4th August, early morning; All is not well

She seemed to understand his hesitation, at least in part, but she was reassuring rather than annoyed or even contemptuous and he followed her slowly.

The door opened into a courtyard, not the street, he realized with a sudden rush of relief. Gardens crowded the small space and there was shade and he could hear running water. He looked around him with open wonder; it was beautiful and peaceful, achingly alien from everything he'd become accustomed to.

"Water," she said yet again, pointing at the fountain in the middle of the space. "You can carry the buckets of water from now on, back to your room." She pointed at the little window above and then mimed the motion of filling an invisible bucket. "If your arm can manage it?"

He followed her direction from the window above to the fountain. She wanted him to fetch water for the others? But she had already brought water. He should fetch water from here when they needed more, then? "It is permitted?" he asked -- for it hardly seemed possible -- but the question was followed almost immediately by a cry from across the courtyard and a small figure came scampering into view, waving something in its hand.

"Manuela!" It was a little girl, her bare feet pattering across the warm stones towards them. She stopped dead when she saw Paol, her eyes round with fearful surprise like a startled rabbit.

"My Martita," Manuela said.  She leaned down to embrace the little girl.  "Don't worry.  He's just another Frenchman like the one you have at home.  But nicer.  A bit nicer.  He won't hurt you."  She caressed her hair and shot the man a nervous look, willing it to be true.

Paol smiled as the small face face peeked cautiously out from behind Manuela's skirt, but stopped when he saw the older girl's expression. He ducked his head, wishing he could simply hide behind something like the little girl and disappear.

He looked up again, almost gingerly. "Hullo, little one."

*

He was talking to her! Martita buried her face in Manuela's dress. "What does he want out here?" she mumbled into the fabric.

Manuela spoke comfortingly.  "I'm just showing him where we get water.  Buckets of water are heavy, aren't they?  So we might as well make a big strong Frenchman carry them instead of us, right?  Make him be our slave while he's here."  She smiled and then glanced back at the man.  "He's saying hello to you.  Do you want to say hello?"

Martita considered this. A Frenchman for a slave did not sound so bad. She pulled her face out of the dress and regarded him appraisingly. "Hello, slave."

*

He blinked at her in surprise, then despite himself, he laughed. He'd thought he must have misunderstood when the older girl had said the word, but there was no mistaking it now. His brows quirked and he glanced at Manuela, "Esclavo?"

And now Manuela laughed, the first time she had genuinely laughed in what seemed like a long time.  "Oh, no, Martita, I don't think he knew he was going to be our slave.  I think he's scared of you."

Martita smiled, warming to the idea. "You think so?" she asked, venturing to step away from Manuela, though still keeping careful hold of her skirt. "What should we make him do?"

*


It was wonderful to see her laugh. He found himself grinning without really knowing why, only that the sick, coiling tension in his chest seemed to ease. It was strange, like when he'd been bracing something up as hard as he could, and suddenly the weight was taken away and his arms felt like they were floating.

Now that the Frenchman himself was smiling, he didn't seem quite so intimidating.  Manuela looked around the courtyard.  "Should we make him find some figs for us on the fig tree?  I'll bet he can reach the very high ones."

Martita laughed. "Yes!" she said eagerly, "Make him pick the really, really high ones. All the way on the top!"

Manuela laughed again.  "All right, show him where!"  She smiled tentatively at the prisoner again and beckoned for him to follow.  So far he did not seem to mind the little game.  Soon, she hoped, all soldiers would be gone from the city, and it would be best for children like Martita to remain unmarked by the experience if possible.  They were just some men passing through.

But Martita was suddenly shy again. "You tell him," she insisted, inching back behind Manuela as the tall Frenchman approached. He didn't say anything, just looked at the older girl with a mildly puzzled expression.

"All right," she answered, putting her arm around the girl's shoulders.  "You watch how I do it.  His name is Paolo.  Paolo, pick three figs for us from the tree.  One, two, three."

Paolo. He hadn't been called that in a long time. Stepping closer to the tree, he reached for one of the fruits, but a cry of: "No, higher!" stilled his hand. He looked down at the little girl and saw she was pointing towards the top of the tree. He tried again, pausing this time to glance at her and receive a little nod. That was one. Uno?

Lifting his arm higher, he reached for one which, sitting at a perfect right angle from its branch, was obviously unripe. He looked questioningly at the girl. She made a face and shook her head; it was the same expression Manuela had worn when he'd tried to come downstairs with the bucket.

He grinned and dropped his hand to a fruit which hung much heavier on the branch. This met with her approval. Quickly plucking a third as well, he sank to his knees, holding the figs out at arm's length so she would not have to come very close. "Señorita."

*

Martita watched with gleeful curiosity. She could almost imagine she was watching a giant if she ignored the buildings and other plants. But as soon as he stopped she shrank back against Manuela, looking up at her uncertainly.

Manuela saved her from the frightening task by reaching out and taking one of the figs.  "Is this the one you want?"

Martita nodded and took the fig from her. "What about the others?" she whispered.

"This one is for me," she said, taking another from the Frenchman's hands.  Then she whispered, "And should we let him have the last one?"

"Do they eat figs?" she asked in a tone which suggested surely they preferred small children.

"Everyone eats figs!" Manuela answered.  "At least, I think so. Should we find out?"  She stood upright again and said, "Slave Paolo, eat the fig."  And she took a bite of her own.

He looked at her in surprise. "For me?"

Instead of answering him, she knelt by the younger girl again.  "Oh Martita, he's being a bad slave.  Or maybe he doesn't know what a fig is, silly Frenchman."

Martita giggled. How could anyone not know what a fig was? "What should we do?"

*

Paol dropped his gaze and tried to look appropriately contrite, despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Show him what to do with it."  Manuela bit the rest of her fig off of the stem and spoke purposefully with her mouth full.  "Eat it!"

Laughing, Paol put the whole fruit in his mouth, biting it off at the stem. "Better?" he asked, equally indistinctly, and grinned, swiping at the juice running down his chin with a sleeve.