by Feliz Faber
“Mr. LeBon, Mr. Yeats. Good to have you back. Are you two hungry?” She got up, began opening and closing cupboards, fridge, and drawers, chattering on. “What an exciting afternoon! Such a dreadful thing. Who would have thought it? And your poor arm, Mr. Yeats, are you in pain? Sit now, sit. I’ll have something ready for you in a minute—”
“Mme. Kim,” Francis cut in. She froze in the middle of taking a dish from a wall unit, her whole body sagging before she buried her face in her hands. Gently, Francis reached past her to ease the cupboard door shut. His hand hovered above her hunched shoulder for a moment. Will wouldn’t even have dared that; even drawn into herself like this she appeared remote, too dignified for even such small familiarity.
Francis stepped back. After remaining motionless for another moment, Mme. Kim took a deep breath and straightened, lowering her hands. When she turned her face again, it was calm, her eyes dry.
“We haven’t heard from Louis yet,” she said. “Nic is in his office. He wouldn’t eat. He didn’t even answer when I last knocked half an hour ago. I’m worried.”
“We’ll look in on him,” Francis reassured her.
Hugging herself, she nodded. “Good. Perhaps he’ll listen to you.” Head held high, she went to open another cupboard. “In the meantime, I’ll make coffee. And warm some soup for you, at least.”
“I could do that, if you’d rather be with your family now,” Will offered. Over her shoulder, she cast him the barest hint of a smile.
“No, thank you, Mr. Yeats. Those two are my family, too.”
The loyal caretaker, putting the stranger into his place. But Will wasn’t irked by her protectiveness. He kind of felt this way toward his hosts, too.
FRANCIS knocked on the door to the office. “Nic? Nic, it’s us, Will and me. Can we come in?”
No answer, but the door opened without resistance when Francis tried the handle. He entered, calling out for Nic again, to the same effect.
Will let his gaze sweep through the cluttered room. Desks, appliances, shelves were all just like he remembered them, nothing seemed out of place. Only the handheld piece of the landline phone lay on one of the desks, its batteries taken out, the red light on the docking station blinking like mad. Next to it was Nic’s mobile, switched off. Will heard Francis sniff the air. Indeed, it smelled like cigarette smoke. Which was strange, since nobody there smoked.
Francis picked something up from the other desk, a box of Percocet. Dropping it back on the tabletop where the empty blister pack still sat, Francis went straight for the closed bedroom door.
They found Nic cross-legged on the bed, a bottle of red wine in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. He must’ve been at it for a while already; the air in here was thick enough to cut. One night lamp was the only light in the room.
Nic had the canvas with the artful black-and-white photo of his younger self laid out before him, staring down at it as he alternately took a drag from his cigarette and a drink from the bottle. Gray ash dusted the picture and the bedspread, the latter no longer spotlessly cream-colored since Nic still wore his riding boots. Sitting stooped like a very old man, Nic seemed to have aged a century since Will had last seen him. The creases in his face were like lines carved in wood. Seeing him like this had Will rooted to the threshold. Francis rushed to open a window and then hurried back, sinking to his knees next to the bed, heedless of the cigarette butts that littered the hardwood floor.
“Nic, talk to me. What’s going on here?” Francis’s voice sounded broken as he put a hand on his friend’s knee.
At first, Nic didn’t react at all. He took another drag from his cigarette, then reached out with the same hand, traced the lines of the firm, flawless body in the picture, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. When he finally started talking, his voice was thick, his English heavily accented but strangely articulate. Controlled, even though he otherwise seemed completely lost.
“We made love after he took this. He liked that, called it foreplay. Stacks and stacks of photos, burned them all, but must’ve missed this one. And of course Louis had to find it and hang it over our bed, of all places. Couldn’t refuse, no reason to. Never told him. Never told anyone. Like I’d promised.” He lifted the bottle, drank, never taking his eyes off the picture. Francis reached for the bottle, but Nic jerked it away; red liquid spilled out. “Nah, leave me alone! I need…. Asshole said he loved me, but never did. Fucking liar. Piece of ass’s all I was. His dirty little secret.” He shot Francis a glare, then turned back to the picture immediately. More ash spread across the canvas from his slowly moving hand.
