Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  ‘Well, the gentleman isn’t going to spoil my evening,’ Giulia said, slipping her arm under Marie-Ange’s. ‘I am so happy. I still cannot believe that this day next week, I will be Matteo’s wife. Mrs. Giula Perini…It sounds wonderful, don’t you agree?’

  Marie-Ange smiled and replied it was indeed a lovely name. She had met her cousin Giulia only two weeks before in Catania but had already developed a strong affection for the small, vivacious brunette. Giulia was ecstatic at the prospect of her marriage to the only son of a wealthy Maltese merchant.

  ‘I want the whole world to be as happy as I am,’ Giulia exclaimed. ‘But I know you are worried about your father. Do you think that Uncle Baldassare will join us in time for the wedding?’

  ‘I am sure he will do everything he can to be there. Monsignor Della Vita said that his assignment in Trieste must be keeping him there longer than anticipated.’

  Baldassare had been released from the Turcopilar forces and now worked as ambassador for the Order of the Knights Hospitaller. Lately he had spent some time in Trieste, in Northern Italy. It was where, incidentally, Joseph Fouché had been exiled in September, 1815.

  She hadn’t seen her father in well over a year. He had stayed at Beauregard after Lucas was born and his strong, quiet, presence had been a great comfort in the wonderful but difficult first few weeks of her son’s life. She had fallen in love with Lucas, with his bright blue eyes and mop of dark hair; with his thoughtful gaze when he looked at something new and his beaming smile when she picked him up; she even loved the way he clenched his fists tightly and howled when he was in a fit of temper. However there had been a constant ache in her heart and she wept most days and nights for the man she loved.

  Her father had held her tightly in his arms before heading back to Catania and tried to soothe her pain. ‘Do not torture yourself about the past,’ he had said. ‘You cannot change it. Enjoy what you have now. The future will take care of itself. There is your cousin Giulia’s wedding next year to look forward to. You will meet the whole dei Conti clan, and you and I will spend some time together.’

  However Baldassare wasn’t in Catania to welcome her when she arrived, and there had been no message from him since. Even if he had done his best to hide it, Monsignor Della Vita seemed uneasy about Baldassare’s absence.

  Giulia slipped her arm under hers. Marie-Ange tried to shake her worries away and turned to admire the huge, blood red sunset.

  ‘Maybe next year I will have a beautiful boy like yours,’ Giulia whispered. ‘Matteo would be so proud. Men do love a son as a first born, don’t they?’ Giulia put her hand in front of her mouth and made a slight grimace. ‘Oh, sorry…’

  ‘There is nothing to be sorry for,’ Marie-Ange replied with a tight smile. She had told Giulia and Agata about Hugo. She never lied about the identity of Lucas’s father. She’d rather people think ill of her than pretend Lucas was Christopher’s son. She knew Aunt Agata had been shocked at the idea of a child conceived by a man who wasn’t her husband. A man she had not seen for three years, and who didn’t even know he had a son. ‘Mama is old-fashioned,’ Giulia had said. ‘She doesn’t understand about love and passion. Give her time and she will come to accept the situation.’

  Giuila pecked a kiss on her cheek. ‘I will go downstairs now. See how Mama is and get a few hours’ sleep. Good night, cousin.’ She moved away from the rail and Marie-Ange rushed after her.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ll come with you.’

  Downstairs in her cabin, Marie-Ange untied her hair before lying down next to Lucas, careful not to wake him. Sophie was fast asleep in the opposite bunk. The young woman had become Marie-Ange’s closest friend. There had been no question of leaving her behind at Beauregard while Marie-Ange and Lucas travelled to Giulia’s wedding.

  Listening to Lucas’ peaceful breathing, she closed her eyes.

  She woke up an hour later, startled by a riot of shouts and screams, explosions of pistols firing and the thud of a vessel bumping against the hull of the ship. She sat up, her heart thumping, fear running through her veins.

  ‘Sophie! Wake up!’ She stood and shook the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sophie opened her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. It sounds like we’re being attacked.’

  ‘Pirates,’ Sophie shouted in alarm.

