Truth, by Omission Read online

  Still, I have been tempted to confess at least the sin of omission—if not the sins themselves—especially recently, during Stephanie’s illness. More than once it occurred to me that her sickness might have been some twisted form of karma, a way for the world to get back at me for my horrid transgressions, unscrupulously sweeping Steph and Anna along with me. I even thought about confessing, telling Anna everything, but sober second thoughts prevailed. Would it really cure Steph? Was it likely to do anything other than make Anna hate me?

  Our first interview went on that way. I, telling my story with omissions, in return for her telling me hers. I told her how I was orphaned and ended up being schooled by Catholics at a missionary school. She traded me information about the public school system in America.

  “What about language?” she asked. “Is French that common in Africa? Do you speak anything else?”

  I replied in Kinyarwanda, “I speak several languages.” She smiled and asked me to translate. I explained that it was the main language where I was from, but that most of the schooling was done in French.

  “So, you speak two languages?”

  “And Swahili, and several dialects from the mountains. And English.”

  She raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed. I learned from her that Americans seldom bother to learn more than English. This seemed odd to me since almost everyone in Africa spoke more than one language and even here, in Europe, most people seemed to speak two or more. She explained that she was an exception in America. “I had a close friend as a child, a Mexican immigrant whose first language was Spanish. I thought it was cool to speak Spanish with her and jumped at the chance to study it in high school. I also took a few French courses and when this opportunity came up, to study for a year here in France, I worked part time at two jobs and convinced my parents to help me out with the rest.”

  I related to her that it was because of my proficiency in languages that I had met Vincent Bergeron and was ultimately able to come to France.

  That first meeting with Anna had been but a trailer for the movie we would make together. It lasted three hours, about two hours longer than I had allotted. But it whetted my interest in Anna the American, and she seemed keen enough to get back together for phase two of the interview.

  “There’s so much we haven’t gotten to yet. Do you think I could impose on you for one more session—at your convenience, of course?” she asked, packing up her things.

  “I’d love to,” I replied in Kinyarwanda, to which she smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  “Maybe you could call me next week and we could try to find a time,” I said in English.

  I watched her leave the café, and I sat alone for a few minutes. It had been an enjoyable time with her. I thought she was pretty—quite beautiful actually—but had never thought I’d be attracted to a white girl. She certainly wouldn’t be attracted to me. I mean, not that she’d demonstrated any prejudice at all, it’s just that I never considered myself particularly good-looking. I was as deep a brown as brown could be before it is called black. My lips were just as dark, if not darker, filled with the same brown pigment as my skin, touches of pink hinting at the inside of my mouth. That brown pigment even extended to the whites of my eyes—which I always felt were a pale yellow, not really white. My hair was clipped close, more because my friend François could cut it for free with his clippers than from any sense of fashion. This accentuated the roundness of my head, pure central African. But I was taller than most from this part of Africa—not as tall as those from the north and east, but considerably taller than most others from central Africa. My clothes hid most of the multitude of purple scars that railroaded much of my body, but there was no hiding the one that sloped down from the center of my hairline through my right eyebrow and ended at my jaw. She couldn’t not have seen that scar. Yet she never stared at it and was kind enough not to ask about it.

  I wasn’t interested in Anna for anything more than pleasant company and to quench my curiosity of the wider world, at least that’s what I told myself. She was a good conversationalist; three hours had gone by very quickly. At that point in my life I honestly had no time for girls as anything more than friends. I was too busy trying to secure a university standing that would get me accepted into medical school somewhere in France.

  She called me the next week for the follow-up interview. “Same place?”

  “That’s fine, but the only time I have this week is Sunday morning,” I said.

  “That won’t interfere with your church?”

  “Church?” I was surprised.

  “You were schooled by Catholics. Don’t you go to church?”

  “Hmmph. It definitely won’t interfere with church.”

  I was waiting for her in the café when she arrived. This time she didn’t show up in a sweater and jeans. When she removed the heavy winter coat guarding against Paris’ damp January she showed off a stylish skirt and trim top. She obviously had another appointment today. I soon learned that it wasn’t church though, because when I asked about this she told me that even though her family was Methodist she didn’t practice any longer.

  We settled into an interview much like the last one. I filled in some details, withheld others, but offered enough to suit her feature story for the school paper. She, in return, traded off any information that I asked about. She learned that my ambition was to become a doctor like my friend Vincent. And I found out that she was planning to take her LSAT when she returned to the United States that summer. She enjoyed her studies in international politics but her real goal was to get into the field of international humanitarian law.

  “Fascinating,” I said. “What would you do with it?”

  “Help people.” A simple and blunt answer, but to the point.

  “How so? Where?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. It’s a big hurdle just to get into law school somewhere. And then there’s three years of that before practicing.”

