by Tom Gamble
‘The Colonel very nicely brought me some papers I’d forgotten at the office,’ explained her father, as she and her mother met him downstairs. ‘Those dolts who were supposed to be looking after our safety wouldn’t even let me touch my car. A good thing Le Guédec arrived.’
‘The papers,’ insisted Jeanne.
‘Yes.’ Lefèvre exhaled heavily. ‘Well—good news. My superiors have offered me a long period of leave. I didn’t want to sign, given that there is much work to do here at the moment, but the Colonel persuaded me. It’s for the best.’
‘Long period of leave? What does this mean, Philippe-Charles?’ said Jeanne’s mother. ‘Is anything wrong, chéri?’
Lefèvre remained silent, his mouth set in resignation and then gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘I was rash enough to be objective about the situation,’ he said. ‘This so-called long period of leave means I have been replaced by a Vichy official. I’m too much of an embarrassment—that’s what Le Guédec said.’
‘And what side is he on?’ said Jeanne, feeling angry.
Her father gave her an ironic smile. ‘Things aren’t so easy for him, my child. He was very proper, very gentlemanly—and he’s probably saved us quite a lot of bother. He will let me keep the car and he’s sending us to his mountain lodge to stay. He will keep our whereabouts to himself—he gave me his word.’
‘Mountain lodge? What about our house in Mogador?’
‘The sea ports are tightly controlled,’ said Lefèvre, a hint of fatalism in his voice. ‘I’m afraid I would be arrested there.’
‘And where is this lodge—and how comfortable is it?’ said Mme Lefèvre, almost indignantly.
Lefèvre gave her a little glance and refused to answer the second question. ‘It’s in the Atlas. Quite a way up, apparently. Le Guédec had it built at the time the last lion was killed in 1922—he participated in the hunt.’
‘How beastly,’ said Jeanne, angrily. ‘The last of a noble race—tens of thousands of years just finished off with a hunting rifle. God, I hope Jim will know what to do.’
Waiting was the worst of all things, Jeanne came to conclude. She had been sitting for hours, her head becoming increasingly jammed with worries and thoughts that she couldn’t shake off. A single, irritating question kept returning to her mind every three minutes or so: when would Jim arrive? She double-checked her packed belongings, which Mohammed then carried down to the car in readiness for their departure. Perhaps Jim would come with them? Perhaps he would ask her to stay and accompany him south. And what if he could marry her there and then and take her with him to America? There were so many confusing and difficult arguments going on in her head. So many uncertainties.
Soumia was coming with them. Not Mohammed. That at least was certain. There was no space in the car and in any case, the loyal gardener was entrusted with staying behind at the house to look over it while they were gone. A long period of leave, wondered Jeanne. How long actually was this long period of leave? Two weeks, three? A month? Little by little it dawned on her that her father’s career was ended and that very likely it was the last they would see of Marrakesh for some time.
Her father and mother were downstairs, behind the closed doors of the sitting room, discussing options and decisions. Where would he eventually take them? Not back to France, that was sure. England? Too perilous a journey. Perhaps French East Africa which seemed to have sided with De Gaulle. Chad seemed another planet away and didn’t exactly inspire her—people said it was just one, monotonous stretch of open sand and nothing else. Damn the war and people’s stupidity. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia filled her and she began to cry. She’d always lived here. What about her friends? What about the places she knew so well? It all seemed so definitive and brutal. She’d miss them terribly. One name came back to her: Sister Marthe. The Académie, she thought—all those memories. She had to see her, had to say goodbye.
It took her father two phone calls and ten minutes of negotiation with the gendarmes to obtain permission. A police van appeared outside and Jeanne’s father escorted her to it.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ he said, gravely, looking into the officers’ eyes, ‘Take good care of her. She’s my only daughter. She is to be back in one hour.’
As the police car drove away, Jeanne caught a glimpse of her mother in an upstairs window, looking vacantly into the distance.
‘What’s in the bag, ’moiselle?’ enquired one of the policemen, nodding at her lap.
‘Oh, only letters and some objects for Sister Marthe. They’re so dear to me and I want her to have them. She helped me so very much.’
