“You know the book well.” Alistair drank some more wine.
Oh, yes, I do. I’m still trying to redeem myself. But no one’s giving me a hand to hold onto. Sophia sighed softly and mused, “One can always say that Javert is our conscience. The ever-lurking presence of the law and our own condemnation. The tension between who we were and who we are and who we can be. Javert represents that inescapable, shameful past that forever haunts and pursues one’s conscience. There isn’t a worse judge than a guilty conscience. Javert is the man of the law, and... There are no surprises with the law. The principle of retribution is simple and monotonous, like Euclidean logic. It’s closed to all alternatives and shut up against divine or human intervention... Indeed, Javert represents the merciless application of the law, the blind Justice that in the end is befuddled by hope and the possibility of redemption without punishment.” She almost gasped the last word as she understood why he had picked up the book.
She looked up to find Alistair’s gaze locked on her face. She settled her leg on the sofa, put her hand on his check and said softly, “Does redemption always have to be achieved through violence and punishment or is it possible through gentler traits, such as love, understanding and peace?”
Will you give me a second chance? Alistair closed his eyes and leaned his face on her hand.
“No one is past redemption, Alistair Connor, if one wills it.”
So optimistic, Sophia. He had never wanted to believe in someone’s opinion so much. He felt like crying such was the despair and the hope that warred within him.
“What is it?” she asked softly. “Talk to me.”
He looked at the window panes. Rain poured outside as if the weather understood his mood.
“I need to tell you something,” Alistair spoke quietly.
“Tell me, then.” Sophia straightened herself on the sofa and looked at him. What she saw sent a cold shiver through her spine and dread pooled in her heart. “What is it?”
“I... I didn’t tell you my whole story.” He swirled his wine in the glass and stared at it for a long time. “I never explained to you how I discovered that Heather was cheating on me.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck again.
Sophia’s heartbeats increased to a thousand per minute. Oh, please, leave Heather’s ghost outside my home. “You don’t need to. It’s an unpleasant subject so...” she murmured.
“Well, I never claimed to be sane, did I?” Alistair refilled her glass with wine and blurted the truth before he could repent. “Heather... She gave me a rare STD, Mycoplasma genitalium. The usual tests didn’t detect it. The treatment started too late... After more than a year. It was successful, but... the prolonged infection...” He was watching her face carefully, waiting for the shock to appear. “Sophia... I’m sterile.”
Sophia paled and didn’t utter a word. She was incapable of speaking, of any kind of coherent thought.
Unbidden, an image took shape in her mind - a large, black-haired, rugged man sprawled on the rug of her TV room with a dark-haired boy, the spitting image of his father, lying on his chest. She heard the child’s giggles over a deeper rumbling laughter - she could see them, there, only a few feet away from her. She almost reached out to touch them.
In her mind, she did. She stretched out her hand to the man’s familiar shoulder, hard and stable as rock. Light shined on their black windblown locks. Unable to help herself, completely fascinated, she reached out, hesitantly, for the child’s face. And beautiful forest green eyes so like his father’s blinked playfully at her. As she watched the scene, she felt a chilling cold spread through her whole body.
She prayed. Prayed for a booming voice to say that Alistair was not sterile. That it was all a huge mistake. But then a horrible black shadow fell over the room and extinguished the light. It swallowed the image whole, banishing it to the realm of unattainable dreams.
Emotion welled up, unlike any she’d known. Tears filled her eyes and she almost sobbed with the grief that permeated her soul. Dazed and faint, she shook her head.
There. I knew it. “Say something,” he pleaded in a whisper, afraid to touch her and be repelled. “Anything...”
“Are you sure?” Was all she could ask in a voice so low that he more divined than heard the words.
He breathed deep and told her about the awful day when Doctor Ben had given his final verdict.
“There’s no doubt. I can’t have any more children.” His voice was so laden with pain that Sophia shoved her own deep down in her soul.
A thousand thoughts invaded her mind as she tried to sort out what she knew about that disease. Nothing came to her mind. Sophia had never worried about STDs. But she made a mental note to gather all the information she could about it. “And why-” Why would you think it would matter to me?
Why am I telling you this now? “I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair, humiliated. “I should have told you from the beginning.” Christ! “But it makes me feel... less of a man. Our relationship is getting serious and I know you want more children. I don’t want you to become more involved, if I can’t fulfill your dreams.” He shrugged self-deprecatingly, but watching her closely for a reaction. “I think it’s only fair so you can decide if you want to conti-”
Sophia put a finger on his lips. “You didn’t let me finish my question.” She felt a sharp pain slice her heart in a million pieces. “Why do you think it would matter to me?”
What? He remained silent, as if struck by a blow.
Her voice was soothing when she asked, “If it were the other way round, would you not have me? Would it be over for you?”
He gasped, indignant and scowled at her, “I would have you in any way, Sophia.”
She scooted closer to him. “So would I.” Her fingers interlaced with his and she squeezed gently. “So will I.”
“But, my love, I don’t want-”
“Shhh,” she put her fingers on his mouth and browsed the book. “Here, read.”
Alistair read the passage she was pointing at.
And read again.
He raised his eyes seeking her help, because he wished it to be true but needed confirmation.
She knew that the help he was asking was not for translation. His French was better than hers. Anyway, she read out loud in English, “‘You no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God.’” She looked up and fixed his gaze with hers, “The bishop bought Valjean’s soul when he gave him the two candlesticks, because it was what Valjean needed. Now, Alistair Connor, I’m buying your soul. It’s not such a high price to pay, is it?”