We headed back to the room at twilight. I felt full with happiness. Jack stretched out on the bed again and fell asleep. I guessed he wasn’t feeling 100 percent. I sat on the chair on the balcony and looked out at Paris. I opened my iPad, but I didn’t read. I wanted to breathe Paris into my core. I wanted to trap some part of it so that I could carry it with me. I saw the pigeons alight on the slate roofs for the night and watched a tiny plane pass overhead. One by one, lamps came on down in the street, and soon the building shimmered with yellow light, cocktail light, where people came inside and sat and began their evenings. I watched it all and said not a prayer, not a memo to God or a mysterious creator in the sky, but instead to life, to whatever it was that propelled Hadley and Ernest and all the people who had come to Paris to discover what they didn’t even know they needed. I had come, too, and now I was going to say good-bye, but I vowed never to leave Paris entirely, to carry it with me, to keep it as my own secret to visit whenever life permitted it.
A little while later, Constance tapped on the door.
“Is he still asleep?” she whispered when I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
“He’s asleep. I’m not sure he feels great.”
“Raef said the club we’re going to isn’t far. I texted you the address. We’ll see you later?”
“I hope so.”
Constance gave me a quick hug. She smelled of the outdoors and of her favorite soap.
“We’re going to eat something with some of Raef’s friends, then we’ll go from there. But the plan is to go to the club. I’ll text you if anything changes.”
“What time will you get there?”
“Late, probably. Everything is late in the jazz world.”
“Okay, shoot me a text to let me know what you’re doing.”
She nodded. Then she left.
*
Sitting on the small balcony after Constance had gone, I read parts of Jack’s grandfather’s journal. I held it on my lap and maneuvered my chair until I had sufficient light to read it.
It was a remarkable document. The writing was fiercely literate, and the paragraphs and observations were delivered in a sharp, sure hand. He was an excellent draftsman, too. He sketched his impressions of buildings and flowers, boulevards and bridges. He seemed drawn to architecture, especially, although he possessed varied tastes. He had a good eye for images and small details.
It was easy to see what about the journal attracted Jack. His grandfather had been a kind, compassionate soul. He wrote about children and animals suffering the effects of the war. He wrote about the bombings and the smell of thermite still lingering in the air. He also found beauty in all the devastation, and his pictures—plain, simple figures, for the most part—possessed an elegant primitivism that needed no words.
I was still reading, fully involved, when Jack whispered to me.
“Hey,” he said.
“You awake? How do you feel?”
I put the journal down and climbed into bed with him.
“Better.”
“Really better, or just trying to be brave better?”
“No, I think I’m on the mend. It might have been some food poisoning. I have a chronically weak belly. You might as well know that.”
I put my hand on his forehead. He felt warm but not feverish.
“I was worried about you. I’m still worried about you. Do you think we should find a doctor?”
“You’re sweet. But I’m all right.”
“You must be starved.”
“What do we have around?”
“Odds and ends, Jack. I’ll run down and get you something else.”
“No, let me try whatever’s here. It will be okay.”
I kissed him lightly and climbed out and took a few minutes to put together a haphazard snack. It wasn’t much. I gave him the remainder of the bread we had from my backpack, an apple, and a bottle of iced tea.
He went to the bathroom while I got things together, and I heard him washing. When he returned, he looked a little better.
“I haven’t even asked if you can cook,” he said as he climbed back into bed. “Do you have any kitchen skills?”
“Not many. You?”
“I’m not bad. I have about ten dishes I can make. That’s about it, though. Plus the basics.”
“Well, don’t judge me on my little snack here. I don’t have much to work with.”
“I appreciate you doing it and staying with me.”
I gave him the makeshift tray, the food arranged on the cutting board Amy had donated to the cause. I sat next to him. He ate slowly, picking at things and chewing carefully to judge how the item sat with him. He drank the iced tea in two gulps. I gave him the rest of the water bottle.
“I was reading your grandfather’s journal,” I said. “It’s wonderful, Jack. Have you ever thought about trying to publish it?”
“I’ve thought about it. I talked to my dad about it once, and he wondered why anyone would be interested in a man’s journey through Europe after the war.”
“Why wouldn’t they be? I would think anyone would see the value of that.”
“That was my position. My biggest concern about writing a book of alternating chapters is whether I can match his style. He’s better than I am.”
“I doubt that. But how did he learn to write so well?”
“You mean as a farm boy in rural Vermont? I don’t know. I’ve thought about that. His father was a veterinarian. They had books at home, that sort of thing. His mother was a midwife. He read mostly classic literature. Ovid and Sophocles. He hid his learning, but it was always there. The nights can be long in Vermont, and when you’re a farmer you don’t have as much to do in winter. He read by the fire or woodstove. I once saw him speak to a classics professor from the University of Vermont, and I watched the professor’s face change as he realized how much my grandfather knew. He was a remarkable man.”
“You’re lucky to have the journal. Did your dad or mom ever read it?”
“Not as I did. Or do, I should say. I don’t think my dad knew quite what to make of it. It made him uneasy somehow. I suspect he thought the journal proved my grandfather was discontent with his farm life—that he had bigger ambitions but settled for life in Vermont. I think my father read it almost as a warning. I’m guessing, but that’s my take on it.”
We didn’t talk for a little. Jack continued to eat at the same pace. Now and then, he stopped to see what reaction his body had to the food.
“So did you know Constance is thinking of going to Australia with Raef?” I asked when his eating had slowed. “She thinks maybe she’ll go instead of returning home. At least for a while.”
“I know he’s nuts about her.”
I looked at him. Our eyes locked.
“And you’re crazy about me. That’s the next thing to say, Jack.”
“And I’m crazy about you.”
“Too late. Doesn’t work when I have to show you the cue card.”
“I am crazy about you. But I’ve always wondered what that meant. Is that really a compliment? Do we want people to be crazy around us?”
“It’s an idiomatic expression, I think.”
“But what if they really were crazy? Would that be good? Isn’t a stalker crazy about the person he loves? I don’t think anyone should say he is crazy about someone unless he is a bona fide stalker. Then, sure. And also, I don’t think it’s politically correct to say crazy. It makes fun of those who really are off their rockers.”
“You have a strange mind, Jack.”
“I’m feeling better. I think we should try to go out,” he said. “If you’re up for it.”
“Do you feel well enough?”
“Sure.”
“Are you positive? You still look a little pasty.”
“I’m really okay,” he said, loading his voice with sex, but it was a fake.
He grabbed me and pulled me close.
35
Jack and Raef disappeared the next day. They said they would be back by dinner, not to worry.