CHAPTER 98: A BEAST

A Short Time Later

Thomas Barrow's Bedroom
Maison de Bennett

Thomas donned his Panama hat and pulled the brim down over his left eye. Several years earlier he had saved his money to buy a quality Panama, which he considered more posh than the straw boaters most men wore on a hot day. His Panama was nothing like that cheap bleached thing Bates wore on his summer afternoons off. Still, it gave Bates a jauntier air and made Thomas smile.

No hat, no matter how fine the weave and how lovely the natural colour, could hide the violence Thomas had suffered earlier in the week. "I'm not too frightening, am I?" he asked.

Bates stepped back for a better view. There was no denying it. In spite of the green discoloration about his eye, the budding goatee, and the wired teeth, Thomas remained the more becoming of the two. "You won't crack any mirrors." Bates picked up Old Ram. "Let's go, Pooh. I'd like to see a little of Paris before the sun sets."

The pair left the room and headed down the corridor as a petite figure turned towards them from the stairs. Thomas' face lit up. "Ella!" His expression changed abruptly when he saw the tiny woman's mournful demeanour. "Ella, what is it?" He ran to meet her and clasped her hand. "What's wrong?"

"You're in one piece, then?"

"Yes, of course." Thomas smiled reassuringly, exposing his wired teeth. "At least, I will be."

Ella exploded. "You're a terrible man, Thomas Barrow, making us wait to see you!"

Bates bristled. "Milady, I can't allow you to ..."

Without turning from Ella, Thomas raised his hand slightly to calm Bates. "Is that it?"

Ella shook her head. "I was the one who invited Giroux into my world. I'll never forgive myself for ..."

Thomas lightly pressed his finger to Ella's lips. "I'm the injured party, Ella, and I tell you there's no one to blame but Giroux and his henchmen." He took off his hat. "I know you won't take orders from a member of my objectionable gender, but nonetheless ... I miss your smile, and I refuse to be the reason for its absence. In fact, I won't stand for it!"

"You won't, won't you?" The stray smile found its way home and broke through Ella' tragic countenance. "I hope I won't set a precedent if I capitulate."

Bates could see that Ella had found her way into Thomas' small circle of trusted friends. "My brother and I were about to take a stroll to the Seine. Would you care to join us?"

"I'm all yours! Take off your shoes and we'll slip out the back way."

"What?"

"Subterfuge, John." Thomas held his ribs and bent down to untie Bates' oxfords with his right hand. "Are my ladies in the sitting room?"

"That's right." Ella quickly slipped off her button-bars. "We'll have to tiptoe."

Bates thought it undignified to remove his shoes but did not want to spoil Thomas and Ella's fun. Thomas handed Bates the oxfords and untied his own shoes. The trio eased themselves down the servants' staircase.

"We're escaping," Ella informed Brouette, as she appropriated a bunch of grapes from the kitchen. "You'll give us a head start, won't you, Brouette?" Brouette held open the back door as Ella skipped out and down the pavement to the gate, swinging her arms with one hand holding her shoes and the other the grapes. Bates watched in amazement as her years melted away.

Thomas glowed. "Isn't she something?"


Boulevard des Invalides

The three escapees enjoyed the grapes as they walked towards the Seine. Bates listened to Thomas and Ella's exuberant chatter that bounded from topic to topic so quickly he found it difficult to follow. He was shocked by Ella's raw language, considering her upbringing, but forgave her transgressions for the sake of the hearty laughter she elicited from Thomas.

Thomas paused for a moment. "Ella, what's on the other side of this wall?"

"The Hôtel Biron. The Musée Rodin now."

"Rodin, the sculptor? John, it's so close. Perhaps we could visit tomorrow. What do you think, Ella? Would we enjoy it?"

Ella took Thomas' arm and pulled him along. "To tell the truth, I've never been. It would be too sad for me."

Bates thought that an odd reaction to a museum of statues. "Sad? You mean the sculptures are sad?"

"No. Rodin's sculptures are evocative, but I wouldn't say sad. No, it's the man himself. But I've tortured Thomas enough with my lectures on the subject."

