Wednesday, November 7, 2007
So i am stopping.
Sooo my story is now too long, so i am going to stop posting it on here. sorry for everyone who has been reading it. if you want to hear what happens next, let me know and i will hook you up. you should probably ask in December, it should be done then, or that's the plan anyway. NanoWrimo is killing me.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Henri's story
Milo,
I know I always say that letters are more fun than e-mail, but they are also much too slow. You will probably get 20 e-mails from me before you get my last letter anyway. I have to make the switch because I need some advice.
Truly stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how she could summarize the whole story in an even shorter way than she had done in the letter.
Ok, so here is the super fast version of what was in my last letter. I got hit by a car, made friend with the girl who hit me and am now trying to learn about the French guy that saved me after the crash. If you want details, you are just going to have to wait. So the point is this, the French guys name is Henri, and I finally got him to talk about why he is so unhappy and it’s because he is somehow responsible for the death of his wife and he now wants to kill himself. Don’t you dare say anything about my run on sentence. What should I do?
~ Truly
She closed her lap top screen and yawned. Getting no sleep the night before was starting to get to her. She was never even good at pulling all nighters at school. She needed her beauty sleep. She looked at herself in the mirror in the bathroom. Her curls were all ratty and more tangled than they usually are. She had huge purple bags under her eyes and her skin was all blotchy. She looked like she was dying, and felt it. She had tried taking a nap after she had gotten out of bed and gone down for breakfast. Since she did not sleep she was the first and only one down in the café when it first opened. The staff had given her strange looks. Her nap was unsuccessful, so she had decided to e-mail Milo.
“Well I obviously have to go talk to him today since he thinks I won’t. How do you keep a perfect stranger from killing themselves? Ug, I thought I was on vacation.” She could not with a clean conscious just forget about Henri and what he had said. If she did, she would always regret not trying to help. She would always wonder if he had gone through with it, and if she ever found out that he had, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life. She did not need that kind of feeling in her life. She did not have time to wait for Milo’s response
Today her dress was a light blue sleeveless number. She thought it made her look professional, which is just the air she wanted to give off at this meeting. As sure as her hair was read, there was Henri at this normal spot. The waiter of the café walked in front of her and she stopped him with a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, what can you tell me about that man there, one who is in that same seat every day?” She wasted no time.
“Oh Mr._____? All I know is that he is here every day and is scaring away my customers,” replied the waiter, thankfully in English.
“Then why do you let him stay? Don’t you have the right to ask him to leave?”
“I would, but he always orders the most expensive food on our menu and the best wine we carry. He is putting my kids through college!” The waiter had to be exaggerating, but he had maid his point none the less. He walked away from her still laughing at his own joke. She proceeded to Henri’s table and sat down without invitation.
“You again, are you hear to make some sort of point about my judge of character?” He had a cup of coffee and a little plate of biscotti.
“No, but I guess that works too. You can think whatever you like. What kind of person would you think I was if I had not come back? Who walks away from someone who said they are going to kill themselves?”
“Normal people. Now I don’t have to tell you anything, I already did yesterday.”
“Nowhere in our deal permits me from coming back. Now I am back, and I want to hear more about your issue. You seem like you need a friend, and I am here to tell ya that so do I. I think we could help each other.”
Henri gave her a stern look straight into her eyes. His face lacked laugh lines from his obvious lack of laughing. “I do not have to tell you anything, it is none of your business.”
“You made it my business,” said Truly “when you told me you wanted to kill yourself.” She stared him down. “And I have all day,” she added, putting her hands behind her head and stretching her feet out in front of her under the table, getting comfortable.
“It will not do any good,” said Henri. He seemed to give up. His defenses were down as if he did not have the strength to keep them up any longer. She was excited to have gotten through his first line of defense, but made sure not to show it on her face. She did not want him to think she was making fun of him.
“How do you know? I mean, I am not physiatrist, but I hear talking things out is a much better alternative than killing yourself. Why don’t you just start by telling me a little about yourself, not counting all the things making you unhappy? Tell me about when you were happy.” Her blue dress ruffled a little in the cool breeze. People bustled this way and that around them, but neither noticed. They were in their own little world at that café table. Even when the waiter came by to give Truly a glass of wine they did not notice. They could have been anywhere on earth and it would not have mattered.
Henri’s Story
“I am from Paris. I was born there, went to school there and lived there all my life. I love the city; everywhere you go you are surrounded by art and music. Every day you see something new. I love everything about Paris. Rome is beautiful as well, but I would take one Eifel Tower any day to a million Coliseums.”
“I grew up with my mother, father and older brother. My brother was my best friend and constant companion. Our childhood days were filled with beautiful things. Our father made sure we had an appreciation for art and music at a young age. In a way, he forced it on us, but we were forever grateful. Our parents were not particularly rich, so when we were very young, Art was our nanny. Our father would drop us off at the Musée d'Art moderne. It was free, and we could amuse ourselves for hours in its corridors. We got to know the security guards who took a liking to us and never gave us up. With every new exhibit brought new parts of our education. It was not exactly the life of a normal child, but we loved it none the less.”
“Lycée[1] was normal. My brother and I were in the school symphony. He played the string bass and I played the piano. Music was an escape for me, something I could do to get away from the world for a while. I had my problems like any child did, and I had my great loves. However the only girl I really ever loved was Catherine. She had been in all my classes since elementary school, but we never spoke until Lycée. She had long, dark brown hair and the face of an angle. I had loved her my entire life and she had not even noticed me. Fortune smiled upon me one fateful day when we were partnered together to do a project on Claude-Achille Debussy. Not only had I been assigned to study one of my favorite composers, but I then had the opportunity to spend time with the girl of my heart.”
“The more we talked, the more we found we had in common. She said she had noticed me all those years we had school together, but had been too shy to talk to me. We were of the same mind. She loved music and had the most beautiful singing voice I have ever heard. We failed the project. We spent the time we should have been researching on going to concerts, museums and just being together.
We attended the same college, her for voice, me for music. I was a music major with a minor in Literature, for reading is another of the loves of my life. Our love grew with every passing year, and by our senior year we were engaged. Catherine was all I needed in life, my inspiration for living. I got a story published the year after we graduated and a month after we were married. She was my muse, the reason for its success. I made enough money from the book sales to make a dream of ours a reality. We started our own bakery, for we both loved to bake. It was the good life. We ran the bakery by day, entertaining our lively regulars, and I wrote by night. We wrote music together, she singing and me accompanying on the piano. We lived in a comfortable apartment above our bakery. It always smelled sweet I our home.”
