One Good Man

Conscious of her audience, she wiped her eyes and composed herself. “You must sell them. It sounds cold and terrible to say, but we must.” She turned to Adrien. “You must finish medical school. I know that is the passion that burns in you hotter than the game.”

“We should keep one at least,” Adrien said.

“That one,” Sophie said, pointing at the lone soldier standing in the tall grass.

Mme. Rousseau nodded. “We shall keep it no matter what.”

Adrien and I joined the footballer group in the stands on Saturday afternoon. Adrien was nervous but Brigitte hugged Adrien with tears in her eyes.

“I’m all for you punching Olivier, but next time do it off the pitch. I won’t stop you.”

He laughed and the tension eased among the group. They had all read the article, and Brigitte sidled up next to me.

“You did a good thing for him,” she said.

I shook my head. “I only reported what he has done and had been doing.”

I eyed a bunch of scouts who had watched his arrival.

“They’re dying to talk to you,” I said.

Adrien nodded with a sly grin. “Which is the other reason why we have to skip out at half time.”

The whistle blew for the half, and Robert jogged over to where we sat in the stands. Paris Central was leading, 2-0, Johannes having scored both goals.

“Come with me,” Adrien said. “Let’s go say goodbye.”

We joined Robert at the sidelines where he gave me a grateful look, and then clasped hands with Adrien.

“So far so good,” Adrien said. “Don’t screw it up.”

Robert made a face. “It’s going to be tight, points-wise, but your goal difference might give us the edge.” He made a fist in a mock threatening gesture. “Lucky for that, Rousseau.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Adrien said. “Make sure you put mention of that in your Ligue 2 contract.”

The two men laughed again and then Robert jogged back to finish the rest of the fifteen-minute break. The scouts we’re ready to pounce on Adrien but we stayed until the whistle blew to start the second half and we snuck out while they were watching the game.

We took the Metro back to the Sorbonne where the symposium was about to begin at the Panthéon. The theater was crowded and a slideshow was set up flashing images of a war-torn country. Biafra, Nigeria, said the program that an usher handed to us as we entered.

Adrien and I sat down with three or so other doctors and journalists. We sat hand-in-hand listening to the doctors and their associates outline their plans. I thought this would be Adrien’s dream but it turned out to be mine as well. The doctors wanted to not only bring medical aid to places and people who desperately needed it, but to document what was happening in the world and bring it to light in Western countries. They would need journalists and translators.

Adrien turned to me and we exchanged a look that held our entire future in it.

“Médecins Sans Frontières,” Adrien whispered to me. “I even love the name. What is it in English?”

I whispered back. “Doctors Without Borders.”

“I love it,” he said, and he leaned over in the darkened theatre to cup my cheek. “I love you, Janey.”

My heart filled my entire chest, and I leaned closer to brush my lips over his. “I love you, Adrien. So much.”

“So much,” he whispered and kissed me softly, and I knew, in that moment, the greatest story of my life was about to begin.

1975

Adrien

Janey dances in the surf.