"Lectures on Rodin?" asked Bates.

"No, John, she means lectures on men. We're dreadful creatures, John, or didn't you know?"

Bates chuckled. "So Anna tells me every now and again ... how we haven't evolved from our cave-dwelling granddaddies. I don't worry about it. She likes me well enough."

"And I like you well enough," added Ella, flashing her broad smile. "Now let's change the subject."

"You don't get off that easily, Ella," objected Thomas. "What is it about Rodin?"

"You insist?"

"I insist."

"Very well. When I was much younger, I thought I'd expand my artistic endeavours and give sculpting a try. I decided to study at the Académie Colarossi."

"Not the École des Beaux-Arts?" asked Thomas. "Isn't that the art school in France?"

"Because the art school in France didn't accept women back then."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "I stepped into that one."

"Let her tell the story."

"Thank you, John. I studied with Alfred Boucher and became friends with a few of his students. They were exciting artists, and I kept up the friendships even after I decided that sculpting wasn't for me."

"Where does Rodin fit?"

"Give her a chance!"

"Thank you again, John. There was a true genius among my sculpting friends. Camille Claudel. Have you ever heard of her?"

Bates and Thomas looked at each other and shook their heads.

"I'm not surprised. Boucher eventually moved to Florence and asked Rodin to continue his students' tutelage. It didn't take long for Rodin to appreciate Camille's talent and take her on as an assistant. And it didn't take long for Rodin to appreciate her other attributes and take her on as his mistress."

Thomas shrugged. "Is that your complaint? Why? Did he force himself on her?"

"No, he didn't force himself on her, and she didn't force him to abandon the mother of his son. She struggled ... mentally ... emotionally ... and when the relationship became impossible, she became more unstable. But she never stopped working, and her work was extraordinary. I visited her, but she isolated herself more and more. The last few times, she refused to open the door and would speak to me only through the shutters. She needed help, but she wasn't crazy. Deluded a bit, but aren't we all?"

Bates stopped walking. "What happened to her?"

"Camille's father had always been her champion, but he died in 1913. After his death, the family wasted no time having Camille committed to an asylum. Her brother signed the papers."

"Her own brother?"

Ella spoke through gritted teeth. "He's a writer and should have understood her artistic temperament, but he's also a devout Catholic and a career diplomat. She was too much of an embarrassment to him."

"When was she released?" asked Thomas.

"Released? Ha! She's still confined. Her doctors say that she's not insane and have tried to negotiate a release with her family, but they refuse to cooperate. Her brother is an ambassador now in Tokyo. Even from there, he exerts complete control over her existence."

Thomas turned pale. "Fourteen years!"

"So far. Camille has no rights. She's only a woman. A woman in a country where women still can't vote! How do you feel about a women's right to vote, John?"

Bates took Ella's arm and continued their stroll. "I'll be honest, Ella. Until recently, I hadn't thought much about it. I've always been old-fashioned; I believe that when a man and women wed, they become one."

"Coverture!" accused Ella.

"I mean spiritually, Ella, not legally."

"You said, until recently. What's happened recently?"

"A baby girl."

"And she's made you think?"

"I love my daughter as much as my son. I want her to have the same rights when she's an adult. It's that simple."

"Yes," agreed Ella, "it's that simple. Too bad more fathers don't see it that way."

Bates glanced at Thomas over Ella's head and could see that he was tiring. "Ella, my leg is bothering me a bit today. Is there somewhere nearby we could sit?"

"Why don't we take a taxi to my studio? You and Thomas could relax while I dash out and pick up some supper for us."

"We don't want to put you to any trouble," replied Bates.

"Certainly we do!" interrupted Thomas.

"That settles it!" shouted Ella as she rushed to hail a taxi.


Ella's Studio at La Ruche

Bates had been to the National Gallery twice in his lifetime. The first was to take advantage of the free admission so he could impress Vera when he did not have the price of both a meal and a show. The second was after his father's funeral, when he needed inspiration to endure an unhappy life in an unhappy marriage without the aid of alcohol.

