Chapitre Quatre

February 2018, Paris, France

I shake my hands to get rid of the crumbs left by the croissant and continue walking, after a long time observing the Place du Tertre.

That was where I saw Jacques for the first time, calmly painting without noticing the tourists who were watching him with curiosity and fascination. All of him was a mess, his reused brushes, dirty water to wash his brush, oil paint staining every space of his old clothes and arbitrarily placed newspapers, as if he really cared to get stained.

The most curious thing about him was that he did not charge for his art, he gave it away to all those who came to admire his work. It is ironic to think that his art collections are valued in millions of euros, but he gave away some of his art no matter what they were worth.

Jacques convinced me that, while money moved the world and it was important to have the security it provided, when one had too much it could be very positive or very negative. He did not like who he was or the path he had taken, much less what that wealth cost him, because not only had he become distant from his family, but also lost his credibility as an artist. The critics and the media claimed that his success was brief and the only thing left is a businessman, an art gallery owner, not an artist. His paintings were not received as they used to when he was a humble Fine Arts student; he didn't even feel comfortable expressing himself like before.

The small smile that was drawn on my lips at the thought of him disappears when I see his son standing next to the building entrance.

"You here again?" I spit out, annoyed.

His mere presence achieves to ruin my day. Since I met him Sébastien does not mean good news, and I was having a good day.

I take the keys out of my pocket and look for the one that opens the entrance door.

"I've been waiting for you for three hours."

"Is that supposed to sound good?" I turn the key in the lock and open. Before closing it behind me, he holds the door. "What?"

"I just want to talk."

"My house doesn't look presentable," I say as an excuse.

"I doubt anything in this building ever looks presentable," he says boastfully, with clear condescension.

Even more irritated than before I try to close again, aware that he is in the way, but Sébastien easily stops the door.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." He lets go of the door when I do. "Can we talk?"

I think about it for a few seconds.

If I refuse, he will most likely show up in front of my building again, expecting me to grant him a conversation. Instead, if I finally agree, I could try to settle the matter and make it clear that I am not willing to take any deal with either of them.

"Fine," I say tired.

I feel a weight on my shoulders becoming less bearable with every step that I climb towards my house. For some reason it seems that I am giving too much confidence to someone that I really want to keep away from me.

When I reach the third floor, I point at the red door while smiling.

"That's where your father and Léopold lived," I inform Sébastien, receiving a laugh from him. "He never charged your father for rent," I add to my own satisfaction.

The fact seems to surprise Sébastien, who loses any trace of amusement on his face.

"My father was the one who didn't pay?" He asks in disbelief.

"Yes." I glance over my shoulder, finding Sébastien staring at the red door. "But your kind are used to assuming."

"My kind?" He repeats. "You are also assuming."

"I'm allowed for being called a whore." I dedicate him a sidelong glance.

I am aware that Sébastien still does not believe that the relationship between Jacques and I was merely of two neighbors. The only thing out of place was my fascination with his work or the long talks about his interesting life. After that, he never overstepped or hinted at anything similar. And I never saw it that way either.

I open the attic door and step into the house.

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask out of courtesy.

Hearing the door closing in the background, I head to the kitchen.

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

I shrug and take out the dinner Adelaide has left in the fridge.

"Do you really live in the attic?" He asks dismissively.

As I close the refrigerator door I roll my eyes and sigh heavily. I put the dinner on the counter and begin to shed the coats that protect me from the Parisian cold.

"Yes?" I answer tiredly. "It is completely habitable." I hang my jacket on the rack by the front door. "Oh, yeah, the attic is where you keep all the expensive items you no longer want."

Sébastien lets out a small laugh that lacks humor.

"Can you afford this place?"

I go back into the kitchen and take out a plate under his judging eye.

"Yes."

"And why is there a note about a late monthly payment?"

I frown and turn around. He is holding in his hand the note that appeared under the door this morning, written in the landlord's disastrous handwriting.

I walk over to him and take the piece of paper from his grip.

"Stop snooping around."

I crumple the note and set it aside. I serve dinner on a plate and, after taking a fork, I dodge him to go to the living room.

"Please sit down," I scoff, taking a seat on the couch.

Sébastien comes into the living room and takes up part of the sofa, watching me curiously.

