You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [83]
“Heroics,” he nodded. “But in the end, at least I learned something from the guy. At least, I don’t know. He’s not what I thought. Or what I wanted. Maybe he’s a disappointment. To you too I know. So he’s not a fucking hero. Who is? What do we expect, you know?”
Colin finished his beer. We sat together watching as a woman walked slowly with a cane to the steps of the métro. She paused to catch her breath, and then began awkwardly descending the concrete stairs.
“You sound like my mom,” I said.
Colin laughed. “Yeah?”
“She asked me the other night, ‘What do you expect of people?’ As if the only thing we should expect from anyone is disappointment.”
“No man, it’s just one of the things we should expect. But in the end, mate, you’re better off not expecting anything. The fucked-up thing is that I still want to write for him. I still want to know what he thinks of what I write, of what I say. Of me, I guess.”
“While he’s still around,” I said.
“While he’s still around.”
For a while neither of us spoke. Colin stared out at the street and spun his lighter on the table with quick flicks of his wrist. I watched as it turned and turned on the tabletop in a blur of blue.
And then we both watched as Silver came up the street from the school. He walked slowly and alone. His coat was buttoned with the high collar turned up, his gray scarf wound around his throat and his old brown satchel slung over his shoulder. At the steps of the métro he stopped. For a moment I thought he might come into the café. Instead he turned and looked back in the direction of the school, then at the Christmas lights still strung across the intersection, and finally higher into the night sky.
Then he turned and vanished into the métro.
* * *
Soon I was on the boulevard St. Germain walking home. The cafés were crowded. The sharp night air smelled like chestnuts and burning sugar. It seemed a long time since I’d noticed any of it. The entire boulevard was lined with blue lights.
From the hall I heard voices in the apartment. I slid my key into the lock and opened the door. My mother sat facing the fire, her arms spread out behind her, a glass of champagne in her left hand. She was wearing jeans and a heavy white turtleneck sweater, her legs folded beneath her. She was laughing when I walked into the room, her mouth slightly open, her eyes fixed on my father in a black suit and a light-pink shirt. There was no tie. He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other. He was smiling.
“Come on, Gilad, it’s cold out there,” he said.
I closed the door behind me. The warmth of the room, the low lights, my parents there, the fire, it felt so familiar. I wanted to collapse into the couch next to my mother, take off my shoes, lean against her, give in.
“Do you want to sit down, sweetheart?” she asked, touching her fingers to the place next to her.
I stood, pretending I wasn’t grateful for the warmth, for the fire, for the music.
“You want a glass of champagne, kiddo?” He lifted the bottle into the air.
I looked at him. His eyebrows raised, a slight smirk on his square face, his dull eyes. “Have a glass,” he said. “Welcome me home.”
“Gilad,” she said, “take your coat off, come sit next to me.”
I turned to her, took off my coat and dropped it with my bag on the floor. I sat next to her. She wrapped her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. I stared into the fire trying not to blink.
“No,” I said. “No champagne.”
“Go on, honey,” she said. “It’ll do you some good.”
“A peace offering,” he said, raising the bottle again.
I turned from the fire toward him. “A peace offering?”
He walked to the fireplace and rested the bottle on the mantelpiece. “I know you’re angry with me, Gilad. We’ll have a glass of champagne and let it go, O.K.?”
“It?” I asked, looking up at him.
He sighed and shook his head. The smirk was gone along with his momentary joviality. “The whole fucking thing, Gilad. We’ll just let it go. Why do you always have to be so sour? We were having a lovely time here before you showed up with your little mood.”
“What’s