Wings of the Morning

by Julian Beale

After Aischa’s Service, it took almost two hours for the congregation to file past David with a nod of respect or a handshake as he stood at the top of the Cathedral steps. Beside him stood Anna, and beside her was her elder son Oliver, now fifteen and showing all the signs of a developing young man. He stood motionless, holding himself erect, standing a little taller than his mother, very conscious of the solemnity of the occasion.

  When the final visitors had filed past and said their farewells, David turned to smile at both Anna and Olty, his careworn expression hinting at the gratitude which he felt for their presence with him. He found it impossible to speak in those few seconds, and Anna was discreetly brushing a tear from her eye. It was a moment for distraction and he used it to reach into his pocket and withdraw a buff, hard backed envelope. From this, he pulled two copies of a black and white photograph. The setting was a dockyard of some sort. A small forest of masts showed in the right hand middle distance. In front, there was a iron railing which guarded the edge of a wharf and behind was a type of deep sea trawler, tied up to await departure.

  In the foreground, two young girls were leaning on the railing facing the trawler. They had turned their faces in head and shoulder profile to look back at the camera. They were beautiful, their faces full of laughter, life and fun. They looked so happy and relaxed in this pose as to suggest that they spent almost every waking minute with each other. They were obviously twins, very closely alike, with just some tiny differences of expression which would be unobserved except by standing this close and staring. Neither Anna nor her son needed to be told that this was a photograph of Aischa and Ouye, with Ouye on the right of her sister.

  David told them, ‘I took this myself, very many years ago. I was about to leave on the trawler you see there. It’s not a brilliant photograph but it’s the only one I’ve ever seen of the two girls together. They did love each other so, and I thought that you would like to have a copy.’

  They smiled together and Anna rose to kiss David on his cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. There was no more to add, but then she used the privacy of the moment, standing there with only Olty as witness.

  ‘May I ask you David, before she left you, did she say — anything?’

  David’s eyes clouded with instant tears as the moment returned to him with piercing clarity.

  ‘Yes, Anna, she did. Just one word. She said Harisha.’

  He turned away, more abruptly than he intended. Anna restrained him with a light touch on his arm, but didn’t wait for him to turn back towards her as she told him in a soft tone which was inaudible to her son,

  ‘That‘s good to hear, David, and you should be comforted. It means that she went in her own time and as she planned.’

  Later that evening, David hosted an extended family supper at Founder’s Hill. They had set out long tables on the wide terrace and the meal was served as a buffet with everyone able and encouraged to move around and exchange neighbours from time to time. Only later did the poignancy of the arrangement strike him. It was so like the evening in the restaurant when he had first met Aischa and Ouye, along with Rafa and Benoit and so many others.

  Before then, he had started his dinner by inviting Olty and Edward to sit by him on either side. They had a good and lively conversation which ranged predictably over school and games and hobbies. There was a thoughtfulness about Olty which impressed him, especially when the boy asked, ‘Mr Heaven. Can you tell me please. What exactly does “Harisha” mean?’

  David was startled but determined to give him a straight answer, and so he replied,

  ‘The best I can do, Olty, is to repeat to you what your grandmother told me. She explained it this way. Harisha means literally “I see you”. It is a salutation and an expression of farewell with honour and affection. It is used only by a woman speaking to a man and may sometimes be used as greeting to recognise an outstanding achievement, but that would be very rare.’

  Olty nodded, rather wide eyed, and thanked him. Quite soon afterwards, David moved around the table and the boys went off to play snooker.

  ALEXA DUNDAS — August 2004

  Alexa had never felt such happiness in her private life, nor as fulfilled in her work. She refused to feel guilty at her satisfaction that Janey Dundas had died about six months previously, a case of simple heart failure which took her on a summer day in the specially adapted villa which had been built for her down the coast. By then she had seemed more like a decrepit old aunt to Hugh than his wife. Pente comforted them all with his pronouncement that the Almighty had acted as much for Janey herself as for anyone else.