“Four years after the success of my book and our bakery, we were expecting our first child. Nine months later Pascal came into our lives. He brought a whole new meaning to our happiness. He had dark hair like his mother and the most piercing green eyes. The next year brought us Rémy, and the year after that came Gabrielle. We were the happiest a family could be. Remy also took after his mother, with dark features like his brothers, but Gabrielle took after me. She had light brown hair and blue eyes. The whole neighborhood agreed that we had the most beautiful children. “
“One by one they all went to school, and one by one they all graduated. Pascal and Remy are both out of the University now. Remy just graduated. Gabrielle has one year left, and a bright future ahead of her. Like my father, I forced culture on my children, and like me they thanked me later of it. Pascal and Remy both graduated with business degrees and are not working in the family bakery. They have brought things to the business that Catherine and I had never dreamed of. It was great having them around, and Gabrielle planned to join us in a year.”
“That is where is stops being happy,” finished Henri. The whole time he had been telling his story he had a dreamy look on his face. He looked happier than she had ever seen him. Telling the story had clearly taken him back to that happy time in his life. Now that it was over he was the same old gloomy guy. Truly had not said a word to interrupt him, afraid that if she said anything he would stop. When be started to describe Catherine, it looked like he was going to stop a few times, but some how he powered through. She had sat there, with her chin resting on her hand, her elbow on the table, unconsciously taking sips of the wine that was brought to her. When he stopped, she continued to stair at him for a moment too long, in a daze. He waved a hand in front of her face to snap her out of it and she hurriedly apologized.
“Wow, you have had quite a life. I could really go for a pastry right now, all this talk of Bakeries. Where’s that waiter.” She did not really know what to say. She had gotten his story, like she wanted, but now that she had it she did not know what to do with it.
“I am leaving. I should not have told you all of that. I still do not understand hwy you care anyway.” Henri moved to get up.
“What? Oh I care because you saved my life, and I want to save yours. I mean, you just told me an amazing story of a life that some people dream of. I don’t know where the problem is. I know you said your wife died, but it’s not like you murdered her or anything.” There she went again, talking far too much than is appropriate. Sometimes she just wanted to tape her own mouth shut.
“I am leaving.” With that, he left his money and walked away. She had blown it, her and her big mouth. She sat there a while, wondering about the wine glass she was holding. She had not noticed it even appear. She got up to leave, taking out her purse. The waiter came by and collected the money Henri had left. Truly handed him her euros and he held up a hand.
“No, no Miss, the gentleman has already paid for your drink.” Feeling like a little kid she walked off. He had bought her a drink, which was un-characteristically nice of him. She wanted to think that was a thank-you-for-listening drink, but she knew better, but still did not know why.
“What an interesting story,” thought Truly. She sat back down and sipped at her free wine. He had a fairy tail life; however his wife had died must have been devastating. He had the kind of life that people dreamed of achieving. He had a successful business, a lovely wife that adored him, three great kids and a book published. She wanted to know more than anything what had happened to his wife. She sounded like someone Truly would have liked, a music lover that baked. Truly loved to eat and was feeling a little hungry thinking about it.
She walked over to the nearest Gelato stand. About ever ten steps in this city there was a different Gelato stand, all with their own unique flair about them. This one was her favorite. Not only was it really close to her hotel, but the guy who ran it was hilarious. He was always there, any time of day, sometimes accompanied by his daughter. He was about in his late 50s, early 60s, and just as lively as a teenager He always wore a red bandana on his head and an apron. He did not understand a word of English, but that was not important. Through a system of pointing and broken Italian, she asked for a cup with chocolate and frutti di bosco. He always asked the same thing after you picked your flavors, “cream?” and she always said si. He gave her a thumbs up and handed her the cup with a heaping amount of rich whipped cream on top with a thin round cookie stuck in the top. He handed her a tiny plastic gelato spoon and she was all set. She really liked this guy. He looked like he really liked his job, as if selling gelato was his lives ambition and could not be happy doing anything else. She imagined Henri at his bakery. She wondered if he had been that happy.
[1] French equivalent of high school
I know I always say that letters are more fun than e-mail, but they are also much too slow. You will probably get 20 e-mails from me before you get my last letter anyway. I have to make the switch because I need some advice.
Truly stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how she could summarize the whole story in an even shorter way than she had done in the letter.
Ok, so here is the super fast version of what was in my last letter. I got hit by a car, made friend with the girl who hit me and am now trying to learn about the French guy that saved me after the crash. If you want details, you are just going to have to wait. So the point is this, the French guys name is Henri, and I finally got him to talk about why he is so unhappy and it’s because he is somehow responsible for the death of his wife and he now wants to kill himself. Don’t you dare say anything about my run on sentence. What should I do?
~ Truly
She closed her lap top screen and yawned. Getting no sleep the night before was starting to get to her. She was never even good at pulling all nighters at school. She needed her beauty sleep. She looked at herself in the mirror in the bathroom. Her curls were all ratty and more tangled than they usually are. She had huge purple bags under her eyes and her skin was all blotchy. She looked like she was dying, and felt it. She had tried taking a nap after she had gotten out of bed and gone down for breakfast. Since she did not sleep she was the first and only one down in the café when it first opened. The staff had given her strange looks. Her nap was unsuccessful, so she had decided to e-mail Milo.
“Well I obviously have to go talk to him today since he thinks I won’t. How do you keep a perfect stranger from killing themselves? Ug, I thought I was on vacation.” She could not with a clean conscious just forget about Henri and what he had said. If she did, she would always regret not trying to help. She would always wonder if he had gone through with it, and if she ever found out that he had, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life. She did not need that kind of feeling in her life. She did not have time to wait for Milo’s response
Today her dress was a light blue sleeveless number. She thought it made her look professional, which is just the air she wanted to give off at this meeting. As sure as her hair was read, there was Henri at this normal spot. The waiter of the café walked in front of her and she stopped him with a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, what can you tell me about that man there, one who is in that same seat every day?” She wasted no time.
“Oh Mr._____? All I know is that he is here every day and is scaring away my customers,” replied the waiter, thankfully in English.
