One Good Man

“Uh, no. California.” I glanced at the rows of numbered hooks on the wall behind the lady, most empty, some with keys dangling from them.

“This is a residence?” I asked.

The woman nodded. “You are visiting M. Rousseau, the older or younger?”

“The younger,” I said. “They both live here?”

The woman’s smile was kind but sad. “Oui, both have rooms here. The father is not well. The son, he takes care of him as best he can. We try to help, but M. Rousseau likes his drink and we can’t very well lock him in.”

I nodded, my heart more full that ever.

Oh, Adrien…

The wiry man spoke again.

The woman listened, nodding. “My husband reminds me of a saying we have in Algeria: no beauty shines brighter than that of a good heart. That is the young man. A good heart.” She beamed at me. “You are such a pretty girl, I am happy you are here to see him.”

“I am too,” I said softly.

“Second floor. Number six.” She indicated the small stairway to the left of the lobby—such as it was.

“Merci.”

At number six, I knocked on the door, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Who is it?”

Adrien sounded wary, and I suddenly felt horrible for intruding. If living here is a secret, he wants to keep it.

While I stood there, caught in a tangle of my emotions, the door opened.

“Janey?” Adrien immediately froze. He then closed the door tight to him, so that I couldn’t see beyond him to his place. “What are you doing here?”

“I went to your home. Or what I’d thought was your home,” I said gently. “Your sister told me you were here.”

Adrien rubbed his eyes. He’d changed out of his uniform and wore plaid pajama pants and a white V-neck undershirt. His hair was still damp from a shower, though he looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“So now you know the truth,” he said bitterly. He pushed off the door and stepped back inside, leaving it open. “Is that why you came? To finish your story?”

“I don’t know what the truth is,” I said, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. “And no, I don’t give a damn about my article.”

I glanced around his small place that was cramped but clean. A bed next to a desk; the desk under the window, cluttered with papers and medical textbooks, still open. A little nothing of a kitchen area was on the left and beyond that, a door that I presumed was a bathroom.

Adrien leaned against the edge of his desk, facing me, his arms crossed.

“This is the truth,” he said, indicating his place with a jerk of his chin. “My family is broke. My father supported us with his art until Vietnam ruined his mind. He hasn’t painted since. Without his work, we’ve been living off my small pay from the football club and the sale of his remaining paintings. But the last was sold three months ago. There’s nothing left.”

I stood, my back pressed to the door. I felt he wanted to tell more, tell me everything and unburden himself. “Okay,” I said slowly.

“My father lives downstairs,” Adrien said. “The government-run home they put him in after he came back from the war was a nightmare, so I moved him here to keep an eye on him. My mother refuses to sell our house, so making it to Ligue 1 or 2 is how I fix everything. My dad gets the proper care he needs, and my mother and sister don’t become homeless.” He held up his hands. “There you go. Now you know the whole story.”

“That isn’t the whole story,” I said quietly and swallowed hard. “What about med school? What about your dream of helping people on a grand scale?”

“It doesn’t matter, Janey,” he said, his voice tight, like a band ready to snap. “I have to play.”

“But now you can’t. Not in the final.” I moved a step closer to him. “Did you red card yourself on purpose? To get out of the final? To try to get out of soccer?”

Adrien stared a moment, a thousand thoughts swimming in the dark blue of his eyes. Finally, he gave an angry, bitter laugh.