by Tom Gamble
They walked along the corridor as the corporal and the young lieutenant, bleary eyed and with his shirt hanging out, arrived. The lieutenant was pulling furiously on his baby moustache.
‘Unpardonable!’ was all Bassouin said, the lieutenant’s face turning very pale. ‘Clean up that filth. I’ll inspect the others after I’ve spoken to Mr Summerfield.’
Bassouin took Summerfield out of the cell building towards the administrative quarters and an office. There he gave orders for fresh clothes to be brought, for Summerfield to be lead to the shower rooms and for a guard to be placed at the door. On no account were they to be disturbed.
Summerfield showered blissfully, groaning with the simple but miraculous pleasure of water and soap. When he came out, he was given a towel and a uniform minus the insignia and his soiled clothes were taken to be washed.
Bassouin was waiting for him in the office with mint tea and biscuits. Summerfield noticed that he wasn’t sitting behind the desk, but on one of the two chairs in front of it. Taking the other chair, he felt a surge of respect and friendship towards the man, mixed with great relief at finally being free from the cell.
‘I am deeply grateful, Monsieur Bassouin—Jean. Thank you,’ said Summerfield, finally. ‘They wouldn’t even let me contact Wilding.’
‘And I apologise, once again, Harry. This was not at all desired and I deeply regret the treatment.’ Summerfield nodded back and Bassouin recognised the look in his eyes. He gave a little flick of his head. ‘Yes—and I shall see to it that those responsible are sanctioned.’
‘Who gave the order to arrest me?’ inquired Summerfield, sipping on the tea. ‘Lefèvre?’
Bassouin nodded. ‘I was with him when—when he recognised your handwriting. The translation, you see—he put two and two together.’
‘You don’t seriously think I was responsible for the events.’
Bassouin raised an eyebrow. ‘Directly, no—of course not. However, you were involved. A smart-minded lawyer could turn the indirect into the direct.’ Summerfield opened his mouth to protest, but Bassouin continued. ‘The ultimate outcome was an infraction into a leading official’s home with intent to kidnap and assassinate. All the evidence leads to the conclusion that it was all part of some plot.’
‘Maybe. But I swear I wasn’t aware of Abrach’s—El Rifni’s—intentions. I assumed he just wished to talk to the Lefèvre family. I’m as much a victim in this as anyone else.’
‘To what measure do you associate with El Rifni—or Abrach, as you call him?’ Bassouin’s voice had changed in tone to one of calm officialdom and it unsettled Summerfield. He felt himself withdraw warily.
‘In the beginning I knew him as a patron. I was there to work for him. True—I grew to appreciate some of his traits. He seemed quite a philosopher—sort of bitter-sweet.’
‘Like a man who had suffered and who had stepped back to take stock of life.’
‘That’s it. It appealed to me. And then, as my feelings for—for…’
‘Jeanne.’
‘Yes—grew… I came to see him as a competitor, a threat.’
‘Didn’t you realise the complexity of it all? The chances of success—for both of you—very slim indeed.’
Summerfield grunted ironically. ‘A rich Arab and a poor Englishman—I suppose both of us were off to a bad start for Lefèvre’s daughter’s heart.’
‘That’s not exactly what I meant,’ said Bassouin, sending Summerfield a reproachful glance.
‘Yes, I know. I apologise, Jean. However, I can vouch for the sincerity of my own feelings towards Jeanne. I love the girl. And I believe she loves me.’
‘It’s rather delicate,’ said Bassouin, lowering his gaze. ‘You see—I know you’re innocent. And Lefèvre, too, acknowledges the remoteness of you colluding with El Rifni in this affair. He is willing, Harry. Willing to let you free.’
‘You mean I’m not free?’ Summerfield frowned and put aside the tea.
‘He is willing,’ repeated Bassouin with a sigh. ‘If you agree to put an end to your relationship with his daughter and return to England.’
Summerfield let out a cry. ‘I don’t believe it! We’re halfway into the twentieth century and—and the idiot tries to bribe me. With that!’