“Then why do you let him stay? Don’t you have the right to ask him to leave?”
“I would, but he always orders the most expensive food on our menu and the best wine we carry. He is putting my kids through college!” The waiter had to be exaggerating, but he had maid his point none the less. He walked away from her still laughing at his own joke. She proceeded to Henri’s table and sat down without invitation.
“You again, are you hear to make some sort of point about my judge of character?” He had a cup of coffee and a little plate of biscotti.
“No, but I guess that works too. You can think whatever you like. What kind of person would you think I was if I had not come back? Who walks away from someone who said they are going to kill themselves?”
“Normal people. Now I don’t have to tell you anything, I already did yesterday.”
“Nowhere in our deal permits me from coming back. Now I am back, and I want to hear more about your issue. You seem like you need a friend, and I am here to tell ya that so do I. I think we could help each other.”
Henri gave her a stern look straight into her eyes. His face lacked laugh lines from his obvious lack of laughing. “I do not have to tell you anything, it is none of your business.”
“You made it my business,” said Truly “when you told me you wanted to kill yourself.” She stared him down. “And I have all day,” she added, putting her hands behind her head and stretching her feet out in front of her under the table, getting comfortable.
“It will not do any good,” said Henri. He seemed to give up. His defenses were down as if he did not have the strength to keep them up any longer. She was excited to have gotten through his first line of defense, but made sure not to show it on her face. She did not want him to think she was making fun of him.
“How do you know? I mean, I am not physiatrist, but I hear talking things out is a much better alternative than killing yourself. Why don’t you just start by telling me a little about yourself, not counting all the things making you unhappy? Tell me about when you were happy.” Her blue dress ruffled a little in the cool breeze. People bustled this way and that around them, but neither noticed. They were in their own little world at that café table. Even when the waiter came by to give Truly a glass of wine they did not notice. They could have been anywhere on earth and it would not have mattered.
Henri’s Story
“I am from Paris. I was born there, went to school there and lived there all my life. I love the city; everywhere you go you are surrounded by art and music. Every day you see something new. I love everything about Paris. Rome is beautiful as well, but I would take one Eifel Tower any day to a million Coliseums.”
“I grew up with my mother, father and older brother. My brother was my best friend and constant companion. Our childhood days were filled with beautiful things. Our father made sure we had an appreciation for art and music at a young age. In a way, he forced it on us, but we were forever grateful. Our parents were not particularly rich, so when we were very young, Art was our nanny. Our father would drop us off at the Musée d'Art moderne. It was free, and we could amuse ourselves for hours in its corridors. We got to know the security guards who took a liking to us and never gave us up. With every new exhibit brought new parts of our education. It was not exactly the life of a normal child, but we loved it none the less.”
“Lycée[1] was normal. My brother and I were in the school symphony. He played the string bass and I played the piano. Music was an escape for me, something I could do to get away from the world for a while. I had my problems like any child did, and I had my great loves. However the only girl I really ever loved was Catherine. She had been in all my classes since elementary school, but we never spoke until Lycée. She had long, dark brown hair and the face of an angle. I had loved her my entire life and she had not even noticed me. Fortune smiled upon me one fateful day when we were partnered together to do a project on Claude-Achille Debussy. Not only had I been assigned to study one of my favorite composers, but I then had the opportunity to spend time with the girl of my heart.”
“The more we talked, the more we found we had in common. She said she had noticed me all those years we had school together, but had been too shy to talk to me. We were of the same mind. She loved music and had the most beautiful singing voice I have ever heard. We failed the project. We spent the time we should have been researching on going to concerts, museums and just being together.
We attended the same college, her for voice, me for music. I was a music major with a minor in Literature, for reading is another of the loves of my life. Our love grew with every passing year, and by our senior year we were engaged. Catherine was all I needed in life, my inspiration for living. I got a story published the year after we graduated and a month after we were married. She was my muse, the reason for its success. I made enough money from the book sales to make a dream of ours a reality. We started our own bakery, for we both loved to bake. It was the good life. We ran the bakery by day, entertaining our lively regulars, and I wrote by night. We wrote music together, she singing and me accompanying on the piano. We lived in a comfortable apartment above our bakery. It always smelled sweet I our home.”
“Four years after the success of my book and our bakery, we were expecting our first child. Nine months later Pascal came into our lives. He brought a whole new meaning to our happiness. He had dark hair like his mother and the most piercing green eyes. The next year brought us Rémy, and the year after that came Gabrielle. We were the happiest a family could be. Remy also took after his mother, with dark features like his brothers, but Gabrielle took after me. She had light brown hair and blue eyes. The whole neighborhood agreed that we had the most beautiful children. “
“One by one they all went to school, and one by one they all graduated. Pascal and Remy are both out of the University now. Remy just graduated. Gabrielle has one year left, and a bright future ahead of her. Like my father, I forced culture on my children, and like me they thanked me later of it. Pascal and Remy both graduated with business degrees and are not working in the family bakery. They have brought things to the business that Catherine and I had never dreamed of. It was great having them around, and Gabrielle planned to join us in a year.”
“That is where is stops being happy,” finished Henri. The whole time he had been telling his story he had a dreamy look on his face. He looked happier than she had ever seen him. Telling the story had clearly taken him back to that happy time in his life. Now that it was over he was the same old gloomy guy. Truly had not said a word to interrupt him, afraid that if she said anything he would stop. When be started to describe Catherine, it looked like he was going to stop a few times, but some how he powered through. She had sat there, with her chin resting on her hand, her elbow on the table, unconsciously taking sips of the wine that was brought to her. When he stopped, she continued to stair at him for a moment too long, in a daze. He waved a hand in front of her face to snap her out of it and she hurriedly apologized.
“Wow, you have had quite a life. I could really go for a pastry right now, all this talk of Bakeries. Where’s that waiter.” She did not really know what to say. She had gotten his story, like she wanted, but now that she had it she did not know what to do with it.
“I am leaving. I should not have told you all of that. I still do not understand hwy you care anyway.” Henri moved to get up.
“What? Oh I care because you saved my life, and I want to save yours. I mean, you just told me an amazing story of a life that some people dream of. I don’t know where the problem is. I know you said your wife died, but it’s not like you murdered her or anything.” There she went again, talking far too much than is appropriate. Sometimes she just wanted to tape her own mouth shut.
