In the past week Father has refused to discuss the plans to open the new branch in Couzeix. He seems to be shrinking into himself, a ball of knotted worry. Jean-Paul has noticed and finds an excuse to visit the office almost every day. As he goes over the plans with me, his gravelly voice and occasional guffaws of laughter are the only thing that seem to be able to raise a shadow of a smile on my father’s face.
This morning he is not yet downstairs and Maman and I sit in the strained quiet of the dining room, the tick of the carriage clock seeming to fill the space. She tries to talk but finds herself fading away as she catches sight of his chair at the head of the table, the indent in the cushion, the dark oak of the armrests. I pick up my bowl and drain the coffee, dabbing the side of my mouth with a napkin.
Excusing myself from the table to escape the depressing atmosphere, I take the stairs two at a time, one hand on the banisters, the other on my thigh, blocking out the pain in my joints with thoughts of what lies ahead. I feel the solid wood underneath my hand, its surface smooth, the smell of wax lingering in the air. My feet don’t make a sound on the runner, its faded middle showing its age, the edges still a clash of reds and orange.
I pass the door to my parents’ bedroom, wonder if my father is padding around inside. The thought doesn’t stay. My mind is jumping ahead, knowing what lies in store for me. Unable to keep a smile forming on my lips – my mother’s sad face already forgotten, any thoughts of Father dissolving into dust – I push open my door and an explosion of images of Isabelle overwhelm me. Today I will be seeing her. Today, today, today. I know I am young, and naïve, and in love, and all the other absurd phrases that are bandied around in songs and poems that mock a man in my position, but I can’t help myself.
I disguise my feelings in front of her – I don’t want to scare her and I know, with certainty, that I don’t yet want to know if she feels the same. Because if she doesn’t I don’t want to face it. I want to enjoy these moments in the sun, bask in the impression that my feelings are reciprocated, that she lies on her bed in idle moments wondering where I am, what I’m doing. That somewhere, out there, she is thinking about me.
I have yet to tell my parents about her. At any other time Father would have noticed and wormed it out of me, but he is so distracted I could wander around the house with a bullhorn announcing my feelings for her and he would probably not look up from his cold café au lait and half-read newspaper. I know I should tell them, as it is not like me to keep these things a secret, and yet I feel the need to keep it to myself a little while longer.
Every girl I’ve ever known seems to move through this life with a chaperone in tow – a glimpse or smile scolded instantly by a disapproving look from the person trailing her. It is always just Isabelle, alone, and that thought makes me grin again.
She assures me she doesn’t need to tell her parents yet. They are worried about their son, have heard nothing for weeks, and she doesn’t want to give them more to worry about. I don’t press her, don’t want to upset things. I know that there will be things about me to make them worry, things I can’t change. I think fleetingly of my Father’s face, know what he might say. I shake off the thought as I pick up my hat.
We don’t plan to meet – it is always seemingly coincidental, no arrangements are made. But since that first meeting at the café all those months ago, and every time since, when I see her she mentions she will be in the book shop on rue Aristide Briand at two o’clock on Thursday or in the Parc Victor Thuillat around one o’clock on Monday. So I am drawn there and she is waiting. She looks up as I arrive, eyes widening a fraction, as if she doesn’t really expect to see me. That look gives me such a jolt – an electric charge surging straight through my eyes to my heart, zap; she has me and I know it is improper, and I know it can’t go on, but the weeks and months go by and we meet and we talk and then she says, ‘I’ll be at the Café Thérèse at three o’clock on Friday,’ and I am incapable of staying away.
Today she will be at the library again on rue Louis Longequeue and I will try to leave the office a little early for lunch as I must talk to her. I will try to muster the courage to move things along in the correct way; it isn’t right to deceive others, or ourselves. Things must be out in the open. I am convincing myself of this as I walk down the street, umbrella up as it starts to rain in a rather half-hearted way, coating the pavement in a light sheen, little droplets clinging to my shoes and the bottom of my trousers. The weather has been as listless as Father’s mood and the overcast skies seem to be storing up more rain to come later. The air is thick and stifling.
As I am shaking out my umbrella on the steps of the library, a tall man with a pencil-thin moustache emerges. I nod at him, mouth twitching, amused by his facial hair, which doesn’t fit his ample frame. He tuts at me, and I wonder if I have spoken my thoughts aloud.
I don’t hear what he says the first time.
He mumbles at me as he adjusts his hat, looking me up and down slowly. He repeats his words to a besuited companion, the mayor of the town I think, as he too emerges from the library. ‘Not fighting. Typical of them.’
I freeze, willing myself to be mistaken.
The other man, all bristles and gut, looks over at me, sneers as he turns up the collar of his coat.
I go to say something, to challenge the man, but I am hopelessly deflated. His words bite into me, make me want to explain to these people that I can’t be a soldier, that I did try. Their sons are probably away fighting, I think, trying to reason with myself.
Them.
Had he really? Was it more than not fighting? Was Father right? Did people really see us in a different way?
‘Sebastien … Sebastien?’
It is a moment before I turn, an expression on my face making the smile die on her lips.
‘Is anything wrong?’