For all the truth that you made me see . . .

1980

"Rupert?" Clarisse raised her voice slightly, hoping to break through her husband's reverie. "Rupert, did you hear me?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, Clarisse. Of course." He looked at his breakfast plate as though completely unaware he'd nearly finished eating.

Clarisse smiled indulgently. She'd grown rather fond of his fits of absent-mindedness over the years. It was so much fun to gently out him. "And what do you think of my proposal?" she asked quietly, yet pointedly.

She watched Rupert glance around the room surreptitiously. The wait staff had retired for the moment, and Jorge, Rupert's personal secretary, had not yet made his morning report. There was just Joseph, standing near the door as always – not looking at her, as always. The back of her neck prickled; she really must find a solution to the puzzle of Joseph Del Lago. Yet, regardless of her personal feelings about the man, Rupert was completely at ease in his presence. He would take her ribbing with grace.

"All right, all right," he said, chuckling, "you've caught me. Just what was your proposal?" He set his knife and fork down precisely on the edges of his plate and looked at her expectantly.

"Pierre is eighteen, leaving for university in a matter of weeks. Philippe will be sixteen next month . . ." she began.

"Really? I hadn't noticed. How remarkable!"

Clarisse smiled at Rupert's self-deprecation over his tendency to become preoccupied. "Rupert," she continued more seriously, "it's time we started thinking about grandchildren."

"Pierre is still a boy," he insisted. "It will be years before he ascends the throne."

"I certainly hope so." She reached across the table to him, squeezing his hand. "But after what happened last year . . ."

"Things are different now," he replied too quickly for her comfort, though comfort was surely what he hoped to convey. "Joe will protect me. I can count on him."

She glanced at Joseph, who regarded her warily and dipped his head slowly in apparent recognition of Rupert's vote of confidence. But he had actually met her gaze and held it. That was a first! She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment more. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then Joseph's soul was tightly shuttered against the worst possible storm. She saw Rupert's certainty reflected in Joseph, to be sure, a fierceness she hoped was the loyalty her husband credited him with, perhaps even friendship for his sovereign. But there was more, so much more that she could not see and yet knew lurked just behind the shutters – a secret, a terrible, dark secret.

"Give them some time, Clarisse." Rupert's voice called her back from her contemplation of his friend. "Go ahead and begin looking about – quietly, mind you – but give them a few more years to enjoy."

"I see . . ." Clarisse shifted in her chair and eyed her husband thoughtfully. "Yes, yes, perhaps you're right," she added ruefully.

"Clarisse, I didn't mean . . ." Rupert reached for her as she rose from the table.

"It's all right, Rupert," she assured him. "I know what you meant. And what you didn't mean. You've been wonderful. But perhaps our sons can have, well, more – Philippe, at least." She smiled softly and kissed his cheek.

Sacre vache! She had looked right at him and he'd stared back. How stupid was that? Could she see? Did she know what he was allowing to grow deep in the innermost garden of his soul? Did Rupert know?

No, he couldn't possibly. There was that, at least. But did that lessen his guilt or heighten it? Was it less wrong to covet another man's wife if that man didn't entirely have her anyway? And if ever Joseph had wondered about the exact nature of Clarisse's private relationship with her husband, today's exchange had set those musings to rest. They both wanted more for their sons. Did she ever think about having more for herself?

He kept his gaze tightly focused on Rupert's fork as she glided past him. He did not, would not, dared not look at her, and yet he saw and sensed everything about her. The way the sunlight filtered through the windows and set her golden hair ablaze. The way she suppressed her sad smile as she reached the door. The way her dress of palest peach swirled about her legs. And most of all, the way the very air stirred by her passing swept around him and through him, warming his heart and aching his soul.

And she was arranging her sons' marriages already? Rupert had always had a problem with that concept . . .

1950

Joseph had walked into Sal's boxing gym, next door to the butcher shop, and found sixteen year-old Rico pounding a heavy bag into submission. Even at ten, Joseph was a fixture in the gym. Sal was a cousin of Senor Gutierrez and between them the two men had taken Joseph under their collective wing. As the years had passed and Rico's visits became frequent, the two men had circumspectly mentored their prodigal prince as well.

"Hey, chico rico!" Joseph called as he approached his friend. "Leave some of that bag for me."

Rico sagged against the swaying bag, suddenly spent. "Not 'hey,' Joe. Say 'hello' or 'good morning.' Manners matter – or so I've been told." He said the last with a slightly scornful sneer.

