She took a sip of her wine, embarrassed at how her hand trembled. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think of that dark time, and still it upset her. “It has been so lovely to make friends here and not have to worry about any of it. I so dreaded it, that look in a person’s eye—”
“I know what you mean. You are introduced to someone, and before you have even opened your mouth they have weighed you on some invisible scale, and found you wanting.”
“That’s happened to you?” she asked incredulously. “How could anyone not like you? You’re kind, and generous, and you are very handsome, though I shouldn’t say so.”
“Darling girl.”
“And you’ve always been so nice to me. Since the moment we met, just before our first class, you’ve been so kind.”
“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?” he asked, and though he smiled his eyes were sad. “You smiled at me, you were civil to me. Why would I not do the same in return?”
“Of course I was civil to you. Anyone would have been.”
He smiled again, his eyes even sadder, and kissed her cheek. “Do you remember last month, when I had a black eye?”
“You’d slipped on some wet leaves.”
He shook his head. “No, ma belle. I was set upon. I was walking with a friend; we’d been at Chez Graff, in Pigalle—”
Understanding dawned. “I’ve heard of it. My aunt said that’s where the . . . well, where the homosexuals go . . .”
“Yes. And sometimes thugs who hate men like me. They call us pédés and they consider it a kind of sport to attack us.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wishing to embarrass him. How could anyone wish to hurt this gentle, kind man? It defied all understanding. She reached across the table and clutched at his hand.
“So you, ah . . . you prefer men to women?” she said, lowering her voice, fearful that someone might hear and say something unkind to him.
“Yes.”
“And your family?”
“Lost to me.”
“Oh, étienne. I am so, so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. It is in the past.” He poured more wine into his glass.
“The man you were with, when you were attacked . . . is he your lover?”
“Not anymore,” he said, and there was a world of regret in his voice.
“What if you’d been badly hurt? I can’t bear it.”
“And that is why I love you, my friend.”
The bottle of wine was empty. étienne called for another café express and drank it down straightaway, though it was surely hot enough to burn his mouth.
“Let’s be off,” he said. “Shall we walk on? I don’t feel disposed to take the tram.”
“Yes, let’s walk.”
They continued along the boulevard, the route so familiar to her, now, that she might easily have navigated her way home with her eyes closed. They walked arm in arm, and she was comforted by his closeness and steady warmth.
“I feel so silly. I ought to have understood,” she confessed.
“I don’t have a sign attached to my lapel. Don’t apologize.”
It then occurred to her that if she had failed to realize étienne preferred men, she might have . . .
“Oh, Helena—your thoughts are written on your face. No, he is not homosexual.”
“I, ah, I wasn’t thinking—”
“Your Sam. He is assuredly not homosexual.”
“Oh. Well. That’s good to know,” she said, and though she didn’t have any romantic designs on Sam she was unaccountably relieved.
“You know,” étienne said, “your reaction surprises me. You do not appear to be disgusted or angry.”
“Why should I? It would be terribly hypocritical. I know what it’s like to be shunned, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
“You were very sheltered, were you not? When you were growing up.”
“I was, I suppose. Perhaps it was a good thing. No one was able to teach me how to hate.”
He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “My heart is full to bursting. I am very glad you are my friend.”
“I feel the same way,” she said, and they walked on through the night, until they were crossing the Seine and she was almost home.
“I have decided that I must paint you,” étienne announced, just as they stepped off the Pont St.-Louis. She was so surprised that she stumbled, and would have fallen if not for his arm around hers.
“Me?”
“Yes. You are a beautiful woman. I must paint you.”
“I’m flattered, but I . . .”
“Why do you hesitate?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve had my portrait painted, but it was something I did for my parents. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way the artist looked at me. As if he were cataloging all my flaws, and trying to think of how best to conceal them.”
“Then he was an idiot, for I look at you and I see only perfection,” étienne said. “It would be a pleasant experience for you. I am certain of it.”
They were at her aunt’s door. “May I think on it a little more?” she asked, still certain she would say no, but not wishing to upset or offend him, not after all they had shared.
“Of course. I shall kiss you good night now.” He deposited a chaste salute on her cheek. “Fais des beaux rêves, ma belle. And thank you.”
Chapter 16