The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(56)

Mathieu’s eyes were melancholy, regretful. The light-blue pools held her gaze the way they had when the two had first met. Those eyes had haunted her since she’d arrived. He moved closer to her, gently, as if approaching a rabbit he did not want to scare. He never dropped his eyes from hers and eventually was standing in front of her. She could feel the tingle of his breath against her face, and it finally prompted her to move.

She pushed past him and marched toward the bedroom. “I need my photos. And my paintings and other things. Then I’m going.”

He followed her, maintaining a comfortable distance so she could have some space. She went straight to the nightstand to retrieve her pictures. The chaos of the bedroom when she had last seen it had disappeared. The bed was freshly made, and she could smell that the linens had been washed. There wasn’t even a cigarette or lighter in sight, let alone a bag of pills or hashish. She had no idea where he had stashed all the stuff, but it was clear he had tucked it away as a gesture to her.

As she inhaled the detergent smell, she couldn’t recall the last time he had washed their sheets. That type of cleanliness had not been part of their regime. Now, she felt a shiver, wondering how many times she had lain in that bed on those sheets on top of the other woman’s sweat, hairs, and fluids. Her stomach wrenched at the thought.

She opened the drawer and pulled out the handful of photos she kept there, the edges worn from the times she’d held them, staring at them and trying to put herself back in the exact moments they captured. Her suitcase was in the small wardrobe, and she pulled it out. After she placed it on the bed, ready to throw her meager earthly possessions into it, she felt the warmth of Mathieu’s hand on her shoulder.

“You belong here, ma chérie,” he whispered into her ear. “Avec moi.” With me.

His soft words tickled the small hairs on the back of her neck.

She spun around, her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t feel that way when you were with that woman, did you?”

Mathieu looked sheepish. “Non, ma chérie. I made a mistake. A grave mistake. But that is all it was. I was in a dark place and did not feel like myself. Have you never felt that way, ma belle? Have you never made such a grave mistake?”

She looked at the pictures she had put into the mesh top compartment of the suitcase, and her shoulders drooped. She had made much bigger ones. She had left her child. She turned back to Mathieu. He looked so earnest and humbled. He slowly rubbed both of her shoulders.

“Nita, je t’aime.” I love you. “I cannot lose you.”

They’d never said those words to each other. And Nita wasn’t even sure either of them felt it, but in that moment, she could see that Mathieu, at the very least, thought he loved her.

“How can you say those words when you were just with another person?”

“Because with her, it never meant anything. It was a form of payment, that’s it. And I’ve told her not to come by here again. You were right. The drugs were too much. And I won’t use them again. We will go back to the life we had before that. We were happy then, n’est-ce pas?”

Nita felt stuck. She had been happy enough a few months ago but also had the awful image of Mathieu with that other girl. How could she stay with him and maintain her self-respect? If she even had any left inside of her. She felt confused and angry and defeated.

“Ma chérie, if you must go, then please let me at least see your smile one last time.” His lips curled upward, encouraging her to do the same. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world when you smile.”

He was laying it on thick, and she could not help but form a wry smile.

Mathieu managed a chuckle. “That’s not the one, but if it is your best, then it will have to be enough. I meant what I said, Nita. Je t’aime. Will you remember that for me? Remember it always?”

Nita looked at the photos of Sophie in her suitcase. She had been determined to fill the bag with her belongings and go. She had already stayed longer than she had wanted, but her feet were stuck in place. There were no good answers, and she had no one to blame but herself for the lack of choices she now had.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Where will you go, ma chérie? You should at least stay here for a few days, until you have a plan.” He motioned toward the living room. “I can sleep in the salon if you need space. I just want to know you are safe.”

Nita considered his offer and thought about the meager funds she had stashed in her pocket and knew there wasn’t much left in the kitchen drawer, even if she took all of it. She was back to where she had been when she had first landed: desperate, alone, and in need of money.

She shook the thoughts from her head, knowing she had to get out of that apartment as quickly as she could. She snatched the photographs from the suitcase and clutched them to her chest.

“I have to go.” She brushed past him. “I’ll return for the rest of my things,” she said, only half believing she ever would. She could sacrifice the paintings, her clothes, and anything else, but not her photographs of Sophie.

As the door to the apartment closed, drowning out Mathieu’s pleas that she reconsider, she walked faster, nearly throwing herself down the stairs and outside of the building. The sun hit her face, and she gasped for air as if she had been drowning. She put her hand against the cold concrete wall to steady herself while she took in deep breaths. She hadn’t even noticed the figure approaching her.