There was such friendliness and charm in his eyes, such boyish eagerness to engage her, that she could only go along.
“She’s a nurse too.”
“Of course. You told me before. Is she still happy? Did she get married to that man she loved so well? Do you know, I can’t remember his name. I hope you’ll forgive me. Since my injury my memory has been poor. But they tell me it will soon come back. What was his name?”
“Robbie. But . . .”
“And they’re married now and happy?”
“Er, I hope they will be soon.”
“I’m so happy for her.”
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Luc. Luc Cornet. And yours?”
She hesitated. “Tallis.”
“Tallis. That’s very pretty.” The way he pronounced it, it was. He looked away from her face and gazed at the ward, turning his head slowly, quietly amazed. Then he closed his eyes and began to ramble, speaking softly under his breath. Her vocabulary was not good enough to follow him easily. She caught, “You count them slowly, in your hand, on your fingers . . . my mother’s scarf . . . you choose the color and you have to live with it.”
He fell silent for some minutes. His hand tightened its grip on hers. When he spoke again, his eyes were still closed.
“Do you want to know something odd? This is my first time in Paris.”
“Luc, you’re in London. Soon we’ll be sending you home.”
“They said that the people would be cold and unfriendly, but the opposite is true. They’re very kind. And you’re very kind, coming to see me again.”
For a while she thought he might have fallen asleep. Sitting for the first time in hours, she felt her own fatigue gathering behind her eyes. Then he was looking about him with that same slow turn of the head, and then he looked at her and said, “Of course, you’re the girl with the English accent.”
She said, “Tell me what you did before the war. Where did you live? Can you remember?”
“Do you remember that Easter, when you came to Millau?” Feebly, he swung her hand from side to side as he spoke, as though to stir her memory, and his dark green eyes scanned her face in anticipation. She thought it wasn’t right to lead him on. “I’ve never been to Millau . . .”
“Do you remember the first time you came in our shop?”
She pulled her chair nearer the bed. His pale, oily face gleamed and bobbed in front of her eyes. “Luc, I want you to listen to me.”
“I think it was my mother who served you. Or perhaps it was one of my sisters. I was working with my father on the ovens at the back. I heard your accent and came to take a look at you . . .”
“I want to tell you where you are. You’re not in Paris . . .”
“Then you were back the next day, and this time I was there and you said . . .”
“Soon you can sleep. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, I promise.”
Luc raised his hand to his head and frowned. He said in a lower voice, “I want to ask you a little favor, Tallis.”
“Of course.”
“These bandages are so tight. Will you loosen them for me a little?”
She stood and peered down at his head. The gauze bows were tied for easy release. As she gently pulled the ends away he said, “My youngest sister, Anne, do you remember her? She’s the prettiest girl in Millau. She passed her grade exam with a tiny piece by Debussy, so full of light and fun. Anyway, that’s what Anne says. It keeps running through my mind. Perhaps you know it.”
He hummed a few random notes. She was uncoiling the layer of gauze.
“No one knows where she got her gift from. The rest of our family is completely hopeless. When she plays her back is so straight. She never smiles till she reaches the end. That’s beginning to feel better. I think it was Anne who served you that first time you came into the shop.”
She was not intending to remove the gauze, but as she loosened it, the heavy sterile towel beneath it slid away, taking a part of the bloodied dressing with it. The side of Luc’s head was missing. The hair was shaved well back from the missing portion of skull. Below the jagged line of bone was a spongy crimson mess of brain, several inches across, reaching from the crown almost to the tip of his ear. She caught the towel before it slipped to the floor, and she held it while she waited for her nausea to pass. Only now did it occur to her what a foolish and unprofessional thing she had done. Luc sat quietly, waiting for her. She glanced down the ward. No one was paying attention. She replaced the sterile towel, fixed the gauze and retied the bows. When she sat down again, she found his hand, and tried to steady herself in its cold moist grip. Luc was rambling again. “I don’t smoke. I promised my ration to Jeannot . . . Look, it’s all over the table . . . under the flowers now . . . the rabbit can’t hear you, stupid . . .” Then words came in a torrent, and she lost him. Later she caught a reference to a schoolmaster who was too strict, or perhaps it was an army officer. Finally he was quiet. She wiped his sweating face with a damp towel and waited. When he opened his eyes, he resumed their conversation as though there had been no interlude.
“What did you think of our baguettes and ficelles?”
“Delicious.”
“That was why you came every day.”
“Yes.”
He paused to consider this. Then he said cautiously, raising a delicate matter, “And our croissants?”
“The best in Millau.”
He smiled. When he spoke, there was a grating sound at the back of his throat which they both ignored.
“It’s my father’s special recipe. It all depends on the quality of butter.”
He was gazing at her in rapture. He brought his free hand to cover hers. He said, “You know that my mother is very fond of you.”
“Is she?”
“She talks about you all the time. She thinks we should be married in the summer.”
She held his gaze. She knew now why she had been sent. He was having difficulty swallowing, and drops of sweat were forming on his brow, along the edge of the dressing and along his upper lip. She wiped them away, and was about to reach the water for him, but he said,
“Do you love me?”
She hesitated. “Yes.” No other reply was possible. Besides, for that moment, she did. He was a lovely boy who was a long way from his family and he was about to die. She gave him some water. While she was wiping his face again he said, “Have you ever been on the Causse de Larzac?”
“No. I’ve never been there.”
But he did not offer to take her. Instead he turned his head away into the pillow, and soon he was murmuring his unintelligible scraps. His grip on her hand remained tight as though he were aware of her presence. When he became lucid again, he turned his head toward her.
“You won’t leave just yet.”
“Of course not. I’ll stay with you.”
“Tallis . . .”
Still smiling, he half closed his eyes. Suddenly, he jerked upright as if an electric current had been applied to his limbs. He was gazing at her in surprise, with his lips parted. Then he tipped forward, and seemed to lunge at her. She jumped up from her chair to prevent him toppling to the floor. His hand still held hers, and his free arm was around her neck. His forehead was pressed into her shoulder, his cheek was against hers. She was afraid the sterile towel would slip from his head. She thought she could not support his weight or bear to see his wound again. The grating sound from deep in his throat resounded in her ear. Staggering, she eased him onto the bed and settled him back on the pillows.
“It’s Briony,” she said, so only he would hear. His eyes had a wide-open look of astonishment and his waxy skin gleamed in the electric light. She moved closer and put her lips to his ear. Behind her was a presence, and then a hand resting on her shoulder.
“It’s not Tallis. You should call me Briony,” she whispered, as the hand reached over to touch hers, and loosened her fingers from the boy’s.