Second Chance (2 page)

They climbed a stairway to the balcony level. They looked down on five hundred men at long concentric desks, all taking notes about tobacco infections. Occasionally Bishou noticed a woman, understood to be someone’s secretary, taking notes while the man next to her did not.

“One-two-three-four-five levels up from the bottom,” Gray Jackson murmured in her ear, pointing. He leaned in. She could smell cologne and the inevitable cigarettes.

She murmured in return, “End chair empty, second chair in? White suit?”

“That’s him.” He squeezed her arm before she nodded, and let go of her.
When you’re a woman,
she thought,
even academia requires a lot of body contact.

Quietly, Bishou stepped down to that desk level, and took the idle chair. She had time to observe the stranger as she descended. She was a little surprised at what she saw. He wore a light suit with an off-white shirt and white tie, very much the Caucasian tropical gentleman. He had dark, wavy hair and dark eyebrows. But he was no spring chicken — in his mid-thirties, maybe. A pair of attractive dark eyes glanced up at her as she took the seat — and admittedly, stared for a moment.
Not my looks
, she thought,
it’s the fact that I’m joining a men’s conference.
His gaze returned to the speaker while she got out her pen and notebook.

She touched his elbow. The brown eyes flitted to her, inquiringly. She touched her name badge to introduce herself silently. He got it, and smiled. He touched his own badge — LOUIS DESSANT — and his lips moved equally silently to say, “
Bonjour
.” Then they both turned their attention to the speaker.

Louis had made marginal notes, both in English and French, on the preprinted note sheets the attendees had been given. That was a good idea, she thought approvingly, making up notes ahead of time for men who probably didn’t spend much time in classrooms. In one corner, in lovely handwriting, he had written “Tobacco Bores?” She reached over to write “
Larves de tabac
” beneath it. He looked at it, at her. Then his face lit up as he smiled at her in relief and understanding.

Bishou felt her heart pound, and thought,
Wow
. Her gaze returned to her own papers. She told herself,
Shove it down, Howard, he’s a student and you’re the advisor, and you can’t afford to screw this up.
She took a deep breath and fastened her gaze on the speaker instead.

It was interesting. The speaker was an ag scientist from the local federal research station, who had made a study of tobacco infestations. He spoke on methods of minimizing the effects. Louis was all attention during the talk; apparently it was a problem close to home. When the question-and-answer session began, Louis could not hear a voice speaking from the rear and hissed in frustration.

Bishou raised her hand. The speaker looked past her to a man from elsewhere, so she raised her voice instead, “Could you repeat the question, please? We can’t hear it up front.”

There was nothing weak about Bishou’s voice; she’d spoken in this lecture hall before. But the speaker jumped a yard. The question was repeated, and the speaker replied. Bishou saw a smile in Louis’s eyes, though not on his lips.
This man doesn’t laugh much
, she thought.

He scribbled hurriedly on her notebook. Bishou smelled faint cologne, and cigarettes. She read his French, frowning, and raised her hand. The speaker, who was learning to ignore her at his peril, spoke to her. “Not loud enough, Miss?”

Bishou never took offense at this sort of thing, but laughed instead. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gardiner. I’m asking a question on behalf of Monsieur Dessant.” She indicated the man beside her.

Immediately the speaker looked interested. “Dessant as in Dessant Cigarettes?”

Louis Dessant smiled. “Yes, as in Dessant Cigarettes. My question is complicated, so I wrote it down.” His English was understandable and his voice pleasing to the ear.

“I’m trying,” Bishou said, reading the note carefully. “So, Dr. Gardiner, you are saying that one should not eliminate the rust by — using the machete, dropping the leaves to the ground — that the dead leaves still harbor the rust? And it is better to apply the antibiotic to prevent the rust’s return?”

“Yes, I am.” Dr. Gardiner had snapped back to the topic at hand.

“But the dead leaves are there. Should they be carted away — does it go back into the soil?” She concentrated on Louis’s handwriting. “If we cart the sick leaves away we run the risk that someone else will be marketing cigarettes made with Dessant tobacco, do you see? The dead, sick leaves. And that will leave us with legal issues, at least.”