"Are you going to have dinner now?" He questions, looking at my food.

"Uhm, yeah?" After chewing the piece of meat, I decide to raise my voice. "Then? What did you want?"

The oldest of the Lemaire brothers takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh full of doubt and fatigue. I ignore it, since I don't feel able to feel much empathy about the worries of someone who has treated me as if I were less than him, based on the number of zeros in my bank account.

I don't even have a bank account.

"You put the conditions," he says with difficulty.

"Conditions for what?"

"For the deal." He begins to gesticulate as calmed as he can get. "You'll be the one to settle the price, as long as we can afford it, and I'll see what I can do."

"I'm not going to accept any deals," I say before chewing what my fork was holding.

"Why?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you why so much despair?" I frown with confusion. "I thought they were just paintings for you."

I squint my eyes and analyze his posture. Sébastien seems relaxed, despite wearing a suit of an unthinkable quantity for my capital while sitting on a sofa that I got for no more than two hundred euros in a second-hand store. His demeanor and expression of professionalism denote knowledge and control, as if he knows everything that is happening in the small space.

"And why should you be the one asking?" His expression twitches a bit, but he quickly regains his composure. "He was my father and disappeared. When we hear from him again it's because he has passed away and has left everything he had to three strangers from an unreliable neighborhood."

"Jacques was not mistaken: you only want to profit from him."

There is silence in the room, only the blows of the cutlery against the ceramic are heard.

"Did you know him well?" Sébastien stares at me, deeply and fixedly.

I stir on the couch.

"A little," I answer briefly.

"You seem to know him a lot better than I did."

I can't figure out whether his sudden abandoned dog appearance is just another strategy or this time is genuine.

"Listen, Colette..."

"Cannelle," I correct him immediately.

"Cannelle," he repeats, "I have many questions. I don't understand why my father ran away without leaving us nothing more than a couple letters," he says with sadness staining his voice, "but it looks like you could clarify my doubts."

"Me?" I point at myself with the fork.

"Yes." He nods slowly. "You knew him, right? He left the most precious thing he had to you."

I puff reluctantly and stand up with the empty plate in my hands, walking towards the kitchen.

"The other day you said that I should know better than anyone why those paintings have a great meaning to my father." Sébastien's voice sounds distant, but I still comprehend his words. "What did you mean?"

"You are his son," I say raising my voice so he can hear me, even though the house is small enough to be heard from opposite corners. "You grew up with him, you should know that his art means a lot to him."

I put the plate in the sink and pour water on it. As I turn around, I find Sébastien watching me from the doorway.

"Did he tell you about us?"

I let out a little laugh, remembering the late nights with Léopold and Jacques.

"All the time," I answer. "Yes, he left, but he did not forget any of you, nor did he want to."

"So why didn't he leave us anything in his inheritance?"

"I don't know." I shrug.

I just want to end the conversation and go to sleep. Talking about Jacques exhausts me, especially if it's with his eldest son, who I know so much about.

I never imagined that the moment I would have him in front of me would happen. Citron, the young man with the sour attitude who had inspired Jacques so much.

"And why would my father spend his last years here?"

"I don't know either." I shrug my shoulders again.

"You know more than you say, don't you?" Sébastien asks, narrowing his eyes.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I avoid his scrutiny, looking at the stickers on the fridge. Then, he sighs, capturing my attention unintentionally.

"But he was our father, there must be something we can do to get his paintings were they belong: with us."

Anyone could easily identify that passive aggressiveness from his mother.

"They're just paintings." I lick my lips, tired of the conversation. "I think you should go, this is going nowhere."

"Could we talk another day in my office?"

"I'm not accepting any deals, you should have realized that by now," I say as I walk out of the kitchen. "It was nice talking to you, but it's late."

I open the door and look at him, hoping he gets my intentions.

"Bonne nuit, Cannelle," he whispers, defeated, confusing me.

"Bonne nuit," I reply.

As soon as the door closes, I feel afflicted, as if the conversation with Sébastien relives painful memories of the last days of his father. So many hours talking that would not happen again, and a decision that, although it seems that I have already taken, I still have to think about.

After all, they are his sons, and it is cruel that a stranger gets to keep what was left of their father.