Whispering in French

by Sophia Nash

  “Okay,” I replied. “Let’s get our coats.” I told Magdali and we went in search of Mlle Lefebvre.

  “Minou, minou, minou!” she cried into the rain and wind.

  “Mademoiselle,” I shouted. “You can’t stay out here! It’s too dangerous.”

  “Non,” she replied. “I must find my moronic cat.”

  The set of her jaw made me realize she was not going to budge. “Okay, could you please go to Madeleine Marie and settle my grandfather and Mr. Soames? You’re the only one who they will listen to. Charles and I will find your cat.”

  She finally acquiesced, or rather, grumbled her assent.

  I grasped Charles’s little hand and he skipped to keep up. I called for the cat in our drive and crossed into my neighbor’s front garden. No luck. The cat was probably lounging somewhere inside her large house without the spinster’s knowledge.

  Bending our heads against the spray of rain, we walked past her gate and crossed the cliff road to look at the turbulent sea.

  It was the most beautiful, violent panorama I’d ever witnessed. Charles wrapped his arms around my legs and I held him to me. The sea was a turgid, slow-moving mass retreating, retreating into a wall of water and then slamming forward with brutality over the wide shelf of gigantic boulders, which were doing nothing to protect the road at the bottom of the cliff. Everything on the Côte des Basques would be flooded or destroyed: the little hotel, the three restaurants, the lifeguard station, the port around the corner. It was heartbreaking. Just stunning, the power and destructive nature of the elements. I started to turn to look at Madeleine Marie to try to see the roof, and then stopped turning.

  There, up the road from me, maybe a thousand yards away, the road was no more. A portion of the cliff had fallen into the sea. A telephone pole, with its tangle of wires and cables, was at an odd angle, hanging off the side of the cliff. It appeared just like the scene of a disaster that CNN would typically report, and a chill raced up my spine as I grabbed Charles’s arm and dragged him back over the road and toward Madeleine Marie.

  A few feet from the door I felt someone tug my own arm and I swung around to find Major Soames.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “We’re just going back in,” I yelled against the rage of the storm.

  He yanked open the door and pushed us in. “I told you not to leave this house and not to let my family leave,” he shouted, his eyes furious.

  “I’m sorry. I had to get Mlle Lefebvre inside. Charles wanted to come.”

  “You shouldn’t have let him,” he said starkly.

  “Daddy,” Charles moaned. “It’s my fault.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” he said, swinging his son into his arms. “We’ve got to get everyone out of here. The cliff isn’t secure. You have ten minutes to get everyone outside with coats and ready to march out. Roger?”

  “Yup,” I said. “Got it.”

  It took only seven minutes. Edward loaded up his uncle’s Range Rover with his family and Jean and Youssef. I climbed into the old Peugeot with Lily, Magdali, her daughter, and Mlle Lefebvre, who got in only after the major threatened her with words that she could not have understood.

  The windshield wipers of the Peugeot could not move fast enough to dislodge the water. We followed the black Range Rover down the road and I couldn’t seem to breathe properly until we’d curved down to almost sea level.

  Edward’s brake lights lit up and he came to a halt. What in hell was he doing? I opened my window and stuck out my head to see a pool of water in front of his car. He exited and ran to my door as Youssef got out of a rear door and went around to Edward’s driver’s seat.

  “Everyone out,” Edward shouted at me.

  “You,” he grasped Lily’s shoulders. “Get in the back of my car along with everyone else.”

  We squeezed Mlle Lefebvre onto Lily’s lap, and Magdali and her daughter squeezed into the boot of the Range Rover, as Edward shouted instructions to Youssef, who drove into the waist-deep water and miraculously made it a hundred yards away to rejoin the road.

  Edward grabbed my arm. “Come on. We’re going on foot. We’ll meet them on the other side of the Route Nationale.”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Don’t have time. Just follow me.”