The streets were deserted. It was all very eerie and Jeanne felt a shiver pass through her. The city had been dormant for three days now and she was surprised at how much debris could accumulate on the streets after such a short time—twigs, paper, balls of grass and thorny bushes blown in from across the plain, cardboard, the odd faeces, a dead cat. A couple of carts lay abandoned, their owners no doubt having led away their donkeys to pasture while the curfew lasted. By the military quarters, there was a car parked in the middle of the road with a flat tyre. There was something hanging from the nearby lamppost.
‘I wouldn’t look if I were you, m’moiselle,’ came the policeman’s voice, suddenly, but she did.
Jeanne gasped. ‘Awful, horrible!’
‘Please turn your head,’ ordered the policeman but she couldn’t keep herself from gaping. It was a body hanging slack from a rope. They passed the corner and Jeanne saw the face, a native, swollen like a great purple ball. She shuddered and felt sick.
‘Better stop,’ said the driver pulling up some twenty yards farther on. This time Jeanne looked straight ahead, not daring to look round while he got out to inspect the corpse, remained for a few moments and then rejoined the car. ‘We’ll deal with it later,’ he said with a grimace and slammed the door shut.
‘Why?’ said Jeanne, trembling. ‘Why would someone do that?’
‘Someone taking advantage of the curfew to settle an old vendetta,’ answered the policeman, mechanically. ‘That happens.’
The academy looked somehow old and worn without the noise and colour of its students. The old knot tier, Monsieur Quasimodo was nowhere to be seen. A policeman escorted her to the large warped gates and pulled on the bell. Several dull clangs later and a sister arrived, in all appearances walking sideways towards them as though distrustful and ready to run.
‘M’moiselle has come to see Sister Marthe,’ said the policeman. ‘She has an hour—no more. We’ll be waiting here.’
‘And you might like to offer her something to drink,’ added the second officer. ‘The young lady has just had quite a shock.’
Jeanne followed the sister, whom she recognised as one of the lower school teachers, to the entrance to the main building. She had aged. Maybe it was the light. In any case, she remembered taking piano lessons with her when she was barely into her teens. What did they used to call her? Nosteratu—that was it—on account of her long, claw-like fingers. Glancing down, Jeanne could no longer see why they had called her that. The sister had the most normal set of fingers ever.
‘Sister Marthe has just finished prayer. I will tell her you are here, Mademoiselle.’
Jeanne waited a few moments and then the door opened again and a silent, beaming Sister Marthe appeared and took her in her arms. Jeanne felt the tears sting her eyes and then plop onto her cheeks. They held each other for a long time before sister Marthe drew back, wheezing and still looking at her with the broad smile on her lips.
‘You look superb, Jeanne. Really—a fine young woman.’
‘Thank you, Sister Marthe. And you look wonderful, too. Honestly.’
‘Oh, no,’ said the sister, reddening. ‘The events have taken the shine out of me, I’m afraid. It brought back some sad memories of the last war, you see. I had two brothers.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Sister Marthe held up a hand and shook her head. ‘No. It’s me—b
ecoming sad and whimsical again. Come. We shall have tea. Tell me what has happened to you.’
For the first time in over a year, Jeanne sat in the sister’s dark green room—her office and bedroom all in one. The old nun’s water pump—how she remembered that awful wheezing sound in class—sat on the dressing table. Her framed diplomas from Nantes looked tarnished and yellow now. And the crucifix was still there, the peaceful, benevolent smile on Jesus’ face despite the pain. Jeanne thought it reminded her of Sister Marthe herself. How she hid her pain to give love and understanding to others. How, despite the assessment of her life with all its trials, it was all worth it.
Jeanne recounted her story, leaving out very many details so as not to shock or offend the old sister. When it was over, Sister Marthe said: ‘So what happened to your great love, the Englishman?’
‘He—he was taken away.’
‘That’s a pity. So you found an American?’
