Il vous aime, c'est secret 2/4
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
Two mornings later, after that strange and nebulous encounter with Stéphane, Brian watches a pack of children kicking a football around on the pavement just outside the café when the chair across him scrapes across the floor.
“Have you ever played football as a child?” Stéphane smiles at him and sits down, pulling the sleeves of yet another too large sweater over his knuckles.
“Of course. It was required in school,” Brian replies, not betraying his curiosity at this turn of events. Stéphane raises an eyebrow and tilts his head and Brian is compelled to expound. “And even when it was not, it was a pastime of many of my childhood acquaintances.”
“So you did not enjoy it then?” Stéphane asks while biting his knuckle through the fabric of his sweater.
“I never said that.”
Stéphane hums thoughtfully. “I only ever played it with Christophe, my brother. I did not like it very much.” He clenches both of his hands into fists then spreads them wide, distorting the fine weave of his sleeves, before pushing his hands into their opposite sleeves.
Brian gains new insight on why Stéphane sometimes used to conduct interviews and press conferences with his arms firmly against his stomach, hands gripping at his elbows. “You might have liked it more if you had the chance to play with a full team,” he says, instead of the question he wants to ask.
Stéphane looks at him with amusement but whatever he might have said in response is interrupted by Elsabeth setting a bowl of café au lait and a waffle topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and red syrup on the table. “Here it is, just as you like, Stéphane.”
Stéphane smiles and thanks her.
“Do you want another?” she asks Brian, looking pointedly at his cup. He declines. She tells them to enjoy their meal and he watches her walk away.
When his attention returns to the table, he finds Stéphane leaning forward on his elbows.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispers conspiratorially.
Brian blinks in surprise but assents nevertheless.
Stéphane makes quite a spectacle of casting suspicious glances at the empty tables on either side of theirs before saying quite seriously, “I love cherry-flavoured things but I absolutely cannot stand the taste of real cherries.”
Brian stares, unable to formulate a response to that and wondering if he should. Brian is the type of person who does not always understand when statements are rhetorical or not.
Stéphane holds his gaze for a long time then smiles wide and bright. “Now it is your turn to tell me a secret.”
And now Brian understands this game.
“When I still skated, I didn’t like to do spins.”
Stéphane pouts at him. “That’s hardly a secret,” he says disappointedly, cutting his waffle into precise quarters.
Brian slowly rotates his cup on its saucer and shrugs. “It is worth the same as the one you have told me.”
Stéphane gets a calculating gleam in his eye as he chews slowly. Brian meets his gaze evenly. He swallows, sets his knife and fork down and says, “Red isn’t my favourite colour but it is a lucky one for me.”
“I like early mornings but I am uncertain whether my preference is natural or inculcated.”
“I have an affinity for ladybugs.”
“I like animals; dogs especially,” Brian offers, feeling bittersweet at the thought of Blade three years gone now and maybe he is not as astute at this game as he had initially thought.
“I once had two cats but I did not get to see them very much,” Stéphane says, stirring his coffee. “They stayed with an aunt and when I came to visit, it would take me a day to coax myself back into their good graces.”
Brian leans back in his chair. “Do you have cats now?”
Stéphane snorts in amusement. “No, too much trouble to remain in their good graces.” He prods Brian with his foot. “It is your turn now.”
Brian rubs his jaw, trying to think of something. “I moved away from home a few years ago,” he says slowly. “I did not think I would like it.”
“And do you?” Stéphane asks, surprisingly soft.
Brian lifts one shoulder. “I find myself surprisingly content with it.”
“That’s good,” Stéphane says and he smiles small and genuine, the most real Brian has seen him. Stéphane looks away, towards the children still playing football outside the window. “I like reading sad books because they seem infinitely deeper than stories about happiness.”
“When I visit Poitiers,” Brian says past the wave of homesickness, “I rent an hour’s worth of private time to skate. Sometimes I go and teach the little children.”
Stéphane’s eyes meet his for an electric moment before he cuts away to look down at his fingers. He pushes his sleeves up then pulls them back down and Brian, who has never been patient, follows the motion with his eyes.
The pregnant silence is broken by the ringing of the bells of the Basilica.
“Oh!” Stéphane glances at his watch. “I am late for mass.” He smiles at Brian, once again unfathomable. “I promised my mother to be a good boy and attend service every Sunday.”
Brian nods, knows this is an excuse but accepts it nonetheless. Brian is not a man given to flights of fancy and self-deception but he has learned, over the years, to allow people to keep their pretences.
Stéphane rises and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”
Brian is silent, studying his form lit up by the sun seeping in through the glass. He concludes that while he may be an actor by profession, Stéphane is one by calling. “Yes,” he finally replies with a nod. “I will be here.”
Stéphane smiles, no less bright than the sun.
*
The very next day, Stéphane is seated on the table stiffly, ignoring the phone vibrating in his pocket; it is, without a doubt, his sister Sylvia. Anyway, it is far too early for her to call and he does not feel like speaking or fending off calls. Not ones from her, at least. Yes, she means well, but Stéphane would rather if they talked on some other day. Any day, just not this day, not when it’s his only free Monday, not when he’s on break, and certainly not when he’s enjoying Brian’s company over a cup of warm coffee.
Sylvia is predictable in the sense where she likes to call just so she can impose her sisterly nose in his business. It is what sisters do, she once told him. Obviously, Stéphane would not know for sure as he only has one sister.
True to her words, there is not one day where Sylvia does not call. Though the conversations are brief and hasty, she will always make it a point to ask him if he is still able to take care of himself. Perhaps not as blatantly or as eloquently as one would have imagined but mostly tiny inconsequential inquiries that are hard to get by, like if he’s checked the pipes, visited his dentist, turned off the television, if the main doors are locked tight (when it’s already two in the morning), so on and so forth.
And okay, maybe it isn’t just Sylvia checking up on him but the rest of the world as well. He feels more than a bit condescended to, even if he knows for sure that they are all doing it out of fondness and, well, concern.
