Chapter Text
portée [nf]
1. span (bridge)
2. reach, range, scope
3. impact, significance
4. stave (music)
The recital at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées was one of those evenings both the cultural pages and the tabloids had declared « Le rendez-vous incontournable de la saison ! » ("The Event of the Season!") the day of its shock announcement. Tickets had sold out within minutes, and broodingly lit from behind by a single halogen lamp, Verso Dessendre’s painfully photogenic profile had been plastered across every marginally adhesive surface in the 8th arrondissement in the weeks since. By the time Gustave arrived at the theatre—invited at the last minute by a PSL colleague who, mid-divorce, had suddenly found himself with an extra ticket—the foyer was already filled to bursting with the overwhelming hauteur of Paris’s elite.
He’d spent the afternoon in his laboratory at Mines[1] puzzling over discrepancies across several predictive models of tensile stress for a proprietary composite material proposed to reinforce the aging bridges along the Seine. Following a series of increasingly plaintive messages relayed to him by his long-suffering lab manager, however, he’d changed in his office, run his fingers through his hair, and subjected himself to a two-bus, hourlong trip across the city with the distinct sense that he was about to commit an act of grave trespass.
He knew who Verso was, vaguely. Every self-respecting Parisian had to have at least a basic working knowledge of haute couture’s famous rebel son, who, at a ludicrously young age, had been the face of the campaign that had transformed the venerable Maison (House) Dessendre into a twenty-first century fashion powerhouse. For a few years, he’d been inescapable—first on social media as a smoldering teenage “brand ambassador,” then on the news one Bastille Day when he’d famously brought his canvases to the top of the Beaux-Arts de Paris[2] and lit them on fire shortly before attempting to throw himself off the roof.
Would Gustave have predicted that this lunatic would, over a decade later, be not only still breathing but also this season’s breakout star on the international awards circuit for the score of a tiny independent film that had won him three Victoires and swept both the Lumières and the Césars? Of course not. There had been no priors for that predictive model.
But even Le Monde had granted Verso Dessendre a full feature this week, describing his score as integral to the success of Laisse-moi partir (Let me go), which told with aching tenderness the story of a family’s slow fracture following the loss of a child: Long sequences towards the end of the film had been shot without dialogue, and in the absence of speech, gesture and melody alone had left the ultimate nature of the death ambiguous.
This had ignited a frenzy of impassioned speculation among both critics and the general public, who had all resorted to a dissection of the score to divine the truth. Some had heard « demeure »("to stay") where others heard « se meurt »("to die") and declared it had been an accident. Others had pointed to the use of « vie ôtée »("life stolen") instead of « vie perdue »("life lost") and declared it had been murder. Still others—in the vast majority—had simply pointed to the composer and declared it had been suicide. From what Gustave had gleaned from the articles he’d skimmed on the ride over, this insanity had only grown since the film’s release, fueled by its mercurial creator's flat refusal to speak publicly on the matter.
He’d never have thought he’d feel sorry for Verso Dessendre, of all people, but then again, Sophie had always considered him something of a bleeding heart.
“Christ, could you have left me waiting any longer?” Lucien complained as Gustave wriggled his way apologetically between one heaving bosom and another throbbing manhood to the top of the stairs, “I swear Alex has been stalking me all evening.”
“You know you can always just say no,” Gustave replied, catching his breath as he took in the grand foyer with its sweeping staircases and dark, curved banisters.
“I can’t ‘just say no,’” Lucien grumbled, “He’s Marc Renaudin’s brother.”
“Who’s that?” Gustave asked with absent interest.
“Renaudin is the CFO at CNRS, Gustave,” Lucien sighed, “You know? Le Centre national de la recherche scientifique? That thing that provides about 70% of our funding?”
“Mmm,” Gustave hummed, watching the rest of Paris flash by through the wall of glass doors below, red taillights blurring through the rain. He cocked his head and asked, “Did you know that this was the first theatre in Paris built entirely of reinforced concrete?” Curiously, he swept his gaze across the mezzanine. “I heard it made the recent renovations a lot easier.”
“Unbelievable,” Lucien muttered.
He smacked Gustave in the shoulder, and Gustave finally turned to him, grinning.
“What?” he asked, laughing as he gestured broadly around them, “It’s pretty cool.”
Lucien shook his head and took Gustave by the arm, forcibly steering him towards the theater.
“Mon ami,” he intoned, “You need to get a life.”
“I had a life,” Gustave pointed out with a pedantic finger, “And then we broke up. Sound familiar?”
"Mais tais-toi (Shut up)," Lucien grumbled.
