Games of Chance

"Merde!" Erik moves from one section of the floor to ceiling bookcase, withdrawing an occasional tome, before shoving it back into place, without even examining the pages. "Who organized these books?"

Upon returning from their outing, he removed his hat, jacket and mask – taking only the time to put them in the armoire in the foyer before his assault on the bookcase, both physical and verbal. For the most part, Christine has no idea what he was saying – likely takes on merde in the assorted languages of his repertoire – knowing only his frustration was growing as he was unable to find what he sought among the hundreds of books.

Since he organized the books, she remains silent on the topic. Leaving him to his search, she deposits her parasol and reticule on the small table next to the armoire, then retires to their bedroom to remove her day dress in exchange for a softer, cooler dressing gown. Thankful that, although his urgency to return home from their Sunday walk was obvious throughout their dejeuner, he restrained himself and actually partook of a meal.


"It is rather nice to have our luncheon outside, being served – not having to be concerned about cooking or cleaning up afterwards."

"Yes, my dear," he said, thrumming his fingers on the small round table in a corner of the outside patio, where he could observe the activity on the street – without much attention being paid to him. The café was less than 300 meters from where Erik hailed their cab to where he asked to be dropped off.

Accepting his comment that this café was excellent – although how he would know was a question she chose not to ask. The ambiance was pleasant, the tables somewhat larger than usual with a small wrought iron barrier separating the eating area from the foot traffic. They were seated immediately and the food served efficiently without mishap.

"The duck confite is quite wonderful – I do not recall ever having such a divine dish."

"Yes, my dear."

"I do not believe I have ever been served a whole raw potato before – with a sauce of mustard and mushrooms."

"Yes, my dear. It is all quite wonderful," he said, absently, staring down the street toward the café where Alex was conversing with a heavy-set man in white.

"I think I should like an entire St. Honore cake for dessert."

"Whatever you wish, my dear."

Pounding her fist on the table, rattling the water glasses and silver, she said, "Erik, where is your mind?"

"What?" His focus redirected to his wife, whose face was flush with anger, her mouth pursed and eyes burning into his now that he was paying attention to her again. "What? You are enjoying your food, I heard you say so."

"What did I say?"

"Um."

"Exactly. Um."

"I am sorry. I fear my curiosity has been piqued by our young friend, Alex, and what on earth he is doing at that café with that man."

"Is it so odd?"

"In a word – yes."

"You are friends with Nadir."

"That is different – and not the issue."

"Then what is the issue?"

With one last look down the street, he turns his attention fully to her, leaning forward in his seat. "When I was so rudely ignoring you – for which I am deeply sorry and cannot understand how it might have happened…"

Rolling her eyes, she waved her hand, encouraging him to continue.

"There appeared to be some sort of exchange – possibly money – on the street, at midday between a Muslim man and someone he would likely consider an outsider…and they were laughing," he said. "I wish I could get closer – to see his face, which seems vaguely familiar, but I cannot be certain."

"I see – well, I do not see, but understand that you are disturbed by it, so I shall hold my opinion," she said. "Perhaps, Nadir can explain."

"He will likely be as confused as I, but I will certainly discuss this with him," Erik said, taking a sip from his glass of wine. "Do you really want an entire St. Honore cake after the lovely eclairs? I suppose it would be tasty after the raw potato with mustard and mushrooms, however, I must agree that the duck confite was excellent."

A delighted laugh escaped her mouth, dropped open in surprise. Tossing her napkin at him, she said, "So you were listening. You will never cease to amaze me."

"I certainly hope not" was his response as he rose from his seat to help her to her feet. Signaling the waiter that he was leaving payment on the table, he took her elbow, guiding her back to the street hailing another cab to take them home.


Returning to the sitting room, Christine watches him, arms akimbo, mildly amused at his search – for what she has no idea – although somewhat concerned because he appears to be on the verge of apoplexy. His face florid – she cannot recall seeing him so flushed – the damaged side the color of blood. Perspiration forms rivulets down his cheeks, and his once pristine shirt is marred by perspiration marks.

"The damned box was among the religious texts. I am certain of it."

"What box – why would a box be among books?" She asks.

"To disguise it, so no one could find it." Moving the ladder, he tackles another section.

"Who exactly do you think would have been looking for something in your bookcase, Erik? You lived as a hermit."

"Not there – here. I hid it here – on these shelves somewhere." Abandoning the search, he climbs down.

"Hid the box from whom? Me?"

"No. Not you – everything I own or ever will own is yours – outsiders, visitors. We have visitors now."

"And you think one of our friends is going to take one of your books that is actually a box?"