“I am leaving.” With that, he left his money and walked away. She had blown it, her and her big mouth. She sat there a while, wondering about the wine glass she was holding. She had not noticed it even appear. She got up to leave, taking out her purse. The waiter came by and collected the money Henri had left. Truly handed him her euros and he held up a hand.
“No, no Miss, the gentleman has already paid for your drink.” Feeling like a little kid she walked off. He had bought her a drink, which was un-characteristically nice of him. She wanted to think that was a thank-you-for-listening drink, but she knew better, but still did not know why.
“What an interesting story,” thought Truly. She sat back down and sipped at her free wine. He had a fairy tail life; however his wife had died must have been devastating. He had the kind of life that people dreamed of achieving. He had a successful business, a lovely wife that adored him, three great kids and a book published. She wanted to know more than anything what had happened to his wife. She sounded like someone Truly would have liked, a music lover that baked. Truly loved to eat and was feeling a little hungry thinking about it.
She walked over to the nearest Gelato stand. About ever ten steps in this city there was a different Gelato stand, all with their own unique flair about them. This one was her favorite. Not only was it really close to her hotel, but the guy who ran it was hilarious. He was always there, any time of day, sometimes accompanied by his daughter. He was about in his late 50s, early 60s, and just as lively as a teenager He always wore a red bandana on his head and an apron. He did not understand a word of English, but that was not important. Through a system of pointing and broken Italian, she asked for a cup with chocolate and frutti di bosco. He always asked the same thing after you picked your flavors, “cream?” and she always said si. He gave her a thumbs up and handed her the cup with a heaping amount of rich whipped cream on top with a thin round cookie stuck in the top. He handed her a tiny plastic gelato spoon and she was all set. She really liked this guy. He looked like he really liked his job, as if selling gelato was his lives ambition and could not be happy doing anything else. She imagined Henri at his bakery. She wondered if he had been that happy.
[1] French equivalent of high school
next...
The next day Truly woke up refreshed and ready to go, until she remembered what she had done the day before. That whole situation really put a damper on her day. However her mood rose once again when she someone knocked on her door and handed her a letter from Virginia.
“Milo! Your letter finds me in great need of…your letter!” said Truly out loud to anyone who cared to hear. That meant no one since she was alone in her room. She impatiently ripped open the envelope, tearing it clean in half in a very unladylike fashion.
Dear Truly,
I just got your letter the other day. I am starting to hate over seas mail, we would probably be better off e-mailing. Oh well, this is more fun. So how are things? Your last letter said you were seeing all the sights like a good little tourist. Have you made any friends yet? I know that wan next on your list. I don’t envy you one bit. Being alone in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language sounds like the last thing I want to do. However you always were more outgoing than me, so I guess it makes sense. I admire your courage, or stupidity. It could be defined as either one.
So it’s hot here. Summer is awful, I hate the humidity. I am sure you’re getting some great Mediterranean weather out there, I do envy that. Everything here is gross. Mom misses you, I can tell. She never says it out right, but I can just tell. She will randomly say in the middle of a unrelated conversation things like “I wonder what Truly is doing.” Or ask me things like “oh Milo, what time would it be for Truly right now? I can never remember if she is 8 hours ahead or behind us.” Its funny, I always call her out on it and she just goes into denial.
That boy keeps coming by asking for you. He has come three times this week; I swear you pick the worst guys. I have told him every time this week that you are spending the summer in Italy. He seems to think that I am hiding you, not telling you that he is looking for you. Why would I ever do that? I try to stay miles away from your boy drama, nothing could interest me less. However I guess I am no better than him, I still cant for the life of me remember his name. I think it starts with a J. He introduces himself every time he comes too. I guess it’s just not a name that’s going to stick in my brain and I should just accept it.
Work sucks, in case you were wondering. Since they are closing the Giant, I am going to be out of work at about the time you get back anyway, so I should not complain. At least there is an end in sight. I can’t believe you saved enough money to go to Italy working here, I can’t even afford gas half the time.
Susan and Lloyd say hi. Susan wanted me to tell you something bout bringing her back an Italian boy and Lloyd did not say much of anything as usual.
Life sucks without you, it’s really boring. Hope Italy does not blow.
Peace,
Milo
For being an English major, Milo still used phrases like “peace” as a salutation. However this was fine by her, this meant that Truly never had to worry that much about her letters sounding too intellectual to impress the big bad English major. Sometimes she felt like he spelled words wrong on purpose to take the pressure off her. She missed her brother. Letters came very infrequently and were never long enough. She wished he could have come with her, but he lacked the desire and the family lacked the money. With a sigh, Truly stood up off her bed and looked around, thinking of what she should wear. She pulled on one of her many dresses, this one red, the bottom coming to her knees are trimmed in gold. She was not so sure if that shade of red went well or clashed with her hair, but that had never stopped her before from wearing anything. She always said that you can wear anything as long as you wear it with conviction, your head held high. After applying a little make up, she pulled out a piece of her stationary and sat down to reply to Milo’s letter.
Dear Milo,
I got your letter today; it was a most welcomed surprise. I was in great need of hearing from someone familiar; I made a huge ass of myself yesterday. OH, but before that happened, I guess I should tell you what happened to me the day before that. I got hit by a car. I am fine, but I had an out of body experience, it was so weird. At the time I was terrified, but now I think it’s a little cool. You should write a book about that, it seems right up your alley.
So anyway I got hit, this sad looking French guy came up and saved me and I am not friends with the driver that hit me. I know, sounds strange, but it’s really not. I can’t really describe it now, I will have to tell you about it later when I get home. So yesterday I went to thank the French guy and I accidentally brought up marriage. He then told me his wife is dead, and I had just been talking about love in this romantic city. I hate myself. I wanted to die; it looks like he wants to kill me too. So that’s my life at the moment. I am going to figure out this guy’s life story if it’s the last thing I do. I know what you are going to say, don’t meddle, but I can’t help it. You know how I am, once I see someone I want to know, I till do anything to know them. It’s my curse.
So if you want Jason to leave you along, ya his name is Jason, just tell him I am hi Rome trying to seduce an older man with great success. Defiantly not true, but you tell him that and I am sure that will shock him out of his stupidity. Hopefully.
Don’t worry, that old dump of a grocery store will be closed soon enough and you will be free. I wish you were here.
