Two Crosses (44 page)

David left Aigues-Mortes on February 7, following the beach road in the direction of Montpellier. Within an hour he would arrive back at St. Joseph. He was glad to be heading there after two weeks of traveling. He watched the wind play through the marshes, dividing them like a comb parting hair.

He was anxious to see Gabriella. Suddenly he turned his car onto a dirt road leading toward the sea. He parked it in the dry shrubs and got out. He walked in the direction of the beach, kicking the sand with his black loafers. He pulled his leather jacket together and buttoned it. Two weeks of information made his head feel clogged and thick. He had visited contacts in Marseille, in Aix, in Aigues-Mortes. He had written letters to Algeria. Now he waited for a response.

As he inhaled the sea air, he stretched out his long arms, swinging them in large circles to the side of his body. A few lonely gulls cawed at him, reprimanding the tall stranger who had interrupted their peaceful habitation.

He walked out to the sea and took off his shoes and socks, leaving them in the sand. He rolled his tweed pants above his shins and splashed his feet in the freezing water.

“Feel it, David. Feel something,” he said softly to himself. Then again, this time yelling, “Feel something!”

He welcomed the frothy sea rushing over his feet. It stung him at first, but after a few minutes his feet grew numb. He left the water and lay down on the beach, letting the fine, dusty sand sweep over him. Lying on his back, he raised his arms to the sky.

“Gabriella claims that You’re up there, God. Prove it then! Open up Your heavens and drench me with rain. Still I won’t believe. Life is not ordered by a god. It is coincidence and fate. I have read some of Your book, as I promised. Your Gospels that promise life and peace and forgiveness.” He rolled over onto his stomach and began writing with his finger in the sand.

“You don’t seem to understand,” David argued to the deserted beach. “I’m not going to
forgive
!” He spat out the word like a rotten piece of fruit. “Dear Gabby, I will never forgive them. And so, I suppose, I shall never be forgiven.”

Closing his eyes, he imagined Anne-Marie coming toward him, laughing, an adolescent shimmering with beauty. She had needed him then, all those years ago. She had seen the war coming, as her father predicted, but she wouldn’t leave with David! And so he sent her a hundred unanswered letters from America. And then, out of the blue, she needed him again. She knew he would come to help.

David wiped his hand across the sand, then absently began drawing in it with his finger. He thought of Mother Griolet, her green eyes twinkling as she spoke to the American girls. Then he thought of Gabriella.

He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his leather jacket. He studied the list of scribbled names and addresses that he’d received a month ago, a list he had copied and sent across the ocean to Anne-Marie. “Answer me soon, Anne-Marie. Someone please answer.”

He rose to his knees and brushed the sand from his coat and hair. Standing, he looked down at what he had drawn in the sand. A cloud passed overhead, obscuring the image momentarily. Then the bright sun broke through and illuminated a crude sketch of the Huguenot cross.

“Someone please answer,” David repeated and walked back toward his car.

27

On the tenth of February David and Gabriella entered the crowded café in the beach town of Palavas, fifteen minutes from Castelnau, unnoticed by the men and women engrossed in lighthearted conversation. The last color, an orangey-pink hue, was leaving the Mediterranean sky. The café smelled of coffee and whiskey mixed with the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke. Spoons clanked against saucers as waiters yelled orders across the counter.

One waiter hurried them to a round metal table that tilted to and fro as they shifted weight. With a swish of his rag, he wiped away a puddle of beer with several flies hovering above it. “What will it be?” he asked impatiently.

“A Coke,” Gabriella stammered.

David, completely collected, ordered a pastis.

“So, my beautiful Gabby, how have you been? Tell me about the adventures of the past two weeks at St. Joseph.” He was all smiles.

She wondered if, after all, they would only make small talk. David seemed cool, removed from any sign of emotion. She couldn’t meet his eyes as she held her hands together on the table to keep them from shaking. The waiter approached with their drinks.

David looked up, as if sensing her pain. Silently he slipped his strong hand over her trembling ones.

I have to tell him.

With a deep breath, she squeezed his hand and met his gaze. “Jean-Claude came back,” she said, biting her lip.

“When?”

“Two days ago.” She closed her eyes as if to blot out the memory. “I suppose it would have seemed comical if we hadn’t been so completely terrified. You would have been proud of the kids.” She told him the whole story.

David shook his head, looking amazed.

“It was a miracle that we weren’t found, David! It was so frightening. The Arab children are still terrified, especially the ones who just arrived. Did you hear about their trip?”

Again David shook his head.

“Something awful happened at the port in Algiers. A man started shooting at the children as they were getting on the boat. Then a woman who was with the children tried to stop the man, and he pushed her into the sea and shot her. Another man shot the first guy, and the children escaped. The stuff a spy novel is made of, yes?”

“The stuff of war,” David muttered.

Gabriella took a long sip of her drink. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and pulled it into one thick strand; then she released it, letting it tumble across her shoulders again. “Ophélie is scared too.”

“Hmm.” David nodded, but he seemed lost in other thoughts.

Gabriella cleared her throat.
Now you must tell him.
The room swirled about her, the noise of the waiters’ shouts amplified. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. “David?”

“Yes?”

