by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
Canoeists and onlookers alike summoned help on their phones, and to the great surprise of those present, the police appeared at the top of the cliff within mere moments and grabbed the person who had called out to Mario. It was Gaston.
Gaston had earlier returned from Mount Ventoux to the bakery, slipping through town in a roundabout manner in order to not be seen by Mario until he could assess the situation at the bakery. However, Mario was not there, and he found himself in the presence of his mother, who with alarm asked him where he had been and told him that the police had been looking for him, as the dead man had his ring. She demanded, “How did he get your ring! Show me your ring! Where is your ring?”
Gaston, shocked and uncomprehending and not having his ring, could only say, “I don’t know, um, um, I lost it somewhere! He must have found it!”
Gaston then asked, “Where is Mario? I need to talk to Mario.”
Céleste replied, “He left with the tourist, Peter, for the gorge. He looked very angry about something. He said you were there. I was about to talk to them but they left before I could say anything….” She trailed off as Gaston fled the shop. She heard the van start up and saw it zoom past the bakery windows.
Flush with fear she stared out the window after the hurtling vehicle. A whimper caused her to look up, where she saw Padie on his arch, feebly standing on his old trembling legs, looking not at her but off into the distance at the fleeing van. Above him, there was a long dark line of storm clouds moving in from the west, gobbling up the blue skies.
She loved her son dearly and trusted him. She did not feel he was involved with the death of the young man. Yet she feared for his safety and with great reluctance picked up the phone to call the police. She told them they could find Gaston at the gorge and would they please hurry as she thought there might be trouble there.
Looking toward the shop door, she saw Hélène approaching. Soon she entered, closed the door behind her, and, coming up to Céleste, stated, “There is something that I would like to talk to you about.” Through the shop windows, passersby observed Hélène and Céleste talking intensely and Hélène’s hand resting on top of Céleste’s.
Jail
DUE TO the lack of a jail in town, Gaston was taken to a local penitentiary to be held pending examination. He was strip-searched at the same time as two other new arrivals, hardened criminals being transferred there. Standing naked in front of the two policemen, his mature body that had lately been the object of Peter’s desire was just a clinical slab for their inspection. His nipples hardened in the cold of the room, and he hung his head low in embarrassment, partly covering himself with his hands that hung heavily. The other two naked guys looked derisively at the police. They had been through it all before. They smirked at Gaston’s innocence and stood sneering forward, their arms at their sides, waiting to be asked to bend over. Later they were both given prison garb to wear, but Gaston’s clothes were given back to him. His belt was taken for fear he might harm himself, and he sat forlorn, feeling violated and observed by the other prisoners in their cells. He was the odd man out, and they made him know it. He was segregated alone in his cell as he was only being held at that time. Throughout the night hoots and hollers as well as kissing sounds were directed his way. He was jokingly warned not to be found outside his cell nor to linger in the showers too long.
Forlorn and feeling judged guilty, Gaston was left bewildered by the events of the last couple of days, trying to understand what had befallen him and anxious for news as to Peter’s and Mario’s condition.
Gaston had the right to a lawyer, who was present through initial interrogatories the next day. He thought he might be let go if he cooperated right away. He was frantic to get out and see Mario and Peter. Against the advice of his lawyer, he was determined to answer their questions. How could they not understand he was innocent? He hesitated and stammered while being questioned by the police as to his whereabouts on Saturday night. He was caught short as he could not bear to indicate he had been with Peter. How could he explain that to them? He could merely say he had been out bicycling late, which excuse in itself seemed only to possibly connect him more to the events. The police pulled out the ring and demanded, “Is this your ring? It is reported to us that you have been seen to wear a similar ring at the bakery.” Gaston was as bewildered as before to hear that the dead man was wearing his ring. Indeed he recognized it and felt a pit in his stomach trying to comprehend how the man had come to have it. His face turned white. He was completely at a loss for words. After a few moments, he said, “It looks like my ring. I lost my ring a few days ago, I thought at the gym.”
“Did you look for your ring?” asked the police. Again Gaston was taken aback as he indeed had not been looking for his ring, as he did not want to think of the circumstances in which he thought he had lost it that day he was embarrassed in front of Mario. How could he explain the truth behind why he had not actively looked? Again his actions only convinced the police further that he was involved in the death of the young blond man. “We found this ring on the hand of the man whose body was found along the banks of the Rhone,” the police said. “What was your connection with that man? We have been informed that you were seen talking with that man on Saturday at the bakery, that you were observed looking out the doorway after he left and were observed cycling in the same direction about fifteen minutes later.”
Gaston sat paralyzed and perplexed, thinking, How did this man get my ring?
The police continued. “You were seen to be washing something late Saturday night at the washbasins. The lights of passing cars illuminated your figure, and at least one person is certain it was you. What were you washing and why? Where is that article of clothing?”
Gaston clasped his head in both his hands, lost.
