Gibraltar Passage

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “No,” he agreed. “If Patrique had made it this far, the family would have heard. Of this I am sure.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  “Planting seeds,” Pierre replied. “All I need is for one to grow and bear fruit. The fishermen and the smugglers and these local traders often work together, you see. There is the chance that someone stopped somewhere to pick up an illegal shipment and heard something which he discounted.”

  “Up to now,” Jake added.

  “Exactly. So he hears that Pierre is back and is spreading word that Patrique might be alive. Of course, most people will say it is a futile hope, but who knows what might turn up?”

  “They all seem to think a lot of you.”

  “Patrique and I both worked as boys on fishing boats,” Pierre said. “We had an uncle who was a fisherman, and he used to tell us stories of foreign ports and mysteries of the sea. My father is a very wise man. He knew that if he was to forbid our going to sea, we would both have run away. So instead he urged us to spend our summers working for my uncle. Although we learned to love the sea, we also learned that the hard life of a fisherman was not for us.”

  Pierre sipped his coffee, then continued. “When the Resistance was starting here, Patrique used his old connections to organize those smugglers and fishermen who wished to help. When I was home on leave, I worked with him.”

  “Patrique led the local Resistance?”

  “There was no single leader. Cells, or units, were formed. Patrique worked with a number of these units.”

  Jake decided he could ask what had been on his mind since his arrival. “Will you tell your parents what you’ve learned?”

  “My father only,” Pierre replied, his face somber. “I told him last night. He agrees we must say nothing of this to my mother.”

  “That’s probably wise.”

  “Losing Patrique almost killed her. We cannot speak with her until we know for certain, and then only with the greatest caution.” He dug in his pocket, tossed a coin on the counter, and rose to his feet. “Come, let us go plant some more seeds.”

  They exited the cafe, crossed the main port road, passed through a tiny arched portal, and descended a dozen grime-encrusted stairs into a miniature market square. Another shout greeted their entry. Jake held back and watched Pierre being swept up by another joyful crowd.

  A gentle tug on his sleeve caught Jake’s attention. He turned, the smile in place, expecting to find some ancient fisherman wanting to pump the hand of Pierre’s friend.

  Instead, he confronted a slender figure covered from head to toe in a great gray cape. The hood was slid so far forward that the face was totally lost in shadow. A honey-coated woman’s voice said in English, “Step back away from where he can see us.”

  “What?” Jake took a reluctant step as the figure backed between two stalls toward the ancient stone wall. When he hesitated to move farther, the figure raised one fine hand and beckoned impatiently.

  “Who—”

  His words were cut off as the hood was folded back to reveal one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen.

  Great eyes of darkest jade captured him and held him fast. High cheekbones slanted above a finely carved jawline, the sharp features balanced by full red lips. Rich, dark hair was gathered over one shoulder and held by a silver clasp inscribed in a writing that Jake could not fathom.

  The eyes. They held him with a sorrowful calmness that stilled his ability to question.

  “You are Pierre’s friend,” she said, her voice as soft and rich as her gaze.

  Jake could only nod.

  “I am Jasmyn.” Her gaze flickered behind him. Slender hands rose to sweep the hood back forward, and the beautiful face was lost once more to the shadows. “We haven’t much time, Pierre turns this way. Tonight or tomorrow he will take you to a restaurant called Le Relais des Pêcheurs. There is a cafe next door. I will await you.”

  “Jake!” Pierre’s voice called from amidst the throng.

  The hand reached out and grasped his arm with a power that seemed to scald through his uniform. “Do not tell him I have seen you. But come. Please come.”

  “Jake! Come on over here!”

  “I have heard of your search for Patrique,” said the hidden woman. “You must come. I have news.”

  Then she swept around and vanished, her absence a vacuum in the bustling market.

  Chapter Four

  “It’s cold tonight,” Jake said as they bicycled back into town that evening. Although there were a few cars around, including one used by Pierre’s father, petrol was almost impossible to find. Bicycles remained the most popular and dependable means of transport.

  “This is the home of the mistrals, the winter winds,” Pierre replied, pedaling alongside him. “They funnel down through the Alpine foothills and strike Marseille with brutal force. On nights like this, we say that winter has returned to remind us of what was and what will be again.”

  Just as Jasmyn had predicted, Pierre had invited him to eat at a restaurant near the harbor, one run by an old friend. But Jake found it difficult to concentrate on the coming meal and their conversation on the way. He found it even harder to keep quiet about Jasmyn’s presence in the city. “From the sound of things, you must like this restaurant a lot.”

  “Marseille is the most ancient town in France,” Pierre replied in his roundabout manner. “The Romans used it as the port for all the upper Mediterranean. From the old harbor, when I was growing up, there was a major thoroughfare that split the town into two sections. The one nearest to the old fortress was called Le Panier, the Basket. It was the oldest part of town. Very, very ancient. And very crowded. A lot of bars, prostitutes, fishermen, tiny market areas, very small shops.” Pierre waved and smiled a reply to the greeting of an old gentleman seated beside a roadside cafe. “Le Panier was always full of life. The restaurant we are going to tonight is on its border. Whenever I think of Marseille, I think of that area. It was where my brother operated from.”

