Time would improve the situation with Ferand. After enough teasing from Kate and angry glares from Nathia, he began to sit for a meal or two a week. We all attempted to show him how wrong his belief was, as we had been seated for every meal we had ever taken and were still alive and well. While Ferand has agreed to follow custom for formal dinners, even as of this writing he eats every one of his smaller meals while standing on his poor feet.
Of course, that was not the only point of stark cultural contrast. Ferand was an unusual-looking man with a round face and bright-red cheeks. The mouth that managed his strange accent—-complete with over-rounded, nasal vowels and throaty consonants-—was small and puckered and sat atop a curt but very pronounced little chin. He had the sort of face that needs time to win acceptance, but acceptance was impossible when he first appeared in our lives, and the chin was not even evident. His odd features were exaggerated by a long, unkempt beard that served primarily as a device for catching fallen crumbs or collecting twigs and leaves from the garden.
Beards have long been out of fashion in most parts of Acrola, and both Davidt and I kept our faces clean-shaven. Tillenrow maintained a procession of short hair down the side of his face all the way to his jawbone, but at least this was close-cropped and well-groomed. Ferand’s beard was a sloppy mess of hairs that appeared much more incidental than intentional. We asked Ferand about it and dropped him subtle hints that he should shave it away, but he responded that everyone in the Auveyr had such beards, and he was impervious to our suggestions. One evening, as Ferand was unhappily seated before a serving of duck in the Great Hall at the Appero, Ariane began to tell a story. Ferand turned his face upon his wife, unwittingly un-tucking his beard from its assigned spot, nestled between his chest and the table. After the story had finished, Ferand faced forward again, dragging the thing through his plate of succulent duck and horrifying Nathia in the process. “Shave your chin before you feed on your own fleas!” She screamed.
We were all horribly embarrassed at the scene, and I apologized profusely on behalf of my wife. And then, not three weeks later, Ferand’s beard disappeared without any warning at all, although the incident with Nathia and the duck had nothing to do with it.
“I loathed that beard,” Ariane confided to me, shuddering. “I fell in love with him from the moment I saw him, so I refused to see the hair as a part of him. It was a parasite—a cruel beast that represented the single worst part of his backwardness, refusing to let go. He could have been rid of it had he wanted, but he was too blinded by his culture to eliminate it.”
“A loving perspective if I know one,” I teased.
“I am sorry. I know I sound cruel, but I am allowed one to hate one temporary element of my husband’s appearance, am I not?”
“Very well, I shall not begrudge you that. But then why did you tolerate it for so long?”
“Because I loved him,” she declared eagerly. “And because I refused to marry him until we came to a compromise on it. He has had his turn with the beard and now it is my turn without.”
“That is the compromise? He can keep it for a few months but then he must shave it forever? It sounds like he found the poor side of the deal.”
“No, not exactly. We agreed that he can grow a beard during the first year and last year of our marriage, but he must keep shaven every other year in between. It has now been a year since we were wed, so he took the razor to his face, according to the bargain.”
I smiled and shook my head. These funny little jests were what made Ariane so wonderful. That Ferand had willingly taken part in one indicated that he might have been good enough for her. I knew little of his personality just then, but upon learning about this pact I realized that Ferand would eventually find his place within our family, and we would soon grow to be close friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment