Free A Time of Miracles by Anne-Laure Bondoux Page A

and wait for the soldiers to shoot me.
    “Ah, yes?” she says. “And then what?”
    “Then I’ll be dead, obviously!”
    “And you’ll be better off, no doubt?”
    Through a hole in the tarp that covers the back of the truck, I can see a forest of dense trees pass by. It’s darker than a cave in there. If I jump out, maybe I’ll be able to live there in hiding for 107 years, like a bear.
    “And your mother? Do you think of her?” Gloria whispers. “Do you think she would enjoy hearing that you’re dead?”
    “My mother doesn’t know me. She couldn’t care less,” I say. “And maybe she’s dead too.”
    “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Jeanne Fortune is not dead. She’s alive.”
    “How would you know? You just tell me stories to force me to live.”
    Gloria folds her arms over her chest. She thinks a moment as the truck zigzags to avoid puddles. Around us the other refugees try to catch some sleep. They are seated higgledy-piggledy, like rejected merchandise.
    “Stay quiet,” says Gloria. “I have something very serious to show you.”
    I’m suspicious. “Do you have more secrets in your box?” I ask her.
    “Not in my box, Monsieur Blaise. In my pocket.”
    I’m angry, but I stay calm. It’s raining outside and we are in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, I would rather stay dry by Gloria’s side, even if she gets on my nerves.
    She searches under her coat and takes out a crumpled envelope. She hands it to me.
    “There, open it,” she says.
    I unfold the paper. In the upper left corner I see the colors—blue, white, and red. And a woman’s head. And below, some lines in French. Although I learned the everyday vocabulary in my catalog, I can’t read what’s written because of the alphabet.
    “What is it?” I ask.
    “An official document,” Gloria whispers like a secret agent. “From the Department of Foreign Affairs. You see that sign up there? It’s the emblem of France. Below, it says ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’ I had it translated by one of Mr. Ha’s friends.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes indeed. And you know what else it says?” She stops and looks at me so intensely that it gives me goose bumps. “It says that your mother is alive, Monsieur Blaise. Jeanne Fortune in the flesh! It’s written here, in black and white! And you know what? She lives at Mont-Saint-Michel. It’s official.”
    I stare with wide eyes. This paper comes from France! It speaks of my mother! It mentions Mont-Saint-Michel! Shaken, I look at the document with such strong feelings that I am about to cry. Then Gloria takes the paper and puts it back in the envelope; we can’t afford to lose it.
    “Don’t worry,” she says. “The journey will last longer and it will be more difficult than by boat, but we’re on the right track.”
    Tears run down my cheeks, and I can’t decide whether I am sad, happy, or what. My heart has swelled like a sponge.
    “And Fatima?” I ask. “Do you think she’ll find her aunt in Saudi Arabia? Do you think she’ll be happy there with all that sand?”
    “
Insha’Allah,
” Gloria answers.
    She takes me in her arms like when I was little. She strokes my hair, she rocks me, and her scent of detergent and tea soothes me better than any balm.
    “Now go to sleep, little miracle,” she whispers. “Tomorrow life will be better.”

chapter twenty-two
    WHEN I look at page 67 of my atlas, I realize that the Black Sea creates an obstacle. If it weren’t there, the Caucasus would be much closer to Europe! But no one can decide to remove an ocean, and no engineer has thought of digging a tunnel with a railroad track under it. This is why we have to make a long detour and cross several countries, several borders, which is dangerous.
    I don’t know who invented borders, whether it was God or Allah, but I think borders are a very bad idea.
    At a border, even when you have an official passport with a photo, you have to jump out of the truck. War demands it. Controls! Barbed wire! Dogs! Cameras!