  Jake’s breath pushed out wispy clouds as they crested a ridge and the harbor came into view. A greatcoat that had once belonged to Pierre’s brother flapped around his legs as he pedaled. “Why is that?”

  “A person who knew the area could remain hidden in the maze of alleys and stairs and passages for a lifetime. It was possible to go from the central train station to the water, a distance of perhaps two kilometers, and never walk upon any road or path that could be found on a map.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Yes, exactly that. The entire history of that area was incredible. It was built during the time of the Crusaders, upon ways that had existed since Charlemagne. The second time I visited during the war, my brother took me down what I thought was a blind alley. But there in the back were carved these small stone steps that would go unnoticed unless you knew what you were looking for. Then up above, on top of the wall, a narrow path intersected three small gardens and joined a bridge which from below looked to be merely two overlapping roofs.”

  “Sounds like an amazing place.”

  “It was, yes. And there was such a great mixture of people in that area. Many small-time gangsters, who ran the gambling and the prostitutes. Many shop owners, whose families had been there, probably working the same tiny shop, for hundreds and hundreds of years. And fishermen, extremely conservative families who kept to themselves. Somehow my brother managed to make friends with all those people, and all of them helped him with his smuggling work.”

  As they approached the water’s edge, the evening crowd thickened to the point that the road became impassible even for bicycles. They dismounted and walked.

  “So what happened?”

  “When the Germans came in, they demolished the entire area. It was impossible to control, so one day they simply went in and leveled it.” Pierre swept his hand out. “One day home to several thousand families, the next rubble.”

  “What happen
ed to the people?”

  “Ah, that is another mystery.” Pierre stopped and shook the hands of a young couple, exchanged greetings with three others, then rejoined Jake and continued. “According to what we learned later, the Germans planned to round everyone up, interrogate them to find out who was involved in illegal activities—which of course meant almost everyone—then ship them off to the camps. But instead, almost no one was there! The entire area had been cleared out overnight, right under the noses of the Nazi guards. Poof!”

  “An informer,” Jake guessed.

  “Yes, that is what I think as well. But who would have had access to such information? And who could have gotten that information back to so many families so fast?”

  Pierre smiled fondly at the ancient facades lining the harbor. “So many mysteries,” he murmured. “That is the nature of Marseille, my friend. It is close enough to the Arab world to have learned to treasure its secrets.”

  * * *

  Their entry into the restaurant was greeted with a roar of approval. Chairs were shoved aside and napkins flung onto tables as waiters and patrons together rushed forward to hail Pierre Servais. Jake allowed himself to be swept up in the hubbub. His coat was slid from his shoulders, a chair was jammed up behind him, and friendly hands forced him down. A glass was slapped into his hand. A bottle appeared. But just as the room quieted for a toast, a rotund little man in a chef’s apron and hat pushed his way through the crowd to stand before their table. His cheeks were the color of ripe apples, and below his nub of a nose sprouted a curling waxed moustache. He sprang to attention, which shoved his belly out at a ridiculous angle, and snapped off a parade-ground salute. “A votre service, mon Capitaine!”

  “Major,” corrected a voice from the crowd.

  “Jake, allow me to present Sergeant Roncard,” Pierre told him. “Formerly the greatest scrounger in the Fighting Free French.”

  “True, true,” the rotund little man agreed merrily in English.

  “In the middle of the Algerian desert,” Pierre went on, “the illustrious sergeant fed his troop so well we actually gained weight.”

  “I took my duties most seriously, mon Capitaine,” Roncard replied, still at attention.

  “When my men began wondering if we would ever be permitted to fight, and I was growing weary of fighting for the attention of deaf officers, the grand sergeant told me to invite the general for a dinner. After finishing off the only wine within a hundred kilometers—”

  “Two hundred,” the little man murmured.

  “—not to mention dining on desert grouse and wild onions—”

  “Ah, you remember,” Roncard said, and stuck out his pigeon’s chest even farther.

  “—the general was made to see reason, and we were sent into action with the Americans. Not, I must add, without a struggle, for the general wanted to keep the sergeant for himself. The sergeant, being made of hero material, insisted on his right as a French soldier to fight alongside his brothers.” Pierre grinned. “After that, our brigade saw more of the general than any other. Not to mention being the first to receive scarce supplies.”

  “You do me great honor, mon Capitaine.”

  “None but what you deserve.” Pierre rose to his feet and raised his glass. “A toast.”

  “To a free France,” Roncard shouted.

  “Vive la France!” cried the room with one great voice.

  Jake raised his glass with the others and silently blessed the fate that had brought him here.

  * * *

  A steaming bowl of bouillabaisse was followed by partridge stuffed with mushrooms and cooked in fresh spices, cream, and white wine. Every few minutes Roncard popped back through the kitchen doors to make sure that everything was satisfactory and to apologize for the paltry meal. Dégoulas, he moaned, dragging the word out like a chant. How was he to run a first-class restaurant when everything had to be purchased either with coupons or on the black market? When Jake assured the little chef that the meal was the best he had eaten in ages, Roncard puffed up like a pink balloon.

