by Tom Gamble
All this time, Jeanne thought of Harry. A thousand times, she went over and over their letters, the times they had been together, their touches. Each time, she went searching for the smallest of detail and her mind lingered for an eternity so that it almost became real, only then to realise that it was the deepest, most hollow presence.
She began to receive visits. Sarah popped by, announcing her forthcoming trip to France for the wedding. Cécile, still as mad as ever, came with Edouard to tell her they were now engaged. And then Sister Marthe called by with Jeanne’s exam results—obtenu avec mérite. Jeanne caught her parents exchanging knowing glances and wondered how long it would be before they announced she would go to France to study.
Every day, Jeanne asked for news of Harry. Several reports of a man resembling Summerfield had come in: a face in a car in a village to southeast, a man at the central station in Marrakesh. Someone who, when questioned, turned out to be a German archaeologist, Lefèvre adding that it was a lucky coincidence for, given the worsening situation in Europe, he could now place the man under surveillance. But no real concrete sighting of Harry. The good point was that nobody had been found which ruled out the possibility of murder. They must have hidden Summerfield away, concluded her father, difficult to find. The country was half uncharted. There were even places, her mother had tried to reassure her, where the Berber tribes were living in complete autarchy, in much the same conditions as they had hundreds of years ago. There was no way the authorities could search all these remote places. All they had to do was wait and hope that a rumour would lead to the right ears. This did not reassure Jeanne.
The summer holidays proved an ordeal of heat and boredom. Everyone seemed to have left. Jeanne’s father, given the crisis, was unable to take time off and her mother never travelled anywhere without him, so the prospect of them spending a week by the sea in August, as they habitually did, was ruled out.
Jeanne’s health failed on two occasions, mostly through lack of regular nutrition. On these occasions, she was administered food and vitamins by a nurse her parents paid to stay in the house the time it took for Jeanne to regain her strength. They were days spent gazing over the top of a book she could never finish, her eyes inevitably drawing to the distant mountains and the feeling that somehow, somewhere, Harry must be there. In the garden, in the shade, Mohammed kept watch on her armed with a long stick. Outside the gate, a policeman watched permanently over the house from the shade of a date tree.
The night was the worst. Lefèvre thought it likely that Abrach—El Rifni—would attempt to kidnap her again. After all, he had done likewise to Summerfield—most probably to prevent him giving information to the authorities. Jeanne, despite all her father’s clinical calmness, sensed her father was scared. Both for her and most of all for himself. What vile things had he done to make a man hate him so much, she wondered. Life was awful—a continuous string of betrayals and truths that constantly tried to defeat her belief in the goodness of things. How long would it be before she gave in? How long before she became like her parents?
One day, mid-August, her mother summoned her to the living room. A fresh cup of lemon tea was waiting for her together with a corne de gazelle, her favourite cake that positively oozed sugar and honey and so sweet that it made her teeth ache. Her mother must have asked Soumia to make them especially for the occasion.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ said her mother. Jeanne did as she was told and accepted the tea. ‘Good.’ Her mother brushed away a stray hair from her brow, flicked away an imaginary something from the top of her pale green summer dress and took a deep breath. ‘Now, your father and I have arranged things, Jeanne. You will not have to worry about that.’
‘About what, mother?’ inquired Jeanne, a distant flame of hope flickering in her. Was there news of Harry?
‘Your studies, of course,’ frowned her mother. ‘Your future.’
‘My future. Oh.’
‘You sound as if there won’t be one,’ said her mother, tersely. ‘For goodness’ sake, please change your attitude, Jeanne. It is quite unbecoming of a young lady of your standing. Life is full of unpleasant events. We just have to turn the page and start reading anew.’
‘That’s not very comforting, mother,’ said Jeanne. ‘Have you ever experienced something as horrible as—’
Her mother pursed her lips—that almost incriminating expression of hers—and raised a hand. Jeanne remained silent, feeling like a little girl, scared as always by the authority her parents wielded over her.
