CHAPTER
IV
“Get in there, punk.” Enjolras’s handcuffs were removed with a clink, and
he was thrust roughly into the holding cell. There was already a
young man about Enjolras’s age in the cell, who only spared him a momentary
glance before he went back to pacing the floor with nervous energy, his
combat boots echoing loudly on the cell floor. Rubbing his raw wrists,
Enjolras sat on the wooden bunk, thinking to himself that he would never
take his squeaky, soft dormitory bunk for granted again. He examined
his cellmate with no small amount of apprehension. The guy looked
as though he’d recently raided an Army Supply store, from his fatigue pants
to the jingling dogtags around his neck. His spiked hair was bleached,
except for the tips, which retained their original dark brown color.
The sound of his pacing was beginning to give Marc a headache, so he decided
to try to talk to the boy.
“Hey.” The guy stopped and looked at him. Enjolras felt more than
a little nervous with that piercing brown gaze boring into him. “Uh…what’s
your name?”
The other boy just looked at him, then began his pacing again. A
moment later, he paused, reconsidering. Finally, he flopped down
next to Enjolras on the bunk, which creaked in protest.
“They call me Feuilly, and I’m told that my parents gave me the name Lukasz.
That’s Lukasz with a ‘Z’ at the end.”
Enjolras nodded knowingly. “Polack,” he commented.
“That word went out of style long ago,” replied his companion tolerantly.
“Besides, I was born here. It was my parents who were straight off
the boat. They came to America, had me, and promptly died.” His voice
wasn’t bitter, just unemotional.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I take it you’re not a student, then.”
“Me? A student?” Feuilly laughed. “Nah, but I can see that you are.”
Enjolras flushed a bit. “Is it that obvious?”
“Ohhhh, yeah.” Feuilly’s grin broadened. “You’re too green to have been
here very often.”
“I take it you see a lot of the inside of a jail cell?” Enjolras
was a little annoyed at being teased.
“When they catch me,” was the amused reply.
“What are you in for, anyway?”
“Ah, it was stupid. I should never have been so careless as to get
caught in the first place. You see,” he explained, “I threw a Molotov
cocktail into an Abercrombie and Fitch store.”
Enjolras just stared at him. “Uh…why?”
“Because I’m a Communist, and capitalism and all symbols of capitalism
are my sworn enemies.”
Enjolras blinked. “Uh-huh.”
“So,” Feuilly said cheerfully, crossing one leg over the other comfortably,
“What’re you in for?”
“Student protests,” answered Marc. “They caught me instigating.”
“Oh yeah?” The Pole chuckled. “That’s cool. Which college do you
go to?”
“Columbia. My name’s Marc Enjolras.”
“Ah, of course. So you’re not one of those NYU boys. That’s
my end of the town, the East Village.”
“Are you a proverbial ‘starving artist’?” Enjolras asked.
“Well, I’m a painter, and sometimes I go hungry, so I guess that does make
me a starving artist, doesn’t it?”
Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of the key in the lock
cut him off.
“Hey you! Is there a Marc Enjolras in there?” The guard’s rough voice
reached them.
“Right here.”
“Your bail’s been posted. You’re free t’go.” The door swung open,
and Enjolras stood in surprise.
“Already?”
Feuilly nudged him. “Don’t argue, kid. Just go.”
“Wait here,” Enjolras whispered back.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”
The guard ushered Marc out to the waiting room, where a dark-haired young
man was pacing anxiously in front of the desk. He spun on his heel
as Enjolras was brought in, and he gave an audible sigh of relief.
“Thank God you’re all right.” Combeferre placed a hand on his friend’s
shoulder, his gray eyes wholly reassured. “You don’t know how it worries
me when this sort of thing happens.”
“Worried, were you?” Enjolras smiled. “No, it’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Don’t ever do that to me again, d’you hear?” The hand on Enjolras’s shoulder
tightened its grip. “You will not be speaking at any rallies for quite
a while, Marc.”
Enjolras bowed his head. “Fine. But hey, forget about that for a
moment, ‘Ferre. I need to ask you a huge favor.”
“Don’t you think you’ve reached your ‘favor quota’ already today?”
“I know, I know,” the blond young man grimaced. “But this is important.
I met a guy here who could really help us in our cause.”
“But wait, wait, let me guess—he needs to be bailed out?” Combeferre glanced
at Enjolras from beneath his eyebrows. Before Enjolras could reply,
he held up a hand. “How much, Enjolras?”
“Uh…”
*****************************
“Hey, who’s the preppie?” Feuilly hissed to Enjolras as they followed Combeferre
down the street.
“That ‘preppie’ just sprang us from the can,” Marc replied. “He’s my roommate.”
