Page 13 of The Black Table
A shock of black hair that’s mussed in all directions, either from styling or from bedhead, hard to tell. Eyes the kind of lucid blue-green that forcibly puts me in mind of Caribbean beaches and air that smells like coconut and salt. And a pair of lips archingso smoothly, so perfect and proportional, they could have been carved on a classical statue.
But when he smiles, it’s all flesh and blood.
“You’re new,” he manages.
I blink at him, scoop some hair behind my ear.
“Andyou’relate!” My partner, at last, comes to life, and the tone of her voice has completely changed: airy, angelic, breathy. And then I realize. She has the hots for him. Beyond obvious, and I suppose—objectively, aesthetically—I can see why.
The latecomer nods. “Bonjour, Elena.”
I chew the end of my pencil, spit it out. Try to focus.
“Hi,” Elena says, then tips her head like she’s just remembered me. “This is…”
“Gwenna,” I answer.
Another nod. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Gwenna,” he repeats. Then he extends a hand. “Lanzelin Dell’Acqua. Lanz.”
I take it and shake, mildly taken aback by the formality. Not to mention thename. Who’s named something like that? My mind whirrs through my languages, phonemes, roots, and I don’t realize I’m frowning until his expression matches mine.
“Ca va?” he asks. You okay?
I give my head a little shake. Be normal.
“Oui,” I answer. But then…I can’t resist. “C’est…italien, ton nom de famille?”
He smiles, and it’s such a boyish look of genuine delight that I almost—almost—smile back.
“Si.” He puts a hand to his chest. “A little Italian, a bit French. And some?—”
“German,” I venture. “Swiss.”
His smile broadens. “Immer ja.”
The barest hint of a frown shimmers over Elena’s forehead.I come in peace, I mentally telegraph to her.I’m not here to horn in onhim. Or anyone.My mind flashes to my dorm room—to Morgan and Kingston. Why does everyone keep assuming the worst of me?
“We should really be reading,” Elena says, pointed but still sweet.
“Elena!” barks the professor. “En français, s’il te plaît!”
“Desolée, madame.” Elena shrinks a little, but not without a glare at me—which, to my mind, is unfair. I’m not the onenotspeaking Frenchin French 203.
Lanz, evidently, doesn’t care much either.
“What are we reading?” he whispers in English, lowering his voice with a glance to the professor.
Elena gives a little laugh. “One of the poems.” She offers up her own open book to indicate the page, leaning into him as she does. I catch a whiff of her perfume and get the sense that she prepared extensively for this class, and I don’t mean doing the homework.
“Okay,” he says. “Merci.” His accent, compared to hers, is fluid, natural, although tinged with something non-native—whatever that pan-European heritage is, coming into play. I half-wonder how someone as cosmopolitan as this guy ends up at a tiny, unranked American college, but I also don’t much care.
“And what are we doing, exactly?” He switches to French deftly, and this time the question is directed at me. I look up.
“We’re supposed to be discussing the text for writing anexplication,” I reply. “And then a?—”
“Attention!” calls the professor. “A la discussion, s’il vous plaît.”
So much for that. At least I managed to read the poem. And it’s starkly simple enough that I’m sure I can bullshit an answer if I’m called upon.