Bates had never seen an artist's studio. The works in Ella's studio were nothing like the finished and framed pieces that were on display in the National Gallery or at the Abbey or Grantham House. As soon as he stepped inside, he was mesmerized. He circled the room, examining and comparing the sketches pinned to the walls and the half-finished paintings hanging in disarray. He forgot his companions until Ella began to switch on the lamps.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," apologized Ella.

"I didn't mean to be rude." Bates saw that Thomas had fallen asleep on an ancient upholstered armchair. "I must apologize for Thomas. It's the concussion. The doctor said it might make him tire easily."

Ella smiled. "We'll let him sleep a while."

"Thank you. That would be best. Tell me, Ella. Did you create all these ... objets d'art?"

"You're too kind, John. They're more like objets de interrupted thoughts."

Bates smiled at Ella's little joke and pointed to the sketch pinned nearest her easel. "This one's Thomas, isn't it?"

"That's right. It's reference for a future painting."

Bates was amazed. How had Ella captured both Thomas' good looks and the struggle his good looks hid? "It's as though you've known him his entire life."

Ella shrugged in that same way Thomas often did. "Something about him spoke to me. That's all."

"May I ask you another question?"

"Ask away."

Bates pointed to a grouping of sketches and paintings. "You seem to be working and reworking the same idea here."

"That's right. That's how many artists work, at least some of the time."

"I didn't realize. I'd always thought that when an artist had an idea, he ... she simply sat down and painted it."

"Now you know the truth. Breaking down the elements of a complicated piece can help resolve problems before tackling the final work ... perspective, for instance."

"What problem were you trying to solve here?"

"Mood."

Bates nodded. "Yes. I can see that now. May I ask one more question, or have you had enough of tourists?"

"Ask me whatever you like, John."

Bates returned to the sketch of Thomas. "Is this pencil? It seems similar to pencil, but not quite."

"It's charcoal. I use it for all the sketches I do in the studio."

"Charcoal?"

Ella lifted a cloth from a tray and set it on a small table near her easel. "Take a look."

Bates came closer and peaked at the tray. He saw round sticks of charcoal, some thin and some thick, powdered charcoal, soft pointed brushes, a stiff brush with a thin broad edge, a feather inserted into the end of a stick, a fat stick of tightly rolled paper, a few small squares of chamois, and a lump of something he didn't recognize. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the lump.

"A putty rubber." Ella opened a tablet of paper, tore off a sheet, and attached it to the easel. She picked up one of the thin sticks and quickly drew and shaded an apple, blending with her finger. "Now I can use the rubber to lift off the charcoal and create the illusion of light hitting the apple." She kneaded the rubber until she produced a clean surface, then demonstrated. "I can do the same with this," explained Ella, pointing to the paper stick. "When I was young, we often used a piece of bread."

Bates was delighted. He ran his finger over a clean corner of the paper. "The paper's rough."

"It needs tooth to hold the charcoal." Ella laughed. "You're dying to try it, aren't you?"

Something that Bates could not name was pushing him. "I would like to give it a go."

"Bring the stool." While Bates brought the stool to the easel, Ella pulled the largest of her old shirts from its hook. "I rescue men's shirts from the dustbin to protect my clothes while I work. This one should be large enough for you."

Bates removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and slipped into the old garment that Ella held for him. He thoughtfully fingered the layers of crusty paint stains on the shirt's thin material. "How do I begin?"

"Play. Experiment. Blend. Don't be afraid to use your fingers. Here's a sink when you're ready to clean up." Ella washed the charcoal from her fingers. "When you feel brave, take a fresh sheet of paper and draw something ... your left hand perhaps. Adjust the lamp if you like and concentrate more on light and shadow than an outline." She took a basket from a shelf near the door. "I'll collect our supper so you can work without feeling self-conscious."


