The plane ride is uneventful.
Cato falls asleep. Valentine falls asleep. Jean sits miserably in the back of the plane and is investigated by chickens.
Jean looks bewildered by this distinction.
“...we really do have an alarming amount in common.”
...this is, if possible, more bewildering.
"I'm -- sorry?" he attempts, because having an alarming amount in common with him seems like it merits condolences.
“No, please, don’t be. It’s refreshing, really.”
Jean has absolutely no idea what to make of all this.
For lack of a better idea, he starts in on the food.
...well, all right.
“I’ll be back in the evening. I — would advise remaining downstairs, for the moment.”
Jean is alone with his books.
Jean finishes his food -- showers -- occupies himself with the books, for most of the day.
(He pauses, occasionally, for interludes of misery, of self-loathing, of longing. But mostly he reads.)
Jean fails to discover this, on account of the fact that he is not opening his door without explicit instructions to do so.
Which means that when Valentine returns home, he returns to a sandwich.
He moves it out of the way, and makes a note, before he steps inside.
He walks in with a small savory pie — clearly not his work, given the state of his arm.
“I’ll need to ask our benefactor when the books are arriving. I doubt these will last you long.”
"You're too kind, sir," Jean says, very earnestly, "thank you."
He halfway smiles.
“You’ll earn them. You did promise me those scripts — I look forward to your recovery.”
He's somewhat conflicted about the scripts; Valentine reading his writing is one thing, but spending that long dwelling on breaking Valentine's bone is quite another.
(He's not at all conflicted about the half a smile.)
“...in the meantime — I wonder if you have any questions for me.”
"...what sort of questions, sir?"
“You tracked me for ten years. I imagine there’s something you’re curious about.”
...he supposes it's harmless to tell secrets to a dead man.
"There are a few points I've wondered about," he admits. "Ah -- off the top of my head -- I'm sure you recall the interpreter? We never did settle how it was that the doorman didn't see you, that night."
“...ah. Yes, her. I had already entered the building that afternoon — a friend of mine lived in the complex at the time. I left the next morning.”
"But how -- ah. Of course. The mailroom." He shakes his head. "...was the incident at the convent you?"
“...I was involved, but I didn’t carry it out, no. We had been corresponding — she desperately wanted to die, but couldn’t bring herself to give permission, as far as I could tell. The woman who put us in touch took it into her own hands. I suppose it worked.”
He looks smug, just for a moment.
"The general -- was it for the rape you killed him, or for the order he gave?"
He can go on with this for as long as Valentine will allow.