Trust: Betrayed (22 page)

Sophia looked at her watch and sighed, “Okay. But only five.”

Gabriela beamed at her mother, “Thank you, Mama.” She turned to Alistair and asked, “Tell me another story, please?”

“A short one,” he said as Sophia sat on the sofa beside them and put Gabriela’s bare feet over her lap.

Alistair smiled at Sophia, as he started the story, “Once upon a time, there was a prince. He was very tall, handsome and rich. But he didn’t have a princess-”

“What was his name?”

“Ronnoc Riatsila,” he promptly said and winked at Sophia.

“Ugh! What an ugly name.” Gabriela puckered her turned-up nose. “Are you sure he was a prince?”

“Aye. I’m sure,” he smiled, delighted. “So. The prince was very much alone in his big, big castle. One day, he decided to hold a contest to find his bride. All the women in his kingdom would have to go.”

“Only the beautiful ones,” Gabriela said. “Princes can’t marry ugly princesses.”

“Very well. Only the beautiful ones.” His grin broadened as he put an arm over Sophia’s shoulder and pulled her closer.

She sighed happily and nestled herself on his side, listening to the story of the prince called Ronnoc Riatsila, thinking that she wanted his princess to be called Aihpos.

The City of London Bank Headquarters.

Thursday, May 15
^th
, 2008.

4.59 p.m.

“But can’t my driver just pick up the prescription?” Alistair paused as he listened to what Doctor Lodes’s secretary told him on the phone. “Aye, of course. I’ll be there.” He hung up and rubbed a hand on his neck.
What could be this urgent? It’s just a prescription.

He left his office with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Lodes’s Clinic.

5.47 p.m.

“Hello, Doctor Ben. How are you?” Alistair hugged the doctor and entered his office. “How are Aunt Elizabeth and Mark?”

“Everyone’s fine, son. Everyone’s fine,” Doctor Lodes repeated as if to assure himself that what he said was true. He motioned for Alistair to sit on the sofa at the end of his office.

Alistair frowned at the strange behavior but complied, sitting on the comfortable gray sofa and stretching his legs. He was tired. He had been working like a mad man lately. “I haven’t seen Mark for a long time. He’s disappeared.”

Doctor Lodes scratched his bald head and sat next to Alistair on the sofa. “You have been too busy to see your friends, Alistair Connor. Mark got married last month. We missed you at the wedding.”

“What?” Alistair sat up on the sofa. Mark was one of his best friends. “I didn’t get the invitation.”

“We sent it to your apartment. Heather rang us and talked to Beth. It seems you had a trip planned.”

“We did travel, but I would have postponed it if I had known that Mark was getting married. It wasn’t that important. We went to Saint Barths for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary which was in February.”

“Well, too late now, son.” Doctor Lodes shrugged. “See that you don’t miss Johansson’s wedding in two weeks. His father told me that Heather has declined as well.”

What?
Alistair’s mouth fell open.
What’s going on?

“Did you receive the last results from Heather’s exams?” Doctor Lodes continued.

Oh, damn. I forgot Heather’s exams. And Emma’s. I don’t even know if they did them after the treatment.
Alistair looked sheepishly at the older man and shook his head.

The doctor’s face showed no surprise. “Well then. Alistair Connor, I don’t want you to become nervous with what I’m going to tell you.”

“Too late for that, Doctor Ben. I’ve been freaked out since our appointment in December.” Alistair almost laughed. But his doctor and friend had such a stern expression on his face that he knew this was no time for humor.

“My boy, I received confirmation that the moxifloxacin was effective and that the bacteria were eliminated. Nonetheless... It took too long to diagnose and the damage... Treatments are evolving and maybe in the future they can reverse what’s happened-”

“You’re scaring me, Doctor Ben,” Alistair shifted on the sofa and leaned toward the doctor to better look at his soft brown eyes.

The doctor thinned his lips and looked away for an instant.