Bates waited for the door to click shut. He picked up one of the thin sticks and stared at it a moment before drawing a line. He drew more lines, pressing more lightly one time, more heavily the next, and blending with his finger. He placed one of the thick pieces flat against the paper and dragged it across in broad sweeps. He blended some strokes with the chamois and others with the feather and studied the resulting textures. He drew a circle and shaded it with a pointed brush dipped in the powder. He kneaded the rubber and used it to create a highlight.

"Where's Ella?"

Bates jumped at Thomas' voice but was quickly reabsorbed by his efforts. "She's ..."

"What, John? She's what?"

"She's gone out to find us some supper."

"You let her go by herself?"

"She's a big girl, Pooh."

"What are you doing?"

"Playing. Don't worry. It's by Ella's personal invitation."

"Oh?" Thomas approached the easel. "What a mess!"

Bates laughed as he removed the practice paper from the easel. "It may look like a mess, but it's an education." He left the easel to wash his hands.

"Your education is all over your hat." Thomas cautiously picked up the faux Panama with two fingers and held it away from himself.

"Must you always exaggerate?" Bates kneaded the rubber and used it to pick up the few traces of charcoal from his hat.

"What's that thing?"

"A putty rubber," proclaimed Bates, holding up the rubber for admiration.

"Interesting." Thomas placed the clean hat next to his own in the far corner of the room. "Why did you let me fall asleep in front of Ella?"

"What did you expect me to do?" Bates attached a fresh sheet to the easel. "It doesn't matter, Pooh. She understands about the concussion. Help me a moment, won't you?"

"Help you do what?"

"Move the lamp to the other side of the easel. I'm afraid I'll lose my balance and break it."

"I'll get dirty."

"What a fusspot! Pick it up with one of those shirts then."

"I'm not a fusspot. I'm tidy." Thomas selected one of Ella's old shirts and wrapped it around the stem of the lamp. "Where do you want it?"

"Here."

"Out of the way, then." Thomas placed the lamp. "Now what?"

"That's it. Thank you, Pooh." Bates sat and posed his hand, stood, and adjusted the lamp, and sat and stood and adjusted until he was satisfied.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sketch my hand."

"That's a bit awkward isn't it? Why don't you sketch my hand?"

Bates considered and rejected the offer. "Thanks, Pooh, but I'll stick to my own hand. I don't want to bore you."

Thomas shrugged. "Suit yourself."


Thomas positioned the armchair so he could sit and watch Bates sketch, but Bates had been right. He was bored. Perhaps it was not boredom. Perhaps it was jealousy. He was jealous of the way Bates' picked up a piece of charcoal and brought life to a piece of paper. Even the way he posed his hand was dramatic. Instead of laying his hand on his leg or the table, he grasped the top of the easel with his fingertips, to give the impression that the owner of the hand was about to fall to his death. So ... Novello was a playwright and actor, Garland a dancer, Lucas a pianist, Ella an artist, Anna a promising dress designer ... and now ... now, even Bates proved himself to have ability. Am I the only one with no talent?

Thomas stretched his legs and splashed cold water on his face at the sink. His eyes settled on a small bookcase. He eagerly picked up Manifeste du surréalisme, but, as he should have expected, it was in French. I must keep my promise to learn this language. He picked up and replaced book after book until he found one with words he recognised: Ulysses by James Joyce. He remembered reading a review of the novel a few years ago but could not recall its substance ... only that the book was difficult. No matter. He had read Charles Lamb's The Adventures of Ulysses when he was a boy, so he knew something of the story. He carried his selection to the armchair and began to read.


Passage de Dantzig
Near La Ruche

Ella hoped she had enough in her basket to feed two men. She had walked to a café that she patronised regularly, and her favourite waiter packed the basket with pâté, gherkins, bread, vichyssoise, cold poached salmon, salad with bleu cheese and walnuts, and a whole lemon loaf cake. Knowing that Bates did not indulge in alcohol, she refused the suggested bottle of wine. They would have to manage with the tonic water and the Gambetta Sirop she kept at the studio. And there was always tea.