“Michelle never knew, would you believe it? Fell for him like all the others did. Had to catch him red-handed to see the truth. Way too late, poor thing.” Nic barked a laugh, as humorless and flat as his voice. “Trophy wife, and his claim to La Thillaye. Reputation intact. Jeremy Collins, ladies’ man, straight as a fucking arrow. Yeah right, bastard. Bastard. All he ever wanted was La Thillaye.” He turned to Francis then with red-rimmed eyes, teeth bared in a grin that was barely human. “Would’ve worked, too, if not for Louis. Male heir in, son-in-law out, just like that. I should’ve known. But I didn’t. God help me, despite everything, I still trusted him. Friend, mentor, good for Louis. I was… nobody. Nothing.” He swayed, sagging even more, hands dropping to his sides. Francis plucked the cigarette from Nic’s fingers—it had gone out anyway, and he dropped the butt among the others on the floor—then reached around Nic’s back and took the bottle away. He sidled closer, sat on the bed, put an arm around Nic’s unresponsive frame.
Will could see Francis’s worry, was worried himself, felt guilty, since he’d been the reason why Francis hadn’t been here to prevent this. Nic in a funk was a scary thing. Like one of the old linden trees outside, struck down by a lightning bolt.
As if Francis wasn’t even there, Nic grabbed the canvas in both hands, held it up, another cloud of ash fluttering down to the bed.
“He said he’d make my dreams come true. A license of my own, proper education, could have it all if I went to the States. I thought he helped me ’cause he cared for me. Bullshit, all damn bullshit. Wanted me gone so he could make his move.”
Again a feral grimace of a grin, this time directed at the picture. “Tough shit Louis wouldn’t fall into his trap. Always smarter’n me, my Louis.”
His knuckles turned white. The delicate wood frame of the canvas creaked.
“He told me, see? After Goya…. Told me La Thillaye was his by right. Told me I was his by right, and Louis would never have either. I didn’t believe him. Didn’t think him cap… capal… capable… blind and dumb, I was, even after all the time. All. The. Time. Fucker!”
The strip of wood snapped, causing Will to jump. Nic tore the picture apart, let the pieces drop. “Fucker! Fucker! Fucker!” He clawed at the torn canvas and broken wood again and again, reducing it to scraps and splinters. Francis caught Nic’s wrists, caught the sobbing man in his arms, restrained him bodily until Nic stopped struggling and leaned back into the embrace, shaking.
With trembling hands, Francis rubbed Nic’s arms and back, murmured soothing words.
Watching them, Will berated himself. Collins’s remarks the other day made a frightening lot more sense all of a sudden. How hadn’t he seen the obvious?
Then again, if he’d connected the dots earlier, what good would it have done? Not all that much, he told himself. Who’d have believed him? But it still hurt, seeing Nic, who had seemed like a rock, crumbling away like this.
Helplessness and vague guilt gradually turned into anger. Where the fuck was Louis? He should be here right now, it should be him comforting his devastated lover. Not Francis, who for the second time that day was upholding a broken man while clearly shaken to the core himself.
The thought finally set Will in motion, and he took the few steps to the bed. If Louis wasn’t here for Nic, at least Will could be here for Francis. Lend him strength. Give significance to the “us” he’d boasted about.
He put a hand on Francis’s shoulder, and Francis looked up to meet Will’s gaze, then leaned into him for a moment, his face a tiny bit less taut.
Nic started to cough, a body-wracking bout that rattled not only him but Francis as well and went on for a small eternity. He sat up straighter once it was over, wheezing, “Damn fucking things, haven’t smoked in ten years….” and then slowly gazed around himself, blinking like waking from a deep sleep. “Francis? What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re drunk, Nic,” Francis said gently. “And how many Percocet have you taken? Come, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed. Sleep it off. We’ll watch over you.”
“Huh. Sleep. No, can’t. Where’s Louis?” Groaning, he held his stomach. “Ah… la tête me tourne. Faut… degobiller.”