When he looked back, his face showed a piercing sadness. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Alistair Connor. I’ve known you all your life and I love you as if you were my own son.” He shook his bald head and a cold dreariness sifted through Alistair’s bones. “But the test results arrived this morning. I still had hope...” He inhaled deep, rested his hand over Alistair’s and blurted, “Son, I’m sorry, but the disease has made you infertile.”

Atwood House.

Sunday, March 21
^st
, 2010.

8.06 p.m.

“She slept, finally,” Sophia said, entering the TV room with two wine glasses hanging upside down on her fingers and a bottle of Romanée Conti and halted as she saw Alistair’s sleeping face. He was sitting on the sofa, his head resting on a pillow, bent sideways, and his bare feet propped on one of the low square velvet ottomans placed near the sofa.

In the peaceful gloom of the room, he looked younger than his thirty-five years, with his absurdly long lashes making shadows on his cheeks and his long bangs falling over his forehead. The book he had taken from her shelf to read had fallen on the floor, and was standing vertically, perched on its covers.

Sophia approached quietly and put the bottle and the glasses soundlessly on the side table. She bent down to pick up the book and frowned when she saw the tittle.
Les Misérables? Why so sad, Alistair Connor?

She put the book next to the wine and served herself, admiring the handsome man on her sofa. She found it unsettling to see him like this, so defenseless and unguarded.

Sophia didn’t feel protective toward him except when he told her about Nathalie and Heather.

Alistair was always so sure of himself, so in control and unwavering in his positions and ideas. He seemed bigger than life. But lying there, he looked so vulnerable. So in need of care and love.

She sat beside him on the sofa, lightly caressing his hair, as she savored the wine.

His brows drew tight and his hands clenched in his lap as his breathing became rough. He opened his emerald eyes, startled, searching for her.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered as he blinked and straightened himself on the sofa.

“Nae, it’s okay,” he shook his head. “I guess I’m tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” He rubbed his eyes and picked up the book from the side table, leafing through it in silence.

Sophia peered at the page he had stopped. She had marked a sentence.
‘Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his temptation.’

He flicked his gaze at her and back to the book.

Hmm, not good. Not good at all.
“So, what do you want to do?”

“It’s up to you,” his fingers touched the marked line as he answered her, absentminded. “Anything. I’m not really hungry.”
And you won’t be either after I tell you the rest of my wretched story.

She studied his expression as she poured him some wine and handed him the glass, “What is it, Alistair?”

“Nothing,” he said, drinking the wine, avoiding her eyes. “Hmm, this is good.” He picked up the bottle and feigned interest in it. “You have a peculiar way of reading.”
Where is my courage?
“I’ve never seen anyone so thoroughly mark and comment a book.”

“
Les Misérables
has lots of interesting passages. Many intertwined plots with many different characters.”
Alistair Connor, I know you by now. There’s something nagging you.
Sophia sipped her wine as she watched Alistair run his hand over the back of his neck, nervously.

Tell her the whole truth.
“Aye, the main thread is the story of the ex-convict...”

“Yes. Jean Valjean...” she supplied, wondering where the conversation would lead.

“Aye. Do you believe it is possible?”

“What?”
What? What are you really asking me?

“That by a magnanimous gesture of a fellow man, the bishop, in this case, the warped spirit of a convicted man could be redeemed?”
Can I be too?
“Valjean was blinded by bitter rage for being condemned for so many years by stealing a loaf of bread. Such a small act of despair.” He kept his eyes glued on the book while he quietly spoke, as if he were talking to himself.

“An act of despair? Even though it was committed in despair, it was still a crime. And he had to pay for it. The issue was that his punishment was disproportionate to the crime. He served nineteen years before he was put on parole. On parole, for the rest of his life.”

You didn’t answer my question, Counsellor.
“But do you believe he could be saved, spiritually speaking? That someone who had committed that many sins, who was so degraded, could nonetheless be led to believe in the righteous way?”