“David, could we go outside for a bit? I … I’m not feeling too well.”

“Of course.” He got up quickly and came to her side. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing that a little fresh air won’t help.”

He left the change for the drinks on the table and followed Gabriella out of the café.

They walked for ten minutes in silence. The beach air was cold and pure. Gabriella thrust her hands in her jacket pockets. She stared at the sand as she walked, almost dragging her feet. David took his long strides in slow motion, not passing hers, but he didn’t speak.

Gabriella stopped abruptly, turned to face him, and took his hands. “I have to tell you something, David. And I don’t know how.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I need you to help me with this one.”

He raised his eyebrows, perplexed. “Sure, Gabby. I’m all ears.”

She didn’t speak. Gently he touched her chin with his hand and looked into her eyes. She bit her lip to try to control her tears.

“This is so wrong. I shouldn’t … be … crying. It’s … I think … I think you will find … that it is good news.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers. “Okay.” She sniffed. “I’m going to try again. But I can’t look at you.”

They started walking.

“Mother Griolet found some information in Ophélie’s drawer, some papers from her mother. One was a letter.” Another pause. “In the letter, she told Ophélie about the father the child had never met.” Gabriella reached out and took David’s hand. “Ophélie’s mother’s name is Anne-Marie Duchemin and …” She stopped and looked up at him. “Her father’s name is David Hoffmann.”

A hundred expressions washed over David’s face as Gabriella regarded him with teary eyes. “Me?” he whispered in amazement. “What? Me? Ophélie’s father?” He ran his hands through his hair. He stood transfixed, watching the waves lap onto the shore.

Gabriella wanted him to deny it, to wonder how it was possible, to ask to see the letter. But he didn’t. He slowly shook his head, and as if she were not even there, he said, “Of course. That’s why you never answered my letters. And why so suddenly you asked me for help. Ophélie … my daughter.”

Gabriella backed away from him, feeling unfit to share this private moment of revelation. She was an intruder in this story. Nothing but a bumbling intruder. She watched David. Still he stood straight, composed, a tall tower. Silent and strong. She knew he was reliving something from his past, and she was jealous of his memories.

Couldn’t he see that this was stabbing her? But why should he see? Trying to reason made her head throb. She felt dirty, ugly.

If only you could see how deeply I care for you, for Ophélie. If only you could see how afraid I am that you won’t need me anymore. I’m sorry I can’t smile for you, David. It’s wrong of me, I know.

He left the water’s edge and came to her side. “Dear Gabby. Thank you for telling me. As you can imagine, this is quite a shock. It’s unbelievable that my daughter has been with me. I have watched her play day after day. And I never knew.”

“It was you who brought her to St. Joseph, she said.”

“Yes, I found her in Paris on that crazy—” He stopped midsentence. “Ophélie said? She knows I’m her father?”

“She just recently found out. She learned her father’s name from Anne-Marie’s letter, once she had learned how to sound out the letters … but she didn’t know
your
name. And when I mentioned it in conversation, she went white. Then Mother Griolet showed me the letter, which she had only discovered a short time ago, and we realized that Ophélie had been trying to read it all these months.”

“And she never said a thing?”

“No. Even now she has no idea that Mother Griolet and I know.” She hesitated. “And now you.”

“But I must see her! I must tell her. What will I say?” He paced on the beach.

“We’ll figure out a way to tell her. Don’t worry.”

“Gabby, it’s such strange, good news. I have never thought of myself as a father. Never felt the least bit interested. But now … suddenly I am.”

“She’s very worried about her mother,” Gabriella broke in.

“Yes, I’m sure she is. For Anne-Marie. I’m worried too.” He looked at her sympathetically, his cynical eyes caring.

He started to speak, so she quickly said, “And I hope you find her.”

For a moment his gaze was quizzical, pained, even confused. She could say no more. The courage to speak had drained her. She relaxed her fierce grip on his hand and let the breeze run through her hair.

But David didn’t relax his hold on her. With his black eyes intent on Gabriella’s face, he whispered, “Dear Gabby, don’t you know that I have already found the one I’m looking for?”

David Hoffmann had wanted to be many things during his twenty-four years of life. A professor, a writer, a poet, a spy, a diplomat, an explorer. But he had never wanted to be a father. The word connoted all that he despised in humanity: anger, abandonment, prejudice, betrayal. Yet as he lay on his bed in Mme Pons’s apartment and thought of being a father to Ophélie, he felt a sudden warmth.

How will I learn to be your father?
he wondered.
Who will teach me the lessons I haven’t learned? I never saw Anne-Marie’s round belly. I never held you as an infant or knew when you took your first steps. I don’t even know what I missed. So how will I learn to love you … the way a good father should?

A phrase flashed in his mind.
Like as a father pitieth his children …
Somewhere in the Bible Gabriella had given him, he had read that verse. He remembered laughing at the idea that a father would have compassion on his children. But now he wanted to read more.

He picked up the large leather book and flipped through its pages. He was sure he had not read it in the Gospels. The Psalms! Last week he had read through the Psalms. Some he knew by heart from his childhood. And this one was there in the webs of his memory. He came to Psalm 103 and began to read:

Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name.… Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.