That opened up a whole new topic, apparently, pirate tobacco. There were strong feelings in the room. Bishou became absorbed in writing down phrases in English, explaining quickly in an undertone when she saw Louis Dessant shake his head in frustration, and translating his answers back into English when he muttered quickly to her.

He took on some of the replies himself, which surprised her. “I know that this is not a session on legal issues, that comes later in the conference,” he said, in that same pleasing, very-French-accented voice. “But we cannot divorce — divide — the legal issues of making tobacco products from sick plants from making tobacco products with well plants, can we?”

“You had an incident of that, on Réunion, did you not?” asked Dr. Gardiner.

“
Oui
, and it has taken Etien and me many years for our lawyers to deal with it. The dump we used was being raided by ex-employees who had become pirate cigarette traders. They had the skills, you see, from working for us, and they — ” He turned to Bishou and muttered, “
necrophagé
.”

“Scavenged,” she supplied.

“Thank you. Scavenged from our dumps.”

“Are the dumps better guarded now?” someone asked wryly.

“
Bien sûr
. We think. But we do not know. And there is that risk. And the dump now costs us three times as much as previously to maintain.”

“The dump,” someone muttered. “Gawd, I never thought of that.”

Bishou’s teacher-sense told her that this was turning into a good, interactive conference. Apparently, Dr. Gardiner thought the same thing. There was some more discussion, some more give-and-take, among the conference members.

Then Dr. Gardiner announced, “We’re going to take a coffee break, and you can discuss this outside. It will give you an opportunity to meet each other. Then we’ll come back to our next speaker, James Mandel from R.J. Reynolds, on the business of agriculture. Twenty minutes, everyone, then, back to your desks.”

People stood up. In French, Louis Dessant asked Bishou, “Now what?”

“A cup of coffee and a trip to the bathroom,” she replied, standing.

“Mmph.” He stood, too, and felt in his pockets. “I don’t know what I have for change.”

“Guests of the university get their coffee for free,” Bishou replied. “There should be a coffee cart in the lobby.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Truly? I never went to university. This is all new to me.”

“You surprise me,” said Bishou. “Please come.”
Venez, s´il vous plaît.
She said it the polite way, not
viens,
like she’d say to her brother Bat.

“
Je viens
.” I’m coming. Up the lecture hall steps, out the door, into the lobby. They followed the scent of coffee. The cart awaited. He followed her lead, getting a coffee cup, coffee, milk, sugar — and a croissant.

“Croissants! In America?”

“Not as good as the real thing,” she replied, “but bearable. Do you want to take this back into the lecture hall?”

“It doesn’t seem respectful. Can we find a corner out here?”

“Of course. Let’s step outside.”

Bishou led the way outdoors, where many of their fellow attendees sat on benches and planters and the grass. They found a space on a planter. Carefully, Louis spread out his napkin and put his cup and croissant on it. She smiled and thought,
he’d never pass for an American with that kind of carefulness.
She held onto her cup and set her cinnamon roll on a napkin on her lap.

He sipped coffee, then asked her, “How do you know French so well?”

“My mother is French-Canadian.”

“Down here?”

“
Non
, I am from New England, from Boston.”

“Ah, I see. And what brought you to Virginia?”

“My studies. I am working on my doctorate degree in world literature.”

“You are a woman professor, then?” he asked.

“
Oui
,” she admitted with a smile. “Now, just a graduate student, tutoring and assisting undergraduate students. But soon, in another year, I will be a full-fledged college professor, a doctor of literature.”

“
Merde de merde
,” he marveled. “And then what?”

“Then I will be looking for a job, like everyone else.”

He smiled, for the first time — a small smile — but she felt she deserved it. Then his brown eyes changed direction, focusing on three men standing before them.

Gray Jackson was one of them. “Hello again, Bishou. Mr. Dessant, these gentlemen are from Galveston, and they’re just starting a tobacco plantation on an island off the Texas coast. I said you might be a good man for them to talk to, seein’ as how you run a tobacco plantation on an island yourself.”

