Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  It was a country of ancient ways and dark mysteries, which suited his nature, but he was anxious to finish his service and leave. Owing to the natives’ lean diet, there was little heart disease here. Except for an occasional congenital defect or injury, he had few opportunities to practice his specialty. Because there were so few doctors, each had many duties, so he did everything from lance abscesses to deliver breech babies.

  Now he dropped to his haunches beside a cot in a village home and probed the thick scar that crossed the man’s belly from hip to hip. The pink ridge, swabbed clean with alcohol, made a startling contrast to the patient’s dusty black skin. Sebastien nodded with approval at the results of the work he’d done a month ago. This was surgery at its most primitive, and yet somehow most satisfying.

  “Tell him his wound has healed well.”

  The robed interpreter who hunkered next to Sebastien relayed that message. The patient, a young father of five, sat up on his mat-covered bed frame and slapped his bare chest lustily, then zipped his pants up. He said something and grinned.

  The interpreter began to smile. He drew one dark hand over his mouth to hide it. “Monsieur le docteur has made the patient’s wife very happy,” the interpreter said in precise French. “He says that his penis works very well again.”

  “It should, now that his abdominal muscles have lost their soreness. Ask him if he’s had any more fights with the fellow who did this.”

  The victim listened to the interpreter solemnly, then nodded. “They still feud,” the interpreter told Sebastien. “It’s a family quarrel. They may continue for years.”

  Sebastien frowned. “He’ll end up dead, and waste my efforts.”

  “But for now his stomach is healed and his penis works. What more is needed to make a man happy?”

  “I envy your attitude.” Sebastien nodded farewell to his patient and stood up. The man’s house was part of a government project to upgrade life-styles in the remote villages. Built of concrete, with dirt floors covered in straw mats and screened openings that served as windows, it was grand by local standards. His wife and children looked healthy, though thin. They perched on a bench in one corner, watching Sebastien with fascination.

  Sebastien studied the man’s grin for a second longer. He loved the idea of fitting people back together, mending them in the most elemental way. Only a surgeon received such clear proof that they were mended. The proof sat, smiling, before Sebastien’s eyes, neatly healed. He allowed himself few moments of victory here on the Côte d’lvoire; there were few to be had. It was a very French attitude to admire the aesthetics of a scar and be concerned that it didn’t mar the beauty of the body.

  Work had been his salvation since he’d left America. It forced him to forget everything but the day-to-day business of keeping people healthy and alive, a venture not so easily accomplished in a place where doctors were few and resources slim. It demanded a dedication that left Sebastien little time to consider his own past, his loneliness, his restless hopes for returning to America, to Amy.

  Shrieks filled the air outside the tiny house. A wiry, chocolate-skinned matron burst into the room. The patient’s wife and children huddled and covered their heads. The patient scurried over to them and watched the old woman worriedly.

  She glared at Sebastien, who bowed slowly, along with the interpreter, who held out his robed arms in supplication and began trying to calm her, while attempting to decipher the angry stream of Baoule that poured from her mouth.

  She stomped her sandaled feet. The force of her fury made a large leather bag swing wildly from the leather strap over her bony, bare shoulder. The bright cloth draped over the opposite shoulder slipped down, revealing a pendulous breast. She jerked the cloth back into place without a glance and continued berating Sebastien. Inside her cotton shift was a regal body filled with wrath.

  “This is the village medicine woman,” the interpreter explained when she finally paused for breath. “She says that you are sneaking into her village to doctor her people without permission. After you left last time she had to purify everyone you touched. Your rudeness is making the spirits unhappy.”

  Sebastien was well acquainted with the customs of the major tribes, but he avoided patronizing such nonsense whenever he could. This time, however, tradition had caught up with him. He bowed to the medicine woman again. “I would be honored if she will forgive my rudeness.”

  The interpreter translated. She spat and answered with obvious disgust. “Madame Toka says you—”

  A tall man ducked inside the house and straightened ominously, his gray boubou swirling around him. He jabbed a finger at Sebastien’s patient and muttered something. He and the man began arguing in loud voices.