  As she said the words, Marie-Ange heard guttural voices outside the cabin. The door was kicked open and a dark-skinned man entered. His lips curled into a smile when he looked at the two women. He said something she didn’t understand and gestured for Marie-Ange to come to him. Instead she stepped backwards towards Lucas and took him in her arms. The little boy was awake and stared at the man, his eyes wide with fright.

  Another man appeared in the doorway. Tall and lean, with a short brown beard, he was dressed in black from top to toe. A sabre dangled from a thick studded belt at his side. The only spot of colour was a red scarf he wore around his hips.

  ‘More women!’ He said in broken French. ‘The two in the cabin next door are valuable. Dei Conti from Malta, no less. The Dey will be pleased. They’ll fetch a good ransom.’

  He walked across to Sophie and shook her arm. She let out a piercing scream and cowered on her bunk bed. He let go of her, and approached Marie-Ange who was still holding Lucas tightly. He raised a hand to touch her hair but she pulled back.

  ‘This is the woman we keep for Aicha. She’ll bring a good price.’ He took hold of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised her face towards him. ‘Nice eyes. Nice mouth.’ He laughed. ‘The boy stays, too. Women with children are always more amenable.’

  He scratched his beard and faced Marie-Ange. ‘My name is Rachid. I’m in charge now. You’d better not cause me any problems.’ He said a few words to his companion and they left.

  ‘What…are they going…to do with us?’ Sophie stammered.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Marie-Ange kissed the top of her son’s head. He threw his arms around her neck and whimpered.

  ‘Shh…Sleep, darling.’

  Sophie buried her head in her hands and wailed.

  ‘Don’t cry, Sophie,’ Marie-Ange said, a little impatiently. She didn’t want Lucas to be anymore scared than he already was. She rocked him back to sleep, singing louder this time to cover the sounds of women wailing and men shouting outside. When he was asleep, she laid him on the bed.

  ‘They said something about the Dey so they must be taking us to Algiers as hostages.’

  ‘Surely the French, the Italians, or the English won’t stand for that! We can’t be made slaves. I read that the janissaries used to make their slaves do housework all day.’

  ‘I fear this Aicha they talked about might have something else in store for me than housework,’ Marie-Ange remarked with a frown.

  Sophie gasped. ‘You mean…’ She turned towards Lucas. ‘What about him?’

  Marie-Ange clenched her fists. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt him. I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe.’

  The ship sailed south throughout the night. At dawn, as the sky paled to the east and a shiny line of light appeared above the sea, the anchor was dropped. The corsair, Rachid, came back into the cabin.

  ‘I am taking you onto my ship now. Don’t talk to anyone. If you call, if you scream, he’s dead.’ He pointed to Lucas’ throat and made a crude gesture of slitting it.

  She nodded and lifted Lucas in her arms before following him out. The passengers sat in a group at the prow, guarded by a dozen pirates armed with short swords and pistols. Marie-Ange scanned their tired, tearful faces but didn’t see Agata or Giulia. As valuable hostages, they were probably locked up in their cabin. Rachid gestured to Sophie to join the group and pushed Marie-Ange towards the side of the ship.

  He pointed at the rope ladder that hung down into a small craft below where two men sat, waiting. Another ship was anchored a short distance away. It was small and sleek, with three short masts and red triangular sails. A coastline could
be seen in the distance—with a large white town built on a hillside.

  She wondered how she would get down the ladder with Lucas in her arms. As if he understood her fear, the pirate said. ‘Give me the boy. I’ll take him to the chebec.’

  She reluctantly let go of Lucas who started crying. Rachid untied his red scarf and wrapped him up in a bundle, then slid him onto his back. He went down the ladder, fast and agile. She gripped the rope ladder after him and climbed down into the craft. As soon as she sat down, two men rowed towards their ship.

  The sea was calm and smooth, the dawn sky cloudless. It was warm already. A light breeze carried exotic fragrances of spices and vegetation.

  She pointed to the coast. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Algiers,’ the pirate replied. ‘We’ll get you to shore today.’

  ‘Where are you taking us?’

  ‘You will find out soon enough.’

  They reached the chebec and climbed on board. The man untied Lucas and handed him to Marie-Ange, then he gave some orders and his men got ready to set sail. Soon both the chebec and the Maltese ship were on their way to Algiers.

  The town was built like an amphitheatre, with the harbour at the centre and forts standing guard on the hilltop. Houses with flat roofs and gardens climbed up the hill like giant steps. White, blue, and golden minarets darted towards the sky. Narrow streets snaked up and down. Oases of colour were dotted around. The hot, spicy fragrances Marie-Ange had noticed earlier became stronger.

  Algiers…As they approached the town bathed in a pink and yellow sunrise, she couldn’t help feeling a glimmer of hope. What if Hugo was still there?

  The chebec entered the harbour. Rachid handed her a black scarf and ordered her to cover her head. The pirates got ready to dock. They lowered the red sails and threw ropes to men waiting on the quay. The anchor was dropped and a wooden plank laid down between the ship and the quayside. The captured Maltese ship moored next to them.

  Some kind of official delegation seemed to be waiting for them—about twenty soldiers dressed in red pantaloons, dark blue tunic belted at the waist with a leather girdle and a sabre dangling at the side. Rachid signalled to his men on the Maltese ship to start getting the passengers down onto the quay. Women cried, men argued, some demanded to be set free immediately. The corsairs and the guards ignored them. Marie-Ange saw her Aunt Agata, her cousin and Sophie leave the ship, huddled together. She waved to attract their attention but they didn’t see her. The guards shouted orders, and the line of hostages started off at a brisk pace.

  Were they heading for the Dey’s palace? In the heyday of Barbary pirates, it was the Dey who ultimately decided the hostages’ fate. Those from rich families would stay at the palace pending the payment of a ransom. Poorer passengers would be sold on the slave market. Marie-Ange wondered why she had not been taken along with the other passengers. Why had Rachid singled her out?

  ‘You come with me now. We’re going down,’ Rachid yanked Lucas from her arms. The little boy started crying but the corsair put his hand roughly over his mouth.

  ‘You’ll get him back at Aicha’s,’ he said menacingly. ‘If you don’t cause any trouble.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The following morning Marie-Ange woke to melodious Arabic chanting coming from outside.

  She rubbed her eyes, sat up, and looked around the small bedroom she had been held prisoner in since the day before. The bare walls were painted white and blue. Apart from the dirty mattress she had spent the night on, there was a wooden bucket and a chipped bowl with some water in it. She got up and pushed open thick wooden shutters covering the only window. The male chanting voice hovered above Algiers’ narrow alleyways and flat-roofed houses. It was barely dawn but already men dressed in white and grey robes, their heads wrapped in turbans, hurried up and down the alleyways. Women, their bodies covered in long garments, carried jugs of water or baskets on their head.

  The door creaked open, and a young woman entered. Her clothing was bright and colourful—a short, red and blue tunic over blue pants and red slippers on her feet. A blue veil partly covered her jet black hair and gold charms hung from chains around her neck and ankles, making metallic noises every time she moved. She said her name was Yasmin.

  ‘Where is my son? I want to see him.’ Marie-Ange rushed to her and put her hand on her arm. ‘Please.’

  ‘We go to Aicha now,’ Yasmin said.

  ‘Is he all right? Has anyone been looking after him?’

  Yasmin nodded. ‘The boy had milk and he ate bread and dates. He cried a lot.’

  Marie-Ange’s insides churned. Her need to see him, to touch him, was so strong she felt faint.

  ‘Come this way.’

  She led Marie-Ange down a long passage, with rooms on both sides, some hidden by curtains, other behind doors with shutters and grids like in a prison. The house was quiet this morning. It had been very different the previous night, with laughing, singing, shouting, and calling in different languages among which Marie-Ange had recognised French, Arabic, English, and Spanish. From the sounds around her, she had gathered she was in some kind of tavern, or as she had feared, a brothel.

  They went down a flight of steps and crossed a small courtyard. Marie-Ange barely saw the brightly coloured flowers glistening with morning dew and strange plants covered with hundreds of prickles. Yasmin pushed open a door at the back of the courtyard. They entered a spacious room decorated with mosaics, woven rugs covering the tiled floor. Lucas was sitting on the bed, playing with wooden figurines of animals. Marie-Ange rushed to him and scooped him into her arms.

