“There is no neat way to eat a good croissant,” she said. She used the back of her hand to brush the flakes of the pastry off my jacket. “The crumbs seem dry, but they are full of butter. So, what is troubling you?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“But you’re so quiet. More quiet than usual.”
“Why are you here with me?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“Victoire, you are a beautiful young woman. Men are drawn to you. Men your age. I’m an old married man. I have two children. I live in another country. I can offer you nothing.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
“How is any of that not true?”
“First of all, I don’t want anything from you. Except you.”
“That’s my point. You can’t have me,” I said. “I’m not going to leave my wife and children.”
“But I do have you, don’t I? You are right here beside me, eating the same croissant, looking at the same overstated church. We lie in the same bed, breathe the same air.”
I nodded. “I have a family.”
“I love you.”
“What?”
“Je t’aime.”
I said nothing to this.
“I know that you love me, too,” she said. “You don’t have to say it. I know that it is true.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know. It is in the way you look at me. The way you touch me. Don’t you love me?”
I looked across the park at a couple of young boys busy on the small playground apparatus. I didn’t answer her. I was silent not because she would not like the answer, but because I would not.
“Anyway, I know you love me.”
“Suppose,” I said, “we were together. Just for the sake of argument, imagine it. I will die long before you.”
“And then I will be sad before having a happy rest of my life. I will find another man. Maybe another old man like you. Maybe a younger one.”
Her answer was so clean, so perfect, so smart. “Of course,” I said. I reached over and held her hand.
“I told you. You do love me. Tu es mon beau ténébreux.” She leaned over and placed her head against my shoulder. It was an agreeable feeling, a nice weight. I would later confess to myself, sadly, that everything she had said I wanted to hear. I studied the top of her beautiful twenty-two-year-old head, peered through her hair, through her unblemished scalp, through her bone and into her brain, and loved her, wanted her to feel loved. More precisely, I wanted her to feel loved by me. It sounded as stupid then as it does now.
“Still, it might appear to some that this old man is taking advantage of you,” I said.
“This is France.”
“It doesn’t matter. Would you tell your mother about me?” I knew nothing of her relationship with her mother, but I considered it a reasonable question.
“I have,” she said.
“You’ve done what?”
“She would like to meet you.”
“She knows I’m married?”
“She knows everything.”
“I see. And this is okay with her? Her daughter having an affair with a married man nearly twenty-five years older. And she knows I have young children?” I didn’t care if French people or American people or any people might be troubled by our situation, relationship, it sounded plenty horrible to me. “What about your father? Does he know also?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think he would be happy about us. In fact I know that he would not like it.”
“That’s because he’s a reasonable person.” Hearing this frightened me slightly, but was also quite oddly reassuring or heartening, though I was not certain why. “So, he doesn’t know.”
She nodded.
“Doesn’t that suggest that you see there’s something wrong here, the fact that you won’t tell your father?”
“My father is too protective.”
“That’s his job,” I said.
All of this with her head resting gently on my shoulder. She closed the subject with a well-aimed “Je t’aime.”
“After this will you go into Shakespeare and Company with me?” I asked. “It’s just behind us.”
“If you like. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m looking for some books for April and Will, something to take home to them.” I said their names to make them more real for her.
“You should take them something French,” she said.
“You mean like little Eiffel Towers? Berets?”
“What about a young French stepmother?” She glanced up to examine the look on my face.
I laughed and she laughed harder.
She nestled her head back into my shoulder. “Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime, aussi.”
“I knew it,” she said.
House
Will had come to me, rather uncharacteristically, baseball in hand, and asked me to play catch. He had never liked sports of any kind, except for swimming, and, as far as I knew, he hated balls of any kind. Now at twelve he had grabbed the dusty gloves from the shelves in the garage and wanted to stand out in the yard with me and throw the ball back and forth. He was understandably awkward for a while, but he began to get the hang of it. He was stiff with the glove, while I was a bit self-conscious and unquiet in my interaction with him.
“So, why the gloves and ball?” I asked.
“I just want to be better at it.”
“New girlfriend who’s a ballplayer?”
“Naw. Just feel like throwing.”
“Everything okay at school?”
“Yeah.” Will tossed the ball back to me and glanced back at the house. “Is April all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She’s so mad all the time,” he said.
“So, what’s different?”
“She’s just not the same. She doesn’t care about trying to piss me off. She just seems kind of different, you know?”
I nodded. “I’m sure she’s fine. Tell you what, I’ll talk to her.” I didn’t want to undermine his confidence. “You’re right, though, something’s different.”
He looked sad.
“I don’t think you should worry.”
He tossed a ball wildly past me, apologized.
I retrieved it and tossed a pop fly back to him. “I’m sorry I’ve been sort of absent lately.”
Will laughed a little.
“What?”
