She stared into the vacant square dumbfounded. Why did everyone listen and obey? How did she know what to do and when? She looked around for something familiar, anything that would make her feel safe, but all she saw was the monotony of sand and brick and rusted metal. A dog whined, although there were no signs of animals, not even mice or rats. Another whine shivered up her spine with its melancholy.
And then people crept out from behind buildings, from sunken doorways, from rooftops, daring to reveal themselves now that the square was empty. They advanced cautiously. She sympathized. It would be so hard to be brave in a world of Spinda. She saw a tall, skinny clean-shaven man in front of the others. European? A camera hung loosely in his hand.
“Don’t be careless with that. Your pictures will be important if I accomplish the changes I intend.” As if she knew what she intended. But even as threads of despair assailed her, ideas were forming, coalescing, and building. Maybe she did know what to do? A thrill of joy ran through her.
The man looked down at his camera as though astonished to see it there. It took him a split second to react and then he was snapping pictures again.
She ignored him and spoke to the people standing in small clusters, alternately staring and then ducking their heads. She glanced down at her dress and tried to imagine what she must look like to them. No wonder they gaped, she thought, as her bare toes seemed to wink at her with complicity; so brazen you are in this flimsy dress. The few women, dark shadows shrouded in burqas, glided silently among the men and seemed the most reluctant to leave. That was good. She needed the women.
She sank to the ground in a limp pile of flesh and rubbery bone, swearing under her breath, every damn four-letter word she knew. She grasped handfuls of dirt and grit and let it sift slowly through her fingers and felt a little less lost and forlorn with the assurance of touching something so basic. Dirt was dirt. Dirt was home, part of a world she thought she knew. She dusted off her hands, the sting of broken fingernails barely registering.
She tried to stand and the photographer was there, an arm around her waist, a hand on her shoulder propelling her urgently and none too gently to the meager shade of a nearby building. He propped her against the wall and guided her as she slid slowly to the ground. The rough bricks scraped her back, but she didn’t mind the discomfort. It made her feel connected; to what she wasn’t certain, but connected and not so lost and alone.
“Voici, madame.”
“Merci.” She accepted the man’s handkerchief, dried her tears, and blew her nose. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. “I must look a mess.”
“Oui.” He stared at her, mouth open. “What you did was … incroyable.” He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder as if to see if she was real. The warmth of his hand, the pressure of its weight made her feel real.
“Who are you? How did you get here? Where did you come from? How do you know their languages? Mon Dieu, you stopped them. C’est incroyable. You stopped them! Comment? Comment est-ce que vous l’avez fait? How on earth did you do that?”
Her stomach dropped. She couldn’t answer any of his questions. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Je ne sais pas.” Tears flooded down her face. She pressed her eyes with the heels of her hands.
The Frenchman looked stricken. He fumbled for words. “Madame, madame, s’il vous plaît.”
She sniffled, blew her nose again, and struggled to talk over the catch in her throat. She needed to divert the photographer and give herself time to think. “Vous êtes incroyable, vous-même. Taking pictures here can’t be the safest of career choices.”
He grinned. “No, but then I am a Frenchman.”
A small strangled laugh escaped. “I’ve met a few like you in my time. Brave and crazy.”
“François Durocher, à votre service, madame.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came many years ago as a reporter on assignment for a European news magazine.”
“Years ago? You don’t miss France?” She half listened to his response. Her mind raced furiously.
“Sometimes. I came to Raftan; fell in love with the people and the country. This is my home now. I have survived and have been able to live modestly working freelance.
“But, madame, what you did … here … for the people…. I mean, I’ve heard of you, of course— ”
“You have! What? What have you heard?” Her heart pounded. Now she’d have some answers.