And now he was smiling at me. The evening couldn’t be more perfect.
Someone greeted him. Someone wearing an old brown jacket.
Juan.
Self-consciously, I shifted in my seat. Laurent and I shared the same settee as we waited for dinner to be served. He’d been discussing modern art for at least twenty minutes and I could barely get a word in. Not that I would even know what to say, I’d only studied until the sixth grade and then concentrated on my harp studies with a private tutor.
My father turned his attention to an elegant couple who approached him. Juan looked as out of place as a polar bear in the middle of the desert. He stood by himself, nestling a glass of champagne between his hands. I averted my gaze before he could see me. What had I been thinking when I considered it a good idea to apologize to him at my party? To even be seen around him by all my friends? Juan was badly underdressed—his outfit would belong in a government office better than a dinner party such as this one—and he didn’t seem to fit in with anyone here. People kept bumping into him and excusing themselves. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have the money to afford newer clothes. It was odd how years ago he’d been so popular among the kids in the area, but tonight nobody gave him the time of day.
I ought to approach him and introduce him to some of my friends. He never let me stand by myself when we were children. Too bad Alberto had entered the seminary; otherwise, he could’ve kept Juan company right now.
A cold hand touched mine. I unglued my eyes from Juan.
“Angélique, are you listening?” Laurent glanced casually at Juan. “Do you want to go talk to him?”
“Oh, no.” My father would’ve disowned me if I’d chosen to converse with the poor neighbor rather than his refined compatriot.
The quartet of violinists stopped playing and my father made a toast in my honor. For the first time in the evening, Juan looked directly at me. My ears burned.
Staring at his mouth as he drank from his champagne glass, I couldn’t help but remember the first kiss he’d given me, under the shade of the evergreen. There had been more hurried kisses and caresses after that one. Back then, I’d lived in a permanent state of elation. I could’ve never pictured a scenario like this one—a time when I wouldn’t want to run to him and kiss him.
I couldn’t hold his gaze for much longer. How could I possibly explain to my younger self this change of heart? This disenchantment with reality when for so long, I’d relied on clouded, idealized memories when thinking about him?
I still remembered the day Juan left. I couldn’t stand the thought of my life without him. I’d wanted to go after him or hibernate like a bear until it was all over and he would return. But time had run its course and little by little, I’d become interested in other people—new friends—and other activities until there came a time when I wouldn’t think of him at all.
“Please join us for dinner,” my mother announced to all, entering the room, her long gold skirt swishing around her legs.
The guests entered the dining area where several tables had been brought in for the occasion. The meal would certainly be exquisite. That was where my mother put all her efforts when tending to guests.
Juan didn’t move from his spot. Laurent offered his hand to me and I took it immediately. Obviously, there was no comparison between the Frenchman and Juan—not only in looks, but Laurent was so refined, so knowledgeable that Juan seemed like a caveman in contrast. I glanced back at him nonetheless. Juan set his glass on the coffee table, but instead of following us to the dining room, he turned toward the front door.
“Excuse me for a moment, Laurent,” I said, disentangling my arm from his.
I wasn’t thinking straight. I just had a sudden urge to talk to Juan.
“Juan!” I said, as he opened the door to leave. “Wait!”
I followed him to the porch. He continued down the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” he said, without turning.
“But you haven’t had dinner yet.”
“So what? I’d rather eat a plant than stand another minute in the midst of so much arrogance.”
“That’s such an unkind thing to say!”
He finally turned, but I could barely see his features under the dim light.
“And it’s not unkind to ignore a guest, a . . . friend you haven’t seen in seven years?”
“I was busy!”
“Yes.” He raised his arms as he spoke. “I saw.”