Over the past two weeks, Cyril got in the habit of eating breakfast at La Bohème every day and extending it with a coffee or a beer. Or two. But he made it a question of honor not to overstay Jeanne’s hospitality, especially during the busy hours between midday and three in the afternoon when the bistro sounded like a beehive on Prozac. Besides, it made him uneasy being in the midst of a small crowd emitting all kinds of noises and talking all at the same time.

But excepting the lunch-hour madness, La Bohème was a pleasant enough place to be, even at dinnertime. Besides Jeanne, another waiter looked out for him there—Rob, the tone-deaf fan she’d warned him about. He loved to quote from Cyril’s lyrics, of which he had an impressive knowledge. Rob had just finished grad school and received a job offer abroad. He was friendly and upbeat, even if Cyril could detect unmistakable notes of sadness in his voice every now and then. But Rob denied having any defensible cause for complaining about his life.

A couple of days earlier, when Cyril pressed him about the indefensible causes, Rob took some time to consider his reply. “I’ll tell you a story,” he finally said. “Once upon a time, there was a penniless knight. Actually, he wasn’t even a real knight. He was a commoner pretending to be a knight so they’d let him compete in tournaments.”

“You’re shamelessly plagiarizing A Knight’s Tale,” Cyril cut in.

“Only the setup. Great movie, by the way.”

“I agree. But go on.”

“So this fake knight signed up to slay a dragon for a briefcase of gold.”

“A satchel,” Cyril corrected. “For the sake of period detail.”

“Period detail, huh? It’s my story, remember?”

“A little historical accuracy can go a long way, mon cher Passepartout.” Cyril held up his index finger, imitating Phileas Fogg from Jules Verne’s classic.

Rob snorted. “OK. You want accuracy? I’ll give you accuracy: It was a pouch of gold. Now stop distracting me.” He tut-tutted. “Where was I? Ah yes, the knight slays the dragon and frees the damsel—”

“You didn’t say anything about a damsel.”

“That’s because she didn’t matter to the knight at the beginning. He was only after the gold. Anyway, the knight and the damsel travel back to the capital, and it turns out she’s amazing—you know, fun and kind and… sweet. The journey ends way too soon, and they bid each other farewell in front of her parents’ house. The next day, the king tells the knight, ‘Dame Elena—the damsel you rescued—likes you. You may marry her if you renounce the gold.’ ”

“And the knight?”

“The knight says, ‘I’ll keep the money, thank you.’ ”

“I suppose he later regretted that choice?”

“Something like that.”

Other than this allegorical confession, Rob never discussed personal matters. Most of the time, he shared well-observed tidbits of the goings-on at the bistro, which invariably brought a smile to Cyril’s face. Unlike everyone else in his life, including his best friend, Adrien, Rob didn’t go out of his way to avoid subjects that might upset him.

It was refreshing.

Last night Cyril went to La Bohème on a fact-finding mission. He intended to secure an objective description of his appearance from Rob. During the first two months after the accident, he’d hardly given any thought to the issue, the enormity of his blindness occupying all his available gray matter. Until a few weeks ago, he'd believed he didn’t care what he looked like. He’d had no plans to grow obese or scruffy, of course, but his scars hadn’t been a concern.

That was before Gerrie started avoiding him.

As expected, Rob turned up during his break. “I’ll be leaving for Thailand in ten days,” he said, pulling up a chair. “This week is my last at La Bohème.”

“Bonne chance.” Cyril paused and then took a long breath. “I want you to tell me if I look creepy.”

“Wow. You don’t bother with smooth transitions, do you?”

Cyril shrugged. “I can assess the size of my scars, but I have no way of gauging how bad they look. How bad I look.”

“Um… Well…”

“Listen, I need you to be completely honest and describe what you see without choosing your words. I can’t trust my family or friends to do that, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me.”

“OK. Fine.” Rob went silent for a brief moment. “Here goes. Your forehead is a mess. Big purple-red scars all over, curving and crisscrossing. How did you manage that?”

“Hit the windshield.”

“You should consider growing bangs. Thick and long. And sideburns. And maybe combing your hair forward at the temples? You know, Beatles-style.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“Bad, but not creepy. Believe me, you don’t look scary.”

Cyril nodded.

“Will the scars fade with time?” Rob asked.

“Somewhat.”

“But I’m sure modern medicine can do something, right? What did the doctors tell you?”

“They told me they could diminish the redness with lasers and they could thin them surgically.”

“So?”

“The surgical revision has to wait until a year after the accident. But the laser can be done in a few months, as soon as the scars are ‘mature.’ ”

“That’s good news,” Rob said. “Hey, the other good news is that the bottom half of your face is totally presentable. Whatever scars you may have there are hidden behind that neat beard you’ve got going. Who trims it for you?”

“My dad. He’s had a beard most of his adult life, so he’s really good.”

“Aren’t you lucky?”

“I know. It’s crazy, right?”

“And there’s more good news. Your mouth area looks good. I’d say you have a sexy mouth, man.”

Cyril snorted.

Rob cleared his throat loudly. “Correction. I would have said it. If I were gay.”