Nevertheless, it is still quite embarrassing. He does not understand why people feel the need to baby him on a day-to-day basis. He is no longer a child, he hasn’t been one for quite some time and yet he is still being treated like one.
It isn’t that he’s ungrateful or unappreciative of everyone’s collective efforts; he is more than thankful that people put up with him because he knows he’s a handful (an understatement). But sometimes, he just prefers to be taken seriously.
Not a lot of people do. In their eyes, he is perpetually fifteen.
Stéphane is human; there is only so much he can take. When it gets frustrating, he locks himself up inside bathrooms (be it public or private), screaming, repeating, mumbling: Je ne suis pas un enfant, I am not a child!
There was one time that he didn’t though. That was when he drove himself to Paris and found himself the owner of a quaint little apartment at the Marais, one that is the size of a shoebox. He moves into it eventually but ends up folding and telephoning his mother after a couple of days, telling her that he already feels homesick.
Okay, so he’s a little bit contradictory and indecisive too.
So in addition to Sylvia’s constant calls and the world babying him, his parents make it a point to pay him monthly visits. When they do, they bring him a vast variety of fresh produce and poultry to stock up his icebox. Sometimes, his papa brings a toolbox to make sure his air conditioner and plumbing and whatnot are still in working order.
“I did not know you liked strawberries,” Brian states. It is as if he thought it out loud.
“They’re from my parents; they were here for two days,” Stéphane looks pointedly at the Tupperware filled with home-grown garden strawberries. “Why, do you not like them?”
Brian shrugs. “I do not like them, I do not dislike them.”
“I see,” Stéphane frowns. “I wonder if there are actually people who do not like strawberries. I love strawberries; they are like the ladybug of fruits.”
“Ladybug of fruits?”
“Yes,” Stéphane pierces one with his fork and holds it out for Brian to take. “It is red and has spots all over.”
“Ah,” Brian grins and bites the offered fruit from the fork instead. “Well, you have a strange way of looking at things but I’m sure it’s something you hear quite often.”
Just when Stéphane is about to respond, two little girls toddle over to their table with a fistful of paper napkins. Brian looks confused. They stare at Stéphane with huge, unblinking eyes, swaying restlessly from side to side.
Stéphane loves children. He is torn between wanting to melt and wanting to keep them in his pocket. He is also contemplating the repercussions of grabbing both by the waist and running away but well, kidnapping is a felony and civilized people don’t make a habit of stealing children.
So he smiles at them and says, “What can I do for you, mes poulettes?”
The older one looks up at him shyly. “I am Sophie and this is my sister, Valérie. We watch your show every morning before school. Will you sign this for us?”
Sophie is blonde and precocious; Stéphane is instantly drawn to her. Valérie is also equally as lovely-freckled and exceptionally tiny with Bambi brown eyes and thick lashes, shyly hiding behind her sister’s lanky frame.
Stéphane pulls out a sharpie from his bag and uncaps it.
To Valérie and Sophie, he writes, Les enfants seuls savent ce qu'ils cherchent-only children know what they are looking for - a line he quotes from the Little Prince. Do not ever stop looking, Stéphane. He ends the note with a simplified drawing of a ladybug.
“Thank you!” Sophie curtsies.
Stéphane thinks he is in love.
Valérie moves slightly and cups a hand to her mouth, whispering something in Sophie’s ear. After a while, Sophie turns her attention to Stéphane and states, “My sister says you smell like cotton candy.”
Stéphane clasps both his hands gleefully. “I do?”
Brian is trying to suppress a smirk.
“Oh!” Stéphane gasps. “How impolite of me-this is my friend Brian, and he makes movies! I do not think you’ve seen any of his movies yet though but then again, I do not think it is something your parents would let you see. Maybe when you are all a little older - much, much older.”
Brian laughs at the introduction and waves.
“There you are! Oh God, I am so sorry.” A young woman scoops both children up in a flourish. “They are usually composed and well-mannered. I hope they did not bother you!”
“No, not at all,” Brian smiles at her. “Good bye little Sophie and Valérie.”
There is something about Brian that makes Stéphane smile.
All right, there are a lot of things about Brian that makes Stéphane smile. Now he can add Brian’s surprising ability to be overly charming to children and mothers to the list.
To reiterate: Stéphane loves children. But he loves men who love children more.
Minutes later, Stéphane finds himself saying, “You know, this solidifies my theory.”
Brian licks his lips. “What theory?”
“That girls aged seven and below will ask for my autograph. I am like a national mascot. You on the other hand, attract girls aged fifteen above. I’m pretty sure a lot of them have requested you sign their chests and underwear. Am I right?”
Brian laughs. “I think,” he starts. “I think I have never signed a seventy-year-old woman’s chest. Nor do I want to, for that matter. They are free for your taking.”
“Shame! I believe a handful of seventy-year-olds are disappointed right now!” Stéphane cannot help but laugh as well. The thought of it is ludicrous, after all, though he wouldn’t put it past Brian to amass that type of fan base.
Somehow, in the middle, Stéphane’s giggles dissolve completely and he is left with a lopsided smile on his face. He looks at Brian squarely though, openly staring because he’s pretty much mesmerized. He thinks that Brian should smile some more, show a little bit of teeth. It suits him-makes him look pleasant. Not that he looks unpleasant because Brian is so very handsome.
“But I really do not understand why people want my autograph,” Brian says. “I do not see value in it.”
“Autographs in general?”
“No, just mine,” Brian shrugs.
“Ah, well,” Stéphane responds. “I guess there is no concrete monetary value, if that’s what you’re implying but some things go beyond that. I guess it’s a way for people to feel closer to you or to lay claim that somehow, along the way, they helped you. It is not a bad thing per se.”
“Oh,” Stéphane thinks that Brian’s confused face is adorable.
“People see things in you that you do not see, sometimes,” Stéphane smiles. “A lot of people do.”
“But not a lot of people know me.”
