Tristan Beauchene knew that going out with Rene Girard was a mistake, since it wasn’t the first time he had done so, nor was it the first time he had regretted it.
As a room-mate, Rene was the perfect companion: his social life was such a whirlwind, that he was rarely ever around. The few times that he was, he was usually asleep till very late in the afternoon.
Still, the two of them had known each other since around Kindergarten. And since both were natives of the tiny port commune of Honfleur in northwestern France, they were considered to be de facto relatives.
Then again, most of the eight thousand plus residents of Honfleur (who called themselves the Honfleurais) could probably trace their family histories to each other if they looked back far enough. Or so the local joke went. This was often accompanied by hilarious laughter, much to the puzzlement of outsiders and passing tourists.
Tristan and Rene were not friends in the strictest sense of the word – more like they just got used to each other, as the old French saying goes. As such, each tolerated the others’ quirks.
To be more precise, Rene mostly ignored Tristan, while the latter put up with Rene as best he could. Theirs was not a relationship of equals, after all; though to his credit, Rene never did anything to remind Tristan of this fact.
The Girard family was very well-to-do, and owned an apartment in Paris’ 18th arrondissement, near the Basilica de Sacre Coeur. So when the two found themselves accepted by premier colleges in France’s capital, the Girard family had insisted that Tristan move into their apartment with Rene. For free.
“To keep an eye on him,” they had insisted generously.
They were being kind, of course. The fact was that Tristan’s widowed mother barely managed to make ends meet for herself and her only child. Were it not for his government grant, as well as for his scholarship, Tristan would never have been able to study at the Université Paris Diderot – a premier medical college.
That scholarship and grant only went toward tuition, however. It did not cover food and transportation; and since the university had no student housing, could not provide that, either. It did, at least, cover some of his required expenses for books and school supplies. If he was careful, he had enough for food.
While Tristan and his mother were a proud lot, they realized that the Girard family’s offer was a lifeline. Were it not for that, Tristan would probably have been stuck in Honfleur for the rest of his life, condemned to a life of lower-class mediocrity with no prospects whatsoever.
In France, it is not what grades you graduate with, after all, but where you graduate from, that determines your future. This explained why Rene, who barely graduated from the Paris-Sorbonne University with a degree in Philosophy and Sociology, was set up for life.
So Tristan had worked himself to the bone, and it showed. In France, people can enter medical school immediately after high school if they qualify for it. While the average age of medical school graduates was between 24 to 25 years of age, Tristan had graduated at the unusual age of 23. Not only that, he had managed to place himself at the top tier of the national ranking exam.
All of Honfleur had celebrated his success, and there was even some talk of naming a street after him. Everyone was so proud of him, even the Girard family, who took credit for his success.
“We gave him the best accommodation, even took care of everything, eh?” they would tell anyone in Honfleur who would listen.
Tristan and his mother were both wise and eternally grateful enough to keep their mouths shut.
For Tristan, at last, it was the start of something good; not just for himself, but for his mother, as well. In his fourth and fifth years, he had done his internship at the Curie Institute. While the pay wasn’t anything to write home about, it was about as much as what he got from the various part-time jobs he took whenever he could find them. Nevertheless, it had all paid off. Tristan had done so well, the Institute had offered him residency.
“Is that it?” Rene had asked, leaning over Tristan’s shoulder as the latter stared wide-eyed at the letter he had just received.
It was not from the Curie, however, but from the Pasteur Institute. Tristan was speechless as he read and re-read the letter. It formally invited him to take up his residency with them. Since he had managed to skip an entire year, they offered to pay him an actual salary, not the slightly-above-minimum-wage that the Curie was offering.
“Well, this requires a celebration, then!” Rene exclaimed. “Come on, Tristan. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And don’t you worry about the tab. You can pay me back when you’re a famous celebrity doctor and I need help with my back or something.”
Tristan hated this part. Even back in Honfleur, he did not go out much because he couldn’t afford to. It seemed obscene to do so when his mother worked so hard to put food on the table. And over the last several years, he could afford it even less, both in terms of costs and time.