  Very shortly afterwards, Alexa and Hugh married and there was a celebration in Century which lasted a week and included rousing toasts to both Aischa and to Connie Aveling.

  Hugh himself was busy as ever with a good deal of travel. These days, he flew commercial, having taken Tina Fullerton’s advice and sold Bertie the Boeing to the national airline which was using it for cargo work within the country and on international routes. This week in August, Hugh was again overseas, back in the States. One of the American oil companies had title to a block off shore in Millennium waters. They were producing and believed there were good prospects for discovering more, maybe even much more, but they were being greedy in their demands.

  Whatever. Hugh remained bright and tough. He would work it out and Alexa would continue here for him in every sense when he came home to relax with her and to talk it all through. Meanwhile, she had her own timetable. The Orphans of Africa programme had expanded enormously and they were now getting close to rolling out into two neighbouring countries. This was not only good for the people they could help, but it was good for their politics also. She had involved Tina in this work and loved the stimulus of her company as well as her risqué humour.

  There had been a great bonus earlier in the year when Tepee came to stay for nearly a month. Alexa had shown her around Century and a fair bit of the country while they looked at some of the projects, but mostly they’d just talked and talked. A lot of it was about Connie. There were tears and recriminations, but overall, Alexa was impressed by how Tepee was getting on with her life. She had enough money and was making some more from the sale of her painting which had developed to find several admirers. One of these was a widower who lived in Cornwall and they had started a modest affair.

  ‘It’s not going to go much further,’ Tepee confided, ‘Gavin is a lovely man but he’s too far away and — well he’s not Connie. But he is a comfort from time to time and it’s nice to be wanted.’

  Alexa was sorry to see her go, but there was consolation when she received a surprise visit to Century from Mark Bushell, who had flown all the way from Sydney via South Africa. It was years since they’d last seen each other and Alexa was thrilled to find him quite unchanged. Still the great, gruff, shambling bear of a man with the woolly mane of hair and the slightly dishevelled beard, still the huge horn rimmed spectacles, still the razor brain which he sometimes hid behind an ‘Ocker Oz’ humour and still the irrepressible sense of fun. She had thought he would be exhausted from travel on the evening of his arrival, but found that he was still flying. Mark and Hugh had never previously met, and Alexa was thrilled to see how well they got on from the first, all the better as Hugh had to depart the following morning. They asked the Fullertons to dinner and were reduced to tears of laughter by the American/Australian banter.

  There was another purpose to Mark’s visit. Alexa was responsible for a special programme within the agenda of Orphans of Africa. It had been created to give a sanctuary of assistance to those who suffered mental trauma for whatever reason. It appalled Alexa to see how many people throughout Millennium fell into this broad category and they were the ones prepared to volunteer a problem. Alexa shuddered to think of the numbers which would be produced from under the repressive regimes throughout Africa. Mark had been encouraging by an email from Sydney, providing many helpful directions, but he said that he must see for himself, and he did so
, giving her a bare week’s warning of his arrival.

  During his time there, they remained in Century and Alexa set up a number of appointments with patients whom Mark could meet at her office in the downtown Orphans building. They were sitting there together on his last day, awaiting the final visit. There was a light tap on the door and in came a man of more than medium height and slight build. He was dressed in very smart, but casual clothing. He was more chocolate than black in colour. He was well into the autumn of his life and the curls on his head were more grey than black. He made for an elegant figure and he bent his head over Alexa’s hand before shaking Mark’s, then carefully adjusting his trousers to preserve their razor crease before he took the proffered seat.

  Mark noticed that he supported his left hand in his right, and the visitor followed his gaze. Unprompted, he said,

  ‘Too many years as a musician. Playing the double bass.’ His smile was charming.

  Alexa said nothing. A strange feeling of anticipation mixed with disquiet was invading her. Their visitor started to introduce himself.

