The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,22

they express their delight in my performance. But they don’t admire me. I’m not esteemed.”

“Hector, come now.”

“No, it is true. It is different to be a gentleman like you, born and bred, than to be a man of my ilk.”

“You are hard on yourself.”

“I am honest. But the point is, I do not think she would see any difference between the two of us. She might even hold me in higher esteem than you, even if you are a Lémy. Despite her provincial ways or whatever other faults she may possess, she is a Beaulieu and belongs to a category of ladies men like me are not allowed to pursue, yet I feel she does not see it that way. I am her equal.”

Étienne nodded, putting out his cigarette in the dregs of his coffee. “What does Valérie think of this courtship of yours?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You said you spoke to her.”

“Briefly,” Hector said. “Besides, I said I ‘intend to court her.’ Nina and I have conversed only a handful of times.”

“My question remains the same. What does Valérie think?”

“She thinks I am a fool. As you do.”

“I did not say that.”

“You disapprove.”

“Have you ever even courted a lady? Aside from Valérie? No.”

He recalled his first terrifying year away from his native country. Immediately upon his arrival in Zhude, one of the largest ports in the north of Iblevad, when he stayed in a cramped, flea-infested lodging house for young men, his boots were stolen while he slept. He had to walk through the city in his formal shoes, which were not suitable for the cold. He could have either a lunch or a dinner, but not both. The other young men smoked cheap cigarettes to keep the hunger at bay, but Hector could not even afford those and went around to cafés and shops and street corners to put on his shows. In the evenings, against the dimming light, he wrote to Valérie, pages filled with words of love, phrases he’d stolen from poets who declaimed at the same coffee shops where he juggled for his supper, and others composed from his own imagination.

When she abandoned him, he tore the paper to shreds with his thoughts, flung the inkpot out a window, determined never again to commit passion to the page.

He had not spent his life living in a monastery, but he had limited himself to more ephemeral relationships. No, he had not courted many, any, ladies since Valérie.

“I am not a green boy. As you mentioned, I am an old man,” Hector said, irritated.

“If I were you, I would be trying to stay as far away from the Beaulieus as possible. As far from Valérie as possible. But I am not your father to tell you what to do or not. You know how to live your life. At least, I hope you do.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Étienne said, raising his arm, trying to attract the attention of a waiter.

The waiter arrived, notepad and pencil in hand.

“We need the finest wine you have. We are toasting to my friend, who is desperately in love and wishes to be married,” Étienne declared.

Hector did not appreciate the joke and glared at Étienne.

His friend shrugged. “It has to be brought up, doesn’t it?” Étienne said.

“What?”

“Love.”

He thought of Valérie, her face like a poem, lifting her hands, laughing, the sun catching in her tresses. The arc of her arm in that instant, when she ran her fingers through her locks, then extended her hand to touch his cheek. “I love you,” she had said. “I’ll wait.”

“Love is not a concern anymore,” Hector said, his voice hoarse.

The waiter returned, placing a bottle and two glasses on the table. Hector drank deeply, feeling as though he’d swallowed a fish bone and it had lodged in his throat. But it was only phantom pain. A pain he knew well, which he’d nursed for a decade.

Étienne let out a sigh and raised his glass. “To you, my friend,” he said.

CHAPTER 8

It was a day for social calls, and Valérie had ordered Nina to don a suitable dress that she might drag her through the city, a process made most unpalatable due to the constricting, uncomfortable shoes the girl was required to wear. Valérie was particular about everything, from the buttons on Nina’s gloves to the size of the heel she should sport, and poor Nina, accustomed to boots that would serve her well on her entomological expeditions in the countryside, tripped more than once as