“Hurry,chérie. Before the food gets cold—or my son steals all the tortillas.”
“I’ll set the table,” Aubert announces.
Gustave kisses my nose, and I finally exhale.
I dress hurriedly, wondering what this means.Ifit means anything? A man introducing his son to the woman he’s sleeping with, a man as private as Gustave…it means something, right?
Hope wars with despair, but I ignore both, and decide to behave as normally as possible.
As promised, Aubert is setting the table in the kitchen as Gustave makes coffee. They’re speaking in French, and I can only catch a few words here and there.
Gustave smiles when he sees me. “Aubert is telling me about a gallery show he attended last night.”
Aubert sets the last fork and chuckles. “A friend of mine is curating an art exhibition in Le Marais and…one artist last night had live chickens, another was a performance artist who didn’t speak at all, and a pianist who refused to stop playing even after we turned off the lights because it was closing time.”
His English is accented, with a British lilt, and it is good. Better than Gustave’s, in fact.
Aubert is complimentary about my food.
I learn from him that he loves Los Angeles and the Lakers,andMexican food. I don’t know if he’s saying these things to charm me, but I’ll take it. He’s much,muchnicer than the mother he resembles.
“I finishbacthis summer,” he tells me as he rolls the last of the eggs and salsa into the last tortilla.
Gustave isn’t wrong; his son can eat. I feel all puffed up with pride that he likes my food.
“I’m applying for a bachelor’s in journalism…naturally, in France, but also in London and the United States.”
“Where in the US?” I ask.
His eyes brighten. “UCLA and USC. Either would be amazing—and if I get in, I’m not missing a single Lakers at home game.”
Gustave shakes his head in mock irritation. “My son is crazy about basketball.”
“Mostly he says I’m crazy…period,” Aubert retorts cheekily.
“That, too,” Gustave agrees flatly.
Father and son are close. And alike in many ways.
Was Gustave like Aubert when he was younger? Or is Aubert different because Gustave keeps him away from the strictures of being a de Valois?
Like Gustave, Aubert is easy to talk to. He asks questions. Listens. We move from art to places we’ve been to music, and soon we’re seated in the living room with coffee and macaroons like we’ve done this a dozen times.
I catch Gustave watching us more than once, like he’s still assessing his decision to let me meet Aubert.
“So, you live in Paris?” Aubert asks, and Gustave excuses himself for a moment, leaving us alone.
“Well…for…I came in February. I’m only here for six months.” I tell him about the project at the Louvre.
“Papa loves that Carriera!” he exclaims and then nods thoughtfully. “Are you not able to stay longer?”
His son’s question feels dangerous.
Three and a half months. That’s the timeline. That’s the unspoken contract. But here I am, barefoot, meeting his son, laughing like I belong here.
“I….”
“You should stay.” He grabs my hand across the couch. “He’s…now I can see why he’s been happy these past months.”