Love,
Truly
~
Truly, handed her letter to the concierge on her way out of the hotel. It was a bright sunny day, as usual, and the city was hustling and bustling around her. Henri was in his usual place, looking his usual way. Knowing that he was never going to invite her to sit down, she strode right on over. Surprisingly, he spoke first.
“Oh now, look who has come back, the queen of pleasant conversations. What are you going to ask me about today, how many life threatening surgeries I have had, or the number of my pets that have died and how?”
Truly was shocked, this was the most she had ever heard him speak all at one time. His sarcasm made her want to laugh, but he was not smiling, so she held it in. “I came over to apologies for that actually. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just really curious about why you looked so down all the time. That’s all.”
“Oh great, your curious,” he said, still no smile, “that’s just what I need. I am a 54 year old man, just trying to get away from life completely and now I have a 16 year old kid following me around because she is curious.”
“Hey, I’m 20 and I’m not a kid. Listen, I was just trying to be nice and apologies for yesterday. And seriously, if you were sitting where I have been sitting all week and saw yourself, you would be curious too. You look like you want to kill yourself. I am alone in a foreign country for the first time ever and the only friend I have made is the girl who hit me with her car. Give me a break.” Feeling like this little interchange had loosened up their relationship; she sat heavily in the chair opposite his and gave him a glare. “So, wanna tell me why you always look like the world is ending? You are not getting out of this so easily. All your insults did was make me more interested. Spill.”
Henri was staring at her the whole time, eyes wide in amazement as if no one her age had ever talked to him like that before. Finally, his back broke out in a smile. It looked a little awkeard, like he had not used those muscles in a long time. However, despite this it changed this entire appearance. His shoulders relaxed from their formerly tight positions as he leaned back in his chair. His face was a million times brighter than she had ever seen it. He did not even look like the same man. His hair no longer looked like it hung limp in front of his eyes, once he sat up straight it moved out of the way to reveal his handsome features. She noticed that he had blue eyes. She finally relaxed and smiled back. She mentally patted herself on the back for this miraculous break through.
“So, stalker girl, I suppose the only way to make you leave me alone is to give you some information, am I right?” Henri picked up his glass of white wine and swirled it in his glass before taking a sip. It was the first time she had seen him actually drink what was in front of him.
“That’s right, tell me one thing and I will leave you alone. Tell me why you always look so sad. Oh, and my name is Truly, remember?” Truly leaned in a little closer, getting ready for the answer she was expecting. His wife was dead, that had to be the reason.
“And I am Henri with the silent H, just like me. Yes I remember. Well Truly, you actually had it right, you don’t need me telling you.” His eyes got a far away look in them and he looked sad again, looking back at his hands. “I really am going to kill myself because I am the reason my wife is dead.”
Truly did not know what to say. How do you respond to something like that? Her smile and excitement vanished without a trace and her face got serious like Henri’s. What did he mean kill himself? Surly not to actually kill himself. Why would he tell her that? She did not like this joke, it was in no way funny. “That’s not funny, use another figure of speech,” said Truly softly.
“Who’s laughing? I have never been more serious in my entire life.”
“Why are you telling me this, don’t you think I will try to stop you?”
“You don’t even know me. After you leave here, you are never going to come over here again. Why would you bother with a crazy guy who is going to kill himself?”
“You think you are such a great judge of character don’t you?”
“I just think I know your type, that’s all. Now go along to your hotel, I gave you what you wanted to hear; now you have to leave. It was part of the deal. Have a nice vacation.” With that, Henri did not wait for Truly to leave. He left himself. He stood up, put a few euros on the table next to his unfinished glass of wine and walked away from the table. Truly did not even watch him go, she just stared straight ahead at the chair he had been sitting in. she put her head down on the table, her red curls splayed everywhere.
“He is not kidding,” she thought, “how can he talk to talk so conversationally about death?” That night Truly lied awake in bed and thought of death. She thought about dying, about life leaving your body and fading away. What happened to you then? Where did your soul go? She found it hard to grasp that you just disappeared, that all your thoughts and memories are just gone after you die. She pictured death like a black hole that you get sucked into, that you never return from. She had had a great life so far; she had accomplished so much and had so much to look forward to. She could not imagine ending her own life, cutting it short before she got to experience any more. Sure, Henri said he was 54, but that was not old. He had so much more life ahead of him. She knew nothing about him but she knew that he had to have something to life for. He said he was the reason his wife was dead. Obviously he had not killed her on purpose or he would be in jail. She had to know more. Sure his love was dead, but he had to have others in his life worth staying around for. Everyone did, she thought. She had Milo and her mother. She had her friends Susan and Lloyd. Who did he have? She did not sleep at all that night but lied with her eyes wide open contemplating death. It was a long night.
“Milo! Your letter finds me in great need of…your letter!” said Truly out loud to anyone who cared to hear. That meant no one since she was alone in her room. She impatiently ripped open the envelope, tearing it clean in half in a very unladylike fashion.
Dear Truly,
I just got your letter the other day. I am starting to hate over seas mail, we would probably be better off e-mailing. Oh well, this is more fun. So how are things? Your last letter said you were seeing all the sights like a good little tourist. Have you made any friends yet? I know that wan next on your list. I don’t envy you one bit. Being alone in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language sounds like the last thing I want to do. However you always were more outgoing than me, so I guess it makes sense. I admire your courage, or stupidity. It could be defined as either one.
So it’s hot here. Summer is awful, I hate the humidity. I am sure you’re getting some great Mediterranean weather out there, I do envy that. Everything here is gross. Mom misses you, I can tell. She never says it out right, but I can just tell. She will randomly say in the middle of a unrelated conversation things like “I wonder what Truly is doing.” Or ask me things like “oh Milo, what time would it be for Truly right now? I can never remember if she is 8 hours ahead or behind us.” Its funny, I always call her out on it and she just goes into denial.
That boy keeps coming by asking for you. He has come three times this week; I swear you pick the worst guys. I have told him every time this week that you are spending the summer in Italy. He seems to think that I am hiding you, not telling you that he is looking for you. Why would I ever do that? I try to stay miles away from your boy drama, nothing could interest me less. However I guess I am no better than him, I still cant for the life of me remember his name. I think it starts with a J. He introduces himself every time he comes too. I guess it’s just not a name that’s going to stick in my brain and I should just accept it.