‘No. Well—yes. Well—’ Jeanne faltered, taken aback by the sister’s directness. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘I didn’t say you did,’ puffed Sister Marthe, finishing off her tea. ‘And in all honesty, the truth wouldn’t shock me in the slightest. Remember—I was a young woman too once.’
‘Sister Marthe.’ Jeanne looked down, then raised her head to look steadily at her. ‘I don’t wish to speak too much about the details. It has been hard for me—to forgive myself and move on, putting hope in a new life with Jim Wilding.’
‘I understand, child,’ whispered Sister Marthe. ‘And I think you’re very brave. Well!’ she suddenly exhaled, changing the subject. ‘As for me, I must say I find it rather strange not to be teaching. How long all this is going to last only the Lord knows. I’ll tell you a little secret though,’ she continued, leaning her large weight towards Jeanne. ‘I’m reading a lot. Poetry!’
‘Really?’ frowned Jeanne, finding it difficult to understand why it should be a secret.
Sister Marthe raised her eyebrows and whispered. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I smuggled in a book by someone called Yeats. Heavenly—and so romantic, so passionate!’
‘Sister Marthe!’ Jeanne sat back in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said the nun, a look of confession coming across her face. ‘Naughty of me. You see—I have to forgive myself, too. And of course, I do tell Him about it.’
Jeanne squeezed Sister Marthe’s forearm and in the same movement, picked up her bag and handed it across. ‘Could you please keep this for me, Sister.’
‘Of course—what is it?’ frowned Sister Marthe.
‘Letters, little presents. Most of my love for the Englishman is there—and his too. I don’t really understand why, but I think you’re the person I would most like to have them.’
‘I shall hide them away,’ said Sister Marthe, smiling benevolently.
‘Sister Marthe?’
‘Yes, child.’
‘I don’t have much longer. Would you accompany me outside. Just a short walk. Please?’
The two police officers gave their assent and watched as the young woman and the old sister walked slowly across the square in front of the Académie to the beginnings of the orange grove. Jeanne held sister Marthe’s hand and led her carefully through the trees. At one point, they passed the old knot tier’s shelter, sagging and lopsided now, a few belongings scattered in the grass and sand.
‘I wasn’t aware he lived here,’ said Sister Marthe, sadly. ‘If I had known, I would have offered him a space within the walls and provided meals.’
‘I’m not sure he would have accepted,’ replied Jeanne. ‘He was a little strange. Though he helped me when I needed it. I’m afraid something bad might have happened to him because of that.’
They moved on, through the thickening trees until they came to the other side of the grove and the great plain before the distant mountains.
‘Let’s sit for a few moments, sister. I used to come here a lot.’
‘It’s very inspiring,’ said the old woman, wheezing heavily as she placed her weight down on a large flat stone. ‘Silly me—I forgot to take my pump with me. Still—beautiful mountains. I can see them from my room.’
They sat for a few, silent minutes. Strangely enough, Jeanne’s head was empty of thought. She had imagined, while picking their way through the grove, that it would bring back a flood of memories, but she somehow felt peaceful and empty of worry. It was as though the memories of the place belonged to another person, another life. At one point she rose mechanically and sauntered down to the old irrigation channel.
‘Be careful, Jeanne,’ called Sister Marthe after her, but Jeanne had already dropped down into the ditch despite her dress and heels.
She took a few paces along the channel, glancing down to see the dust covering the shine on her shoes, feeling the old bricks with her fingertips. One, two, three—she came to the place, the loose brick. With her thumb and forefinger she prised it out, dislodging a small flurry of dust and sand. She looked into the cavity behind. There was no note, no message, just a few larger grains of stone and wood. Otherwise smooth. She inserted her hand and it was cool inside. A sudden urge to leave something there took hold of her. She thought for a moment, perplexed, then unfastened her earrings and placed them hurriedly inside. Then very carefully, conscious that Sister Marthe was looking on, she replaced the brick in its place.
‘There,’ she whispered and turned to rejoin Sister Marthe. ‘Please, sister—help me out.’
Sister Marthe pulled her out of the channel with surprising strength and beamed knowingly. ‘One day he’ll come back.’