  “This is the man who cut him,” the interpreter yelled to Sebastian.

  Madame Toka stepped between the two feuding men. She added her commands to their verbal melee. Sebastien stared at the chaos and enjoyed its entertainment. The interpreter began tugging at his arm and yelling that they should leave.

  Sebastien shook his head. “I intend to protect my handiwork.”

  The intruder pulled a short knife from a pocket in his robe. Shoving Madame Toka aside, the man advanced on Sebastien’s patient, who cowered.

  Sebastien took one long step forward and swung a fist at the attacker’s head. He felt the dull sting of his knuckles connecting with bone, but he also felt pleasure. It was rarely so easy to find an outlet for his anger and frustration. The man swung drunkenly and slashed at him. Sebastien sidestepped the knife’s downward arc, but it caught the right side of his chest at a point just over the breast-pocket button of his khaki workshirt.

  The heavy blow was like a hammer striking. Grimacing in pain, Sebastien slammed his fist upward into the man’s jaw. The man’s eyes rolled up and he sank to the floor. Sebastien staggered back, numbly raising a hand to the tunnel of fire that had burrowed into his chest.

  If he’d been stabbed through a lung he might not live long enough to reach the hospital in Abidjan. He would die in his Land Rover on a dirt road surrounded by alien forest. He would never see Amy again. He feared that consequence most of all. But when he looked down at the hand he had plastered over the right side of his chest, there was no blood. Slowly he drew the hand away. There was only a rip in his shirt.

  Madame Toka made purring sounds. Her eyes wide, she came to him and peered closely at his chest. Sebastien fumbled inside his open collar and retrieved the long silver chain he wore. At the center of it was the video game token Amy had given him. The token now bore a deep dimple in the center.

  Madame Toka grasped the whimsical piece of metal and stroked it with her fingertips. She crooned to it. The interpreter’s breathless words finally penetrated Sebastien’s amazement. “She says you are blessed, Doctor! You are, you are! How amazing!”

  Sebastien passed a hand over his forehead. He was sweating with relief. This meant nothing, of course. Sheer luck. A small miracle. Miracle. It pleased him. It pleased him so much that he threw back his head and laughed for the first time in months. Amy would be flattered by this story. He could barely wait to tell her.

  “Gris-gris,” the medicine woman said, still stroking the token.

  “She’s very impressed. She says that this is your sacred charm,” the interpreter explained. “Your gris-gris. She says that some important spirit must be looking after you.”

  Sebastien’s chest ached. He would have a terrible bruise where the knife had sunk into Amy’s video token. He rubbed the spot, distracted. “Nonsense.”

  But he gently removed the cheap, dull bit of metal from the medicine woman’s fingers. Protective of his private faith, he slipped the token back inside his shirt. It slid into place with a comforting warmth against his skin. He was too much his mother’s son to ignore a sign from the spirits.

  “Pio, we have a distinct problem.” Frowning at the path in front of him, Jeff walked along beside Pio Beaucaire with his head down and hands shoved into his trousers pock
ets. Pio had the same distracted look. They walked the perimeter of the de Savin vineyard, both of them oblivious to their surroundings. Ordinarily Jeff would have reveled in the dark greenery sprouting on the trellises and the fresh springtime scent of the air. “I’m afraid that in the past few months I’ve developed an even more self-serving reason for helping you.”

  Pio clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “Everyone has selfish reasons for everything he does, dear boy. I’m not surprised to hear you admit yours. What is it?”

  Jeff exhaled wearily. “Sebastien was right, I’m afraid.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Amy Miracle. She’s unique.”

  “Mon dieu! Not you, as well.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any illusions about her. I certainly wouldn’t let her near my bank account.”

  “A man has far more vulnerable areas than that.”

  “Not this man.”

  “But what makes her so special?”

  Jeff spread his hands. “She’s … she’s just so damned determined to be taken seriously. And things have always gone so badly for her. I have to admire her courage.”

  “Those are not reasons to love her.”

