by Alix Nichols
“Work that bitterness into your songs. You’ve done it before.”
Cyril shook his head. “In small quantities, it can make for a good song, but… I got nothing else. If I write a song, it’ll be crap halfway between a rant and a screech.”
“You should write anyway,” Adrien said. “As a form of therapy.”
“Oh, it’s therapy we’re talking about.” Cyril clapped his hand to his forehead. “Stupid me.”
Adrien began to say something, but Cyril wasn’t listening.
“This”—he pointed to the tumbler in his hand—“is the best therapy for my affliction. Works like a charm.”
He brought the glass to his lips and emptied it in one long gulp. Ah, the incomparable flavor, the spicy tang. It took his mind off the darkness around him for a few seconds.
Which was the longest he’d managed so far.
Chapter Three
Emma
She walked down rue Cadet, squinting against the sun to read the names of the cafés and restaurants. La Bohème had to be somewhere around here, unless its webpage had the wrong address, which would be strange. Then she saw it—a cozy-looking bistro with a sidewalk terrace nestled under classic red awnings.
Emma slowed down, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks and her heartbeat ratchet up. Which was unnecessary. Cyril wasn’t on the terrace, and she couldn’t discern anyone that looked like him through the windows. But even if he was inside the café, she had no reason for anxiety. He wasn’t going to rebuke her. How could he? He wouldn’t be able to see her, for Christ’s sake.
She took a few fortifying breaths, stepped over the threshold, and went straight to the most strategically located table. A uniformed waitress with pale blue hair smiled from behind the bar. Her eyes were lined with black kohl, her nails were painted dark blue, and she looked to be in her early twenties. Emma smiled back, mouthed “coffee, please,” and pulled out her phone to keep herself busy.
When the waitress brought her coffee, Emma looked up from her email. A ping-pong sized ball snaked in through the door. The white cane attached to it followed. Emma dragged her gaze from the cane to the person holding it—Cyril.
Unseeing.
Unsteady on his feet.
Scarred.
She covered her mouth with her hand and choked back the sob threatening to erupt from her lungs and give her away.
“Hey there!” The blue-haired waitress cheek kissed Cyril and accompanied him to the table opposite Emma’s.
She couldn’t have chosen a better spot.
Recovering from her initial shock, Emma studied Cyril’s face—every inch, every detail of it. He wore dark eyeglasses, even though, according to Geraldine, his eyes were unharmed. His blindness was a consequence of the brain trauma he’d suffered during the accident, not direct damage to his eyes. The glasses had been Geraldine’s idea because his vacant gaze made her uncomfortable.
Next, Emma studied the close-cut beard he’d grown to hide some of his scars.
The ones that could be hidden.
Emma blinked several times to push back the tears and turned away. She needed to stay calm and act normal. Otherwise someone might ask her if something was wrong and attract Cyril’s attention. She didn’t want his attention.
Not yet.
The blue-haired waitress reappeared with a beer for Cyril. “The usual breakfast?”
He nodded. “Yes, please.”
“I’m sorry I can’t sit down and chat today. I’m filling in for a colleague who’s home sick. But Rob is taking his coffee break in ten minutes, so—”
“You don’t have to entertain me, Jeanne. And neither does Rob.”
Jeanne put her hands on her hips. “Honey, do I look like someone who does things out of obligation?”
Cyril pointed to the smartphone he’d pulled from the pocket of his jacket. “I have my audiobook. And a friend will join me here shortly.”
Panic crushed Emma’s chest. Could the friend be Geraldine? Her sister had been putting off that drink with Cyril for a couple of weeks now. What if she’d finally made the time for it? What if she walked through that door and gave Emma a tongue-lashing for ogling her boyfriend?
Or ex-boyfriend.
Or whatever he was to her now.
The image of Geraldine’s entrance was so vivid that Emma could hear her sister’s polished voice. And every bit of mockery in it. Cold sweat beaded her forehead and her palms grew clammy. She rummaged in her purse for her wallet. She had to get out of here ASAP.
And then she remembered something. The friend Cyril had referred to couldn’t be Geraldine. She was in Montreuil right now, pitching their new concept to a potential client. Emma pulled out her phone and checked their shared calendar. The meeting had just started, and there was no way Geraldine could make it to the 9th arrondissement in the next couple of hours. The friend Cyril was expecting had to be someone else.
She returned her attention to Cyril and Jeanne, who continued bickering.
“Trust me, honey, nobody’s trying to entertain you,” Jeanne said. “We’re simply taking advantage of your unfortunate circumstances to get the inside scoop on your songs.”
Cyril’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Oh, I s— I understand. That’s OK, then.”
“Good,” Jeanne said and sauntered away.
Emma watched her go behind the bar, butter a lengthwise-halved baguette, place it on a plate, and hand it to a waiter whose most remarkable feature was his utter unremarkability. If God had blended every human male together to mold a new specimen, the result would have been this man.
“For table three,” Jeanne said.
The statistical derivation glanced over his shoulder. “The disfigured guy with the sunglasses?”
“Didier, for Christ’s sake, can you lower your voice?” Jeanne hissed. “He’s blind but not deaf.”
Emma cringed. As a matter of fact, Cyril was deaf. The head trauma that had caused his blindness had damaged his eardrums, too. He now wore discreet hearing aids in both ears. According to Geraldine, the devices worked perfectly, even if Cyril complained they distorted voices beyond recognition. This piece of intel, incidentally, was the cornerstone of Emma’s plan.
And perhaps her future.
The insensitive Didier shrugged and added in a quieter voice. “People who drink beer at eleven in the morning don’t give a shit about what others think of them.”
Jeanne gave him the stare. “He isn’t like that.”
“I’m just saying, sweetheart.” Didier took a step toward the front room, then stopped and turned his head to Jeanne. “Mind you, if I looked like him, I’d make sure I was never sober, too.”
When he finally delivered the buttered tartine to its destination, Cyril’s mouth was pressed into a hard line. He must have heard everything.
He took a swig of his beer, lifted his smartphone to his face and said, articulating every sound, “Call Gerrie.”
No.
Emma felt every muscle in her body tense up.
Don’t call her. She’s not coming. She won’t even pick up right now.
But she did pick up, judging by the smile spreading across Cyril’s face.
“Hi. When do you think you’ll be here?” he asked.
Emma slid to the edge of her chair with her hand on her purse, ready to take off at any moment.
Cyril’s smile faded.
“Oh,” he said. “Yes, of course… I can hear that… No, you didn’t promise anything. It’s just… when we talked on Sunday, you said your Thursday morning was free, so I expected you’d meet me here.” He swallowed. “I must’ve gotten the day wrong.”
Emma’s body went limp with a mixture of relief, shame, and heartrending pity. Her snow queen of a sister had just blown Cyril off without as much as an apology.
As if it was a perfectly fine thing to do.
As if he wasn’t broken enough already.
Chapter Four
Cyril
Over the past two weeks, Cy
ril got in the habit of eating breakfast at La Bohème every day and extending it with a coffee or a beer. Or two. But he made it a question of honor not to overstay Jeanne’s hospitality, especially during the busy hours between midday and three in the afternoon when the bistro sounded like a beehive on Prozac. Besides, it made him uneasy being in the midst of a small crowd emitting all kinds of noises and talking all at the same time.
But excepting the lunch-hour madness, La Bohème was a pleasant enough place to be, even at dinnertime. Besides Jeanne, another waiter looked out for him there—Rob, the tone-deaf fan she’d warned him about. He loved to quote from Cyril’s lyrics, of which he had an impressive knowledge. Rob had just finished grad school and received a job offer abroad. He was friendly and upbeat, even if Cyril could detect unmistakable notes of sadness in his voice every now and then. But Rob denied having any defensible cause for complaining about his life.