Sighing deeply, defeated, he turns to look at her. "I suppose not." He flops down in one of the pale green armchairs, flanking the hand-carved rosewood game/chess table.

"This box – what does it look like?"

"A very large black book."

Christine walks over to the coffee table in front of the sage green damask settee and picks up a large black box – replicating the look of an aged leather bound Bible – and carries it over to him. "This?"

"What was it doing there?"

"You set it there – I just assumed it was a decorative piece. It was locked, but felt you would show me whatever it was inside when you were of a mind to do so."

"And I thought it was the Bible."

Christine snickers at his chagrin.

Soon, he joins her. "No more moving house. It is enough we have two abodes."

"For someone whose life has been scattered all over Europe and the Asias, you do like order."

"I am an architect – symmetry is important to me. That skill enabled me to acquire some of the objects in this box."

If you are speaking of Persia and the Shah – it also almost cost you your life."

"A minor point, my dear," he chuckles, retaining his good humor.

"So what is so important in the locked box you nearly made yourself ill?"

"Not locked, just secured." Showing her how to unlatch the golden clasp, he opens the casket, retrieving another smaller container, from which he removes a deck of playing cards. "As Nas traditional cards." Putting the larger box on the floor, he says, "Sit down, let me show you." Moving the chess pieces aside, he shows her the cards. "Leopards representing the As or Ace. The Shah, Bibi, Serbaz and Couli."

"They are beautifully drawn – works of art in themselves, but no change of suit."

"There are many designs – some erotic – this deck is very traditional," he says. "The idea is to have the best hand – a trio and a pair, three of a kind, or just a pair – Ace the highest."

"But if gambling is against the Muslim beliefs?"

"Playing cards for pleasure is not sinful, it is the betting that is considered to be against the teaching of the Quran. The idea being that man should earn his money and not be dependent on the winds of chance. It is also believed that gambling and drinking – most vices – are disruptive to the family. However, an activity being sinful does not necessarily mean a person is not going to partake. In fact, I would suspect there is more sinning than some would like to admit – no matter the religious persuasion."

"Perhaps when you tell all of this to Nadir, more sense can be made."

A frown crosses his brow. Persia again. His eyes shift back to the carved ebony box, an artifact purchased in Italy, after his escape, when he finally felt safe enough to settle. The resemblance to a book appealed to his desire for misdirection. Each item had a story, related to a chapter of his life – so completely appropriate for the treasures he was able to retain once imprisoned by the Shah – as well as the jewels selectively procured from the Palace. Over the years, new items were added, a modest collection of mementos, by many standards. Would that life never be entirely behind him?

"No more of this today." Erik stands, offering her his hand. "Come let us read our book." After taking the Hugo volume from the shelf, they walk to the settee.

"What of Alex?"

"A man who had to live by his wits. Charming and gifted – but there is a darkness behind his eyes. Cast out from his family – having to disguise himself."

"You are saying he wears a mask?"

"Yes, of sorts. Like recognizes like, my dear."

Despite the heat, Christine shivers, snuggling closer. "I liked him."

"Continue to do so – there is no reason not to."

"But you are wary of him."

"I am wary of everyone, Christine. Have you not noticed?" With that he opens the book to the page marked with a satin ribbon.

"Unable to rid myself of it, since I heard your song humming ever in my head, beheld your feet dancing always on my breviary, felt even at night, in my dreams, your form in contact with my own, I desired to see you again, to touch you, to know who you were, to see whether I should really find you like the ideal image which I had retained of you, to shatter my dream, perchance, with reality. At all events, I hoped that a new impression would efface the first, and the first had become insupportable. I sought you. I saw you once more. Calamity! When I had seen you twice, I wanted to see you a thousand times, I wanted to see you always." *


Before allowing the door to be closed behind her, Adele turns to her husband, taking his face – having lost the firm skin of youth, comfortably handsome with graying hair at his temples, eyes lined with wrinkles born of both laughter and the sun of his homeland – into her slim hands. Hands as graceful as the rest of her body – speaking the language of dance as much as her now ruined feet had done for so many years. Pressing her lips to his, she says, "I am so happy to be loved by you."

Wrapping an arm around her, he uses the other to close heavy wooden door to their flat on the Rue de Rivoli, shouting distance, if one was so inclined from Erik and Christine's apartment. The woman he holds in his arms never fails to surprise and enchant him.


The backstage area was dark – Nadir was certain the directions given him by the managers were purposely confusing. Despite his deference to their position here at the Palais Garnier, he supposed a certain bigotry might exist. His patronage was certainly welcomed – their eyes were always eager when he appeared to make a contribution towards productions of which he was particularly fond. And yet, the guardedness was always there – their inability to speak to him without caution. In some respects it was amusing, watching them stumble over themselves to call him the honorable Monsieur Khan, despite his assurances that he had no title, was simply a retired sheriff from Persia who enjoyed opera and, most especially, the ballet.

