She told him.
Alexandre closed his eyes.
It was the year listed in his adoption records.
The year his known life began.
“When exactly?”
Claire gave him the date.
Alexandre's knees almost failed him.
It was the date he had been admitted to the hospital.
He opened his eyes again.
“What did your son look like?”
Claire stared at him strangely.
“Like the photograph.”
“Did he have any scars?”
She hesitated.
“A little one above his upper lip. He fell against the corner of a table when he was three.”
Alexandre touched his mouth.
Claire's eyes followed his hand.
For the first time, she saw the faint white line.
Her breathing stopped.
Alexandre whispered, “What did you call him when he was frightened?”
Claire's lips trembled.
“What?”
“Please.”
She stared into his eyes.
Then, very softly, she answered.
“My little lion.”
Something broke open inside him.
The street vanished.
He was small again.
Rain hammered against metal.
There was smoke.
Someone was screaming.
Then a woman's arms were around him.
My little lion, stay with me.
Alexandre stumbled backward.
“No...”
Claire's hand flew to her mouth.
He looked at her again, and now he was no longer studying the face of a stranger.
He was searching it.
Age had changed her.
Poverty had hollowed her cheeks, silvered her hair, bent her shoulders, and drawn deep lines around her mouth.
Yet her eyes—
He knew those eyes.
He had spent half his life seeing them in dreams.
His voice collapsed into a whisper.
“Mom?”
Claire stopped breathing.
Julien looked from one adult to the other.
“Grandma?”
Claire did not hear him.
She stepped around the table.
Her legs were trembling so violently that she had to grip its edge.
“What did you say?”
Alexandre's eyes filled with tears.
He had negotiated with ministers without trembling. He had stood before thousands of employees after financial crises and spoken with perfect composure. He had buried his adoptive father without crying until he was alone.
Now he could barely breathe.
“Mom.”
Claire stared at him.
Her hand rose.
Slowly.
Almost fearfully.
She touched his cheek.
Alexandre closed his eyes.
The gesture was familiar.
Impossible, but familiar.
Claire moved her thumb beneath his eye.
Then she pushed his hair slightly away from his forehead.
There, near his right temple, was another small scar.
Her knees buckled.
“Alex.”
He caught her.
“Alex!”
This time she screamed his name.
People turned.
Claire grabbed his face with both hands as if afraid he might disappear again.
“My baby.”
Alexandre's control shattered.
He dropped to his knees on the Paris pavement and wrapped his arms around the frail old woman he had spent more than three decades believing was either dead or unreachable.
Claire fell against him.
For a long time, neither could speak.
They simply held each other.
She touched his hair, his face, his shoulders, crying so hard that her body shook.
“You're alive,” she repeated. “You're alive. You're alive.”
Alexandre pressed his face against her coat.
“I didn't know.”
“My baby.”
“I didn't know where you were.”
“I searched for you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't understand. I searched everywhere.”
Her voice broke.
“I never stopped.”
Julien stood beside them, confused and frightened.
“Grandma?”
Claire looked toward him through her tears.
Then she laughed.
It was a strange sound, half sob and half joy.
“Julien.”
Alexandre turned.
For the first time, he truly looked at the boy.
Claire reached for Julien and pulled him closer.
“This is your uncle.”
Julien blinked.
“My uncle?”
Claire nodded.
“Your father's brother.”
Alexandre stared at the child.
“Father?”
Claire's joy flickered.
The word opened another door.
Alexandre slowly stood.
“I had a brother?”
Claire's face changed completely.