On that same Wednesday, the municipal clerk at the tiny little town hall combed through her mail and files. There were a number of items still to be attended to that had been left over the weekend in the box attached to the mail slot on the office door. Routine matters, mostly: people submitting forms and documents along with checks in payment for ordinary town-related things, such as the mundane run of applications to pass an amendment to a bylaw or a request to hold a flea market on the town square. Most items had been handled on the Monday morning with the intent to wrap the rest up on Tuesday morning but the events of Tuesday morning—the spreading of the word about the death of the German man—had distracted the town officials from everything further. Among the various items was a note in a foreign language that the clerk could not read and which she had ignored since Monday. A strange thing to be put there, but the clerk put it to one side until she could find anyone who might be able to read it, and so it was that it remained in the tray until the end of the day on Wednesday. There did not seem to be any urgency to it.
Shortly before leaving for the day, the clerk finally pointed out the note to a colleague, who recognized it as being in German. They realized that one of the two gendarmes at the station who had brought Gaston to the local penitentiary had once lived for a time in Germany and presented the note to him. Hesitatingly the gendarme said aloud in stilted translation, his eyes widening with each translated word, “Found gold ring in town washbasin. Your office closed. I am a cyclist from Germany. Call Bernd Holder at German cell phone number below if know owner. If claimed, I will mail ring to you. Much thanks, Bernd.” The clerk, her colleague, and the gendarme looked at each other, aghast, as the significance of the note sunk in. The clerk exclaimed, “This is who the dead man is and how he came to have Gaston’s ring!”
Back at the penitentiary in the distance, a door creaked open and the clack! clack! clack! of an officer’s shoes rang off the floor as he approached. He opened the door to Gaston’s cell and demanded he follow him to the office.
“It appears the German tourist found your ring in the washbasins. We will be holding on to it for a few days more pending further investigation into this matter.
“You are how
ever free to go!”
Gaston, exhausted, meekly followed the gendarme, who brought him to a room where Céleste was sitting. She jumped up and gave him a long hug. Leaving the jail, she turned to Gaston. “Come, let’s go home. There’s a lot we need to talk about.”
Back at the police station, the officers were wondering where to take their investigation next. Originally they had intended to hold on to Gaston on the basis that he might have been involved in the potential robbery incident at the bergerie, having been seen out late at night. However, Hélène had shown up at the station earlier and requested the investigation be halted, indicating that it had all been a misunderstanding, without providing any further explanation.
Returning to the German tourist matter and scratching his head, the officer noted, “Perhaps the German cyclist’s bike can be found by tracing his cell phone.”
“We have the number,” stated the other officer. “Let’s try.”
In hospital
DAYS EARLIER the weather had turned as the helicopter made its way to Avignon. Buffeted by strong winds and lashed with rain, it made it with difficulty onto the landing pad at the Avignon hospital. Peter was the less injured of the two, having sustained severe bruising with fears of a minor concussion. Mario, however, was much more injured and had a concussion as well as a broken leg. After preliminary treatment for their injuries, both men were placed side by side in beds in the same room, where they lay under observation for several hours, not fully understanding where they were.
Céleste, Sylvie, and Hélène all waited anxiously in the hospital waiting room for a chance to visit their loved ones. A bolt of lightning struck close to the entrance of the hospital, causing Hélène to start and utter a cry. Using this as a pretext to comfort Hélène, Céleste patted her on the back and said, “He’s going to be all right, you will see. We will have word in a little while.”
Hélène squeezed Céleste’s hand in appreciation, saying, “Thank you for your kind words. I hope Mario will also be fine!” The three women sat together, a bond having developed among them after Hélène and Céleste’s talk. They exchanged thoughts on the events that had occurred, what the hike down the path was all about, and what was going on between the boys. After a while it became apparent that a common thread was observed: Mario might have discovered the situation between Peter and Gaston.
“They spent a lot of time chatting at the bakery,” said Céleste. “This was not Gaston’s usual manner, being normally shy. He would light up when Peter came into the shop! If he was in the back, he would hurry to the front. If he was not about, Peter sometimes slid away without buying anything, probably thinking I had not noticed. I remember now seeing Mario looking out a few times from the bake room. He seemed angry that day he left with Peter to the gorge.”
“I am unsure of Mario’s role in this,” said Sylvie despondently. “He has looked unhappy for the last while.”
After his release Gaston made his way to the hospital where he joined Céleste, Hélène, and Sylvie to see Mario. Gaston had been told the boys were both in the same room, which made things awkward for him. He struggled with how he was going to greet Mario in his state, which he felt he had partly caused by calling down to him. Could he look Mario in the eyes? Would Mario even look at him? Would Mario want to see him? What if Peter was awake? Could he, would he look at him?
Gaston could barely swallow. He felt like he was made of stone with his saliva caught in his throat. He wanted to betray no emotions and to remain cool, but the effort in itself was choking him. He feared he would not be able to stop himself. Stop himself from what? He feared losing control….
Céleste, Hélène, and Sylvie had talked among themselves and decided to wait outside the room for a while, to give Gaston some time alone. Both women looked at each other as Gaston went through the door. They thought, There is unfinished business here. What it was they did not fully know but had an inkling.