  And I did. We bypassed the deep water and raced up the warren of small streets in the village. Lightning forked the sky, raining veins of light toward the earth. Twice more we were stopped by flooding and, with no alternative, he half-dragged me through the fast-moving water that was now as deep as the first impasse. I prayed the Range Rover was far beyond us. We avoided streets with wires down and climbed over an enormous uprooted tree with branches that looked like medieval torture devices. There was not a soul in sight, and I had a sinking feeling that we had somehow missed an order to evacuate. We must have been the only family not watching Canal+. The Route Nationale was deserted; the Range Rover nowhere to be found. Edward shouted an obscenity that would have made a newsroom editor blush.

  “Where do you think they went?” My voice was carried away in the storm and I tried again. “Edward?”

  He turned. “There,” he shouted, and pointed his arm toward the church. “Come on.”

  He grabbed my arm and we crossed the deserted road flanked by huge gullies of water. We slogged against the wind and the icy rain and passed the restaurants and shops going up the hill. We were heading for the road that led to the church, whose bell was tolling, most likely from the force of the wind.

  We were running now and I just couldn’t keep up. Edward finally stopped and forced me onto his back. A massive gust of wind buffeted us and we were tossed against a car sideways in the road with such force that we bounced off the top of the Renault and fell in a heap. Wind roared in my ears, snatching Edward’s shouts as I untangled myself from him.

  And then I saw his leg at an unnatural angle as he lay in the road, sheets of rain drenching everything in its path. Another gust howled passed, taking my breath with it.

  He was motioning toward the church, urging me to go on and I shook my head. His curses I heard perfectly.

  I crab-walked toward one of the large tree branches that littered the ground in every direction and broke off a section. Using my rain jacket, I fashioned what was the most ineffective, primitive splint known to mankind. He made not a sound as I tightened and knotted the ends of the jacket arms.

  “Get up,” I shouted.

  He pointed to the church. “Go!”

  I shook my head.

  A flash telescoped above us and we were transfixed by the bolt’s descent. It struck the steeple and an explosion of sparks lit up the ancient church. I could barely hear after the explosion—everything was muffled and the air was filled with the acrid scent of burnt stone. And I was blinded by the flash.

  “Come on,” I shouted again. “Lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”

  I got him up, cantilevered him against my hip, and we dragged ourselves the last eighth of a mile up that hill. Not a soul greeted us as we fell inside the arched doorway of the church.

  It was eerily quiet in the incense-infused, red-domed beauty of the space. The only light came from a bank of candles lit in memory of loved ones lost. A host of saints with tortured faces stared down at us.

  I could not seem to catch my breath, but finally I forced myself up. And that’s when I saw that there was something wrong with Edward’s other leg. The foot was all wrong.

  “Where the bloody, sodding hell is everyone? The children . . .” His voice was thin and choked with emotion.

  “I—I don’t know.” I called out for help, the tremors of my voice echoing off the thick walls.

  His voice thready now, he whispered, “It’s an old wives tale about lightning not striking the same place twice.”

  I shook my head. “Really? You’re going to argue with me now about this?”

  He was panting and white as a sheet. He closed his eyes. “Kate
, you’ve got to find . . .” He slumped and his head hit the stone floor made up of dozens of horizontal tombstones of the religious who’d prayed and pontificated in this church the last six hundred years.

  I shook him. “Find what? Oh God, wake up. Edward, no. Come on, wake up!” I scooped some holy water from the font next to the door with my hands and splashed it on his face.

  Nothing. I felt like I was in a B-grade horror movie and I was the worst actress in Hollywood.

  I checked his pulse. Strong as an ox. Of course. I looked at his legs again. Blood was seeping from my raincoat over the makeshift splint that was falling off.

  In my head I was saying every curse word in English, French, and Basque as I eased off the poor excuse for a splint. I needed to get his trousers off. I rifled his pockets and came up with a British Army pocketknife. Slicing through the soaked gray broadcloth, I saw far too much blood, open flesh, muscle, and cracked shinbone. I looked away when a ring of pulsating black started closing off my vision. I focused on his belt and tugged it off to make a tourniquet, hoping the pressure was correct. I felt his other leg, all the way down to his foot, which was swollen and obviously broken, but not through the skin.

  I shouted again, hoping someone would come, but no one did. Only the echo of my voice and the incessant clang of the bell broke the silence.