“Not personally perhaps but they know of you. Sometimes, that is enough.” Stéphane leans back against his chair. “Why do you always sell yourself short?”
“I do not,” Brian snorts. “I speak of the truth. I am forgettable as a person and dull. I do not think they like me. Maybe before but not now, I am no longer as interesting.”
“Well, maybe some of them are able to maintain their interest,” Stéphane looks up at him shyly. “There is also the fact that you are not entirely unpleasant to look at.”
“Really,” Brian looks unconvinced. “I think if we go outside and walk around, not one person will recognize me.”
That is disputable, Stéphane thinks but, truthfully, he’s no longer so much concerned about Brian’s inability to be identified by random strangers in public. As petty as it sounds, Stéphane is more bothered by the possibility of venturing out of the café. He is unsure about bringing things out of its comfort zone and, well, their friendship is still somewhat new and fragile. The thought of it is as odd as, say, exchanging addresses and telephone numbers.
Stéphane’s phone vibrates again. Because he is deep in thought (or probably in shock), he pulls it out and reads five of Sylvia’s messages. Apparently, she is standing right outside his apartment for God only knows what reason. Wonderful, now he has to re-organize his schedule. Stéphane thinks that maybe he should remind her that she has her own children to tend to.
“Are you alright?” Brian looks worried.
“Yes, yes. It’s just that my sister’s here.” He looks up at Brian hesitantly. “So I think I have to go.”
“Oh.”
“But tomorrow,” Stéphane puts on his coat and adjusts his scarf. “If you still want, let’s go out tomorrow.”
*
Stéphane is unable to show up at the café until two days later. He finds Brian by their usual spot, perusing an old sports digest. There are customers drifting about, drinking coffee and minding their own business; he takes a seat across Brian.
“I tried to drop by yesterday but my sister wouldn’t let me.” Stéphane starts shedding his mittens. They are bright red and ratty, with huge holes and loose threads. He tries not to sound too apologetic for breaking his promise; it’s not as if Brian’s got nothing better to do than to wait around for him.
“Every time she comes to visit, she makes it a point to make my life miserable. She arrives unannounced and drags me around as she sees fit. It is unheard of really. If she were not my sister, I would have thrown her out of my apartment. Do you think it is possible for me to legally disown my own sibling?”
Brian looks up from the page he is reading and smirks. “I do not know if such a law exists, I am not an expert. But please, do let me know once you find out. I think I would like to disown my own sisters as well.”
Women are very, very tricky-more so when they are your siblings. They are vicious and vile and well, downright scary. It is unexplainable. This is perhaps why, after Carolina, Stéphane’s never thought of dating women again. Ever. They are far too perplexing.
One time, Sylvia had somehow managed to grab a pair of shears and had slit two ugly holes on one of Stéphane’s Burberry coats because she was, in her defence, premenstrual, and he was apparently offending her sensibilities by eating too much Lindt in front of her.
Ridiculous.
After screaming himself hoarse and tossing Sylvia out of his room, he had stomped all the way to the living room and flopped down on the couch next to his father, announcing, “Girls are strange.”
Jacque had only laughed at him and pinched his nose, saying, “No, ma petite chou, you are stranger.”
Stéphane does not know if he should be offended or not.
Brian’s smile disappears. “What happened to your cheek?”
Stéphane’s hands fly automatically to his face in an attempt to cover the purpling bruise (he does not remember if the bruise is on his left or on his right side). He ends up squashing both his cheeks and puffing his lips like a goldfish. “Oh God, it is such a long story and I am embarrassed.”
Brian frowns. “Did someone do this to you?”
“No, no,” Stéphane shakes his head.
But if he had it his way, he’d surely blame Sylvia.
Yesterday, he and Sylvia had gotten into a huge fight. She had said that ‘some little bird’ had informed her about the whole fiasco with Roger. Stéphane does not know who this ‘little bird’ is but he’s quite certain he’s told no one but his mother. Sylvia asked him if the story was true. Stéphane did not deny it but neither did he confirm it-it is his business and no one else’s. He was not and is still not obligated to answer the question.
Sylvia had taken his silence as an affirmation. So she had prattled on, had told him that he was a coward and a horrid, horrid, ruthless, soul-less person, because had he been smart enough, or decent enough, he would have probably just taken Roger’s offer. Or declined but definitely not run away. Or escape.
To her merit, Sylvia does have a point but Stéphane does not like it when people bother him with their unwanted opinions. So he had remained petulant and unapologetic for his actions. He had told her rather casually while sipping soda on the kitchen counter, “If you are so interested, why don’t you go marry him instead?”
But his arrogance hadn’t sat well with Sylvia, whose own arrogance is unrivalled. In an act of rebellion, Sylvia had slapped his drink out his hands and had yelled at him to “get over himself.”
He resolved to not speak to her after that outburst. That was his last can of Coke and he wasn’t inclined to make another trip to the supermarket.
Besides, silence is a much better company than a stubborn, hypocritical, old cow.
This is the part he tells Brian: because he was so desperate to send Sylvia back to Lausanne, he logged on to the internet and tried to book her a plane ticket. Tried being the operative word. Somehow, Air France’s main website directed him to the 404 error page. After two hours of constantly clicking the ‘refresh’ button, he decided to give up and find another way.
He finally managed to come up with an idea. So that night, he slipped Sylvia an Ambien. It does nothing to her of course because on top of being insufferable and right all the time, she is also apparently bionic. Sylvia stayed up until three AM, delighting herself with some French-dubbed cartoon.
He figured that for the first time ever, the world is conspiring against him.
After an hour or so, Sylvia fell asleep. At four-unbelievably ungodly-AM. So with the lights still out, he headed to the kitchen with his mobile phone in hand, where he tripped and hit his cheek on the kitchen counter thus the bruise.
The end.
“Now, that is a little bit uneventful,” Brian laughs, low and boyish.
