Page 33 of Never Have We Ever
Valeska couldn’t swallow. What was that about her husband being one centimeter too far to the left?
“Oh, well, this is blunt. He’s saying he jacks off thinking about you.” Hailey tossed the letter back into the box, gagging. “Gross.Did not need toknow that.”
“You’re making that up. You said so yourself. Your French is worse than mine.”
“Maybe it’s better than yours, if I can understand that and you can’t.”
“Stop teasing me. This is my time of need, you brat.”
“I don’t mean to tease you, but you should go through and try reading some of these letters again.”
Hadn’t André said something similar?“You should try again! You might be surprised!”He had been mortified to know that she had never fully understood his letters over the years. In the moment, Valeska hadn’t given a shit. Now, however, she rethought her stance on the letters.
She waited until the rest of the household had gone to sleep, including Hailey, who was staying in the guest room. Once Valeska had some quiet and privacy, she pulled the box over to the desk by the windowsin her room and turned on one extra light. Her French dictionary was open and her phone prepped with its auto translator.
Valeska started with the very first letter. André had gone on a business trip shortly after they returned from their honeymoon and moved into this townhouse. Barcelona, wasn’t it? Valeska had been surprised to receive a letter two days later, but her French was so poor thatshe gave up way too soon.
Now, she tried again.
“My dearest wife,”all right, easy enough…“Barcelona is a beautiful Spanish city that is as warm as our heart.”
Our heart? Was that right? Valeska doublechecked the internet for its thoughts. Didn’t he mean his heart? Its heart? Evenherheart?
No. He clearly said “our.”
“I miss you.”
Valeska struggled for a good hour, attempting to translatebits and pieces, but as the night wore on and her brain became more sluggish, she realized she didn’t have a prayer in translating it by herself. It didn’t help that one sentence often conflated with another. One minute André talked about the excellent dinner he had at the hotel, and the next he mentioned something about a woman’s colorful skirt. Was it another patron at the restaurant? His assistantfrom his office? One of Valeska’s skirts? Or was it a metaphor, like Hailey claimed?
Valeska opened a chat window in her phone. She hadn’t texted her husband in days. She figured he didn’t want to hear from her. He was probably busy with whatever mistress he acquired in Monaco.
She couldn’t help herself.
“I’m trying to read your letters.”
Before she retired to sleep, she received a reply.At least fifteen minutes had passed.
“And?”
She stared at that response as if she were supposed to know what to say.“I’m as confused as ever.”
“It’s my fault. I do not write clearly enough for you. I should have tried English.”
“I’ll figure it out. I’m starting with the first one.”
“I remember the first one. Good luck. I am embarrassed now.”
He didn’t respond to anything else that night.The only thing André sent before Valeska drifted off to sleep was a phone number and the assurance that the man could be trusted.“I’ve already contacted him and told him to bill me on your behalf.”
Valeska quickly looked it up. It was a professional translator from a local university.
She supposed she had nothing else to lose at this point. She had already lost her husband. What was a littlemore dignity taking a box full of letters to a total stranger?
***
Monsieur Michel patted his forehead when he finished translating André’s first letter and brought it back out to Valeska in his waiting room. “Madame Dubois… your husband is very… poetic.”
Why was this man sweating so profusely? It was practically winter. “Thank you, I suppose. Were you able to figure most of it out?”
