René's finger slipped off the cold metal knob. The watch ticking on his arm counted down the seconds. His back was ramrod straight, his pulse dense in his ears. He felt slightly dizzy, everything around him moved when he turned to look behind him. The street was empty; he'd checked it a hundred times. Misty drizzle caught in the orb lights, shining like flecks of glitter before disappearing in the blackness below. The neighborhood was quiet and wet.
"I will unlock the door at fifteen minutes past two o'clock," Juliette had whispered, pressing her sweet rose mouth near his ear. "Frank always watches the late show on television and follows it with a nightcap at one o'clock. He'll be in bed, asleep by the time I let you in." Juliette and her husband no longer shared a room.
René's breath caught in his throat for a moment as the knob turned in his hand. Chilly fingers went lax as the door opened a crack. Juliette stood wearing a long, drape of white and looked even more beautiful than usual. She put a finger to her lips, her dark hair hiding her face as she bent her head. Pale hands motioned René into the house, and he stood, feeling lumpy and sodden on the front carpet. Rain water dribbled off his coat and face and fell in rivulets when he snatched the hat from his head.
"Gloves?" Juliette whispered.
René nodded, showing his hands.
"Follow me."
She moved like a ghost, soundless and gliding. They passed dark shapes, outlines of furniture that René could not make out. The rooms smelled of roses and slightly of smoke, cigar maybe.
And then Juliette stopped outside of a closed white door. Light from an outdoor security lamp lit the hallway slightly and René could see Juliette pressed into the nook between this door and a small alcove. His breath was ragged in his ears and Juliette pressed a finger to her lips.
His left hand reached for the knob, his right for the item in his pocket. Slowly, slowly the door opened before him. He could make out a large bed pressed against the wall farthest from the windows, a hulking shape within. René moved swiftly now, the anger re-emerging, a hot burn. His movements were clean and fast. He doubted the man felt anything at all. But when he was done, the blood soaking the sheets, the gun tucked back into his jacket pocket, René found that something was missing. Even as Juliette clung to his side, back in the dark hallway. Even when she sobbed into his shirt, thanking him for setting her free, there was an empty space in his soul. A space which made him feel lonelier than ever before in his life.
"Got a visitor." The guard's words were monotone and he did not look at René but at the wall beside him. He should be used to it by now, but being invisible, he supposed, was never an easy thing to accept.
René nodded, shuffled in leg chains to the ugly green room. The paint, which had given up the hope of being scraped, fell off the concrete on its own. Hard metal chairs sat across from each other in untidy rows, a thick plastic divider between. The place smelled of body odor and a stale, sour smell which reminded René of the garlic pickles that used to sit in a tall jar on the bakery's counter in summer. His stomach turned. He pressed a hand to his mouth but then saw her and forgot about the queasiness.
Juliette sat, china doll perfect. Her thin legs were crossed at the ankles and she wore a pretty pillbox hat in turquoise that set off her dark features. René's breath hitched in his throat and he yanked the chair out with more force than necessary, causing it to squeal across the chipped tile.
"It is very good to see you," he said when they'd each taken up a receiver. Juliette held hers a bit away from her face and René was glad. None of the stink of this place should be allowed to touch her. He himself was just now growing used to the untidiness, the ugliness and it had been how long now? Two years. Two years and . . . six months? Eight? But Juliette was speaking. He pressed the receiver into his ear.
"So good to see you, René. I'm afraid though, that I have some rather sad news. My mother passed away, you see, and I must go back to Florence to make the arrangements. It will be a long trip for me; in fact, I might not be back for quite some time. . . "
A strange buzzing filled René's head. His lips, when he tried to open them stayed firmly stuck together. He poked his tongue out over them.
"What is this? What are you saying, Juliette? Your mother. . .” his voice trailed off. "Your mother already passed, of this I'm certain. You told me that she died when you were a young girl. You said. . ."
Juliette laughed gaily, the sound tinkling through the receiver like bells.
"Oh, of course, how silly of me. I didn't mean my mother. That is, not my birth mother. But an aunt, a favorite aunt. Like a mother she was to me. That's all I meant, René, that she had the same attributes of a mother." Juliette, René noticed with growing alarm, did not look at him but stared just over his head at the wall. His insides tangled and heat swept over him. Juliette, gone? Going away for months. Months? Years, perhaps. What if she never returned?
"But I . . . this is such a shock, Juliette. Why is it you never mentioned this in your letters?" The truth was, that Juliette hadn't been writing very many these days. Still, René knew that she was busy. After the death of her husband she'd had her hands full, selling the home they'd lived in and setting up a smart townhouse in the art district. Then there had been all the financial details, the stocks and bonds and retirement plans to weed through, the legal paperwork and will and insurance information.
"Why, René, don't be angry. This is a horrible tragedy that I'm dealing with. My favorite aunt, like a mother to me, and you’re . . . you," she broke off then, head bowed as she wiped a clean pink hankie at her eyes.
"Merde. I am sorry, Juliette. I did not mean anything cruel, it's just such a shock. I will miss you so much, dear one." René fumbled his words, half standing at the glass, hand outstretched.
Juliette looked up then, eyes glistening, rose bud mouth pressed into a thin line.
"It's fine of course, René. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I will write you soon, from the city, once I reach my cousin's house. But now I must go, or I chance missing my flight." She tucked the hankie into her small purse, her eyes finally meeting his. The glass was smudged, and René desperately wanted to wipe it clean. But he stood, stiff and helpless.
"Take care, René. Take care of yourself in here." She glanced around the room, shivered slightly. "I'll write you soon, my darling. I promise." Her eyes held his for another moment and then, like a light switch flicking off, she was gone. Heaviness pressed down on him, and when the guard shoved him roughly back into his cell he barely noticed.
She was gone. Juliette. His light. His life.
He spent a restless night, just dropping off to sleep to suddenly jerk awake again. He dreamt he was in his papa's bakery, watching the skilled hands form loaf after loaf of dough. Endless rows of them marching on, until René jolted awake. Realization spread over him then, like a choking, black cloak.
Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu.
“. . . once I reach my cousin's house. . . favorite aunt. . . like a mother. . ."
Juliette's words hung over his head, hammering at him like fierce rain. Then they laced together with other words, words spoken in a little bistro near the hotel where they'd spent the night before he'd been arrested.
"No, no siblings. For my parents either. Small holiday gatherings, certainly, but a kind of beauty in the simplicity of that, don't you think? All we had was each other." Her eyes had been shining and bright, her cheeks flushed from the wine and he'd hoped, from something more.
René held his head in his hands.
Gone. All gone. And for what?
"No, John, like this," René said, re-arranging the big man's hands in the pile of dough.
"Press down firmly and then turn the dough. Turn! Turn! Like so. This is bread, gentlemen, not a flower. You can be a little assertive here, eh? Show the dough who the boss is." René laughed and a few of the other men joined in. The sound still surprised him; or maybe more the fact that the laughter came from his own throat.
"I'll put these in the oven gentlemen, and tonight we'll feast on proper French bread." The men moved, single file to the stainless sinks where they washed their hands, then past the guard still in a line.
"Tomorrow we'll start with pastry," René called after them. He sounded almost excited, which surprised him. It felt good though, right somehow. The years were melding together, spooled out like a long ribbon. Once again his life had purpose.
René's hands moved effortlessly around the counters, wiping flour away, and finally burying his hands into the warm dough. He hummed quietly, a little French tune that he'd known since his boyhood.
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Bitter & Sweet: a Short Story Page 3