  ‘I thank you both for seeing me,’ he began. His English was excellent but clearly not his mother tongue. ‘I apologise that I’m here under false pretences. I’m not in need of counsel and I don’t seek help, except perhaps from a priest. I’m here to make a confession. My name is Paulus and I believe that it was your brother, Madame, whom I condemned to death over forty years ago.’

  Alexa felt the onrush of shakes, was in that split second transported back to those long gone years of inner terror as she struggled with her demons. By the grace of God, she had as her companion the one person who could help her through, Mark who should be on the other side of the world, but whose hand she now felt take her own with the unspoken message. Whatever this is, we will face it together. And now he spoke for them both.

  ‘OK, Paulus, would you tell us more please.’

  ‘Oui. I will. In 1963, I was in Niamey, Niger with my band. We played at a modest dive named La Chatte. To supplement our fees, I looked out for young men who could be seduced into a danger from which others would pay to release them,’ he shrugged, ‘a form of blackmail, pure and simple. I was then thirty years old. Today, I am seventy. A little slower, and very much wiser.

  ‘That evening, we played the club and a young French boy appeared who could play the guitar a bit. Nothing special, but not bad. He carried his hormones on his forehead as we all did at that age. I introduced my honey trap girl who hooked him and brought him back for more. We grabbed him for ransom, all was arranged and then my little whore and her strong arm man decided to go independent. They killed the boy, but I kept the money. I do not know where they laid his body.

  ‘You will want to know why I’m here now. I was born in this city but moved away, working as a musician. I have led an itinerant life, but last year I returned home by coming to Century City for the first time. I met a man from Nigeria of about my age. His name is Patrick. He’s good company and he likes jazz which is what I play best. We have come to know and to like each other, and at our age, that is a process which happens gradually over time. It’s only recently that he’s had the confidence to tell me about his background. He described his childhood and spoke of his career in the Nigeria Army, of which he is rightly proud. He dwelt on his experiences in the Biafra War. He talked about his time as a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, and how he was befriended by the father of Mr Rory Trollope, who lives here today, of course, and is I suppose known to us all?’

  Paulus let this question hang in the air. Mark shook his head and said,

  ‘Not me, but I’m just a visitor. Been here less than a week.’

  Under the table, Mark squeezed Alexa’s hand and she managed to nod her head in an affirmative message. Paulus nodded in return as he resumed.

  ‘Patrick Nugumu mentioned other names to me, drawn from that period of his life, and particularly those he had met in DRC. Zaire as it used to be or even further back, the Belgian Congo. One of these names was a Frenchman, Luc Courty, who was certainly known to me: a formidable man whom I respected and feared. Courty was a tough French soldier who retired young and went out on his own as an investigator. He worked from Paris but combed through all the hotspots of French and Belgian colonial Africa. In 1964, Courty tracked me down when I was living in Kinshasa. He was hunting down the story of a young French guy who had gone missing in Niamey. Courty had found his way to la Chatte, heard the rumours of other such abductions from there, and they were well founded by the way. That got him my name, and eventually he found me. It was not a pleasant experience. Courty gave me a very hard time indeed. But I was pretty tough myself. I knew he had no proof. I just had to sit out the pressure until he gave up. And eventually, he did. End of that story, which I have never told before, not even to Patrick.’

  Paulus stopped to give Alexa a self deprecating smile of great charm. Alexa felt frozen in time. Mark hung on to her hand. Paulus continued.

  ‘Now for another coincidence. Two nights ago, I was playing at our club down in the Spanish Quarter. During a break, I wander across to say bonsoir to a Moroccan couple who like to listen to our music. They are called Maurice and Petronile. She is a psychiatric nurse and I believe that she works with you Madame?’

  Alexa could only nod again.

  ‘We exchanged pleasantries and Petronile said they were out to relax as she was having a tough, but interesting week. I enquired further, and she explained it was on account of your visit and work, Monsieur Bushell. You are clearly much respected in your field. She added that you had been introduced as Madame’s brother-in-law and Petronile asked if you were Australian born.

