Widow Matalya bobbed from foot to foot. She didn’t know what to suggest: the Frankish lady had woken up hours before, but whenever she looked in she said nothing, simply stared at her with sad eyes. Eventually Widow Matalya brought her something to eat, and a glass of tea.
The girl sat up in bed. “Chai,” she said shyly.
Widow Matalya nodded encouragingly. She pointed to the plates one by one. “Bread. Cheese. Olives. Eat up,” she added. “It’s good.” She patted her stomach. Then, quite unconsciously, she stroked the girl’s cheek. “I know how it is.”
The Frankish woman gave her a small smile. Widow Matalya sat down on the bed, encouraged.
“Even for me, it was a shock. We have them and then we lose them. Why should we be surprised? The men, always racing to and fro-one day they’re just little boys, and the next-well, they’re gone. But at least-” She checked herself, for once. At least they leave something behind, she had been going to say. But she couldn’t presume. She took the little white hand in hers and patted it. Then she picked up an olive and popped it into the girl’s mouth.
The woman said something. Widow Matalya smiled and nodded. “That’s right. There’ll be a lot of crying to be done, and you could do with building up your strength.” She carefully broke a bit of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. Frank she might be, but she was like everyone else, like a little bird. A pretty little bird.
“This is good bread. The olives are good,” she said kindly. “Learn to smile again! You’re barely twenty-five, I’d say, and who knows what Frankish gentleman wouldn’t jump to that smile?” She put out a hand and stroked the girl’s hair. “And you’ve got lovely hair, I’ll say that for you. You’re a real peach.”
The girl put her hand over the old woman’s and held it there, pressed against her hair, with her eyes shut.
“She’ll live,” Widow Matalya later told Yashim. “But it’s a cruel shame, efendi. She is very far away from her own people. The only word she knows is chai. Not that she asks, she’s very sweet. But can you-can you talk to her?”
He met her in the yard at the back of the house: Widow Matalya had thought it somehow more proper. Amelie was sitting on the stump of an old column, under the shade of a fig tree, wearing a new blouse and the skirt she had worn the day before. Her thick curls were held up in a ribbon, and her neck was bare. Even though her eyes were red, Yashim thought she looked very lovely.
“Madame Lefevre,” he began. “I am-I am so sorry.”
She cast her eyes to the ground. “I had not expected…” She trailed off. Then she looked up, tilting her chin. “You have been very kind, monsieur.”
Yashim looked away. He rubbed a fig leaf between his fingers. “I meant to tell you straightaway. And did not know how.”
He heard her breathe. “Please tell me-how it happened.”
He told her. He spoke about his Thursday dinner, the first time they had met, making it sound as if they had become friends. He told her about the way Lefevre had reappeared, afraid, and the way he had sought his help, with the story of the ship, and the caique, leaving out little.
“You sent him to his death,” she said, trembling.
Yashim inclined his head. “I had no idea,” he said. “It seems to me now-I think he went to meet someone. Before he left.”
Her eyes searched his face. “It would be like him,” she said. “Forgive me, efendi. You did your best.”
Yashim thought that nothing she could have said would have made him feel so small.
“I shall take you to the embassy,” he said.
“The embassy,” she repeated dully.
“Your people, madame,” he said. “They can take care of you.”
She bent down to slide her finger between the leather and her stockinged foot as if there were something there. She straightened up. She let slip the ribbon from her hair and with a shake of her head let it fall in a cascade over her shoulders.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Yashim. I am Amelie Lefevre. Nobody-least of all an embassy-takes care of me.”