  Again, I checked his pulse and slapped him in an effort to wake him, all to no avail.

  I had to find a doctor, and I had to find everyone else. Dammit.

  The wall of wind battled my efforts to open the door, but I made it through only to have the breath sucked out of me. I choked. There were no lights as far as I could see. Power gone. But I suddenly remembered I had my iPhone in my pocket. How idiotic. Leaning against the church, I pulled up favorites and punched Lily’s name. A recording by a calm French woman informed me that telephone service was unavailable.

  I had no idea where to go, but I started back down the road anyway. I formed a plan. Look for the black Range Rover and knock on every door along the route, retracing our steps. The wind kept knocking me down as there was no windbreak between buildings. Adopting a walking Downward Dog position on my feet and hands, I sang the “Marseillaise” to get a grip. I sang it over and over for so long, that by the time I reached the main road, it had somehow morphed into “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell.

  What was wrong with me?

  The Route Nationale was nearly impassable now. I lost one of my rubber gardening boots crossing the raging water of the first gulley. I lost the other climbing back over the broken branches of the uprooted tree a quarter of a mile away.

  The problem was that I could barely see through my tangle of hair and the driving rain. I almost yanked a chunk out in frustration.

  My fists felt nothing as I pounded the doors of dark houses. Where had everyone gone? I would have given everything I owned to see the Range Rover or a doctor. But there was not a car in sight except for a handful that had gotten caught in the rising water.

  I just didn’t dare cross anything higher than my upper thighs now. It was too fast-moving and my limbs were not working the way they should. And so I climbed the side streets heading back uphill toward the pharmacy and butcher shop.

  Grabbing the largest rock I could lift, I bashed the lock of the pharmacy’s accordion iron protective webbing until it broke and then threw the rock at the glass sliding door, smashing it into a thousand pieces.

  What the hell was I doing? I had no idea.

  I grabbed a huge beach bag that was on sale and went into the back room, scooping up anything that looked like a pain killer, antibiotic, or antiseptic. Then I grabbed bandages and tape. I grabbed a phone receiver I spied near the register and dialed Lily’s number before I realized it was dead.

  I looked toward the gaping hole that had once been the sliding glass door and finally realized the reason I couldn’t really see. I was sobbing. I forced myself to stop by screaming so long and so loud that I couldn’t breathe.

  And there in the doorway was Jojo the mayor, with Pierrot behind him.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous fais là?!” Jojo held an ax in one hand and an ancient pistol in the other.

  I sagged to the floor. “What am I doing here? Broken leg. Losing too much blood. Major Soames.” For some reason I couldn’t form a sentence. “Ambulance. The church. Send it to the church. My family, have you seen them? In a black Range Rover, heading to the Route Nationale.”

  “They’re probably at the train station. We diverted all traffic there.”

  “Thank God,” I whispered as I slumped back. I could finally breathe. “I have to see my daughter. Please find out if she’s there.”

  Pierrot peeled my fingers from the bag’s straps and took it to the back room again. “Hey, I need that for Edward Soames.”

  Jojo took off his yellow rain jacket, got to his knees, and I watched as he picked up my shaking arms one by one and put them in the armholes. I hadn’t noticed but there was a long, deep gash on one and the skin was too white. Maybe from that tree? As he zipped it, I noticed blood had soaked the front of my cream silk blouse now transparent from the rain. I looked away.

  “Don’t worry, Pierrot’s a trained medic. Did his service militaire a long time ago with me. He’s making sure he has everything he needs. Alors, chérie, do you know your blood type?”

  “Oh, okay. Um . . .” What did he ask? “I—what?”

  “Blood type?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I sighed. “I mean, O. It’s O.”

  “Positive?”

  “Mmmm. Yeah. Why?”

  “Shhh . . .” He stood up, walked to a Dr. Scholl’s revolving stand and selected a pair of rubber thongs and walked back to me.

  What in hell was he doing?

  I looked at my feet.

  Blood and shards of glass.

  The last voice I heard before the ring of black closed me from reality was Jojo’s. “Viens vite, Pierrot! Elle est en choc.”

