by Linda Kepner
“Too true. Something always changes.”
The young man — a sophomore, maybe — nodded sagely. “Immutable text of dissertations, changed by time and technology. Oh, well. Hope it helps.”
Bishou thanked him, and walked back out into the sunshine. She pulled out the sheets from the envelope, and froze.
Louis Dessant’s picture stared up at her.
She made it to a bench before her knees gave way and read the article, slowly and incredulously. It was in French, from a major newspaper, but a feature story rather than a news article — a summary of a theme. It was dated three years ago. And yes, as the librarian had said, the title was Modern Crimes of Passion.
The caption below Louis’s head-and-shoulders photo translated as, “The notorious Louis Dessant, of the Dessant Cigarette dynasty, was released from prison after the French government received clamorous support for him from the entire newly developed Overseas Department of La Réunion.”
She delved further into the article, looking for Louis’s name, and found it at last. “Duped into an unwitting marriage with a beautiful confidence artist, Louis Dessant murdered the private detective who pursued them throughout France. Dessant later found that his false wife had killed the mail-order bride he had actually arranged to marry on Réunion Island, and taken her place. By then, he was so deeply in love with the false Madame Dessant that he was willing to die for her, and nearly did so, allowing himself to be slowly poisoned to death in an alpine hideout. Mme. Celie Dessant (real name, Carola Christina Alese) put a gun to her head and committed suicide before her shocked husband, rather than allow the police to take her. She left him alone to face bereavement, arrest, betrayal, and a sentence of hard labor.”
“Good God.” Bishou’s hands shook so badly she could hardly return the papers to the envelope.
She sat in the bright, warm sunshine, feeling so cold she shivered. Deeply in love. Murder. Poison. Suicide. Well, that was passion, wasn’t it? That was what she was doing her thesis on — observing it, not living it. This was one hell of an observation.
She thought again of Dr. Roth, President Lanthier, even Bat. All right, she promised them silently, I’m an academic and I’ll behave like one, don’t worry. Louis Dessant is just an interesting advisee, for two weeks only, and then he’ll be gone. Even as she said this to herself, she felt a twinge of unhappiness. She massaged her hands and feet to make the cold and numbness go away. The shock had been physical. Nothing had hit her that hard in years.
Bishou took a deep breath. Get used to it, she told herself. The rest of your life is going to be like this. If you’re going to be a woman professor, Howard, expect to be alone.
As Jean-Baptiste Howard, “Bat” her brother, had warned her, you just slogged through the traumatic times until you came out the other side. In the meantime, though, you tried to be fair to everyone else, and not let your outlook spoil their lives. Like they did for their younger brothers, who didn’t remember a time when their parents weren’t the victims of paralysis or dementia.
She stood. All right, she could do that. Louis Dessant was probably in America, a place he’d never been, for a change of scene. The least she could do was make sure it was a good experience. Back into the academic shell, she told herself. Let’s go.
They had already reached the morning coffee break when she stepped inside the Medlin Conference Center. Men sat everywhere, in the searing bright sunshine, talking and drinking coffee. She didn’t see Dessant among the men outside, not on the grass or benches or planters. Then she thought, No, he likes things more structured, and headed for the little coffee shop in the next building.
He was alone, at a tiny table, his head resting on one hand, reading notes. He had a cup of coffee and nothing else. She thought he looked tired and discouraged.
“Monsieur Dessant?”
He looked up at her, surprised, and rose from his seat. “Mademoiselle Howard! I did not think you were coming.”
“I’m sorry.” Bishou sat down in the opposite seat. “I had to teach, then I had to run some errands. I hadn’t meant to leave you by yourself. It’s my fault.”
“Oh, no, no. I expect too much.” He switched from English to French as he sat down. “The first speaker was on medical and legal issues, and we have not progressed so far in France. I found it very tedious. I was just trying to find highlights to describe this to Etien when I return, in case we find ourselves with similar legal issues in the future. But I doubt it very much. I cannot imagine it happening to us.”
