Free Red Crystal by Clare Francis Page B

on strike, so the radio said: train drivers, dustmen, car workers, lorry drivers, professional people; and the numbers were still increasing. The uprising had grown beyond the students’ wildest dreams.
    The street was quiet because the quarter was quiet: this apartment was a long way from the Latin Quarter. Gabriele was restless. She wanted to get back to the centre of things. She had already decided to leave the next day and go in search of Petrini and Giorgio.
    Not that she hadn’t been looked after. The apartment belonged to a young priest who brought her food and occasional news. A doctor came twice a day and shone a light into her eyes and gave her tablets to take away the pain in her head. Then there was a woman journalist who called every evening, to check on her. It was almost as if these people were part of a well-established organization. But this was never confirmed and, after asking twice, Gabriele did not ask again.
    Now she went back to bed and slept until evening. When the priest returned she told him she would be leaving the next day.
    He frowned and suggested it would be unwise to be found on the streets without papers. After he left the room, Gabriele heard the slight ping of the telephone bell. Later, when the priest reappeared with some food, he said, ‘You will be collected at three tomorrow afternoon. To make arrangements about your papers.’
    Then Gabriele knew without any doubt: there was an organization. She wondered what else it provided.
    She was dressed and ready by three the next afternoon. She felt much better; the worst of the headache had gone.
    At half past three the doorbell finally rang.
    It was Giorgio.
    She said, ‘You’re late.’
    He shrugged good-naturedly and ignored the remark.
    As they went down to the street Gabriele cast him a sidelong glance. He had come to visit her at the priest’s apartment three days before, but only stayed ten minutes. He’d been restless and impatient, and she’d had the feeling that he was irritated by her incapacity. But now he was bright and attentive, and she was aware that he was trying to please her again.
    ‘Your head is mended?’ he asked as they got into his car.
    ‘I’m all right.’
    ‘Ah. That is good.’ He seemed relieved.
    He drove off fast, ignoring one set of lights that had just turned red, and shooting rapidly into the Avenue Leclerc. There were few cars about and no buses or traffic police. The city seemed half-abandoned.
    Giorgio laughed. ‘In the car, when we took you from the hospital, you moaned so much I thought you were dying.’
    ‘My head was hurting. But it’s all right now.’ The memory of the pain was fading. She remembered feeling sick and feverish, but she could no longer conjure up the agony of the pain itself.
    But she had forgotten nothing about the Night of the Barricades nor the way in which she had been injured. She had played the scenes of the two assaults over and over in her mind until each moment was etched vividly on her memory. She cherished the details; they were valuable.
    Giorgio was driving steadily north towards the Latin Quarter.
    She asked, ‘Where exactly are we going?’
    ‘I was given an address. A photographer’s. I was told to take you there.’
    ‘Who by?’
    He shrugged. ‘Friends of Petrini. But I don’t know who precisely .’
    She looked at him sharply. Was he telling the truth? If not, why was he holding back? He must trust her now, surely.
    ‘What happens after the photograph?’
    ‘You will have papers. You’ll be free to move around.’ He paused. Looking across at her, he added, ‘I am staying in the apartment of a friend, near the Sorbonne. There is room. If you like.’
    Gabriele thought: He trusts me after all.
    She considered. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get too involved with this man. She sensed he was unpredictable, difficult even. On the other hand, his connections were too useful to give up. Particularly since he was in contact with this