Because Lucien had sold himself to the soul-crushing gods of academia in exchange for a stable career in administration and a life of substantial material wealth, his own lack of a personal life came with box seats at every major performance venue in Paris. A steward in a sharp suit showed up the moment they settled back in their seats, and Lucien ordered a bottle of something likely nauseatingly expensive that would also very likely taste like piss.
“Careful,” Gustave warned as Lucien rubbed a tired hand across his face, “You might make Alex jealous.”
“At least that would get him off my arse,” Lucien muttered, “The papers haven’t even been finalized yet, and he’s been crawling all over me like a horsefly on shite.”
“Why wouldn’t he, with language like that?” Gustave replied around a yawn.
"Va te faire foutre (Go fuck yourself)," Lucien groused.
Gustave smiled crookedly, then looked down at the stage with its rich red curtain and square stone proscenium.
“Ruben done moving out?” he asked.
“For the most part,” Lucien replied, “But I still keep finding his shite everywhere. Like his stupid fucking brown sauce. He had, like, fifty bottles of that piss lying around.” Throwing himself back in his chair, he complained, “Remind me again why I married a fucking Englishman.”
“Hey,” Gustave protested with mock affront, “I’m English.”
“You grew up here,” Lucien retorted, “You’re as English as the Eurostar.”
“So… 20%,” Gustave calculated, “Mmm–” he made a face and wiggled his hand, “–sounds a bit generous.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s why you begged Louis to kick me out of the lab tonight? You know he’s going to start drawing conclusions.”
“Fuck his conclusions. It’s how I show my love.” There was a creak of wood as Lucien sat forward again, turning Gustave by the shoulder away from his scrutiny of the stage. “Seriously,” Lucien said, “Next to you, I look like a fucking socialite. When was the last time you actually left the lab?”
Gustave made another face.
“The futon’s pretty comfortable,” he replied.
“If you keep sleeping in your office, I’m going to have to stage an intervention,” Lucien said, “I have the power to do so now, you know, as Associate Department Whatever.”
“Will this intervention involve setting me up on another blind date with one of your terribly frightening cousins?”
“I’ll tell them you said that, you fucking arse,” Lucien threatened.
Smiling, Gustave held up his hand in apology, and Lucien sighed.
“Look around,” he said, gesturing at the theatre, “There are plenty of highly educated, respectable women here tonight to listen to Verso Dessendre play everything except what everyone wants him to play. Just say the word.”
“No thanks,” Gustave replied.
The steward returned then with Lucien’s bottle of vinegar-piss wine. Gustave turned back to the stage as she popped the cork.
“I read on my way here that the proscenium here was one of the earliest examples of art deco in Paris,” he said, “It feels more brutalist to me, though.”
“Shut up,” Lucien sighed as the steward handed him his glass, “You’re an engineer, not an architect.”
“Oh, um. No thanks. I’m good,” Gustave said, smiling and holding out his hand before the steward could pour him a glass of his own.
She smiled back with a little nod, lingered a moment, then returned silently the way she’d come. Lucien choked, and Gustave turned to him, eyebrows raised.
“What?” he asked.
“Putain, Gustave,” Lucien snorted as he drank his piss wine with the desperation of a drowning man, “You have no idea.”
The lights went down, and the curtain came up on a stage empty except for a single massive Steinway. Despite himself, Gustave sat forward, surprised. Belatedly, he smoothed out the program he’d absently been folding into smaller and smaller triangles over his knee and, squinting, searched for the night’s repertoire.
“Don’t bother. I already checked,” Lucien whispered into his ear, “He hasn’t put what he’s playing in there.”
Gustave raised an eyebrow, then startled as applause broke through the theatre. Turning back to the stage, he saw a tall man in a pale blue shirt and grey slacks stride out from the wings. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbow, his collar open, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He waved lazily as he crossed the stage and sat with languid ease at the piano, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear before beginning immediately, even before the applause had faded.
Gustave hadn’t really known what to expect except possibly mass catharsis and an unscheduled interlude involving the fire brigade, but he’d read enough about Verso Dessendre to have thought there would be… something else. Something sadder, something more self-absorbed, not just this ridiculous man plinking away at the jarringly jaunty opening chords to Dassin’s “Les Champs-Élysées” with an irreverence that bordered on disdain.
The Théâtre des Champs-Élysées had played host to the likes of Saint-Saëns and Debussy, those internationally lauded titans of French romanticism, and here was the prodigal son of one of Paris’s oldest families wandering down the halls of popular music, pulling a phrase from Lennon and McCartney here, and Fontaine there, lingering just long enough for recognition to strike before hurtling headfirst into a dizzying sweep of polyrhythms that landed them squarely in the cadenza of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1.
