On Leave by Daniel Anselme Page A

asked abruptly, “did you bring those?”
    Lachaume nodded.
    â€œSo I’ve won my bet with Dad! I knew you were the sort to bring flowers.”
    Soon after, M. Valette got back, holding with great care in both hands another tray of shucked oysters. He was tall, thin, and slightly stooped, and wore thick-lensed glasses, which made his drawn face look cold and a little vague. He shook Lachaume’s hand vigorously and stood on one leg in the narrow gap between the sofa and the dining table.
    â€œThey hadn’t opened the oysters,” he said flatly, with a tip of his chin to the ceiling. Then he tried to get more comfortable and leaned on the table, nearly pushing it over. “The folks around here,” he added, “haven’t got the knack, like”—he tried to think where it was that people had the knack—“like in Paris,” he concluded with a quickly suppressed grin. “I bet this is your first time in these parts. Parisians don’t know the outskirts.”
    Jean Valette tugged him on the sleeve and said, “Have you seen the flowers?”
    He glanced at the mimosas and nodded. Jean Valette guffawed, claiming he had “won” something or other. M. Valette took no notice of the noise and made a compliment about the beautiful flowers to no one in particular, maybe to the flowers themselves. But Lachaume realized the game of hide-and-seek he was playing over the “lost wager” and saw through his uncertain look and his flat voice. Something about the man suddenly became dear and precious to him.
    â€œIt wasn’t a put-up job,” he said with a smile. “Valette didn’t tell me he’d made a bet … I’m sorry!” He broke off with a clap of his hands. “I keep on saying Valette instead of Jean.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter,” M. Valette said. “After all, he is the son and heir … One day, he will be plain Valette, won’t he?” And he grabbed his son by the back of his neck and gave him a good shake, nearly tipping the table over once more.
    â€œBe careful! Careful!” Mme Valette and her daughters cried out in unison as they came back in bearing dishes and bottles.
    â€œShould we start?” M. Valette suggested. “It’s nearly one-fifteen.”
    â€œWhat about Luc?” Mme Valette said in surprise, with a flash of anger that was quickly suppressed. “It would be nicer to wait for him, wouldn’t it?”
    Her question was addressed less to her husband than to Lachaume, who had no choice but to agree they should wait for Luc.
    He was watching Colette and was amazed to see she didn’t really care. He’d assumed, unconsciously, that Colette and Luc had something going on between them; now that he was aware of it, he felt a pang of jealousy.
    â€œYou see,” M. Valette said in a muffled, almost inaudible tone, “it’s on your account he’s coming. For you, and for Jean.”
    These words went straight to Lachaume’s heart. It was hard to understand, and he didn’t understand it himself, but when he realized that he’d known all along that Luc was coming “on their account,” a strange emotion weighed heavily on him. Jean Valette was standing with his back to the wall and staring at his cigarette with a mysterious smile.
    At that point Luc knocked on the door with three slow, separate knocks. Lachaume was right, it was Luc. Danielle scurried to open the front door. Colette sat up, her face aquiver, and turned her head toward the entrance. At long last Luc appeared.
    â€œGreetings,” he said slowly, casting his eyes cautiously and patiently all around the room, as if he was making a tally of attendance. “I’m late, alas…”
    It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t an apology.
    He put his bulging briefcase down on a chair (it was one of those fat leather cases called a calabash), rubbed his hands