At first he thought meeting her would be enough. “Madame, such an honor to meet you.” Courtly bow, light kiss to the back of her hand. Only it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.
His fantasies carried me with them, allowed me to see and feel things heretofore unknown. They always ended in the bedroom and I was there with them in those fantasies of his.
I guessed that is what love was; the way they thought about it on Earth. We had no words for love up here. It was an emotion beyond us. Even Drones, like my family, didn’t talk about love although I believe it existed. I think my parents loved each other and loved Elspeth and me.
Ron was last to shake her hand. Her grip was firm, her hand cool and dry. Her smile warmed him. He locked eyes with her in an agony of desire. He wanted to bury his hands in her mass of unruly curls, make wild passionate love to her. His response would have frightened him if he had had the capacity to examine it wholly and rationally.
Hell, it frightened me. And sucked me in.
Sparks flew wildly about them—bright, colorful, happy sparks. I held my breath, clenched my fists, and lunged toward them. Mentor’s iron grip on my arm stopped me. I forced myself to relax. She let go then but didn’t take her eyes off me. I tried to look away.
“Watch!” Mentor ordered.
Em was falling for Ron and didn’t yet realize it. She was falling for him and I was falling….
“Watch!” Mentor said again.
Ron would have given anything, anything to know what my Little Soldier was thinking of him. Then he mentally kicked himself for being a complete ass. This was la madame des miracles, la señora de los milagros, the world’s savior, for Christ’s sake, and he was being a fucking idiot to think she might have any interest in him, any feelings for him. But, oh God, the dream was so sublime.
Dream on, you stupid ass. Mentor’s grip on my arm tightened.
Ron’s ability to read people was non-existent with Em and he missed his skill, afraid of what it might mean. He dodged away from the recurring voice nagging at him unmercifully that it meant she wasn’t human. Lord knew that question had been raised often enough in the last eight months.
Suddenly, he panicked. His lack of sense of her had to mean she wasn’t human. He watched closely, eyes narrowed, looking for clues, looking in vain for anything to help read her.
You idiot. As if I’d let you “read” her. As if I’d let you get that close.
He was puzzled by her hands. Unlike everything else about her, they were not perfect. Most of her fingernails were broken badly enough to have caused bleeding and those that weren’t broken, were filed unreasonably short. He searched for an explanation but the only thing he could come up with was manual labor and that hardly seemed to fit. He had no understanding of why such a seemingly trivial detail had taken on such significance.
I didn’t understand either. What was he on about?
I didn’t want Em to be a player in the media circus and lose her mystery. Let them talk about her, not to her. That’s why I agreed to let her do the movie. Actually, with me, the movie thing went way back to a school party. In my studies of Earth and humans I’d happened on Hollywood and was showing my friends some flicks. We laughed ourselves silly watching the action films. Futuristic stuff like The Terminator series especially tickled our funny bones. But, I explained to my friends, the power of Hollywood was astounding. Remember War of the Worlds? So, when Em broached the possibility of a movie her idea seemed like a good thing.
Wait a minute. Offering to do something for them? Now, what was she up to? I hadn’t sanctioned this. Wanted more time with Ron, that was clear. Damn her.
“Tsk, tsk,” Mentor said. She was actually grinning—devilishly.
Chapter 20
“Fucking bitch!” François shook his fist skyward. “Damn you to hell.”
He shook his fist again, then let his hand drop limply to his side as his flare of anger subsided. “Merde!” He sank to the bed and dropped his head. Miracle Madame. What a farce. She was a self-centered bitch, out for the glory.
“Tell me.” Her gentle voice mocked him. He sighed wearily.
“Tell me.” The command, repeated softly, startled him to attention. There she was, standing before him. He snorted. Mon Dieu, now he was hallucinating.
Waves of nausea washed over him. Always thin and angular, he was now so gaunt that he avoided his reflection. He did not want to see his sunken cheeks, his hollow eyes ringed with blue-black shadows.
François was near breaking and he knew it. His family had urged him to come back to France and retire. Why didn’t he? Why not buy a nice little chateau, find a woman, take a life of ease? His reporting of Madame had made him rich enough. Why did he stay in this godforsaken place working long hours with Mustafa? Was that Madame too? Was he trying to live up to some unvoiced expectation of hers? He cursed her, cursed the country, and cursed himself.
Mustafa had been right. The people here needed help. They got plenty of it at first. Emergency food relief followed by military personnel sent to build roads and repair buildings. Doctors and educators arrived with their enthusiasm and optimism to set up free clinics and start schools. Satisfied the country was well on its way to recovery, they moved on to other continents, other projects, following the media following Madame.
“Bitch!” He almost wished she had never been.
Non! How could he say that? Without her, nothing would have changed. But where the fuck was she now? Who knew without watching the news? She moved so fast, flitting here and there across the globe, moving proverbial mountains, grandstanding, showing off.
Merde! He heaved his glass across the room, watched it shatter against the wall, watched the glass shards hit the floor, and juice stain a trail downwards. His head sank to his knees.
