The parlor drips with bourbon, amber light, flooding the french doors as the sun sinks into the sea. I work at my canvas as other patrons of the hostel pass through, lingering at the edge of the room to watch me. A postcard rests on the tray of my easel, which feels more imposing than the gaze of my uninvited audience.

 

Jonathan Honey

Maison du XXème Siècle

Cannes, France

 

13 June 1932

 

My dear boy,

​

I expect you have been captured by the rich allure of Provence’s beauty, which is why you have failed to acknowledge my inquiries. I am pleased on your behalf. Still, I must insist on your response. You needn’t bother crafting a lengthy report; a simple yes or no will suffice, and I shall sign the cheque if you decide the opportunity suits you. 

​

Autumn is approaching, with all its fickle prospects.

 

Warm wishes to you.

Ms. Moira Mayfield

 

Dried paint coats my fingers, stiffening and cracking across my knuckles. I have an unfortunate habit of using my fingers to mix paints; I grow too lazy to find my palette knife, and I enjoy seeing the colors smeared against my skin. 

 

Before me is the half-finished portrait of a monk standing in a Franciscan garden. Achieving the right color for the hydrangeas in the corner has caused me a shocking amount of trouble, and my hands are now a vivid shade of purple.

 

“I hope they’re paying you,” says a voice behind me. Phillip is leaning against the doorframe, his arms are crossed, pinned tight against the cream-colored fabric of his shirt. His eyes, heavy and dark, flicker over to the couple who has been observing me for the longest. Noticing this, the pair quickly shuffles out of the room.

 

I return to my painting. “We made a strict agreement,” I say. “They can look over my shoulder, so long as they don’t tell my instructor we come home plastered every night.”

 

My paintbrush settles onto the tray with a soft tap, and the hushed blend of chatter and waves rolling against the shoreline drifts up from the promenade. 

 

“Please, don’t let me interrupt your work,” says Phillip. His Yankee dialect has become more discreet since we first met.

 

I fold up my tattered painting rags and tuck my easel in the corner; there isn’t enough room for me to keep it in my bedroom. “That bastard has been staring at me all day,” I say, pointing at the sullen, robe-clad figure on the canvas. “I would prefer your company.”

 

We descend a stuffy stairwell, which releases us into a warm, Mediterranean evening. We take our seats at a cafe across from the harbor, beside a bustling, winding road that stretches northward, away from the town, up into deep green hills.

 

Coffee appears in front of us at once, and Phillip orders our food in French. “You’re almost done with university, then?” he says once we are alone again.

 

“I’m not sure,” I say. “There is an old woman I take care of back in England—Ms. Moira—who I’ve grown rather fond of. She’s very wealthy, and she’s offered to fund my schooling if I were to continue.”

 

“How generous.”

 

The waiter returns, and our table becomes crowded with softboiled eggs, pains au chocolat, and orange halves. We enjoy the mid-afternoon breakfast—a welcome atonement for last night’s misbehavior.

 

“It is, but she makes the offer under one condition,” I respond through a mouthful of bread. “I must study law, not art. She was a lobbyist, and I think she wants me to become her successor. She’s quite radical.” An image of her leaps to the forefront of my mind—the tight-lipped, broad-shouldered woman who towers over her caretakers and is often found lecturing to the postman on her staunch principles of ethics.

 

“You have many interests,” he says. “Are you musical, as well?”

 

In the middle of a sip of coffee, my throat closes up, and I launch into a coughing fit. “Musical?” I continue when the fit has passed. “My father taught me piano, but I despise reading sheet music. Do you play?”

 

I think I have succeeded in avoiding his question, but there is something in his smile that is supreme and confident. Knowing. “I do. I have been to Berlin many times. They have musical celebrations there—cabarets and festivals. Everyone is welcome.”

 

The image of Phillip moving through the dusky, jubilant chaos of a cabaret fills me with a strange sense of envy. I am impressed by the effortless manner in which he can insert himself into new cities. “Why do you study languages?” I ask.

 

“I want to know people. People are more comfortable speaking to someone in their own language,” he responds right away, pointing his fork at me. “Why do you paint?”

 

“To represent people. I want them to look at their portraits and feel understood. That’s why I struggle to imagine myself pursuing a larger role. I’ll feel disconnected.”

 

He takes a long sip of his coffee, licks his lips, then rests his forearms on the table. “Is law not a form of representation?”

 

I have already heard this question. In earnest, I’ve asked myself it many times. “But if I were to become a public figure, my life would no longer be my own. What about the things I wish to keep private?” I say, lowering my voice. “How could I represent people who disagree with my character?”

 

An odd look of weariness and content crosses his face. “We are not something to be disagreed with. I believe there are no exceptions when it comes to these things. It is my duty to live truthfully, whether others understand me or not.”

 

“I don’t know if I can do both. I want to, but how can I commit myself to contradictory endeavors?” For a moment, a sensation of tightening overwhelms my chest, like a serpent twisting itself around my torso. I want to break free of it, to run up the road into the deep green hills and never return. I think I could live a long, humble life if I were alone.

 

“Humans are not endeavors. You have the right to pursue what you wish.”

 

At this, I cannot resist a smile. “Ms. Moira would like you very much.”

