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‘Tryst’ is a word that is commonly used to describe a secret rendezvous between lovers in a private setting that is potentially impolite or salacious to mention in polite company. For example, if I were to announce that I was invited to the house of a woman who had recently married and had her first child to a man who was not myself, that may be considered strange, but not damning. However, if I announced I was joining said beautiful woman for a tryst after her daughter had been put to bed, I would be far more likely to be punched in the face by that woman’s husband or a close confidant of that man.
The tryst that is being described in this story is one of a rendezvous of lovers, and is definitely considered impolite to talk about in high society unless one lives in a very liberal society that has recently been made aware of the evolving nature of love and sexuality, or at least a society which only pretends to pay attention to the lives of others, even when the opportunity for gossip emerges. Tragically, very few of these societies are present today, and even fewer are present in this story, so this tryst was also a secret.
It began on a day, which seemed much like the day which had preceded it, in that it was sunny, mild and ‘clement’, a word which here means ‘sunny and mild’. There were very few clouds in the sky this day, both literally as the sky was exceptionally blue and lacked water particulates around it, and figuratively in that it was a day in which spirits were high for those concerned in our story.
Those concerned, were the recently happily married Bertrand and Beatrice Baudelaire, their young daughter, Violet and myself, a close family friend. In the mid-afternoon I was invited to the Baudelaire household for afternoon petits-fours, a phrase which means ‘overcomplicated afternoon tea foods and idle chatter about the lives of those offering the food’ after Violet had tired herself out trying to make her points in the conversation known to others. Sadly for the infant, neither her parents nor myself were fluent in the language she had concocted and so she was left to try to pull the ribbon out of her shirt and entangle herself in it as though it were a snake trying to play with her.
Afternoon tea was soon afterward abandoned, and Violet scooped up so we could all talk and digest in the library. The Baudelaire library, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, was a beautiful room, in the way most libraries are. It was also a beautiful room in that the architecture made the roof seem miles above and the ladders to reach the top shelves were so tall one could spend ones’ life in the library and not read all the books it had to offer. It reflected its’ owners perfectly. While Violet gurgled happily on the floor near the nonfiction books beginning with the number 620, her parents and I relaxed in a small alcove with cushy chairs and an ornate end table with the vista of some snowy mountains carved into the side of it.
Bertrand and Beatrice shared a glance that conveyed an entire conversation in a matter of seconds, a glance that could only be shared by a married couple or a pair of people on a boat threatening to capsize and throw both crew members overboard.
I, not being privy to the details of this conversation, a phrase which here means ‘I was not included’, merely sipped my tea.
“This tea is perfectly brewed, Bertrand,” I said. Often when people comment on something inane, such as the weather or the food they are eating, especially if neither are notable in and of themselves, it is because they fear the silence that they are breaking. In this case at least, that was certainly true.
Bertrand nodded back graciously, finally turning from his wife and toward me. “Bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword.”
“Just like Kit taught us,” Beatrice added.
We all sipped our tea in silence, grimacing at the familiar aftertaste.
After a pregnant moment, pregnant referring to the uneasily quiet time in which no-one spoke, Beatrice put her cup down delicately.
“We called you here today for two reasons, Lemony,” she said.
Bertrand took her hand and squeezed it. Although I know it to be physically impossible, it felt as though that action was taking place around my heart at the same moment.
“Bertrand and I are having another child.”
There was a pregnant silence again, both pregnant in being hushed when people clearly wanted to say more, and pregnant in that the woman present was carrying an embryo that was growing into a child.
I was the one who was cowardly enough to break this silence. “Congratulations,” I said after swallowing my tea. “I’m very happy for both of you and wish you the best for the future.”
I will admit here, I did something that I am not proud of. I set down my tea and stepped quite briskly out of the room without turning back. The word ‘briskly’ is often used to define a type of movement that happens quickly and with limited unnecessary movement, however in this case it also meant to make certain no-one could see the beginnings of tears in my eyes as I searched for the closest bathroom to hide myself in until I could collect my feelings.
Trying to hold back tears in a bathroom, especially one that is not your own is unpleasant, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Holding back tears in a bathroom with the knowledge that you must soon emerge from the bathroom and pretend you hadn’t been crying is far worse, in my opinion. The routine of checking oneself in the mirror, making sure there are no errant traces of sadness or puffiness on one’s features, followed by the trudge back to where one left are often the hardest part, and where I admit I briefly debated leaving the Baudelaire mansion, changing my name and moving abroad to become a humble canoe-seller in Peru.
I did none of those things, however. I checked my face in the mirror, breathed deeply and returned to the library, where I could still hear Violet gurgling along to the hushed conversation her parents were having. I could only hear snippets of their conversation through the door, and would not have listened had I not heard my own name mentioned a few times.
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about the famed Austrian psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud and his work in the industry of psychology. I’m sure I also don’t have to tell you that the vast majority of his work is sensationalist rubbish that should never be considered in a discussion of proper science. However, one patent he does hold that bears some credence is the Cocktail Party Effect.
This theory suggests that if one hears ones own name in a crowded room, their attention will be drawn to that conversation and they will be able to focus all their attention on it, even if it is happening a ways away or with other auditory stimuli present. It is this effect that stirred me to listen in on the conversation on the other side of the door.
“—and if he’s gone, then what? I did say there was some danger to broaching the subject with him like this, Bertrand.”
“I know what you said darling, but please trust me. Lemony is too polite to leave without some sort of coded message of farewell, and too in love with with you to abandon us when we just told him of the large change in our life that we are about to go through.”