“Tell me, François. Please.” It was her voice, saying his name, whisper soft. He groaned and muttered darkly, fearing for his sanity as he feared for his physical health. “François.” Louder, demanding.
He jerked upright and stared at the apparition before him. A full minute passed. He stood and reached out tentatively and she took his hand between both of hers.
“Madame. You are here?” He pulled away and took a step back. “You are really here?”
She was wearing the same dress, the dress she had been sure would get her killed; the dress he thought just might have some magic in it.
She moved away from him and propped the pillows against the wall at the head of his bed and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. He sat down, took off his shoes and swung his legs up on the bed, wiggling until the pillows felt right for his back. Exhilaration restored his energy. Madame slipped off her sandals and sat on the end of the bed, her legs curled under her. “Tell me,” she said.
Where to start? Eh bien, elle ne sera contente qu'avec la verité. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “No real government, no public services, no infrastructure, unemployment, ethnic tensions; good men and women attempting to rebuild and failing.”
Agitated, he rose from the bed and paced as he spoke.
“The conditions in the country are even worse. There is some hope for agriculture in the south but the north is devastated by drought.
“Young girls are setting themselves on fire to avoid forced marriages,” he said. He watched as he spoke, saw the color drain from her face. He was sure he had said more than enough, but he couldn’t stop. “It is even worse if they don’t succeed. They end up in the understaffed, under-equipped hospitals surviving painfully.” He struggled in vain to hide the tears. “I saw one of those girls only a day ago.” He glanced at Madame and quickly turned from the heartbreak he saw there.
“The people were angry. Now they are bitter.” François stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes, let the tears flow, and then blurted angrily, “Rien ne changera jamais! J’avais tant d’espoir…”
“Is there nothing of the good?” she asked bleakly.
He hesitated. “Oui, lif
e is improving in small ways. Hearing music and seeing children going to school, girls too, is heartening but….
“This is a crisis.” His voice rose at this last and cracked sharply, like a whip, alive and punishing.
Em had risen soon after he started speaking, and now stood staring fixedly at him, her body rigid. She flinched at these last words.
“I didn’t see it coming and I should have. I have seen enough all over the world in the last while to know better. I’ve been so blind, so thoughtless,” she said, her voice low and infinitely sad.
Mon dieu, qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? What had he done? Blamed her for everything. That was the way she would see it—his ranting. “Non, Madame, non. S’il vous plaît. It is not your fault. Mustafa said … we promised …. Before you left, we promised we would change things, finish what you started. It was our job, not yours.”
She shook her head. “It is my fault. It’s my job and I deserted you.”
She crossed the room to stand before him. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Merci, monsieur.”
He stared up at her. “You have found someone,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Eh, bien.” He shrugged. The classic Gallic gesture masked his distress.
“Rest now,” she urged.
She rose and picked up her sandals and walked to the door. She paused, turned to look back at him, “Fatma and the children?”
“They still live out back. I asked them to take over the house itself as I am here so seldom. I offered to use the little shed when I am in the city, but Fatma refused. I had the shed fixed up got them some decent furniture.”
“She is working?”
“Yes. She started a small clinic with the medical supplies I have been able to get from France. She and Alyia keep my house clean and cook for me. The boys have gone back to school although the shortage of teachers frustrates them.”
“Alyia?”
“She learns, working with her mother. I will try to get her accepted to a secondary school in Europe—”
“But she won’t have the basics.”
“Do you ever wish you were not Miracle Madame?” François blurted. He saw that his question startled her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like the power.” She paused. “And the fame.”
“But the responsibility is so énorme. It must weigh heavily.”
“Oui.” She paused and then turned away. Her back still to him, she added, “And I am obliged to deal with it.” She left.
François stared at the door and decided that in his fragile state of fatigue and failing health he had imagined the encounter. He lay back, closed his eyes and slept fitfully. He woke six hours later tired and restless, showered, ignored the plate of food Fatma had set out for him, and went back to meet Mustafa.
It was not until some days later that he heard of the renewed efforts of aid agencies and most importantly the intervention of the UN. That did not surprise him at all. He knew Madame was convinced that only a strong and viable UN could accomplish what was needed.
Within weeks all tribal skirmishes had stopped, an international team of political experts led the country; construction crews worked on roads and housing, and irrigation systems were restored. Education and health care began to improve, employment opportunities grew, and flowers bloomed.
François reported it all, gleefully. He became a fanatic, watching avidly for reports of her.
*
My Little Soldier let François rant, and bore the brunt of his accusations stoically. And it wasn’t her fault at all. I’d assumed the Raftans could take care of themselves after Em left. I sent her off on other missions. I was careless.
“Yves, where are you?” Elspeth’s cheery voice did little to soothe me. I wasn’t all that upset about Raftan. That I could fix. Only when François admitted his love for Em did I begin to understand my feelings—that hollow empty ache I felt when I thought of Em and Ron.