“Yes, well, my life has always been uneventful, actually,” Stéphane tugs the hem of his sweater and plays with a loose thread, looping it around his index finger. When he looks up, Brian is staring at him. Stéphane does not think much of it; Brian likes to look at things a lot. Especially when he’s not paying attention. It should not be unsettling.
To catch Brian’s attention, Stéphane asks, “When was the last time you went skating?”
The last he himself had been was two weeks ago at Hotel de Ville.
Brian shrugs. “I cannot remember. Maybe a year ago or less. I don’t like skating in public anymore.”
Stéphane hums.
He thinks of Brian skating alone in Poitiers, thinks of his skilful jumping. And they stay silent again for a little while until out of the blue, Stéphane says, “I’ve never been to Poitiers.”
Brian does not respond concretely but he nods in acknowledgement.
This gives Stéphane an idea. When Brian finishes his coffee, Stéphane is going to stand up and command Brian to “come with,” like it’s the most natural thing to do. And because Brian is curious and gullible, he will follow Stéphane out with nary a protest or a question.
The scene plays out the same way Stéphane imagined it. They step out of the café together and he is filled with a sense of ease. It feels right somehow, like it is supposed to happen-a natural progression and all. Stéphane does not say anything though; he simply leads Brian to his car: a cherry red Volkswagen New Beetle.
“You own a Ladybug!” Brian exclaims, mirth in his eyes. He runs a hand over the car’s exterior.
“Are you surprised?” Stéphane laughs as he unlocks the passenger side of the car.
Brian pulls the door open. “A bit, yes. I didn’t think you were one to give into stereotypes. Aren’t you sponsored by Ford?”
“A long, long time ago,” Stéphane enters the car. “But I am every bit stereotypical. Anyway, shouldn’t you be sponsored by Aston Martin?”
“I wish.” Brian looks at the objects strewn all over the seat. “Your car is congested.” And it is congested - filled to the brink with books piled on top of numerous CD cases, stuffed animals strewn all over the dashboard, half-empty water bottles shoved in several inlets.
“Sorry,” Stéphane takes several armfuls of things and dumps them all in the backseat. “I’m a bit of a pack rat.”
Brian slides in cautiously and picks up a stack of CDs from the floor. He skims through Camera Obscura, New Pornographers, Daft Punk, Postal Service, Stars, Noah and the Whale, Plasticines, Fleetfoxes, and then stops abruptly at Télépopmusik.
“Is this you on the cover?” Brian asks.
“Just my eyelids,” Stéphane bites his lip. “They heard I was a fan so they called my agent to ask me to collaborate. Initially, they wanted me to sing the chorus to one of their songs. I told them that no amount of synthesizer is capable of making my voice sound pleasant. They insisted. So now, if you listen to the third track? You’ll hear me say one line.”
“Okay, may I listen?”
“If you’re willing to withstand the torture.” Stéphane inserts his iPod on the dock and plays the song. Brian listens intently, tapping his fingers against his knee. He says nothing (out of courtesy, perhaps?) and the entire album plays.
Half an hour later, Brian turns to him and frowns. “Where are we going?”
They are currently in the outskirts of Paris. “Poitiers.”
“What?” Brian straightens up a bit. “But that is four hours away!”
“I know.” Stéphane overtakes the car in front of them and increases speed. “You can sleep if you want.”
Three hours later, they are in the Patinoire Olympique. Stéphane has somehow managed to rent two pairs of ratty, overused skates. The rink is near empty, save for an old couple skating.
“How did we get here?” Brian asks groggily, taking in the scene.
Stéphane throws his head back and laughs. “I purchased a map and asked around.”
Stéphane enters the rink and skates around in loops and circles. Hands throw up as he twirls and spins, but nothing too extraordinary. Not like before. He motions for Brian to follow but the man stands rooted by the boards.
So Stéphane skates towards Brian. “Come now, skate with me!”
“No, no.” Brian shakes his head. “It’s been too long. I don’t think I can.”
Stéphane does not push. Instead, he skates away to the centre and attempts a wobbly quad. He lands on the wrong edge and ends up sprawled, chest first, on the cold surface. It is comfortable so he does not make a move to get up. A few minutes later, he flips around and finds Brian staring down at him.
Stéphane giggles. “You’re on ice!”
Brian is slightly apprehensive. “Are you alright? Can you stand?”
Stéphane nods and pushes himself upright from the ground. He turns and gives Brian a smile. “When I was nine, no one wanted to coach me.”
Brian does not respond.
So Stéphane continues. He says, “They said it was impossible for me to be a good skater. They said I wasn’t special enough. Except for my dad, he said that if I wanted to, I could.”
“And he was right.”
“Yes,” Stéphane smiles before pausing for a moment. “I love him so. Except for that one particular instance when I was eight-he keeps telling me that it was unintentional and he hadn’t meant to be insensitive. See, I found this beautiful little pigeon on the roof of our house. So I caught him and decided to make him my pet. Two days later, my dad served squab. It was a pigeon he had found in an old cardboard box. I cried and cried for weeks on end. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven him for turning Russell into a gourmet meal.”
Brian remains silent.
“Another secret?” Stéphane moves closer to Brian. “I tell people that my favourite cartoon is Aladdin when it is truly Little Mermaid. This is mostly because I am told that the latter is an unconventional cartoon to like when you’re a boy. I’ve always liked the sea, and I’ve always loved the thought of dancing and singing. You know, I knew all the songs to the movie. Also, I thought I could relate to Ariel, her curiosity, her lust for life.”
He is standing so close now that he is able to feel Brian’s warmth.
“But I guess I’ve always been different. I was smaller than most boys my age and didn’t enjoy running around as much, didn’t like getting sweaty. I liked painting and drawing and watching movies, tame hobbies. And only strange things happen to strange people-when I was four, we frequented this public playground. That day, I was wearing Sylvia’s purple jumper because I poured juice all over mine and you know, this one little boy came up to me and planted one on my cheek like this,” he presses his lips quickly against Brian’s cheek. “Then he up and left.”
With a cheeky smile, Stéphane turns around and skates off gleefully.