“It’s good to be prepared, though, just in case it does.”
“I suppose so.” Louis underlined something else on the preprinted notes. Then he looked up at her with eyes almost as tired as his photo in the news clippings. “I missed you,” he said simply.
She dropped her gaze. “Vous êtes trés gentil.” You are very kind. “You are not eating anything. Did you have any breakfast?”
“Non.”
“I’ll get a croissant for you.” She stood, and motioned him back into his chair when he started to rise. “Non, non, you must eat. A student cannot concentrate when his stomach is empty.”
Put that way, he acquiesced with the slightest smile. “D’accord.”
When she returned, Louis was not alone at the table. Vig, Gray, and another tobacco-man had found him, and were explaining in great detail how the agricultural laws affected their tobacco business. They stood and found a chair for Bishou — chivalry was not completely dead in the South — and watched as Bishou laid out the croissants, butter, and jam for Louis.
“That’s the sort of lady to have, Louis,” Vig commented, “one who knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
Louis Dessant, buttering his croissant, gave them only a token smile. “I am not — how you said last night — shopping, my friend. My business here is tobacco only.”
Vig cocked an eye at Bishou. “And you, Little Miss? No plans to marry a rich widower tobacco man, eh?”
“No plans at all to marry a rich widower tobacco-man,” she concurred with a smile. “University business only.”
Louis glanced at her sharply, but ate his croissant in silence. Then it was time for them to return to the lecture hall for the second morning lecture.
As they walked across the quad to the lecture hall, Louis asked her, in French, “We talked about wives at dinner last night. You were not there. How did you know I was a widower?”
“You wear no ring,” Bishou replied.
“I might never have married,” he demurred.
“Thirty years old, with your looks?” she said. “I think yes.”
He reddened. “Thirty-five,” he said, “but thank you for the compliment. I wish you had been along last night. I was the only one at their dinner without a companion.”
“Mes apologies. But I really had to prepare for this morning’s lecture.”
“I understand.”
She wondered if he did.
They found the same seats as the previous day, and Bishou got out her notebook. Soon she was scribbling frantically about soil nutrients and environmental damage and fertilizers, while Louis did the same, back and forth. It was a busy, purging, profitable session.
“Mr. Dessant?” The lecturer knew who he was. The foreign tobacco-man had become known.
“Is this information shared among the agricultural research centers of various governments? I had never heard this soil nutrient information before, not as research.”
“I’m not sure, but I can find out for you. I know it’s shared among the states of the United States, the Canadian provinces, and most of the British Commonwealth, but I don’t know about the French departments, or Africa.”
“Perhaps the universities?”
“Definitely the universities. You can probably find out easier than I can which university systems have pipelines into the agricultural research stations.”
“That is a good thought. Thank you.” He made more notes.
At lunch break, Louis said to Bishou, “You will have lunch with us?”
“Certainly,” she replied, rising to accompany him. He reached for the tote bag, but she drew back. “No, no. I can carry my own things, I promise.”
He inclined his head briefly. “As you wish.”
They walked across campus to the reserved dining room. As they entered, they could smell beef cooking. The Texans and North Carolinians waved at them, and Louis and Bishou joined their table.
“Heeey, Bishou! Thought we lost you this morning. That tobacco was just too exciting for you, huh?” Gray Jackson greeted her.
“Not hardly.” She smiled as she sat down. “I have a job, too, you know.”
“I still can’t get over it. A pretty thing like you, a college professor. You must be really brainy, honey,” one of the other tobacco-men teased.
“It’s just teaching, like anywhere else. Don’t you know any women teachers?”
“Well, yeah, but not in colleges.”
“Well, keep watching us women. We’ll surprise you.”
The men laughed. One said, “Huh. And in the meantime, there’s some lonely man somewhere, who isn’t being taken care of the way he should be.”