“Oh. Right.” Lukasz grinned disarmingly.
Combeferre glanced over his shoulder. “Are you two J.D.’s going to skulk
back there where I can’t keep an eye on you? God knows what sort
of s*** you might get yourselves into while my back is turned.”
“Oh, c’mon buddy, you can trust us!” Feuilly did a perfect imitation of
a classic New York accent.
“Yeah, right.” Combeferre turned around to face the young artist. “Look,
I don’t know who you are, or where you come from, but I don’t put up with
any crap from somebody whose ass I just saved.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Yeah, but my friend did, on your behalf.” Ian glanced at Enjolras. “And
it’s well-known that I can’t refuse him anything.”
“Isn’t that sweet…” Feuilly muttered under his breath. Perhaps Combeferre
heard, but regardless of that, he turned back around and began walking
again. His two companions had no choice but to follow.
“Uh, Ian, where’re we going?” Enjolras spoke up hesitantly after a moment.
“To Corinne’s,” replied his friend.
Feuilly murmured in Enjolras’s ear, “What’s ‘Cornish’, or ‘Corinthe’, or
whatever he just said?”
“Corinne’s? That’s a bar down the street from our dorm. We
go there from time to time.”
Combeferre selected one of the doors that lined the sidewalk and pulled
it open. Immediately, the sounds of laughter and dishes clinking
and even some coarse singing reached their ears. Ian waited for the
other two to enter, then shut the door behind all three of them.
Almost instantly, Enjolras heard himself being hailed.
“Hey there, Marky!” The greeting was accompanied by Courfeyrac’s boisterous
laugh. Enjolras turned and headed for his table, with Combeferre
and Feuilly following. The large rectangular table was occupied by
most of their friends: Laigle and Joly sat practically on top of one another
near the more private, shadowed end of the table, exchanging passionate
kisses every once in a while; Courfeyrac sat at the other end of the table,
with Prouvaire at his right elbow and several empty bottles in front of
him; even Lupe Bahorel sat there, on Courfeyrac’s other side.
“Lupe, what’re you doing here? I thought you worked Thursdays.” Enjolras
slid into an empty seat beside her.
“Ah, Louie gave me the night off, so I figured, got nothing better to do,
why not come hang out with my little barhopping friends?” She laughed.
“Besides, I know you couldn’t go a full twenty-four hours without seeing
me, Marky.” She glanced beyond Marc and caught sight of Lukasz. “Ay, Enjolras,
who’s your new friend? He’s a hottie.” The girl winked at the Pole,
who returned her grin.
“Oh, right. Thanks for reminding me. Everyone, meet Lukasz
Feuilly. Feuilly, these are my friends.” Enjolras gestured to each
as he introduced them. “This is Lupe, next to her are Courfeyrac and Keats…well,
okay, his real name is Prouvaire, but Keats sounds better…then over there’s
Joly and Laigle, but I guess they’re busy right now…” Enjolras flushed
faintly. “And this is my roommate, Ian Combeferre.” Introductions finished,
Enjolras turned to ask Courfeyrac if he’d ordered yet, when a rough voice
behind him interrupted.
“What, no introduction for me?” Grantaire plopped down beside Enjolras.
“Oh, ‘s you.” Enjolras hardly spared her a glance.
Grantaire frowned, but just as quickly covered it up with her usual lopsided
grin, this time directing it to Feuilly. “Hi there. The name’s Grantaire.”
She turned her attention back to Marc, her expression softening a bit.
“What’s the matter, gorgeous? Not happy to see me?”
He raised one fair eyebrow in mild disgust. “You’re drunk, aren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, and she just laughed in response.
“That’s nothing new,” she said simply.
Enjolras shot a look across the table to Combeferre, perhaps wishing that
he could go sit over there with his friend. The philosopher paid
him no mind, being in the middle of proofreading Prouvaire’s latest poem,
written in the last five minutes on the back of a napkin. Enjolras
watched the gray eyes brush intently over the written lines, and two hands
coming to rest on his shoulders startled him nearly out of his wits.
Grantaire’s gravelly voice murmured in his ear as her hands worked diligently
at massaging his aching shoulder muscles.
“What’s wrong with me anyway? What do you find so repulsive about
me, besides my looks, and who are you to judge me at all, when we just
met this afternoon? Don’t I deserve a chance to prove myself to you?”
For a moment or two, Enjolras relaxed into the touch instinctively, enjoying
the way her hands gently kneaded at the sore muscles, and he let his guard
down almost completely. The next instant, he’d shoved her hands away
and was glaring fiercely at her.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What d’ya think you’re doin’?” Whenever Enjolras
became flustered, his voice began to regain something of the southern accent
that clearly revealed the part of the country where he grew up. And
at the moment, he was beyond flustered.