*
Part Three
Two mornings later, after that strange and nebulous encounter with Stéphane, Brian watches a pack of children kicking a football around on the pavement just outside the café when the chair across him scrapes across the floor.
“Have you ever played football as a child?” Stéphane smiles at him and sits down, pulling the sleeves of yet another too large sweater over his knuckles.
“Of course. It was required in school,” Brian replies, not betraying his curiosity at this turn of events. Stéphane raises an eyebrow and tilts his head and Brian is compelled to expound. “And even when it was not, it was a pastime of many of my childhood acquaintances.”
“So you did not enjoy it then?” Stéphane asks while biting his knuckle through the fabric of his sweater.
“I never said that.”
Stéphane hums thoughtfully. “I only ever played it with Christophe, my brother. I did not like it very much.” He clenches both of his hands into fists then spreads them wide, distorting the fine weave of his sleeves, before pushing his hands into their opposite sleeves.
Brian gains new insight on why Stéphane sometimes used to conduct interviews and press conferences with his arms firmly against his stomach, hands gripping at his elbows. “You might have liked it more if you had the chance to play with a full team,” he says, instead of the question he wants to ask.
Stéphane looks at him with amusement but whatever he might have said in response is interrupted by Elsabeth setting a bowl of café au lait and a waffle topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and red syrup on the table. “Here it is, just as you like, Stéphane.”
Stéphane smiles and thanks her.
“Do you want another?” she asks Brian, looking pointedly at his cup. He declines. She tells them to enjoy their meal and he watches her walk away.
When his attention returns to the table, he finds Stéphane leaning forward on his elbows.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispers conspiratorially.
Brian blinks in surprise but assents nevertheless.
Stéphane makes quite a spectacle of casting suspicious glances at the empty tables on either side of theirs before saying quite seriously, “I love cherry-flavoured things but I absolutely cannot stand the taste of real cherries.”
Brian stares, unable to formulate a response to that and wondering if he should. Brian is the type of person who does not always understand when statements are rhetorical or not.
Stéphane holds his gaze for a long time then smiles wide and bright. “Now it is your turn to tell me a secret.”
And now Brian understands this game.
“When I still skated, I didn’t like to do spins.”
Stéphane pouts at him. “That’s hardly a secret,” he says disappointedly, cutting his waffle into precise quarters.
Brian slowly rotates his cup on its saucer and shrugs. “It is worth the same as the one you have told me.”
Stéphane gets a calculating gleam in his eye as he chews slowly. Brian meets his gaze evenly. He swallows, sets his knife and fork down and says, “Red isn’t my favourite colour but it is a lucky one for me.”
“I like early mornings but I am uncertain whether my preference is natural or inculcated.”
“I have an affinity for ladybugs.”
“I like animals; dogs especially,” Brian offers, feeling bittersweet at the thought of Blade three years gone now and maybe he is not as astute at this game as he had initially thought.
“I once had two cats but I did not get to see them very much,” Stéphane says, stirring his coffee. “They stayed with an aunt and when I came to visit, it would take me a day to coax myself back into their good graces.”
Brian leans back in his chair. “Do you have cats now?”
Stéphane snorts in amusement. “No, too much trouble to remain in their good graces.” He prods Brian with his foot. “It is your turn now.”
Brian rubs his jaw, trying to think of something. “I moved away from home a few years ago,” he says slowly. “I did not think I would like it.”
“And do you?” Stéphane asks, surprisingly soft.
Brian lifts one shoulder. “I find myself surprisingly content with it.”
“That’s good,” Stéphane says and he smiles small and genuine, the most real Brian has seen him. Stéphane looks away, towards the children still playing football outside the window. “I like reading sad books because they seem infinitely deeper than stories about happiness.”
“When I visit Poitiers,” Brian says past the wave of homesickness, “I rent an hour’s worth of private time to skate. Sometimes I go and teach the little children.”
Stéphane’s eyes meet his for an electric moment before he cuts away to look down at his fingers. He pushes his sleeves up then pulls them back down and Brian, who has never been patient, follows the motion with his eyes.
The pregnant silence is broken by the ringing of the bells of the Basilica.
“Oh!” Stéphane glances at his watch. “I am late for mass.” He smiles at Brian, once again unfathomable. “I promised my mother to be a good boy and attend service every Sunday.”
Brian nods, knows this is an excuse but accepts it nonetheless. Brian is not a man given to flights of fancy and self-deception but he has learned, over the years, to allow people to keep their pretences.
Stéphane rises and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”
Brian is silent, studying his form lit up by the sun seeping in through the glass. He concludes that while he may be an actor by profession, Stéphane is one by calling. “Yes,” he finally replies with a nod. “I will be here.”
Stéphane smiles, no less bright than the sun.
*
The very next day, Stéphane is seated on the table stiffly, ignoring the phone vibrating in his pocket; it is, without a doubt, his sister Sylvia. Anyway, it is far too early for her to call and he does not feel like speaking or fending off calls. Not ones from her, at least. Yes, she means well, but Stéphane would rather if they talked on some other day. Any day, just not this day, not when it’s his only free Monday, not when he’s on break, and certainly not when he’s enjoying Brian’s company over a cup of warm coffee.
Sylvia is predictable in the sense where she likes to call just so she can impose her sisterly nose in his business. It is what sisters do, she once told him. Obviously, Stéphane would not know for sure as he only has one sister.
True to her words, there is not one day where Sylvia does not call. Though the conversations are brief and hasty, she will always make it a point to ask him if he is still able to take care of himself. Perhaps not as blatantly or as eloquently as one would have imagined but mostly tiny inconsequential inquiries that are hard to get by, like if he’s checked the pipes, visited his dentist, turned off the television, if the main doors are locked tight (when it’s already two in the morning), so on and so forth.
And okay, maybe it isn’t just Sylvia checking up on him but the rest of the world as well. He feels more than a bit condescended to, even if he knows for sure that they are all doing it out of fondness and, well, concern.
