Beatrice had an accent. It was stronger when she was a child, sometimes it was hard to understand what she was trying to say. But even after years in that land, speaking that language, she still carried some of it.
Different from what some books may make you believe, she didn't slip into her mother tongue often. Some interjections sometimes, "isso!" or "puta que pariu!". Bertrand never tried to learn her language, but after they got married he would ask her about those mysterious words.
He learned that she cursed a lot more in her language than in English.
Beatrice always smiled with her mouth closed. It made her look a little mysterious, like she was always hiding something, always planning something. She usually was, even if it was something as simple as jumping on Bertrand for a tickling attack. He had no complaints about it.
She was a brilliant actress and a brilliant liar. If she planned a surprise, her poor victim would never see it coming. She was unbeatable at poker, but that was partly due to cheating. She had long, quick fingers trained in magic tricks, and a competitive nature. Any game in which she could cheat, she would cheat.
Despite being often a victim of her cheating, Bertrand could tell like no one when she was lying.
Beatrice had a beautiful singing voice. It enchanted the audiences in theaters, and her husband when she sang a lullaby to their babies. Bertrand's favorite was one from her land, that he learned from her to be about a bull and a crying child, or something like it. It just sounded beautiful. It made Violet and Sunny sleep peacefully, but Klaus would always laugh when she sang the last line and made a funny face, then he would ask her to sing it again and again.
She had a lock of hair that would always stick out of place, no matter how much she brushed it. Bertrand always watched in admiration as she skillfully tamed it with some hair clips, and how the little accessories disappeared among her dark curls.
She wrote poetry in a dark notebook that she hardly showed anyone.
She kept her old letters and photographies in a fireproof safe, giving them an additional layer of protection, even if it meant she almost never could look at them.
Her eyes were the color of the night.
She made a delicious chocolate dessert, that sometimes she ate on her own in the middle of the night, after waking from a nightmare.
She could play two and a half songs on the piano.
She had an unexpected taste for dark tales.
She had a perfect aim, no matter if she was using it to throw a paper ball into the trash can, or to get the poisoned dart on the neck of her target.
Her friends considered her fearless, but Bertrand saw her shrieking once when she thought she had seen a rat.
She loved hugs from her friends and family.
Despite the constant worry, she was happy with the life she built.
Bertrand had a smile that was as bright as the sun. He was one of those people who smiled with his whole face.
Beatrice loved his smile, but she worried sometimes because she knew he was also one of those people who can smile without meaning it.
He always kept all his things organized, his papers in color-coded folders with well-defined labels. Since she could remember, his commonplace book had always been divided into sections, and things had to be really really serious for him to write a note in the wrong one.
Bertrand knew how to imitate 30 types of birds perfectly, but Beatrice sometimes suspected some of the species were made up.
He was always calm near nature. He wouldn't complain if it was too hot or too cold, or if the grass prickled on his skin, or if the mosquitos were biting him. His pale skin got red marks very easily, from the mosquito bites, from sunlight, from a belt worn too tight.
He didn't like having people in his office while he worked, but when he was away, Beatrice spent a long time there. Everything there was so him: the neat bookshelf, the folders and labels, the chair where he sat for so long that it had the shape of his lower body. The framed picture of his family on the desk, the coaster where he left his coffee mug every morning. The broken green lighter carefully hidden inside one of his drawers. That room had more of him than his own bedroom.
He would keep his hands in his pockets when talking to people he wasn't close to. He would also play with his watch or with his wedding ring, or bite his lips. Beatrice didn't like leaving him alone to talk with guests. He always seemed less nervous when holding her hand.
Bertrand loved cats. How many times did his wife catch him feeding strays in the backyard? Something in his posture, or his aura, made the animals feel safe to approach him. He also loved bigger, wild cats, but they rarely spoke about it anymore.
Children also felt safe near him. He was much better at calming their babies than Beatrice was. It was like he was born to be a father. Beatrice had read book after book during her first pregnancy, Bertrand simply did what he had always done.
He always wore old socks at home, including a pair that Beatrice especially hated, that had a big hole on the toes. She threatened to throw them away, but she never did.
Bertrand never sounded too proud of his time on stage, but he still remembered the lines of his main roles. Sometimes Beatrice caught him repeating them to himself.
He was a gentleman, of the type who pulled the chair for his wife and offered her his coat, and it never felt like it was forced or that he had second intentions. It was natural.
He hated the scent of smoke.
He was stubborn and loyal.
He knew the silliest jokes.
Every time the children asked him about his own childhood, he managed to change the subject without them noticing.
Sometimes, late at night, when their room was locked and he thought Beatrice was busy reading or doing something else, he would stare at his tattoo with a melancholic look.
His smile was the most real when he was with his family, doing those stupid ordinary domestic things.