Ella was not certain what to make of Bates. He had been a terror when he first arrived in Paris, and Vi confessed to him the truth of their situation. Could she blame him? She had been equally furious when Addy made the same confession to her the night before. She forgave Bates his rage even as his threatening figure towered over her. Had not Thomas divulged to her, in strictest confidence, his love for the man?

And now? Now Ella was intrigued by the quiet man who had taken such devoted care of Thomas, all while pretending to be his brother. She would never tell Bates that she knew the truth.

Ella wondered if she would return to the studio to find Bates staring at a blank piece of paper. No ... not him ... she understood that excitement she had seen in his eyes. The paper would be filled with something ... something awful, perhaps, but something.


Later that night

A Taxi

"So it's not about Ulysses?" asked Bates.

"Not literally," replied Thomas, yawning. "But there are parallels to his story ... at least that's what Ella says. I've only read a few pages, so I can't see it yet."

"Nice of her to give you the book."

"She said she got through it once and never intends to go through it again."

Bates laughed. "I like your Ella."

Thomas leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Thank you, but I don't believe I can take the credit." When Bates did not reply, Thomas turned his head without lifting it and opened his eyes. Bates was clutching his sketch. Ella had tied it between two cardboards for safe transport back to England. She had given Bates a thoughtful critique of his efforts. Now Thomas imagined that Bates was turning over her words in his mind and was eager for his next attempt. "John ...?"

"Mmm?"

"I want to ask you about Giroux."

Bates turned his eyes from the cardboard bundle in his lap to Thomas. "What do you want to know?"

"How did he end up in prison before I was able to tell what he had done?"

"He betrayed himself. Giroux's a clever man, but he made a crucial error. He never suspected that Lady Grantham wasn't truly enamoured of you."

"What difference did that make?"

"He came to Lady Bennett's house the morning after you were kidnapped with torn clothes and a scratched face. He claimed that the two of you had been drugged and kidnapped together. He said that both of you were being transported in the back of a lorry when it hit a bump, and he fell out the back. According to him, the kidnappers took him for dead and sped off."

"What does that have to do with Lady Grantham and me?"

"He wanted Lady Grantham to be generous with the ransom. He claimed that, before he fell off the lorry, you had regained consciousness. He repeated the tender things you supposedly said about her ... how you would have given anything for one more chance to be with her. Lady Grantham knew immediately that Giroux's story was a lie. She said later that you would have wanted to be with Anna and me and the children."

"So he was arrested?"

"No. He repeated his story to Inspector Martel. Lady Grantham held her tongue until Giroux went home to change his clothes."

"And that's when he was arrested."

"No. The Inspector felt the only chance to find you was to pretend to accept Giroux's story and have him followed. He hoped that Giroux would visit his accomplices and you would be found with them."

Thomas shook his head. "He never came."

Bates nodded. "The day I arrived, Lady Grantham received a phone call demanding ransom. Do you remember speaking to her?"

"I remember."

"You can't imagine our relief when we knew you were alive." Bates paused for a moment. "The next day, the ladies went to the bank and returned with what appeared to be stacks of bills ... and they were ... counterfeit bills that had been seized a month earlier."

"That must have been when Giroux rang his goons with the news, and they drank themselves stupid."

"Must have been. As soon as everyone pretended to sleep that night, Giroux stole the ransom. The Inspector, himself, followed Giroux hoping that he was on his way to meet his accomplices and split the profits, but he had no such intention. He went home for his bag and then straight to the airport where he had a private plane waiting to take him to Italy. That's when he was arrested."

The two men sat in silence for a time, Bates adjusting the cardboard on his lap, and Thomas tightening his grip on the sack Ella had given him with leftover lemon loaf.

"John, those men were never going to let me live. I could have identified them."

"I know."

"If they hadn't gotten drunk and fallen asleep at the same time ..."

"I know, Pooh. Please don't. It's too much."

Again, the two men rode in silence.

"Look, Pooh."

Thomas looked where Bates was pointing in time to see the Eiffel Tower ablaze with the name, Citroën.

Bates shook his head. "I can't believe the Eiffel Tower is used to advertise cars."

"Why not?"

"That's right. Why not."