Nevertheless, it is still quite embarrassing. He does not understand why people feel the need to baby him on a day-to-day basis. He is no longer a child, he hasn’t been one for quite some time and yet he is still being treated like one.
It isn’t that he’s ungrateful or unappreciative of everyone’s collective efforts; he is more than thankful that people put up with him because he knows he’s a handful (an understatement). But sometimes, he just prefers to be taken seriously.
Not a lot of people do. In their eyes, he is perpetually fifteen.
Stéphane is human; there is only so much he can take. When it gets frustrating, he locks himself up inside bathrooms (be it public or private), screaming, repeating, mumbling: Je ne suis pas un enfant, I am not a child!
There was one time that he didn’t though. That was when he drove himself to Paris and found himself the owner of a quaint little apartment at the Marais, one that is the size of a shoebox. He moves into it eventually but ends up folding and telephoning his mother after a couple of days, telling her that he already feels homesick.
Okay, so he’s a little bit contradictory and indecisive too.
So in addition to Sylvia’s constant calls and the world babying him, his parents make it a point to pay him monthly visits. When they do, they bring him a vast variety of fresh produce and poultry to stock up his icebox. Sometimes, his papa brings a toolbox to make sure his air conditioner and plumbing and whatnot are still in working order.
“I did not know you liked strawberries,” Brian states. It is as if he thought it out loud.
“They’re from my parents; they were here for two days,” Stéphane looks pointedly at the Tupperware filled with home-grown garden strawberries. “Why, do you not like them?”
Brian shrugs. “I do not like them, I do not dislike them.”
“I see,” Stéphane frowns. “I wonder if there are actually people who do not like strawberries. I love strawberries; they are like the ladybug of fruits.”
“Ladybug of fruits?”
“Yes,” Stéphane pierces one with his fork and holds it out for Brian to take. “It is red and has spots all over.”
“Ah,” Brian grins and bites the offered fruit from the fork instead. “Well, you have a strange way of looking at things but I’m sure it’s something you hear quite often.”
Just when Stéphane is about to respond, two little girls toddle over to their table with a fistful of paper napkins. Brian looks confused. They stare at Stéphane with huge, unblinking eyes, swaying restlessly from side to side.
Stéphane loves children. He is torn between wanting to melt and wanting to keep them in his pocket. He is also contemplating the repercussions of grabbing both by the waist and running away but well, kidnapping is a felony and civilized people don’t make a habit of stealing children.
So he smiles at them and says, “What can I do for you, mes poulettes?”
The older one looks up at him shyly. “I am Sophie and this is my sister, Valérie. We watch your show every morning before school. Will you sign this for us?”
Sophie is blonde and precocious; Stéphane is instantly drawn to her. Valérie is also equally as lovely-freckled and exceptionally tiny with Bambi brown eyes and thick lashes, shyly hiding behind her sister’s lanky frame.
Stéphane pulls out a sharpie from his bag and uncaps it.
To Valérie and Sophie, he writes, Les enfants seuls savent ce qu'ils cherchent-only children know what they are looking for - a line he quotes from the Little Prince. Do not ever stop looking, Stéphane. He ends the note with a simplified drawing of a ladybug.
“Thank you!” Sophie curtsies.
Stéphane thinks he is in love.
Valérie moves slightly and cups a hand to her mouth, whispering something in Sophie’s ear. After a while, Sophie turns her attention to Stéphane and states, “My sister says you smell like cotton candy.”
Stéphane clasps both his hands gleefully. “I do?”
Brian is trying to suppress a smirk.
“Oh!” Stéphane gasps. “How impolite of me-this is my friend Brian, and he makes movies! I do not think you’ve seen any of his movies yet though but then again, I do not think it is something your parents would let you see. Maybe when you are all a little older - much, much older.”
Brian laughs at the introduction and waves.
“There you are! Oh God, I am so sorry.” A young woman scoops both children up in a flourish. “They are usually composed and well-mannered. I hope they did not bother you!”
“No, not at all,” Brian smiles at her. “Good bye little Sophie and Valérie.”
There is something about Brian that makes Stéphane smile.
All right, there are a lot of things about Brian that makes Stéphane smile. Now he can add Brian’s surprising ability to be overly charming to children and mothers to the list.
To reiterate: Stéphane loves children. But he loves men who love children more.
Minutes later, Stéphane finds himself saying, “You know, this solidifies my theory.”
Brian licks his lips. “What theory?”
“That girls aged seven and below will ask for my autograph. I am like a national mascot. You on the other hand, attract girls aged fifteen above. I’m pretty sure a lot of them have requested you sign their chests and underwear. Am I right?”
Brian laughs. “I think,” he starts. “I think I have never signed a seventy-year-old woman’s chest. Nor do I want to, for that matter. They are free for your taking.”
“Shame! I believe a handful of seventy-year-olds are disappointed right now!” Stéphane cannot help but laugh as well. The thought of it is ludicrous, after all, though he wouldn’t put it past Brian to amass that type of fan base.
Somehow, in the middle, Stéphane’s giggles dissolve completely and he is left with a lopsided smile on his face. He looks at Brian squarely though, openly staring because he’s pretty much mesmerized. He thinks that Brian should smile some more, show a little bit of teeth. It suits him-makes him look pleasant. Not that he looks unpleasant because Brian is so very handsome.
“But I really do not understand why people want my autograph,” Brian says. “I do not see value in it.”
“Autographs in general?”
“No, just mine,” Brian shrugs.
“Ah, well,” Stéphane responds. “I guess there is no concrete monetary value, if that’s what you’re implying but some things go beyond that. I guess it’s a way for people to feel closer to you or to lay claim that somehow, along the way, they helped you. It is not a bad thing per se.”
“Oh,” Stéphane thinks that Brian’s confused face is adorable.
“People see things in you that you do not see, sometimes,” Stéphane smiles. “A lot of people do.”
“But not a lot of people know me.”