“He’s going to be sick.” Francis stood, dragging Nic up. “Come, Will, help me.”
Between them, they half carried the heavy man to the en suite. Nic seemed barely able to function by now, groaning and muttering away in slurred French.
Will’s cell phone started ringing just when they negotiated the too-narrow bathroom doorway. He flinched, casting Francis an apologetic glance as he tried reaching into his pocket while supporting Nic. “Could be important.”
Francis nodded. “Take it. I got him.” He wrestled Nic the rest of the way in, the two of them collapsing in a tangle in front of the toilet by the time Will had his phone out.
“Maricheau here. Mr. Yeats, are you by chance anywhere near Nic Pithiviers right now?” a sharp voice in his ear demanded.
“Actually, yes, but I’m afraid he’s… inconvenienced at the moment,” Will answered, turning his back to the noises from the bath. “Can I take a message?”
“Right.” She gave a sound halfway between irritated and annoyed. “That’s why he can’t answer his phone? Well then, tell him to come get his idiot boyfriend, will you?”
“Louis? Where is he?” Will cut in, taking a few steps into the bedroom. “What—”
“He’s here at the hospital making a stink. Screamed bloody murder when he realized Collins was gone. They were going to call the police on him, but I got him to calm down. He’s in my doctor’s room now.” She sighed. “Tell Nic to get his ass here pronto, okay? I’m on call. I don’t know how much longer I can play guard dog.”
“But I…. He…,” Will stuttered, feeling somewhat out of his depth.
She made that sound again. “I don’t care how or who, just see someone picks him up, okay? The sooner the better.”
Will nodded dumbly, remembered she couldn’t see him, and said, “Okay. We’ll come.”
She ended the call without another word.
In the bathroom, Will found a picture of misery, with Nic puking his guts out while Francis supported him, green around the gills himself. Or rather, gray, in his case.
Breathing through the mouth against the stench, Will hastily filled Francis in on Dr. Maricheau’s call.
Francis glanced between Will and Nic. “Shit. I can’t leave him now.”
No question about it. “I’ll go,” Will offered.
Francis nodded at the brace on Will’s arm. “Can you drive?”
He’d all but forgotten about his own injury. Will opened and closed his left hand tentatively. His nerves gave a somewhat muted protest; still, putting stress on the arm didn’t look particularly compelling. Oh, fuck that. “I’ll manage.”
“Okay.” Violent heaves shook Nic again, demanding Francis’s attention. “On your way out, can you ask Mme. Kim to bring tea?”
“Sure.” To be honest, Will was only too glad to get out of there, even if he regretted leaving Francis behind to deal with the whole mess. Clusterfuck. Whatever.
He talked to Mme. Kim, programmed the Twingo’s GPS, made his careful way out of the stable yard and into the thick night, all the while wishing any nasty thing in the world on Collins.
Twenty
ROUGH, unlit, barely familiar country roads, confusing roundabouts, and patchy directions from the cheap-ass GPS—it took him much longer than the half hour it should have to reach Criqueboeuf. The damn arm didn’t help either. It worked, but that was about it. By the time Will reached the hospital, the dull throb had spread from his elbow up to his left shoulder and down to his fingertips, turning from a mere nuisance to a definite offense.
Despite his best efforts to ignore it, the pain must’ve shown. The night nurse didn’t speak English; she took one look at Will’s face, another at his braced arm, and gestured at him to sit in the ER waiting room. He shook his head, insisted, and tried to get it across to her that he wasn’t a patient, all appearances to the contrary aside. Irritated at the delay, worried, and strained to capacity, Will got louder than he usually would, scaring the plump, gray-haired woman into calling for help. The burly guy in scrubs who turned up at her call either couldn’t understand Will any more than the nurse had, or chose not to. Things were about to turn ugly when finally Dr. Maricheau emerged from the depths of the hospital. Still in the blue uniform she’d worn earlier, carrying a reflecting jacket in her hand, she calmed the waves with authority.
She gave Will a critical once-over as she waved him along a maze of corridors and passageways. “How’s the arm? Do you need me to give you something against the pain?”
