The dean stood triumphantly. “You, young man, are dismissed.” He stepped to the window and proudly looked out at the campus. Paul backed toward the door, torn between wanting to speak and waiting for the dean to turn and change his mind. When it became apparent that he would say no more, Paul tried again.
“Thank you, sir, for allowing me to speak.” He paused. “I know that I’ve been a difficult student for you, sir, and that you’ve gone out of your way to be fair.” He stopped and looked around the room for a moment, sensing he was there for the last time. “Good-bye, sir. And oh, by the way, although our eminent first president and chancellor wrote of this quote, it was actually attributed to Edward Ravenscroft in the Canterbury Guests.”
Dean Clark screamed at the window, “Get out! Now. Get out. Not another word. Get out!”
“Sixteen ninety-five.” Paul eased his way out the door but thrust his head back in through the opening.
“What?”
“Sixteen ninety-five. Ravenscroft. The quote. He wrote it in sixteen ninety-five.”
Despite himself, Paul smiled at the memory but quickly grew somber as his father entered the room. Le Maire Senior planted himself in a spot within arm’s reach of his son, who had risen to meet his fate. The particles that hung in the air quickly disappeared, as if frightened by the alien force.
“Look at me.”
Paul Junior could not raise his eyes.
“I said, look at me, damn you.”
“I cannot, Father, for I am too ashamed. I’ve let you down—”
“Ferme la bouche.”
A deep-seated dread crept over Paul. He knew that when his father reverted to French he would soon be out of control.
“Tu le délectes à m’embarrasser.”
“Father, I take no joy in your embarrassment.”
“Je ne posais pas une question, imbécile. It was a statement of fact.” The older man was smiling at the younger, but it was a mirthless, ominous grin.
“I think I explained quite clearly to you what would happen if you gave me cause to discipline you again en regard de l’université?” The man stood in front of Paul, unwavering. His eyes glinted; his chin rose and his hands worried the seams on his trousers.
Paul lifted his eyes to try to meet his father’s icy glare.
“You did explain, sir, that I would be physically punished if it became necessary to confront me again on this matter. But then, that was when I was fifteen. I would hope, sir, now that I’m seventeen, that I could now speak of this with you as a man.”
Paul never saw his father’s hand streaking toward his face. The blow came without warning. His head spun, his cheek stung, and his eyes clouded.
“Bâtard.” Blows rained down in quick succession. Paul Senior grabbed his son’s coat collar with one hand and slapped him as if he were a stranger with the other. “Tu as humilié cette maison. Tu fais honte à toi-même et à cette famille.” His ramrod-straight posture never varied.
“I’ve disgraced myself only, father. Please allow me to make amends.” Paul tried desperately to ward off the blows, at the same time wishing to take the punishment he knew he deserved.
“Ah bon! Now you wish to be treated as a man? Tu veux seulement réparer tes erreurs?”
“Yes, Father. May I speak?”
“Pourquoi est-ce que je te permettrais de parler? It is your speech that has gotten you to this place.”
“Father, don’t strike me again. Or I’ll leave your house forever.” Paul had slipped to his knees, completely submissive. He had never spoken to his father so directly before and expected a new volley of blows.
But the senior Le Maire grasped Paul by both lapels and drew him up tightly to his breast. “Tu es bâtard. Tout littéralement. Illegitimate. Your mother is the woman you thought to be your Aunt Jacqueline in Paris. I’m not your father. Nor is the pitiful woman that we both hear weeping in the kitchen your mother.”
Paul gazed back as if in a dream. The older man seemed to take pleasure in revealing these secrets.
“Why do you tell me these lies, Father? I’m your son. You can’t hope to punish me with false news of my being illegitimate and expect me to believe it.” Paul’s face still smarted from the blows. He looked through tears at this man who had just destroyed his life.
“Va à ta chambre. Vas-y. Do not speak of leaving this house until I say so.” With a heavy push, Paul Senior propelled the younger man violently across the room.
This person before him, whom he loved, could not be telling the truth. Impossible. Why, he looked like his mother. Everybody said so. But yes, he also looked like his Aunt Jacqueline, who touched his face in such a familiar way when he first met her. Jacqueline—his mother? Could it be?
Paul felt he was in the throes of some fantastic nightmare. But the black dream had started well before this day; he had always felt a loneliness he couldn’t quite comprehend. His father was more than New England stern: he displayed a distance that Paul could never seem to bridge, even in the most private times. He felt he could never succeed in his father’s eyes, no matter how accomplished his studies or how hard he tried in his efforts at the manly arts. Paul remembered being beaten by a sparring partner in fisticuffs. He had risen to his feet again and again, blood streaming from his nose, rather than admit defeat, until the ringmaster insisted the fight stop. Glancing to where his father had stood, looking for the slightest sign of approval, he saw only the man he revered walking out in disgust.
And his mother. His mother? The lady who… yes, his mother. She was always good to him, but again, not the source of deep warmth and understanding he craved. Perhaps irrationally. Perhaps not so irrationally after all.
Paul stared at the space where this man who had been his father had disappeared.
You are right, sir, I will not speak of leaving this house. But I will be gone just the same.
The rail was slick from the rain; salt crusted on the worn wood. Jack was tired, his legs weak from the constant motion of the boat. The deck was practically deserted, except for the helmsman and a few hands on watch. Still, he knew he had to get some sleep.
Going below was still difficult. As he made his way among the bunks, he heard a moan. That survivor’s body—Paul, was it—was entangled in a blanket, stained with use. Jack stopped at the chesthigh berth. The man stank of urine and was drenched in sweat. His bright blue eyes were open, focusing at the bottom of the bunk above him. He seemed to be about his own age but smaller, and delicate-looking; Jack could tell he was handsome, although right now forlorn. It’s the seasickness, Jack surmised.
“The cook has told me there be salted cod and bits of cheese for supper,” he said. “If you like, I’ll fetch you some.”
“Speak to me not of food, for I am soon to die.” The words came out gravely, spoken between chapped, broken lips. There was a long pause. Jack waited expectantly. Finally, Paul’s ashen face turned slowly to him.
Jack snickered but immediately felt ashamed, as he had also been sick and knew of the nausea brought on by the sea.
“I’m sorry to laugh, but you’re a long way from death’s door—fifty years or so, I’d say.”
Annoyed, the limp sailor peered at Jack, daring him to continue.
“You’d be the fellow they fished out of the sea two nights ago, wouldn’t you?”
“Fished would be the proper verb, yes.”
“You looked more dead than alive. But you seem to be with the living now.”
“What of Martin? My mate? Is he… dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. His burns were severe.” Jack didn’t know if it was his place to tell the young man this news, but it was out and so be it.
With a sigh, the pallid seaman tried to cover his head with the blanket.