Page 22 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Honestly, Camille, I don’t know how far that is. But I’ve been doing it just fine. Thank you for the offer, but I really am good.”

I study him, waiting for some indication that this is humor rather than obstinacy, but he only shifts the bag higher on his shoulder and looks toward the road.

“I have no objection to helping you,” I say.

Something guarded moves through his expression. It comes and goes quickly, but I see it. “I know. And I appreciate it. I just don’t want to keep imposing.”

“You have imposed nothing.”

“Well then I’d like to keep it that way.”

Before I can determine whether the words are meant as a joke, he gives me another small wave and leaves.

I remain beside the wall long after the sound of his steps has faded.

People generally recognize opportunity when it stands before them.

Ryan is alone in a foreign country, isolated in a village that has already made its dislike of his grandfather’s name apparent, living inside a house that is scarcely habitable and attempting repairs he has neither the tools nor knowledge to complete. He has little command of the language, no vehicle, no established relationships, and no understanding of the history into which he has walked.

I have offered transportation, supplies, translation, knowledge, and safety.

The sensible response would be dependence.

I had expected him to accept my friendship with gratitude, perhaps even relief. I had imagined the progression clearly enough—assistance with the cottage, meals at my house, questions about Alberte answered slowly and selectively until Ryan trusted me enough to grant unrestricted access to his property.

It should have been simple, but no.

He carries his own supplies. He consults books and poorly translated websites rather than asking me which tradesmen can be trusted. When a delivery van arrives with timber two days later, I learn he has managed to arrange the purchase through a combination of gestures, broken French, and what must have been a deeply unfortunate telephone conversation.

He is even repairing the garden wall himself.

Badly, if I may add.

I stand at the window of my specimen room and watch him wrestle a stone into position, only for it to roll loose and narrowly miss his ankle. Ryan swears loudly enough that the words carry through the trees, then braces both hands upon his knees and glares at the wall.

I could rebuild the damaged section before luncheon, but he spends four hours on it and accomplishes less than a metre.

Along with watching him struggle from his refusal to accept any assistance, I’ve become increasingly aware that the longer Ryan remains, especially always being outside and easily seen, the greater the likelihood that someone else, someone who may want Ryan for the same reasons I do, will learn that Alberte’s grandson has returned.

Perhaps they already know.

I check the road cameras twice each day and review the feed from the lower gate before bed. No unfamiliar vehicles have stopped near the cottage. No one has approached through the woods. The only unusual activity is Ryan himself, who moves restlessly from room to room after dark, appearing in one window and then another with a flashlight in his hand.

The cottage will be searched eventually, with or without permission, but Ryan himself presents a more complicated problem. If Alberte told him anything—if there is some phrase, memory, childhood gift, or document whose significance he has not yet recognized—I require his trust before he understands the value of withholding it.

Trust has always been an uncomplicated transaction.

Offer a person what they need, and they begin to associate your presence with relief. Continue long enough, and relief becomes expectation. Expectation becomes reliance.

Yet Ryan refuses the first step.

On the fifth morning, I find him at the edge of the road speaking to Monsieur Duret, the village roofer, in a mixture of English and such badly fractured French that listening becomes physically uncomfortable.

Duret knows perfectly well that Ryan cannot understand him. He speaks faster anyway.

I’m approaching them before I realize it.

“Vous lui donnez un prix pour le travail ou pour son nom?” I ask. Are you charging him for the work or for his name?