He wanted to shrug, remembered just in time not to, and made a dismissive gesture with his good hand instead. “It’s okay, thanks.” He’d have welcomed to be rid of the pain, but dreaded the haziness that’d come with the stuff he’d been given here in the hospital earlier, and wanted to keep a clear head.
Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. As you wish. But my professional advice is you don’t put any more stress on that arm for the time being.” She walked faster. “That friend of Nic’s, Mr. LeBon, he called here earlier. Didn’t I see him with you this afternoon?”
“He’s my….” Will hesitated, not sure how to describe his relationship with Francis now. Boyfriend sounded tacky, lover too intimate. Partner? Pretentious, though he wished he could find inside of himself the certainty to call him that. What the hell, he thought. She’s Nic’s sister, she’ll understand. “He and I are together.”
As if reading his thoughts, she provided him with the perfect word. “Your copain? Ah, I see. Anyhow, he and Louis talked on the phone.” She gave him a level glance. “He said to tell you Nic is fine, by the way, and you shouldn’t worry about him either. LeBon, that is. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nic was… quite upset when I left. He went a little overboard with the wine,” Will answered, feeling as if an unnoticed weight had been lifted off his shoulders. A moment later he remembered whom he was talking to and wished he’d kept mum about the wine.
But Dr. Maricheau only nodded understanding. “No wonder. That thing with Collins shook him up good, didn’t it? Made me regret—” She snapped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together as if wanting to stem any further words. Hippocratic dilemma, Will assumed. If she knew only a fraction of what Nic had revealed earlier, she’d be likely as angry at Collins as Will was himself.
They rounded another corner. She suddenly stopped and turned to Will. “Listen, about Louis… I’ll admit frankly that right now I’m quite out of sorts with him, and we haven’t always been on the best of terms in the past either. But he and my brother… to me, they’ve always been the perfect couple.” She took a deep breath, looking small and worn for a moment. “It would break my heart to see them fall out with each other over this.”
“Same here,” Will said. Her lips thinned into a doubtful line, and he hurried to add, “Believe me on that. I haven’t known them for long, but I care anyway. For both of them.”
At that, she relaxed. Her gaze flicked from Will’s face to his arm and back again. “I might have guessed.”
She resumed walking, stopping a few steps farther down the hall in front of an unmarked door. Hand on the doorknob, she turned to Will again. “Just keep in mind that you can never trust a jockey, okay? They’ll smile into your
face and tell you they’re fine even when they’re in so much pain that they can barely stand. I’ve been dealing with that ilk for long enough to know.”
With that, she threw the door wide, calling, “Louis, your taxi’s here.”
She nodded goodbye at Will, turned on her heel, and left.
CONSIDERING the situation and Dr. Maricheau’s obscure warnings, Will felt some apprehension about facing Louis. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway while Louis got up from the examination cot where he’d apparently been resting. To Will’s surprise, Louis greeted him with a relaxed smile and a casual “Hi, Will. Thanks for coming.”
He still wore his jockey dress, although the formerly spotless white breeches were now streaked with dirt and the lightweight two-tone racing boots looked scuffed.
“How’d you come here anyway?” Will asked.
Louis shrugged. “I walked. I needed to blow the cobwebs away.”
Will shook his head, unable to bite back a grin. “That’s what, fifteen miles by foot? You’re insane.”
“Actually, I hitchhiked part of the way. And I guess I was really a little out of my mind, at least for a while.” Louis shot him a level glance. “No worries, whatever the good doctor told you, I’m all here now, I swear. What happened to your arm?”
“Collins,” Will said. “He hit me with his cane.”
“That fucking bastard!” Louis bared his teeth in an angry grimace. “Good thing he was already gone when I got here. I don’t know….” He broke off, closed his eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths.
“I’ve heard.” Will dared to reach out and put a hand on Louis’s forearm. “Thank God for that. You’d be in deep shit now, and he isn’t worth it.”
Opening his eyes, Louis shot Will a grim smile. “Yeah. But it’d have been so good to wring his neck.” He covered Will’s hand with his own, squeezed briefly before stepping back and grabbing his windbreaker from the back of a chair.