Gabriel's Inferno 01 - Gabriel's Inferno

by Sylvain Reynard

  Gabriel quickly remembered seeing her do that once before, when they were dining at Harbour Sixty. He placed his phone on the table and looked over at her with a pained expression, made doubly painful by the guilt he felt over what had almost happened in his study carrel. Yes, he’d come close to succumbing to Miss Mitchell’s considerable charms, and risking Abelard’s fate, for Rachel would no doubt castrate him if she discovered he’d seduced her friend. Miraculously, however, his self-control proved to be superior to that of Abelard. “I would never seduce a student.”

  “Then thank you,” she murmured. “And thank you for the gesture of the bursary, even though I can’t promise to accept it. I know it’s only a small amount to you, but it would have meant airline tickets home for Thanksgiving and Christmas and spring break and Easter. And money for many more extras than I can afford now. Including steak, on occasion.”

  “Why would you use it for airline tickets? I would have thought you’d use it to secure a better apartment.”

  “I don’t think I can get out of my lease. And anyway, going home to see my dad is important to me. He’s the only family I have. And I would have liked to see Richard before he sells the house and moves to Philadelphia.”

  Actually, it would be worth it to accept the bursary so I could visit Richard and the orchard. I wonder if my favorite apple tree is still there…I wonder if anyone would notice if I carved my initials into the trunk…

  Gabriel scowled obliquely, for a number of reasons. “You wouldn’t have gone home otherwise?”

  She shook her head. “Dad wanted to fly me home for Christmas, rather than taking Greyhound. But the prices on Air Canada are outrageous. I would have been ashamed to accept a ticket from him.”

  “Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached.”

  “You sound like Grace. She used to talk like that.”

  He shifted in his seat and involuntarily scratched at the back of his neck. “Where do you think I learned about generosity? Not from my biological mother.”

  Julia looked at Gabriel, meeting his gaze without blushing or blinking. Then she sighed and put the award letter back in her bag, resolving to spend more time thinking about how best to deal with it once she was no longer in The Professor’s magnetic presence. For she saw that arguing with him would get her nowhere. And in that respect, as in several others, he was exactly like Peter Abelard, sexy, smart, and seductive.

  He peered over at her. “But despite all I’ve tried to do, which isn’t much I’ll admit, you’re still going hungry?”

  “Gabriel, I have a tenuous relationship with my stomach. I forget to eat when I’m busy or preoccupied or—or sad. It’s not about the money—it’s just the way things are. Please don’t trouble yourself.” She readjusted her cutlery once again for good measure.

  “So…you’re sad?”

  She sipped her beer slowly and ignored his question.

  “Does Dante make you unhappy?”

  “Sometimes,” she whispered.

  “And other times?”

  She looked up at him, and a sweet smile spread across her face. “I can’t help myself—he makes me deliriously happy. Sometimes when I’m studying The Divine Comedy, I feel as if I’m doing what I was always meant to do. Like I found my passion, my vocation. I’m not that shy little girl from Selinsgrove anymore. I can do this, I’m good at it, and it makes me feel…important.”

  It was too much. Too much information. The quickly drunk beer, the rush of blood to the head, his scent clinging and heavy in her nose from his sweater. She should never have said all those words to him, of all people.

  But he only watched her somewhat warmly, which surprised her. “You are shy, it’s true,” he murmured. “But that’s certainly not a vice.” He cleared his throat. “I’m envious of your enthusiasm for Dante. I used to feel that way. But for me, it was a long time ago. Too long.” He smiled at her again and looked away.

  Julia leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Who is M. P. Emerson?”

  Startled blue eyes flew to hers, burning with laser-like intensity. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

  His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was very, very cold, and Julia realized she’d touched upon a nerve so injured, so raw, it was still vibrating with pain. It took her a moment to collect herself, and before she had fully considered the prudence of her question, she spoke. “Are you trying to be my friend? Is that what you were trying to communicate to me with the bursary?”

  Gabriel frowned. “Did Rachel put you up to this?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She thinks we should be friends. But I’ll tell you what I told her—it’s impossible.”

  Julia felt a lump grow in her throat, and she swallowed noisily. “Why?”

  “We exist under the red flag of professionalism. Professors can’t be friends with their students. And even if we were just Julianne and Gabriel sharing a pizza, you shouldn’t want to be friends with me. I am a magnet for sin, and you are not.” He smiled sadly. “So you see, it’s hopeless. Abandon hope all ye who enter.”

  “I don’t like to think of anything as hopeless,” she whispered to her silverware.

  “Aristotle said that friendship is only possible between two virtuous people. Therefore, friendship between us is impossible.”

  “No one is truly virtuous.”

  “You are.” Gabriel’s blue eyes burned into hers with something akin to passion and admiration.

  “Rachel said you were on the VIP list at Lobby.” Julia changed the subject again swiftly, still not considering her words.

  “That’s true.”

  “She made a mystery of it. Why?”

  Gabriel scowled. “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  He fixed her with his gaze and dropped his voice. “I go there regularly, hence the VIP status. Although I haven’t been there much of late.”