It occurred to him that it might be his hat – the astrakhan hat did arouse looks, no matter that there was a sizable middle-eastern community in Paris – if anything, his general attire was closer to theirs than that of his Muslim brothers. Being an honest man, however, he also admitted his own lack of understanding for many of the habits and behaviors in his host country found him both amused and confused at times.

In any event, cultural differences aside, he was confoundedly lost.

"May I ask what you are doing here?" The woman's voice, sounded from the shadows behind a scrim, was stern, but, nevertheless, had a pleasant lilt to it. The French language had that ability – often turning harsh words into those that seemed to be of love instead of mere banalities.

"Madame? May I see you – I feel as though a ghost is speaking to me, as I can only hear your voice."

"Does this suit you?" she asked, stepping from the shadows, the glimmer of a smile resting on her lips, the barest twinkle lighting her eyes.

He understood why she was almost invisible to him, even now in the dim rehearsal light. Dressed all in black, with hair reminiscent of a raven's wings, eyes the color of coal, she became one with her environment. Her porcelain skin, though, was flawless – a few lines defying any illusion of youth. Her lips, though thin, were sensual in her wariness. What a presence. What beauty.

"I was told by the managers that I might find the ballet mistress if I came this way. Would that be you?"

"It would – Adele Giry, and you are?"

"Nadir Khan."

"You wished to see me?"

"To compliment your work – the most pleasurable moments for me when I attend performances is the ballet."

"That does not surprise me," she harrumphs. "Most men adore the ballet – the girls in their brief costumes are most titillating." Placing the cane, he only just noticed, in front of her – taking a stand against him, setting up her barriers. "You are interested in one of the girls?"

"Oh, no, Madame – not at all – not in that way," he said, facing growing hot – wondering now if his insistence at this visit would make him seem a roue. "Excuse me. Perhaps I should go."

"Wait," she said, lifting one fine hand from the cane, reaching out for him to stop. "So often, that is all men want from the ballet rats...girls."

"No, Madame, I simply wished to give you my words of appreciation."

"Then, I shall thank you for them. Will you be in attendance this evening?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Perhaps, I will see you then. For now, I must return to rehearsal. Au revoir."

"Au revoir."


Breathless, Adele breaks away from the kiss – her face flushed – she dips her head. "I have no idea what prompted that behavior," she says.

"Please try to recall, because I should enjoy that behavior, as you call it, on a regular basis," Nadir says, drawing her close for another kiss. Taking his time to first nibble on her ear lobe, breathing softly, "You are adorable when you are embarrassed."

She giggles in response, lifting her chin to allow him access to her swan-like neck. "You flatter me."

"All worthy compliments – pity they were denied you for so long."

Talk is suspended – their kiss is embraces fully, until both need to catch their breath, burying their respective heads on the shoulder of the other.

"The foyer is not the ideal venue for passionate embraces, I fear," Nadir laughs. "Nor is being garbed for church or taking walks. Shall we take our desires to a more hospitable part of the house?"

Adele removes her bonnet, hanging it on a peg along with her purse. Nadir adding his own outerwear to hers, his head tilts awaiting her response.

"It is Sunday," she replies, smoothing her dress.

"You really are embarrassed? After all this time?" Nadir says, taking her hand, leading her to the sitting room. "We are married – what is this business about 'it is Sunday'?"

"Meg wants to marry Darius," she says, continuing through the comfortable living area to the kitchen.

Nadir's apartment is considerably smaller than Erik's, taking a flat on the third floor – one of two. His taste strays from her preferences of green and pink towards the rich reds, blues and golds that define Erik's basement home. Her influence only taking precedence in their bedroom for the time being. Still she loves the lush, almost indolent heavy cushioned pieces, chosen more for comfort than appearance. A large circular copper table dominates the room.

"Tea?"

"Coffee, if you do not mind," he says, flopping down on one of the red sofas sitting on either side of the fireplace. "Meg wants to marry Darius. Darius wants to marry Meg. It seems a most agreeable situation to me. Is this the significance behind your issues with the day of the week being appropriate for making love?"

"In a manner of speaking," she says, placing a plate of meringues and date-walnut cookies on the table. "She did not seem to mind missing Mass."

"But you do miss something – about your Mass?"

"I feel as though I should, although I am not sure that I do."

"Do you regret our marriage?" The calm in his voice belies the rush of adrenalin he feels, roiling his stomach.

