Grandfather had come with me to Paris. He was compiling all those years of research into a book, a book that surely wouldn’t be read by more than a handful of enthusiastic old linguists in the world. “I can write in France as well as Scotland,” he said hopefully. “And the coffee is significantly better.” So he came along with crates of books and notebooks filled with his Alizarine scrawl. We rented a first-floor flat with big windows and an easy walk to Café Aleppo, where he could get cups of thick, bitter coffee to fuel his early morning frenzies of writing.
And I, I had a purpose. Every day, I walked to the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs and had a sliver of a role in changing a man’s life. After years of following Grandfather around, of filling his pens and overseeing his recordings, I was the one with something to do. Something that mattered. In the Studio for Portrait Masks, I felt like I belonged, more than I ever did at the School of Art.
Seeing Luc sent my heart spinning and wrenching, all at the same time. Once, I dreamt of fairy-tale endings, of castles and white horses. But I’d grown up since then. Whether in Iberia, Africa, Scotland, or France, I built my own castles. I never again waited in tower windows. There was too much of the world to see.
But I saw Luc and suddenly I thought of towers and sunsets. The blush and flutter that came with that kiss under the poplar, they returned. Again, I felt a starry-eyed fifteen. I wondered at Madame and Monsieur and the way she used to touch his face and call him “cher.” I wondered if what she gave up was worth it.
“No,” I said aloud, squaring my shoulders. I’d come too far to stop now, to give up all this. For what? To run a household? To take care of one person when I could work to help dozens?
When Pascalle pushed me and her scarf through the gate, I walked home. I would wash my face and eat lunch with Grandfather. He was already home from his morning coffee, engrossed in a book as he attempted to unlock the door.
“Oh, dear.” I hurried over. “Wrong door again, Grandfather.”
The door in front of him swung open to reveal a portly bearded man with a string of expletives. Grandfather looked up from his book and blinked.
I took his elbow and steered him to our apartment down the hall.
“Is it already half past six?” he asked. “I’ve misplaced my watch.”
“It’s only noon and you misplaced your watch three weeks ago when you gave it to an old soldier in the Gare du Nord.” I unlocked the door.
“He was worried he might miss his train.” Grandfather set his book and his hat down on the sofa. “Then why are you home so early?”
“Making you lunch.”
He held up a finger. “Ah!” From the briefcase tucked under his arm, he extracted a paper sack with five bichon au citron, not squashed too flat. “Lunch!”
“Is that real sugar on top?” I asked as I put the teakettle on.
“Marie puts them aside for me.”
“Marie?”
“I’ve mentioned her.” He wiped lemon cream off the books in the briefcase. “Owns the bakery next to Café Aleppo?”
There always seemed to be generous widows and sweets despite food shortages. I didn’t remember this one. “Of course.”
“You’ve been distracted,” he said, stacking the cleaned books on the kitchen table. “I’ve noticed.”
This, coming from a man who had, on more than one occasion, worn his pajama shirt beneath his jacket. “It’s nothing.” I measured tea leaves. “I’ve been thoughtful at work.”
“It is difficult, I’m sure, to work with these men.” He folded up the towel. “But you’ve never been distracted before over them. Last night it sounded like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
All I’d wanted to do was help the men who came into the studio. When each soldier was brought in, that first time they looked us in the eye and realized that we weren’t going to glance away, in that moment it became personal.
But that wasn’t what he meant. That wasn’t what kept me sleepless last night. It was those blushing dreams I hadn’t had in years, the ones where I woke with my arms wrapped tight around my pillow.
“A soldier came in yesterday,” I finally said. I weighed how much to tell him. “But he left before I could finish my sketch.” I inhaled. “I don’t know if he’ll return.”
Grandfather sat and pulled a pastry from the bag. “Is that all? You’ve had mutilés leave before. Some aren’t ready for masks, you said.”
“It’s true.” I brought the pot to the table. “Some haven’t yet accepted the face they wear already. They aren’t prepared to accept a new one.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure this soldier is no different. He’ll return when he’s ready.”
Without telling him, I didn’t know how to explain. I knew Luc, knew how stubborn he was. I knew he might risk much to avoid me. “Not this one.” If he stayed away, it would be my fault. “I can’t let him go.” I poured out his tea and missed the glass. I swore in Arabic.
“I was going to ask what made this soldier different from the rest, but you’ve answered that.” Grandfather handed me the towel he’d used to wipe his books. “When I last saw you this furiously impatient, you were in the Laghouat post office, waiting to see if that Crépet boy had written you.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that Grandfather knew. Though he often lost track of time, he never lost track of me.
He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the table, eyes bright. “You found him again, didn’t you?”
I bit my lip, then nodded. “I almost didn’t recognize him.” I pushed away the wet glass and sank into the seat across the table.
The last time I’d seen Luc’s face, the face that appeared under my fingertips on the sketch pad, was the day Grandfather came to Mille Mots and told me that he was taking me away. I’d fled to my room and sat on my bed, ignoring the knocking on my door and the pleas to just come out. The window was pushed open and it was Luc. He came over to the bed and said, “You’re strong enough for this,” and I finally let myself cry. I’d left Paris and Stefan Bauer for the safety of Mille Mots, only to find a grandfather I hardly knew, ready to take me away from that safety. The ground beneath me kept shifting, but this boy came to find me, to hold me up, and to tell me I was strong enough to do it on my own. He didn’t shush my tears or murmur “It will be okay,” because it wouldn’t. He held me until I stopped crying, until my shoulders stopped shaking, until I was as drained as a raisin, and he lay me down on the bed.
I fell asleep, but I knew he was still there. Through my hot, flushed sleep, I heard him talking with his mother at the door and I heard him moving around the room, packing up my trunk for me. He fumbled with my wardrobe, dropping boots and rattling drawers, though I’d never seen him anything less than completely sure about everything. When I woke, in a velvety black night, he was curled up on the floor next to my bed.
The door opened and Madame came in to take me down. Grandfather was waiting; he wanted to leave before dawn if we were to catch the boat at Le Havre. From the light coming in the open doorway, Luc stirred. “Luc, she’s leaving,” Madame said, then stepped from the room. He sat up on his knees, suddenly alert, his eyes on me. The light from the hall cast one half of his face orange, the other left in angles and shadows.
I’d wanted then to tell him thank-you. I’d wanted to tell him that, yes, sometimes I wasn’t as strong as I thought. I’d wanted, with some small part of me, to cling to him and never leave. At Mille Mots, the rest of the world could be forgotten.
But I didn’t. I nodded, only once, hoping I could put all of that into my eyes.
Luc, I think he understood. He reached out, took my hand and kissed it. “Always at your service,” he whispered. Then he was out through the bedroom window, across the roof. I went to the window and watched him disappear into the dark. Overhead, Perseus and Andromeda shone. It was the last time I saw him.