Gustave found himself leaning forward in his seat, elbow resting lightly on his knee, and watching the calculations unfold in real time—the solemn half beat before the plunge into MIKA that was just enough to pull startled laughter from the knowing, the practiced flourish of a wrist that heralded the turn to one of Chopin’s countless preludes underscored by the rolling bassline that sounded vaguely like something from the discothèque. There were a few original compositions scattered in there as well—a few pieces from an earlier film score and some borrowed phrases from Laisse-moi partir, but never enough to settle, only enough to suggest the shape of something dark looming on the horizon. It was a masterclass in practiced spontaneity.
Verso truly stopped only once, at the halfway mark, spinning around to straddle the bench and face the audience as he cracked the bottle of 1664 a stagehand in all black raced out to place in his hand. In the absolute silence, he drank deeply, completely unbothered, then with a smirk, picked up the microphone beneath the bench and switched it on. He wiggled the bottle with a grin.
"Ceci n'est pas une pub (This isn't an advertisement)," he announced, "J'ai soif, c’est tout. (I'm thirsty, that's all.)"
As the audience laughed, he drank again, downing the rest of the bottle to some shouts from the balcony.
“Oh, ça va, putain! (Take it easy, goddamnit!)” Verso laughed, teeth bared in a sharp smile, “Vous allez l’avoir, votre putain de tragédie, dans une seconde!” (You’ll get your fucking tragedy in a second!")
He tossed the empty off into the wings, where it was presumably caught by the same terrified stagehand taxed with preserving the sanctity of the Théâtre as a monument historique. As he wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, he said, “Ça faisait longtemps que j’étais pas revenu ici. Mais j'ai entendu dire que les rats me regrettaient, alors me revoilà, hein? (It's been a long time since I've been back here. But I heard the rats missed me, so here I am again, huh?)"
More shouts, laughter. Gustave sat back. This was the showman with the polished smile, the witty quips, the deceptively relaxed slouch against the open fallboard.
Lucien leaned over.
“About what you’d expected?” he asked as Verso continued.
“Not really,” Gustave admitted.
Onstage, Verso cracked another joke. The audience, charmed, laughed.
“This is actually the first time he’s ever performed in Paris. He hates it here. Who can blame him?” Lucien mused, “The rumor is that he only came back because his sister’s seriously ill. Ironic, right?” Gustave gave him a reproving look, to which Lucien shrugged and lifted his glass. “It’s not like I’ve gone digging through his private messages,” he said, “The man’s been in the public eye since he was in collège.[3] You’d have to live under a rock not to know any of this.”
“I like my rocks,” Gustave replied. Lucien rolled his eyes and scowled, and Gustave turned his attention back to the stage, where Verso was still stringing the audience along. “That explains it, at least,” he murmured to himself.
“What?”
“The…” Gustave gestured vaguely, searching for words, “...performance.”
“Of course it’s a performance,” Lucien snorted as he took another large sip of his piss wine, “No one here paid through the nose to be bored to death.”
Below, Verso waved and called, “Salut, Paris! Merci beaucoup!”
With another sharp grin, he switched off the microphone and returned it to the floor beneath his bench. He spun around on his bench to face the keys again, flexed his hands, and waited for the applause to die out. The silence landed heavily, and Gustave leaned forward again, chair creaking loudly beneath him.
The first chord was sharp, spare. It struck with sudden violence, ringing through the hall without settling before it was interrupted by another, then another, in a slow, limping melody of dotted eighths that resembled nothing so much as a tombeau, a lament for the lost. Beside him, Lucien sucked in a sharp breath.
Gustave stilled, eyes straining as he stared unblinking at the lonely man on display below. He watched not just Verso’s hands but the stillness of the shoulders, the disciplined economy of motion. He did not think about fame or rebellion. He did not think about family legacy. He thought about tension—about structures under load, about how much force a material could absorb before it fractured. He thought about what it meant to defy predictions, to pick at the smallest computational error in a foundational assumption until the entire model collapsed.
When the applause came, it came slowly, then gathered into a thunderous crash of prolonged exaltation. Verso rose, bowed once, and smiled. He did not return for an encore.
“You have that look on your face,” Lucien sniffled, blandly tucking away a monogrammed handkerchief as they joined the crush of tearful theatergoers oozing towards the exit.
“What look?” Gustave replied absently. Lost in his thoughts, he caught neither Lucien’s sharp glance nor dramatic eye roll.