“Not personally perhaps but they know of you. Sometimes, that is enough.” Stéphane leans back against his chair. “Why do you always sell yourself short?”
“I do not,” Brian snorts. “I speak of the truth. I am forgettable as a person and dull. I do not think they like me. Maybe before but not now, I am no longer as interesting.”
“Well, maybe some of them are able to maintain their interest,” Stéphane looks up at him shyly. “There is also the fact that you are not entirely unpleasant to look at.”
“Really,” Brian looks unconvinced. “I think if we go outside and walk around, not one person will recognize me.”
That is disputable, Stéphane thinks but, truthfully, he’s no longer so much concerned about Brian’s inability to be identified by random strangers in public. As petty as it sounds, Stéphane is more bothered by the possibility of venturing out of the café. He is unsure about bringing things out of its comfort zone and, well, their friendship is still somewhat new and fragile. The thought of it is as odd as, say, exchanging addresses and telephone numbers.
Stéphane’s phone vibrates again. Because he is deep in thought (or probably in shock), he pulls it out and reads five of Sylvia’s messages. Apparently, she is standing right outside his apartment for God only knows what reason. Wonderful, now he has to re-organize his schedule. Stéphane thinks that maybe he should remind her that she has her own children to tend to.
“Are you alright?” Brian looks worried.
“Yes, yes. It’s just that my sister’s here.” He looks up at Brian hesitantly. “So I think I have to go.”
“Oh.”
“But tomorrow,” Stéphane puts on his coat and adjusts his scarf. “If you still want, let’s go out tomorrow.”
*
Stéphane is unable to show up at the café until two days later. He finds Brian by their usual spot, perusing an old sports digest. There are customers drifting about, drinking coffee and minding their own business; he takes a seat across Brian.
“I tried to drop by yesterday but my sister wouldn’t let me.” Stéphane starts shedding his mittens. They are bright red and ratty, with huge holes and loose threads. He tries not to sound too apologetic for breaking his promise; it’s not as if Brian’s got nothing better to do than to wait around for him.
“Every time she comes to visit, she makes it a point to make my life miserable. She arrives unannounced and drags me around as she sees fit. It is unheard of really. If she were not my sister, I would have thrown her out of my apartment. Do you think it is possible for me to legally disown my own sibling?”
Brian looks up from the page he is reading and smirks. “I do not know if such a law exists, I am not an expert. But please, do let me know once you find out. I think I would like to disown my own sisters as well.”
Women are very, very tricky-more so when they are your siblings. They are vicious and vile and well, downright scary. It is unexplainable. This is perhaps why, after Carolina, Stéphane’s never thought of dating women again. Ever. They are far too perplexing.
One time, Sylvia had somehow managed to grab a pair of shears and had slit two ugly holes on one of Stéphane’s Burberry coats because she was, in her defence, premenstrual, and he was apparently offending her sensibilities by eating too much Lindt in front of her.
Ridiculous.
After screaming himself hoarse and tossing Sylvia out of his room, he had stomped all the way to the living room and flopped down on the couch next to his father, announcing, “Girls are strange.”
Jacque had only laughed at him and pinched his nose, saying, “No, ma petite chou, you are stranger.”
Stéphane does not know if he should be offended or not.
Brian’s smile disappears. “What happened to your cheek?”
Stéphane’s hands fly automatically to his face in an attempt to cover the purpling bruise (he does not remember if the bruise is on his left or on his right side). He ends up squashing both his cheeks and puffing his lips like a goldfish. “Oh God, it is such a long story and I am embarrassed.”
Brian frowns. “Did someone do this to you?”
“No, no,” Stéphane shakes his head.
But if he had it his way, he’d surely blame Sylvia.
Yesterday, he and Sylvia had gotten into a huge fight. She had said that ‘some little bird’ had informed her about the whole fiasco with Roger. Stéphane does not know who this ‘little bird’ is but he’s quite certain he’s told no one but his mother. Sylvia asked him if the story was true. Stéphane did not deny it but neither did he confirm it-it is his business and no one else’s. He was not and is still not obligated to answer the question.
Sylvia had taken his silence as an affirmation. So she had prattled on, had told him that he was a coward and a horrid, horrid, ruthless, soul-less person, because had he been smart enough, or decent enough, he would have probably just taken Roger’s offer. Or declined but definitely not run away. Or escape.
To her merit, Sylvia does have a point but Stéphane does not like it when people bother him with their unwanted opinions. So he had remained petulant and unapologetic for his actions. He had told her rather casually while sipping soda on the kitchen counter, “If you are so interested, why don’t you go marry him instead?”
But his arrogance hadn’t sat well with Sylvia, whose own arrogance is unrivalled. In an act of rebellion, Sylvia had slapped his drink out his hands and had yelled at him to “get over himself.”
He resolved to not speak to her after that outburst. That was his last can of Coke and he wasn’t inclined to make another trip to the supermarket.
Besides, silence is a much better company than a stubborn, hypocritical, old cow.
This is the part he tells Brian: because he was so desperate to send Sylvia back to Lausanne, he logged on to the internet and tried to book her a plane ticket. Tried being the operative word. Somehow, Air France’s main website directed him to the 404 error page. After two hours of constantly clicking the ‘refresh’ button, he decided to give up and find another way.
He finally managed to come up with an idea. So that night, he slipped Sylvia an Ambien. It does nothing to her of course because on top of being insufferable and right all the time, she is also apparently bionic. Sylvia stayed up until three AM, delighting herself with some French-dubbed cartoon.
He figured that for the first time ever, the world is conspiring against him.
After an hour or so, Sylvia fell asleep. At four-unbelievably ungodly-AM. So with the lights still out, he headed to the kitchen with his mobile phone in hand, where he tripped and hit his cheek on the kitchen counter thus the bruise.
The end.
“Now, that is a little bit uneventful,” Brian laughs, low and boyish.
“Yes, well, my life has always been uneventful, actually,” Stéphane tugs the hem of his sweater and plays with a loose thread, looping it around his index finger. When he looks up, Brian is staring at him. Stéphane does not think much of it; Brian likes to look at things a lot. Especially when he’s not paying attention. It should not be unsettling.