“He’s safer than if he were married to me,” said Bishou, and the laughter started again.
They all had a good lunch, and talked tobacco and soil nutrients.
Gray Jackson said, “I hadn’t thought about Réunion being a volcanic island. Do you test the soil and water regularly?”
Louis nodded. “Not only for acidity and alkalinity, but also possible volcanic activity. We have seen some smoke, some ash — not a lot — but one never knows.”
“Like Hawaii?” Bishou asked him.
He agreed. “Much like Hawaii. I was interested in hearing what the Hawaiian grower had to say, but it appears he is getting ready to shut down.”
“He was talkin’ a lot about pineapples,” another man grumbled.
“I think it is …” Louis said something to Bishou in French.
“The path of least resistance,” she offered, as a substitute phrase.
“Oui, that is it, exactly. If I wanted to give up, there is always sugar cane. Our island is turning to sugar and electricity production.”
“No pineapples?” asked Gray with a grin.
“Some pineapples.” Louis named a prominent company. “Pineapples are their domain — a major agribusiness. It would be — what is the phrase — selling out.”
“Never been tempted to sell out, yourself?” asked Vig.
“I have sold out,” said Louis quietly, “and discovered I had made a serious mistake. I begged to be allowed back in the business. And here I stay. This is what I know. I won’t be such a fool a second time.”
Some of the men grunted approval. Bishou marveled that, under other conditions, these redneck, macho men would consider a Frenchman too effete for comfort. Yet here was Louis Dessant, speaking their language — tobacco — and admitting his own mistakes. And they were accepting him.
“What made you sell out?” Vig asked.
“My wife. She wanted to live in Paris, and living in Paris takes money.”
“So you went back to the tobacco plantation after she died?” asked Gray.
“A while after, but yes.”
He spoke only the truth, but now Bishou understood the meaning behind it. He never mentioned the agony and humiliation he had gone through. All he offered was a bare statement about a woman he had married. Bishou kept her eyes on her plate, and ate.
After dessert, they adjourned for a few minutes before the afternoon sessions started. Outdoors, Louis lit up a cigarette — a Dessant, of course — and inquired, “Do you smoke?”
“Not much. It bothers my throat. Usually I just steal a couple of puffs off someone else’s cigarette.”
He smiled, took another puff, and held the cigarette almost to her lips. She accepted, taking it from his hand. She inhaled the pleasant, distinctive fresh smoke of a Dessant cigarette. After she exhaled, she commented, “I haven’t had one of these since I was in Paris, a few years ago.”
“Oh? Where were you in Paris?”
“The usual tourist and student places. The Louvre, Versailles, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Notre Dame, Sacré Coeur, the Left Bank.”
“We visited only the restaurants and cinemas when we were there. Were you there by yourself?”
“Non, my fellow students were in Paris for two weeks, and then my brother Bat came over. Bat and I spent two weeks there together.”
“Bat?”
“Jean-Baptiste Howard. They call us the twins, but he is actually a year older than I am. He’s my best friend.”
“You are the only children?”
“Oh, non. We have two younger brothers as well.”
“And your parents?”
“You are asking a lot of personal questions, Monsieur,” Bishou said.
Louis reddened immediately. “I’m sorry. But it was only because you mentioned Paris. I did not mean to offend.”
“You didn’t offend.” She took another puff of the cigarette he handed her, and then gave it back. “We have had trouble with our parents. My parents were in a car accident seven years ago, and my mother has been in a wheelchair ever since. Possibly it was by choice, at first, but by now, her muscles have atrophied.” Bishou shrugged unhappily. “My father is more than a little eccentric, probably because of the head injuries he received then. We don’t know. Sometimes it is a struggle. I wouldn’t leave the boys with them if Bat wasn’t there.”
Louis cupped his hands around his cigarette, and focused on it carefully, not looking at her. “At least my wife and I did not have children to worry about.”
“Sometimes that’s a good thing.”