Inside the room Mario and Peter lay in separate beds a few feet apart. When they had arrived at the hospital, it was assumed they were together and that the right thing was to put them in a shared room; little did the staff know of the troubles that had occurred. Neither of the men was looking at the other, nor were they aware of Gaston’s impending visit. Tellingly both reacted the same way when Gaston showed up: an initial straining of the neck to see, a stifled look of joy replaced by a feigned frown just as fast, a frown that only half concealed their love for Gaston. They were incapable of fooling him. Gaston sensed their veiled eagerness. All his musings and resolve on the way there were just a big waste of time. He gave himself permission to be himself, and so freed he immediately went to Peter’s bedside and hugged him gently around the neck, gently for fear of otherwise hurting him further.
It was clear to all present that the embrace would otherwise have been stronger still. Mario looked sideways at the encounter, averting his eyes a couple of times. Céleste, Sylvie, and Hélène watched through a small window in the door. They had been talking among themselves the last few days and had come to terms with what was happening there, so they were prepared for what they saw and were content with it.
Mario as well had had a lot of time to think lying there. He was forced to think, being confined to bed. He had not interacted with Peter but had kept to himself, eyes straight forward whenever the staff had left the drape between their beds pulled open. He had needed a lot of time to sort through his emotions, and it had been hard for him to restrain his external actions while seething and roiling internally.
A couple of days earlier, Mario had woken up with a start to find himself in the hospital room. He had been dreaming that he had had words with Peter on the path and that he had threatened him to leave Gaston alone. His dream then brought him back to the bakery, to a memory from an earlier time. From his own bedroom door, he had observed Gaston sitting on the terrace, a look of great sadness and loneliness in his eyes, his chin hanging heavily. Once awake he had suddenly felt he had accomplished nothing and that, for selfish reasons of his own, he was holding Gaston back from being who he was. Other subconsciously suppressed memories had filled his wandering mind. Gaston’s embarrassment at the gym was only one of several. He remembered seeing Gaston once in Avignon, through a bar window, with a stranger. He had heard that was a gay bar and wondered what Gaston was doing there; perhaps he should go in and tell him, but he held back for fear of embarrassing Gaston. Another time he saw Gaston along the riverbank with another stranger he did not know, and they went into the woods together. Yet another time he had seen a naked Fabio and Gaston swimming in the lake and had thought it odd that he had also not been invited along for a swim. He remembered how awkward they both looked as he joined them. These and other clues had appeared in fast-moving sequence.
Most of all, he remembered how mutual the tenderness was between Peter and Gaston when he saw them through the window that night at the bergerie. He had refused at that time to admit to himself that Gaston did not seem awkward during the encounter. Mario had muttered under his breath as he awoke, “How stupid I’ve been. Am I really that stupid?” as the realization had flooded over him that Peter was no instigator of Gaston’s behavior. Grimacing and half biting his lip over his stupidity, he had glanced over toward Peter sheepishly, but Peter was at that time asleep. He had spent a long while observing Peter sleep and while doing so started to feel his antipathy slowly draining away. However, he was too proud, this street kid, to look Peter in the eye or to fully let go of his hatred.
Later, sitting upright stoically, a drape having been pulled between his bed and Peter’s, he had endured Peter’s mother crying when she visited at a time Peter was asleep and he awoke after her arrival. Through a chink in a drape, a chink that had resonance with the night, he saw Peter and Gaston together, Mario, pretending to be asleep, managed to catch a glimpse of her out of half-closed eyes. She clutched Peter’s hand hard. Mario fought with himself; he was angry, very angry. Yet he could not stop looking at her tenderness for he
r son. Dammit, he thought. Flakes of resolve were falling away from him. His pride had fought against this whittling, and, exhausted, he fell asleep. Later he awoke again and, motionless, listened as a now awake Peter talked in hushed tones with his mother, his sweet words trying to reassure her that he was okay.
Mario thought of his encounter so many years ago with the drunkard, and the shopkeeper who had saved him from possible harm. He could not compare the Peter he could see to the drunkard. He had been forced by being in the next bed to see what Peter was really like, how he was loved and loved back. Mario had winced, thinking that he had taken the role of the shopkeeper and had tried to save Gaston from evil. Only there was no evil! He himself had become the evil force by mistake! The star of the soccer field had meddled in a game for which he had no experience. What if he had won and he had driven Peter away or harmed him? Would Gaston then have been appreciative as Mario had been toward the shopkeeper? Mario had felt his heart drop as he said to himself, Gaston would not have thanked me. He would have every reason to hate me. I would have lost his friendship forever. How can he now forgive me?
Now two days later he was ready, ready to accept and hopeful of forgiveness for himself.
Gaston turned toward Mario from a chair beside Peter’s bed and smiled. No words passed between them. Mario saw Peter smiling his way as well. They both understood the journey toward acceptance that Mario had had to go through. They understood the erroneous motivations that had caused this tough kid to act the way he had. No one required him to make any spoken amends; rather, his injuries were what concerned them. Mario smiled back, grateful for the unspoken forgiveness and happy for Gaston, genuinely happy now for both Gaston and Peter.