 

“I should like to meet her.” 

 

His shirt hangs loose now, and a gentle breeze exposes his collarbone, gleaming with sweat and a small patch of fine hair. I take a bite out of my orange turn my attention towards the harbor. The wind rattles our empty cups in their saucers, and the clear sky darkens to a violet shade. 

 

Two streets away from our cafe, a colonnade extends along a quiet alley, where we decide to walk after we finish our coffee. A man sings and plays accordion at the far end, music echoing through the space, making it sound as though we’re in the horn of a gramophone. A couple dances in the yellow light of a nearby lamppost, her skirt twirling around his ankles, coiling the pair together into a synchronous revolution.

 

Something sour reaches out of my stomach. My eyes are fixed to the couple, and I’m not sure what compels me to say, “It’s a grave sin to dance alone.” 

 

I am met with silence. After a measure of contemplation, Phillip says, “If we just stand here and watch, we’ll probably embarrass them.”

 

His palm presses into mine, and he pulls me down the colonnade, swinging me into something that resembles a waltz. The couple laughs with us; they see two men, early into a night of innocent revelry, playing.

 

While we are dancing, he tips his head forward and says, “If you pursue your postgraduate studies, will you still associate with me?”

 

The question startles me, and for a moment, I falter. “I hadn’t considered it. Will you still be traveling this autumn?”

 

“I hope to travel for the rest of my life.”

 

I cannot answer. All I can muster is: “I want to see you again.”

 

He spins me behind one of the white columns, and the pooling darkness envelopes us. Our movements are instinctive and paralleled as we reach for each other. It stings; the hair around his bottom lip is coarse and abrasive against mine. The sensation is fascinating and foreign and altogether strange. I am grateful the street is dark.

 

The air is cold when we break away from each other. He tilts his head back and releases a triumphant whoop, which echoes down the lane.

 

A rush of panic seizes me, and I hush him through a shaky laugh. “Someone will see us!”

 

“They always do.”

 

We remain there, swaying between the columns, dancing over mud-stained cobblestone. Hours later, as I walk back to the hostel, I can still hear the man playing his accordion, slurring lyrics that are already difficult for me to understand. I try to translate it anyway. It’s a song about two people meeting in Paname one evening. Or perhaps it is two birds? Something about paradise, and a heart full of hope… 

 

I dissolve into the wonderful mass of blankets and pillows. In the dim, bleary moments before sleep, my roommate’s bedside clock rings out, and the sky lightens to purple once again.

​

*

 

The Catholic bastard won’t stop staring at me. I must overcome the temptation to slash a thick streak of paint across his face.

 

“Dear boy, take a break. You look as though you’re plotting a crime,” Ms. Moira says without looking up. We’ve been in the parlor of her flat all morning, her nose driven into one of her cloth-bound, age-worn books, while I sit at my easel by the window, overlooking the park on Endell Street.

 

Her caretaker enters with a small bundle of envelopes. “Your post,” she says, handing a portion of the stack to me. She hands the rest to Ms. Moira, along with a thick bouquet of flowers.

 

The first envelope has a United States stamp in the corner, and my name is scrawled in the center. Without speaking, I tuck my tattered rag into the pocket of my trousers and turn towards the stairs.

 

“Oh!” Ms. Moira hums and considers the flowers in her hand, then says, “Dear boy—these are for you.”

 

I grip the banister. “Me? Are you sure?”

 

Ms. Moira purses her lips, leans forward, and plucks a note from its wrappings. “They’re from an unidentified lady in America.”

 

She hands me the note and watches as I inspect the bouquet. It’s beautiful, bursting with red roses, white carnations, and purple hyacinths.

 

Perhaps it’s the angle at which I am seeing her, but it looks like Ms. Moira is staring at me over the rim of her small, round spectacles. “Is this someone you met in Provence?” She clicks her tongue. “Girls sending men flowers… Oh, how the times have changed.”

 

I must escape any further prodding; I have the feeling I would be unable to lie under her gaze. “I beg your pardon, Ms. Moira.”

 

I take my post and the flowers and practically run upstairs. I tear open the letter while I fumble with the handle of the bedroom door, shoving my way into the room and collapsing into an armchair by the window.

 

Jonathan Honey

61 Long Acre

London, UK WC2

 

1 August 1932

 

Dearest Jack,

 

It’s a terrible understatement to say I miss you.

​

I am thrilled to hear you will be moving forward with your education. It is a marvelous privilege, and I’m certain you will adore your postgraduate lifestyle. Please keep me updated on what you learn—I will offer you lessons in the language of your choice in exchange for a new reading list.

​

I have been offered a teaching position in Berlin again and will send you my new address when I have it. I am glad to be closer to you, and I will do everything in my power to ensure our paths cross again. No matter how far I travel, I shall always remember that you are my end.

 

Yours,

Phillip LaFortune

 

I am quick to move the letter out of my lap when I am done reading so my tears do not wash away his precious words.

 

Dusk falls quickly on the street outside. Through the window, I watch people join hands—those who can parade the streets of Covent Garden while the sun still sets. I would often look at them and yearn for a future that may never come. But at this moment, I am content to watch, for I am one of them.

​