Invisible Love (5 page)

“You attack me instead of answering me. What about you?”

Jean remained silent, and Laurent repeated, as if addressing someone who was hard of hearing, “What about you?”

“I . . . I just can't think the same way you do. It would be like bemoaning my lot, complaining about being gay . . .”

“Is everything still all right?”

“No, but I act as if it is.”

“Deep down, you agree with me. Say it! Say you're jealous of all those straight men who can have children just like that, even when they don't love the woman! Say you'd like to have a child running between our legs, a kid who'd take after the two of us. Say it, go on, say it!”

Jean sustained Laurent's gaze. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes agreed. Immediately, he felt them fill with tears, and without understanding why, he began sobbing. Laurent drew Jean's head to his chest, encouraging him to let himself go.

It was a bittersweet moment . . .

When they recovered, Laurent grabbed the wheel. “It's a good thing the boy didn't see us!” he said with a smile. “He would have had a good laugh to see these two old queens blubbering away . . .”

 

*

 

From that day on, David became the luckiest boy in the Marolles. Walking on the street, he would find banknotes on the sidewalk. When he was not being randomly chosen for free cinemas tickets, he would receive invitations to the theater sent by some obscure charitable association promoting cultural activities for young people. What letter box was filled with so many free copies—discs, books, scents—as his? The postman would leave gifts, supposedly from the local council, on the doorstep: a bicycle, a tennis racket, roller skates. In the spring, he even won a vacation in Greece—supposedly paid for by two anonymous sponsors who had been impressed by his school grades—and was allowed to take one other person with him. Naturally, he chose his mother. His luck became legendary. He already had plenty of friends because of his lively personality, but now he became
the
person to hang out with because of his good luck. He was equally in demand by adults, who would ask him for his favorite numbers before playing the lottery.

In June, along with some thirty of his friends, David made his first communion. In the spacious Notre-Dame-de-la-Chapelle, the church of Polish immigrants, Jean and Laurent found themselves surrounded by so many adults—parents, uncles, cousins—celebrating those young people dressed in virginal white that they did not need to hide. They sat down in the front row and were able to gaze at David for a whole hour.

From now on, not a day went by that they did not think about David. Laurent had left the Théâtre Royal du Parc and was now stage manager at the Salle des Galeries, a little chocolate box of a theater specializing in drawing room comedies. As the shop was only some twenty yards from the theater he would often join Jean at
L'Atout coeur
when he had a break. They would have a drink, talk about this and that—including David—then go back to work.

One afternoon, as they were sampling the tea a female friend had brought back from Japan, the bell at the door tinkled and they sat there stunned, teaspoons in their hands.

David had just come in.

He was fifteen, with curly brown hair, lips the color of raspberries, and a voice that was torn between the sharpness of childhood and the depth of the adult, like a pebble bouncing from head to chest.

“Hello,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

Caught in the act—but what act?—Jean and Laurent were unable to either move or speak.

Undaunted, David came closer and gave them a smile that lit up the whole shop. “I'm looking for a gift.”

Jean and Laurent were still looking at him wide-eyed.

“Mother's Day is coming up.”

Making a huge effort to regain his composure, Jean nodded solemnly, as if he belonged to the select few who knew that Mother's Day would be celebrated in two weeks' time.

Reassured that he had at least gotten some reaction, David went on, “Mom loves your shop.”

Hearing this “your,” which he had clearly addressed to both of them, Jean and Laurent turned bright red.

Laurent seemed to wake up. “Oh, it isn't my shop, it's his, it's Jean's.”

Jean looked at his lover in surprise. Why had he said that? There was no need. What was Laurent implying? That they weren't a couple? Was he trying to make the boy think he was straight?

Jean was so angry, he was about to demand an explanation, but Laurent stopped him dead with a glare and said in a commanding tone, “You see to the young man. I'll finish my tea.”

Realizing that he had forgotten David, Jean pulled himself together and turned to the boy. “Tell me what your mother might like,” he said, gesturing to David to accompany him around the shop and examine the display cases.

Laurent sat down to contemplate the newcomer. David expressed himself clearly, in well-turned sentences, as he explained what he liked and disliked. He had neither the clumsiness nor the shyness nor the casualness that afflict certain teenage boys. He was self-confident, and easily created a connection with those around him.

As he took out rings, chains and earrings and showed them to the boy, Jean realized why Laurent had said what he had: he had been sensitive enough to yield him the privilege of talking with David.

At the same time, Laurent had given himself the opportunity to observe the two of them together.

Suddenly David gave a start on seeing the tiny label hanging from the clasp of a bracelet that attracted him.

“Is that the price?”

The figure on the label was double what his mother earned in a month.

“No, that's not the price,” Jean replied, as quick as a flash. “It's the serial number of the item.”

“Really?” David said, half-reassured.

“Once you've chosen, I'll check in my book to see the price corresponding to the number.”

Still doubtful that he had enough money, David insisted in a shaky voice, “How much is this bracelet, for example?”

Jean walked to his desk. “What kind of budget do you have for your gift?” he asked casually.

David went pale, swallowed, then stammered, conscious of how ridiculous he must seem, “Fifty?”

With a professional flourish, Jean opened his address book, pretended to look for a number, then said, “Fifty? You have room for maneuver. That costs half—twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” David said, his voice high-pitched now: he could hardly believe his luck.

“Yes. Twenty-five. And, seeing as it's your first purchase here, I can give you a slight discount. Let's say twenty-two. But that's as low as I can go. Take it or leave it, young man, twenty-two.”

David's eyes shone.

Jean and Laurent exchanged a knowing glance: the bracelet was worth forty times that, but neither of them would have admitted it, even under torture.