Hmm. What do you want to hear? Innocent or guilty?
“Yes, I do believe it. Valjean is guided to the light
once more
,” she stressed the last two words, “because he was a good man. His intentions were never evil, despite his crime.”

“Let’s assume he could be saved...” He raked a hand in his hair, unsettled.

“He
was
saved, Alistair Connor. More than once. It was as if... All he needed was a second chance.
And
he was given second chances throughout his life.
And
he took them all; the bishop’s kind gesture, the gardener at the convent who was a refugee are just two of them. Loving and caring people who weren’t mislead by his appearance, or his disguises, extended him a hand which he took and used it to better himself.”

A second chance.
“But even having accepted a new path, he never could escape his dark past, could he? Javert, I mean.”

Uh-uh. This doesn’t sound good.
Sophia waited for him to continue, but it was clear Alistair wanted an answer to his question. “No, he could not because Javert could never understand the power of redemption. He was unyielding, strict, blinded by the supposedly infallible nature of the law. His suicide is proof of his incomprehension. And also the absence of a kind bishop to lead him onto the good path.” She took the book from his hands and started looking for a specific passage. “We must believe there’s always a chance for those who want to be saved. And this book is all about appearances, disguises, understanding and redemption. Jean Valjean’s, French society’s and even Javert’s. The police officer, who was obsessed with right and wrong, spent all his life trying to atone for his parents’ sins by being irreproachable. And, even though he was wrong in the eyes of religion, he redeemed his own sin, the lack of understanding, of goodness, of mercy, by committing suicide because he couldn’t bear the agony of living between his duty to the law and his debt to Valjean.”

“You know the book well.” Alistair drank some more wine.

Oh, yes, I do. I’m still trying to redeem myself. But no one’s giving me a hand to hold onto.
Sophia sighed softly and mused, “One can always say that Javert is our conscience. The ever-lurking presence of the law and our own condemnation. The tension between who we were and who we are and who we can be. Javert represents that inescapable, shameful past that forever haunts and pursues one’s conscience. There isn’t a worse judge than a guilty conscience. Javert is the man of the law, and... There are no surprises with the law. The principle of retribution is simple and monotonous, like Euclidean logic. It’s closed to all alternatives and shut up against divine or human intervention... Indeed, Javert represents the merciless application of the law, the blind Justice that in the end is befuddled by hope and the possibility of redemption without punishment.” She almost gasped the last word as she understood why he had picked up the book.

She looked up to find Alistair’s gaze locked on her face. She settled her leg on the sofa, put her hand on his check and said softly, “Does redemption always have to be achieved through violence and punishment or is it possible through gentler traits, such as love, understanding and peace?”

Will you give me a second chance?
Alistair closed his eyes and leaned his face on her hand.

“No one is past redemption, Alistair Connor, if one wills it.”

So optimistic, Sophia.
He had never wanted to believe in someone’s opinion so much. He felt like crying such was the despair and the hope that warred within him.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “Talk to me.”

He looked at the window panes. Rain poured outside as if the weather understood his mood.

“I need to tell you something,” Alistair spoke quietly.

“Tell me, then.” Sophia straightened herself on the sofa and looked at him. What she saw sent a cold shiver through her spine and dread pooled in her heart. “What is it?”

“I... I didn’t tell you my whole story.” He swirled his wine in the glass and stared at it for a long time. “I never explained to you how I discovered that Heather was cheating on me.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck again.

Sophia’s heartbeats increased to a thousand per minute.
Oh, please, leave Heather’s ghost outside my home.
“You don’t need to. It’s an unpleasant subject so...” she murmured.

“Well, I never claimed to be sane, did I?” Alistair refilled her glass with wine and blurted the truth before he could repent. “Heather... She gave me a rare STD,
Mycoplasma genitalium
. The usual tests didn’t detect it. The treatment started too late... After more than a year. It was successful, but... the prolonged infection...” He was watching her face carefully, waiting for the shock to appear. “Sophia... I’m sterile.”