Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the characters.
Author's Note: French translations will be written in English in italics. For those of you who speak French, please excuse the lack of accents, and pretend they're there.
Summer of my Soldier
Chapter 10- Familiarity of a Stranger
Striding down the bending, metal gangplank, with my suitcase in my hand and my head held firmly in the air, I reached French soil. The air smelled of gasoline and frigid air; the saltiness of the sea chilling the marine breeze. Hugging my chestnut coat around my shoulders and adjusting the red scarf that hung loosely around my neck, I searched for a police officer, or anyone for that matter, that could show me the way toward a place that I knew not of, not of the name, region, nor description other than a countryside vacant from all else but death and war. Finally, my wandering eye caught sight of a ticket booth some yards away.
The queue passed rather quickly, for it seemed these vassals carried business people among others that traveled these routes frequently. Behind the clear window of the booth stood a man perhaps a mere three years younger than I, his face still holding some sort of a child-like roundness offset by his wide shoulders and the intensity of his black eyes. The porcelain white of his eyes seemed even sharper contrasting with his red-brown skin that seemed the color of aging leather, yet with the softness of satin ribbon.
As soon as my turn had come, a sign had been hung on the nail behind the window. Though I knew very little to no French at all, I understood the sign as saying something to the point of 'closed'.
"Er, pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, er...je dois aller a la campagne..."
Pardon me, Sir, I need to go to the country...
The man behind the window stepped out of the booth through the door in the side. Standing before me, with a slight smile and amused look in his dark eyes, the exotic form towered above my eyeline, marking him about to be six feet and a half tall, if not more. Upon further observation, he looked no older than nineteen. A chauffer-style hat sat atop his jet-black hair that was tied back in a ponytail. Usually this would give a man a somewhat scruffy appearance, yet at this moment it seemed more natural for this man than shorter hair. His size intimidated me, I shall not lie. The broad width of his shoulder expanded his figure, and the intensity of his black eyes staring into mine made me shift uneasily. From the few feet away where I stood, his scent was sensed by me; that of oak, pine, and otherwise woodsy smell. The strange make up of his features made me doubt any French heritage, or any other European for that matter. Could he be from the Middle East? South America? I hadn't a clue.
"Umm...excussez-moi, mais je parle un petit francais...er, je dois aller a la campagne, er...pour...er, my husband...uhh..."
Umm, excuse me, but I speak only a little French...er, I have to go to the country, er...for...er, my husband...uhh..
I was getting nowhere. I scratched my head in frustration of the language barrier, and as angry tears welled in my eyes I was about to turn away when a voice stopped me.
"You are American, aren't you?" His accent was purely American...Native American, it had to be. He allowed a larger smile, brightening his face with a glow that had not been present on the faces of mankind since the war had begun. It was then that my stomach panged, for I had forgotten how I missed smiled so. Without trying to create an artificial emotion, my lips curled upward. Could he be making me smile? It seemed so impossible since he...well, since the letter came.
"Yes. I am from a small town a few hours outside of Seattle, Washington. And yourself?"
"Forks, right?" I could not shake the shock off of my face.
"Yes, how did you...?"
"I am from La Push, the reservation nearby. My father and myself have lived in France for about two years now. Sort of a job transfer, if you could call it that."
"Oh, I cannot tell you how much of a relief it is for me to meet someone who speaks English."
"Don't think me rude, but I believe you're right. You're French is terrible." He joked, making me smile even more. Outreaching his hand, he introduced himself to me. "Jacob Black."
"Bella Masen." Our hands met, and his skin nearly seared mine. Withdrawing his hand, his head bent down in embarrassment, though it would be hard to determine if he were blushing through his russet skin.
"My apologies. My hands were, uh..in my coat pocket. I have very good circulation."
"You would need it, living where we do." Silence tensed the air around us, and our voices lowered.
"Is there...something I can help you with?"
"Oh, yes. I am looking for my husband. He was drafted here, about three months ago, and he" I swallowed audibly as my throat tightened. "he went missing shortly after. I came after him." His eyes looked at me in confusion, and then sudden understanding. Bowing his long neck down to my ear, he whispered his reply.
"Meet me at the Brasserie Rousseau in no longer than an hour. I cannot talk about this here."
"Where is...?"