Chapter 21
They sat around the table staring at the empty chair that had been hers.
Shane looked around the group. “Hot damn! We … us! We just had dinner with Miracle Madame. And we … us, we are doing a movie for Miracle Madame. Can you believe it?”
His excitement was contagious. They all began talking at once, discussing every detail of the evening. No one mentioned the broken fingernails. Maybe they hadn’t noticed, Ron thought, keeping that little observation to himself. God, I’m truly fucked.
“She’s awesome.”
“So beautiful.”
“Can you believe she picked us?”
“Man, are we lucky or what?”
“Great sense of humor.”
“Easy to be with.”
“I still don’t understand why she can’t do interviews or make speeches. Doesn’t make sense.”
“She really is perfect, just like the reports claim.”
“God, yes!” Shane and Ron spoke in unison then glanced at each other and quickly looked away.
“She's this world-wide heroine, but she's so down to earth and warm, sort of motherly.” Vicky sounded amazed.
“I wonder,” Ian paused as if searching for the right words. “I wonder who takes care of her. She provides for everyone, finds all the answers. Who supports her, who answers her questions?”
Shane didn’t think she had questions. He was sure she was omnipotent. He professed to be madly in love, holding his hand over his heart, sighing dramatically, and pleading with them to not tell his wife.
“There has been so much speculation about what she really is—robot, alien, human. What do you think now?” Allan asked.
“Can you love a robot?” Shane asked.
“If she’s an alien, she sure knows how to come across as human,” Ian said.
“I don’t know,” Vicky said. The others looked at her questioningly. “Well, I don’t think anyone could do that good a job on a robot, and could any alien life form impersonate a human that well, unless of course they look just like us. Oh God, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. I just don’t know.”
The fingernails! She had to be human, Ron decided. No robot would have broken bloody fingernails and no alien would think to add that kind of detail.
“Ron!” Jamie poked him in the ribs. “You haven't said a word. What do you think?”
“I think she's perfect.” What he didn’t say was that the love he had felt for her at a distance was now alive and personal and dangerously close to breaking him.
“Okay, Allan. Tell all,” Jamie said. “How did this whole thing come about?”
“Why did you bring us here?” Ian asked. “I don’t think I’m a snob, and the food was great, but this little place isn’t exactly our style.”
“She chose the restaurant,” Allan said, “but I don’t know why.”
“Because she is a friend.” The answer came from Raûl who was clearing away the last remnants of the meal. He set a bottle of Kahlua and six glasses on the table and poured coffee. “Would you like anything else?”
“Answers,” Vicky said. “How is she a friend?”
“She helped us in Guatemala. She was there for a trial. My father had been arrested and thrown in jail because he would not cooperate and tell lies. We thought we would never see him again because so many people had already disappeared—forever. But la senora changed everything. She got my father out of jail and she helped us to get here.”
“We heard about that trial. It was one of the first things she did, but we heard nothing about your family.” Shane tone was challenging.
Raûl shrugged. “My father is alive. We are here. That is proof enough for me.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone of this?”
“She asked us not to.”
“That’s all? She just asked you not t
o talk about her and you kept quiet?”
Jamie reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Shane, relax.”
“Do you see her often?” Ian asked.
“Yes, she comes to eat sometimes but mostly to visit with my grandmother. They are great friends. My mother says they like to tell each other dirty jokes. I do not know if that is true but when they are together they are always laughing. I think waiting for la senora’s visits is what keeps my grandmother alive. She is with my grandmother now.” Raûl disappeared behind the kitchen door.
“Christ.” Ian expelled a gust of breath. “This is mind-boggling. There is obviously way more to Madame than what we hear in the news.”
Jamie’s eyes were wide with wonder. “What would people think if they knew what we now know?”
Vicky balanced dangerously on the edge of her chair and shook her finger at Allan. “Okay, spill.”
“I was alone at home last Saturday morning working on a script when the doorbell rang. I didn’t answer right away hoping whoever it was would go away. But the ringing was persistent. I yanked the door open ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off. Politely of course.” The others groaned. Allan was not known for polite, especially when he was angry. “You can imagine my shock when I opened the door and saw Miracle Madame standing there.”
“What did you say?” Vicky asked.
“Nothing, at first. I just stood there staring. I’m sure my mouth was hanging open and she probably thought I was an idiot. She introduced herself and asked if we could talk or did I want her to come back at a more convenient time. I managed to collect myself enough to invite her in. I took her to my office and offered her a coffee but she only wanted a glass of water. I reached to light a cigarette. She asked me to please not smoke or if I really wanted to, could we go outside. I put my cigarettes away. After a bit of chit chat, mostly to make me feel more comfortable, I think, she presented her movie idea.” He paused. “You know, I think the scientists are right when they say she is protected by some sort of force field.”
“Come on, that’s too Hollywood, even for you.” Vicky laughed.
“I’m serious, damn it. When I saw her standing at the door I was afraid she would disappear so I reached out to put my hand on her back and guide her in. I wasn’t able to touch her.”