"John ... Guy and Roch are in prison, too, aren't they?"

"Who?"

"The men who held me. Guy and Roch."

"Oh. One's in prison. The other's dead."

"Dead?"

"One of them had a gun when the police arrived, so they shot him. That must have been when you were unconscious."

"Roch. It must have been Roch." Thomas felt sick. "John, I ..." A wave of dizziness ran through him, and he felt Bates' leg press against his, something the taxi driver could not see in his rear-view mirror.

"You're all right, Pooh. I'm right here."


Maison de Bennett

Thomas and Bates made their way to the servants' entrance and found Brouette in his pantry. Thomas held out the sack. "Won't you join us for some lemon cake?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Barrow." Brouette relieved Thomas of the sack. "I'll prepare some tea and bring it up straightaway. I have some news for you, Messieurs."

"What's that?" asked Bates.

"The ladies expect you to have dinner with them tomorrow night here at the house, and the next day, you're flying back to England with Lady Grantham."

"Anna will be glad to see you, Pooh."

"I'll be glad to see her. I'll be glad to see everyone!"

Thomas and Bates climbed the stairs, and Thomas felt as though he were wearing leaden shoes. He opened the bedroom door and dropped into a chair. "What's wrong with me? Why am I so tired?"

"You know very well why," replied Bates quietly as he removed his coat. "You need time to recoup your strength. And here I thought you had learned something about patience."

"It's not my patience that worries me. It's Lady Mary's. I returned to work only a few weeks ago, and now I'm incapacitated again. Why are you smiling?"

Bates pulled off his tie. "Don't you know you have a protector now. Old Lady Grantham will insist that you be given whatever time is necessary for you to recover." A knock sounded at the door. "Here's Brouette."

Brouette set down the tray. "There was more in the sack than cake, Messieurs."

"John, come and see."

Bates picked up a box from the tray and removed the attached note.

"John! A love note from my Ella? I'm jealous."

Bates read the note and smiled. He set it down and opened the box.

Thomas read the note aloud.


My dear John,

At last I have a protégé of my own.

Allow me to present you with your first box of charcoals.

Trust yourself.

Dare yourself.

Ella


Thomas could see how much the modest gift meant to Bates and resisted the urge to tease him. "Let's eat. Would you slice the cake, Brouette?"

The men chatted amiably as they finished off the cake and downed the tea. Thomas tried to stay in the conversation, but he was drooping and his head and hand hurt. Brouette must have noticed because he excused himself too soon.

"Aspirin, Pooh?" asked Bates after Brouette bade them goodnight.

Thomas wanted to say, I'll get it, but his limbs were too heavy. "If you don't mind."

Bates brought the aspirin and water, and Thomas awaited the appearance of Mama Bear. Bates retired to the dressing room to change into his pyjamas. Thomas watched Bates go in and out of the bathroom and return to the dressing room. Still no Mama Bear. At last, Bates stuck out his head. "Don't forget your salt rinse, Pooh."

"I won't." Thomas pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the water pitcher. Pouring the water, adding the salt, stirring, carrying the glass to the bathroom, all seemed to take an absurd amount of effort. When he finished, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Perhaps I'm the old goat. As he studied his shadowed eyes, another face appeared.

"I'm trying not to push myself on you, but you won't ask for help when you need it," complained Bates as he eased Thomas out of his coat and waistcoat.

Thomas was too exhausted to defend himself.

"Headache?"

"Yes."

"Lie down and give the aspirin a chance to work."

Thomas collapsed onto the bed, and Bates removed his shoes. Thomas closed his eyes. "John, tell me something more of your childhood."

Bates sat on the edge of the bed, "It was fairly ordinary ... except for my father." He chuckled.

"What about your father?"

"My father ... Dad was a powerful man. Physically, I mean."

"Like you."

"More so. But he had a gentle nature."

"Like you."

"What an odd thing to say, Pooh. He was nothing like me."

"No?"

"He didn't have my temper. He couldn't even bring himself to give me a whipping when I was a boy, no matter how much I deserved it. Mam had to do it."