“That look that means you either want to fuck him or dissect him,” Lucien replied. At that, Gustave snapped his head around with a reproachful squint, but Lucien only continued, “But since we all know that, despite my best efforts, you remain tragically unmoved by fellow members of the male species, I can only conclude that you want to kidnap Verso Dessendre and shove him into one of your latent factor analyses.”
“You’re drunk on shitty wine,” Gustave sniffed.
“Can you blame me?” Lucien sighed, “Verso Dessendre? In Paris? A live performance of the title track from the most acclaimed film in the history of French cinema?” He glanced at Gustave. “You know he’s never played anything from it live, right? Not even at the Oscars. There’s no way this homecoming shite isn’t personal.” When Gustave responded with nothing more than a wordless sound of polite acknowledgement, Lucien sighed again, but this time with the despondency particular to single gay men in major metropolitan areas. “I wonder if he’s still with that model from… what was it?” Gustave shrugged and looked up at the sparkling chandelier overhead. “Somewhere British, I think,” Lucien mumbled, frowning in furious thought.
“Looks like you have kind of similar tastes, at least,” Gustave said.
“You’re lucky he’s out, or I’d kill you dead right here for queerbaiting, Monsieur Paragon of Heterosexuality,” Lucien muttered.
Gustave laughed and offered Lucien his arm as they reached the top of the stairs. Both glaring and smiling, Lucien took it.
“It was an interesting performance,” Gustave allowed, stumbling slightly before catching his balance as a man in a dark suit pushed past him with a muttered apology. Arching a mild eyebrow, he continued, “A bit of whiplash, though, between the two acts.”
“I think that’s pretty on brand for him,” Lucien replied.
“Seems like it.”
They made it down one more step, then waited for the crowd to move again.
“Did you–”
“–I thought–”
They broke off at the same time, and Lucien burst into laughter. In front of them, a tall woman in a very generously cut dress that defied the laws of gravity gave them a side eye of lofty disdain.
“Putain, look at us,” Lucien said, squeezing Gustave’s arm. Gustave smiled crookedly, perhaps a little sadly. “Putain,” Lucien repeated with a resigned shake of his head.
“How are you getting home?” Gustave asked quietly.
Lucien shot him a half-hearted glare, and Gustave sighed.
“Come on,” he said, “You can come back to my place, and we can both be tragic and single together. I’ll even put on Verso Dessendre’s really depressing film so we can spend the night crying about fictional people instead of ourselves.”
“You’re too nice for your own good, you know?” Lucien replied as they crept down another step, “One day, someone’s going to come along and–”
“–break my heart?” Gustave finished. Lucien shrugged. Gustave grimaced in return and rose up on his toes to look over the crowd toward the doors. “No, that was unfair of me,” he admitted, “No one took advantage of anyone. It just–” he lifted his shoulder, “–happened.”
Lucien shook his head. Another step.
“So?” Gustave asked, “Mine?”
Lucien gave him another look, and Gustave raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t need you to save me from my debauchery,” Lucien replied. Grandly, he swept out a hand and nearly smacked the glasses off the face of the rather scandalized gentleman standing next to him. “This is the life I’ve chosen.”
“Lucien–”
“–it’s just the way it is,” Lucien interrupted sharply, “You’ve never been a gay Black man in Paris. The rules are different for me.”
Gustave ducked his head as they descended another step, then glanced back at him.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Va te faire foutre (Fuck off),” Lucien replied.
He squeezed Gustave’s arm again, and they completed their descent from the mezzanine in silence. Once they were almost at the doors, Avenue Montaigne bustling just beyond, Gustave looked down at Lucien.
“Can I at least give you a ride tomorrow?” he asked, “I have some equipment I need to bring back to lab, so I need to drive anyways. I can pick you up from… wherever.”
Lucien sighed, “Gustave–”
“–Lucien!” came a shout from both afar and nearby.
Lucien looked up at the ceiling and shut his eyes.
"Putain,” he hissed with great feeling.
Gustave looked back over the crowd and saw a familiar blonde head bobbing towards them.
“Want me to step in?” he asked, “I can probably bore him to death quicker than you can.”
“Merde, Gustave,” Lucien muttered, “We need him to like you, not think you’re an idiot savant.” Quickly, he plastered a smile on his face, slipping his hand free from Gustave’s arm as Alex Renaudin broke through the crowd with the ebullient disregard of a man who had never once been denied. “Alex!” Lucien greeted with false cheer, “Ravi de vous revoir. Comment allez-vous (Good to see you again. How are you)?”
“Wonderful, now that I’ve finally seen you,” Alex said with two effusive kisses. He gave Gustave a brief nod. “Monsieur LeClair.”
Gustave nodded politely, then apologetically at the small family behind them trying to get out the door. “Monsieur Renaudin,” he replied.