  The conversation came so easily, and her company was so enjoyable that by midafternoon, nearly four hours after we sat down, I made up my mind that I needed a friend like this. Not a girlfriend like this, just a friend, someone interesting and interested—intellectual, but not in the least haughty, and mostly, a pragmatic humanitarian. I saw this last trait in her and I wanted to be that kind of person as well. I knew my own past and doubted my ability to ever become a humanitarian, but I thought that perhaps if I surrounded myself with others who were, it might polish my tarnish.

  While we talked I schemed for an excuse to be able to see her again, just a friendly visit.

  “Would you like to see the article before I submit it to my editor?” she asked as she suddenly began packing up.

  “Yes. Yes, I would … please,” I said, not caring to see the article at all, just jumping at an excuse to see her again.

  “Okay, I’ll call you when I’ve got it roughed out. And what about Saturday? Would you like to come to a party, meet some of my friends? You could bring some of yours if you like.”

  I suspected I wouldn’t fit well into this social setting, but there was no way I was turning down the invitation. “I could ask François, he might like to come.”

  François was my Cameroonian roommate. We were paired purely by chance when I first arrived at the university. After a year together we pooled our resources and rented a small flat close to campus. Neither of us had time for much of a social life, and what little socializing we did was usually done together, each of us acting as a security blanket for the other.

  “Sure, bring him along,” she said.

  “You’re off to another appointment?” I asked, probably just unconsciously delaying her departure.

  “No, only home to start writing this up.”

  “Oh, you’re all dressed up on a Sunday. I thought that you were, um, either going to church or, maybe, I don’t know, going t
o meet someone.”

  “I was meeting someone.” She looked me straight in the eye, and then lit up with a smile before turning to leave. “I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll call you.”

  I had to think about this for a moment, and she was out the door before I clued in and blushed, feeling the warm wave start at the top of my head and descend right down through my feet.

  François and I attended the party, and to the surprise of both of us found that it wasn’t so intimidating. Anna had made an interesting group of friends since arriving in Paris. She was clearly more social than we were, but she gravitated toward people of substance. Her friends were engaging and worldly, many of them supporters of international activist causes. This should have been no surprise because the school where she was studying was well recognized for its international studies program. But when this group got together it wasn’t all deep heavy thought. They liked to just hang out and be the kids they were. François and I took to the group immediately, and they accepted us in return.

  We were an international bunch with several Europeans and Brits, two other girls from America along with Anna, one from Hong Kong, a Jordanian and an Israeli, and François and I adding the color. Sometimes we played Ping-Pong in one of the dorms or board games at a coffee shop. We went to movies, parties, and other times we’d just lay around “shooting the shit,” as the Americans said. I know I spent more one-on-one time in the group with Anna than I did with anyone else. We were simply very comfortable together. This was not a group with boyfriend-girlfriend relationships, just a bunch of platonic equals.

  Then one day in March I had a call from Anna. “Freddie,” she said, as she had begun calling me that, saying that Alfred was too formal, “do you want to go to Le Mont-Dore next weekend? There’s a special on for Friday through Sunday.”

  Ahmed, the Jordanian, had mentioned to the gang a week or so earlier that we should all go skiing before the season was over. He had never skied and wanted to try it. Some of the rest of us hadn’t either, and we all agreed it would be fun.

  Embarrassed, I replied, “Anna, I can’t afford that.”

  “It’s okay, Freddie … it’s all handled. And I’ve already rented a car. We can go up together. Please,” she said. “You said you wanted to learn to ski. It’ll be fun. Please?”

  Neither François nor I had ever skied. We didn’t even like the snow, but skiing sounded like it might be fun. And a weekend away from Paris with the group would be nice.

  I acquiesced. “I’m in.”

  When François arrived home, I told him about the trip. Impossible! He had an organic chem midterm that he was struggling to prepare for. I considered not going if François couldn’t, but by now I was more than comfortable enough with the group and I’d already promised Anna I’d ride with her. She arranged to pick me up right after her class on Friday morning, and we left in her small rented car for the five-hour drive.

  The back seat was filled with borrowed ski gear. She said we’d have to rent the skis, but that it was all arranged already. I assumed the others would meet us at the resort and were in their own rented or borrowed cars. We fell into lively conversation and the time passed quickly, as it always did when we were together. She spoke mostly in French and I in English, each of us wanting to practice what we needed most. As we left the farm fields south of Paris and rose into the alpine range of southern France, conversation turned to our own home mountains. Anna described the open vistas of the Rocky Mountains surrounding her home in Colorado, and I regaled her with stories of the mountains of my home, the lush jungle that forested the slopes, and the wild creatures I encountered there. She talked fondly of the elk and bears that were abundant in her mountains and then asked if I had ever seen the mountain gorillas. I told her that indeed I had seen the magnificent creatures, but I didn’t have the fortitude to own up to my crimes against the innocent beings. Turning my face away from her, I hid the shame that must surely have been painted all over it and added another omission of fact to the tally.