Jean rejoined David. “Take your time, don't decide straight away. Look, I'll keep my book open, just tell me what you like and I'll tell you the price.”

“Oh, thank you, monsieur,” David exclaimed, casting a new eye on all these marvels that had suddenly become accessible. He resumed his inspection with renewed gusto.

Jean did not take his eyes off him. “Does your mother collect jewelry?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” David replied. “Whenever she has a little money, she spends it on us. She never thinks of herself.”

“What about your father?”

The question came from Laurent, still sitting in the shadows, unable to stop himself from asking it.

David turned. “My father's disabled, monsieur. He'd like to take care of us but he's confined to a wheelchair. He can hardly speak.”

“Do you love him?”

David stiffened indignantly. “Of course, monsieur. Poor Dad. He may not have had much luck, but at least I do.”

Jean and Laurent were silent for several minutes. In the world as David saw it, Eddy was his real father, Eddy loved him, Eddy adored his wife, Eddy would have worked hard if he hadn't been struck down. Such touching innocence melted the hearts of the two men. As far as they were concerned, the boy was no ordinary teenager, he was an angel fallen among devils.

After half an hour, David found himself faced with a dilemma: he was torn between the famous bracelet and a pair of emerald earrings. The two lovers stared at each other, blushing slightly, their temples throbbing. They both hoped that David would choose the emeralds, which were the most expensive item in the shop. There was such a discrepancy between the real price and the price he would pay, the mere thought of it filled them with glee. Now that was a lie that would have a bit of flair!

“I wonder . . . ” David murmured.

“Yes?”

“Are these emeralds?”

Jean wanted to help the boy, not take advantage of him. Especially as he wasn't stupid. “You're right, young man. At that price, you won't get emeralds. Mind, though, they aren't fake emeralds made of glass either! If you hit them, they'd withstand the blow.”

“Really?” David stammered, intrigued.

“Yes. It's a semi-precious stone from Brazil that's meant as a substitute for emeralds. It's called emerodino. To look at, to touch, it'd fool anyone, even professionals. You'd have to do a chemical analysis to detect the difference. I prefer not to lie to you.”

“Thank you.”

“That doesn't mean you can't tell your mother they're emeralds.”

“Oh, no! She'd never understand how I could afford them.”

“As you wish.”

When David left, his treasure in his hand, after thanking the two men profusely, as if aware that he owed them a lot, Jean and Laurent collapsed into the armchairs, exhausted.

“Just imagine! He came in . . .”

“He spoke to us . . . ”

“David!”

“Congratulations on inventing the emerodino! I almost fell for it myself.”

Laurent stood up and looked out at the Galerie de la Reine, which still bore traces of David in the air, then looked at Jean. “If anything happens to us, Jean, I'd like everything we have to go to David.”

Jean sat up. “What?”

“Imagine we're on a plane,” Laurent went on, “and the captain informs us there's a technical fault that can't be remedied. Well, before we crashed, we'd at least have two consolations. One, we'd be dying together, two, we'd make David rich.”

“I agree with you two hundred percent.”

The following day, they went to their lawyer and drew up two identical wills. Each bequeathed everything to the remaining member of the couple, but if both men were dead, the inheritance would go to David Grenier.

That night, they opened three bottles of champagne, made several toasts to that child who was not there and suspected nothing, and made love until dawn.

 

*

 

Every year, David came back to the shop just before Mother's Day. He was a man now, but had kept the liveliness and freshness of a child, which made him not only admirable but touching.

Every year, David saw these two men, thinking he had not seen them for a year, unaware that they had been watching him. School outings, sporting activities, plays—none of his public appearances had escaped Jean and Laurent, who would slip into the crowd without David or Geneviève ever noticing them.

They forbade themselves to do more. Their attachment to David and Geneviève had to remain secret, like their wedding behind the pillar in Sainte-Gudule thirty-five years earlier. True, there was an occasion when David expressed an interest in the theater, and Laurent offered to take him backstage. But the next time something like that happened—Jean had suggested taking the boy to a classic movie that was showing nearby—Laurent fortunately intervened: there was no question of forging ties of friendship with David! They might be keeping track of his life, but they had to remain apart.

At the age of eighteen, David got enough money together to buy himself a secondhand motorcycle. The two lovers shuddered, fearing he might have an accident. Every evening, they would drive through Rue des Renards, where the Greniers lived, to make sure that the bike was there, intact, tied to a bench not far from the entrance, and as soon as they spotted the blue bodywork they would sigh with relief.

The thing they could never have foreseen happened one Tuesday in November.

Opening their newspaper to the local news page, they learned that a drunken brawl had broken out in the rough area near the Gare du Midi, a brawl that had left two people wounded and one dead. The dead person was an innocent bystander, a high school student riding a motorbike.

Jean and Laurent turned pale. Could it be David?

As the item did not mention the name, they jumped straight into their car. Of course, on the ride to the Marolles, they laughed at their own panic, kept telling themselves that there were dozens, even hundreds of young men who rode motorcycles. But their nonchalance was feigned—what they really felt was an awful, nagging premonition that something terrible had happened to David.

They were right. When they reached the building, not only was the motorcycle not there, but the neighbors were laying flowers along the wall.

David had died when his bike had skidded as he had tried to avoid the fight.

 

*

 

Rarely had so much genuine grief been seen at a funeral service. David had been idolized: everyone who had met him—whatever their age or sex—had fallen under his spell and found it hard to accept that he was gone.

Johnny, Minnie, Claudia—his brother and sisters—were trying hard to put on a brave face. At the end of their tether, red-eyed, their features haggard, they would have liked to be alone with their grief: living it in public was a kind of desecration. Luckily, their understanding spouses looked after the children—David's nephews and nieces, shattered at the loss of their young uncle—and welcomed the guests.