“What?” Alistair sat up on the sofa. Mark was one of his best friends. “I didn’t get the invitation.”
“We sent it to your apartment. Heather rang us and talked to Beth. It seems you had a trip planned.”
“We did travel, but I would have postponed it if I had known that Mark was getting married. It wasn’t that important. We went to Saint Barths for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary which was in February.”
“Well, too late now, son.” Doctor Lodes shrugged. “See that you don’t miss Johansson’s wedding in two weeks. His father told me that Heather has declined as well.”
What? Alistair’s mouth fell open. What’s going on?
“Did you receive the last results from Heather’s exams?” Doctor Lodes continued.
Oh, damn. I forgot Heather’s exams. And Emma’s. I don’t even know if they did them after the treatment. Alistair looked sheepishly at the older man and shook his head.
The doctor’s face showed no surprise. “Well then. Alistair Connor, I don’t want you to become nervous with what I’m going to tell you.”
“Too late for that, Doctor Ben. I’ve been freaked out since our appointment in December.” Alistair almost laughed. But his doctor and friend had such a stern expression on his face that he knew this was no time for humor.
“My boy, I received confirmation that the moxifloxacin was effective and that the bacteria were eliminated. Nonetheless... It took too long to diagnose and the damage... Treatments are evolving and maybe in the future they can reverse what’s happened-”
“You’re scaring me, Doctor Ben,” Alistair shifted on the sofa and leaned toward the doctor to better look at his soft brown eyes.
The doctor thinned his lips and looked away for an instant.
When he looked back, his face showed a piercing sadness. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Alistair Connor. I’ve known you all your life and I love you as if you were my own son.” He shook his bald head and a cold dreariness sifted through Alistair’s bones. “But the test results arrived this morning. I still had hope...” He inhaled deep, rested his hand over Alistair’s and blurted, “Son, I’m sorry, but the disease has made you infertile.”
Atwood House.
Sunday, March 21st, 2010.
8.06 p.m.
“She slept, finally,” Sophia said, entering the TV room with two wine glasses hanging upside down on her fingers and a bottle of Romanée Conti and halted as she saw Alistair’s sleeping face. He was sitting on the sofa, his head resting on a pillow, bent sideways, and his bare feet propped on one of the low square velvet ottomans placed near the sofa.
In the peaceful gloom of the room, he looked younger than his thirty-five years, with his absurdly long lashes making shadows on his cheeks and his long bangs falling over his forehead. The book he had taken from her shelf to read had fallen on the floor, and was standing vertically, perched on its covers.
Sophia approached quietly and put the bottle and the glasses soundlessly on the side table. She bent down to pick up the book and frowned when she saw the tittle. Les Misérables? Why so sad, Alistair Connor?
She put the book next to the wine and served herself, admiring the handsome man on her sofa. She found it unsettling to see him like this, so defenseless and unguarded.
Sophia didn’t feel protective toward him except when he told her about Nathalie and Heather.
Alistair was always so sure of himself, so in control and unwavering in his positions and ideas. He seemed bigger than life. But lying there, he looked so vulnerable. So in need of care and love.
She sat beside him on the sofa, lightly caressing his hair, as she savored the wine.
His brows drew tight and his hands clenched in his lap as his breathing became rough. He opened his emerald eyes, startled, searching for her.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered as he blinked and straightened himself on the sofa.
“Nae, it’s okay,” he shook his head. “I guess I’m tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” He rubbed his eyes and picked up the book from the side table, leafing through it in silence.
Sophia peered at the page he had stopped. She had marked a sentence. ‘Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his temptation.’
He flicked his gaze at her and back to the book.
Hmm, not good. Not good at all. “So, what do you want to do?”
“It’s up to you,” his fingers touched the marked line as he answered her, absentminded. “Anything. I’m not really hungry.” And you won’t be either after I tell you the rest of my wretched story.
She studied his expression as she poured him some wine and handed him the glass, “What is it, Alistair?”
“Nothing,” he said, drinking the wine, avoiding her eyes. “Hmm, this is good.” He picked up the bottle and feigned interest in it. “You have a peculiar way of reading.” Where is my courage? “I’ve never seen anyone so thoroughly mark and comment a book.”
“Les Misérables has lots of interesting passages. Many intertwined plots with many different characters.” Alistair Connor, I know you by now. There’s something nagging you. Sophia sipped her wine as she watched Alistair run his hand over the back of his neck, nervously.
Tell her the whole truth. “Aye, the main thread is the story of the ex-convict...”
“Yes. Jean Valjean...” she supplied, wondering where the conversation would lead.
“Aye. Do you believe it is possible?”
“What?” What? What are you really asking me?
“That by a magnanimous gesture of a fellow man, the bishop, in this case, the warped spirit of a convicted man could be redeemed?” Can I be too? “Valjean was blinded by bitter rage for being condemned for so many years by stealing a loaf of bread. Such a small act of despair.” He kept his eyes glued on the book while he quietly spoke, as if he were talking to himself.
“An act of despair? Even though it was committed in despair, it was still a crime. And he had to pay for it. The issue was that his punishment was disproportionate to the crime. He served nineteen years before he was put on parole. On parole, for the rest of his life.”
You didn’t answer my question, Counsellor. “But do you believe he could be saved, spiritually speaking? That someone who had committed that many sins, who was so degraded, could nonetheless be led to believe in the righteous way?”
Hmm. What do you want to hear? Innocent or guilty? “Yes, I do believe it. Valjean is guided to the light once more,” she stressed the last two words, “because he was a good man. His intentions were never evil, despite his crime.”
“Let’s assume he could be saved...” He raked a hand in his hair, unsettled.
“He was saved, Alistair Connor. More than once. It was as if... All he needed was a second chance. And he was given second chances throughout his life. And he took them all; the bishop’s kind gesture, the gardener at the convent who was a refugee are just two of them. Loving and caring people who weren’t mislead by his appearance, or his disguises, extended him a hand which he took and used it to better himself.”
A second chance. “But even having accepted a new path, he never could escape his dark past, could he? Javert, I mean.”
Uh-uh. This doesn’t sound good. Sophia waited for him to continue, but it was clear Alistair wanted an answer to his question. “No, he could not because Javert could never understand the power of redemption. He was unyielding, strict, blinded by the supposedly infallible nature of the law. His suicide is proof of his incomprehension. And also the absence of a kind bishop to lead him onto the good path.” She took the book from his hands and started looking for a specific passage. “We must believe there’s always a chance for those who want to be saved. And this book is all about appearances, disguises, understanding and redemption. Jean Valjean’s, French society’s and even Javert’s. The police officer, who was obsessed with right and wrong, spent all his life trying to atone for his parents’ sins by being irreproachable. And, even though he was wrong in the eyes of religion, he redeemed his own sin, the lack of understanding, of goodness, of mercy, by committing suicide because he couldn’t bear the agony of living between his duty to the law and his debt to Valjean.”