  “I didn’t say that I loved her. But … God, she’s still a kid. She just turned twenty. She hasn’t sharpened her claws yet, and that’s appealing. I wouldn’t mind liking her intensely for a while.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I’m pleased, then. You are even more inspired to help me do what’s best for her, and best for Sebastien.”

  Jeff grunted. “I don’t know if it’s what’s best for her, but that’s not really important. I’d leave her happier than I found her—or at least wiser.”

  “And she is agreeable?”

  “She is vulnerable,” Jeff countered with a grin. “And that’s nearly the same thing.” Becoming serious again, he shook his head. “Pio, I don’t want the last payment on our deal. This is the end of it. I don’t think she’s going to cause you any problems. I don’t want to be a spy anymore.”

  “My God, you’re joking, aren’t you? Now is not the time to become sentimental. Do whatever you wish with the girl. You’ll still get your money. All you have to do is keep me informed of her whereabouts and intentions.”

  “No. I’m sorry. I can’t do this any longer. I don’t have much guilt, Pio, but I do admit to some. Sebastien calls me every few weeks. And every time I make it sound as if Amy’s so busy that she never mentions him. But this time he told me that he’s planning to come back to the States and see her when his duty is over in Abidjan.”

  Pio sighed. “I’m not surprised. His father says that he’s ignored several inquiries from hospitals in France. Sebastien could have a position on the staff of the finest private hospitals in the country, but he has refused to make a decision.”

  “Amy sold the Ferrari.”

  “No!”

  “She won’t tell me why she did it. Or what she wanted the money for.”

  “She has plans, that one! She is going to leave school and chase Sebastien! You wait and see. As soon as he’s finished in Africa, she’ll be after him.”

  “I suspect that you’re right. I didn’t want to tell you this before, but she’s been planning all along to find a job in France as soon as she graduates. That’s almost two years from now, however.”

  Beaucaire rammed both hands through his white hair. “If she stays in school.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I will phone le comte immediately. He will know what to do. He always has ideas. You can’t desert us now.”

  “I’ve been offered a very good position on the staff of a drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation center in California,” Jeff told Beaucaire. “I have to leave in about six weeks.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped, but after a moment he held out his hand. He and Jeff shook solemnly. “Excuse me,” Beaucaire said. “I have plans to make. I wish you’d reconsider.”

  “I want privacy. I have my own plans for Amy and myself.”

  “Can’t you tell me—”

  “No. What little honor I have has finally risen to the surface.”

  “Forgive me if I do what I must, without your help.” Pio pivoted stiffly and walked away.

  “Amy, there’s some old geezer here to see you. He looks like a fat Lome Greene. Ask him where Little Joe is.”

  Amy looked up from an economics book. Mary Beth lounged in the doorway to her bedroom. “Who is he?”

  “Says his name is Mr. Beaucaire. Mister, right? No first name. And he gave me an ugly look. Like I ought to be scrubbing toilets somewhere. Go see him. He’s in the living room.”

  Amazed, Amy hurried there. Mr. Beaucaire stood by a window, staring at Mary Beth’s menorah on the sill. His black suit gave him an especially imperious air. Why had he made the long drive to the campus? He’d never shown any interest in her before. She fought her shyness and crossed the room to him confidently, smiling. “Hi there. It’s nice to see you again.”

  He lifted pale eyes to her in surprise, then swept them over her baggy shorts and T-shirt. Finally his attention returned to her face. “Forgive me for taking so long to visit.”

  She gestured awkwardly toward the sprung sofa. “That’s okay. Have a seat. Please, I mean.”

  He settled slowly onto the couch. Her nerves humming, she forced herself to sit in a chair without fidgeting. He cleared his throat. “Tell me about your studies.”

  “I’m majoring in business. International business.” She hesitated, then rattled off several sentences in French. His expression remained neutral, but she thought disdain flickered in his eyes. She halted, shrugged, and smiled. “Well, I’ve got a lot more to learn. I know my accent is terrible.”