‘Rather old school, I must admit,’ murmured Bassouin.
‘No—eighteenth century!’ added Summerfield. ‘It’s ridiculous, absurd.’
‘But those are his conditions.’
‘And a refusal on my part?’
‘Then you’ll have to stay here and let the incredibly dull and methodical administrative process take its course. An investigation. Questioning. Unfortunately, I believe some of their techniques are quite persuasive—could get a man to own up to anything.’ Bassouin leant forwards and drew breath. ‘Look, Harry. In all objectivity, if I were you, I’d accept.’
‘I didn’t expect you, of all people, to say that.’
‘Accept and you’ll be free. Don’t you see?’ Summerfield shook his head. ‘Free,’ repeated Bassouin, as though the word were self-evident. ‘If your love is so great, then nothing will stop it, will it?’ A mischievous smile at once came to Bassouin’s lips. ‘Do you see?’
‘You mean? But the deal is—’
‘I propose you read Voltaire’s Candide, Harry!’ said Bassouin, with a gentle smirk. ‘Please—try to be a little less naive. There are some things that no law can even attempt to control.’
‘But—principles, Jean!’
‘I’m not saying do. I’m saying if. There is all the difference.’
Summerfield sat back and gazed out of the window. A squad of native troops marched by in the near distance. ‘I would like to take Jeanne to England with me. Away from the war,’ said Summerfield, distantly.
Bassouin hummed. ‘I’m afraid there will be no place to hide from this war, Harry.’
‘Give me five minutes to think,’ said Summerfield, after some moments. ‘And then I’ll agree.’
32
The gate opened with a rusty squeal and Summerfield stepped out, pausing slightly to turn and stare frostily at the guard as it closed back again.
It was mid-evening, Bassouin having immediately arranged for Summerfield’s release some two hours before. He had even offered to drive him to his lodgings but Summerfield, soaking up his new freedom and desperate to enjoy the air, preferred to walk back.
The sun was low on the horizon, ready to submerge below the skyline and a cool breeze had blown in from the east and the mountains. Summerfield opened his mouth, almost lapping in the wonderful freshness and his gait took on a cheery swagger as he walked steadily past the police compound, through the barracks and housing district for the French administrative personnel of lower rank, and into the outskirts of the city.
In the distance, he caught a glimpse of the old city walls, their pale pink now ochre in shadow. He wondered what had happened to his flat, his belongings and hoped his neighbour, Abdlakabir, had had the wisdom to repair the lock and close everything up. He must repay the man, he told himself, and suddenly grew nostalgic—he would miss him when in England.
Turning past the outer limits of the expatriate quarter, with its schools and sports clubs, he began to concentrate on Jeanne and how he would approach the issue. Would she finally accept and agree to go with him to England? It seemed their only chance of being together in the long run. It would mean great sacrifice on her part: leaving her parents, her studies, her links with Morocco and her friends. All that for an out-of-work Englishman about to join the army and fight someone else’s war.
The fact of thinking of her so intensely led him to alter his way home. He found himself heading for the Académie and the orange grove. Although only a matter of two days, it seemed a lifetime since the last time he was there. He wondered if there would be a note, wondered too if the traces of their love-making would still be there. His mind filled with her and his heart began to beat erratically and swell. He was in love—and it hurt not to be with
her.
He crossed the square, hesitating for a moment to look at the dormant Académie building with its overly ornate gates, now firmly padlocked. His eye caught the regard of a beggar—strange to be here at this time of the day—and, further on along one of the avenues, a road sweeper, his head covered in a cheiche so that only his eyes and nose were apparent. Summerfield continued, up onto the grass verge surrounding the square and along the sandy path that forked three ways, one of them through the trees of the orange grove. In the distance, the sound of an engine choking into life. A lorry. He took no notice, and stepped into the grove. And then the sound of footsteps. He stopped, irritated. If it were the damn police again, he’d really go mad.
‘Look here—I’ve just been—’ he said aloud, turning on the footsteps. The beggar hesitated for a moment, his face caught between a snarl and a smile and then he stretched out a hand. Automatically, Summerfield searched the pocket of his army fatigues, forgetting he had been taken from his lodgings without time or thought to take any money with him. Just then the lorry appeared in view.
