JEAN-LUC
Jean-Luc lifts the razor to his cheek, glancing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a split second, he doesn’t recognize himself. Pausing, razor held in midair, he stares into his eyes, wondering what it is. There’s something American about him now. It’s there in his healthy tan, his white teeth, and something else he can’t quite identify. Is it the confident way he holds his chin? Or his smile? Anyway, it pleases him. American is good.
With a towel wrapped around his waist, he wanders back into the bedroom. A black shape outside catches his eye. Through the window, he sees a Chrysler crawling up the street, coming to a halt behind the oak tree out front. Strange. Who would be calling at seven o’clock in the morning? He stares at the car, distracted, then the buttery smell of warm crêpes wafting up the stairs calls him to breakfast.
Entering the kitchen, he kisses Charlotte on the cheek, then ruffles his son’s hair in way of greeting. Glancing through the window, he sees the car is still there. He watches as a lanky man extracts himself from the driver’s seat, craning his neck, peering around—like a pelican, he thinks to himself. A stocky man emerges on the other side. They walk toward the house.
The doorbell cuts through the morning like a knife. Charlotte looks up.
“I’ll go.” Jean-Luc’s already heading that way. He slips the chain from the lock and opens the door.
“Mr. Bow-Champ?” Pelican Man asks without smiling.
Jean-Luc stares at him, taking in the dark navy suit, white shirt, and plain tie, and the arrogant look in his eyes. The mispronunciation of his name is something he usually lets go, but something pricks his pride this morning. Maybe it’s because the man is standing on his doorstep. “Beauchamp,” he corrects. “It’s French.”
“We know it’s French, but this is America.” Pelican Man’s eyes narrow a fraction as he sticks a shiny black shoe across the threshold. He peers over Jean-Luc’s shoulder, then his neck clicks as he turns, cocking his head to one side, looking at the car port where their new Nash 600 is parked. His top lip curls in one corner. “I’m Mr. Jackson, and this is Mr. Bradley. Mr. Bow-Champ, we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” He adds inflection to show his surprise, but his voice sounds false to his ears—an octave too high. Muffled sounds of breakfast reach out to the doorstep: plates being stacked, his son’s light laughter. The familiar noises echo around Jean-Luc like a distant dream. He closes his eyes, clutching at the vanishing edges. A seagull screeching calls him back to the present. His heart beats hard and fast against his ribs, like a trapped bird.
The stocky man, Bradley, leans forward, lowering his voice. “Were you taken into County Hospital six weeks ago after a car accident?” He stretches his neck, as though hoping to gather information about the life inside the house.
“Yes.” Jean-Luc’s pulse races. “I was knocked over by a car rounding the corner too fast.” He pauses, taking a breath. “I lost consciousness.” The doctor’s name, Wiesmann, springs to mind. He fired questions at Jean-Luc while he was still coming around, feeling foggy. “How long have you been in America?” he asked. “Where did you get the scar on your face? Were you born with only a finger and a thumb on your left hand?”
Bradley coughs. “Mr. Bow-Champ, we’d like you to accompany us to City Hall.”
“But why?” His voice comes out as a croak.
They stand there like a blockade, hands behind their backs, chests thrust forward.
“We think this would be best discussed at City Hall, not here on your doorstep, in front of your neighbors.”
The veiled threat tightens the knot in his stomach. “But what have I done?”
Bradley rolls his lips together. “These are just preliminary inquiries. We could call the police in to assist, but at this early stage we prefer… we prefer to get the facts straight. I’m sure you understand.”
No, I don’t, he wants to scream. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Instead, he mumbles assent. “Give me ten minutes.” Closing the door in their faces, he returns to the kitchen.
Charlotte is sliding a crêpe onto a plate. “Was it the postman?” she asks without looking up.
“No.”
She turns toward him, a thin crease across her forehead, her brown eyes piercing him.
“Two investigators… They want me to go with them to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they want. They won’t say.”
“They won’t say? But they have to. They can’t just ask you to go with them without telling you why.” The color drains from her face.
“Don’t worry, Charlotte. I think I’d better do what they say. Clear things up. It’s only questioning.”
Their son has stopped munching and is looking up at them, a tiny frown on his forehead.
“I’m sure I’ll be back soon.” Jean-Luc’s voice rings false in his ears, as though someone else is uttering these words of comfort. “Can you call the office; tell them I’ll be late?” He turns to his son. “Have a good day at school.”
Everything has gone still, like the hush before a storm. Quickly he turns and leaves the kitchen. Normal. He must act normal. This is only a formality. What can they possibly want?
Ten minutes. He doesn’t want them ringing the bell again, so he hurries into the bedroom, opening the drawer in the wardrobe, glancing at his ties coiled like serpents. He picks out a blue tie with tiny gray dots. Appearance is important in a situation like this. He takes his jacket off its hanger and walks back down the stairs.
Charlotte is waiting in the kitchen doorway, her hand over her mouth. He takes it, kissing her cold lips, looking her in the eye. Then he turns away. “Bye, son,” he shouts toward the kitchen.
“Bye, Daddy. See you in a while.”
“Catch you later, crocodile.” His voice cracks, missing the right note again.
He senses Charlotte’s eyes on his back as he opens the front door and follows the men to their black Chrysler. He takes a deep breath, forcing the air down into his abdomen. Now he remembers hearing the storm break in the middle of the night; can feel the earth thick with water, starting to evaporate already. Soon it will be humid and hot.
No one speaks as they drive past familiar houses with large, open lawns reaching out to the sidewalk, past the paper shop, the baker, the ice-cream parlor. This life he’s come to love.