“Come on, Tristan! You never go out. You’ll enjoy yourself, I swear. And dress up. You can borrow some of my stuff. God only knows where you do your shopping.”
It wasn’t just the fact that he felt humiliated each time he accepted something from Rene. It was also the fact that he really didn’t like the places that Rene went to.
Living as they did in the 18th arrondissement, they were near the Place Pigalle. This was Paris’ notorious red light district, famous for the Moulin Rouge, or Red Mill, with its neon-lit windmill on the roof.
Having lived in Paris for years, however, neither would be caught dead in that tourist trap. No, Rene’s tastes were less restrained, and as such, they were at the La Réunion (The Meeting).
Tristan tried to look like he was enjoying himself, but was failing miserably. Rene had called over some topless red head, and she was trying to earn her tip by rubbing her bare tits against his arm.
The woman was obviously stoned and had forgotten where she was. She was speaking to him in some Eastern European language; Russian probably, from the sound of it. Or she probably thought it sounded exotic enough to turn him on.
All around him, more topless women were doing the same with the other patrons. As for Rene, he was nowhere to be seen: probably porking a hostess somewhere nearby.
Tristan sighed. It almost always ended up like this: Rene dragging him out, then leaving him alone to fend for himself. Mindful of what he owed the Girard family, Tristan always found it hard to say ‘no’ to Rene.
Without warning, his hostess grabbed his crotch and began rubbing it. Tristan pushed her hand away, and she started laughing.
“Itak! Shto te gay, ha ha!”
“What?” Tristan said in panic as he fought to get away.
“I said: so you’re gay,” she switched to back to her badly accented French. “You’re not even hard,” she chuckled.
Tristan panicked and tried to get up.
“No, wait. No. I’m sorry. Stop,” she pleaded, her eyes suddenly taking on a more alert look.
Tristan had gotten up, but the woman looked genuinely apologetic, and she held onto his hand, “Budte dobry,” she insisted.
“Look, I don’t understand. I don’t even know what that language is.”
“Sorry,” she giggled. “I am Russian. Please,” she pulled him back down beside her. “Do me a favor.”
“Lady, I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve done a full day’s shift cleaning an empty office building. I’d like to just go home.”
But she pulled him up closer to her, “Your friend, he already paid, you understand?”
He didn’t.
She sighed, rolled her eyes up and muttered something in Russian before explaining. “Your friend, he has paid for the evening. One hour. I need the money. Now you understand?”
His eyes widened in horror. She smiled, holding a finger up to her lips. She didn’t look at all stoned now.
“You are hungry? No, I mean, stomach hungry?” she patted her belly. “There’s a cheap shawarma place near, is very good. Your secret, I keep,” she looked down meaningfully at his groin. “But you keep mine.”
He understood, at last.
She got up, put on a jacket, then took his arm and led him toward the exit of La Réunion. A bouncer approached, but she held up her fingers a certain way, and he nodded at whatever code she had used.
“Enjoy your evening, monsieur,” the bouncer said with a wink.
Tristan found out that her name was Katya, and that she did indeed know of a great shawarma place nearby.
“Your brother does not know that you are… uh…”
“He’s not my brother,” Tristan replied. “And no, I don’t think he does.”
The two spent the next hour together, just wandering up and down the area as they talked. Tristan found himself amazed. After all these years, he finally came out of the closet, and to a Russian prostitute who barely understood him, of all people.
“You must try Ivan,” she teased him as he walked her back to La Réunion. “He would be good for your first time.”
He gaped at her, “You can tell even that much about me?”
She shrugged and suddenly looked sad, “Good night, Tristan. You are a good man.”
He gave her a gentlemanly kiss on her hand, and she brightened up a little, blushing like a girl at such unusual treatment. Then she put on her stoned mask and walked back into the establishment. The man guarding the door smiled at Tristan with a nod and a wink.
Tristan didn’t bother going back inside to look for Rene. With a new bounce to his step, he walked home, whistling the entire way.