“I’m so glad I’ve managed to catch you,” Alex continued, hand still on Lucien’s shoulder, “Come backstage with me to see Verso. He’s in a fine mood tonight.”
Gustave’s eyebrows shot up, and he inched closer to Lucien, ostensibly to let another pair of theatergoers through the door.
“You know Verso Dessendre?” Lucien asked, incredulous.
“My father’s a good friend of his father’s,” Alex replied, already turning Lucien to steer him back through the crowd, “We grew up together, and I’d love to introduce you.”
Gustave caught Lucien’s eye and tipped his head to the side.
“Of course!” Lucien replied, “I’d love that. Gustave here hasn’t been able to stop talking about his performance tonight.”
“Wasn’t it just wonderful?” Alex asked over his shoulder, forcing himself through the crowd as Gustave reluctantly followed, “The live debut of ‘Laisse-moi partir,’ here! In Paris! Oh, I’m sure the Americans will be quite beside themselves.”
In less than half the time they’d taken to traverse the lobby, he’d led them to a small, unadorned door behind the stairs and pushed it open without preamble. Gustave, unable to suppress his curiosity, ducked in and asked, “Would you happen to know if this entry was a new addition following the renovation?” he asked, “It would have been quite unusual for the time.”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Alex replied with a breezy gesture as he strode ahead down a warmly-lit hall richly carpeted in red pile printed with golden fleurs-de-lys.
Unsurprised, Gustave took this opportunity to touch the back of Lucien’s shoulder, questioning without speaking. Lucien glanced at Alex’s back and threw up a hand. What did you want me to do? he mouthed. Gustave pressed his lips together with a slight shake of his head and continued on.
The hall was longer than he’d expected and followed a slight decline he estimated had taken them below the orchestra. Their footsteps were swallowed by the thick carpet, the only sound being the soft jingle of Alex’s thin gold watch chain. Absently, Gustave wondered what the original purpose of this tunnel—which is what it was, in reality—had been. Its excavation would have been a significant undertaking. After some consideration, he figured it had likely pre-dated the construction of the theater and had simply been integrated during the course of its construction.
The hall began a slight incline, and soon, they heard faint conversation drifting towards them from up ahead, where a single door stood ajar, spilling warm light across the carpet.
Alex stepped through without a second thought. Lucien followed, back straight, but Gustave hesitated at the threshold, eyeing the modestly-sized dressing room that waited beyond. A hideous couch that looked as though it had survived the Third Republic was pushed up against the near wall, and before it was a low table strewn with all the detritus associated with live performance—black gear bags spilling guts of tangled cables, scattered programs, a wallet, a small sea of takeaway boxes and beer bottles, a straight razor, a toothbrush, a makeup bag.
A man with long hair tied up in a neat bun sat on the couch, arm stretched along its back, one long leg crossed over the other. A woman’s voice said something muffled from behind the door, and he laughed, then glanced up and saw Alex and Lucien enter. The transformation was instant. He stood quickly and stepped over the table, towering over Alex and Lucien both as he intercepted them.
“Alex?” he said, “Who’s this?”
“Friends of mine from PSL,” Alex replied brightly, “Lucien Martin. And–” he frowned, as if realizing for the first time that Gustave hadn’t followed.
“–Gustave LeClair,” Lucien supplied with an outstretched arm that was both introduction and summons. With a deeply uncomfortable smile, Gustave reluctantly entered, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“Monsieur Simon Laurent,” Alex continued with an easy gesture at the man before them, “And–” he turned, “–Madame Clea Dessendre.”
“Enchanté,” Lucien said smoothly for the both of them.
The woman who’d been standing behind the door looked them over sharply. Gustave wondered if this was the rumored sickly sister. If so, those rumors had missed the mark entirely. She looked fully capable of knocking his teeth from his skull.
“Just make it quick,” she demanded, arms folded across her chest, “He’s had a long day.”
“Of course,” Alex chirped, gesturing them through the next open doorway that stood beside her.
Within, Verso Dessendre, wearing only a wrinkled undershirt and what appeared to be pyjama bottoms, sat bent over a small folding table scribbling furiously at a piece of paper while three people clad in variations of formal dress stood around him in a loose circle. The man—broad, in coattails—nearest the door was speaking.
“–if you would just consider–”
“–non,” Verso interrupted in a voice completely without inflection.
“It’s been years since you were in Paris,” the man tried again, “I’m not asking you to take a residency. Just a few engagements–”
Verso slammed his pen down and looked up.
