Vincent’s father’s illness had forced him to take a month off work. Prior to that, his duties entailed assisting with price estimates for coral and jade, serving tea to clients, cleaning the shop, and other miscellaneous small tasks. However, once he returned to work, he was forced to confront the stark reality—Richard only ever asked for his “help” because Richard was playing nice. In Vincent’s absence, Richard had run the shop with no trouble.
The shocking bit wasn’t Vincent’s uselessness. It was his arrogance. How come he had never noticed that Richard was a steel mannequin that didn’t need anyone else’s help? Why had he assumed this graceful, slender man was always yearning for someone to come save him? Only then did Vincent realize what pride he’d taken in providing support for such a creature. It was like discovering love and heartbreak in the very same instant. Vincent had never hated anyone like this before. He was ashamed of himself. He had wanted to give Richard his all, and not only had Richard never been aware, Richard had never wanted Vincent’s all. And Vincent had admired him. Vincent had known that they lived in two separate worlds. It had been plain from the moment he asked, out of idle curiosity, where Richard went to university and was told “Cambridge” with nonchalance that suggested Cambridge was nowhere—but he had never realized entirely what that meant. For that, Vincent hated himself.
It had no bearing on Richard’s life whether Vincent was a part of it. But in Vincent’s life—oh, but in Vincent’s life—Richard Ranasinghe played far too great a role.
The moment of this revelation was precisely when Jeffrey reached out to Vincent. Jeffrey’s awful proposal to join forces with him coincided perfectly with Vincent’s ridiculous desire to leave his mark on Richard in any way possible. He was in such a disconnected, dreamlike state that he went along with Jeffrey’s plan before he even knew what he was doing. And kept going along with it. And kept at it and kept at it—and now it was too late to back out.
“Vincent.” Even the tone of Saul’s voice seemed to challenge Vincent—Do you get it now? “If your actions are not quite the opposite of your feelings, then they are certainly not on the same page. If you keep this up, it will tear you apart.”
“Could you spare me the metaphors?”
“Fine. Let me be frank. You should not sell yourself out for a person you cannot bring yourself to hate. This is equivalent to selling your soul piece by bitter piece. A soul should never be for sale, no more than one’s emotions. As I’ve mentioned before, I have some experience in the medical profession, and I will not have anyone killing themselves in such an excruciatingly slow fashion under my very nose.”
An excruciatingly slow suicide.
Oddly enough, the phrase reminded Vincent of his ailing father. The weight of his own horrible deception made him want to tear his head off. His father didn’t want to die; it was the son who longed for his death. Vincent’s father was a pitiful, helpless old man. His was not a prolonged suicide. It was a murder.
What if, Vincent wondered, he ended up in his father’s shoes some day? He imagined his father’s ashen face, exhausted from lying awake all night in that white bed in the narrow room, as the one he saw in the mirror every day. He wondered what it would be like to lead such a pointless life, to suffer such meaningless agony, until death finally claimed him.
What good could come of selling the ground under one’s own feet for the sake of a dream? What was the point of living a life like that?
Marian flashed through Vincent’s mind. Like a swimmer coming up for air, he gulped before forcing a smile. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”
“If only I were so fortunate.”
Vincent said nothing.
“From what I know of you, Vincent, you lack the moral fiber required to be a villain.”
“…Uh, thank you? Is that a compliment?”
“I’ll leave that for you to decide. Now, it’s time you direct your attention back to that pudding. It’s growing quite cold.”
“I don’t care if it gets cold. Mr. Ranasinghe, why did you bring me to this store at all?”
“It wasn’t my idea. Naturally, it was Richard’s.”
“What?”
“Seeing as I had no preference for the location of our talk, he suggested several options.”
There was a whole list of candidates, according to Saul. This store was, apparently, one of them. Vincent didn’t know what to make of that.
“I take it to mean he wants to learn more about your taste in food.” Saul said, sounding like a parent admitting to something embarrassing about their child. “Sweet versus savory and so on.”
“When did you guys have this discussion?”
“Quite recently, as I would hope you can imagine.”
“…So, he really knows what I’ve been doing this whole time?”
“But of course. Now, here is the part you may not be aware of. My pupil is as much of an idiot as they come. Should I tell you how his estimation of you changed when he learned you were selling him out to his cousin? Well, I can’t, because it didn’t. Not in the slightest. It meant nothing to him. Do you understand now? You are the same man you always were in Richard’s eyes.”
“…Are you making fun of me?”
“If not nothing, then perhaps it meant that he trusted you.”
“But why?”
“Haven’t I made it clear? Because this man is an imbecile.”
Which was another way of saying saint, Vincent thought, but he didn’t say it. Admitting that would reduce himself to an ordinary man—just another of that saint’s worshippers. He had to acknowledge that, until now, he had felt like a bit of a chosen one. Now that bubble had finally burst, and Vincent felt ridiculous, pathetic, and—he supposed—a little sad.
He picked up the pudding as Saul had directed and shoveled it into his mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted of nothing at all. Vincent had the sort of metabolism where everything he ate went straight to his midsection; desserts were his mortal enemy. Now, though, he felt like it didn’t matter what he ate. Everything would taste the same.
The restaurant staff members were beginning to glare at them for staying too long, so Saul paid and left with Vincent. The world outside carried on the same way it had before, which seemed so very strange to Vincent that he wanted to laugh at himself. He wanted to go somewhere far, far away. The sooner, the better.