Thank you, you two!!
Passed Over, it's funny that you said that it'd be harder on a girl, considering what I wrote in this chapter.
Hot4Gerry, hi, yeah, the past will be filled in. I'm always a fan of filling in things.
I guess I should have started the story in a different order...But it can't be helped now.
Chapter 3A.
It wasn't fair.
Those childish words had been one of the first things Chara inwardly screamed after she was given her daughter. Children should be born perfect, children should be born sweet and beautiful, a parent should not have this feeling that their world is crumbling as they hold their newborn, knowing that the child's years of happiness will be scarce. The world is cruel. Each beat of Chara's heart gave her a new slur that her daughter would eventually be given – monster, demon, hideous…She rocked her daughter in misery trying to erase the future she would have by replacing those taunts with labels of her own – lovely, beautiful, mine.
Before she heard the footsteps of the man she was married to, she had a moment to reflect on how she even came to be here, the wife of a virtual stranger and the Mother of a son who seemed to have been offered every advantage life deemed important, by God – attractiveness, an intelligence beyond his age, an insatiable curiosity and such charisma – and a Daughter who seemed would have nothing. Oh, why? If she were to be cursed with such an affliction as this why must she have been born a girl? A boy was expected to have potential and grew into a young man who could be independent and make his own way into the world – a girl was born chained to the man she called Father and grew into a young woman where the chain would be passed to her husband. Women depended on men to survive their whole lives – but with such a spoiled face, how would her daughter possibly attract a husband? How would she survive?
Chara had been born and raised in Paris until twelve years of age when her widowed Father (because of business reasons) had taken her younger sister and herself to Holland to live. It was there that she fell in love with gardening after seeing the magic carpet of flowers that adorned all the parks. Her younger sister had been enthralled by theatre and parties and champagne, but she had been more than content just to wander those parks by herself, sketching the tulips and marigolds and every other bloom imaginable. She wasn't particularly talented of course, but capturing their beauty wasn't her aim. It was so she could remember how they were arranged so she could try and replicate it at home in her own garden. It took her breath away that with mere seeds that were no bigger than a grain of sand the Lord gave them the opportunity to play creator.
It was when she was twenty years of age that the sound of a haunting violinist accompanied her visits to a particular park. Music did not rule her life as it did her sister (or was it really the men at those music gatherings that ruled her sister?) but she appreciated a pretty tune as much as the next person. It must have flowed into her unconsciously, for she found after awhile that she did not visit any other parks – infact she rarely meandered around the flowers anymore. She found herself sitting on a bench, her drawing paper and her pencils lying forgotten by her side as the music lulled her. Mournful music that seemed to tug at her, invisible strings tying her to the musician every time she heard him.
She actually didn't know if the musician was infact a he for she had never seen the figure. She appreciated his music from afar, never even thought to venture to see the one responsible. That was until his music ceased. One morning (after approximately a year of listening to him) he just was not there and the music did not return for two weeks. Chara became fretful, like a lost dog, wandering around in a state of agitation. She was ashamed when she realised she had become – in a way – addicted to this stranger.
She had not been as adept as her sister in learning the language, thus her days were spent mostly solitary. After cooking for her Father and sister and carrying out the everyday chores, she would meander the gardens of Amsterdam or perhaps go to mass. Without any human friend to accompany her, she took solace in the Lord and the saints. In a way this musician had been her first friend in Holland that was not of divine means. Though, she liked to think of him as an Angel, unseeing but there. But when the music stopped, she felt so incredibly helpless and alone. She did not know what to do. She couldn't ask if anybody had seen him, for she did not even know what this person looked like and she was not very good with the language…So she did the only thing she thought she could do. In the massive cathedral that she went to each day to sit through mass, she lit a candle for this unknown Angel of hers.
She did not really expect anything to happen, but two days later when she arrived at the park the music had returned. The musician was back! But – was it the same musician? For the music seemed different – restrained, controlled, unemotional. Her heart plummeted when she realised he must have been replaced.
She followed the music anyway, until she found a lone cloaked man in a corner, swaying as he played the violin. There was nothing remarkable about him except for one thing – under a fedora that was pulled low, a slither of white masked half of his face. She stepped forward curiously, was the mask in some way indicative of something in his act? No, it didn't seem to be…She stood in front of him and unlaced her purse, scattering a few coins in the open violin case. She felt pity for him, it wasn't his fault he was nowhere near as good as the other violinist – he was still above average after all, just not a maestro – and he must have injured his face in some way. There were a lot of older war veterans that begged for money or food on the streets, perhaps he was one of them?
She turned to walk away when she noticed something odd – she had assumed he was swaying to the music when she had been a short distance away from him, but it was only now she realised he was having trouble maintaining his balance. And the part of his unmasked face looked so incredibly pale – and his fingers holding the bow were trembling. He was ill!
It was when she realised this that she heard a soft groan from the man and his legs buckled from underneath him as he collapsed onto the pavement. She ran forward and bent down, taking him by the shoulders and not knowing what to do, she rubbed his back gently with her hand as he vomited. He remained crouched for a few moments, obviously humiliated and muttered something in Dutch.
She could not completely understand what he was saying – it sounded as if he was saying get away from me – but she couldn't be sure.
"I' droevig m, I can' t begrijpt. I' m het Frans." I'm sorry, I can't understand. I'm French.
He looked up at her then and to her surprise he answered in her native tongue fluently, with a hiss "Get away from me!"
She did not move for a moment proud of herself that she had actually understood the Dutch correctly in the first place, but then cried out "Oh!" and moved back at once.
She stared at him as he tried to stagger to his feet but he wavered again and she moved back over to him soothingly, "Don't be silly, you are in no fit state to move. Please, let me help you."
She could see he had to ponder that for a little while, then nodded reluctantly. She bent down and carefully placed his violin in the case, closed it, tucked it under her arm and took his arm so he could lean against her.
"You should not be out when you're so sick Monsieur Maestro," she scolded good-naturedly, "I'll take you home. Where do you live?"
He mumbled something abashed and she had to look at him confused, "The…The cathedral? Is that what you said?" She had been distraught she would never hear him again only just before this morning and all that time he had been at the place she went to everyday, and the place where she had lit a candle for him!
He sighed, obviously talking was an exertion for him but he answered in a slur, "Underneath the cathedral. The priests let me stay there…My music entrances them…"
She paused before she asked, "Have you been playing here for nearly over a year?"
He was so weak she had to pull his arm around the back of her neck and take most of his weight. She struggled for a moment until she got used to his bulk and then began to walk again. She blushed a little as his head flopped on to her shoulder and could feel his fretful breathing, but she could not stop helping him now.
"Mmm…" was his answer.
She replied, still trying to be cheerful, "Oh, you poor thing, you must be sick. I've been listening to you since you began playing here and today you just sounded so uninspired."
She managed to lead him the few blocks to the cathedral and with her foot kick open a back door that led down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the caverns of the cathedral. She expected it to be pitch black, but a mass of lit candles were scattered around the large area. As soon as she reached the place the man collapsed to the floor and with his remaining strength he crawled over to his meagre pallet where he pulled down the blanket and fell on his back. His hands wavered as they went to cover his face and she could hear the tremor in his voice when he begged, "Please, over in the corner there is a small bottle. Please pass it to me."
She did as he said and handed the bottle of medicine to him, uncorking it. He gratefully took it and drank a mouthful. He gave it back to her as he coughed, revolted at the taste but then said, "Thank you girl. Take the…" he stopped, breathing hard, then continued, "Take the coins you gave me in the park. You deserve them back for helping me. Then go."
"I'm not taking your money," she said quietly, "Please, is there any way I can help you?"
"No…Just go…Oh God!" he moved to his side and she ran forward quickly, grabbing a bowl where he emptied the contents of his stomach.
Immense pity surged through her when she thought of him left alone here and so she did as he told her. She left, but returned later that afternoon with a bucket full of fresh water and a covered bowl of hot soup she had made. He was too weak to argue and so bending down she drizzled cool water over his feverished forehead with a towel drenched from the bucket she had brought, the cold beads making him croon with contentment.
"Silly man," she sighed, dabbing the half of his unmasked face gently, "Why are you down here all by yourself?"
She knew he was passing in and out of consciousness, but she stayed with him till he was lucid enough that she could help him drink the chicken soup that she had made. He lay back down afterwards and fell into a deep sleep. After she wiped his mouth she stood up and finally left him.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked her the third day that she came, "I am a complete stranger, I could be dangerous…I…"
She gazed at him calmly, caressing his unmasked cheek with her forefinger and thumb tenderly, "What kind of a person would I be to have left you? And technically I am obliged to you anyway."
He looked at her curiously and asked her what she meant.
She laughed, "I was entertained by your music for a whole year before giving you some coins. I am very much overdue with payment," she then paused, "You have no idea how lonely I have been here in Holland. I barely know the language, I…I'm sorry, I'm being dreadfully pathetic. But your music was one thing that kept me company. I only ventured to the park because of you after awhile, and I didn't even realise it. You have been a great friend to me, Monsieur Maestro. I could even call you my Angel."
She was surprised to feel him moving away from her and hear him bark, "I am no Angel, unless you mean an Angel of Death. You do not know what I have been capable of doing in my past."
"Do you mean – mean the war? Your face – it was injured there?" she asked.
He looked at her thoughtfully, "Yes," he finally replied bitterly, "A war. That's right."
She nodded understandingly, "War is a horrible thing – what people are forced to do for the sake of country and honour…But tell me, you are French. How long have you been here?"
"I left Paris quite a few years ago," he closed his eyes tiredly, "I travelled around Europe for quite some time before I settled underneath this cathedral a year and a half ago. And that's all I want to talk about concerning that."
Chara nodded and stood to leave, then said before she left, "I understand you think you have done ghastly things, but your music is truly beautiful to me."
She could not comprehend why he muttered under his breath, "Yes, the music. It's always the music that they find beautiful," but she left nonetheless without a further word.