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“So does Olivier.”
“I have chocolate cake.”
Ruth used Rosa to gesture toward the cake stand on the long bar.
“I’ll let you critique my latest work,” said Clara.
Ruth became more interested. Finding fault was just about her favorite thing to do.
As they left, Ruth paused in front of Armand. “Did you speak with her?”
“All sorted. Professor Robinson will stop using the quote and donate whatever they’ve raised to LaPorte.”
“Thank you, Armand,” she whispered.
At the door, Clara and Ruth looked back. Haniya was standing in the middle of the room, between the groups.
“Well?” demanded Ruth. “Do you need the king of Sweden to invite you? Dumb shit.”
Haniya paused, then walked across the bistro to join them. She was not totally sure, but she suspected being called “dumb shit” by Ruth Zardo was almost as good as winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Though it was possible the old poet was calling the king of Sweden a dumb shit.
As they trudged through the snow toward Clara’s pretty little cottage, Ruth lost her footing. Haniya grabbed her before she fell. She held Ruth’s hand for the rest of the way, and wondered if maybe the key was not in being held, but in holding.
Gabri put down a pot of tea. “It’s already steeped, just as you like it.” Then he threw a birch log onto the fire, and stirred it, before leaving them.
The white bark caught and curled as embers popped and chased each other up the chimney.
Armand poured the tea while Isabelle talked.
Within minutes, Jean-Guy, Myrna, Isabelle, and Armand had left the cheery bistro and were in the Sudan. Looking down, helpless, at the women, girls, staked to the dirt.
Armand clamped his jaw so tight he thought his molars might shatter. But if he didn’t, he was sure he’d vomit.
And still, Isabelle talked.
Jean-Guy saw his sisters, his mother. Annie. Staked there. And thought he might pass out.
And still, Isabelle talked.
Myrna felt the rawhide straps cutting into her wrists and ankles, the flesh now growing around the bindings. She saw the men approaching. Drunk. Angry. She saw them draw their machetes. And she looked up at Armand. At Jean-Guy. At Isabelle. Watching. And she pleaded with them. Begged them for help.
The world had been watching. And had done nothing.
And when Isabelle got to the part where Haniya escaped and killed her attacker, Armand unclenched his jaw.
When Isabelle got to the part where Haniya freed the other women and girls, Jean-Guy wanted to leap up and cheer.
When Isabelle got to the part where they approached the barbed- wire fence, to freedom, Myrna wanted to sob with relief.
When Isabelle got to the part where Haniya confronted the child soldier, she stopped.
“What is it?” Armand asked. “What happened?
“Brown brown,” said Isabelle.
And she told them what happened, when Haniya had a choice to make. And made it.
There was a long silence as their breathing mingled with the smoke and crackling fire and the images that had invaded the peaceful bistro.