"Around the corner, and three doors down. Ask for 'la table noir.' It is code for a special booth in the back." And with his passing words, he turned on his heel, and jogged over to meet a man that reflected his features nearly identically, only with the creases of age and that of a wheelchair. Only one thing truly marked the difference between these two individuals. These startling eyes were of the same color and shape, yet these carried not the warmth of Jacob, but of the stone hardness that could chill the bones of the strongest of souls. I felt my face pale, then redden at his stare. Utterly still, all of his focus upon me, I knew why Jacob could not speak at this crowded harbor. Something strange was happening, and I was intent of finding out what it was.
Nearly forty minutes had passed, and I approached the hostess at the front of the brasserie.
"Bonjour, Madamoiselle, un table pour vous?"
Hello, Miss, a table for you?
Her dark brown hair lay curled down her back, and a fixed smile stretched across her face. Light, cloudy brown eyes were obscured by dark, feathery lashes, and her cheeks were stained with powdery blush.
"Um, bonjour. La table noir, si'l-vous plait?"
Um, hello. The black table, please?
Her face fell into a serious tone at my words, and I feared insult. Instead, she replaced her smile less convincingly that before, and led me through the restaurant to the back. In a corner of the brasserie, a secluded booth made of red leather sat behind two walls of frosted glass that met the ceiling. Plush seats littered the restaurant, thick, red carpet lay across the floor and maroon paint stained the walls. In all it was extravagant, casual, yet plush in the French extreme that eminated femininity and elegance.
My fingers drummed against the table as my eyes watched the clock. Two forty-five. Two forty-six. The hands of the clock seemed to lazily drag themselves along the white background, taunting me with the smallest of ticking. Sighing in boredom, I wound my wristwatch to the correct time, and jumped in surprise when I saw the tall form of Jacob Black towering over me at the opening of the booth.
"Sorry. I am somewhat quiet. I did not mean to startle you."
"Do not apologize. I am rather jumpy lately." He sat across the table from me, and ordered me a glass of water with ice. My fingers curled around the frigid glass of the water, and a shiver struck my spine.
"Are you cold?" He asked me in his deep voice.
"No, it was just the chill of the ice." We sat in silence for a few moments, our head tilted toward the table, and our hands folding and tapping in boredom. Finally, the awkward silence was broken, surprisingly by me. "So, may I ask why we must speak in private? Is it that you do not know where he is, and do not wish to have to tell me so, or is it that you might know where he could be, and wish not to tell me that either?" My voice had taken on a strange sort of mystery to it, something I was not accustomed to. Perhaps it was the difference in culture or scenery, or the current circumstance of my pained heart, or was it that I had become brave? Such an unusual way in which to be courageous.
Jacob raised his eyes to me, and very slightly leaned over the table. He looked around the restaurant, probably making sure no one else was listening. Upon his satisfaction, he began his explanation.
"May I call you Bella?"
"Yes."
"Alright, Bella. There have been a lot of American soldiers passing through here, most traveling on vassals such as the one that you had. I assume that you saw my father before, the man in the wheelchair?" I nodded. "He and I live not too far from here, however we have made frequent trips to the countryside, aiding soldiers sometimes, but most of the time I am helping my father with his...work. There have been some reported...threats...out there, and we were called to investigate."
"So, you and your father are detectives?" He smiled at that, not out of joy, but out of humor. I noticed how his eyes always sort of crinkled at the corners at even the slightest grin. For a reason I knew not of, it was comforting.
"Not exactly. No, our work is more unusual than that. Anyway, when we take our trips to the innermost part of the country, we do come in contact with the soldiers. I cannot recall any individuals, but i do remember the events that occur."
"I do not understand."
"Well, there are a lot of bombs falling there, and it had been highly traumatic to the men. Many of the soldiers in hospital tell strange tales of mythical creatures worthy of writing under Bram Stroker or Anne Rice. Some of them recover, but most perish from their own superstitions."
"Bram Stroker, you say? Has the Count moved on from London?" I joked. Years before I had read the novel by the famous author, that of Dracula. Though this was no time to be joking, and though that he had been was inexcusable in this situation, I could not help but join in the act.
"Please be serious, Miss Bella, I do not joke. I do not know if it is the trauma of war that causes these stories, or if they are the stories that are the cause of the trauma, but whatever it is, there is not only the war at hand to be concerned about. Something is happening here..." The waitress appeared, cutting his sentence short. He ordered the both of us food, I presumed, and his mouth moved quickly and eloquently through the French words, making the little speech in this foreign tongue that I had sound rough and unpleasant. While he spoke, the server looked at both of us with her eyes filled with suspicion. Suddenly, I became very aware of the diamond ring weighing down my ring finger. Smiling politely, I waited for her to leave.