To catch Brian’s attention, Stéphane asks, “When was the last time you went skating?”
The last he himself had been was two weeks ago at Hotel de Ville.
Brian shrugs. “I cannot remember. Maybe a year ago or less. I don’t like skating in public anymore.”
Stéphane hums.
He thinks of Brian skating alone in Poitiers, thinks of his skilful jumping. And they stay silent again for a little while until out of the blue, Stéphane says, “I’ve never been to Poitiers.”
Brian does not respond concretely but he nods in acknowledgement.
This gives Stéphane an idea. When Brian finishes his coffee, Stéphane is going to stand up and command Brian to “come with,” like it’s the most natural thing to do. And because Brian is curious and gullible, he will follow Stéphane out with nary a protest or a question.
The scene plays out the same way Stéphane imagined it. They step out of the café together and he is filled with a sense of ease. It feels right somehow, like it is supposed to happen-a natural progression and all. Stéphane does not say anything though; he simply leads Brian to his car: a cherry red Volkswagen New Beetle.
“You own a Ladybug!” Brian exclaims, mirth in his eyes. He runs a hand over the car’s exterior.
“Are you surprised?” Stéphane laughs as he unlocks the passenger side of the car.
Brian pulls the door open. “A bit, yes. I didn’t think you were one to give into stereotypes. Aren’t you sponsored by Ford?”
“A long, long time ago,” Stéphane enters the car. “But I am every bit stereotypical. Anyway, shouldn’t you be sponsored by Aston Martin?”
“I wish.” Brian looks at the objects strewn all over the seat. “Your car is congested.” And it is congested - filled to the brink with books piled on top of numerous CD cases, stuffed animals strewn all over the dashboard, half-empty water bottles shoved in several inlets.
“Sorry,” Stéphane takes several armfuls of things and dumps them all in the backseat. “I’m a bit of a pack rat.”
Brian slides in cautiously and picks up a stack of CDs from the floor. He skims through Camera Obscura, New Pornographers, Daft Punk, Postal Service, Stars, Noah and the Whale, Plasticines, Fleetfoxes, and then stops abruptly at Télépopmusik.
“Is this you on the cover?” Brian asks.
“Just my eyelids,” Stéphane bites his lip. “They heard I was a fan so they called my agent to ask me to collaborate. Initially, they wanted me to sing the chorus to one of their songs. I told them that no amount of synthesizer is capable of making my voice sound pleasant. They insisted. So now, if you listen to the third track? You’ll hear me say one line.”
“Okay, may I listen?”
“If you’re willing to withstand the torture.” Stéphane inserts his iPod on the dock and plays the song. Brian listens intently, tapping his fingers against his knee. He says nothing (out of courtesy, perhaps?) and the entire album plays.
Half an hour later, Brian turns to him and frowns. “Where are we going?”
They are currently in the outskirts of Paris. “Poitiers.”
“What?” Brian straightens up a bit. “But that is four hours away!”
“I know.” Stéphane overtakes the car in front of them and increases speed. “You can sleep if you want.”
Three hours later, they are in the Patinoire Olympique. Stéphane has somehow managed to rent two pairs of ratty, overused skates. The rink is near empty, save for an old couple skating.
“How did we get here?” Brian asks groggily, taking in the scene.
Stéphane throws his head back and laughs. “I purchased a map and asked around.”
Stéphane enters the rink and skates around in loops and circles. Hands throw up as he twirls and spins, but nothing too extraordinary. Not like before. He motions for Brian to follow but the man stands rooted by the boards.
So Stéphane skates towards Brian. “Come now, skate with me!”
“No, no.” Brian shakes his head. “It’s been too long. I don’t think I can.”
Stéphane does not push. Instead, he skates away to the centre and attempts a wobbly quad. He lands on the wrong edge and ends up sprawled, chest first, on the cold surface. It is comfortable so he does not make a move to get up. A few minutes later, he flips around and finds Brian staring down at him.
Stéphane giggles. “You’re on ice!”
Brian is slightly apprehensive. “Are you alright? Can you stand?”
Stéphane nods and pushes himself upright from the ground. He turns and gives Brian a smile. “When I was nine, no one wanted to coach me.”
Brian does not respond.
So Stéphane continues. He says, “They said it was impossible for me to be a good skater. They said I wasn’t special enough. Except for my dad, he said that if I wanted to, I could.”
“And he was right.”
“Yes,” Stéphane smiles before pausing for a moment. “I love him so. Except for that one particular instance when I was eight-he keeps telling me that it was unintentional and he hadn’t meant to be insensitive. See, I found this beautiful little pigeon on the roof of our house. So I caught him and decided to make him my pet. Two days later, my dad served squab. It was a pigeon he had found in an old cardboard box. I cried and cried for weeks on end. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven him for turning Russell into a gourmet meal.”
Brian remains silent.
“Another secret?” Stéphane moves closer to Brian. “I tell people that my favourite cartoon is Aladdin when it is truly Little Mermaid. This is mostly because I am told that the latter is an unconventional cartoon to like when you’re a boy. I’ve always liked the sea, and I’ve always loved the thought of dancing and singing. You know, I knew all the songs to the movie. Also, I thought I could relate to Ariel, her curiosity, her lust for life.”
He is standing so close now that he is able to feel Brian’s warmth.
“But I guess I’ve always been different. I was smaller than most boys my age and didn’t enjoy running around as much, didn’t like getting sweaty. I liked painting and drawing and watching movies, tame hobbies. And only strange things happen to strange people-when I was four, we frequented this public playground. That day, I was wearing Sylvia’s purple jumper because I poured juice all over mine and you know, this one little boy came up to me and planted one on my cheek like this,” he presses his lips quickly against Brian’s cheek. “Then he up and left.”
With a cheeky smile, Stéphane turns around and skates off gleefully.
*
Part Three