One Good Man

“It hasn’t ended for America. It feels like it never will.”

Adrien nodded. “I want to be a doctor, Janey. Helping is the only thing that makes sense to me in the chaos.”

I craned forward to kiss him softly. “Go to the symposium. Promise?”

“We’ll see.” He took hold of my shoulders and hauled me up so that my body lay flush atop his, eliciting a squeal from me. “But that’s a week away. We have a little bit of time, no?”

I ki

ssed him long and deep. “We have all night.”

The following morning, Adrien and I woke at dawn and disentangled ourselves with effort. My body felt heavy and drowsy after a night spent bringing each other to one soaring high after another, and then sinking into each other to recover; to talk and kiss and sleep a little.

We dressed and went to an outdoor market so that Adrien could buy his father some groceries. We bought baguette, cheese, fruit, vegetables, eggs, and a hot croque monsieur ham-and-cheese sandwich for his breakfast. As we were leaving the market, I spied a stall that sold homemade jarred preserves.

“His favorite flavor?” I asked, perusing the pretty jars.

“Strawberry,” Adrien said absently. His gaze flickered to the price on the sign. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” I said. “And I’d like to meet him. For real, I mean.”

Adrien looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

We went back to the pension where the Algerian man I’d met yesterday was smoking a cigarette and reading an Arabic newspaper.

“Bonjour, M. Hamidi,” Adrien said. “How are you and Imane this morning?”

“Eh? Bien, bien,” the man said. He peered at me through his pungent cigarette smoke. “You are the American? From New York?”

“California,” I said, with a polite smile. “Why does everyone assume I’m from New York?” I asked Adrien as we made our way down the narrow hall on the first floor.

“I don’t know,” he said, stopping in front of #5. “When I look at you, I imagine what California must be like. I think of a beach or a tropical island under a blazing sun.”

“We’ve turned mushy already, haven’t we?” I said, laughing.

“Yes, we have.” Adrien kissed me softly, then his smile faltered. “Are you ready?”

I nodded. “I am.”

“My father is not violent, but he is quite unwell…”

I gave his hand not holding our groceries a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”

He smiled faintly and knocked on the door. “Papa? Are you up?”

The door flew open and I stepped back involuntarily. M. Rousseau stared at us with wild eyes, his hair askew from sleep and a loose coat hanging over his pajamas.

“You must go to Edouard,” he said. “Edouard has it. They have it!”

I saw Adrien try to smile reassuringly through a pained expression as he gently ushered his father inside. Victor’s place was the same as Adrien’s, only cluttered with papers and empty bottles. I knew without having to ask that Adrien probably took great pains to see that his father didn’t live in squalor.

“Who is Edouard, Papa? What does he have?” he asked calmly, as if he were accustomed to his father’s incoherent talk. He set down the bag of food on a table littered with papers, half-finished sketches, and the remains of last night’s dinner.

Victor rushed to his desk and began rifling frantically through the papers there.

“Vietnam. I brought it back with me and Edouard has it. I thought it was here…” He held up a wrinkled paper, inspected it, then tossed it away. “But then I remembered, they have it. Edouard. Edouard…” He smacked his own forehead. “The rest…it didn’t stay.”

Adrien brought his father a pill from a small bottle of medicine, and a glass of water.