Ice seized my heart. Bertrand spoke of the ardour I had for his wife, and worst of all, he mentioned it as though it were unimportant to him. I didn’t detect any anger or resignation in his voice as he said this, but worse, had a certain fondness lacing his words. As though he were so certain that I could never have the woman my heart was consumed by that it was barely worth raising.
“Bertrand please just listen, I know that Lemony wouldn’t do this to us. You talk about how he feels for me, but discount yourself in that equation. I know that you feel for him as strongly as I, that is not a question to reopen now. It will just be a question of getting him to listen to that without first jumping to conclusions.”
‘Jumping to conclusions’ is an idiom that is defined as making a hasty judgement before considering all the facts. I was not known for jumping to conclusions. My sister was far more likely to wear her heart in that way, and my brother more predisposed to action than I. However this was a case in which it did not feel I was jumping to conclusions. It was as though I had taken a small step forward and there conclusions were, taunting me. But this conversation did not align with any of the conclusions I had previously come to.
I retraced my steps from the library’s door back down the hall, then returned with more noise. As soon as my footfalls were audible, the conversation abated and the library door swung open to a distressed couple and a tired baby. I related to both groups.
The eagle eye that Beatrice raked over me suggested that I had not been as subtle as I had hoped about what had happened in the bathroom. Bertrand’s face was half obscured by his daughter’s, but showed only concern. It struck me, as it often does at the most inconvenient times, that the three of us are far too young for the horrors we have seen and been a part of. I cannot blame them for cutting as many ties as they had when Violet was announced.
“Lemony, are you alright?” Bertrand asked from behind Violet. “We were both very concerned when you left so briskly.”
“You didn’t let us say the second reason we brought you here,” Beatrice added.
I thought I knew what the future of my relationship with the Baudelaires would hold. I would always love Beatrice, and soon after I met Bertrand, I found myself loving him as well, but had resigned myself to leaving them both to each other and finding isolation as my bedfellow. From the conversation I had had with them in the library, and the conversation through the door, I had no idea what the future actually held.
I took in a deep breath. “My apologies Bertrand, Beatrice. I had some things come up that I couldn’t control and had to deal with immediately. I didn’t mean to cause any concern.”
“Nonsense!” Bertrand said. “We are always concerned for you. If something-”
Bertrand cut himself off, and glanced down at his daughter.
“Beatrice, I’m going to put Violet to bed. Will you talk with Lemony about that reason?”
Beatrice had not finished nodding before Bertrand was sliding past me with Violet, his body’s warmth briefly pressing towards me, before he had crossed the threshold and left his wife alone with me.
After a moment, Beatrice gestured again for me to join her in the library and I followed. She didn’t make any movement to talk though.
“I heard you and Bertrand talking before,” I finally said.
“I know. Your footfalls, while light, are something I would know immediately.”
“So. You know how I feel about you. I’m sorry, I never meant for you to know and have it pressure you in any way.”
“It’s alright, Lemony. I’m sure you heard Bertrand and I say as much before you properly announced yourself.”
I had. I still wasn’t sure I believed it though.
“The thing is, Lemony,” Beatrice began, “those feelings that you have and have tried to keep hidden for so long may not be as unreciprocated as you believed.”
I nearly fell out of my chair at this admission. We were sitting in the house that Beatrice had bought with her husband, while he was putting their daughter to bed, and she was admitting she felt something for me? The elation mingled with horror of how I could face Bertrand ever again like ashes in the wind.
“And furthermore,” Beatrice continued, “I may not be the only one in this household who has those feelings for you.”
Bertrand re-entered the room and came to stand behind his wife, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, but not letting his gaze leave me. I felt like I was drowning under the weight of the realisations that had been revealed to me, and his eyes locked on me were pockets of air from a diving helmet trying to keep me from blacking out.
Slowly, Beatrice rose from her chair and lowered again in front of my own. This close, I could see each of her eyelashes separately, as they fluttered onto her cheeks. I held my breath.
Even more slowly, with a brief glance behind her at Bertrand, Beatrice took my face in her hands and gently pressed her lips to mine.
The kiss did not last more than a second, and it lasted eons. As Beatrice pulled back, I realised my hands had come up to cup her face in return and it ached to let go of her, but I did. She held her hand back and in a moment Bertrand had grabbed it to help her up to her feet again. After this, they performed a dance step that quickly and elegantly reversed their positions. Now Beatrice stood behind her husband, gently helping him fall in front of the chair I was still in as his dark eyes locked with mine.
One of his hand came up to my hair and swept a stray windswept piece back to its place. I tore my eyes from Bertrand’s to look slightly further down. This time, the kiss did not come as such a surprise as the last, but it was definitely more than I had ever allowed myself to imagine in weaker moments.
My eyes flickered open a few breaths after to meet Bertrand’s again. Behind him, I could see Beatrice looking down on both of us with a look that seemed to overflow with affection. With love.
An expression I had fantasised about for years, yet never seen so unguarded.
“Lemony,” Bertrand began against my cheek. “If you want, we would love for you to be a part of this family. Violet will love you in moments if you let her, and Beatrice and I already do.”
“We wanted you to be our next child’s godfather originally, but when Bertrand and I discussed it, we realised that, if you wanted, you would make an even better father.”
I can’t recall my exact response to Beatrice here. But I remember with Bertrand almost in my arms, and Beatrice standing almost immediately behind him, close enough to touch without guilt, feeling happier than I ever had before, and I remember laughing and nodding and crying.
Sadly, I did not recall seeing the glint of errant light flit over the library, light from a telescope from across the city, wielded by a man who was either the third cousin, four-times removed from Violet, or the fourth cousin, three-times removed. I did not see the anguish in his eyes. I did not see the beginnings of plans whirring in his brilliant, if wicked mind.