Louis motioned them to a nearby bench, and moved his materials down the planter’s edge. Bishou followed suit. One of the men eyed her. “It might be a little borin’ to listen to us talk tobacco shop, young lady.”

“She stays with me,” said Louis Dessant, “because I have hired her through the university. I am good in English much of the time, but there are words I do not know.”

“Huh. I’ll be darned. You’re a college coed?” Gray Jackson asked her.

“No, sir, I’m a college professor.”

“A lady college professor? This place has a Domestic Science school?”

She grinned. “You’d be sorry if I cooked your meal. I’m a literature professor.”

“I’ll be darned. I wonder if the University of Texas is doing this, training lady professors?”

Yes, they were, Bishou knew, but this was not the time to discuss it. “I’m sure they are, but I don’t know much about UT.”

As expected, the men turned back to Louis, to ask questions about tobacco growing, temperature, manpower, shipping, and labor.

Louis knew his stuff. Only occasionally did he need her to translate a word or idea. He had not begun his plantation; he had inherited it from his father and grandfather. He had a partner, Etien Campard, who took over much of the day-to-day operation and had wanted Louis to attend this conference. For the first time it struck Bishou as odd that Louis was here. The French tobacco-men, it seemed, didn’t attend American conferences, but usually stayed home and grew tobacco.

Gradually, more from his attitude than anything spoken, Bishou also realized that Louis Dessant was here because he had paid his way — not on some kind of scholarship or grant, the way she had lived her life. And he did not consider it an unusual expenditure, to fly halfway around the world and get a hotel and pay for a university program, out of pocket. Simply put, he was extremely wealthy. So why the heck was he here, and why was the President of the University so uncomfortable about him?

They moved out of the bright sun and into the air-conditioned lecture hall. Another lecture, much like the first, but with a different speaker. This speaker talked about legalities. Health lawsuits about tobacco, which were now becoming prominent. Liability and insurance issues. Back in their seats, Louis frowned in concentration at the speaker, but it was clear this issue didn’t matter to him as much as the tobacco infections did.

One of the dining halls was given over to the conference for the lunch break. It meant a brief walk across campus. They left their notes and conference packets at their desks.

As they walked, Bishou noticed something else. Louis had no interest in viewing the campus. Hard to believe that someone who hadn’t gone to college, had never been to America, didn’t look around him. Well, she did see his brown eyes flick briefly about. But not to move one’s head — not to pay attention? Maybe she read too much, after all. Someplace she’d read about that habit of not moving one’s head …

They arrived at the dining room reserved specifically for the World Tobacco Conference, and found seats opposite each other at a table. The smell of beef, peas, and mashed potatoes wafted about. Other men joined them, and discussed the morning’s lectures. Louis mainly listened and ate, so Bishou did, too.

They went back to the afternoon breakout sessions, small-group sessions more like seminars, where they discussed various issues of interest to the tobacco industry. Again, she kept her notebook out, which Louis borrowed when he needed to write down a question or ask for an equivalent term in French. As they passed the pen and notebook back and forth, one of Bishou’s suspicions was also confirmed.

As they were leaving at the end of the second session, one of the men from North Carolina, Vig Hansen, said, “My wife’s been out shopping this afternoon, but we’re meeting at the Rogers Steak House for supper, Dessant. You and Bishou want to come along?” He said it as ordinarily as if Bishou were the wife or girlfriend.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t,” Bishou answered, before anyone could say anything embarrassing. “I’ve got school work to do — I’ve got an eight
A.M.
class, I’m afraid.”

“Nor I.” Louis Dessant yawned. “I am trying very hard to adjust, but I have
décalage
, what you call, jet lag. For me, it is almost midnight.”

“You should have something in your stomach, Dessant,” Hanson said reasonably. “Breakfast is a long way away.”

Louis shrugged, and looked at Bishou. “
Quelle vous voulez faire?
” What do you want to do?

She shook her head. “Can’t. I really need to do this school work,” she replied in English. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I’m not taking the class — I’m teaching it.”

Louis shook his head, smiling. “There. Mademoiselle is out of it. But I can be tempted. I will go with you. I spend too much time alone.”