‘Your father has decided you will undertake law studies.’
‘I’m not interested in law.’
‘He wishes you to enter the Administration.’
‘Like him.’
‘For the status and the security and the safety.’
‘Security I can understand,’ said Jeanne. ‘But safety?’ Jeanne grimaced. ‘What safety?’
‘That if ever you cannot find a husband—’ Jeanne’s eyes widened. Was she hearing correctly? ‘—you will still have an opportunity to make a career.’
‘Haven’t you both realised?’ Jeanne could contain her anger no longer. ‘Harry Summerfield is—will be—my husband.’
‘Mister Summerfield has disappeared, Jeanne,’ answered her mother, remaining calm. ‘And one day, quite soon—you’ll be surprised—he will disappear from your thoughts too. It’s sad, but that’s how it is.’
‘He will never, ever disappear from me,’ said Jeanne, solemnly.
‘When you are faced, in the weeks or months or years to come, with a man—for example, Ludovic—and he begins to court you. How will you explain that you…that you are—how should we say…?’
‘That I’m what, mother?’ said Jeanne, defiantly.
Her mother’s voice was icy cold. ‘That you are no longer a virgin—that you lost your pureness with a foreigner who then disappeared. How will you explain that, Jeanne? How?’
Jeanne was stunned. She had never expected her mother could say anything ever like it. She felt like screaming, like crying.
‘What if I’m still pure?’ whined Jeanne, fighting desperately.
Her mother shook her head and again pursed her lips.
‘We’re not that stupid, girl. Your body has changed. Your hips are woman’s hips now—that’s how it happens. Your attitude too changed not long after that awful Arab tried to kill us. You have—haven’t you?’
Her mother’s gaze was too intense to face.
‘I wouldn’t tell anyone about it,’ said Jeanne, miserably.
‘Rubbish! You don’t have to tell anyone—especially a man! They know about these things. They can smell it, like a beast smells meat.’
‘That’s horrible, mother.’
‘It’s how things are. Life is—life can be so…’ her mother hesitated, as if she was fighting back the urge to cry herself—‘So disappointing,’ she said, breathing in at the same instant. She remained silent for a few moments, regaining composure, and when her calm, grey stare had returned, she said. ‘So there you are—law studies. Everything has been arranged.’
‘I suppose the teachers will be old women spinsters,’ said Jeanne, gruffly. ‘And I’ll be housebound forever.’
‘My dear,’ said Jeanne’s mother, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you understand? Don’t you remember? You will not be staying here. Morocco is a country that has done you more harm than any good. We shall proceed with the initial idea to send you home.’
‘But here is my home.’
‘No, Jeanne. France is your home. It is your country, your real roots, your duty.’
‘Mother—I do not look like you or like father. Why is that?’ attacked Jeanne.
‘Oh, not that old rubbish again! You will make me extremely angry, Jeanne, I’m warning you.’
‘My skin is different, my eyes, my features. I could almost be—be one of the natives if I stayed in the sun for longer. That’s why Soumia has been so insistent all these years! And was it you that told her to do th
at? Are you ashamed of me, mother?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re hysterical, Jeanne, an idiotic child. Now be quiet!’
‘No! No I won’t. I’ve had enough of being quiet, of shutting up.’ Jeanne could contain herself no longer. She felt a surge of anger and hatred for everything around her rise up inside. ‘What did you do, mother—all those years ago?’
‘What do you mean, Jeanne? You’re—you’re quite mad all of a sudden.’
‘Did you do something stupid, too, mother? Worse than me perhaps? Something that is forbidden? With a native, maybe?’
Jeanne’s mother let out a cry of anger and indignation and promptly lunged forwards. Jeanne felt the sharp, dry slap on her cheek and drew back. Her mother had never done that, never in twenty years.
‘You—you hit me, mother.’
‘I slapped you,’ replied her mother, mechanically. ‘And justly so. I have never been so insulted in my life. To insinuate that I, of all people, could have slept with a native. Disgusting!’
