32 #3
Around the table, in this dining room where I have spent so many years eating meals, everything is familiar to me.
My father’s chair is empty, as has often been the case.
My mother is in her place, and Lily in hers, sitting with one leg tucked under her and the other ready to spring into action and go do something exciting.
The white tablecloth is spotless, as always—my mother has at least ten spares.
But in Basile’s place sits Vadim, in a nice shirt as white as the tablecloth.
He agreed to tuck it into his jeans, though he’s rolled up the sleeves.
His hair is still wet from the long shower he took.
He is devouring the meal prepared by my mother and has already wolfed down two extra helpings.
I am sure she is simultaneously flattered, touched, and embarrassed by his enthusiasm and lack of table manners.
My little sister monopolizes the conversation, in French, describing Jeanne’s, Capucine’s, and Margot’s outfits, their family life, their teachers, their homework, and all their school crushes, without any filter.
Vadim doesn’t understand a word, but he smiles as he watches her facial expressions, her eye rolls, and her excited squeals.
When it’s time for dessert, my mother asks us about our day, this time in English.
Growing up without parents, without a family, Vadim is not used to this kind of conversation. I sometimes forget that he hasn’t known this, that he was deprived of the warmth and security of a stable and loving home. My heart aches for him.
Sometimes, he looks at me as if almost calling out for help—wanting to know what to say, how to act, how far to go.
He always remains polite, but cannot help making the occasional mischievous remark or teasing Lily with a few jokes.
Other times, he zones out, withdraws into himself, looks away, and seems to grow darker.
Maybe he doesn’t want to be here anymore.
Maybe he misses his freedom.
When dinner is over, Vadim clears his throat before addressing my mother. With a superhuman effort, he launches into it, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, armed with only the few words of French he knows and his irresistible accent. “Madame Lancaster, je te remercie.”
Hearing him using the informal “tu” to thank her, when the formal “vous” would be the more appropriate choice, makes me smile.
“You’re welcome, Vadim. It’s a pleasure to have you here. And I’m pleased my two daughters have such big smiles on their faces tonight,” she replies graciously in French.
I translate for him in a whisper, even though everyone can hear me.
“Me too… I am… very pleasure.”
The whole table bursts out laughing at his broken French. Vadim runs his hand through his hair, and his nervous gesture moves me. I want to tell him that he is perfect just the way he is.
He continues in English, avoiding my mother’s gaze.
“You see, I’ve got quite a few dreams. And for the moment, I haven’t made many of them come true.
But right now, thanks to you, I’m checking three off my list. Visiting Paris, watching a movie in the country where cinema was born… ” he begins, counting on his fingers.
“And the third?” asks Lily.
He turns my way, and his luminous gaze captivates me.
“Making Alma smile,” he whispers.
“Aaaand Alma’s gonna cry in three, two, one…”
After shushing Lily, my mother places her hand over her heart. “I think that I was wrong about you, Vadim.”
“And I think I had the wrong idea about you, too,” he admits.
“No one was wrong about me?” Lily whines.
“No, you are… unique,” Vadim tells her. “If I had to choose a sister, I would pick one like you.”
“Works for me! I’ll take you, too!”
***
The next few days fly by, impossible to hold on to.
The nights follow the days, full of sighs, secret meetings, and danger.
Vadim visits me in my small, adolescent bed, then leaves on tiptoe.
When it’s my turn, I sneak into the guest room, find him asleep, and curl up against him until the wee hours of the morning.
Paris seems made for him. The neighborhood cinemas, the museums, the bistros, the markets…
He wants to see everything, do everything, experience everything.
I’ve rarely seen him smile so much. But he still remains himself: sharp, sarcastic, passionate, and free.
Exactly how I love him. I notice my mother studying him on several occasions, when his arguments hit the mark or when he makes me laugh.
And I see her understand, little by little, what I feel, and why he is so important to me.
One day, we kiss right in front of her.
Before leaving Paris, we go back to film our favorite spots in the city.
We wander the streets without knowing where they will lead us, hugging at every intersection, every red light, and sometimes in the middle of the crosswalk, ignoring the horns of impatient drivers.
We play grown-up in a chic restaurant that my mother treats us to.
We act like kids, playing endless games of I-dare-you.
And we get back on the plane.
Drunk on happiness, on memories.
More in love than ever.
Stronger.
Capable of anything.