  Arrival at the ski village was via a path snaking off the main highway, barely wide enough for us to pass oncoming vehicles. Anna stopped once when we got into the town to ask directions. The passerby pointed us to a group of small cabins at the base of the mountain. It was dark by the time we arrived, but a small neon sign in the window of one, touting vacances, indicated an office. Anna went to check in while I waited in the car. There didn’t seem to be any sign of the rest of the group yet, but I assumed they were already in one of the cabins.

  The cabin, which Anna opened for us with a flourish, turned out to be a cozy little minichalet with three rooms. The main room was a comfortable living space containing a large couch, an oversized chair, a small dining table, and a fully equipped kitchen with the typical French apartment-sized appliances. But most impressively, there was a whole wall dominated by a large stone fireplace and mantel. A small stash of firewood was stacked on the hearth. Faux antiques hung from the walls, adding character to the scene. Opposite the fireplace there were two other doors, one led into a small bathroom and the other into a bedroom with a wardrobe, dresser, and double bed. Anna sunk into the large living room chair while I went to the car to grab our things. I left our personal bags and picked out the groceries and wine.

  “I guess we’d better find the others,” I said as I set down the armful of goods. “Then we can decide who is where. How many cottages did we get?”

  Anna looked at me with an exaggerated innocence, which only served to confuse me.

  “Who all is meeting us here?” I asked. “We should be fine with two cabins. One for you and the girls, and one for Ahmed and us guys. Some of us can sleep on the floor and the couch is good for one.”

  “Freddie, no one else is meeting us here,” Anna said. She looked a little confused herself. “I never said anyone else was coming.”

  This required a moment for me to process. “But I thought the gang was all coming for the weekend. No one else is here?” As I took in a long slow breath I could feel anxiety welling in me. My heart instantly began beating faster, and I had to concentrate hard to think this through clearly. “Just you and me?” Perhaps I didn’t say it loudly enough because she didn’t even bother to answer my question.

  “Do you want help bringing in the other things?”

  I was still standing inside the doorway with my outer shoes on. “No need, I can get them.”

  When I returned with our overnight bags Anna was uncorking one of the bottles. She poured two glasses of wine while I removed my boots and jacket, and then she leaned back against the countertop looking worried as I took a seat in the chair.

  “I’m sorry, Freddie. I should have been more clear. I thought you would have known.” When I failed to respond, she blurted out, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Don’t be silly, Anna. I’ll take the couch.”

  She grabbed her bag from where I left it and dropped it on the end of the couch, plunking down beside it. “Shotgun,” she shouted. I knew what a shotgun was, but I had no idea what she was talking about.

  I picked up my own bag and put it on the other end of the couch and sat down as well. Clumsily, awkwardly, we sat there for a moment, side by side. I had a feeling what she might be trying to do, but I wasn’t sure. I was afraid to be wrong about it, afraid of my own embarrassment if I was, and afraid of her embarrassment if I was right. And if I was right about what I was thinking, I wasn’t even sure what I thought about that. This would be a totally different dynamic for us. It could all backfire and totally screw up everything, our good friendship, even our relationship with the rest of our group. I didn’t have time for a girlfriend. I was too busy with my studies. I didn’t have time for med school and women. But surely I was wrong about her intentions. Anna didn’t see me that way, in a relationship with her, did she? Maybe I was wrong about that, too. Maybe this was just a casual weekend thing, not a relationship thing. I gues
s I wouldn’t be opposed to something like that, just not with Anna. I thought she was very attractive, but she was much too nice a person. I respected our friendship too much to do something like that. While trying to process all of this I became flustered and my heart was beating faster and faster as my anxiety swelled. I wasn’t used to such feelings of uncertainty and lack of control.

  Before I could fully process everything, Anna surprised me by lifting a leg over and straddling my lap, facing me. “If we’re going to fight over who gets the couch, why don’t we just share it? Better still,” she said, “I’ll share the bed with you. But we can each have our own side if you like.”

  It was a nice try at lightening up the situation, but it only made my heart beat faster and added a full-out blush. I looked up at her and thought how beautiful she was. Really beautiful. Beautiful in some way that I had not let myself think about before, wholesome and clean and pure and sexy all in one. Clasping her hands around my neck at arm’s length she gave me the perfect vantage to study her beauty. I’d seen her this close-up before, but never where I could look right into her eyes and concentrate on them, where I could look in those eyes and not be so shy that I’d immediately look away. They were bright and happy, sparkling blue. She didn’t blink at all while I looked into them; she just stared back, and I could see my own miniature reflection in her pupils. I looked down and scanned the rest of her and still she didn’t take her eyes off mine. How had I not noticed during the drive all the way up here that she had makeup around her eyes and a blush on her cheeks and lipstick making her lips look even fuller? I knew that she never wore makeup, or hardly ever. Why hadn’t I noticed until just then that she had makeup on? While I pondered this and enjoyed her beauty, she leaned toward me and kissed me smack on the lips.