“I told Valérie almost the exact same thing,” Hector muttered.
Étienne gave Hector a questioning glance, but Hector raised his hand, waving away his friend’s inquiry before he could begin to formulate it.
“I’m not trying to be young again. This is not a spiritual vampirism.”
“Then what is it about?”
Revenge. No. Retribution. God, he couldn’t even pick the right word. No. It was about Valérie. About a chance to be close to Valérie. Also a chance for something else. Fairness. Yes. Why was it that everyone else was allowed a chance at happiness and he was not? Why shouldValérie be married, sharing the warmth of her bed with her husband while Hector watched the days slip away in the loneliness of his apartment? He’d had plenty of that. It was enough.
“I like her. She’s easy to talk to. And there is a pleasant sensation when being in the presence of someone who regards you with admiration. People look at me all the time, Étienne. I am onstage, they clap, and when we are introduced, they express their delight in my performance. But they don’t admire me. I’m not esteemed.”
“Hector, come.”
“No, it is true. It is different to be a gentleman like you, born and bred, than to be a man of my ilk.”
“You are hard on yourself.”
“I am honest. But the point is, I do not think she would see any difference between the two of us. She might even hold me in higher esteem than you, even if you are a Lémy. Despite her provincial ways or whatever other faults she may possess, she is a Beaulieu and belongs to a category of ladies men like me are not allowed to pursue, yet I feel she does not see it that way. I am her equal.”
Étienne nodded, putting out his cigarette in the dregs of his coffee. “What does Valérie think of this courtship of yours?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You said you spoke to her.”
“Briefly,” Hector said. “Besides, I said I ‘intend to court her.’ Nina and I have conversed only a handful of times.”
“My question remains the same. What does Valérie think?”
“She thinks I am a fool. As you do.”
“I did not say that.”
“You disapprove.”
“Have you ever even courted a lady? Aside from Valérie? No.”
He recalled his first terrifying year away from his native country. Immediately upon his arrival in Zhude, one of the largest ports in the north of Iblevad, when he lodged in a cramped, flea-infested lodging house for young men, his boots were stolen while he slept. He had to walk through the city in his formal shoes, which were not suitable for the cold. He could have either a lunch or a dinner, but not both. The other young men smoked cheap cigarettes to keep the hunger at bay, butHector could not even afford those and went around to cafés and shops and street corners to put on his shows. In the evenings, against the dimming light, he wrote to Valérie, pages filled with words of love, phrases he’d stolen from poets who declaimed at the same coffee shops where he juggled for his supper, and others composed from his own imagination.
When she abandoned him, he tore the paper to shreds with his thoughts, flung the inkpot out a window, determined never again to commit passion to the page.
He had not spent his life living in a monastery, but he had limited himself to more ephemeral relationships. No, he had not courted many,any,ladies since Valérie.
“I am not a green boy. As you mentioned, I am an old man,” Hector said, irritated.
“If I were you, I would be trying to stay as far away from the Beaulieus as possible. As far from Valérie as possible. But I am not your father to tell you what to do or not. You know how to live your life. At least, I hope you do.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Étienne said, raising his arm, trying to attract the attention of a waiter.
The waiter arrived, notepad and pencil in hand.
“We need the finest wine you have. We are toasting to my friend, who is desperately in love and wishes to be married,” Étienne declared.
Hector did not appreciate the joke and glared at Étienne.
His friend shrugged. “It has to be brought up, doesn’t it?” Étienne said.