‘I’m terribly sorry—’ he began. The beggar’s face turned ugly. ‘I’m telling the truth,’ said Summerfield, with determination.
The lorry drew up beside them. He frowned, glanced at the driver, back at the beggar and then froze.
‘Good God!’
Suddenly, there were three of them on him, dragging him towards the back. He let out a shout and his mouth was immediately covered by a grimy hand. He resisted, his feet clawing at the ground, before the third man gripped his legs and he was carried, powerless, to the tailgate and bundled in. The lorry immediately bucked in a cloud of smoke and dust and pulled away. For a split second he pulled free, tugging on the tailgate and managing to pass his head and left shoulder free. His vision, in that second, was of the Académie and a slender shape standing before the gates, looking at him, her face white with shock. Was it Jeanne? Jeanne! He tried to shout but was wrenched back, his voice turning to a cry of pain. And then all was darkness.
33
It was the old knot tier, Monsieur Quasimodo, emerging from his rickety shelter in the orange grove, who stumbled across the young woman. He hesitated, momentarily lifting his cape from his head as though it would help his old eyes focus better. The shape he saw on the side of the road whimpered. An arm suddenly twitched. It was a European, he could see from the clothes. Frowning, he shuffled over.
Jeanne lay in a heap on her side. She was silently crying. The old man peered closer. The young face, pale, though not so foreign, streaked in tears and grime, was the saddest face he had ever seen. She was trembling. Again, he hesitated. He looked about him as though sensing trouble and made a clucking sound. His old arthritic knuckles reached down and stroked her hair. The girl flinched and for the first time, her eyes looked up and met his.
‘I know who you are,’ he said, mumbling in French. ‘Do not be afraid, my child. Come. Get up now.’
Jeanne lay there for a long time, looking into the old man’s milky eyes but seeing nothing. Her thoughts were an emptiness of desolation. She shook. They had taken him away.
‘Come,’ repeated the old man. ‘Viens. Lève-toi.’
She tried to rise, the effort triggering another spasm of tears. She felt so stupid. ‘They—they took him,’ she said, sure that the old man wouldn’t even understand her. ‘A lorry. Men.’
‘I heard a row,’ said the old man in his curious voice.
‘Did you see them? Did you see them?’
The old man shook his head.
‘We must phone the police,’ whimpered Jeanne. ‘He’s in danger.’
‘Was it your love?’ asked the old man. ‘The foreigner?’
Jeanne’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘He is kind. He leaves me food, a little money, something to read when he comes to see you.’ The old man grinned gently, showing his black gums. ‘And he calls me Sidi—Monsieur—but not Quasimodo like the girls do.’ He saw her sudden shame and cackled. ‘And there is another man, a big man, one of us. He came to ask about you and your foreigner. His hands,’ whispered the old man, suddenly holding up his own petrified claws, ‘Were misshapen. Bent like the branches of a sickly tree. He tried to hide them under his sleeves but I saw them.’
‘Oh, God.’ Jeanne suddenly felt nauseous.
‘You know him,’ said the old man. ‘He is dangerous, n’est-ce pas? Come. Let me help you, M’moiselle. You are suffering.’
When Jeanne arrived at her parents’ house, her mother was waiting at the gate. Jeanne threw herself into her arms.
‘They’ve taken him. It’s so awful,’ wept Jeanne as her mother helped her towards the house. Suddenly remembering, she turned to the police car. Her father was talking to the officials on the curb. Inside the car was the old knot tier. He was looking out at the rich houses, the well-kept gardens. He seemed confused. ‘Merci,’ cried Jeanne. ‘Merci, infiniment, Monsieur.’ Both her father and the policemen fleetingly turned their heads to look at her. Her father raised an eyebrow and scowled.
‘Come, Jeanne. Come inside and tell me everything,’ said her mother, squeezing her arm.
‘You must order the police to take action,’ said Jeanne’s mother, once Lefèvre had joined them.
