One Good Man

Lucie burst into tears, and men in the stands around us began to curse Adrien’s name.

“What is it? He got kicked out of the game?” I asked as Adrien headed towards the sidelines on our side.

“He got kicked out of the game,” Brigitte said, her face pale. “They’ll have to play with only ten now.”

I made a face. “Okay, but PC is up two to nothing…”

Brigitte shook her head. “Adrien is kicked out of this game but a red card means he also can’t play in the next game.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. “Adrien can’t play in the final match.”

I sank back down in my seat. The bum from the last game had returned and some fans were taking their anger out on him. I watched as Adrien, still in his uniform, approached the man and put his arm around him. Together, under a hail of jeering and catcalls, they left the stadium together.

I slipped out of the stands and followed.

I caught up to them on the street corner where Adrien was trying to hail a cab. One slowed but then screeched away when the driver caught sight of the old bum, cursing and waving his bottle.

“Can I help?” I asked.

Adrien spun around. “Janey…” His glance darted to the bum and back to me. Then he slumped, defeated. “I have to get him home. He’s not dangerous. Only…confused. And drunk.”

I nodded. “Who is he, Adrien?”

Adrien’s blue eyes held mine. “Victor. His name is Victor.”

I stared, realization nearly bowling me over. “He’s…”

“My father.”

Victor Rousseau turned to peer at me with glassy eyes. “Eh? Brigitte Bardot right before my eyes…”

“This is Janey. She’s…a friend.”

Victor narrowed his eyes at Adrien, as if thinking hard. “How hard it is…to love so much? Like reaching through a fire…to pull the treasure from the flames.”

“Come on, Papa,” Adrien said. “Take it easy.”

No taxi would stop, so we took the Metro to the 18th Arrondissement. The buildings here were as old as the grand apartments of Madame Rousseau’s neighborhood, but in greater disrepair. Narrow, trash strewn streets wound like a snake between ramshackle buildings. Men huddled together outside tobacco shops, smoking and talking, and staring at me as we passed by on narrow walks buffeting narrower streets.

We came to a small, three-story pension with chipped maroon paint and a faded awning. The pension looked wedged between two other, larger buildings, like bullies muscling a little guy between them.

“I got it from here,” Adrien said. “Thanks.”

/>

“I can help—”

“No, you can’t,” he said, his voice sounding frayed. Beside him, Victor swayed tiredly.

“You told me your father died in Vietnam,” I said in a low voice.

“I said he didn’t come back,” Adrien said, watching his father mutter at his own hands. “That was the truth. The man who came back from Vietnam was not the same who left.”

“Adrien—”

“This is all off the record, Janey,” Adrien said, opening the pension’s front door. “There is no story. Not anymore.”

He helped his father inside and shut the door between us.

Janey