Work sucks, in case you were wondering. Since they are closing the Giant, I am going to be out of work at about the time you get back anyway, so I should not complain. At least there is an end in sight. I can’t believe you saved enough money to go to Italy working here, I can’t even afford gas half the time.
Susan and Lloyd say hi. Susan wanted me to tell you something bout bringing her back an Italian boy and Lloyd did not say much of anything as usual.
Life sucks without you, it’s really boring. Hope Italy does not blow.
Peace,
Milo
For being an English major, Milo still used phrases like “peace” as a salutation. However this was fine by her, this meant that Truly never had to worry that much about her letters sounding too intellectual to impress the big bad English major. Sometimes she felt like he spelled words wrong on purpose to take the pressure off her. She missed her brother. Letters came very infrequently and were never long enough. She wished he could have come with her, but he lacked the desire and the family lacked the money. With a sigh, Truly stood up off her bed and looked around, thinking of what she should wear. She pulled on one of her many dresses, this one red, the bottom coming to her knees are trimmed in gold. She was not so sure if that shade of red went well or clashed with her hair, but that had never stopped her before from wearing anything. She always said that you can wear anything as long as you wear it with conviction, your head held high. After applying a little make up, she pulled out a piece of her stationary and sat down to reply to Milo’s letter.
Dear Milo,
I got your letter today; it was a most welcomed surprise. I was in great need of hearing from someone familiar; I made a huge ass of myself yesterday. OH, but before that happened, I guess I should tell you what happened to me the day before that. I got hit by a car. I am fine, but I had an out of body experience, it was so weird. At the time I was terrified, but now I think it’s a little cool. You should write a book about that, it seems right up your alley.
So anyway I got hit, this sad looking French guy came up and saved me and I am not friends with the driver that hit me. I know, sounds strange, but it’s really not. I can’t really describe it now, I will have to tell you about it later when I get home. So yesterday I went to thank the French guy and I accidentally brought up marriage. He then told me his wife is dead, and I had just been talking about love in this romantic city. I hate myself. I wanted to die; it looks like he wants to kill me too. So that’s my life at the moment. I am going to figure out this guy’s life story if it’s the last thing I do. I know what you are going to say, don’t meddle, but I can’t help it. You know how I am, once I see someone I want to know, I till do anything to know them. It’s my curse.
So if you want Jason to leave you along, ya his name is Jason, just tell him I am hi Rome trying to seduce an older man with great success. Defiantly not true, but you tell him that and I am sure that will shock him out of his stupidity. Hopefully.
Don’t worry, that old dump of a grocery store will be closed soon enough and you will be free. I wish you were here.
Love,
Truly
~
Truly, handed her letter to the concierge on her way out of the hotel. It was a bright sunny day, as usual, and the city was hustling and bustling around her. Henri was in his usual place, looking his usual way. Knowing that he was never going to invite her to sit down, she strode right on over. Surprisingly, he spoke first.
“Oh now, look who has come back, the queen of pleasant conversations. What are you going to ask me about today, how many life threatening surgeries I have had, or the number of my pets that have died and how?”
Truly was shocked, this was the most she had ever heard him speak all at one time. His sarcasm made her want to laugh, but he was not smiling, so she held it in. “I came over to apologies for that actually. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just really curious about why you looked so down all the time. That’s all.”
“Oh great, your curious,” he said, still no smile, “that’s just what I need. I am a 54 year old man, just trying to get away from life completely and now I have a 16 year old kid following me around because she is curious.”
“Hey, I’m 20 and I’m not a kid. Listen, I was just trying to be nice and apologies for yesterday. And seriously, if you were sitting where I have been sitting all week and saw yourself, you would be curious too. You look like you want to kill yourself. I am alone in a foreign country for the first time ever and the only friend I have made is the girl who hit me with her car. Give me a break.” Feeling like this little interchange had loosened up their relationship; she sat heavily in the chair opposite his and gave him a glare. “So, wanna tell me why you always look like the world is ending? You are not getting out of this so easily. All your insults did was make me more interested. Spill.”
Henri was staring at her the whole time, eyes wide in amazement as if no one her age had ever talked to him like that before. Finally, his back broke out in a smile. It looked a little awkeard, like he had not used those muscles in a long time. However, despite this it changed this entire appearance. His shoulders relaxed from their formerly tight positions as he leaned back in his chair. His face was a million times brighter than she had ever seen it. He did not even look like the same man. His hair no longer looked like it hung limp in front of his eyes, once he sat up straight it moved out of the way to reveal his handsome features. She noticed that he had blue eyes. She finally relaxed and smiled back. She mentally patted herself on the back for this miraculous break through.
“So, stalker girl, I suppose the only way to make you leave me alone is to give you some information, am I right?” Henri picked up his glass of white wine and swirled it in his glass before taking a sip. It was the first time she had seen him actually drink what was in front of him.
“That’s right, tell me one thing and I will leave you alone. Tell me why you always look so sad. Oh, and my name is Truly, remember?” Truly leaned in a little closer, getting ready for the answer she was expecting. His wife was dead, that had to be the reason.
“And I am Henri with the silent H, just like me. Yes I remember. Well Truly, you actually had it right, you don’t need me telling you.” His eyes got a far away look in them and he looked sad again, looking back at his hands. “I really am going to kill myself because I am the reason my wife is dead.”
Truly did not know what to say. How do you respond to something like that? Her smile and excitement vanished without a trace and her face got serious like Henri’s. What did he mean kill himself? Surly not to actually kill himself. Why would he tell her that? She did not like this joke, it was in no way funny. “That’s not funny, use another figure of speech,” said Truly softly.
“Who’s laughing? I have never been more serious in my entire life.”
“Why are you telling me this, don’t you think I will try to stop you?”
“You don’t even know me. After you leave here, you are never going to come over here again. Why would you bother with a crazy guy who is going to kill himself?”
“You think you are such a great judge of character don’t you?”
“I just think I know your type, that’s all. Now go along to your hotel, I gave you what you wanted to hear; now you have to leave. It was part of the deal. Have a nice vacation.” With that, Henri did not wait for Truly to leave. He left himself. He stood up, put a few euros on the table next to his unfinished glass of wine and walked away from the table. Truly did not even watch him go, she just stared straight ahead at the chair he had been sitting in. she put her head down on the table, her red curls splayed everywhere.
