Grand-père! Look, I've done it!" François cried to his grandfather through the massive, expensive cigar that he held in his teeth. The old man rushed into the room.
"What is it, François?" The old man asked, out of breath.
"I won the lotto!" François said, jumping about the living room like a child on Christmas morning and pointing to the tv where the winning numbers were displayed. "Fourteen, twenty-six, thirty-one, eight, and seventy. Look at my ticket, they're all there!" François shouted, handing the winning ticket to his grandfather with excitement. The old man took the time to put on his reading glasses and François watched as his grandfather's face went from confusion and concern to surprise and joy.
"Mon dieu! You won, my boy, you really won!" He cried, meeting François' embrace.
"We will never have to worry about money again, grand-père. Two Hundred Million Euros was the prize and it's all ours!" François was crying now, the smoke from the foul cigar didn't help.
This is the end of heartache for me. Mon petite Françoise, mon chérie Élisabeth, they will have to take me back now. I am a failure no more!
That night, François and his grandfather drank the night away with wine and songs. In the morning, François's grandfather drove him to collect his prize. The two were as giddy as schoolgirls on the drive over.
"I will pay off your home, and get one of my own! Father always said I would live with you forever, but now, I will live in a home grander than any he had seen in his life!" François exclaimed out of the passenger seat window of his grandfather's ancient Renault, the wind smoking his Gitane for him.
François had switched back to cigarettes after his unpleasant experience with cigars. François looked over at his grandfather, expecting the withered man who was more a father to him than his biological one to join him in his exuberance. Instead, the old man's face was stern and solemn, he pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car.
"Grand-père, are you ok? Is it your heart?" François asked, his joy melted into concern for the one man in his entire life that had treated him with dignity and respect.
"No, no, my dear boy. It's just...you must tell me the truth." The old man wasn't looking at François, instead he focused on the dashboard, his face growing ever more grim.
"Anything, papa, ask away." François replied. The old man sighed and adjusted himself in his seat, preparing to say something that François could see he did not want to say.
"Did you use your power to win? Did you look into the future to see the winning numbers?" Grandfather's lips were pursed and he wore the same look he wore when a teenage François had told him that he impregnated Élisabeth. François scoffed.
"Of course! I've never been able to do anything right in my life, this gift was God balancing out order in the world. My whole life I've been good at nothing: never strong, never smart, never athletic, hell, I couldn't even hold down a steady job! And so the lord took pity on me and gave me this gift!" François was confused, seeing his grandfather's concern as a puzzle. The artist flicked his cigarette out of the window and lit another.
Why does he care? I've never been good at anything, so why doesn't he see how this is fair. Not only that, but it's good for both of us!
"If you truly believe that, then I made a mistake somewhere in raising you. This power, this shouldn't be used for yourself. You should be using it to help people." The old man explained. François felt a twinge of irritation.
"What do you mean? I already did! I stopped the bank robbers didn't I? You're telling me I shouldn't use it for myself ever?" François had switched from jubilant about his winnings to incensed about his grandfather's disapproval of his methods in mere moments, jabbing towards the old man with his lit cigarette.
He knows, he knows this is the only thing special about me, he's trying to take it away!
"I'm saying you shouldn't use it for financial gain. It's unethical, being a player in a game of chance and knowing exactly how to win. Not even the people who run the lotto know what the numbers will be. It is fair and even, you've changed that balance, it's essentially cheating. Think of all the other people who bought tickets, hoping to win. Your actions are a bit selfish, no?" The old man remained calm, his tone measured and even. It enraged François even further.
"To hell with you! I won this on my own using my abilities. Anyone else in my position would have done the same! Stop the car!" François demanded.
They were close enough for him to walk to the corner store where he bought the winning ticket. The old man pulled over without another word and François stormed out of the car. He charged down the street, walking as fast as one could without it becoming a jog, his legs fueled by the fire in his belly feasting on his grandfather's words
I'm selfish? I'm a cheat? No, I am a superhero! I stopped a bank robbery by seeing the future. I am humble, a lesser man would've told the police of his actions for want of a medal. Not me, I am a silent protector. And does a silent protector not deserve a bit of pay? After all, how can I be a superhero if I don't have my lair in the attic, and for that I need rent.
François entered the corner store owned by a kindly Moroccan immigrant, Hosni. The foreign man waved at François upon his arrival, François pushed down the anger and resentment he felt towards grand-père to return the wave with a smile.
Perhaps I should buy something for us to celebrate together with? François went to the back of the shop and found the most expensive wine available, a twenty euro bottle of red. He then joined the queue, two men in front of him, and continued to fume over his grandfather's word.
Does he think that he'll shame me into not collecting the money? Perhaps he wants me to claim it, but then give it all to him. 'François, it's the noble thing to do'. Bah, to hell with him! I'll have a whole host of new people to celebrate with once I have my money.
The queue moved forward, a man in a turtleneck finished paying and walked out of the store. Then, the man in a tan jacket standing ahead of François approached the counter.
"How can I help you today, sir?" Hosni asked in his heavily accented French.