Looking him full in the face, she shakes her head. "No, not then, not now, not ever."

Relief replaces his fear, throwing him off balance. "Oh. Then what?"

"I still want my connection to my faith – and want that for Meg."

"Is that not for her to decide?"

The smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen is strong enough to propel Nadir to the kitchen, waving Adele to stay seated.

"In time?" she calls out.

"Barely – this new percolator still has me confused, but the coffee is so much better when we use it." He returns to the sitting room with the painted tin coffee pot he saw in the window of one of the shops he and Darius pass on their Sunday walks, along with two of Adele's prized porcelain cups and saucers, a matching sugar dish and creamer.

"What of Darius?"

Nadir tells her of their conversation and Darius concerns about his religious issues, but mainly about his personal concerns.

Adele laughs when she hears that. "I have always felt a sense of pity for the man Meg would fall in love with."

"Your own daughter?"

"She has quite taken control – while not exactly putting me in my place, she was very assured."

"Growing up before your eyes?"

"Both of them, it would seem. Christine and, now, Meg having become women without my even being aware of it."

"Christine?"

"When, at your suggestion, I apologized for not alerting her to Nicole's employment, she gave me what for about taking her maturity for granted and, by extension her marriage."

"Is that so?"

"Then, the daughter of my flesh, tells me that she is quite fine with her suitor's physical issues and that they are handling things quite well – thank you very much."

Nadir wraps an arm around her, giving her a generous hug, before grabbing a cookie and taking a sip of his coffee. Grimacing, he adds several sugar cubes and a sizeable amount of cream to his cup.

"That bad?"

"Not so bad if treated with the proper accompaniments," he says. "So, you are saying that they have consummated their relationship?"

"It would seem so."

Nadir beams. "Your daughters have become women and my son – for he is like a son to me…" His eyes glistening, "…has become a man – at least in a way neither of us ever expected. Darius is more a man than some others I know."

"So they have our blessing?"

"Of course – as if we actually have anything to say about it."

"They need the papers signed."

"There is that." Taking another sip of his coffee, he puts the cup down, pushing it away. Leaning against the back of the sofa, he returns his arm to Adele's shoulder. "It seems to me that we were engaged in a much more pleasurable type of communication upon returning home. Do you suppose we could address that now – the business of the children settled?"

Lifting her face up to his to be kissed, she murmurs, "I would like nothing more."


"Do you wish to walk home or do you prefer a carriage?" Darius asks Meg, after saying their good-byes to Nadir and Adele at their building.

"You are the one who has spent the day walking, are you tired?"

Darius smiles. "I spent days on my feet standing in one place, my Meg, walking is a joyous pleasure for me."

Running both her arms through his, she presses up against him as they walk. "Was it truly awful?"


"Stand up straight."

Flinching at the crack of the whip, he forced his exhausted limbs to obey. Relieved that it was only the sound, not the sting of the leather scourge assailing him.

"How many years are you?"

"Twelve, perhaps thirteen."

"Old for a eunuch – what was your life before?"

"Shepherd."

"How did you come to be here?"

"My father died – there was no money."

"Sold?"

The thin young man, stood tall, facing forward, only the quiver of his full lower lip suggesting upset, offered a curt nod.

"Keep your spine straight and your eyes alert – do not focus on the women. You are a sentry. Report anything out of the ordinary to me. Do these things and you will be fine."


"There are worse things," he answers, squeezing her hands. "This is a good day, I think."

"Can we celebrate?"

"Would you like some sweets – we skipped them at luncheon?"

"With some champagne?"

Looking down at her, seeing her blue eyes imploring him, he says, "That is not something I would have considered, but if you like."

"There is a café up ahead."

"That café is unlikely to serve champagne or any other alcoholic beverages."

"You know it?"

"It is a place I have frequented – the owner is Persian."

"I would not be welcome?"

"No."

"I think our faith issues will be more difficult for you than for me?"

"Nadir and I spoke of these things. He said that my love for you was the most important thing to consider."

"We passed another café – across the street – perhaps..."

Stopping abruptly, Darius turns, removing his hat, causing Meg to stumble. Taking her by the waist, he helps her regain her balance and begins to retrace their steps.

"Let us find a café closer to your home for our dessert – that way if you become a little tipsy, we would not have to walk that far."

"What is wrong, why did you turn so quickly – why did you remove your hat?" Looking behind her, forcing Darius to almost drag her forward, she stops, hands on hips. "Tell me right now what is wrong or I shall walk back to that café by myself."

"Continue with me and I will explain."

Conceding, she once again takes his arm. "Go ahead."

"I do not wish Alex to see us."

