against each other.
‘What if I’m pregnant?’ she said, at last, her voice as surprised as it was fearful.
‘No.’ Summerfield shook his head, though wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t left a trace of him inside her. ‘And in any case—I would love a child from you.’
She grinned, shyly and she rubbed against him, her hand clutching his. ‘If we had a baby, I wonder if it would be métissé?’
‘A mix of colours?’ Summerfield frowned.
‘Some tell me I look like a Moroccan girl. And they all think it, I’m sure.’ Summerfield looked at her for several moments, inquisitive. ‘Come on, Harry,’ she said, nudging him, her voice sounding weary. ‘You’ve noticed how different I am from my parents. Even my school friends—apart from Sarah, and she has Jewish-Algerian blood. It’s evident.’ She shook her head, sadly. ‘How stupid of me not to have noticed before—and those ridiculous comments from my father of how I had the Lefèvre chin, the Lefèvre nose—it was all so cruel.’
‘Nothing is proven, Jeanne,’ said Summerfield, momentarily lost for any pertinent words of comfort. ‘Sometimes it’s a natural reoccurrence—you know, like an ancestral reminder of where we all came from.’
‘Will you still love me if it’s true?’ whimpered Jeanne, suddenly filled with self-pity.
‘Oh, Jeanne. I will love you even more! Don’t you understand? You’re beautiful—different. That’s part of why I’m head over heels for you.’ He shook his head. ‘I could never have married an Englishwoman. Not even a Frenchwoman. This skin you have, like a milky, tender olive—I could travel its surface for a lifetime and still wonder at it.’
Jeanne laughed. She kissed him, went silent and then squirmed. ‘Did you say marry?’
Summerfield was caught by surprise. He turned his eyes to her and saw all the softness and beauty and hope in the worl
d. He could see a future and she was in it. ‘Yes—I did. I want you, Jeanne. Marry me, then.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
Jeanne looked at him, her eyes startled then softening. He voice was hoarse, a barely audible whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Then we are married.’
‘What about rings?’
‘Damn!’ Jeanne laughed and Summerfield looked around him. ‘We need a ring!’ he said, rising to search the floor of the orange grove. ‘None here.’ Jeanne rose and joined in the search. ‘Oh, bother. We’ll have to do without, but—hold on.’ He leapt across to the irrigation ditch and disappeared. A few seconds later he had reappeared, grinning broadly, and clambered out. Approaching Jeanne he held out his two, tightly clenched fists. ‘Some species of animal offer gifts to their mates—a sign of love and of eternal togetherness. This is such a gift, Jeanne. Choose.’
‘Which one?’ said Jeanne, in incomprehension.
Summerfield shrugged his shoulders. ‘Either—they both mean the same, but are different. Choose.’ Jeanne tapped his left hand and his fist turned in on itself and opened palm up. ‘A pebble, Jeanne. This is my gift with which I now marry you.’ Jeanne laughed in delight and took the small, round stone and held it to her lips. ‘And this pebble is mine,’ said Summerfield, opening his other hand. ‘Kiss it, too, Jeanne. Give it luck and love evermore.’
Jeanne stepped forward, lowered her head and kissed the object in his palm. ‘And now kiss me, silly!’ she said, giving his shoulders a shake.
30
Lefèvre was sitting at his desk, working on two things simultaneously: the draft of the call for mobilisation in French Morocco—in fact, a modification of the one from Saint Louis, the French West Africa HQ in Senegal—and a letter to the doyen of the Sorbonne, an old school friend, requesting Jeanne’s entrance to 1st year studies in October.
He stopped to lean back and stretch his aching shoulders. The fan on the ceiling had ceased revolving—hadn’t noticed. Damn—no wonder he was sweating.
‘Corporal—what’s happened to the ventilation?’ he called out and a muffled voice, an oddly out-of-place Corsican accent, called immediately back from behind the closed door.
‘Electricity, Sir. It’s the genny—ran out of juice.’
‘Logistics is Dubrot’s job!’ snapped back Lefèvre, to no one in particular. ‘A breakdown in the middle of the afternoon!’ he added. ‘Quel âne! Corporal,’ he called again.
‘Sir.’
‘Bring me some coffee. And while you’re at it, bring me a native with a fan or something. Monsieur Bassouin will arrive at 4 p.m.—it’s like an oven in here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The sound of the corporal’s hobnailed boots resounded off down the flagstone corridor and Lefèvre carefully mopped the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. The envelope, with the translation inside, caught his eye and he suddenly remembered he had to hand it to Bassouin, something he’d forgotten to do at the house what with their conversation. He reached over, placing it on a corner of his desk, then, on second thoughts, replaced it directly on the edge in front of his two papers, making sure it was correctly aligned at a right angle to the wall. He sighed, exhaled a stream of recognisably overheated breath, and pondered over his two papers. Which one? he caught himself saying aloud, and chose the letter to the Sorbonne. He didn’t want Bassouin to know he treated private affairs at the office.
A few minutes later, there came a knock at the door. It was the corporal. He entered, saluted, turned and tugged on the tunic of a native carrying somewhat maladroitly a tray with coffee in one hand, and a large, cumbersome date palm branch in the other. He advanced slowly, at a shuffle, so as not to upset the tray.
‘Corporal—can’t you just help the man out a little?’ said Lefèvre with a scowl. The corporal returned the scowl, though directed at the native, took the branch from the man’s hand and dropped it disrespectfully to the floor bedside the window.
