One Good Man

Paul nodded. “I was an administrator at Edouard Toulouse, not a doctor, and so had very little interactions with patients.” He smiled warmly. “But he was quite a character, your father. Everyone told tales about Victor.”

The cab rolled to a stop at the front of a boutique hotel. Paul led us upstairs to his small, but elegantly appointed room.

“The train ride from Brussels was only an hour and twenty minutes,” he said, “yet I feel as though I am sixteen years late.”

He moved to the side of the bed and pulled out a flat, square bundle wrapped in a moving blanket and taped along the front. He set it down on the floor and reached for a letter opener on the hotel’s small desk, speaking as he worked to cut the tape.

“My daughter attends the Sorbonne. She called me Wednesday night to tell me about the article, and how the footballer’s father had fought in the war. She thought it might interest me since she knew my work in Marseille.” He drew down the blankets protecting the work inside. “When she told me your father was an artist as well, I immediately thought of these.”

My heart nearly stopped as Paul carefully retrieved three oil paintings from within the protective layers of blanket and leaned them against the bed, side by side. Janey gripped my hand.

I stared at the three paintings.

Laos. Khmer. Vietnam.

They were nothing like my father had ever done before, but I knew they were his. I would know his art anywhere, like his fingerprints. The paintings were of soldiers in the field—long strokes of the brush rendering tall, dry grass as helicopters droned black on the horizon. The sun felt merciless, as if it would burn my fingers to touch the canvas. The men’s faces were scarred by shadow cast by their helmets, and drawn by what they had seen. As with my father’s other work, they were stark in their simplicity; beautiful in their honesty.

“Please forgive me,” Paul said quietly. “I left Marseille before Victor, and went back to Belgium. When the hospital was cleared of veterans, many items had been left behind. One of the administrators knew I was something of an art buff and sent these to me. They’re not signed; I had no way of knowing who they belonged to. I was busy with a new assignment and so put them in storage where they sat for sixteen years.”

“Pieces of him,” Janey whispered. “He said these were pieces of him.”

“I will help you authenticate them, if necessary,” Paul said. “I understand they might be of some financial help to you.”

I nodded slowly, though the idea of selling these made my heart ache.

I turned to shake Paul’s hand. “Thank you for this.”

He smiled warmly and gestured to Janey. “Thank her. If it wasn’t for her article these might have languished in my garage for another sixteen years.”

We left the hotel. I had two of my father’s paintings tucked under each arm, and Janey held the other. Out in the street, under the sunshine, I awkwardly maneuvered my way close to her and kissed her.

“You did this,” I whispered. “You did this for me.”

Tears stood out in her eyes and she smiled. “Only because you let me. Because you trusted me.”

I sucked in a breath to compose myself. “There’s a lot happening, isn’t there?” I asked. “Between us?”

She nodded quickly. “Quite a lot, I think.”

“Yeah,” I said, holding her gaze. “Quite a lot.”

Janey blinked quickly and stood straight, tossing a lock of her long hair over her shoulder. “Stop stalling, Rousseau, we have to get these to your mother.”

I laughed and kissed her again. “I guess we do.” My smile faltered. “Though it’s going to hurt to sell them.”

“This is your future,” Janey said, hefting one painting. “This is your father taking care of himself and his family, and you. So you can do what you were meant to do.”

We boarded the Metro. Doing what I was meant to do was right in my grasp.

But it won’t mean as much anymore, if I don’t have Janey.

Janey

Sophie let us into the house and hugged me tight even before she saw the paintings. Adrien brought his mother down and we revealed what Paul had given us. Adrien’s mother’s hands flew to her m

outh and she stared at the paintings.

“I never thought…” She sank into the couch, still staring. “I thought I was done missing him,” she said. “I thought if enough years had gone by, I could pretend like he died over there.”