"Alex?" Turning her head slightly.

"Alex is speaking with my former master – his name is Harim."

"What is he doing here?" She increases her pace to keep up with him.

"I do not know, but I must tell M. Erik and M. Khan," he says. "Please do not look back, Meg. Just keep walking."


Erik and Christine take a break from their absorption with the story of Esmeralda, Archdeacon Frollo and Quasimodo. "When I read this, I feel as if I am some strange combination of the priest and the hunchback."

"I am curious to know which elements you believe to be yours," Christine says. "Let us eliminate the physical issues."

"But those are significant – they create the desire to be loved for oneself, not for one's appearance," he argues. "However, leaving that aside – my obsession with you nearly led to my death and the death of others."

"Nearly."

"You think I am more like Quasimodo – not because of his deformity, but his feelings for Esmeralda. You do not think he is obsessed with her."

"No, I think he loves her – his love is pure. She was compassionate to him. You are not at all like the priest," she says, closing the book and laying in on the table. Tucking her feet under her, she leans against him, toying with the buttons of his shirt. "He was a victim of nature – as you were. Frollo was a man who, as a priest, chose to deny his flesh, so when he met Esmeralda he became crazed with lust."

Erik is silent, so much so that Christine stops her analysis and looks up to find him staring at her.

"Why are you looking at me that way?"

"I was crazed with lust, Christine."

"For my voice, perhaps – would that be considered lust? I never feared you would assault me – hurt me physically."

"Obsession, certainly. I cannot deny I hoped…" His ears turn crimson, words, for once, elude him.

"Erik, as I recall – and I have a fine memory – I seduced you."

"You had a nightmare and I took advantage of you."

"My recollection is quite clear. Stop being dramatic. You do get caught up in your negative fantasies about your evil nature from time to time." Taking his chin, she turns his face to hers and kisses him. "Be as lusty as you like, I shall not turn you away."

"You are my treasure," he says, bringing her closer.

Both jump at the bell sounding at the same time as heavy knocking assaults their front door. He leaps to his feet to investigate, opening the small aperture, finding Nadir, Adele, Darius and Meg, all with varied looks of concern on their faces.

"Who died?" he says, allowing them entrance.

"Not funny," Nadir says, pushing past him – the rest of the entourage following.

Taking the time to lock the door and set the alarms, he finds them fidgeting and pacing – Christine watching the exercise with her green eyes wide.

"Sit down – all of you," he growls, returning to his place next to Christine. "Whatever this is, you do not have to unnerve us or yourselves any more than has been done already."

"You are right," Nadir says. "Adele – children, sit. Darius, tell Erik what, or rather who you saw today."

"Harim – my former master speaking with Baron Alex outside a coffee house."

"You thought you recognized someone," Christine says, tugging on Erik's sleeve.

"You saw Alex at this café?" Nadir asks, standing behind Adele, who has taken a seat in one of the green velvet chairs. "Where were you?"

"Down the street – we were looking for Alex. Christine saw him from the window and I was curious, so we took a walk. When we saw him conversing, we retreated and went to another café for our lunch."

Darius, his composure shaken, wrings his hands. "He was heavier and older, of course, but I should never forget his eyes – even at a distance."

"This is what you were concerned about…" Christine says.

Erik nods, placing an arm around her shoulders. His eyes find Nadir's, then shift to the chess table and the As Nas cards.

Following Erik's direction, Nadir picks up the deck, rubbing his thumb over the golden edges. "Harim was removed from the Palace on my recommendation…"

"Based on what I told you. He would suspect me…" Darius interjects.

"…he was involved with one of the Shah's wives," Nadir continues. "If anything, he should be grateful he is still alive. Erik was long gone by then."

"Why did he look familiar to me then?"

"We all look alike?" Nadir speculates – sniggering.

"Thank you for the humor, but I felt I knew him."

Holding up one of the minor coulis – symbolic of a servant. "He grew up in the palace, just as Darius – you may have known him as a boy."

Erik frowns, then nods. "Simple games of cards after days of playing the unsavory games of the royal family."

Christine grabs his hand, digging her fingers into his palm.

"So he may have come to Paris to escape the Shah, too," Adele says.

Nadir shrugs.

"Are we all in danger?" Meg asks, holding onto Darius' arm.

Each of the couples finds some physical comfort in their partner – quietly pondering what the presence of a former elite palace guard in Paris means to them – and what his relationship is to the newest dancer at the Palais Garnier.

"Let us not get in front of ourselves. Knowledge is power," Erik says. "We know who – now we must learn the why." Squeezing Christine's hand, he stands up. "Tea, anyone?"


*THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME – Victor Hugo