“He is not kidding,” she thought, “how can he talk to talk so conversationally about death?” That night Truly lied awake in bed and thought of death. She thought about dying, about life leaving your body and fading away. What happened to you then? Where did your soul go? She found it hard to grasp that you just disappeared, that all your thoughts and memories are just gone after you die. She pictured death like a black hole that you get sucked into, that you never return from. She had had a great life so far; she had accomplished so much and had so much to look forward to. She could not imagine ending her own life, cutting it short before she got to experience any more. Sure, Henri said he was 54, but that was not old. He had so much more life ahead of him. She knew nothing about him but she knew that he had to have something to life for. He said he was the reason his wife was dead. Obviously he had not killed her on purpose or he would be in jail. She had to know more. Sure his love was dead, but he had to have others in his life worth staying around for. Everyone did, she thought. She had Milo and her mother. She had her friends Susan and Lloyd. Who did he have? She did not sleep at all that night but lied with her eyes wide open contemplating death. It was a long night.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
next part, i kind of jumped from her in the hospital to her back at the hotel.
The dark haired women dropped her off outside her hotel with a promise to check up on her the following day. As her car drove away, the café across the street was revealed, with the Frenchmen sitting in his usual spot. Truly stood there and stared at him quizzically for a few moments. He looked just the same as ever, as if having saved a girl’s life the say before had not affected him at all. He sighed a deep sigh, his broad shoulders rising and falling with apparently great effort. She could not stand it any longer, she had to see what made a man that overwhelmingly depressed, and she and the perfect excuse. He had saved her life, she had to thank him.
Looking both ways very carefully this time she crossed the cobblestone street. As she approached him, she felt a little nervous. She was a very outgoing person, never afraid to tell anyone what she thought or how she felt about them. However for some reason the thought of actually taking to the man she had been so curious about for so long scared her. He looked up as she approached, nothing changing in his haggard visage. She did not feel worthy enough to talk to him. She did what she usually did in these situations, pushed the bad feelings aside and pulled up a chair to his table.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, as confidently as she could muster. He shrugged, and she sat down, taking that as a “yes”. They sat in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts and she just stared down at his hands.
“I just wanted to come over here and thank you for saving my life yesterday, since I did not get a change to then. You have no idea how surprised I was to see your face when I came to. I remembered you from this café; I am staying at the hotel across the street. You have no idea how grateful I am…”
“It was no problem,” he said, interrupting her, “I just did what anyone would have done.” Relived that he had stopped her fast talking ramble, she smiled and tried to keep the conversation going. She could tell that he would rather she would go away, but he was not getting off the hoot that easily. She still wanted to know why he was so depressed.
“My name is Truly, Truly Gattuso, but my friends call me Tru. Weird name, I know, but I like it alright. My mom is really into virtues, which is where Truly came from, and my dad is Italian, which is where Gattuso comes from. What’s your name?”
“Henri,” he answered simply. She could see that small talk was not going to open him up.
“Neat name, how do you spell it?” she asked, taking out a notebook. “I remember names better when I write them down.” His eyes caught the pink paged Andy Warhol journal she pulled out of her bag. She thought she saw the smallest change in his face, but she could not define it.
“H-E-N-R-I, Henri,” he said, “The H is silent.”
“Just like you,” said Truly with a friendly smile. His face stayed the same. So jokes were out too, better skip straight to the questions, or she was not going to get anything out of him. She looked around for inspiration. She glanced down at his hands and noticed he was playing with a gold band around his finger.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“I was.” He replied.
“Oh, so are you divorced?” she did not care if it sounded like too personal of a question; perhaps it would shock him out of his silence. It had the opposite effect. “This is the perfect place to look for new love, if that’s the case. Rome is beautiful…”
“She died.” He said, cutting her off. Her words got caught in her thought. As awkward as she felt, at least she found what she was looking for.
Looking both ways very carefully this time she crossed the cobblestone street. As she approached him, she felt a little nervous. She was a very outgoing person, never afraid to tell anyone what she thought or how she felt about them. However for some reason the thought of actually taking to the man she had been so curious about for so long scared her. He looked up as she approached, nothing changing in his haggard visage. She did not feel worthy enough to talk to him. She did what she usually did in these situations, pushed the bad feelings aside and pulled up a chair to his table.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked, as confidently as she could muster. He shrugged, and she sat down, taking that as a “yes”. They sat in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts and she just stared down at his hands.
“I just wanted to come over here and thank you for saving my life yesterday, since I did not get a change to then. You have no idea how surprised I was to see your face when I came to. I remembered you from this café; I am staying at the hotel across the street. You have no idea how grateful I am…”
“It was no problem,” he said, interrupting her, “I just did what anyone would have done.” Relived that he had stopped her fast talking ramble, she smiled and tried to keep the conversation going. She could tell that he would rather she would go away, but he was not getting off the hoot that easily. She still wanted to know why he was so depressed.
“My name is Truly, Truly Gattuso, but my friends call me Tru. Weird name, I know, but I like it alright. My mom is really into virtues, which is where Truly came from, and my dad is Italian, which is where Gattuso comes from. What’s your name?”
“Henri,” he answered simply. She could see that small talk was not going to open him up.
“Neat name, how do you spell it?” she asked, taking out a notebook. “I remember names better when I write them down.” His eyes caught the pink paged Andy Warhol journal she pulled out of her bag. She thought she saw the smallest change in his face, but she could not define it.
“H-E-N-R-I, Henri,” he said, “The H is silent.”
“Just like you,” said Truly with a friendly smile. His face stayed the same. So jokes were out too, better skip straight to the questions, or she was not going to get anything out of him. She looked around for inspiration. She glanced down at his hands and noticed he was playing with a gold band around his finger.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“I was.” He replied.
“Oh, so are you divorced?” she did not care if it sounded like too personal of a question; perhaps it would shock him out of his silence. It had the opposite effect. “This is the perfect place to look for new love, if that’s the case. Rome is beautiful…”
“She died.” He said, cutting her off. Her words got caught in her thought. As awkward as she felt, at least she found what she was looking for.
TIp
OK, a little tip for reading my story: if you have not already realised, you cant read it straight down the page, you have to look at the dates they were posted and read it in that order. sorry for the confusion, i will try to fix this if i can figure it out. if anyone knows how to put it in opposite date order, let me know!
next part, a little short and unfinished
He led her to a bench outside his café and gently lowers down. Her mind was reeling, had she really just had an out of body experience? Did she just get hit by a car? She felt disoriented. With unfocused eyes she looked up at the Frenchmen. She knew she ought to say something, but no words were coming. After staring at him for far too long in silence, she said dumbly said the first thing that came into her head.