Lefèvre sat down opposite them and clasped his hands. ‘The man is a scoundrel. Do you realise? Summerfield tricked our daughter into falling in love with both him and a criminal—a known terrorist. Summerfield’s idiocy nearly got our daughter killed—not to mention me.’
‘He is a citizen—a white citizen—a European and one of us. It is our duty, Philippe-Charles.’ Her mother’s voice was almost plaintive. Lefèvre’s sharp features seemed to grow even more angular. He rubbed his head, re-arranging the few strands of brill-creamed hair across his scalp.
‘Oh, bother,’ he finally ceded. ‘Of course I’ll give the order. It’s my duty—even for Summerfield. But, don’t be under any illusion—it was probably El Rifni. And if it was, then our young and romantic fool is probably now lying in a ditch outside town with his throat cut.’ Upon this, Jeanne let out a loud wail and relapsed into a spasm of sobbing. Lefèvre looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. ‘For God’s sake, Jeanne, pull yourself together!’
‘I don’t think you realise,’ said Mme Lefèvre, tersely, ‘Just how deeply Jeanne felt for the young Englishman.’
‘Well I hope it didn’t go too deep,’ replied Lefèvre, cutting short his wife. ‘Do you really understand?’ He raised his eyebrows, looking icily at his wife. ‘Do you understand?’ he repeated.
His wife’s jaw froze open. ‘Oh, God. Please—not that!’
I’d never thought of it before, said Jeanne to herself, gazing up at the ceiling of her bedroom. The sedative the doctor had administered had made her drowsy and heavy limbed. I’d never thought of it. How, in the old times, a woman could actually die of a broken heart. And some actually did. Will I die? How great must sadness be to actually kill you? Does despair get so much, so choking, that it constricts the lungs, the throat? Or does the heart just refuse to go on living anymore? I wonder…
The bedroom door was locked—Daddy’s idea. The window, since that awful night, barred. It was to protect her, but also themselves. She realised they thought she might do something stupid. And…the thought had in fact crossed her mind. Suicide or running away.
She should try to find him. She should. But truth was, she was scared. She had no idea how to survive outside. In fact, the country she had lived in for twenty years she hardly knew. Through all her books and studies, she could rattle off the départements in France, the postal codes of all the main cities, historical facts from Pépin le Bref to Napoleon III, the streets of Paris and where the chic shops and stores were located. But she had only ever been to Paris twice in her life. In truth, she was a foreigner in France and a foreigner in French North Africa. She felt so alone, so weak and lost and useless. She felt the nausea overcoming her again, the same sickening rush of bil
e as when that feeling of fear seized her stomach and made her gasp for air. It came suddenly and she leant over the side of the bed to retch into the bucket Soumia had placed there. She called out then stopped herself, feeling totally miserable. I want to die, she whimpered and began crying herself to sleep.
34
For a long time, blindfolded, Summerfield lay on the floor of the lorry, bucked and thrown, the roaring and whining of the transmission hammering his ears and head. He had no idea where they were heading and after an initial attempt at tracing the path of the lorry in his mind, he gave up. All he could think of was Jeanne and the look of total incomprehension on her face as she saw him and he was filled with the sickening sense of panic that he would never see her again.
In the darkness, time took on another dimension. It dragged tortuously on, as though he were wading against strong current. Was all this Lefèvre’s doing—some Machiavellian plot? Or was it Abrach out for revenge for what he’d done? He could not move, his hands bound, his body wedged tightly between what he took to be a wooden crate and the weight of someone’s legs pressing down on him. He wanted to shout, to run, but couldn’t. He thought of Bassouin, of Jeanne and of Wilding. For some strange reason, his mind played the nasty trick of jealousy and he imagined the latter two, meeting up, Jeanne in a state of panic, Wilding only too willing to offer a consoling shoulder and then…The thought of losing her was agonising and Summerfield fought, without much success, to wipe the images from his mind. In the end, he gave up, sliding into the inevitable, his mind flailing futilely one last time before he sank into a profound sleep.