ButterflyMillefeuilles
Summary: An unexpected encounter during Lois’s night at the Opera with Lex pushes her towards some self-awareness and leads to a revelation for Clark.
Part 1 is
HERE ********
Sandrine didn’t reach her apartment till two in the morning, after three aborted leave-takings from Stéphane interlaced with kisses and a promise that they would meet on the morrow for a late brunch.
She felt weary and yet, curiously alert. Rewinding the events of the evening as she would do a movie, her mind kept playing out some scraps of the very… interesting… conversation that had taken place with Luthor and Lois Lane.
Lois Lane…
Since Clark had joined the
Daily Planet, Sandrine had bought issues of the newspapers, eager to read the work of the star reporter Clark admired so much and to keep track with her friend’s work. Indeed, Lane was good. Her writing showed obstinacy in her various quests, hard-hitting quality and a dazzling energy that many of her colleagues would be inspired to emulate. However, Sandrine admitted she much preferred the articles published under the ‘Lane & Kent’ byline. Clark’s compassionate accuracy and Lois’s hard-hitting punch balanced themselves perfectly.
Not that Clark wasn’t a fantastic writer. Sandrine recalled that even in 1991 he had shown more than great promise; he had delivered results. At the time, her ‘American brother’ was an unknown freelance writer looking for a permanent job; she was an aspiring documentarist. They had both realized their goals, and their friendship had flourished in the following years, after an unfortunate hiatus brought by a misunderstanding…
Nevertheless, there was one crossed signal Sandrine hadn’t been eager to smooth. It had taken years, but Sandrine had finally guessed that her friend was also known as Superman; still, she hadn’t disclosed her knowledge to him. What use would it serve, apart from worrying him? Yet, in her epiphany, Sandrine had guessed that Clark had left France because he feared discovery, not because he wanted to break all ties with her. This was all that mattered. Her other questions, Sandrine smothered them along with all her suppositions, knowing that they wouldn’t be answered for a while. If ever.
But tonight was another night. Worry creasing her brow, she slumped in her couch, playing with her address book, opening and closing it at the “K” page.
She checked her wrist watch and, at last, heaving a great sigh, dialed Clark’s number. It was about 9 P. M. in Metropolis. It would have to do. Besides, barring any Superman emergency, Clark should be home, she hoped.
He was.
Two rings and three heartbeats later, a faraway “Clark Kent here!” sounded in Sandrine’s ear.
“Clark!
C’est Sandrine ! [Sandrine speaking.]”
“Sandrine! Are you all right?”
“I am, don’t worry. Just a little mishap.” She willingly accentuated her English accent, blurring her speech and introducing French words and various Gallicisms, hoping that Clark would pick up the clue. “Clark, I am caélling becauze you tolds me that ye can gives to me ze
adresse of Schwarzy-El, that waz so much help when I went
Rue de Rivoli…
Je really [i]ai besoin [need] to see him
absolument [absolutely] very speedily and I misplaced his unlisted
numéro de telephone [phone number].”
“Oh.” Clark went on in French: “Do you need it right now?”
“Have you lost it, too?” Sandrine replied in kind. “
Zut ! [Darn it!] I wanted to contact him in the morning. My old address book went to pieces before I could recopy all of it…”
“And, as usual, you need me as a secretary.”
“Why, Clark! Don’t you want to be on the receiving end of lavish acknowledgments in my next documentary?”
“In very small print, at the very end of the credits? The kind that no one ever reads? Sorry, Sandrine, I’m not losing sleep over it! But you won’t be able to say that I’m not a nice guy. Hold the line, please.”
Sandrine heard some shuffling on the other end, then Clark’s went back online. “I’ve got it.”
He then proceeded to give her Nathalie Baron’s phone number; knowing that Sandrine already had it.
Ouiiiii ! [Yeeeesss!] He got it! Sandrine thought delightedly.
Nathalie was one of her two roommates from her student’s years. They had kept in touch, and she knew that Nathalie was abroad on some assignment with her archeologist husband. Any caller would end up with an answering machine. Clark was perfectly aware of it: Sandrine had written to him with Nathalie’s news a month ago…
She ended up the call with profuse thanks, and hung up. Sandrine settled more comfortably into her couch, wondering how much time would pass before Superman showed up.
*** A tell-tale whoosh heralded Superman’s entrance into Sandrine’s flat. He was flying so fast that his silhouette was a blur before his red boots touched her carpet.
The French-window leading to her narrow balcony stood open. She had dimmed the lighting in her sitting room, leaving only one small light on. Fortunately, Sandrine lived on the top floor of a 1950s residence, her windows facing a blank wall, at the back of a private residential garden. No one would spot the superhero’s landing, so late at night.