  ‘Darling, my darling.’ She pressed him to her heart, breathing his scent, his skin, his hair, kissing his cheeks and the folds of his neck. The little boy smiled and clutched his arms behind her neck.

  ‘Kafin! That’s enough!’ The harsh voice came from a corner of the room.

  Marie-Ange turned round. A woman sat immobile in a large wicker chair. She was dressed in bright colours and like Yasmin, wore bracelets and necklaces that made tinkling noises when she moved. With her deep set dark brown eyes and hooked nose, she reminded Marie-Ange of a hawk.

  ‘Put the boy back on the bed,’ she ordered.

  Marie-Ange sat down, her arms tightly wrapped around Lucas.

  ‘So you’re the woman Rachid brought me. Let’s have a look at you. Stand up and take your clothes off.’

  Marie-Ange tightened her grip on Lucas. ‘No, I can’t…’

  ‘If you and your brat want to live, you’ll do as I say,’ the woman hissed. ‘Otherwise, he’ll end up a beggar in the streets of Algiers, and you a whore in a tavern on the docks. Understood?’

  Marie-Ange nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat. She undressed down to her chemise and stockings.

  ‘Take everything off. Fissa!’

  Marie-Ange obediently slipped out of her chemise and rolled her stockings down. When she was naked Aicha gestured impatiently for her to come closer. She raised her hands to touch Marie-Ange’s breasts.

  ‘No!’ Marie-Ange stepped back.

  ‘Yasmin, take the boy away.’

  ‘Sorry…I’ll do what you want,’ Marie-Ange muttered.

  Reluctantly she stepped closer to Aicha, gritting her teeth while the woman’s hand slid across her buttocks, her stomach, and her breasts, pinching and kneading her flesh. She felt like cattle at the market.

  ‘Open your legs.’

  Marie-Ange swallowed hard, feeling sick as the woman prodded between her legs. There was a smile on Aicha’s face, as if she was enjoying the humiliation she was putting Marie-Ange through.

  ‘You’ll do. Put your clothes back on.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to me…to us?’ Marie-Ange asked as she quickly dressed. All she wanted was to grab Lucas and run out, but Aicha’s guards would certainly catch them straight away. She had seen several armed men around the place the day before. She wouldn’t stand a chance against them.

  ‘I’ll auction you tonig
ht. My clients like a fresh woman.’ She fixed her small brown eyes on Marie-Ange.

  ‘An auction?’

  Aicha nodded. ‘Tonight. Yasmin will get you ready. I take it you know how to pleasure a man?’

  Marie-Ange blushed violently and bowed her head.

  ‘Never mind. If you don’t, you soon will.’ Aicha let out a cackle. ‘They’re all the same really, with the same basic needs. I do cater to special requirements, but we’ll see about that when you’ve been with us a few days.’

  ‘What about my son?’ Marie-Ange gathered Lucas up and pressed him against her.

  ‘I’m sending him to my sister in Kouba. She looks after my whores’ children.’

  ‘I don’t want him to go away, please.’ She held Lucas more tightly.

  ‘You think a brothel is a good place for a child? You want him to see his mama naked with a man? Or several?’

  Marie-Ange gave a strangled cry as the reality of her situation became agonizingly clear. She collapsed on the bed and rocked Lucas against her. What was to become of them, she wondered, kissing his cheek.

  Aicha stood up and said something in Arabic to Yasmin. Then she gestured to Lucas. ‘Say your farewells now. If you please me, and if you please my clients, you can visit him next week on Saturday. But if you give any trouble, it will be a while before you can see him again.’

  Lucas cried as the woman grabbed hold of him and sat him back onto the bed. Marie-Ange smiled through her tears. She didn’t want to alarm her son any further.

  ‘It’s going to be all right, my love. I will see you soon. You’ll be fine…’

  ‘Go now.’ Aicha dismissed her with a flick of her bejewelled hand.

  A man started singing outside again just before nightfall. It was the same melodious, repetitive chanting she had heard that morning. Marie-Ange gazed at the darkening sky already dotted with stars. A bright crescent moon shone above the town. It was evening already. In a few moments she would be sold at an auction. A man would pay to spend the night with her. She would have to…She put her hand in front of her mouth and rushed to the bucket to be sick.