‘They are people—just like us. We’re not better, mother, just different.’
‘You young fool,’ said Mme Lefèvre and shook her head. ‘You know nothing of the world, do you? Absolutely nothing…’ She paused, her mouth moving slightly, undecided as to talk further. ‘Your father and I… We—’ Her mother stopped herself and drew breath. ‘You will attend the university at Bordeaux. You will study law. You will stay at your father’s sister’s—aunt Géraldine. There your supposedly different colour of skin—and different features, for that matter—will not be so out of place. After all, historically they have a lot of Spanish and Moorish blood in them.’
Jeanne looked at her mother with hatred. She was just as bad as the Blackshirts in Europe.
‘And one more thing, Jeanne. Remember that we have also decided this for your own good. Your health will only get worse if you stay here. Memories—bad memories—are best left behind in life.’
‘And when do you intend to send me?’ said Jeanne, sullenly, defeated.
‘The first week of September—term starts at the beginning of October. That will give you time to acclimatise and get used to European life. I’ve also arranged for you to meet up with Sarah and her husband who have planned to honeymoon in Biarritz. It’ll do you no end of good. Go now—our conversation is finished.’
The remaining weeks went so quickly and Jeanne was filled with a strange, conflicting mixture of emotions. Sadness, always sadness when she thought of Harry and their love for each other. Anger at her parents for this ultimate bullying of her life. Fear and excitement at the thought of discovering France and Europe and all the new people at university. She felt like both running away towards the mountains and running away from her ordeal in Morocco. Mother had been right on that point. A bad memory was like a heavy anchor, dragging her backwards towards what could have been, what should have been and all the mistakes. She could no longer bear the pain and something inside her urged her on towards a light, a new beginning. Maybe going ‘home’ as mother had called it—France—would provide her with just that new light, that new beginning. But it would never happen.
It was the 2nd of September. In the night, Jeanne had heard her father on the phone: German tanks had entered Poland. Jeanne’s affairs—two large travelling chests, a hat bag and two suitcases lay at the foot of the stairs ready to be loaded onto the calash that would take her to the station. Mother and Mohammed were to travel with her to Tangiers where they would say their goodbyes. A day’s voyage would take Jeanne to Marseilles and then a train would take her across France to Bordeaux and her aunt’s. Accordingly, Jeanne’s father had freed himself from the office for a couple of hours and was to meet them at the station for her departure.
Next morning, the calash arrived and the driver, assisted by Mohammed, duly loaded the vehicle. Jeanne went back upstairs to give her bedroom one last glance. Her teddy bear, Baudelaire, was propped up under the sheets and, tears suddenly escaping from her eyes, she rushed over and gave him hug. Even him, the soft and comforting presence through the past ten years or more, she was leaving behind. Downstairs, the crying took a turn for the worse. It was Soumia, nanny and housemaid, who first began sobbing, then crying and then, in true Berber tradition, wailing. They held each other tightly for several minutes, Soumia whispering dialect into her ears, probably a prayer for safe keeping and protection. When they drew apart, the maid’s eyes flickered momentarily over Jeanne’s body. A fleeting look of complicity came across Soumia’s eyes and she nodded.
The journey to the station took Jeanne through the expatriate quarter, so quiet and genteel, into the outskirts by the city walls, pale pink in the glaring sun. People went about their daily work and routines in the streets and squares, oblivious to the change in her life that was about to take place. She took in the colours, etching them in her memory, certain that Europe would be eternally overcast and grey. Finally, arriving at the station, a throng of porters and beggars came to them and Mohammed had to push them away. Father, together with a policeman for a guard, met them at the ticket office. They went through to the platform with the swathe of porters, joined now by a gaggle of hopeful shoe shiners, paper boys and a snake charmer believing them to be tourists. Lefèvre was stiff lipped, uncomfortable and parsimonious with his words. ‘Good weather. Not too hot. Have you got a coat within reach for the ship?’ were his remarks. Jeanne’s mother, however, was more talkative, emphasising the thrill of returning to France with all its monuments, culture, cinemas, theatres and such. At last, the train pulled in belching smoke and hissing steam. The porters became agitated, as did the fifty or so others attending their passengers and a kind of a mad and frantic jostling briefly followed for first access to the compartments.