As soon as he arrived, Superman went to her window, hastily closing it and drawing the curtains shut.
“It’s okay, Superman,” Sandrine blurted out, springing to her feet. “No nosy neighbors saw you. My downstairs neighbor is away…”
“I made sure of that,
mademoiselle. I’d rather leave the ‘
Superman’s Secret Tryst in Paris’ headlines to the imagination of the American rags,” he began, in perfectly fluent French.
“
Oh, mon Dieu ! I didn’t think of that at all when I phoned Clark! I’m truly sorry…” Sandrine apologized in the same language. “But it was kind of an emergency. I didn’t want to speak openly to Clark on the phone about it…”
For a second, the superhero looked worried, before his face resumed a polite and bland smoothness.
“Won’t you sit down? It may take a while…” Sandrine offered, showing the couch, and sitting back.
As he did so, he threw the folds of his cape back with a practiced gesture.
Like Rudolf Valentino’s, assessed Sandrine irrelevantly.
All these classic movies have finally been of some use to Clark. She looked at her friend with a critical eye. Even up close, no one would easily superimpose a smiling and friendly Clark Kent on the usually terse and statuesque Superman.
Again, she wondered how Clark had managed the deception: had he taken theatrical training in the years between his Parisian months and his world wanderings? Maybe he had. There was a world, even a galaxy, between Superman’s mannerisms and Clark’s body language. What was reality? What was make-believe? Sandrine dearly hoped Clark was the reality; she was too fond of her friend to wish otherwise. Still, now was not the right time for that, and she brushed her curiosity aside.
“First of all, I want to thank you. You saved my life, all those years ago, when I was mugged on the
Rue de Rivoli…”
Superman’s eyes twinkled. “It would be useless to deny it, now. What gave me away?”
“Your feet.”
Artlessly, Superman stole a glance at his red boots. Sandrine giggled. “There’s nothing wrong with them! But, at the time, they weren’t quite touching the ground… Being flat on the pavement gives one a very good observation post!”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry, I only sort of told Clark… and he thought I was bonkers when I nicknamed my masked “guardian angel” Schwarzy-El! I gather he changed his mind about my story when he saw you lifting Space Station Prometheus!”
Superman’s
humph-ed, without committing himself, and she smothered a smile.
Trust Clark to keep sticking to the truth!Coming at last to the point, Sandrine stated: “I met Miss Lane tonight, at the
Opéra. Lex Luthor was with her.”
Without changing his posture, a different rigidity spread through Superman’s frame. Still, he said nothing.
In a few sentences, Sandrine summarized the circumstances and their exchanges with Luthor and Lane, adding: “Something didn’t please me at all…” She swallowed hard. “In fact, it rather alarmed me…”
Superman looked at her hands, and she realized that they were clenched so hard the knuckles showed white.
“Well, Luthor made a point to insist on my involvement with unions… That isn’t a topic one generally touches upon at a
soirée [evening party] at the
Opéra… He also mentioned ‘business’, which was logical, as my previous documentary is about built-in obsolescence. But it has nothing to do with unions…”
Sandrine raised her eyes. They were troubled. “Luthor also mentioned my ‘latest documentary’ which was, as he was seemingly aware, not my
Opéra de Paris current project, but an tentative, in-progress enquiry about the closing-down of a paper mill factory in Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse… Yet, only Stéphane—he’s my
fiancé, by the way!—and the people involved in the protest knew I was interested in it.”
With an effort, she unknotted her hands. “You see, afterwards, I accidentally found out that the owner of
American Papers that bought the factory was…
Lex Investments: at least, that was what the Mayor of Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse told me when I interviewed him…”
Superman bent forward, his stiffness gone in his alertness. “
Lex Investments is a subsidiary company of
LexCorps.”
She looked straight into his almond-shaped eyes. “I’m aware of that. Still, I didn’t see why I couldn’t mention my in-progress documentary to Luthor. Abstaining to do so would have seemed more… suspicious.” Sandrine shrugged. “Actually, I’m not even sure the topic will turn into a proper documentary. One has got to find funding for that… Whatever comes of it, I filmed some material, because I was on the spot.”
“You believe that Lex Luthor was informed of your presence and your actions there.”
“
Oui. However farfetched and improbable that is! I mean, I’m a nobody—”
“—You’re too modest,
Mademoiselle Demazières.”
“I mean… Gathering rushes of the street protest and interviews of the families of the workers hardly merits some… report to the CEO in the States! And they must have done so for Luthor to be aware of my presence there.”
He hesitated. “There were probably camera crews of the local channel covering the protest. There was nothing out of the ordinary in a local news story such as this. But you were an unknown quantity…”
Again, Sandrine marveled at people accepting indiscriminately his knowledge of Earth customs and mores.
