One Good Man

“You are, but I have to study. I’m behind and have a final coming up.”

We clasped hands and gave each other a half hug.

“It wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?” Robert asked at the door. “To play for Ligue 2. Or 1 for that matter? To be a huge star?”

I thought a minute before answering.

“When my father was well, he used to tell me t

he footballers were his heroes. And I wanted to be that more than anything. To make him proud. And when he came back from the war, his mind broken by what he’d seen and done, I began to want something else. I was hardly seven years old but I wanted to be a hero for him then too. To make him well. So I played football and I went to med school. One of those things is going to help him and my family.” I smiled ruefully. “That’s all that matters.”

On Thursday morning, I went to visit my mother and sister. I had tried to call Maman several times, but Sophie told me she was too upset with me to talk.

Janey had class, but met me at the nearest Metro station after. She flew at me immediately, and threw her arms around my neck. Her happiness radiated through her body, and I kissed her hard, wanting her at once.

“This was a bad idea,” I said, holding her tight, as people streamed past us like water around an island. “Meeting in public after so long…”

“I know,” she said, breathlessly. “Two days without seeing you felt like forever.”

“Fortunately, my mother is the equivalent of a long, cold shower.”

Janey laughed but it faded quickly. “I’m scared she’ll hate me more than she already does. She blames me for your red card.”

He rolled his eyes. “Christ, the damned red card. They’ll put that on my grave. ‘Here lies Adrien Rousseau. Son, husband, father, punched his own teammate and blew a final.’”

She laughed and linked her arm in mine as we headed to my family’s house. And having her there, on my arm as a partner, and not as a prop, was the best fucking feeling in the world. Better than an overtime goal or a cheering crowd. I glanced down at Janey as we walked.

I want this, always.

Outside my family’s building, a man wearing a long coat, hat, and rumpled suit, was glancing at a paper in his hand and then up at the numbers on the front of the building.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The man turned. He looked to be about my father’s age, with a grizzled face and heavy eyes. He was clean-shaven and had some heft around the middle, and yet I could almost see him as haggard and gaunt.

He took off his hat. “Bonjour. I am looking for M. Rousseau.”

“That’s me,” I said.

“You are Adrien?” the man said. “From the article?” He retrieved a torn-out copy of Janey’s article from an inside pocket of his coat. “I was looking for your father, but perhaps you are who I should talk to after all. My name is Paul Lenaerts. In 1954, I worked at the Edouard Toulouse Psychiatric Hospital.”

Beside me, Janey gasped just as I flinched.

“You knew my father?”

“Not very well. It is best if you come to my hotel and I will explain.” He looked to Janey. “Both can come. Are you the writer of this article, miss?”

She nodded. “I am.”

M. Lenaerts smiled. “I’m so glad you did. I have some items that do not belong to me, and I’m so happy to be able to return them to their rightful owner.”

Janey and I exchanged looks, and the hope burning in her light blue eyes fed mine.

We took a cab to a little hotel in the 7th, and Paul Lenaerts explained that he was Belgian, but had worked for the French government as an envoy in ‘54 to help with the withdrawal of troops after the Viet Minh took control over northern Vietnam, essentially losing the war for France.

“I was working with the Veterans’ Affairs Office—though everything was in chaos,” Paul said. “I saw how many of the men were broken down by the war, and instead of going back to work for the embassy, I stayed in Marseille to tend to the wounded.”

“My father was in Marseille for a year before he came home,” I said, exchanging another glance with Janey. “I was too young to know the name of the hospital, or I’ve forgotten it.”