Jeanne smiled fleetingly in return and looked away in embarrassment. ‘And I will be long gone.’
There was more shooting as the evening drew on. Lefèvre joined Jeanne and her mother for dinner. He had news.
‘I was on the phone with Jean Bassouin. He says there were incidents in the poor districts of the old city—apparently local independence fighters. They’re obviously all too happy with the situation and are hoping fratricide will occur. I suppose that fanatic, El Rifni, is among them too. Strange thing while with Bassouin—the phone clicked—someone listening in. And then the line went dead.’
‘Mr Bassouin is a nice man,’ said Jeanne, remembering her visit to his house in the old city. ‘I hope he’ll meet up with Sarah again.’ She caught her father give her mother a glance. Lefèvre looked uneasily out of the window and cleared his throat.
‘Jean Bassouin went further than me with his opinions. He became rather emotional—that idiot Fresquin’s incessant goading, of course. Looking for personal vengeance of some sort. Bassouin openly declared support for De Gaulle and mentioned leaving for England through the Spanish enclaves on the coast. I hope nothing will happen to him.’
A heavy silence overcame the room, cut by the sound of chinking cutlery and Lefèvre’s unnerving habit of letting out a soft whine whenever he chewed his food. Jeanne’s mother gave a grimace and looked apologetically at her.
‘Any news from Jim Wilding, my dear?’
Jeanne shook her head slowly, the thought of him so far from her making her want to cry. ‘No news, mother. He said he’ll be here tomorrow and I trust him.’
‘I hope so,’ said Jeanne’s mother, her voice suddenly heavy with tiredness. ‘I do hope he comes to help us.’
Jeanne suddenly awoke in the dark—she had been dreaming that Jim had had an accident. Her bedside lamp clicked and the glare made her draw away. It was her mother.
‘Time to go, my chérie. Wake up now.’
‘Where? What time—’ began Jeanne, averting her eyes from the light. ‘But Jim is coming. An accident?’
‘You’re still asleep, my dear. I don’t understand. Please. It’s time to leave—clothes on now.’
Dressed, Jeanne stood in surly silence in the hallway as her parents moved quickly to and fro with last minute preparations. Soumia shoved past, laden with cooking utensils and foodstuffs.
‘I’m not going,’ said
Jeanne aloud. ‘Mother, father—I’m not going.’
‘Don’t be silly now,’ came her mother’s voice from the sitting room. ‘You’ll make father angry.’
‘I refuse to go. Jim said he would come and I’m going to wait for him.’
‘You’re coming with us,’ came Lefèvre’s voice, sounding urgent. ‘We don’t have much time. Le Guédec came by an hour ago. He said it was imperative we leave—immediately.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I’m staying. Leave me with Sister Marthe. I’ll wait.’
‘They’ll catch up with you, Jeanne. They’ll know where you are.’
‘They? Who’s they?’ Jeanne couldn’t believe this was happening.
‘The milice, the gendarmes, the police—them,’ shouted Lefèvre, suddenly appearing in front of her. His hair was dishevelled, his shirt hanging out where he had hastily dressed. Jeanne thought he looked ugly. ‘Bassouin has been arrested. And not only because he’s for De Gaulle. Some fanatic among the staff is a damn anti-Semite.’ Jeanne stood quite still, shocked. ‘Don’t you understand, girl?’ Her father’s face was close to hers. He shook her. ‘They’re full of hatred. They’ll lock us away or do something stupid. You said you’d seen a man hanged from a lamp post. Do you want that to happen to you?’ Jeanne felt as though she was in the midst of some horrible dream. She shook her head slowly. ‘Then you will come with us. Now. There is no refusing.’
Ten minutes later and Jeanne was out into the fresh night air, her mother ushering her towards the awaiting Panhard. Mohammed started the engine and immediately jumped out to make way for Lefèvre.
‘God—the map! Have you got the map?’
‘What map,’ said Mme Lefèvre, her voice filled with panic.
‘Have-you-got-the-map?’ repeated Lefèvre, hardly containing his anger. ‘The one Le Guédec gave us. How the hell do you expect us to find the way if—’