  “After you graduate you hope to work in France, hmmm?”

  Amy wasn’t certain that she should announce that fact. “I haven’t decided for sure.” She couldn’t restrain her question any longer. “I, uhmmm, I guess that Sebastien is doing fine in Africa?”

  Mr. Beaucaire smiled. “Yes. Very well.”

  She sat forward on the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Do you talk to him very often?”

  “Frequently.”

  “Will you tell him that you came to see me?”

  “Of course. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that you’ve used his gifts wisely. The Ferrari … you are enjoying it?”

  She bit her tongue. She didn’t want anyone telling Sebastien some cock-eyed version of the truth. She wanted to explain to him about the Ferrari herself. “It’s wonderful, yeah.”

  Mr. Beaucaire’s chuckle was sinister, somehow. “And you have plenty of money left from the amount Sebastien gave you?”

  “Oh, yes, more than half of it! Tell him … tell him that I’m not living high on the hog.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That I’m not wasting his money.”

  “Ah. I see. Yes.”

  She clenched her hands. “Would you mind telling me about him? About the kind of work he’s doing? What’s it like in the Ivory Coast? Where does he live … in an apartment or a house?”

  “Oh, who knows about Sebastien? He isn’t one to talk much about frivolous things. I’m sure he has a nice home, and I’m sure that he rarely sees it. He’s always working. His work, you see, has always been the center of his life.”

  She leaned forward, anticipating. “Yeah, you’re right. He probably doesn’t do anything else. He’s probably pretty bored with Africa, I bet. I bet he doesn’t ever take time to enjoy himself.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Mr. Beaucaire reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a photograph. “This is an old friend of his. She has gone from Paris several times to visit him.”

  Amy rose and took the picture. After a second she managed to concentrate on the stately young woman in it. “What’s her name?”

  “Marie d’Albret. Her family and Sebastien’s were neighbors. He has known her all his life.”

  She raised her eyes t
o Mr. Beaucaire’s. Though he tried to look sympathetic, she saw the victory in his face. “Is this why you came here? To show me a picture?”

  “I feared that you had misconceptions about the doctor’s intentions toward you. I just wanted to make certain that you understood his situation. He and Marie are very close. When he returns to France, I wouldn’t be surprised if they marry.”

  Amy laid the photograph on the couch. Then she backed away from it carefully, watching Mr. Beaucaire. “I guess you’ve done what you meant to do. You can leave.”

  Mr. Beaucaire tucked the photo into his jacket pocket and stood. He nodded to her. “You’ve enjoyed quite a bit of generosity from Dr. de Savin. But it would be foolish for you to expect more.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You believe me, but your pride won’t let you admit it. Tell me, did you honestly think that the doctor would remain interested in you? Don’t you know what sort of girl you were to him? He was kind to you and gave you this chance to better yourself. Do not harbor fantasies about the future.” He strode into the hall. “Good-bye, mademoiselle.”

  Amy waited until the front door clicked shut behind him. Then she turned blindly, her eyes full of tears. Mary Beth leapt out of a doorway down the hall, glowering. “Old bastard. I eavesdropped on the whole thing.” She came to Amy, stood on tiptoe, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Comeon, honey. Let’s go for a walk. And then we’ll eat ice cream until we explode. Or maybe we’ll go find some tender, unsuspecting high-school boy and abuse him. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Amy whispered. “I am somebody important. I don’t deserve to be unhappy.”

  “There you go, honey. You don’t need this shit.”

  “I’m going to see Sebastien in France, right after he gets home. If he’s not interested in me, he can tell me so himself.”

  After giving her a stunned appraisal, Mary Beth said something pithy and obscene. Then she sighed heavily. “I like watching Juliet poison herself over a Romeo who couldn’t care less. It’s educational.”

  Jeff was leaving for California. Amy congratulated him on his new job and tried to appear pleased, but halfway through dinner she halted with her fork posed over a plate of chicken chow mein and blurted, “I wish you were staying here. What am I? A train station? All I do is watch people come and go in my life. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you so much.”