  ‘No, Petronile reports you as saying, my mother was English and my father was French, an army officer and a farmer. We lived in the country near Limoges in a house now owned by my brother. I was born Alexandra Labarre.

  ‘This casual conversation hit me hard,’ said Paulus, ‘especially after my talks with Patrick which brought back old times and had resurrected in my mind the name of Labarre. When that Luc Courty found me in Kinshasa, he hurt me very much indeed. As he kicked and punched and threw me around my dingy attic, he would intersperse his blows with the same warning: tell me, Paulus, tell me so that I can tell le Colonel Labarre. Tell me what you did with his son and tell me where is the money which you took from Labarre.

  I could not concentrate on my music for the rest of that evening and when I got home, I went straight to my computer. A wonderful thing, the Internet, is it not. I found quite easily the reference to the small family Chateau, the history, the names of Colonel Joffrey and his wife Elizabeth, now both deceased, their three offspring — Alexandra, Bernard the current owner of the property and finally, mention of an older brother Michel who died many years ago.’

  There was a very long silence. The men held each other’s gaze. Alexa shivered as she looked down at her feet. Finally, Paulus gave a long sigh, and commenced his conclusion.

  ‘I could not keep silent. I have been guilty of many things during a long life which has included too much crime and foolishness. But I have never maimed, nor tortured, nor killed. I did not kill your brother, Madame, but I did arrange his kidnap and I did set a price upon his life. It is not much now to say sorry, although I do offer that apology. Anyway, I am here to accept whatever you may wish to exact from me in retribution. I am yours Madame.’

  And Paulus sat back a little in his upright chair.

  There was no further delay. Mark Bushell felt the hand between his lose its tremors as it was withdrawn from his grasp. He could feel Alexa’s strength return, could sense her resolve and determination. A kaleidoscope of memories marched through his head as he recalled all the struggles that he and she had been through together in Sydney as he had fought to pull her back from a mental brink, a catastrophic precipice towards which this man before them had propelled her first steps. He might not have known, but he was guilty nonetheless.

  Alexa acted. She rose from her chair and moved to
the centre of the room. She turned and looked down at Paulus.

  ‘Stand up and come here,’ she instructed calmly.

  He looked uncertain, but he did as she asked. Then she stepped closer to him, opened her arms and enfolded Paulus in her embrace. The seconds ticked by, turning into a minute and longer. Mark kept his silence and his seat. Finally, Alexa stepped back: she looked calm — serene even. Mark could see the catharsis seep through her. She had reached the end of a painful road and was finally able to lay the ghost which had troubled so much of her life.

  Paulus just stood there, a slight and diffident smile on his face. He said nothing but he raised his weaker hand in a gesture of salute to them as he turned to leave. As he reached the door, Alexa stopped him with a gentle question.

  ‘I must hear you play one evening, Paulus. How do I find you?’

  ‘You will have no difficulty with that Madame, and you will be most welcome. My club here in Century is well known and the name is over the door. I call it “Michel’s”.’

  DAVID HEAVEN — May 2013

  Ten long years since Aischa’s death, David thought to himself as he sat in his study after breakfast. For an old and cynical independent such as him, it was remarkable how much he still missed her. He was not, however, sloppy about it. He didn’t sit weeping into his whisky every evening. He was not especially lonely and was often out and about, happy to be entertained or joining in some activity. He certainly did not wallow in self sympathy. He just bloody well missed her — missed the sound of her footfall, the choice of her words, the delicacy of her accent remaining from childhood. He missed her shrewd judgement, missed her encouragement and even, he had to admit, her firm correction to his wandering path. He missed being able to check if he had chosen the right clothes to wear, missed being reminded of who was related to whom and how. Just missed her. And even today, ten years on, he might come home from a dinner, get inside the door and call out to her before being hit by the consciousness that she was beyond the compass of his voice.