"Va te faire enculer (Fuck off)," hhe snarled venomously. There was none of the charm from the stage here, just the thinning temper of a man reaching the limits of endurance. “I agreed to tonight. That’s all. I didn’t come back to this fucking city to perform, least of all for you.” He looked around the loose circle, paused when he saw the newcomers at the door, then turned back to the man and said, “You all should know better by now. Now please leave before I have to call my sister in here to help me beat you over the head with The Well-Tempered Clavier.”[4]
The man sighed, but a rueful smile curled his mouth, and he gestured the others to the door. He nodded at Alex as they passed, gave Lucien and Gustave a curious look, then exited into the outer room. At the table, Verso threw himself carelessly back in his chair, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned hugely. His shirt rode up, baring a generous expanse of skin before he slammed his chair back down on all four legs.
“Alex,” he greeted, “Mais qui sont ces gens, putain (Who the fuck are these people)?”
“Relax, Verso. Unlike your publicist, your agent, and your manager, they won’t try to talk sense into you,” Alex replied.
Alex gestured them closer as if they were in the throne room of some grand palace paying respects to some king or another. Verso watched them approach, arms folded. This close, he looked much younger than he had onstage, the white streaks in his hair clearly premature. The dark circles under his unnervingly pale eyes only sharpened his gaze as he scrutinized them both.
“These are some friends of mine from PSL,” Alex continued, “Lucien Martin and Gustave LeClair, Verso Dessendre.”
Lucien stepped forward with an outstretched hand and a ready smile.
“Enchanté,” he said.
Verso shook it without rising. He looked at Gustave, who had hung back again, then his eyes darted back to Lucien.
“Are you also in administration?” he asked, “Or do you actually do something useful?”
“Verso,” Alex sighed.
“I have also sold my soul to the corporate devil,” Lucien confirmed lightly, then gestured over his shoulder, “But Gustave leads the newest lab at Mines. He’s assisting with the restoration of the Pont Neuf.”[5]
Verso’s impatient gaze flickered back to Gustave, assessing.
“The newest lab,” he repeated with palpable disinterest.
“It’s called MIME,” Gustave supplied intelligently. Lucien trod firmly on his foot. “That stands for Le groupe d’étude des matériaux d’infrastructure à l’échelle multiple (The Multiscale Infrastructure Materials Study Group),” he blurted.
Voice flat, Verso said, “You lead MIME at Mines.”
“Ouais (Yeah),” Gustave replied, “My sister thought it was funny. Younger,” he clarified quickly, “My much younger sister.”
One of Verso’s eyebrows twitched. Gustave could feel Lucien disintegrating next to him, little bits of his lovelorn soul floating away like flower petals torn asunder by a sudden gale of academic stupidity.
“What do you actually do, Professeur Silencieux?” Verso asked, “Juggle rocks? Re-enact the collapse of the Pont Notre-Dame in pantomime?”
“Euh,” Gustave replied. The disintegration of Lucien’s soul accelerated into active evaporation. “I stare at computers most of the day, really,” Gustave admitted, “My lab is working on a composite material that we hope will increase the longevity of some of the older bridges on the Seine.”
Verso cocked his head, hair falling loosely over his shoulder.
“You build bridges,” he said.
“Not really,” Gustave replied apologetically, “I just repair them.”
Verso scrutinized him for another long, unsettling moment, then asked, “Why not just tear the old ones down and build new ones? I’d imagine that would be more cost-effective.”
“Of course it would be,” Gustave said, “But there’s something to be said for the historical value of bridges like the Pont Neuf. If there’s a way to preserve that, why wouldn’t we?” After another moment’s hesitation, he darted his tongue across his lips and continued, “The work I do is about figuring out how to help things—a building, a bridge, any structure, really—bear weight that would otherwise render them structurally unsound.” He lifted a shoulder in an awkward shrug. “It just so happens that that weight is sometimes both physical and metaphorical.”
“A philosopher and an engineer,” Verso mused, a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, “What did you say your name was?”
“Gustave,” Gustave replied dumbly, then belatedly added, “LeClair. Gustave LeClair.”
“And what did you think of tonight, Monsieur LeClair?” Verso asked, “Did you find it… structurally sound?”
Leaning against the table, Alex groaned loudly, and Verso smirked at him.
“Let me show you around,” Alex said to Lucien, taking him by the arm, “He’ll be a while.”
Gustave looked to Lucien, half-begging, half-warning, but Alex tugged Lucien back out the door before he could respond, leaving Gustave standing alone in a tiny closet of a dressing room with Paris’s most famous prodigal son.
“Putain, just sit,” Verso sighed, kicking out a chair from the opposite end of the little table. It caught on the carpet, and Gustave lunged forward to catch it before it fell. “I don’t know why everyone thinks standing around looming over people is more polite.”
