“No, you’re not. You’re telling me what I did wrong.”
Henri sat back.
“Those are not always different things.”
Marc stood.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Marc.”
But the boy was already leaving.
Henri remained at the table.
He listened to the bedroom door close upstairs.
Then he looked toward the workshop.
He knew where the pocket watch stood.
He also knew, although he had not told Marc, that he had enough savings to cover part of the disputed debt.
The difficulty was not simply the amount.
It was the uncertainty.
Henri was unwilling to hand over thousands of francs without knowing whether the claim was legitimate.
He believed Marc needed help understanding the problem rather than a quick payment that might encourage further mistakes.
Yet he had failed to explain this without sounding as though he considered his grandson foolish.
He rubbed his chest.
A familiar discomfort had appeared beneath his breastbone.
He had experienced similar symptoms occasionally over the previous months.
His doctor had advised follow-up after an earlier cardiac event.
Henri had attended appointments and taken medication, but he disliked discussing his health.
He waited until the discomfort eased.
Then he went downstairs to the workshop.
The next morning, Henri found Marc in the kitchen.
The boy looked exhausted.
There were dark shadows beneath his eyes.
Henri placed a cup of coffee beside him.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Marc glanced up.
“About what?”
“Your studio problem.”
Marc straightened.
Henri sat.
“I’ll help you review the documents.”
Marc’s expression fell.
“That’s it?”
“If the claim is valid, we’ll discuss how to settle it.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Then we need to act promptly.”
Marc pushed the coffee away.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain what I’m missing.”
Marc laughed bitterly.
“Everything.”
Henri held his gaze.
“Try me.”
Marc was silent.
Then he said, “You spend your life repairing things nobody wants.”
Henri looked at him.
Marc continued before he could stop himself.
“Old watches. Broken clocks. Stuff people keep because they’re scared to throw it away.”
Henri’s expression changed.
“Careful.”
“No. You asked.”
Marc leaned forward.
“You think my music is a joke because it’s new. Because you can’t open it with a screwdriver and put it back together.”
Henri said nothing.
“At least I’m trying to make something people actually care about.”
The words hung between them.
Henri looked toward the window.
For a moment, his face seemed older.
Then he stood.
“When you’re ready to show me the invoices, I’ll be downstairs.”
Marc laughed.
“Of course. Back to the clocks.”
Henri left.
Marc sat alone at the table.
He had wanted to hurt his grandfather.
He had succeeded.
The satisfaction lasted less than a minute.
Three days later, Marc received another message from Romain.
The studio owner wanted a payment proposal before the end of the week.
Marc responded angrily.
Romain replied with a list of costs.
Some figures were familiar.
Others were not.
Marc examined them and realised, with growing alarm, that he had never properly understood the financial arrangements.
He telephoned Léa, the singer.
She told him she had also disputed several charges.
She had asked for documentation and was considering professional advice.
“You should do the same,” she said.
Marc stared at the paper.
“Romain says he’ll take legal action.”
“Then don’t pay for something you don’t understand.”
“I don’t have money for lawyers.”
“There are ways to get initial advice.”
Marc knew she was right.
He also knew that admitting the situation to Henri would mean acknowledging that his grandfather’s first questions had been sensible.
Pride made that difficult.
Fear made it worse.
That evening, Marc went downstairs while Henri was in the kitchen.
He stood in front of the display cabinet.
The pocket watch shone beneath the lamp.
He imagined selling it.
He imagined transferring the money.
He imagined Romain disappearing from his life.
The watch was not running.
It was a beautiful, useless thing.
He wondered what practical difference its absence would make to Henri.
The old man had dozens of clocks.
Hundreds of watches passed through his hands every year.
Why should one object matter so much?
Marc stepped away.
He told himself he was only thinking.
He had not decided anything.
The storm began shortly after eight on Friday night.
Rain struck the shop windows hard enough to blur the reflections of the streetlights.
Wind pushed water beneath the edges of the old wooden door.
The gutters rattled.
Henri had closed the shop an hour earlier, but he remained at his workbench finishing a repair.
A small brass desk lamp illuminated the movement beneath his loupe.
He worked slowly.
His left hand had been stiff all afternoon.
He paused more frequently than usual.
At one point, he placed the tweezers down and pressed a hand against his chest.
The discomfort passed.
He resumed working.
Upstairs, Marc was on the telephone.
Romain had called again.
This time, the conversation was openly hostile.
He demanded a substantial payment by Monday or a formal written settlement proposal.