"You sound like Senor G." Joseph laughed. "Why do I have to have manners? I don't even like girls yet."

Rico snorted and clapped his young friend on the shoulder. "Don't even talk to me about girls! But you're going to need those manners anyway. You and I are going places together, Joe."

"That's right, we are," Joseph agreed. "Right now, we're going next door. Senor G's sister is here from Madrid and she always brings all different kinds of galletas. You have to have some!"

"You go," he said, eyeing Diego and Claude heckling a struggling boxer in the ring. "I'll be along in a few minutes." Rico turned back to the bag, attacking it with renewed energy.

After the cookies and an early supper had been consumed, Gutierrez escorted his young charges into his tiny, book-cluttered sitting room.

"Joseph, here's your assignment for the week," he said, handing the boy a heavy tome.

"I have to finish it this week?" Joseph was aghast.

"You're giving him Malory already?" Rico asked, almost equally stunned. "Isn't he still a little young for that?"

"Joseph doesn't have the same advantages you do, Rico," Senor Gutierrez explained. "There are two ways out of this neighborhood for him. He can either fight his way out or educate his way out. I would prefer he gets out with as few bruises as possible."

"But you don't have to worry about that," Rico protested. "You know I'll help him. I'll take care of him, Senor."

"Him is in the room," Joseph interjected petulantly.

"Rico didn't mean to offend you, Joseph." Their mentor tapped the book on the boy's knee. "But you," he looked from one boy to the other, "like Rico, will want to know that your successes are the result of your own hard work, not because they were handed to you. So, this week, Sir Thomas Malory. Enjoy."

"And me, sir?" Rico asked.

"Plato. An understanding of the Greeks is vital."

"I've done the Greek philosophers with my tutors, Senor G." Rupert slumped in his chair.

"Ah! But you have not done them with me, sir. I suggest you review." The old man smiled warmly and winked at him from beneath his shaggy brow. "Remember, all rulers really do rule at the consent of the governed."

Joseph leaned forward eagerly. In the nearly three years since Rico had been sneaking out to visit the worst neighborhood in Genovia, they had rarely referred to his position. He seemed to want to escape palace life, not lord it over his subjects – and certainly not over his friends. And yet Joseph was fascinated with what life must be like behind the palace walls. The lights, the food, the books, the fast cars King Christophe fancied, the swords, the flags -- it must be such an exciting life. But maybe for Rico it was dull, otherwise why would he leave it so often?

"Senor G," Rico began tentatively, "have you ever been married?"

"Yes," the old man said softly. "She died in the War."

"Was she fighting with the French Resistance?" Joseph asked eagerly. His own father had died helping the Resistance when he was little. Senor G's war stories were always a treat.

"The Great War," Gutierrez clarified. "We used to live in a small fishing village near Mertz and one night soldiers came . . . I wasn't there." The old man sighed deeply and nodded as though shrugging off old wounds.

"Did you love her very much?" Rico pressed.

"I did." He stared out the window at the setting sun. Joseph sensed that Senor G still loved his dead wife very much, but didn't really want to talk about her. For several moments the three sat in companionable, respectful silence.

"I met my wife this week," Rico stated flatly.

"You're married?" Joseph blurted out. Senor Gutierrez hushed him with a gesture.

"Not yet, but my mother and father have picked her out. Her family's come to visit. It won't be announced officially for a few years, but it's all arranged." He slumped further back into his chair.

"Your mother picked out your wife for you?" Joseph asked, puzzled. "My mother doesn't even pick out my shirt for me . . . well, sometimes for Mass on Sunday. Why don't you get to choose?"

"Joseph," Senor G interrupted with a cautionary look. "Never disrespect your mother. She works very hard to support you and your brother."

"I have a responsibility, Joseph," Rico explained, "to Genovia. I have to have an heir and that's not something I'm allowed to leave to chance. I'm kind of scared of her though," he admitted ruefully. "She's only ten, but she's such a klutz, she'll probably kill me before we ever get around to the getting an heir business. You should have seen her last night! She managed to demolish a 600 year-old suit of armor and a suckling pig all in one fell swoop! But she won't talk to me at all. I guess maybe she's scared of me, too."

"You're not that scary," Joseph chided. "Maybe your parents don't know what's best for you. If she doesn't even have enough courage to talk to you . . ."

"Maybe," Rico mused. "So, Senor G, any good advice about bolstering up my courage – or hers?"

"Courage?" The old man paused and gave the boys the full benefit of his pensive, wrinkled brow. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important. What is important to you, my boy?"