Gustave gingerly perched on the very edge of the chair. “I think it’s something about assuming the right to rest,” he replied.
Verso cocked his head again, smile breaking slightly through his manufactured disdain.
“You don’t think like an engineer,” he observed. Imperiously, then, he commanded, “So tell me what you really thought about tonight.”
“I’m not a musician,” Gustave protested weakly.
“Parfait,” Verso replied.
He leaned back in his chair again, and Gustave braced himself.
“I thought it was fine,” he began lamely.
“Fine,” Verso repeated.
“The first half was innovative enough,” Gustave explained, “It entertained even me, so it must have been good. You’ve clearly rehearsed a great deal.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just the timing of things. It was a bit…” Gustave searched for the word, “...calculated.”
“The engineer decries calculation,” Verso announced to the ceiling, “Clea, bring me my flying pigs!”
“Va te faire foutre (Go fuck yourself)!” came the shouted response from the next room.
Verso grinned, quicksilver fast, then looked back down at Gustave. “And what about the second half? Was that also too much of a performance for you, Monsieur LeClair?”
“I didn’t–” Gustave winced, floundering. “I thought the second half was interesting,” he said slowly. He looked down, then glanced at Verso and found him watching keenly. “I didn’t recognise the piece itself, but the arrangement sounded familiar.”
Verso arched a perfectly threaded eyebrow.
“You haven’t seen the film?”
Gustave shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’m not… I don’t. I’m not really a…” he trailed off, flushed, “No,” he finally admitted, “I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard it’s quite good.”
Verso snorted and repeated under his breath, “‘Quite good.’” Gustave tensed, but if the slight curl at the corner of his mouth was any indication, Verso seemed more amused than offended.
Gustave hesitated again, then tentatively asked, “It’s based on the Chaconne from Bach’s Violin Partita No. 2, isn’t it?”[6]
Verso paused, arms still crossed, chair still balancing on its two back legs, one long leg still swinging loosely, but all that belied the sharpness of his voice when he replied, “How do you know that?”
“The Chaconne was played at my parents’ funeral,” Gustave responded. Wryly, he added, “That sort of thing kind of sticks with you.”
When Verso didn’t reply, Gustave snuck a glance at him and found him staring at the ceiling again.
“It’s very different on the piano,” Gustave said.
“My sister was the violinist in the family,” Verso replied.
Gustave fidgeted, thumb rubbing anxious circles against the side of his knee. He looked down at his shoes—scuffed and smudged, swallowed by the rich carpet.
“I’m not sure which is harder,” he said, “Hearing it or playing it.”
“People say it just takes time,” Verso replied.
“It’s still something you have to carry,” Gustave returned.
Verso smiled faintly and, still balancing on the two back legs of his chair, tipped his head onto his shoulder to look at Gustave.
“How, or I guess, why did you become an engineer?” he asked.
Gustave shifted uncomfortably. “It was what my father did,” he replied, “And—he and my mother died when I was still pretty young,” he explained, “So I guess I never really outgrew that desire some children have to be exactly like their parents when they grow up.”
Verso huffed.
“I wish you had,” he said, “I think you would’ve made a great artist.”
“Engineering is art sometimes, though,” Gustave protested, “You’re still creating, still trying to figure out what works best and where and when. It just… doesn’t look or sound as cool as what you do.”
Verso observed him again, long and steady, then frowned.
“How do you know Alex again?”
Thrown, Gustave blinked and admitted, “I don’t really. Lucien’s the one who actually knows him. I just happened to be there when…” he trailed off, searching for something polite to say.
“...he grabbed you both and dragged you back here,” Verso supplied.
“Something like that,” Gustave admitted sheepishly, “I’m… really sorry. You’ve probably had a very long day, and I can just go. You don’t have to keep talking to me.”
“It’s fine. I don’t have plans,” Verso said with a slight edge to his voice, “You’re a better conversationalist than Alex is, anyways. He’s harmless, but he’s a fucking idiot.”
That startled a laugh out of Gustave, and Verso smiled. There was something sad about it, as if it had forgotten how to take any other unpracticed shape.
“But I don’t want to keep you here either,” Verso said, looking up at the ceiling again with his hands clasped behind his head, “Your… friend…? Partner…?”
“Lucien’s my friend,” Gustave said quickly.
Verso raised his eyebrows.
“Speaking of which,” Gustave fumbled, “I should probably go find him. We both have to work early tomorrow, and–” he glanced at his watch with a wince, “–it’s not looking too promising.”
“Your friend will be fine,” Verso said with a wave of his hand, “Alex will take care of him.”