“You’re always absent.” He didn’t mean it in a critical way, I felt that. “You’re just always in your head. That’s what Mom says anyway. And I get it. You’re an artist; you need to be in there.”
“You get it, eh? Well, your mother is just being generous. I need to be better,” I said. “Anything going on at school that I should know about? Swim meet or something? Drug deals?”
“Meets haven’t started yet. Just practices. The drug deals are all next semester, but they’re a cinch.”
“I wish I could swim like you. I’m a stone in the water.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We tossed for a while longer without talking. I was impressed with my son, having shown the initiative to find me and ask about his sister, showing the concern he did.
What was clear now was that if Will had noticed his sister’s change then certainly Linda had noticed as well. I now not only realized how deep I was into this mess but I could feel the walls beginning to crumble and cave in. I would have to tell Linda that night and April would have to live with the fact that her father was an unreliable lying bastard.
That night at dinner April was particularly testy. Her mother, who kept up with such things as school projects and the like, asked about some history assignment, to which April responded, “It’s not your assignment, so why do you care?”
“I take it that means you haven’t started it.”
“Why don’t you do it then?”
Linda looked at me as if for help.
“Y
our mother’s just trying to be helpful,” I said.
“Right. Helpful is synonymous with controlling.”
I could see how uncomfortable this was making Will, so I tried to change the mood at the table. “Will and I actually played catch today. Gloves and everything.”
Linda smiled at Will.
“Whoop-de-do,” April said. Then she leaned slightly forward with a grimace that I believed only I saw.
I looked at her eyes, tried to telepathically ask her what was wrong. Her eyes teared up. The wet eyes were noticed by Linda.
“What is it?” Linda asked.
“I feel sick,” April said. “May I leave the table?”
“Of course, honey,” Linda said.
As April stood, her balance abandoned her for a second and she fell back down into her chair.
“April?” Linda said.
“Just my back.”
“Did you hurt it today?”
April left the table and disappeared down the hall.
Linda looked at me and mouthed the words, “Period maybe.”
I nodded.
Then she said, I imagine for Will’s benefit, “She’s wound rather tightly these days, isn’t she?”
“You think,” Will said.
“We should give her some space,” I said.
Linda cut me a glance that frankly frightened me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said.
Nothing meant shut the fuck up and so I did just that. Will and I cleared the table and Linda went to check on April.
“Well, that was fun,” Will said. He dumped the last of the salad into the can and handed me the bowl and tossers. “What did you think you were going to be when you were my age?”
“That’s a good question,” I said.
“That’s what people usually say when they don’t know or if they’re simply about to lie.”
“I do remember wanting to be a pilot, but I can’t remember if I was four or fourteen. Maybe I was forty.”
“A pilot? You mean like jets? Did they have jets back then?”
“They had jets, smart-ass. I had an uncle who was in World War II and he was a pilot. He was one of those Tuskegee Airmen and he was sort of well known, I think. Not famous. He was my mother’s brother and she adored him.”
“So, you stopped wanting to be a pilot?”
“Well, I finally met the uncle. Uncle Ty.”
“And?”
“Uncle Ty was a fucking asshole.”
Will laughed the way kids laugh when a parent swears.
“He was a drunk and he only ever thought about himself.” As I said this I wondered how I really differed from Uncle Ty. I had stopped drinking, but in my mind I was still a drunk. “He drove his new convertible into a sewage treatment pond and drowned.”
Will laughed. “He drowned in poo?”
“Drowned in poo.”
Linda joined us in the kitchen, not angry but annoyed. “Well, it seems April needs her space.” Will was still chuckling about the asshole uncle and Linda noticed. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Will said.
Linda gave me another unhappy look.
“Has April said anything to you, Will?”
“She told me to fuck myself,” he said.
“Language,” Linda said.
1979
I had just gotten behind the wheel and pulled away from the shoulder when the sky began to lighten. Another hour on the rough road brought us to a small collection of shacks. At an intersection there was a sign for Iglesia La Luz Mundo. I liked the irony at least.
“Which way?” I asked the Bummer.
He snapped to, apparently having drifted off to sleep. He seemed embarrassed by this as he gathered himself and got his bearings. He rubbed his fists into his eyes. “Just stay on this road. We should see the lake pretty soon here.”
“I need to eat,” I said. I didn’t want to eat, but I did in fact need fuel. I also needed to be out of that tight, enclosed space, needed air, some distance from the Bummer. I needed a time-out.
“You’re shitting me,” the Bummer said.
“No, I’m not,” I said, calmly.
“I’m hungry, too,” from Richard in the backseat.
“You see a place, you pull over.” The Bummer shook his head and threw up his hand in a gesture of helplessness. “Hungry,” he said, just under his breath. Then, louder, “Fucking pussies.”