  “Why do you go? You don’t like to dance. Is it just to drink?” Julia looked around at the simple but comfortable interior of the Caffé. “Here is as good a place to drink as any. I think it’s much nicer here. It’s gemütlich—cozy.” And there doesn’t appear to be a single Emerson whore in sight.

  “No, Miss Mitchell, in general I do not go to The Vestibule to drink.”

  “Then why do you go?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He frowned. Then he shook his head. “Perhaps not to someone like you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Someone like me?”

  “It means that you don’t know what you’re asking me,” he spat, staring angrily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t make me say it! You want to know why I go there? I’ll tell you why I go there. I go there to find women to fuck, Miss Mitchell.” He was pissed now and glaring at her. “Happy now?” he growled.

  Julia drew a deep breath and held it. When she could hold it no more she shook her head and exhaled. “No,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Why would that make me happy? It makes me sick to my stomach, actually. Really, really sick. You have no idea.”

  Gabriel sighed deeply and placed both hands at the back of his neck. He wasn’t cross with her; he was cross with himself. And he felt ashamed. Part of him wanted to repel her intentionally—to stand naked in front of her, hiding nothing—so that she would see him for what he really was, a dark, sinister creature exposed by her virtue. Then she would walk away.

  Perhaps his subconscious was already trying to do that with these ridiculous, unprofessional outbursts. For he should never in a thousand years have said what he just said to a graduate student, especially a female graduate student, even if it was the truth. She was undoing him slowly, bit by bit, and he did not understand how.

  Gabriel’s blue eyes found hers. And across his pale and handsome face, Julia read remorse.

  “Forgive me. I know I’ve disgusted you.” He spoke very quietly. “But believe me when I tell you that that is a very good reaction for you to ha
ve. You should be repulsed by me. Every time I’m near you, I corrupt you.”

  “I don’t feel corrupted.”

  He gazed at her sadly. “Only because you don’t know what it means. And by the time you realize it, it will be too late. Adam and Eve didn’t realize what they’d lost until they were thrown out of Paradise.”

  “I know something about that,” Julia mumbled. “And I didn’t learn it by reading Milton.”

  Just then Christopher brought their pizza, effectively ending their awkward exchange. Gabriel played the part of the host, serving Julia her salad and pizza first and taking great care to make sure that she received more shaved parmesan and croutons than he did. And it wasn’t because he didn’t like those items; he liked them both a great deal.

  While they were eating and Julia was thinking back to their first silent meal together, a song began to play over the stereo system that was so sweet, she put her fork down in order to listen.

  Gabriel heard the song too and softly began to sing to himself, almost under his breath, something about heaven and hell and virtue and vice.

  Julia was struck by the eerie relevance of the words. But then Gabriel stopped, suddenly unsure of himself, and began focusing his attention on his pizza. She glanced over at him with a dropped jaw. She didn’t know that he could sing. And to hear his perfect mouth and voice sing those words…

  “That’s a beautiful song. Who is it by?”

  “It’s called You and Me by Matthew Barber, a local musician. Did you catch that line—the one about virtue and vice? I guess we know which term applies to each of us.”

  “It’s beautiful but sad.”

  “I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful but sad things.” He looked at her carefully before turning away. “I suppose we should begin discussing your thesis proposal now, Miss Mitchell.”

  Julia saw that his professional mask was firmly in place once again. She took a deep breath and began describing her project, invoking the names of Paolo and Francesca and Dante and Beatrice, when she was interrupted by Gabriel’s phone.

  The ring tone sounded like the clanging of Big Ben. He lifted a finger to indicate Julia should pause while he glanced down at his iPhone’s screen. Something disturbing flew across his face.

  “I have to take this. I’m sorry.” Gabriel stood up and answered his phone in one swift motion. “Paulina?”

  He walked into the next room, but Julia could still hear him. “What’s wrong? Where are you?” His voice grew muffled.

  Julia busied herself with her beer and her dinner, wondering who Paulina was. She had never heard the name before. Gabriel had looked deeply troubled when he saw whatever it was that he saw on the phone’s screen.

  Is M. P. Emerson—Paulina? Is she his ex-wife? Or is M. P. a code for something and he’s just messing with me?

  Gabriel returned about fifteen minutes later. He did not sit down. He was agitated in the extreme, pale-faced and almost shaking.

  “I have to go. I’m sorry. I paid for dinner, and I asked Christopher to find you a taxi when you finish.”

  “I can walk.” Julia leaned over to pick up her messenger bag.

  He held his hand out to stop her. “Absolutely not. Not late at night on Yonge Street by yourself. Here.” He pushed a folded bill across the table. “For the cab and in case you want more to eat and drink. Please stay and finish your dinner. And take the leftovers home, will you?”

  “I can’t take your money.” She moved as if to hand him back the bill, and he gave her a tremulous look.

  “Please, Julianne. Not now.” He was rubbing his eyes with one hand.

  She felt sorry for him so she decided not to argue.

  “I’m sorry I have to leave you. I…”

  He was sorry, very sorry, about something. He was in anguish, groaning involuntarily. Without thinking about it, she slipped her hand into his, a movement of compassion and solidarity. She was surprised when he didn’t flinch or throw her hand back at her.