‘Goodbye, my darling,’ said Jeanne’s mother. ‘Write or cable as much as possible. I shall phone for aunt Géraldine at the post office in two days. Goodbye, my dear. Take care.’ She kissed Jeanne, held her close for a brief, lonely second or two and then it was her father’s turn.
He stepped stiffly to her and sighed. It probably meant a hundred things—love, forgiveness, apology, regret maybe. He held out his arms. And then came a voice.
‘Monsieur Lefèvre. Monsieur Lefèvre!’
Lefèvre turned round. ‘Oui. C’est moi. Qu’est-ce—?’
An army officer—a lieutenant—strode up to him and with a gallant gesture excused himself before Jeanne and her mother. His suavely gummed hair had come loose in the apparent rush and a lock fell down over his eyes. He flicked it away.
‘Sir. Excuse me, sir, but important news. I thought it might be urgent, seeing that…’ he nodded towards Lefèvre’s wife and daughter.
‘Yes, yes. What is it? Is there trouble with the line? Have the tracks been sabotaged or something?’
‘No, sir. More important than that.’
‘Well, what is it then, for God’s sake?’
‘Sir, the war—in Europe. France has just declared war on Germany. England is to follow. It’s started, sir. We’re at war!’
Lefèvre hesitated, his eyes growing wide and then promptly narrowing shut. He looked at his wife, at Jeanne and cleared his throat.
‘Porters!’ he shouted above the cacophony. ‘Take those bags back off the train immediately. The ladies have decided not to leave.’
37
The light grew mellow, September came and life and the valley re-adapted to the change in season. Summerfield had been lodged in a small room in the Kasbah for the first week, his actions limited by a thirty-foot length of rope tied in such an intricate knot around his wrist, it was impossible to undo. Thus he was at least able to exercise his legs, pacing to and fro between a small, sunlit courtyard, the roof of an edifice below and his living quarters.
He shared his room with Badr and Rashid, brother to the man who had driven the lorry on the perilous journey up into the mountains. Badr stayed much of the time with him that first week, talking or reading or spending long momen
ts of silence, almost meditation. They spoke sparingly, as if they had consumed their words on the journey and nothing was left to say. Instead, it was an occasion for the silence to speak to them and between them. A silence that Summerfield’s senses grew to understand and befriend, for it was hardly silence at all: prayer, from before dawn, filling the valley with its nasal, mesmerising meanderings, trickled like a stream running to him from afar. Then the barking of dogs, waking up the other animals, the chickens, the mules and the goats—an undecipherable cacophony of bleats, brays and counter bleats. There were voices too: the dampened murmuring of male voices from within the Kasbah walls and the occasional chirping of female voices as they walked up from the fields below the fortified house with their heavy loads. The crackle of fires being lit and the chink of kettles and tea pots brewing tea. And even the air itself seemed to resonate, every particle carrying with it the particular ringing of the mountain air, a pure, still presence that had the effect of calming Summerfield’s irritation, his worry.
Badr came and went and came again, sometimes bringing Summerfield some tobacco to be smoked in a rudimentary pipe made of a hollowed out chicken bone; other, rarer times, coming back with a real cigarette. After a while, Summerfield began to break the cigarette in two and offer the other half to Badr. And although the young man didn’t smoke, he never refused. And then the young man returned a final time with news that he would be leaving for the city for several weeks. Upon hearing the information, Summerfield felt a strange tinge of regret—could it be real friendship that was beginning to find root in him? Summerfield’s mind switched almost immediately to the grim understanding that yet another person was being taken from him, that he would soon be alone again.