Eden
Eleven o'clock is breaktime at the Ecole Val de Marne. A temporary relief from uncomfortably starched collars, and a horde of starving boys crowding into the refectory to demand refreshment.
Franz doesn't have anything. A little water, perhaps - he never feels like eating this early in the day.
Albert, by contrast, seems perpetually famished, much to Franz's bemusement and despite having had breakfast only three hours ago.
Every day Franz stands outside, by the wall that has been theirs ever since they laid claim to it on first day of school, and he watches Albert eat his apple. Red. Juicy. Conscientiously shined, each morning, on the brass-buttoned sleeve of Albert's uniform. Franz teases him for that sometimes, to hide the fact that he finds it unexpectedly endearing.
Because, really, there is absolutely nothing endearing at all about having a ravenous insatiable pit for a friend.
Sometimes Franz worries himself.
But he likes watching Albert eating his apple. There's a gentle nostalgia in it, comforting as the simple, familiar rhythm of their friendship.
Apples meant skinned knees and treebark and sandals swinging in the air. Apples meant shared laughter, and look-how-high-we-are. Apples meant dizzy. And apples meant running, because apples also inevitably meant old Devereux and his stick, bristling mustachios aquiver with indignation, I'll tell your father, you ruffians, you scoundrels-! Then a breathless sprint through the orchard, Albert's hand sticky with juice, and the obligatory ruined shirt following the hasty squeeze back through the hedge.
Their bicycles were usually leaning companionably against the other side, waiting patiently for their wayward masters. Once, Albert's had been off getting repaired for almost two week, and they had had to share Franz's. He remembers Albert's hands clutching his waist as they set off, wobbling precariously, and how the shivery sensation of Albert's laughter, gusting warm against the back of his neck, had made everything worth it.
A little guilty, but not in the least repentant. When you're eight years old and your pockets are stuffed full of stolen apples it's not a crime unless you get caught.
Later, Franz will wonder when things started getting so damn complicated.
For all his books, all his carelessly acquired knowledge, Franz has always envied people who are able to see things in more than two shades.
He watches Albert eat his apple, teeth white and even against the scarlet skin, and understands that for him, red will never be anything other than the colour of temptation.