“There’s really no need–”
“–Alex will take care of him,” Verso repeated a little more firmly, “You understand what I mean, non?”
Gustave looked away.
“I really should–”
“–let them have their fun,” Verso interrupted again, “If you don’t trust Alex, then at least trust me. I’ve known him since–”
“–to be frank,” Gustave cut in, standing, “Lucien has spent a significant amount of time recently trying to avoid him, and if you think I seem uncomfortable at the moment, that isn’t the half of what he’s feeling.” He swallowed. “Please, would you just tell me where they’ve gone?”
In the resulting silence, Verso’s leg swung slowly back and forth and back and forth, his pale eyes sharp, searching in an expressionless face. Then, without warning, he tilted his head back and bellowed, “Simon!”
Gustave flinched.
“I’m your future brother-in-law, not your footman!” came the response from the outer room.
“Dearest future brother-in-law,” Verso drawled, “Would you please go find Alex and drag him and his unfortunate companion back here before someone sues us for defiling a monument historique?”
“Putain de bordel de connard (For fuck's sake, you fucking arsehole)!” came the emphatic response.
Verso smiled tightly, then dropped his chair back to the carpet. With easy grace, he stood and pushed his hair back from his face.
“Simon’ll find them,” he said with a nod over his shoulder. He scrounged around on the table through the papers and beer bottles and gum wrappers. “Let me call a ride to get you back home.”
“There’s no need for that,” Gustave protested, “I live in Bastille. The fare will be something ridiculous. It’ll be much faster for me to take the métro, anyways.”
“It’s late,” Verso replied, excavating his phone from beneath a crumpled pair of trousers with a sound of triumph.
“It’s not even ten,” Gustave insisted, “Really, you don’t have to do this.”
“What if I want to?” Verso asked without looking up, thumbs flying.
Gustave blinked.
“Why?” he asked dumbly.
Verso sighed.
“Because I was going to do that thing where I propositioned you with flowers and a terribly-written apology that begs you not to sue me for my childhood friend being an unbearable arse,” he explained with deep impatience, “I need your address for that.”
“Euh,” Gustave said.
Verso glanced back up. The experience was akin to what Gustave imagined being skewered on two very shiny kebab sticks might entail.
“You’re smart. You can figure it out,” Verso said.
Bewildered, Gustave stammered, “C… Comment (W... What)?”
Verso grimaced. “Putain,” he muttered, looking back down at his phone, “Ton adresse (Your address)?”
Gustave opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again.
“I think Lucien would appreciate the flowers more,” he replied.
“Fine, then give me his address,” Verso snapped, “I’ll get your office number from Alex.”
“Euh, actually–”
He was spared further flailing by Simon’s return with both Alex and Lucien in tow. Gustave searched Lucien’s face, tried to communicate both his relief and panic, and then cleared his throat and said, “Monsieur Dessendre–”
“–call me Verso.”
Gustave balked, then said to Lucien, “He, um, would like your address.”
“Of course,” Lucien said pleasantly while shooting daggers at Gustave with his eyes.
He rattled off his address, and, rides summoned, Verso tossed his phone back down on the table and looked back up at Alex.
“Nique ta mère (Motherfucker),” he snapped without preamble.
“...Quoi? (...Huh?)” Alex replied, eyes widening in confusion.
Verso held up a finger and cut him off.
“Simon, would you see them up?” he said, “The cars should be here soon.”
“You have assistants, you know,” Simon replied.
“I don’t like them,” Verso returned, then to Lucien and Gustave, he said, “It was good to meet you. Thank you for coming tonight.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Lucien replied with a winning smile, “Have a good night, Monsieur Dessendre.”
He turned to go, but Gustave lingered a moment. Verso caught his eye and held it, then turned back to Alex. As Gustave followed Simon out the door, Verso’s furious voice burst out behind them.
“Je ne suis même pas rentré depuis vingt-quatre heures, et tu me gâches déjà la vie, espèce de connard (I haven’t even been back a full day, and you're already making my life miserable, you piece of shit)!”
Gustave’s ears burned, and he stubbornly ignored the holes Lucien was drilling into the side of his face.
“–que j'aie besoin de m'occuper de plus de choses en ce moment? Je devrais– (-do you really think I need more to deal with right now? I should-)”
Simon shut the door firmly once they were back out in the long hall, cutting off Verso’s tirade. Gustave looked up.
“You know the way out,” Simon stated.
Gustave’s mouth opened soundlessly.
“Yes, of course,” Lucien replied, glare now collapsed into abject confusion, “We know the way.” He looked at Gustave again. “Thank you, Monsieur Laurent.”