  When they had finished, chairs from other tables were drawn closer, and the air soon thickened with the scents of Gauloisie cigarettes and syrupy coffee. Pierre switched to French and began telling his story once more.

  Jake stood. “Think maybe I’ll get a breath of air.”

  “Don’t stray where there are no lights,” Pierre warned. “Marseille is still Marseille.”

  Then Roncard was at his elbow, leading him toward the door. When they were away from the group of locals, he said quietly, “You are a good friend, Colonel Burnes.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Go,” he said softly. “She awaits.”

  That stopped him. “You know about Jasmyn?”

  “All know,” Roncard said simply. “All know, all approve, all hope against hope.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jake replied. “All know about what?”

  The little man opened the door and permitted in a breath of fresh night air. “A good friend,” he repeated and ushered Jake into the darkness.

  The cafe was as crowded as the restaurant, but the atmosphere was more subdued. Jake pushed open the glass portal and squinted to see through the smoke. There in the center was a table made noticeable by its isolation. A woman sat alone, her back to the door, her long dark hair gathered and brought over one slender shoulder. Hers was the only table occupied by one person. The card playing and smoky companionship swirled around her, yet left her untouched.

  Jasmyn looked up at Jake’s approach. When he stopped before her table, she said quietly, “Thank you for coming, Colonel Burnes.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

  “Sit down. Please.” Her voice was as softly sad as her gaze. As Jake slid into a seat, the barkeeper came around the counter and stopped before their table. His eyes flickered over Jake, then turned to Jasmyn. She asked, “What will you have?”

  “Coffee, I guess.”

  “Café, s’il vous plait,” she said. The bartender gave her a respectful bow and returned to behind the counter.

  Jake felt eyes turning his way. He glanced around, saw people at every nearby table watching him speculatively. “What is this all about?”

  Jasmyn seemed uncertain as to how to proceed. She fiddled with her spoon, asked, “They say you are a hero.”

  “I was in the war. I survived. That’s true for a lot of people.”

  “They say your brother died on the beaches at Normandy.”

  The sudden piercing ache hardened his voice. “It’s not my brother we’re here to talk about.”

  A warning appeared in the eyes of those patrons close enough to have heard the change in his voice. Jake held their gaze and had a sudden realization that it was not mere curiosity he saw, nor hostility toward a stranger.

  “It means a great deal to these people that you have suffered a loss here in our land.”

  Jake nodded. He was beginning to understand. They were not isolating them because she was not welcome. They were doing it out of respect. He looked around the tables and saw how faces throughout the room turned their way, then looked away. Checking on her. Watching him carefully. They were protecting her. They were protecting her.

  He asked, “The folks here are friends of yours?”

  “I was born and raised in the area of Marseille called Le Panier. You have heard of it?”

  “The Basket, sure, Pierre told me how the Germans tore it down.”

  “Walk one block and you can see the destruction for yourself. Many of these people you see here were scattered to the wind. Now that the war is over, they shall come back and rebuild. This cafe and the restaurant next door are gathering places.”

  Her face was a remarkable mixture of fragility and strength. Every feature was drawn as with a chisel, clear and distinct. Yet there was a delicacy to her, as though the sorrow in her voice and her eyes could overwhelm her at any moment.

  “My father was a fisherman. His famil
y had lived in Le Panier since the Middle Ages. My mother was Moroccan. From a desert tribe. She was sent to Tangiers to study, a great rarity in her day, but she was a beauty even at a young age and the apple of her father’s eye. She yearned to know the world beyond the desert, and her father could not refuse her anything.”

  Jake nodded as the barkeeper set a tiny cup down in front of him, then demanded, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “They met when my father began traveling to Morocco on smuggling runs after the First War,” she went on, ignoring his question. “After they married, she returned with him to a little fisherman’s cottage by the Bay of Marseille and filled it with books and songs and light and laughter. We learned the English language together, my mother and I. She loved learning for learning’s sake. They both died in the first year of this war, when an epidemic swept through the city and there were no medicines.” Jasmyn raised her gaze from her own cup. “So we share a sorrow, you and I.”

  Jake could not believe he was hearing this. “Pierre has been telling the whole city about my folks?”

  “No,” she replied quietly. “Only his mother.”

  “You still see his mother?”

  “Every week,” she replied, her gaze steady. “Sometimes every day.”

  “This is crazy,” Jake muttered. “You ought to be talking with Pierre, not me.”

  “You know that is not possible,” she said, pain blooming in her eyes like dark flowers. “Tell me, Colonel Burnes—”

  “Jake.”

  “Jake, then. How is Pierre?”

  His answer was halted by the veil that drew back from her face to reveal a naked, aching hunger. He forced himself to reply, “He misses you.”

  “Yes? You are sure?”

  “It’s hard for him to even mention your name.” Jake wondered whether it was right for him to be saying this, yet something drew him on. Perhaps just the desperation with which she drank in his words, or perhaps something more. “He says he will never be able to love again.”

  A single tear escaped the jade-green eye and trickled unnoticed down her cheek. “Another thing which we hold in common,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper.