Page 79 of The Seven Sisters
*
Two hours later, Bel rose to take her leave. Laurent followed her to theatelierdoor. ‘Safe return home, Izabela. And you must forgive me if you felt what I said earlier was inappropriate. You’ve hardly spoken to me since.’
‘I . . .’
‘Hush.’ Laurent put a gentle finger to her lips. ‘I understand. I know your circumstances, but I can’t help wishing that things were different. Goodnight, my sweet Bel.’
As she was driven home, Bel knew that in his own way, Laurent had been telling her that if she was free, he would want to be with her. But that he also understood her situation and, as a gentleman, would never cross the line.
‘Even though he wishes to . . .’ she murmured to herself in rapture.
*
Over the course of the next few evenings at theatelier, there was no further innuendo from Laurent. If he spoke, it was to do with the sculpture, or idle gossip about Montparnasse and its inhabitants. Ironically, the more neutral his conversation, the higher the emotional and physical tension rose within Bel. It wasshewho began to make the odd comment to him, noticing a new shirt he was wearing and how it suited him, or praising his talent as a sculptor.
With each passing day, Bel’s frustration escalated to greater heights. Given that Laurent had ceased to flirt with her completely, she had nowhere to go. And besides, she asked herself over and over again, where did shewantto go?
But no matter how often she posed this question to herself, and her head told her that the sooner she was on the boat back to Brazil the better, it made no difference. As she sat for hours in his presence, the fact he was so near yet so far was a delicious torture to her soul.
One evening, as she said a chaste goodnight to Laurent and paused in the garden to compose herself before climbing into the waiting car and making the journey home, she noticed a bundle of rags lying under the cypress hedge. She was sure that it had not been there when she’d taken a walk outside during an earlier break. Moving tentatively forwards, she put a foot out towards it and poked it with the toe of her shoe. The bundle of rags moved and Bel jumped back in fright.
Warily maintaining her distance, she watched as a small, filthy human foot emerged from the edge of the rags, and then, from the other end of the bundle, a head of dirt-matted hair. As the figure began to reveal itself, Bel saw it was a young boy of perhaps seven or eight years of age. A pair of eyes, which Bel saw were dazed with exhaustion, opened for a few seconds. Then they closed again and she realised the child had fallen back to sleep.
‘Meu Deus,’ she whispered to herself, moved to tears by the sight of him. Debating what to do, she walked tentatively towards the boy and quietly knelt down next to him, not wishing to startle him. Her fingers reached out towards him, but this time, her touch woke the boy and he sat up in alarm, immediately on full alert.
‘Please, have no fear, I will not hurt you.Tu parles français?’
The boy, his grimy face a picture of terror, put his emaciated arms up protectively in front of himself and backed away from her under the hedge.
‘Where are you from?’ she tried again, this time in English. Again, he merely stared at her in fear, like a trapped animal, as she noticed the deep gash on his shin, caked with dried blood. As the boy cowered in front of her, his huge frightened eyes bringing further tears to her own, she slowly reached out a hand and placed it gently on his cheek. She smiled at him, knowing she mustn’t frighten him, but instead try to gain his trust. As her fingers gently cupped the side of his face, she felt the boy relax.
‘What has happened to you?’ she murmured, studying his eyes. ‘Whatever you have seen, you are too young to know such pain.’
Suddenly the boy’s head fell heavily against her palm, but jerked upwards in alarm a few seconds later. Eventually, when he realised that her comforting caress had not been withdrawn, he returned to sleep.
Leaving her hand where it was so as not to disturb him, Bel managed to crawl nearer to him, whispering endearments in the three different languages she knew, and placing her other arm around him. Finally, she pulled him gently from the bushes towards her. He was whimpering now, but no longer seemed frightened of her, only jumping in pain when she moved his right leg with the terrible gash so that she could cradle his bony body upon her knee.
Once there, the boy gave a sigh and turned his head to nestle against her. Doing her best to swallow down the bile that rose to her mouth at the terrible stench of him, Bel sat rocking him in her arms, hugging him to her breast.
‘Izabela,’ a voice came from behind her. ‘What on earth are you doing sitting in the grass?’
‘Shh!’ she hushed Laurent as she stroked the boy’s sleeping face to reassure him. ‘You’ll wake him.’
‘Where did you find him?’ Laurent returned the whisper.
‘Under the hedge. He can be no more than seven or eight, but he’s so thin he weighs less than a toddler. What do we do?’ She looked up at him, her eyes agonised. ‘We can’t leave him here. He has a bad injury to his leg which needs attending to. It could turn septic and the poison might seep into his blood and kill him.’
Laurent looked down at Bel and the filthy child, and shook his head.
‘Izabela, surely you understand that there are many such children on the streets of France. Most of them come illegally across the borders from Russia or Poland.’
‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘And it happens in Brazil too. But this boy is here with us now, and it isIwho have found him. How could I possibly leave him, dump him on the roadside outside Landowski’s land and let him perish? It would be on my conscience for the rest of my life.’
Laurent watched as tears coursed down Bel’s face, her eyes alight with pain and passion. He bent down next to her, then reached a hand to tentatively stroke the sleeping boy’s matted hair.
‘Forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps the sights I see on the streets of Paris every day have made me immune to suffering. God has put this child in your path and of course you must do what you can to help him,’ Laurent agreed. ‘It is too late now to disturb the Landowskis. For tonight, he can sleep on a pallet in the kitchen. I have a key to the door and I can lock him in, safely away from Landowski’s precious Christ. Sadly, one never knows the state of mind of a stray like him. I’ll sleep here tonight in theatelierand keep guard. So, can you carry him inside?
‘Yes,’ said Bel, gratefully. ‘Thank you, Laurent.’
