CHAPTER 3

          As always when he thought of Blaze, Fabien pictured her on stage, standing in a circle of light, her small, elegant body arched into a perfect ‘arabesque’. Then came the memories of her as a woman, laughing with him on the ratty couch in the dump of a house they’d shared with two other dancers, or lounging on the back porch in the hot evening air.

          False memories, he knew. Gilded by time and distance. Blaze couldn’t possibly be as funny, as warm and beautiful and sensual as he remembered her. He’d turned her into a symbol of everything he’d given up.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Willow asked as she slid a box across the floor to join the others he’d stacked against the wall.

          Fabien deliberately misunderstood her.

“Well, I’m going to finish packing these boxes, then find someplace warm to have a cold beer,” he said.

          She rolled her eyes.

“Would you stop, please? I mean… What are you going to do next? What are you going to do now that you’ve got your life back?”

          He shrugged, even as his thoughts flew to the apartment he’d rented in the Marais district across the river, the most fashionable district in Paris, famous for old-world charm, narrow cobblestone streets, hidden courtyards, and tranquil gardens, a multitude of mansions called ‘hôtels particuliers’, and a thriving gallery and cafe culture.

          His sister hadn’t seen it yet. It had been hell holding her off, and he would have to tell her his plans soon, but Fabien wasn’t ready for her disapproval yet. He was still coming to terms with his own audacity himself.

“I haven’t really thought about it yet. I haven’t got much time,” Fabien lied.

          Willow dusted her hands on her butt.

“Well, Fab, you should. Maybe you could teach ballet… Better yet, you could use Dad’s money to go to university, get a degree. Or put a deposit on a place of your own. Start making a life for yourself. Hell, you could even get a girlfriend! Really shake things up.”

          It was Fabien’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Just out of curiosity… Why is it that married people always think that everyone else would be happier in a relationship?”

“Because it’s true. You’re one of a kind, Fab, and you’re made to be a husband. If any man should have children, it’s you. They’d be gorgeous, for starters. And talented. And smart and kind… Unique.”

“Willa, have you, by any chance, created a profile in my name on some dating sites? Because all this sound like an ad… Come and meet my big brother, a great husband material and the future father of your children…”

“Relax, bro! But I did think about it for a while… Still, I haven’t stooped that low... I’m not that desperate… yet. Just so you know, I do have some wonderful friends I’d like you to meet.”

“No! No way!”

“Why not?! Come on, give me one good reason why you don’t want to meet an attractive, available woman. You are a straight male, young, gorgeous, well-educated, single… The perfect combination…”

“Don’t you dare! I’ll find my own woman when I’m ready, thank you very much.”

          The truth was, the next twelve months were going to be challenging enough without adding a new relationship into the mix.

“For God’s sake, Fab! Surely you must want to get laid, at the very least? How many years can a man survive on hand relief alone, anyway? It’s a miracle you’re not blind…” Willow said quite nonchalantly.

          Fabien nearly choked on his own tongue. Half amused, half surprised, he stared at his sister. She was many things, but being comfortable with earthy talk was not one of them.

“Hand relief? Are you serious right now?”

“What’s a better word for it? Horse around? Spanking the monkey? Choking the chicken? Bashing the bishop? Flick the bean? Flog the dong?”

          He laughed because he couldn’t help himself.

“Are you done yet, Willa? My God… You are out of this world.”

“Fab, I’m serious,” Willow added. “You have to do something about it… and quick!”

          Fabien saw with surprise that there were tears in her eyes.

“Look, sis… Your concern for my… Uhm… Your concern for my… monkey is kind of sweet… I think. But I’m not going to discuss my sex life with my little sister. Are we clear on that?”

“That’s because you don’t have one!” she exclaimed totally frustrated. “And it’s such a waste, Fab. I know women who would crawl over broken glass to have a piece of you. Let me hook you up with one of my friends. They are all beautiful women.”

          He held up a hand.

“Please, spare me the broken-glass crawlers! And take my word for it… I do have a sex life.”

          He thought of Françoise and Jacqueline, women he’d slept with on a casual basis over the years. He liked them both, and he enjoyed the sex, but he was not compelled by either woman. That lack of engagement had been important in his former life, when all his energy had been focused on his father’s well-being.

“Okay... I give up… for now. But I really hope, for your sake, that’s true.”

          Willow studied his face.