The lake came into sight below us. It was large, maybe beautiful, desolate. If it is possible for a lake full of water to appear dry, then this one did. A short distance after the dirt trail turned left to follow the shoreline there was a cantina, not so different looking from the one in the mountains, except one of the cinder-block walls was actually unfinished. Beside the open front door was a fire pit over which a goat was skewered, the coals cadmium red, the carcass black.
“It’s awfully early,” Richard said.
“Door’s open,” the Bummer said.
Richard pointed down the hill. “Fishermen down there. Probably open early for them.”
“Let’s find out,” I said.
The Bummer was already out of the car. He walked over to the goat and ripped off a bit of meat. He chewed it and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He made a show of working his jaw. “They can slow roast this motherfucker for a week and it’ll still be tougher than a dog’s tit.”
Richard looked at me. “What the fuck?”
“Hillbilly talk,” I said.
We ducked in through the short doorway. There were four tables set up on plywood subflooring. A short, round elderly woman with a beautifully wrinkled brown face gestured for us to sit wherever we liked. The hard ladder-backed chairs were a welcome change from the beaten-down seats of the Caddy.
The woman came to our table. “Quieres comer?”
“Sí,” I said. “Por favor.”
“Cerveza,” the Bummer said.
“No cerveza,” she said.
“What?” the Bummer said.
“Huevos picados, plátanos fritos, pupusas.” She looked at me and Richard, but avoided the Bummer.
“Huevos picados,” Richard said.
“Mismo,” I said.
“Cerveza,” the Bummer said again.
The woman shook her head. “No cerveza.”
“Bring some fucking eggs. Huevos.” The Bummer watched her walk away into the kitchen. “Lying bitch.”
“Be cool,” I said.
“I know for a fucking fact she’s got beer back there.” But he didn’t get up to check.
“So, what’s the story with the Nicaraguans?” Richard asked.
“They think they’re badass drug runners,” the Bummer said. “They run their shit through El Salvador because it’s too hot down south. That’s changing, though. I’m not sure how the fuck they do it. Ruthless motherfuckers. They would just as soon shoot you as look at you.”
“Do you know any of them?” Richard asked.
“I’ve seen them,” he said. He looked at us. “You scared?”
“You’re fucking right I’m scared,” I told him.
“Well, hold it together so you don’t fuck the shit up.”
“Fuck the shit up?” Richard said. “Fuck the shit up? What are you talking about? The shit, as you call it, is already fucked up. What is the shit anyway? Everything is fucked up.”
“Same goes for you,” the Bummer said and pointed his middle finger at Richard. “You two just do what I say when I fucking say do it. No questions, no hesitation, just do it.”
I thought about talking to the Bummer, asking him if he got off on all of this, but I didn’t care anymore. I quite simply wanted all of it to be over. I didn’t even care if Richard got his brother back anymore, and a part of me hoped we wouldn’t find him. I looked at the gray walls of the cantina, at the staggered grid of the cinder blocks. There was a crucifix on the far wall. Poor Jesus.
We had not seen a car, truck, or bus on the way down to the la
ke, but the sound of a vehicle sliding to a stop found us. I thought it was probably soldiers. It turned out to be two armed men, but not military, not government military anyway, and with them was Carlos, the Dutch man from the mountains.
“Look who we have here,” Carlos said.
The two other men sat at the table farthest from us and Carlos came and sat with us. Again he had his notebook with him. This time he also had a Polaroid camera draped over his shoulder. He didn’t offer his hand to shake, didn’t look at Richard, but nodded to me.
“Where are you lads headed?” Carlos asked. “Still out looking for the lost brother?”
“Still looking,” the Bummer said.
“Who are your friends?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Carlos said. “Either the Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores Centroamericanos or the Partido Comunista Salvadoreño.” He enjoyed the Spanish. “It’s like music, isn’t it? Or maybe they’re just two guys with guns. Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?”
I stared at the notebook and Carlos caught me.
“You really want to see what’s in here, don’t you?” he said. He stroked the cover with his fingers.
I nodded.
He pushed it over to me. “Go ahead, take a look.”
I opened the notebook. It was filled with plastic sleeves with four Polaroid pictures per page. Each photograph was of a face. I couldn’t look away. I turned six pages and then looked at Richard.
“What is it?” Richard said.
I looked at Carlos. “Are these dead people?”
“I prefer to think of them as the dearly departed.”
“Why do you have pictures of dead people?” I pushed the book toward Richard so that he could see.
“Just because a person is dead doesn’t mean he’s worthless.” Carlos put a cigarette in his mouth. He offered one to me and I refused. The Bummer and Richard accepted.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“My boy, there is a nasty war going on in this little country. People go missing all the time. Loved ones worry, loved ones wonder. I address that need. And loved ones pay.”
“People pay you to look at this book?” I asked.
Carlos looked back at the kitchen. “I could use some food. Smells good, whatever it is.”
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