A couple of days earlier, when Cyril pressed him about the indefensible causes, Rob took some time to consider his reply. “I’ll tell you a story,” he finally said. “Once upon a time, there was a penniless knight. Actually, he wasn’t even a real knight. He was a commoner pretending to be a knight so they’d let him compete in tournaments.”
“You’re shamelessly plagiarizing A Knight’s Tale,” Cyril cut in.
“Only the setup. Great movie, by the way.”
“I agree. But go on.”
“So this fake knight signed up to slay a dragon for a briefcase of gold.”
“A satchel,” Cyril corrected. “For the sake of period detail.”
“Period detail, huh? It’s my story, remember?”
“A little historical accuracy can go a long way, mon cher Passepartout.” Cyril held up his index finger, imitating Phileas Fogg from Jules Verne’s classic.
Rob snorted. “OK. You want accuracy? I’ll give you accuracy: It was a pouch of gold. Now stop distracting me.” He tut-tutted. “Where was I? Ah yes, the knight slays the dragon and frees the damsel—”
“You didn’t say anything about a damsel.”
“That’s because she didn’t matter to the knight at the beginning. He was only after the gold. Anyway, the knight and the damsel travel back to the capital, and it turns out she’s amazing—you know, fun and kind and… sweet. The journey ends way too soon, and they bid each other farewell in front of her parents’ house. The next day, the king tells the knight, ‘Dame Elena—the damsel you rescued—likes you. You may marry her if you renounce the gold.’ ”
“And the knight?”
“The knight says, ‘I’ll keep the money, thank you.’ ”
“I suppose he later regretted that choice?”
“Something like that.”
Other than this allegorical confession, Rob never discussed personal matters. Most of the time, he shared well-observed tidbits of the goings-on at the bistro, which invariably brought a smile to Cyril’s face. Unlike everyone else in his life, including his best friend, Adrien, Rob didn’t go out of his way to avoid subjects that might upset him.
It was refreshing.
Last night Cyril went to La Bohème on a fact-finding mission. He intended to secure an objective description of his appearance from Rob. During the first two months after the accident, he’d hardly given any thought to the issue, the enormity of his blindness occupying all his available gray matter. Until a few weeks ago, he'd believed he didn’t care what he looked like. He’d had no plans to grow obese or scruffy, of course, but his scars hadn’t been a concern.
That was before Gerrie started avoiding him.
As expected, Rob turned up during his break. “I’ll be leaving for Thailand in ten days,” he said, pulling up a chair. “This week is my last at La Bohème.”
“Bonne chance.” Cyril paused and then took a long breath. “I want you to tell me if I look creepy.”
“Wow. You don’t bother with smooth transitions, do you?”
Cyril shrugged. “I can assess the size of my scars, but I have no way of gauging how bad they look. How bad I look.”
“Um… Well…”
“Listen, I need you to be completely honest and describe what you see without choosing your words. I can’t trust my family or friends to do that, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me.”
“OK. Fine.” Rob went silent for a brief moment. “Here goes. Your forehead is a mess. Big purple-red scars all over, curving and crisscrossing. How did you manage that?”
“Hit the windshield.”
“You should consider growing bangs. Thick and long. And sideburns. And maybe combing your hair forward at the temples? You know, Beatles-style.”
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“Bad, but not creepy. Believe me, you don’t look scary.”
Cyril nodded.
“Will the scars fade with time?” Rob asked.
“Somewhat.”
“But I’m sure modern medicine can do something, right? What did the doctors tell you?”
“They told me they could diminish the redness with lasers and they could thin them surgically.”
“So?”
“The surgical revision has to wait until a year after the accident. But the laser can be done in a few months, as soon as the scars are ‘mature.’ ”
“That’s good news,” Rob said. “Hey, the other good news is that the bottom half of your face is totally presentable. Whatever scars you may have there are hidden behind that neat beard you’ve got going. Who trims it for you?”