“How did you know I spoke English?”
“What?” he replied with a confused look on his face. Clearly this is not what he thought her first words would be to him. Feeling guilty and ungrateful she tried to make up for her lapse in articulation.
“I mean thank you. You….” But she started to feel dizzy again. She started to sway on her seat and the Frenchmen reached out a hand to steady her.
She heard him say something in Italian and saw him point to the young women driver who had hit her. She came over, and he asked her a question in Italian; she nodded, still with tears streaming down her face.
“Good,” he said, “then help me get her into your car. She should probably go to a hospital.” The last thing she thought as he picked her up was that he clearly did not need any help moving her. She passed out in his arms as he lowered her into the backseat or the tearful women’s small car.
Her eyes opened to a very white, sterile scene. At first she was scared, forgetting what had happened, not knowing where she was. The white ceiling and walls scared her for some reason, their whiteness reminding her of a story she once read about a white room with no windows or doors. She looked to her left and saw a dark haired women sitting by her bedside, with a look of relief. Suddenly it all came back to her and she remembered the young women that had hit her with her car. The women smiled a huge white smile, her eyes no longer full of tears.
“Buon giorno, good morning.” She said in a small voice and heavy Italian accent. “You’re feeling ok I hope?”
“Yes, I feel alright. How long was I sleeping?” she suddenly felt very tired again, as if all the sleep she had did not count because it was medicated.
“The accident was yesterday evening, you slept here last night. Its morning now.” She said with a now guilty look on her face. “I am forever sorry I hit you. Not paying attention is what I was doing. It is my first car, I was too excited.” Her awkward sentences suggested that she had recently learned English, but after being so lonely the day before, the conversation was more than welcome.
“How did you know I spoke English?”
“What?” he replied with a confused look on his face. Clearly this is not what he thought her first words would be to him. Feeling guilty and ungrateful she tried to make up for her lapse in articulation.
“I mean thank you. You….” But she started to feel dizzy again. She started to sway on her seat and the Frenchmen reached out a hand to steady her.
She heard him say something in Italian and saw him point to the young women driver who had hit her. She came over, and he asked her a question in Italian; she nodded, still with tears streaming down her face.
“Good,” he said, “then help me get her into your car. She should probably go to a hospital.” The last thing she thought as he picked her up was that he clearly did not need any help moving her. She passed out in his arms as he lowered her into the backseat or the tearful women’s small car.
Her eyes opened to a very white, sterile scene. At first she was scared, forgetting what had happened, not knowing where she was. The white ceiling and walls scared her for some reason, their whiteness reminding her of a story she once read about a white room with no windows or doors. She looked to her left and saw a dark haired women sitting by her bedside, with a look of relief. Suddenly it all came back to her and she remembered the young women that had hit her with her car. The women smiled a huge white smile, her eyes no longer full of tears.
“Buon giorno, good morning.” She said in a small voice and heavy Italian accent. “You’re feeling ok I hope?”
“Yes, I feel alright. How long was I sleeping?” she suddenly felt very tired again, as if all the sleep she had did not count because it was medicated.
“The accident was yesterday evening, you slept here last night. Its morning now.” She said with a now guilty look on her face. “I am forever sorry I hit you. Not paying attention is what I was doing. It is my first car, I was too excited.” Her awkward sentences suggested that she had recently learned English, but after being so lonely the day before, the conversation was more than welcome.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
the story continues...
She opened her eyes and was no longer herself, but looking down at herself. The streets were full of concerned people flocking in her direction. The small car that hit her was pulled off to the side, the young women driver sobbing hysterically. The crowd thickened, she could not understand what anyone is saying, and she was confused. She tried to sit up, and then felt like she was floating. She was suddenly above the crowd, above her own body, observing the scene from a bird’s perspective. There was a little puddle of blood underneath her head from where she hit the ground, but other than that she looked peaceful. Her red curls were neatly spread around her face as if they were arranged that way. Her limbs did not look in any way uncomfortably placed, she seemed to have fallen backward gracefully. Wait, she did not fall, she was hit.
“Oh God, I was hit by a car,” she said out loud, but no one heard. “I’m not in my body, what’s happening to me?” she yelled to the un-answering masses. The young man closest to her body checked her breathing and shook his head sadly. However she knew better, he was wrong. She still had a pulse, she was still alive.
“No, no! Check again, my heart is beating! I can’t be dead, I am right here! I am on vacation, this can’t happen to me!” Her cries were not noticed, her desperation rising. People were giving up on her; they were going to let her die. She was just unconscious, she needed CPR. The edge of her vision started to blur, was fading. Her limbs started to tingle, probably the last feeling she would ever have in them. She clung to that feeling, desperately trying to keep it for as long as possible. The young man and a few of his friends were about to pick her body up and move it out of the street. It was all ending.
“Stop! Put her down, allongée! I mean basta!” A voice like music, black notes flowing on the corners of her fading mind brought her momentarily back from where she was slipping. The crowd parted to admit the cheerless man from the café across the street. His once miserable face was now filled with concern. She could now tell from the sound of his lovely voice that he was French, not a native Italian like she always assumed. She could see that his light hair did not fit in with the multitude of dark heads surrounding her. He knelt down beside her, took her small wrist in his big hand and checked her pulse. He instantly sprung into action when he did not feel the pump of blood. He confidently opened her mouth and blew in, then did compressions on her chest. The tingling in her extremities started to change to a warm feeling. Her sight became clearer. Slowly she started to descend, getting closer and closer to her body. With a gasp she was back.
She opened her eyes with fright as air returned to her lungs with a rush. The people surrounding her all let out a cheer filling her line of sight with smiling faces. Her ribs hurt from where they had been compressed to get her heart started again. She coughed and turned over on her side, embarrassed that people were seeing her like this.
“Come; let’s get you out of the street. It looks like you hit your head, you should get that looked at.” She felt a firm hand on her arm and let it lead her away. She staggered forward, leaning on the helpful arm. When she finally looked up, she was staring into the kind, once again haggard face of the Frenchmen who had saved her life. Unintentionally, she had made a friend, and it had almost killed her.
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