“I’m not making a mountain out of a molehill,” she insisted. “There’s something else, and it concerns Clark Kent.”
Superman raised his head sharply. “Clark Kent?”
“
Oui. When we first met Lois, she was alone, and she mentioned that she came at the
Opéra with a friend who was more knowledgeable about opera than she was. I’m afraid I jumped the gun and thought that—her companion was… Clark.”
“Clark?” echoed Superman cautiously.
Fib fast, Sandrine…. she admonished herself.
Telling Clark that she had believed that he-as-Superman had taken Lois to the Opéra was not an option. “Errr… Clark told me in his last letter that I would see him sooner than I expected, when I told him about Stéphane’s contract to sing in
Madama Butterfly. He really was interested and I hoped to introduce my soon-to-be
fiancé to my best friend for the occasion… As Clark often reports your news, I sort of thought you did him and Miss Lane a favor and flew them here…”
Even to her ears, her explanation ringed empty. Fortunately, Superman let it go at that, with a sharp look at her. The corners of his mouth went fractionally up before they resumed their usual impassive line.
Okay… Here it goes. He knows that I know, and I know that he knows that I know, but we’ll go on pretending… Ohh, ‘what a tangled web we weave…’ as the Bard said. “And?” queried Clark-Superman, breaking into her agitated thoughts.
“Luthor burst into our conversation… but I don’t know when he first arrived—what he may have heard before he spoke to us. We just didn’t pay attention. He may have heard me mention Clark.” Sandrine bit her lip. “From what Clark wrote to me, I imagine there isn’t any lost love between them.”
He didn’t react to her last sentence. “You believe that Luthor may have connected you to Clark.”
“And that he imagined that there is a—conspiracy, a—a plot against him or something… and that he might strike back. He is that kind of man. He made it abundantly clear.” She shuddered. “I don’t like the man. All along, he was like a smiling barracuda, aiming for the kill.”
“An apt simile.”
She raised hopeful eyes on him. “Then, you’ll tell Clark to be cautious?”
Oh! Away with restraint and subtext and whatnot! Sandrine took the plunge and insisted: “For his sake and Lois’s. She was plainly very put out when Luthor sneaked up on us. And his attitude was—”
She searched for the right words while Superman waited with rapt attention. “—disturbing. Not tastelessly dismissive, but making it quite obvious that she was out of her depth. He very effectively extracted her from the situation when she was about to disagree with him.”
Superman’s eyes flashed anger, and Sandrine hastily specified: “Not violently; Luthor is much more sophisticated than that. The maneuver was done very efficiently and graciously, but still… This Lois Lane wasn’t the woman I expected from reading Clark’s letters. I’m worried.”
“Are you?”
Sandrine moved closer and put her hand on his. “I
do care for Clark. He’s more than a friend; he’s the brother I never had. And he obviously cares
a lot about Lois Lane. So,
oui, évidemment [of course], I’m worried about Lois. Something’s deadly wrong.”
Clark-Superman disentangled his hand, holding it a moment longer than their officially passing acquaintance justified, then rose.
“I’ll pass on your message to Clark. Don’t worry,
mademoiselle. I’m keeping a close eye on Luthor.”
He took a few steps toward the French windows, signaling the end of their conversation. “Your information about Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse will be of deep interest to Clark and his reporter friends. They are currently trying to unravel Luthor’s web of nominee shareholder companies, front men, tax havens and insurance frauds. This might prove an interesting clue.”
“As long as they proceed cautiously…”
“The same should apply to you. It would be wise to put your project on the back burner for the time being.”
“That’s what Stéphane also said,” Sandrine pouted. “He didn’t like this conversation any more than I do.”
About to reopen the curtains, the superhero paused and looked pointedly at her.
“Oh, all right, I will.”
From his look, he still wasn’t satisfied.
After some thought, she reluctantly acquiesced: “
Croix de bois, croix de fer, si je mens, je vais en enfer! [Cross my heart and hope to die. Literally: ‘Wooden Cross, Iron Cross, If I’m lying, I’ll go to Hell’]” Suddenly, she laughed out and intoned theatrically: “Ladies and Gentlemen, thus ends our Friday Night Special on the theme of Don Juan!”
A hint of a smile on his face, Superman took off.
As a little dot reached the horizon, she whispered: “Clark,
prends garde à toi! S’il te plait… [Watch out! Please…]”
*** 11 P.M. Back in Metropolis, Lois checked her kitchen clock and regretfully poured her fresh coffee cup into her sink. She craved something hot to drink and knew that if she drank her cup, sleep would evade her for the most part of the night. In France, it would now be early morning… She sighed. It still felt weird to live through the same evening twice, even though she knew it was merely a time difference convention.
Still wearing her black dress, but with her evening shoes off, Lois stood on tiptoes and reached inside a cupboard. She was pretty sure she had a packet of herbal tea around here… After a few minutes shuffling, her fingers reached the brightly colored metal tin. What did the instructions say? “
A real pleasure to drink with the intense flavor of red berries, this herbal tea contains…” No, that wasn’t it. “
Pour simmering water, cover and let steep for 5 to 10 minutes”. Simmering water? Lois frowned. She had an electric kettle somewhere but she had no idea where she had stored it. Just thinking about it made her head ache. Would replacing ground coffee with herbal tea do?
A few minutes later, Lois concluded that it really wouldn’t, and poured a second cup of red colored liquid into her sink. She would have to do without her hot drink, she thought with aggravation.
How did Clark do it? It seemed so easy when he did. The thought flitted through her mind before she pushed it away. She would
not think about Clark. Why wouldn’t her mind replay instead the good parts of her evening in Paris?
La Tour d’Argent had been a delight: the view from the oblong room on the
Notre-Dame Cathedral had been magnificent, little dots of lights scattered over the night, rivaling in brightness with the stars.
The floor felt suddenly cold beneath Lois’s stockinged feet.
She remembered how she had averted her eyes from Lex’s
pressed duck, and declined to taste this treat even if it were one of the restaurant’s gourmet dishes. Yet her fish and the chocolate-with-something-else desert had been the most fabulous culinary creation she had ever tasted. Would have Clark pushed her so much to taste some duck?
Clark, again!
She could not rid her mind of his ghost-like presence. He had followed her through all her evening, growing even more palpable when she had met Sandrine. In such a way that Lois had almost expected to see him standing behind her instead of Lex.
But that was ridiculous: how would have Clark joined them? Flying above the Atlantic?Meeting with his friend Sandrine had been disconcerting. Lois knew that such an easy-going guy would make friends easily, and that he had travelled a lot. Yet, meeting face to face one of his overseas friends was… weird. It somehow made Clark less… hers.
Hers? Lois threw back her head so violently with the force of her denial that her neck twanged.
No no no no. Clark wasn’t hers. She had made it abundantly clear during their—err… discussion in the park. Still, Sandrine seemed to take an inordinate interest in Clark’s welfare. Lois’s brow creased suddenly.
Wasn’t Sandrine’s boyfriend… fiancé, whatever… jealous? Was it a French thing, or was she reading something more than there really was? Groping behind her back, Lois’s fingers reached the zipper in her dress. Disrobing, she pushed Clark’s past, present and future as far away from her mind as her dress from her body.
Tomorrow was another day, and Clark Kent wouldn’t be a part of it; Lex would. A slight shiver ran down her spine.
I’m really tired, she rationalized, and promptly prepared to go to bed.
Or… is there something else? a tiny voice tried to make itself heard in the cacophony of her thoughts.
Sleep silenced them all.
*** The first bars of “
Un bel di vedremo” sung by Raina Kabaivanska slowly invaded Lex’s penthouse. It was now night in Metropolis, its repetition no rare treat for a jet-setter like the owner of the building. Instead, it gave him the faint pleasure to somehow cheat time.
Crooning in time with the diva, Lex opened a small drawer in his desk. In it, sat an engraved box, its lid showing the enameled coat of arms of Ludwig II of Bavaria. Opening the case slowly, Lex chose a long steely pin, disdaining a small ornamented dagger.
“I should have chosen a more appropriate musical atmosphere, don’t you think, my pet?” inquired Lex. “Wagner would have lent so much more sophistication to these proceedings.”
He advanced towards a small container. Inside, somehow sensing danger, large lime-green wings palpitated, the four eyespots drawn on the wings staring blindly at the predator with two-feet lurking above them, steel firmly held. Nevertheless, the gloom of the room led false security to the night butterfly, and it stilled after a while.
“You don’t think at all, that’s the problem…. Or should I say, the point?” Lex whispered.
In the terrarium, the giant Luna Moth’s wing tips, shaped like an ornamental train, laid in magnificent repose.
“No, I shouldn’t. Such a pun is unworthy of me. And of your rare beauty,—”
The steel was raised and lowered again, while in the recording, Madama Butterfly sang: “
He will call, he will call / ‘Little one, dear wife / Blossom of orange’”; and, in the wink of an eye, faster than the fake eyes on the pinned butterfly’s wings could sparkle, the captive lepidopteran stood transfixed.
“—my dear Lois…”
FinI hope you liked it! FDK is always welcome... 