“My dad. He’s had a beard most of his adult life, so he’s really good.”
“Aren’t you lucky?”
“I know. It’s crazy, right?”
“And there’s more good news. Your mouth area looks good. I’d say you have a sexy mouth, man.”
Cyril snorted.
Rob cleared his throat loudly. “Correction. I would have said it. If I were gay.”
Chapter Five
Emma
“And here comes mademoiselle’s petit noir.” The server gave her a fleeting smile as he placed her espresso on the countertop and rushed off to another customer.
Emma swallowed the scalding coffee, counted to ten to calm her breathing, and walked over to Cyril’s table. “You’re Cyril, right?”
She hoped the doubt in her voice sounded convincing.
“That’s correct. And you are?”
“Laura.”
“What can I do for you, Laura?”
She expelled a long breath. Say it. “May I sit down?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I can autograph an album, if that’s what you want, but no photos. And I mean it.”
“I’m good,” she said, pulling out a chair to sit across from him. “I already have your autograph, and I don’t want a picture.”
“Oh. OK.”
During the silence that followed, Cyril cocked his head as if to ask, What is it you want from me then? But Emma was dumbstruck. All last night’s preparations had been in vain. She couldn’t remember any of the icebreakers she’d come up with.
As quietly as she could manage, she opened her purse, retrieved a folded sheet of paper, and read out the first line from her list. “I love your songs.”
“I don’t,” Cyril said. “But thank you. If it weren’t for you and the likes of you, I’d be blind and poor.”
If it weren’t for me… Oh God.
Cyril raised his beer glass. “To your good health.” He moved it toward his mouth and paused. “Are you having a drink? Can I buy you one?”
“I don’t drink alcohol in the morning,” Emma said, unable to redact disapproval from her voice. “But thanks.”
“Good girl. Don’t you let decadent assholes like me sway you from the path of righteousness.” He closed the remaining distance to his mouth and took a sip. Gingerly, he lowered the glass to the table in front of him.
“I get tipsy off one beer,” Emma said to soften her earlier admonishment.
“Not me. Unfor
tunately. But I never drink anything stronger than beer before lunch. I, too, have principles.”
Principles, my foot.
“So tell me, Laura, how can I help you?”
“I was hoping for a chat… about your music. As I said, I’m a huge fan and this is a fantastic opportunity.”
“As I said, I’m not a fan of my music… but I’ve got time to kill, so sure. What is it you’d like to know?”
“I’ve always wondered about your creative process. Where do you get your ideas? Where do the lyrics and tunes come from? Which one comes first?”
Cyril sighed. “Have you checked out the F-A-Q section on my website?”
“Of course I have. But it’s useless. You don’t really answer your fans’ questions in your F-A-Qs. You just goof around and show off how funny you are.”
Cyril spread his arms apologetically. “One has to goof around somewhere.”
She wasn’t done. “It’s like you’re two different people. In your songs, you’re someone who feels deeply, someone sincere and relatable. But you turn into a superficial smartass in… the website.”
Emma cringed. She hadn’t meant to say these things, at least not now during the first meaningful conversation she’d ever had with him. What if he suspected something? What if he realized this was too personal and figured out who she was?
She stared at him, trying to read his expression. To her surprise, Cyril’s mouth stretched into an amused grin. “You don’t take prisoners, do you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be unkind—”
“You weren’t unkind. You were honest, and I appreciate that.” His face grew thoughtful. “I guess… I guess when you routinely bare your soul before people, it’s hard to maintain the same level of naked intensity in other aspects of your life.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure I’m making sense—”
She leaned in, praying for him to continue. “You are.”
He nursed his glass with both his hands. “Suppose I wasn’t a superficial smartass. Then you can think of my stupid jokes and my cynicism as… clothing. Something to cover my untanned nudity when I’m not exhibiting it on stage.”
She swallowed. “I never thought of it that way.”