It was a typically chilly night in January, 1955. The outskirts of Paris had just settled down, and Jean-Yves Beaudry was sitting in his small kitchen, writing the latest chapter of his novel.
Jean was just relaxing with a cup of tea, when from outside his front garden there was a crash, which was followed by some heavy cursing. He shook his head and went out to scold the meddling, or possibly drunk, teenager. He opened the door and was met by a tall and dark-haired man, whose leg was bleeding heavily.
Jean ushered him inside and the man introduced himself as Mathieu. He winced and asked if he could sit down. Jean felt slightly embarrassed at the state of his small, if not cozy, home. It was alright for one disorganized writer, but was not made for company. He stood up and gestured for Mathieu to sit on the couch.
"Let me get my first aid kit, and a nice cup of tea... On second thought, would you like a blanket, monsieur?" Mathieu shook his head and lifted his leg onto the couch, wincing the entire way. Jean came back into the room with a slightly cold cup of tea, and a small package of bandages.
"So," Jean asked, "What happened out there?"
"I was riding my bike home, and I lost control of that bloody bike out there..." Mathieu replied.
"It's alright though; I have a nice cup of tea, and sensible man with a blanket and a first aid kit. What could go wrong?"
Mathieu grinned an obviously award winning smile, which was hard not to respond to. Jean opened the first aid kit, and took out a small pair of tweezers, a cotton ball, and some peroxide. He leaned over Mathieu's leg, and started cleaning the wound. Mathieu winced, then apologized.
"It's stupid of me to be worried over a small cut... for goodness sake, I shouldn't even have you pampering me. So, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a writer," Jean replied.
"Is that so?" Mathieu said, "I'm a writer too! Well, a journalist to be exact."
"Wow! What a coincidence! It just so happens that I was hoping to meet someone who would be interested in reading my new novel."
"Well," Mathieu sad, "I'm probably going to be here for a while, so why don't I take a look at it." Jean grinned a shy smile and went to get it. Before they knew it, several hours had gone by. Mathieu realized that he had missed a date with his wife. "My wife would love this...She is a big fan of this type of fiction. Actually though, I should probably call her. I just missed a date with her. Can I borrow your phone?" At this, Jean's smile faltered a bit, but he quickly reapplied it to his pale face.
"I'll read this then, shall I? How about I come over next Sunday and I can read the next chapter?" Mathieu said.
"Yes. That would be wonderful. I get some biscuits, and I will have tea that could actually pass for warm." Jean smiled, and opened the door. Mathieu tipped his hat, and walked down the gravel pathway. Mathieu got on his bike and rode away, but Jean was waving long after Mathieu was out of sight.
The week passed by and Jean worked on his story. Sunday came, and by 2:00, Mathieu was wheeling his bike up the dirty gravel path. Jean opened the door and waved for Mathieu to come in. Jean couldn't understand why his heart had started beating faster.
"How are you? Have you finished the manuscript?" Jean asked, though perhaps a bit too hurriedly.
"Well, I loved it so far," said Mathieu, "Did you finish the next chapter?"
After the pleasantries had finished, there was an awkwardness, that had not been there before. They spent the next hour chatting and discussing the book. When the clock chimed five times, they were both sorry that Mathieu had to leave. This happened each Sunday, and a couple months went by. Finally, two and a half months after they met, on a particular Sunday afternoon, something changed. Jean went over to the door, and grabbed Mathieu's coat from the hook. He handed it to Mathieu, but as their hands touched, the chemistry that had been between them since the beginning could no longer be denied. They both gasped, and jerked away.
"I think I love you" blurted Jean.
"I think.... I think I love you too..." Mathieu admitted. Jean leaned forwards, and ever so slowly, his lips just touched Mathieu's.
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Sophie sat in Le Petite Chateau, their regular meeting place, waiting for Mathieu. She couldn't understand why he was late. He had never been late before. People kept giving her and her wine glass looks of disdain. After an hour had passed, she picked up her purse, paid the bill, and left. By the time Mathieu returned home, Sophie was preparing to call the police.
"Where on earth have you been? I was really worried about you," she said.
"Oh, I was... with my boss. He wanted to have a drink with me." At this, Mathieu smarted. He had never lied to his wife before, and he found himself wondering why he was.
"Oh... well you could have at least called the restaurant... People were giving me strange looks. You know how I hate that! Think about our reputation!" At this point, she was starting to get quite upset.
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He turned and walked into their bedroom.
When she finally went in, it was midnight. She had been pondering their marriage, as she often liked to do. However, tonight was the first night that she had ever wondered if it was losing it's charm. She shook the idea off, and crawled into bed.
The next Saturday, Mathieu said he was up for promotion and his boss had invited him to go golfing. This pleased Sophie, as she saw that they were moving up in the world. Golf, however, became a regular thing.
Mathieu started distancing himself from her, and she couldn't understand what she was doing wrong. When she asked him about it, he told her it was the pressure of the promotion, and said to leave it alone. However, when he started staying later and later each Sunday, she started to become suspicious. Why hadn't his boss said anything to her at last week's soiree? Why wouldn't his golf clubs come back dirty? Finally, one Sunday, Sophie decided to follow Mathieu.
Sophie stood back, stifling a scream. She had followed Mathieu to 12 Rue de Pontieu, and snuck around to the back, where the curtains had not been drawn. She was dizzy, and fought back the bile that was building up in her throat. A man! An affair was one thing; however, an affair with a man was another! It was impossible! Then another thought struck her. What would people say?
Jean-Yves Beaudry was arrested for gross indecency on April 17 1955, and sentenced to three years in prison. Mathieu Montmartre got his promotion and he and his wife moved to an exclusive part of Paris. Sophie Montmartre reveled in their new status and spent all her free time escalating their social assent. The newspaper stated that Jean had seduced Mathieu into an indecent act in which Mathieu played no part. Sophie was satisfied and quietly smug that Jean had agreed to her ultimatum. All was seemingly well.
One year after the trial, and Mathieu's guilt had ruined his marriage, job, and social status, Mathieu went to visit Jean in prison. Jean was no longer there. The prison guard told Mathieu how he found Jean hanging from the ceiling with a bed sheet wrapped around his neck. There was a manuscript which he had been holding when he died that had dropped to the floor. It was dedicated to someone called Mathieu.
"Do you know him?" the guard asked.
Mathieu sank to floor, and did not respond.
"May I see this manuscript?" he asked in a shaky voice.
"I don't know, but I can go and check for you." He walked into the room next door, and after a few minutes, returned with a bulky document wrapped in newspaper. Mathieu opened it with shaking hands. The title of the document was The Unfinished Manuscript, By Jean-Yves Beaudry. He flipped to the part which he had not read. He read through two of the final chapters, which described betrayal and the futility of love. The final chapter was blank.
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