“Yes,” he said, gazing into her eyes for a moment. “I suppose so.”
• • •
The seminars were interesting and thought-provoking, if you were a tobacco-growing man. Bishou was hard-pressed to keep up the translations. At the end of two seminars, she felt like she had just come from gym class.
In the now-empty lecture hall, an amused Louis Dessant took her papers from her and copied over some notes in his nice French handwriting. “I need to make these presentable, Mademoiselle Howard, while we still remember what they are.” His gaze flicked to her face, then back to his copywork. “Tomorrow is the Wednesday break. Will you go on the tour with us? By autobus?”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Parts of North Carolina and Virginia. The auction barns are not yet in session, but we can see them, and they will give us tours. Vig and his family are all excited, to have us in their territory.”
“I’m not surprised. Welcoming his own tribe, so to speak.”
Louis chuckled. “Probably true. Would you accompany me? I will pay for your lunch, and for your autobus fare.”
With anyone else, she would make a joke about a date, but she didn’t feel right joking with him. “I don’t have a morning lecture, but I do have tutoring sessions later in the day.”
“Are you able to cancel them?” This time, he made eye contact. “Or would you rather not? I know it is arrogant of me to assume you are free.”
She caught her breath again. “It’s still early in the semester, so the students aren’t in trouble yet. They can afford to skip tutoring sessions. I’ll see what my schedule looks like.”
“I will tell them you are attending, so there are enough box lunches. If you do not come, well then, the more for me, I suppose.” A smile barely touched his lips. “I am getting better at the English, too, but still, it is nice for me to have someone to fall back on. I hope you can come.”
“Hey, kids,” Vig Hansen called from behind them. “You coming to dinner? Sukey wants to meet you, Bishou.”
“Is Madame outside?” asked Louis.
“Not for another half an hour or so.” The old tobacconeer eyed their paperwork. “Brushing up your notes?”
“Oui. I wa
nt to be able to remember tomorrow what I wrote today.” Louis made another note. Then he looked at Bishou. “Well? Are you coming to dinner?”
A small note of frustration crept into her voice. “Monsieur Dessant, here are the choices. If I go to dinner with you tonight, I cannot go on the bus trip because I won’t have a chance this evening to check the student schedules and cancel tutor sessions. If I go home right now and get working, I will be able to go on the bus trip and spend all day tomorrow with all of you. Which shall it be?”
Vig chuckled. Louis’s eyes opened wide and looked very apologetic — yes, he was a born heartbreaker, whether he realized it or not. “I choose the autobus all day tomorrow. And I will owe you a dinner myself then.”
“No, sir, you won’t. I’m representing the university here, and I have to stay within the lines. I’m enjoying everyone a lot — this is a great job — but I’m still a collegiate representative and I have to behave like it. No private dinners.”
“No more than if it was a man I asked?”
“That’s it, exactly.”
“Bien entendu.” Louis nodded, satisfied.
“I’m gonna send Sukey in here,” Vig threatened.
Louis held up a hand. “Non, non, mon ami. Bishou is part of our business relationship with the university.”
“He’s right, Mr. Hanson. I’m sorry,” Bishou apologized.
Louis and Bishou gathered up their paperwork, and left the hall with Vig Hansen. At the door to the Medlin Convention Center, the men turned in one direction while Bishou turned in the other and hurried off into the darkness.
She reached the grad-student housing, unlocked the big front door, and went inside. The smells of laundry and steamy suppers filled the air. She said hello to Marie Norton, her downstairs neighbor, and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Once inside, with the door locked, Bishou looked with dismay in the mirror in her tiny bathroom. She had really wanted to go with them, but she hadn’t realized she looked that sad.
Bishou was consoled to see that she had no labor-intensive students on her Wednesday schedule. She spent a few minutes writing notes to all of them saying she was unavailable today and would see them next Wednesday. Then, she took a deep breath, sat down with a fresh piece of paper, and started to write.
