by Emma Scott
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.
“Where did you know Edouard from?” Adrien asked with practiced patience.
“The after.” Victor looked at me. “They booed. They didn’t want our wounded to land at Marseille. Can you imagine? We were trying to come home. That’s all we wanted. To come home…”
He took the pill from his son and sank down on the chair to drink the water. Adrien turned to me.
“He means there were protests when the soldiers came back,” he said.
I nodded. “It’s happening in the U.S. too.” I retrieved the hot sandwich for Victor, and handed it to him with a napkin. “Here you are, M. Rousseau.”
The older man peered up at me, then looked to Adrien. “Edouard has it,” he said, calmer now. I guessed the pill Adrien had given him was a mild sedative. “Edouard has Laos. Khmer. Vietnam. All of them. I tried to leave them behind but the shadows remained anyway.” The tapped his forehead. “In here.”
Victor went quiet then, and turned his attentions to his food.
“I should go,” I told Adrien. “I have a story to write.”
He sucked in a breath. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
“It was very nice to meet you, M. Rousseau,” I said, but the man was intent on his food.
Adrien walked me to the door, and glanced at his father by the window. “I know, he needs real care but he was dying at the veteran’s hospital. Another reason to sign with a Premier League if they’ll have me. So I can put him somewhere good.”
I took Adrien’s face in my hands and kissed him and hurried out before he could see my tears.
Back in my flat, I sat at my typewriter and Adrien’s story flew out of me. I wrote everything: about football and beyond. The only area where I held back was the specifics of the Rousseau’s finances, though I made it clear Adrien was doing everything in his power to provide for them, even if it meant giving up his studies. It took me all of that Sunday, but by Monday morning it was done.
I stared at what I wrote and called America. My best friend.
“Hello?” Helen said.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Janey!” she said. “I’ve missed you. How is Paris?”
I told her all that happened and about Adrien.
“He sounds wonderful,” Helen said wistfully.
“He is…” I bit my lip and looked at my article. “Helen, you were right.”
“About what?”
“I found a big story inside a little one. The biggest story of my life.”
After I hung up with Helen, I showered, dressed, and hurried down to Antoine’s office with the story and the best photos tucked under my arm.
I stood, biting my lip, as Antoine read the article. When he finished, he looked up at me, his eyes wide.
“This is true? Adrien’s father is alive?”
I nodded.
“I was at the match two days ago,” Antoine said. “I saw the red card…” He narrowed his eyes at me. “One could read this and feel as if Adrien doesn’t want to play football, but you never clarify that at all.”
“It’s not an opinion piece.”
“But didn’t you ask him?”
I wasn’t about to jeopardize Adrien’s chances of being signed. If that’s what was supposed to happen, I wouldn’t interfere. But I hoped putting Adrien’s story out into the universe was going to help make the right things happen for him.
It has to. He deserves to be happy too.
“He will do whatever is necessary to take care of his family,” I said.
Antoine regarded me a moment more, but I was unwavering. He blew air out his cheeks, shaking his head. “Very well. We’ll run it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
I eased a sigh where Antoine couldn’t hear it—and started to go.
“Mademoiselle Martin?” Antoine said.
“Oui?”
“It’s very good, this article.”
I waited for the pride to swell in me for the praise, but it was the story that needed to be told, and that’s all that mattered. And I decided, then and there, those were the only kinds of stories I would ever tell.
I want to stand on the big stage too, right next to Adrien Rousseau.
Adrien
Janey’s story came out on Wednesday morning. I read it in my flat, knowing that my teammates and family were reading it too. I didn’t expect anyone to be happy with me, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when Robert pounded on my door at the pension. He was my best friend and had been the only person who knew my father was alive and torn up by the war.
He stormed into my place, a copy of the paper in his hand.
“What the fuck, Adrien?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I said. “Coffee?”
He flapped the paper at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That you want to finish med school?”
I sighed, crossed my arms. “I have responsibilities to the team.”
“You think we can’t win without you? Is that it, you arrogant bastard?”
I was taken aback until I saw the glint of laughter in Robert’s eye.
“I know you can’t win without me,” I shot back, fighting my own smile. “In fact, you should let me play forward and tend goal. Just be safe.”
“Well, I would, except you got your ass red carded.”
“I’m sorry about that. And about the team dropping back to fourth.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got to play the best game of our life and hope we have the points when it’s done. I hate to say it, but your goals this season might save our ass.” Robert raised a brow. “Tell me the truth. Did you do it to get thrown out of the game? Or did you do it for the girl?”
“Her name is Janey,” I said. “And the truth is…maybe a little of both.”
Robert nodded. He tossed the paper on my desk next to the anatomy textbook I had been poring over.
“I’d say I’d explain to the guys the situation, but I think this article did it for you. And I’m sorry if I added any pressure to you. All I can think about is football. I eat, sleep, live for it. It’s all I want. But it’s not all you want, is it?”
I shrugged. “It’s what I need.”
Robert nodded. “Come to La Cloche tonight. We’re still your family too, no?”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