  Funny how shock sounds the same in both languages.

  And why fear it? It’s actually such a lovely, comforting feeling to float away. I was drifting high in the clouds above the Pays Basque in the night air. The storm withdrew in on itself and disappeared like a magic trick. I was looking down at the mountain peaks of Les Trois Couronnes, and the lady’s black hair steamed down the sides and fell into the sea. She was crying, or maybe it was just the rain. I wanted to comfort her. Tell her everything was going to be okay. But there was a black ball of fear lodged in my throat, and my arms wouldn’t obey my command to reach out to her.

  She opened her eyes.

  And I woke up screaming.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was zero to six hundred miles an hour in an instant. Every cell of my body was in revolt as I returned to consciousness. I just couldn’t force myself to open my eyes. I didn’t want to wake up.

  Until I heard Lily’s voice calling to me. “Mom. Mom. Mommy . . . Please wake up.” And, “No. Don’t you dare put that stuff under her nose again. Mom? Please?”

  She was patting my hand. I could feel her breathe on my face and her lips on my forehead. She whispered in my ear, “Mom, come on.”

  I breathed in and opened my eyes. It was a little too bright and everything was out of focus and the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol permeated the air. “Wha . . .”

  “Mommy,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I told you she was coming to.”

  “Finalement,” the growly voice of Pierrot reached my ears.

  “You should be proud of your mother,” Jojo’s voice began. “She’s une vrai—a true French hero. Major Soames is here because of her. And she sang and sang the ‘Marseillaise’ the entire trip in the ambulance. Although she didn’t have all the right words or verses quite correct.” He patted my hand. “I will teach you the words. And maybe let you use my microphone to sing it at the next boum in the village square.”

  “Mom . . .” Lilly said. “Why are you crying?”

  I couldn’t wor
k my mouth.

  “Shhh . . . Don’t ask her to talk, Lily,” Pierrot said. “It’s going to take some time. Madame, you are going to be fine, but you lost quite a bit of blood. You ruptured your spleen, which the surgeon removed. And you have almost a hundred stitches, mostly on your arm and elsewhere.”

  “Mmm . . . mmm.” I wanted so much to ask something. “Maaay . . . Maaay.” I stopped.

  “Major Soames. You want to know about Major Soames, of course,” Lily said. “He’s going to be okay. He had surgery too. Longer than yours. He also lost a lot of blood—almost too much. He was lucky you found help in time. They set his leg in surgery. And his other foot is in plaster. But he’s already complaining about being in a wheelchair. Granddaddy made him stop complaining.”

  My eyes were finally regaining focus, and I looked at Pierrot—Basque terrorist, neighbor, liar, swindler, and savior. “Esk . . .”

  He leaned down to my lips. I whispered, “Eskerrik asko.”

  Lily’s eyes were wide. “What did she say? Is she okay? She’s slurring her words too much.”

  Pierrot smiled. “She said thank you. In my language.”

  “Oh,” Lily said. “I didn’t know she knew Basque.”

  “I didn’t either. Your mother is remarkable,” Pierrot said. “I shall teach her the Basque anthem. All seven of them.”

  It was lovely to just listen to all of them and not have to talk. I felt so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep. I just didn’t want to move.

  “Mom?” Lily said with hesitation. “They said I shouldn’t tell you, but I know you’ll be mad later if I don’t tell you now.”

  That woke me up. “Wha . . .”

  “No, messieurs. I know my mother better than you. Before she became a French and Basque hero.” Lily’s hands were on her hips. “Mom, Mr. Soames’s house is gone. It fell with the cliff. That’s what that horrible sound was last night. No one was in it, luckily. The servants had evacuated. But he’s lost everything.” She paused and searched my face.

  I swallowed and nodded for her to keep going. God.

  “Mr. Soames refuses to move in to Madeleine Marie with Winnie and Charles. Granddaddy has not been able to convince him. He says it’s already too much that we have to take in Major Soames when he is released from here, and that you have to recover too. Now he’s talking about moving back to London. Permanently. And Granddaddy is very sad. We have to do something.”