Part 10 (1/2)

”Ah,” said Papa. ”History.” He smiled at Lili. ”What did you think of the sermon?”

Magali gave him a sideways look. ”Ever wonder why there's no women in these stories?”

Papa's eyebrows went up. ”Should the Samaritan be a woman? Or the wounded man?”

”The robbers,” muttered Julien, and Magali made a face at him. ”Not the wounded man,” he said. ”It'd change everything. Anyone would help a wounded woman. If you don't-that's just wrong.”

”But with a guy it's okay?”

Not ... okay. But for him to help Pierre, it would take ... something. He'd do it though. ”It's just different.”

”Oh, yeah. Girls are different.”

Julien ignored her and walked on, picturing Pierre by the roadside, bleeding.

Julien kept praying.

He spent his school hours watching the clock; he came home to the golden-brown workshop and carved. He carved out one good flipper on the side of his dolphin and began to smooth the wood below it into a tail.

Nothing happened Friday, or Sat.u.r.day. Sunday, in Grandpa's workshop, he took a long stroke of the knife along the dolphin's side and gouged the flipper half off. He sat staring at it for a moment, then threw it hard against the wall. The flipper broke off with an audible crack.

”I'm sorry,” said Grandpa. ”The dolphin was my mistake. I didn't realize how difficult those flippers would be.”

Julien threw the dolphin away.

Roland stood by the school door, beckoning, eyes wide and urgent. Julien followed.

”I don't know who did it, Julien, I swear. But no one was gonna tell you. It's not right.”

His books and papers were strewn across the floor. On his desk, the inkwell was overturned-onto today's homework for Ricot.

”I wasn't there, Julien, I swear.” Julien wanted to hit him. ”I'll get us rags from the broom closet. Quick.”

Julien stood staring at the deep black stain as Roland raced out the door. He was back in a moment with a wad of rags; Julien mopped at the ink, thick black stuff that soaked in and would never come out; he was powerfully reminded of a Sunday school lesson long ago about sin. Exactly. But not my sin.

They rinsed the rags in the bathroom, and the ink turned the soapsuds gray and the water blue; they stuffed them under the sink for the janitor to find. They put the papers in the desk; the ink black homework in the trash. The bell rang.

”I'm sorry, monsieur,” said Julien when Ricot collected the homework. ”I did it, but I'm not sure what happened to it.” He thought he heard a snicker from the back of the cla.s.s.

”Well, that takes the prize for lamest excuse of the year,” said Monsieur Ricot caustically. ”Have it for me on Friday copied five times over.” Another snicker.

Julien didn't hear a word of the lesson over the blood pounding in his ears. He spent the whole hour composing his note to Pierre on a half sheet of paper with Pierre's muddy footprint on it. This was the guy he had prayed for this morning. It was ridiculous. And it was over.

You are so stupid, the note read, you don't need anyone to tell on you. I never did, not even the first time, and if you want me to prove it by smas.h.i.+ng your stupid face in, I will. Friday after cla.s.s. You choose the place.

When the bell rang, he walked back to where Pierre was sitting and slammed the note on the desk in front of him.

”Let me know,” he said and walked back to his seat.

It was Roland who let him know. After the last bell, at the gate, he handed Julien a slip of paper: Take the road out of town till you get round the bend. I'll be there.

”Thanks.”

Roland grunted.

There was a spring in Benjamin's step as they walked home through the deepening blue evening. Julien looked at the lit windows of houses and thought of blood on the snow. Benjamin turned to him with an eager look, and Julien scowled.

”Are you okay, Julien?”

”Yes,” he snarled. Benjamin recoiled.

”Fine,” said Benjamin. ”Don't tell me. It's not like I couldn't see your note. I'm behind you a hundred percent. If you were wondering.”

Julien looked away. ”Don't tell my father, okay?”

”Don't worry. I won't. Anyway, he deserves it.”

”Yeah.” Julien looked at the warm-lighted windows and the darkening sky. ”He does.”

Chapter 14.

Wake Niko came back to herself slowly, floating up through the darkness of her mind, floating like thistledown on water. Was she dead? She couldn't move. She was in a bed, under heavy covers.

She was at home in her bed with the yellow bedspread; she would open her eyes in a moment and see her mother's painting on the wall, the little house between the trees, the yellow flowers. Soon Father would call her: Nina, Nina, it's your turn to make breakfast, herzerl, get up ...

No. She wasn't Nina; she was Niko. She had no father, no mother; everyone was gone, even Heide, even stupid, stupid Friedrich; everyone she'd loved right or wrong except for Gustav was gone. They were homeless, they had no papers, they were nothing.

Why was she in a bed?

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed. Gustav, where was Gustav-a room she had never seen before ... a narrow, crowded room, white walls and a low curved ceiling, bric-a-brac everywhere. A long rope strung from wall to wall with clothes hanging on it, dark clothes, red shawls-she had seen women wearing those, bright-eyed, dark-haired women, their hands quick as birds, speaking some guttural language. And Gustav! He'd been with them; he was here! She remembered them ... forcing her mouth open, pouring bitter-tasting liquid down her throat ... and soup, she remembered soup. And music, from outside-the light of a fire, and a woman's voice singing a high, quavering song, and drums. Gypsy drums. Gypsies.

No, he had said, I won't let you die. And then he had told them where she was.

Chapter 15.

The Powers of the World Tomorrow after lunch. This would all be decided.

But today they were hauling firewood from the farm. Papa had rented a horse and cart from the butcher. They set out a full hour before dawn.

The clouds hung low over the hills; the genets waved in the wind, wild dark fingers pointing at the pale sky. The horse's hooves sc.r.a.ped on the ice. Julien huddled into his coat, remembering blood on the snow and the flash of pain when Pierre had hit him. What was he thinking? Pierre was huge. Julien wouldn't have the advantage of surprise this time. This time Papa wouldn't crack jokes or say he was proud of him. The burle blew bitter in his face.

Light shone in the east when they reached the farm, and everything moved into high gear. ”Going to snow before evening,” Grandpa said. ”Let's get this done.” They loaded the cart so full it creaked and started home, Papa and Grandpa on either side of the horse, Julien and Benjamin on either side of the cart, all watching, ready to grab hold and push if anything slipped on the steep road.

Then home, and tipping the cart into the backyard-”We can stack it tomorrow,” said Papa, ”let's move”-and Mama handing them sandwiches through a door that opened onto warm, firelit heaven and closed again. Magali came with them, rested and disgustingly cheerful. Julien's face was starting to hurt, and his bones to ache, from the cold. Magali stood up suddenly, jolting the cart. ”Hey!” She threw her head back and shouted to the looming sky. ”We're not scared of you!” She swayed with the motion of the cart, her hair wild in the wind. ”Hey, Old Man Winter,” she cried merrily, ”we're not scared of you! Whoo-hoo!”