"You can help by emptying the register!" The man in the tan jacket growled before pulling a knife out of his pocket and, using his other hand, grabbed Hosni by the beard and held the knife close to his neck. François and Hosni froze. Their eyes met, Hosni's pleading and François' terrified.
"The register, you old bastard! Now!" Barked the robber. Hosni hurriedly opened the register without a word and pulled out all the coins and bills he could.
The robber shoved Hosni back from the counter and snatched up all the money on the counter before fleeing out the door with great haste. François stood still, his eyes transfixed on the back wall.
Then, stepped forward cautiously. He rang the service bell on the counter. Hosni groggily rose to his feet, his nose bleeding from his landing. Hosni was about to say something, but François cut him off.
"I'd like to redeem a ticket, please." François said in a shocked monotone before pulling the winning ticket from his pocket and handing it to the store owner, then lighting a cigarette, burning his own hand with the lighter as his hands shook so badly.
The police had one-hundred and one questions for François. 'What color was his hair?' 'What was he wearing?' 'How tall was he?'. But the artist was still on autopilot and didn't even remember answering any of them, but the questioning felt like it took hours. As he sat on the curb in front of the shop, a blanket provided by the police wrapped around him, François couldn't stop replaying the event over and over again in his head. Asking himself a question about the past as often as the scene happened in his head.
What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? But there was nothing left to be done, the police were packing up and Hosni had been taken to the hospital, only as a precaution.
"Is there anyone we can call for you?" A female officer asked him.
"Mon grand-père, s'il vous plaît." His shaking hand offered the police officer his cell phone. A moment later, his grandfather arrived and ran out of the car, faster than François thought to be possible for his old bones.
"François! François! Are you alright? What happened?!" The old man shook François by the shoulders.
"I turned in the ticket, grand-père, we're rich." François' head moved like a slow spinning top, about to tip over. "Don't shake me, I'm doing it to myself already." François breathed.
The old man laughed, grabbed François' head between his palms, and kissed his forehead.
"The ticket be damned! I'm just happy you're alive! Young lady, would you be so kind as to help me put my grandson in the car?" Grand-père asked the police woman. She nodded and they both lifted François to his feet, shaky as they were, like a newborn deer.
Back at home, François was sitting on the couch in the living room, the news was on but he didn't watch it so much as he stared through the tv, letting the noise wash over him. Grand-père has made him tea and the old man busied himself in the kitchen making bouillabaisse.
"You think she'll take me back, grand-père?" François called to the kitchen.
"What?" The old man asked, looking away from the stew for a moment.
"Mon cœur, Élisabeth. I won't owe her any more money once my check comes. I'll be able to send Framçoise to any school she wants. Lizzy will surely love me again, no?" François questioned himself and his grandfather. The old man tutted his way to François with a bowl of fish stew and set it on the table in front of him before heaving a big sigh.
"Your grandmother's recipe, of course. What's all this business about Lizzy?"
"I'm going to win her back. I was too poor to take care of her and Françoise back then, that's why she left." François explained.
The old man grimaced and eased back into his chair, then:
"Mon fils, there is more to life and love than money. Lizzy may take you back, I have no way of knowing, the heart is a secret locked in a vault shrouded in mystery and even through all my years I've only been able to crack it once. But women, they are like the snowflakes, each one with her own pattern. But what I do know is this: if you do try to win Élisabeth back, do not do it with money and favors. Do it with truth, humility, and honesty. I've known her enough to know that she never cared about money, and she didn't leave, you did." The old man spoke in a low voice, each word enunciated, as if he was talking to a slow child.
"I had to, Grand-père, you know I did! I could not pay for a child or pregnant woman. I had to pursue my art so I could become famous and pull all of us from poverty!" François pleaded.
"So you say, mon fils. Eat your stew, you'll need to recover all the strength you can after what happened today." The old man turned away from François and pretended to watch Tv.
François took a spoonful of broth into his mouth, the taste of salt and fish reminding him of the ocean.
Back when I was young, with Lizzy, down by the beach. We were beautiful then, I was bronze and rippled with muscle like Poseidon, and she was my curvy little sea nymph, pale skin shining in the sun. We can go back to those days, like it used to be. Me and her, frolicking in the sand. Of course, Françoise will be there too, making a lovely sand castle. Wait, is she too old for that? What do teenagers do at the beach? Oh....I hope she will not be doing that. Wouldn't want her ending up like her poor mother, now would we?
François finished his stew and went up to the attic, the ancient steps creaking under foot. He looked around at the veritable hovel he once called home.
Soon, I will have a closet this size, with a room three, no, four times as big to live in!
He threw himself onto his lumpy mattress and looked up at the rafters he once tried to hang himself from, an old painting he had done stuck up there, laid across the beams. The sunken visage of a woman, all done up in blue, looked down at him from her tattered and patched throne holding a bowl full of crumbs.
Lady Poverty, I painted you when I had nothing. Now look at me, envious that I am your whipping boy no more!
François smiled to himself and drifted off into sleep, planning how to spend his riches before his dreams took him. And in his dreams, there were no riches, only blood.Though he would not remember when he woke, blood, and a giant.