  He squeezed her fingers immediately, as if he was grateful for the contact. He opened his eyes and looked down at her and slowly began to move his fingers across the back of her hand, caressing her lightly. It was all so comfortable and sweet. As if he’d done it a thousand times. As if she belonged to him. He pulled her hand upward, close to his mouth, and stared at their connection.

  “Here’s the smell of blood still; all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,” he whispered. Gabriel kissed her hand reverently, but it was his own hand he was staring at. “Goodnight, Julianne. I’ll see you on Wednesday—if I’m still here.”

  Julia nodded and watched him walk outside and break into a run as soon as his feet hit the sidewalk. It was only after he was gone that she realized she was still wearing his precious cashmere sweater and that tucked into the fifty dollar bill he had left her was the Starbucks gift card, with a note written on the back of the envelope:

  J,

  You didn’t think I would give up this easily, did you?

  Never be ashamed to accept a gift when there are no strings attached.

  There are no strings here.

  Yours,

  Gabriel

  Chapter 13

  By the next morning, Julia still hadn’t decided what to do about the bursary. She was not in a hurry to do anything that would expose Gabriel’s generosity to the suspicious minds of the university’s administration, as she knew that would be dangerous for him.

  And she was not in a hurry to do anything that would expose herself as anything other than a serious graduate student, so she was reticent to go to the chair of their department and explain that she wasn’t interested in the bursary. For the bursary would contribute an impressive line to her curriculum vitae, and serious graduate students were supposed to care about those things more than they cared about silly little things like personal pride.

  In classical terms, Miss Mitchell found herself caught between the Scylla of protecting Gabriel and herself and the Charybdis of holding fast to her pride. Unfortunately for her pride, the true peril aligned with her rejection of the bursary; the peril could be avoided if she just took the money. She did not like that. Not one little bit. Especially against the backdrop of Rachel’s generosity in buying her a dress and shoes and Gabriel’s not so secret attempt at replacing her book bag.

  She neglected to mention to him that she’d returned her knapsack to L. L. Bean and was eagerly awaiting its replacement. And she fully intended to use it when it arrived, just to reassert her independence.

  Friday afternoon, impatient for answers, Julia sent a short text to Rachel, telling her about the bursary and asking if she knew who M. P. Emerson was.

  Rachel texted her back immediately:

  J: G did what?

  Never heard of foundation.

  Never heard of MPE.

  MP = G’s bio-mother?

  Grandmother? luv, R.

  P.S. A says hi and thanks

  Julia puzzled over Rachel’s text, but was persuaded by her suggestion. M. P. must have been Gabriel’s grandmother, for she couldn’t imagine him naming a bursary for someone he hated. And she was pretty sure Gabriel harbored hatred for his biological mother.

  Although it was possible, Julia thought, that if Gabriel was secretive even with Rachel, that there were many things he could have kept from her. So in a fit of boldness, which was brought on by a shot or two of tequila, Julia sent another text asking if Gabriel had a girlfriend in Toronto who she could ask about the bursary. And she immediately received the following response in her e-mail inbox:

  Julia!

  Okay, screw texting—the buttons are too small.

  Gabriel has NEVER had a girlfriend, as far as I know. He never brought anyone home to meet Mom and Dad, even when he was in high school. Scott accused him of being gay once. But Scott has no gaydar.

  Did you see how Gabriel’s apartment was decorated? And the photos in his bedroom? Wait. Did you see those?? No girlfriend locall
y—for sure. I think just screw-buddies. Although he acted weird when I asked. He’s 33 for God’s sake—being a player isn’t cute anymore.

  Are you sure he didn’t make M. P. Emerson up? I’ll ask Scott and get back to you. I don’t want to upset my dad by asking—he’s a mess and…you know.

  Aaron and I are on our way to the Queen Charlotte Islands to stay in a log cabin for two weeks. No internet. No cell phones. Just us—peace, quiet, and an outdoor Jacuzzi.

  Please keep Gabriel from falling off the cliff until I get back.

  Love, R.

  P.S. Aaron wants to say hi personally. Take it away, honey.

  ~~~

  Hello, Julia. It’s Aaron.

  Thank you for taking such good care of my fiancée while she was in Canada. She came back a different person, and I know it wasn’t because of Gabriel.

  We all missed you at the funeral—would love to see you at Thanksgiving. If you aren’t planning on coming home, would you reconsider? It’s going to be rough without Grace. Richard (and Rachel) need their family around them, and that means you too.

  I have frequent flyer miles—I could send you a ticket.

  Think about it.

  Love you girlie,

  Aaron.

  Julia wiped away a tear at the sweetness that was Aaron, feeling happy and relieved that he and his fiancée were still very much in love. What Julia would not give to be loved like that…

  She wondered why Aaron’s offer of frequent flyer miles leaped off her screen as something other than charity, why she was instantly considering his very kind offer. Then it occurred to her—Grace was right. When there are no strings attached and a gift is given out of love, or friendship, which is a kind of love, there was no shame in accepting it. If Julia accepted Aaron’s gift, she could still be part of Richard’s first Thanksgiving without Grace and give the Emerson bursary back.