〔 OCTOBER 1997 〕
There will be no need to compare individuals with anyone else. Love is not something that must be measured side by side with another person, as though affection could be weighed and ranked. But if Edward had adored Françoise for her beauty, both the kind that was seen on the outside and the kind that lived quietly within her, then I suppose I could say that I had found my own other half. The woman I loved, in my own strange and complicated way.
The first time we met was hardly graceful.
We had bumped into each other along a hallway that was, in truth, considerably wide. Wide enough that two people should have easily passed one another without incident. I remember thinking about that afterward, wondering how on earth we had managed to collide in the first place.
The answer, of course, was quite simple.
It was my fault.
I had been far too focused on fixing the notes in my hands, flipping through loose pages and trying to reorganize them while walking. My eyes were lowered, my mind somewhere else entirely, and before I realized what was happening, I had walked straight into her.
The impact was not particularly violent, but it was enough to send my papers scattering across the polished floor.
I crouched down immediately, muttering a quiet apology while scrambling to gather the mess I had created. My hands moved quickly, clumsily even, as I tried to collect the pages before they drifted any farther away.
And then I looked up.
I remember that look of hers very clearly.
Her eyebrow twitched slightly, just the smallest movement, but she did not frown. Not quite. Her face remained composed, almost perfectly still, though there was something in her expression that made it obvious she was annoyed.
It was her eyes that gave it away.
Sharp, observant eyes that studied me as if deciding whether I was worth the trouble of scolding.
Do you know the type of scene you usually see in films? The kind where time seems to pause at the exact moment two people lock eyes?
I used to think those scenes were exaggerated.
But standing there on the floor, surrounded by my scattered notes, I felt it.
Time did not truly stop, of course. Yet it slowed, stretching out the moment in a way that felt strangely unreal. I found myself staring at her face with my lips slightly parted, as if I had forgotten what I had been doing only seconds before.
She was beautiful.
And no, I will not say that I fell in love with her at first sight. It was not something so dramatic.
What I felt then was closer to surprise.
I had simply never seen someone like her before, at least not in person. She was the kind of beautiful that made you pause without meaning to. The sort of beauty that was difficult to ignore even if you tried.
She was, quite frankly, drop dead gorgeous.
There were people back home who were pretty, of course. I had grown up surrounded by familiar faces, some of them quite lovely in their own ways. But when I looked at her, I had the strange thought that she was something beyond that.
Something more.
At the time, she only gave me one last look before walking away and leaving me there on the floor with my papers.
I did not even notice that she had not been alone.
Only later did it occur to me that several people had been with her. They were dressed in fine suits, the sort of clothing that suggested importance and authority. She walked beside them with an ease that made it seem as though she belonged among them.
Perhaps that was why she had carried herself with such an unmistakable aura.
She looked important.
That is why I was so shocked when I later discovered that she was on speaking terms with Françoise.
Not just speaking terms, either.
They spoke to each other like old friends.
Old friends.
I remember staring at them, trying to piece together how that could possibly be true.
How did I find that out?
Well, the explanation begins with an invitation.
Françoise had invited Jaime and me to spend Christmas with her and Edward at her chalet in Gstaad. At the time, it sounded like a dream. It was my first chance to experience winter properly, without the constant worry of lectures, assignments, and examinations hanging over my head.
By then, I had already warmed up to Françoise quite a bit.
I had once been suspicious of her intentions, wondering if she might be taking advantage of Edward's inexperience when it came to love and relationships. But the more time I spent observing them, the more I realized that my assumptions had been unfair.
She cared about him.
That was what mattered.
By the time Christmas approached, her belly had grown noticeably round. She was nearly eight months into her pregnancy and would likely give birth the following month. Because of that, Jaime and I had taken it upon ourselves to hover around her like overly cautious bodyguards.
We helped her walk, carried things for her, and made sure she did not slip on the snow.
It was during this time that we met Élisabeth again.
For me, it was only the second encounter.
Edward, on the other hand, had seen her several times before. Jaime simply did what he always did when meeting someone new. He tried his best to appear respectable and well mannered, though it rarely lasted long.
What surprised me the most was how different she seemed.
At the conference a few months earlier, she had been cold. Distant. Almost completely indifferent to our existence.
But here in Switzerland, she was warmer.
She smiled often when she spoke with Françoise. Sometimes she even laughed, the sound soft and genuine.
Unfortunately, that warmth did not extend to the three of us.
Whenever she looked at Edward, Jaime, or me, her gaze would slowly travel from our heads down to our feet, as though evaluating something questionable.
I found it incredibly offensive.
Edward, however, insisted that I was misunderstanding her.
"She is not that kind of person," he told me more than once.
Perhaps he was right.
Still, that did not stop me from deciding that she was far too entertaining to leave alone.
So during our time in Switzerland, I began following Élisabeth around whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Mostly just to annoy her.
Whenever I came across interesting little pebbles outside the chalet, I would collect them and hand them to her with great enthusiasm. Each stone reminded me of her expression. Smooth, cold, and completely unmoved.
It was my own private joke.
What amused me the most was watching the subtle change in her face whenever I did it. Her forehead, usually smooth and composed, would slowly tighten until a small furrow appeared between her brows.
It was a rare crack in her otherwise perfect composure.
And I found it delightful.
Eventually, Jaime began teasing me about it.
"You are giving her far too much attention," he said with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what he was implying.
After that, Edward joined in as well.
Together they decided that teasing me about Élisabeth was far more entertaining than whatever else they had been doing. I realized rather quickly that if I did not stop, they would never let me hear the end of it.
So I tried to behave.
At least for a while.
Then one afternoon, the very person who had been the target of my mischief walked into the chalet carrying a small pouch.
It looked rather heavy for something so small.
She greeted Françoise first, of course, offering the pregnant woman a warm smile that made me frown slightly without quite understanding why.
I remember feeling oddly sulky at the time.
Then her eyes shifted toward me.
My heart skipped a beat.
And let me clarify something before you misunderstand. It was not romantic in the slightest.
I was terrified.
For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps I had genuinely angered her with my little pebble deliveries.
I had not thought about that possibility before.
Without saying much else, she walked over and placed the pouch directly into my hands.
"Stop giving me pebbles," she said.
Or something along those lines.
I was not paying very close attention to the exact wording.
Instead, I opened the pouch and peered inside.
There was a pebble.
But it was not like the rough, oddly shaped stones I had been handing to her over the past few days. This one was different. Its surface was smooth, almost perfectly rounded, as if someone had carefully sanded away every sharp edge and polished it until it gleamed faintly in the light.
Before I could say anything, Edward leaned over and snatched the pouch from my hands.
He pulled the stone out and turned it between his fingers with a thoughtful expression.
"What is this, Éli?" he asked, examining it as though trying to determine its value.
The French woman immediately glared at him and took the pebble back.
Then she looked at me again.
The look she gave me somehow made it seem as though the entire situation was my fault, even though I had done nothing except stand there holding the pouch she had given me.
It was incredibly confusing.
Her actions, her body language, even the tone of her voice. None of it made sense to me at the time.
As far as I understood, it was simply a stone.
It was only much later, when I happened to watch a documentary about penguins, that I finally understood the meaning behind that small gesture.