"Where was I?"
"The myths, and that something else is happening."
"Ah yes. Before I say anything more, I must know why you are here." Jacob shrugged off his coat, leaving only his navy blue button-down shirt. His uniform from the toll booth consisted only of his coat and hat, I supposed. I felt guilty for being so attentive, but it was for Edward. It was the reason I was here.
"Fair enough. My husband, Edward, went missing about three months ago. He had been drafted, and was sent here to fight. I have come after him here, hoping to find him."
"Well, you truly are brave, are you not? Do you know where he was fighting?"
"Somewhere in the French countryside, that is all that I know. He told me in his last letter that he was in a place that was truly awful, and war-torn. He spoke of bombs and starving people, and of terrifying surroundings. I wish I knew more."
Jacob pondered that for a moment, and our food arrived at our table. Chicken soup, of course. It seemed that they had this comforting food all over the world. Some things do not change through the differences of borders and languages.
"With the little information you have, it is very hard to determine where he might be, though I have a few ideas." Elation spread through me. I did not care if I had to search for years, but as long as there was somewhere to look, there was hope that I could find the man I loved. "I hope you don't think I am being rude, but are here alone, are you not?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"Well, I do not even know you except for that of your name and origin, but I must ask you to promise me not to go alone." With his words, I slammed my fist on the table and leaned my hand against my head in frustration. Why was it that no one supported me? Even this man named Jacob who had encouraged me before? Why was it that it seemed as if Edward and I were never to be together again, though we loved the other so, we the the other's counterparts, and yet we were being pushed away from the other? Life was truly miserating.
"Everyone tells me so! How can it be that not one person will help me. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Black, but this was a mistake. I will look for help elsewhere.
"Wait." He commanded me as I stood. "I can take you there. My father and myself were headed into the countryside tomorrow. If you wish, you can come." Standing in shock, I accepted. I sat down in the booth once more, and continued with the arrangements.
All was settled. This man whom I had met only two hours before had promised to take me to my husband, my love. There was this unusual sense of comfort in the atmosphere around Jacob; maybe it was his smile, or his voice, or simply because he hadn't let these terrible times affect his general being. I knew not of what it was about him, but it made me feel safe in this strange and dangerous country, and no matter what reason it was, I need this sort of security to find the man that I loved.
Trust of others to me somewhat easily, considering how skeptical I could be, yet there was something different about this Jacob, something...good, bright, like the warming sun on a winter's day.
"It was nice to have met you, Jacob."
"Very nice to have met you, Bella." He put his lips to my hand, and with a kiss, left me in front of a hotel.
To say that the establishment was a dump was putting it mildly; the walls were dirty, the lights flickered, and sirens blared from the exterior. Unsafe as it was, it were only for one night, and because Jacob had taken me here in his trust, I trusted it. I was trusting, yes, but never this much this quickly. At least I would be closer to finding Edward, I told myself, and that was all that I need to reassure myself.
Setting my suitcase atop the thin mattress, I stripped my clothes and changed into my nightgown. I sat on the chair in the corner, and wound my fingers around the silver ID tag that hung around my neck. How I wished the hours would pass! I was due to meet Jacob at eight tomorrow morning, and it seemed as if the clock were doing its best to keep that time from coming. My life had been moving so slowly in the past year that it made me feel twenty years older, withered to the bones, and until I was whole again, it would never expedite itself.
How calamity had befallen me. How the end of all happiness and anything else than depression had become more real than anything I knew before. Would my heart ever cease to ache? Would my sanity return to me? Would I even be able to live my life again once this was over? I knew only one thing for certain, and that would be the end of me if I knew only the end of Edward.
The worst part of it all was I was starting to forget. I was starting to forget the exact intonation of his voice, the brightness of his green eyes, the temperature of his skin. I had begun to forget the small things that made my Edward who he was, the things that made me fall in love with him. I weeped heavily, my shoulders shaking, and my stomach twisting and contorting in pain.
His scent that had stained the shoe lace had faded long ago, and I feared that all else would fade as this had. How easily the memories of others are forgotten! If I never returned, would Alice and Rosalie forget as well?
I never fell asleep. I watched the sun rise, and dried my reddened eyes. This would surely be the most trying summer of my existence, this would be the summer of my soldier. The summer of my Edward, and of all else that made me human and alive.