“Fucking bitch!” François shook his fist skyward. “Damn you to hell.”
He shook his fist again, then let his hand drop limply to his side as his flare of anger subsided. “Merde!” He sank to the bed and dropped his head. Miracle Madame. What a farce. She was a self-centered bitch, out for the glory.
“Tell me.” Her gentle voice mocked him. He sighed wearily.
“Tell me.” The command, repeated softly, startled him to attention. There she was, standing before him. He snorted. Mon Dieu, now he was hallucinating.
Waves of nausea washed over him. Always thin and angular, he was now so gaunt that he avoided his reflection. He did not want to see his sunken cheeks, his hollow eyes ringed with blue- black shadows.
François was near breaking and he knew it. His family had urged him to come back to France and retire. Why didn’t he? Why not buy a nice little chateau, find a woman, take a life of ease? His reporting of Madame had made him rich enough. Why did he stay in this godforsaken place working long hours with Mustafa? Was that Madame too? Was he trying to live up to some unvoiced expectation of hers? He cursed her, cursed the country, and cursed himself.
Mustafa had been right. The people here needed help. They got plenty of it at first. Emergency food relief followed by military personnel sent to build roads and repair buildings. Doctors and educators arrived with their enthusiasm and optimism to set up free clinics and start schools. Satisfied the country was well on its way to recovery, they moved on to other continents, other projects, following the media following Madame.
“Bitch!” He almost wished she had never been.
Non! How could he say that? Without her, nothing would have changed. But where the fuck was she now? Who knew without watching the news? She moved so fast, flitting here and there across the globe, moving proverbial mountains, grandstanding, showing off.
Merde! He heaved his glass across the room, watched it shatter against the wall, watched the
glass shards hit the floor, and juice stain a trail downwards. His head sank to his knees.
“Tell me, François. Please.” It was her voice, saying his name, whisper soft. He groaned and muttered darkly, fearing for his sanity as he feared for his physical health. “François.” Louder, demanding.
He jerked upright and stared at the apparition before him. A full minute passed. He stood and reached out tentatively and she took his hand between both of hers.
“Madame. You are here?” He pulled away and took a step back. “You are really here?”
She was wearing the same dress, the dress she had been sure would get her killed; the dress he thought just might have some magic in it.
She moved away from him and propped the pillows against the wall at the head of his bed and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. He sat down, took off his shoes and swung his legs up on the bed, wiggling until the pillows felt right for his back. Exhilaration restored his energy. Madame slipped off her sandals and sat on the end of the bed, her legs curled under her. “Tell me,” she said.
Where to start? Eh bien, elle ne sera contente qu'avec la verité. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “No real government, no public services, no infrastructure, unemployment, ethnic tensions; good men and women attempting to rebuild and failing.”
Agitated, he rose from the bed and paced as he spoke.
“The conditions in the country are even worse. There is some hope for agriculture in the south but the north is devastated by drought.
“Young girls are setting themselves on fire to avoid forced marriages,” he said. He watched as he spoke, saw the color drain from her face. He was sure he had said more than enough, but he couldn’t stop. “It is even worse if they don’t succeed. They end up in the understaffed, under-equipped hospitals surviving painfully.” He struggled in vain to hide the tears. “I saw one of those girls only a day ago.” He glanced at Madame and quickly turned from the heartbreak he saw there.
“The people were angry. Now they are bitter.” François stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes, let the tears flow, and then blurted angrily, “Rien ne changera jamais! J’avais tant d’espoir…”
“Is there nothing of the good?” she asked bleakly.
He hesitated. “Oui, life is improving in small ways. Hearing music and seeing children going to school, girls too, is heartening but….
“This is a crisis.” His voice rose at this last and cracked sharply, like a whip, alive and punishing.
Em had risen soon after he started speaking, and now stood staring fixedly at him, her body rigid. She flinched at these last words.
“I didn’t see it coming and I should have. I have seen enough all over the world in the last while to know better. I’ve been so blind, so thoughtless,” she said, her voice low and infinitely sad.
Mon dieu, qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? What had he done? Blamed her for everything. That was the way she would see it—his ranting. “Non, Madame, non. S’il vous plaît. It is not your fault. Mustafa said … we promised …. Before you left, we promised we would change things, finish what you started. It was our job, not yours.”
She shook her head. “It is my fault. It’s my job and I deserted you.”
She crossed the room to stand before him. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Merci, monsieur.”
He stared up at her. “You have found someone,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Eh, bien.” He shrugged. The classic Gallic gesture masked his distress.
“Rest now,” she urged.
She rose and picked up her sandals and walked to the door. She paused, turned to look back at him, “Fatma and the children?”
“They still live out back. I asked them to take over the house itself as I am here so seldom. I offered to use the little shed when I am in the city, but Fatma refused. I had the shed fixed up got them some decent furniture.”
“She is working?”
“Yes. She started a small clinic with the medical supplies I have been able to get from France. She and Alyia keep my house clean and cook for me. The boys have gone back to school although the shortage of teachers frustrates them.”
“Alyia?”
“She learns, working with her mother. I will try to get her accepted to a secondary school in Europe—”
“But she won’t have the basics.”
“Do you ever wish you were not Miracle Madame?” François blurted. He saw that his question startled her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like the power.” She paused. “And the fame.”
“But the responsibility is so énorme. It must weigh heavily.”
“Oui.” She paused and then turned away. Her back still to him, she added, “And I am obliged to deal with it.” She left.
François stared at the door and decided that in his fragile state of fatigue and failing health he had imagined the encounter. He lay back, closed his eyes and slept fitfully. He woke six hours later tired and restless, showered, ignored the plate of food Fatma had set out for him, and went back to meet Mustafa.
It was not until some days later that he heard of the renewed efforts of aid agencies and most importantly the intervention of the UN. That did not surprise him at all. He knew Madame was convinced that only a strong and viable UN could accomplish what was needed.
Within weeks all tribal skirmishes had stopped, an international team of political experts led the country; construction crews worked on roads and housing, and irrigation systems were restored. Education and health care began to improve, employment opportunities grew, and flowers bloomed.
François reported it all, gleefully. He became a fanatic, watching avidly for reports of her.
*
My Little Soldier let François rant, and bore the brunt of his accusations stoically. And it wasn’t her fault at all. I’d assumed the Raftans could take care of themselves after Em left. I sent her off on other missions. I was careless.
“Yves, where are you?” Elspeth’s cheery voice did little to soothe me. I wasn’t all that upset about Raftan. That I could fix. Only when François admitted his love for Em did I begin to understand my feelings—that hollow empty ache I felt when I thought of Em and Ron.