“Fab, I absolutely adore you, so I want you to have all the things you’ve missed out on. Is that a bad thing?”

“No, Willa, I adore you too. And I get that… I really do,” he replied. “But I need you to respect my wishes and trust me, okay?

“Okay.”

“Thank you. Now, can we talk about something else? Anything else, in fact. Global warming? The extortionate price of tropical fruit? The next presidential elections? Sports? Shopping?”

          His sister let the subject go. They spent another two hours boxing up the library. By the time they exited the apartment, they were both dusty and weary.

“What time are you letting the dealer in tomorrow?” Fabien asked.

“Around ten.”

          They both stood on the threshold, glancing around the apartment that had been their father’s home, hospital, prison, and his place of death.

“Will you miss it?” she asked.

          The apartment had been in their family for two generations. Fabien could remember his grandmother serving Sunday meals in the dining room, the family gathered around. But he could remember more clearly his father’s pain and suffering.

          His silent tears… His silent yelling…

“No. You?”

          She shook her head.

“Too many sad memories.”

          Fabien locked up for the last time and handed the key to his sister. They parted ways in the street and he walked two blocks to the Metro. After changing lines twice, he climbed the stairs of the St. Paul station and emerged into the weak afternoon sunlight.

          It was early February, and Fabien could see his breath in the air. He stopped to buy a bottle of wine and some fresh-baked bread on his way home. Then he let himself into the former shop that he’d leased on a cobblestoned side street of ‘Le Marais’.

          His footsteps echoed as he made his way across a wide expanse of floorboards to the kitchen. Normally a place the size of his loft would cost a mint to rent, but he’d managed to discover the last shitty, unrenovated hole in the upwardly mobile third arrondissement.

          What it lacked in ambiance, hygiene, and plumbing it gained in space. More than enough to accommodate his bed, a couch, an armchair, a kitchen table, and all his workshop materials and leave him with plenty of room to fill with his art.

          HIS ART.

          Fabien studied the handful of small sculptures and the one full-size figure in bronze that stood next to his workbench. For a long time, he’d fooled himself into thinking that his sketches and small-scale sculptures were a hobby, mindless doodling to chew up the time between tending to his father’s needs and filling the hole that losing dancing had left.

          He’d always drawn and experimented with clay, ever since he was a kid. It was harmless, he’d figured, pointless. But as his skill had increased, so had his drive to capture more and more of his ideas in clay, plaster, and bronze… each time bigger and better than the time before.

          Fabien had pushed away the urge as it became more insistent, but when his father’s health had deteriorated a few months ago, he’d found himself thinking about what would happen after his father had found his peace.

          His hands had itched as he imagined what he could do with his art if he had more time, more space, more energy, and more freedom. The past eight years had taught him that life was never predictable, bleak, and even more often cruel.

          Men plan and God laughs!

          He’d often thought the quote should be ‘men dream and God laughs’.

          But he’d had a gutful of what-ifs. Fabien had eight years of being on hold, in limbo, living for someone else.

          He and Willow had inherited a small sum of money from their father’s estate. There would be a little more when the apartment sale was finalized, but not much since they’d taken out a mortgage to fund their father’s care, and Fabien had decided to recklessly, perhaps foolishly, use his share to give himself a year to prove himself.

          The rent paid, food supplied, and his materials purchased. And if he had nothing to show for it at the end of it all, so be it. At least he would have followed one of his dreams through to its conclusion.

          His hands and face felt grubby from the hours amongst dusty books. He stripped and took a quick shower. His hair damp, clad in a pair of faded jeans and a cashmere sweater that had seen better days, Fabien slit the seal on the merlot he’d bought and placed a single glass on the counter.

          The sound of his doorbell echoed around the loft. He eyed the distant front door cautiously. He wouldn’t put it past Willow to pay a sneak visit after the conversation they’d had today, trying to catch him in the act of having a sex life so she could truly rest easy.

          He ran his hands through his hair. His sister was going to find out her brother was chasing a rainbow sometime.

          Might as well be today…

          His bare feet were silent as he made his way to the white-painted glass front door. Fabien could see a small silhouette on the other side of the glass and he frowned.

          Too short for Willow.

          And too slight for either Jaqueline or Françoise.

          Fabien twisted the lock, pulled the door open… and froze when he saw who was standing on his doorstep.

“Blaze…”

“Fab…” she said slowly. “My Fab…”

          Then she threw herself into his arms.