My October by Claire Holden Rothman Read Free Book Online Page A

Lévesque,” Ducharme said in his unruffled voice. “Come now.”
    Marie-Soleil took the phone and pressed End.
    He looked into her eyes and thanked her. Then he ran up the street, awkwardly, worrying inanely how his back would look to those lovely young eyes.
    THE SCHOOL’S MAIN DOOR was open. Immediately inside was a second door, locked, and a receptionist’s booth. He gave his name to the young woman in the booth and she buzzed him through. She started telling him which way to go, but he ignored her. He already knew. Up the worn main stairs to the second floor. Left. Three doors to the glass-walled waiting room. Nothing had changed. Not even the smell of chalk and ammonia cleaner. Luc looked through the glass into the waiting room, searching for his son. It was empty. The door was locked. He searched for a buzzer, but before he found it a man opened the door.
    Principal Bonnaire. Luc had never met him before. He was surprisingly short. The students surely made jokes about it— and just as surely mocked his absurd comb-over. He shook Luc’s hand with great formality and led him into the inner chamber, an office with a single small window. A serious-looking man in a raincoat who had apparently been conversing with the principal before Luc’s arrival stood up, but Bonnaire didn’t introduce him. He simply pointed to an empty chair, and Luc sat down.
    â€œFirst, let me say what an honour this is,” Bonnaire told him. He had crossed to the other side of his desk, an immense laminated structure with a dull grey surface that occupied most of the room, and was now looking down on Luc and the other seated man. “I only wish,” he said, throwing back his shoulders and standing to his full height, “that the circumstances were more agreeable.”
    Luc registered the body language. This would be a bad man to defy.
    â€œWhat are the circumstances?” he asked, trying his best to be polite. The lights overhead were fluorescent, turning everything,including the principal’s face, a sickly shade of greyish green. The air was hot and dry.
    Instead of answering, Bonnaire sat down. With excruciating slowness, he opened the top drawer of the immense grey desk and pulled out a dark object.
    Luc stared.
    â€œYou recognize it?” Bonnaire asked, holding the gun out so that it glinted in the artificial light.
    Of course Luc recognized it. The long, cruel snout was unmistakable. It was a Luger. But the Luger? Could that be?
    Bonnaire waited.
    â€œYes,” said Luc, unable to avert his eyes. “No, I mean.”
    Bonnaire was watching him closely. “Yes or no?” he said. “It cannot be both.” He put the gun down on his blotter, which was green, with wide borders of brown leather. The desk was spotless. No papers to be seen, no little yellow Post-its curling with age, their glue dried out and ineffectual. No paper clips or piles of earplugs like the ones cluttering Luc’s desk at home. More significantly, Luc thought, no photographs of anyone near and dear. The messy details of life seemed entirely foreign to this officious little man.
    â€œI know that kind of pistol,” Luc said, for he had to say something. “It’s a Luger. My father used to own one.” He closed his mouth, already regretting the statement. Why had he divulged that, of all things?
    The man in the raincoat leaned forward, resting his elbows on muscular thighs. He was tall, beefy under the coat. Definitely an athlete in his youth. “Used to?”
    â€œMy father is dead,” Luc explained.
    â€œWhere is his gun now?” the man asked, his chin lifting.His gaze, which was trained on Luc’s face, was uncomfortably direct.
    â€œHow should I know?” answered Luc. “The last time I saw it was in the 1960s.” He looked away. A single plant sat on Bonnaire’s metal computer table. The leaves were two shades of green, shaped like