‘Thank you, corporal.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Moroccan placed the tray down and served tea, after which, to both Lefèvre’s and the corporal’s bewilderment, he picked up the palm branch and began to sweep the floor.
‘You arse!’ exclaimed the corporal, darting an apologetic glance at Lefèvre. ‘I told you to fan, not sweep.’
‘Perhaps, corporal, the man doesn’t speak French. Where did you find him, anyway? He’s not one of the usual boys.’
‘The others are taking their nap, sir.’
‘Nap!’ exploded Lefèvre. ‘When in God’s name will they understand our way of doing things!’
‘It’s pretty damn hot, sir.’
‘Well we’re working, aren’t we?’
‘Just goes to show, sir,’ muttered he corporal, meaningfully. ‘Indigènes!’
The native, standing quite still with the large branch in his hand, wore a look of total passivity.
Lefèvre seemed lost for a moment. ‘Well show him what to do, corporal!’
‘Sir,’ cracked the soldier, once more swiping the branch from the man’s hand and immediately fanning the air. He finished off by stabbing a finger at him and placing the makeshift fan back in his hands. ‘Now you. Yallah!’ For a second or two the man’s face was still a mask and then it broke into a broad grin to reveal a row of stained and uneven gums. ‘Yallah!’ said the corporal, once again and the man set to work, Lefèvre hastily placing paper weights on his documents before they scattered. The corporal left, closing the door behind him and Lefèvre went back to his letter, a little unsettled by having to share his office with an Arab—what did the British call them—punkahwalla: El Rifni’s men could be anywhere.
Lefèvre finished the letter after hesitating somewhat over the closing formalities—didn’t want to appear too familiar. After all, he hadn’t seen de Frazenard for almost ten years. He sealed the envelope with the official stamp of the République, something that brought a sigh of satisfaction and flicked it into the out tray ready for posting. Turning now to the declaration of mobilisation, Lefèvre caught the native staring fixedly at him, something that sent an uneasy shiver across his shoulders. The scene with El Rifni still filled his thoughts almost permanently. He hadn’t slept soundly since that night, his wife complaining that he repeatedly uttered the most alarming grunts at around 3 o’clock in the morning. In his office, Lefèvre rose, telling himself that his wife could jolly well sleep in the spare room, and opened the door to find the corporal asleep standing up.
‘Corporal.’
‘Sir,’ said the corporal with a start.
‘I’m opening the door. For the air.’
‘Yes, sir. Pretty damn hot, sir.’
‘Quite.’
Bassouin arrived at three minutes to four and walked straight in without knocking.
‘They’re massing troops on the Polish border!’
‘What? Who?’
‘The Germans!’ replied Bassouin. ‘I’ve just received a communiqué from Saint Louis.’
‘I say!’ Lefèvre sat quite rigid, uncertain what it meant. Even he had thought a solution possible.
‘They say they’re on manoeuvres, of course.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Lefèvre, relaxing. ‘We’re not ready.’
‘That’s what they say—wouldn’t trust Herr Hitler an inch of a thumb. Anyway—how are things?’
‘Hot,’ said Lefèvre, darting a glance at the native, who had stopped waving his branch. ‘Dubrot got his lists in a twist.’
‘That or the military pinched the reserve.’
‘Hell—nobody informs me of anything!’ squeaked Lefèvre. ‘Good God, I’m in charge here! Who gave the order?’
‘HQ in Saint Louis.’
‘Well how do you know?’
‘The advantage of working next to the communications centre, I’m afraid. I get all the latest sporting results before anyone else, too. Damn good of you to have lent me an office down there, Philippe-Charles. Mo
st obliged.’
Lefèvre let out a grunt and reached for the envelope. ‘Here, Bassouin—before anything else. I’m afraid I forgot to give it to you the other day. It’s Wilding’s translated report.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Bassouin, accepting the envelope. ‘Let’s hope we can find a way of working with our American friends. Might upset the British, though.’
‘They’d deserve it,’ said Lefèvre as Bassouin withdrew the document. ‘They’ve already snapped up the Middle East.’ ‘Umm—untyped,’ murmured Bassouin, pulling out the sheath of pages.
‘It was in English.’
‘Hand-written—quite neatly done.’ Bassouin paused. ‘Oh, dear. The odd mistake—masculine/feminine. Did Wilding do this? Didn’t know he wrote French.’
‘I had that British chap, Summerfield, translate it for us. Had the cheek to ask payment for it.’
‘Well, for him it’s work, I imagine. No—not at all bad. He was a copywriter, wasn’t he?’ Bassouin placed the papers back down on the desk, but Lefèvre didn’t answer. ‘What is it, Philippe-Charles—anything wrong?’
‘Just looking,’ muttered Lefèvre, leaning across. ‘Hadn’t bothered to take a peep at it before—thought it might be confidential. That—that writing…’
‘As I said—quite neatly done, all told,’ said Bassouin, frowning. ‘It’s a bit hot in here, that’s true. Would you—’
‘Odd,’ said Lefèvre, abruptly, and shook his head. ‘It reminds me…reminds me of something. Of—’ Lefèvre suddenly sat down, ashen faced.
‘Are you all right?’ said Bassouin, himself leaning forward. ‘Shall I get the corporal in here?’
‘That writing. This is not Abrach’s. Or even El Rifni’s—it’s his!’
‘Summerfield?’
‘The letters—this document: the same hand-writing!’ wheezed Lefèvre.