Thomas laughed. "Were you a bad boy?"

"I was a bit of a mama's boy when I was very young, but the devil found me somewhere along the way. My cousins influenced me. Dad approved of their hard-working ways and their sense of community and fair play. Once I was old enough to earn my keep on their farm, I spent most of my summers with them. But they were a rough lot, too, and then there was my temper. Dad joked that my temper came from my mother's father, who was Irish, but I never met the man. Mam would have said that my temper was born from drink. I had barely given up milk when I had my first tipple. If it hadn't been for my father's influence, I would have been a beast."

"I can't imagine that, John."

"It's the truth. I can remember once when I saw Dad's train come into the station. Two men on board had been fighting, and Dad had each by the collar. He pulled them off the train and into the nearest pub to settle their argument over a couple of pints. Dad paid. If it had been me at that age, I would have cracked their heads together and been done with it."

"I think I would have liked your father."

"Everyone liked Dad. I learned something of kindness from him in spite of my temper. Still, I knew that I could take any man no matter his size, and that belief formed the man I was. Until the Boers, anyway. South Africa taught me the humility that came naturally to Dad. That was a hard-earned lesson."

"You're more like your father than you know, John."

"I try, Pooh, but I have a long way to go. Dad never derived his sense of manhood from his physical strength the way I did. After I was wounded, I felt a loss that was greater than the loss of a good leg. Even now, I struggle to feel like a man."

Thomas was shocked. Bates rarely let down his guard. It was something they had in common.

"You changed everything, Pooh."

"Me?" Thomas sat up. "What did I do?"

"You forced me into a swimming pool. Tell me, Pooh, when we ran races in the pool, did you let me win?"

"No," Thomas answered truthfully. "The first time, I thought you won because I wasn't ready, but I was never able to beat you."

"Do you know why?"

"Because you're a monster in the pool."

Bates laughed. "It's because I have almost no pain in the pool. It's because I'm the man I used to be in the pool. And all because I trusted my little brother. I don't think you'll ever understand what you've done for me."

"Perhaps, when we move to the states, you could swim year round."

"Pooh, you're not hearing what I'm saying."

"Yes I am."

"There's more."

"About your father?"

"No, Pooh, about you."

Thomas lay back in the bed. "Maybe in the morning, John."

"Now, Pooh. I promised Anna."

"Anna?"

"We spoke about you before I left. When the telegram came that said you were missing ... Pooh, there are rare moments when we understand how fragile life is ... how we must take hold of our lives and make choices that mean something ..."

"And?"

"And we want you to be my brother."

"But ... you've done that already. You must know that I'm grateful."

"You don't understand, Pooh. We want more than that. When we move to the states, we can be whatever we want. You're good for us, Pooh, and we believe that we're good for you. We want to raise the children to believe that you're truly their uncle ... that they have a right to you. We've come to feel that you belong to us, and we want you to feel that we belong to you."

The words were too perfect. They couldn't be real. "You ... belong to me?"

"Wait here, Pooh." Thomas sat up and watched Bates disappear into the dressing room and return with an envelope. "I brought this with me because I thought I might need it."

Thomas accepted the envelope and removed the contents. Inside were two certificates of birth, his and Bates'. But it was his mother's name, Agnes, that appeared on both certificates. "John ... how ... your mother ..."

"I think she would understand, Pooh."

Thomas lightly touched his mother's name where it should not have been.

"Do you agree, Pooh? There are legal procedures for adopting children or marrying, but there's nothing for taking a brother. Only these papers and the promise we make to each other."

Thomas carefully folded the certificates and returned them to the envelope.

Bates watched Thomas intently. "I know that having a brother doesn't always turn out well. Look at what Camille Claudel's brother did to her."

"John, if it weren't for you, I would have been committed to an asylum, too."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, John, I do."

Bates took the envelope and carried it into the dressing room. He returned and leaned against the door frame. "What do you say, Pooh?"

Thomas pushed himself off the bed. "Right now, I say that my hand hurts, and I'd like my brother to help me with my buttons."