Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

‘What do you mean?’ Francis tried to still the tremor in his voice. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re drunk, that’s all.’

Laurent turned to him, forming the words with alarming clarity. ‘I’m a fucking idiot. You’re a fucking idiot. And you should just fuck off back to your mama and papa.’ His face was mean, his eyes narrow with drink. ‘Go on! What are you waiting for? Fuck off!’

Francis stood up, in agony. He didn’t want Laurent to see him cry. But he couldn’t just walk away either, not like this.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said, as calmly as he could. ‘I know you don’t. And you don’t mean it either when you talk about going to whorehouses and having kids all over the place, and … all that. I see how you look at me …’

Ah, mon Dieu! Who wouldn’t look at you like that? You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But you’re a fucking stupid kid. I’m bored with you. And I’m married.’

Francis stood in stunned disbelief, unable to reply to this. ‘You’re lying,’ he said at last. Laurent looked up at him, wearily, as if telling him had relieved something.

‘No, it’s true, mon ami .’

Francis felt as though his chest was being ripped apart. He wondered why he did not fall, or faint, since the pain was so dreadful. He turned and walked away from the cabin, and kept walking through one of his father’s fields and into the forest. He began to run, his breath so ragged it disguised the sobs tearing through him. After a time he stopped running and went down on his knees in front of a huge pine, and rammed his head into the tree’s bark. He didn’t know how long he was there; perhaps he had dazed himself, glad of the pain that crowded out the other, more terrible, torment.

Laurent found him just before dark. He tracked him down like one of his stricken wolves, following his erratic progress through the bush. He bent down and cradled him in his arms, his fingers discovering the wound on his forehead, tears gleaming on his cheek, whispering that he was sorry.

Briefly, Francis thought that after that night, he had won. So what if Laurent had been married, so what if he had a son; that was all in the past: it didn’t matter now, to them. But still Laurent resisted his attempts to pin him down, to find things out. The truth was, he didn’t want Francis to change anything about his life, didn’t want Francis as anything other than an occasional diversion. Francis, his voice uneven and thick, accused Laurent of not caring about him. Laurent, brutally, agreed.

And on, and on. The same conversation repeated with slight, pointless variations over many summer nights. Francis wondered how much longer he could stand this exquisite torture, but could not stop submitting himself to it. He tried to be casual and light-hearted in Laurent’s presence, but hadn’t had much practice. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that sooner or later Laurent would push him away altogether. But like a moth drawn to a candle flame, he could not stop himself from going down to the cabin, although Laurent was increasingly absent. He didn’t understand how Laurent’s feelings could have changed so much, when his had intensified.

And then, somehow, his father found out.

It wasn’t a cataclysmic event. It was more as though his father had been putting together pieces of a puzzle, patiently watching and accumulating the fragments, until finally the picture had come clear. There were the times when Francis had not returned until after his parents had got up, and he had muttered unconvincing comments about early-morning walks. Then there was the time that his father had arrived at Laurent’s cabin and Francis was there, and he pretended to be taking a wood-carving lesson. Perhaps that was when he knew, although he gave no outward sign of it. Or there was another time, ill-advised, when he claimed he had stayed the night at Ida’s. His father had raised his eyebrow very slightly, but said nothing. Then Francis, panicking, had to find an excuse to rush over to the Prettys’ house and find Ida. He wasn’t sure what to say to her either, but concocted a story about having gotten drunk in Caulfield and having to hide it from his parents. Her face was stony and set, and though she nodded agreement, she looked at him with wounded eyes and he felt ashamed.

However it had happened, his father, who for some time had found it hard to talk to Francis–and they were never that close–became intolerable. He never said anything directly, but would not look him in the eye when speaking to him, and only did so to order him to carry out some chore or mend his behaviour. He seemed to regard his son with a cold, withering contempt; it felt as though he could hardly bear to be in the house with him. Sometimes Francis, sitting at the table in the frigid zone between his mother and father, felt a nausea welling up in his throat that threatened to overwhelm him. Once, while speaking to his mother about something, he caught his father’s eye on him, unguarded, and saw in it nothing but cold, implacable rage.

One thing that surprised him was that he must have kept it from his mother. She clearly felt the coldness between father and son, and it saddened her, but she did not regard him any differently; that is, she was the same impatient, unhappy woman she had been for as long as he could remember.

It was the end of October. Francis had vowed to himself many times not to go back to Laurent’s, a vow he found impossible to keep. This particular evening he found him in, and after a while they began a long, bitter argument, saying the same things they had said before, over and over again. Francis hated himself at such moments, but was quite unable to stop. Occasionally, when alone, he could picture himself walking away with dignity, head high, but when he was standing in Laurent’s kitchen, facing the man himself–shambolic, unshaven, crude–then he was seized with a mad desire to throw himself at his feet, to beg him in tears; to kill himself; anything to end this torture. To kill Laurent.

‘I didn’t come to you, remember?’ Francis shouted hoarsely, as he had done many times before. ‘I didn’t ask for this! You made me like this … You!’

‘And I wish I’d never set eyes on you. Christ, you make me sick!’ And then Laurent said, ‘Anyway it doesn’t matter. I’m going away. For a long time. I don’t know when I will come back.’

Francis stared at him, not believing it for a moment.

‘Fine. Say what you like.’

‘I leave next week.’

The anger had drained out of Laurent’s face, and Francis had a cold, sick feeling that it was true. Laurent turned away, busying himself with something.

‘Maybe then you’ll get over it, huh? Find a nice girl.’

Francis felt tears threaten. His whole body felt weak, as if he was coming down with a fever. Laurent was leaving. It was over. He did not understand how it was possible to feel such pain and go on living.

‘Hey, it’s not so bad. You’re a good kid really.’ Laurent had seen his face, and was trying to be kind. This was worse than any obscenities or cutting remarks.

‘Please …’ Francis did not know what he was going to say. ‘Please, don’t say that now. Just go, some time, but don’t say that now. Let’s go on, until …’

Maybe Laurent too was tired of fighting, and that’s why he shrugged and smiled. Francis went to him, and put his arms round him. Laurent patted him on the back, more like a father than anything else. Francis clung to him, wishing he could walk away; wishing more that it was the summer of the previous year, gone for good.

My love, who is sick to death of me .

He stayed that night but lay awake throughout it, listening to Laurent breathe beside him. He managed to rise and dress without waking him, although before he left, he leant over and kissed him softly on the cheek. Laurent didn’t wake, or chose not to.