Grantaire raised her eyebrows slightly, a sardonic smile twisting her lips.
“You sure were willing a moment ago.”
“I…I was not!” Enjolras glared. “Y’just caught me off-guard.”
“Hmmm…off-guard?” The girl ran her fingers gently through his hair. “So
I guess you’re betting I’ll buy that. By the way, I love your accent.”
She grinned.
“I don’ have an accen’.” Enjolras ducked his head in an attempt to escape
her stroking fingers.
Grantaire chuckled in a low voice, sinking back into her chair. “Okay,
fine, you don’t have an accent.”
Courfeyrac grinned at them from the end of the table. “Charming the ladies
as always, Marky.”
“Shut up, Radley.” Enjolras leaned his elbows on the table, staring at
the drink that the bargirl had placed in front of him, unasked. He
took a swig of the alcohol, wincing as the stuff burned down his throat.
Combeferre glanced up. “Don’t drink too much, Marc. I don’t feel
quite up to carrying you home tonight.”
Enjolras grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.
Suddenly, the proprietor of the bar, a plump, red-faced, middle-aged woman
named Matrissa, swept into the main room. Her strawberry blond hair
was piled messily on top of her head, and she spent half of her time brushing
strands of it out of her round, pleasant face. She called to the
waitress, “Gabrielle, lass, bring our boys something to eat. We don’t
see nearly enough of them lately!” As she approached their table,
she patted Courfeyrac’s head as though he was a child. “We’ve missed you
around here, my little raven-haired dear.”
He grinned back. “Missed ya too, Matty. And see, we brought Enjolras
with us this time, just like you told us to!”
She immediately went over to the blond young man. “Oh, it’s so wonderful
to see you!” She pinched his cheek like the grandmother he’d never had.
“Oh, you’re the baby of the group, Marky…aren’t you just the cutest thing!”
Enjolras endured the warm greeting with surprising patience, while Grantaire
smothered her smirk behind her hand.
Combeferre bit his lip to stop from bursting out laughing, which he suspected
Enjolras would not appreciate. “I just got finished bailing him
and his friend”—he nodded to Feuilly—“out of jail.”
Matrissa’s eyebrows rose. “My little Enjy? Behind bars? I would
have broken you out myself if I had known.”
“Thanks for the pizza, ‘Triss!” Courfeyrac said, stuffing a slice into
his mouth.
“How about you guys do me a favor in exchange? Ian, sing for us,
boy!” Matrissa urged the young man, motioning to the piano sitting alone
in the corner. Combeferre shook his head modestly, smiling.
“No way. I’m exhausted, Matty. I can’t lift a finger, much
less make them play.”
“C’mon. Think of it as a celebration—two handsome young men, rescued
from the hands of the overbearing institution!” The cheerful proprietor
grinned, waving her hands dramatically to emphasize her point. Before
he could decline again, she went over to the piano, saying to Courfeyrac,
“Here, Radley, help me drag this thing out to the center, there’s a good
lad.” Between themselves, they managed to get the instrument out
into the midst of the tables.
Combeferre hesitated, grinning, but his
friends shouted their encouragement, and he finally caved, getting up and
seating himself on the piano bench, only to find that it wobbled horribly.
A Spanish textbook from Enjolras, slipped underneath the offending leg
of the bench, quickly rectified the problem, and Ian cracked his knuckles.
He paused for a moment, probably trying to think of something to perform.
Finally, he addressed his audience, while positioning his hands over the
keys. “I am borrowing this song from John Lennon, but the inspiration comes
from my friends, and my friends alone.” His agile fingers began their entrancing
dance across the keys.
“Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No Hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people living for today
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people living life in peace
You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope one day you will join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A Brotherhood of Man
Imagine all the people sharing all the
world
You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope some day you'll join us
And the world will live as one…”
The young philosopher fell silent, his fingers coming to a graceful halt.
His friends burst into cheers, and Courfeyrac leapt onto his chair, whooping.
The other patrons of the bar joined in drunkenly, and Combeferre blushed
deeply at the praise. He quickly slipped back into his chair, hoping
to flee from the spotlight for the remainder of the evening.
Enjolras smiled proudly. That was his roommate. He took
a draught of his drink, which he’d identified as some sort of strong liquor,
and resisted the wave of dizziness that struck his brain the next second.
Grantaire watched him closely.
“You don’t look so good, little one. I can’t imagine that you have
a very high tolerance for alcohol.”
“’M fine,” was all Enjolras said, glaring at her through lidded eyes.
******************************
Journey
on...
Go
back to the Frat House...