Okay. I admit I've been horribly neglectful in my updates.
I beg your forgiveness! Pretty please?
On with the saga...
Erik's Debut Redux
April 6
I did not know how I would react to seeing Erica this morning, so I chose to forgo breakfast and went straight to the performance hall to rehearse. As I sat down at the piano, however, I saw her emerge from the wings and approach me. She must have been waiting for me there.
I stood as she approached.
"Good morning," I said, not looking up at her. I could not meet her eyes.
"Good morning," she replied. She kept her distance, staying at the far end of the grand piano.
I opened my mouth several times, trying to find the right words. I could not. The silence–and the tension–was unbearable.
Finally, it was Erica who spoke.
"We got a bit carried away," she said quietly.
I finally looked at her. She was clearly distraught. Suddenly my hands seemed to be the most interesting thing in the world, and my gaze fell to them once again.
"So it would seem," I replied.
"Oh, Erik, I am so sorry I forced you into... And the things I said... And what we... Oh, I just don't know how...," she trailed off.
"Do not worry yourself. It is forgotten."
I tried to keep my voice level and my expression passive, but it was much more difficult than I expected it to be.
"Forgotten?" She looked shocked at the word.
I lifted my head to look her directly in the eye. "Yes. I succumbed to a moment of weakness. It is rare, but it happens."
"Your weakness? You speak as if it was your fault."
"It was, Madame. I let my base urges get the better of me. I assure you it will never happen again."
"Do you not think I had a part to play?" she asked with a hint of anger in her voice. One eyebrow rose, a clear sign that she was, shall I say, vexed.
"No, I do not. For even if you instigated it, I should have been able to put a stop to it. And I did not."
"If I remember correctly, you did."
"Not soon enough," I replied, turning slightly away from her. "Regardless, we should forget the entire incident and act as if it never happened. For everyone's sake."
She drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Yes, I believe you are right."
# # # # #
A strange feeling of déjà vu crept over me that evening as I dressed for the performance. I buttoned my waistcoat, just as I had the night before, although tonight it was a deep blue rather than gold; I fussed with my cravat until I was satisfied that it was just right; I shrugged into my tailcoat and smoothed down the lapels; I brushed my hair until every last strand was in its proper place. The final touch, my white mask, then settled into its familiar spot on my face.
I had done all of these things last night, and in the same order. What made me think I would be able to go on tonight when I was not able to the night before?
Nevertheless, despite my fears, despite my anxiety, I found myself once more backstage. This time, however, I did summon up the courage that somehow failed me the night before, and my feet carried me out before the waiting audience. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest even above the polite applause. As I reached the piano and turned to fully face my judges for the first time, I did hear a few gasps and whispered comments, but it was not nearly as bad as I feared it would be.
I remembered to bow before I took my seat, and then I began to play.
As it always did, the music swept me away. From the first note I lost all the inhibitions and trepidations that had been strangling me, and the music burst forth from my hands. I forgot about the hundreds of people that were watching me and let the music take me away to another time and place. I was at home here at the piano, making music. If I could ever be happy, this was where it would be.
I was dimly aware of applause after each selection. I would nod in acknowledgment, then proceed into the next piece. I began the performance with Mozart's "Rondo in A Minor." I had heard it played once in the Opera House and liked it very much. Of course, one hearing was all I needed to learn it completely. I then played an original composition titled "Anywhere You Go." It is a short piece, seemingly very soft and romantic, but it has a dark undertone and ends on a very sad note. Even though no ears but mine have ever heard this particular song before, I would venture to guess that most listeners would not catch the darker undercurrents in the music. Next on the programme was Chopin's "Ballade No. 3 in A-Flat Major," a piece for which I feel a particular affinity with its depth and complexity. I like Chopin's music very much for just that reason. I followed that with two more original works, one that I played for Erica and the captain during our voyage (I had never put a title to that piece, so I named it "Independence" in honor of the ship that carried me to my new home), and another of my older compositions titled "Night in Paris." This piece is probably the lightest I had ever written; it was composed one night after one of my solitary walks around the city. For some reason I was in high spirits that evening, and I felt compelled to write upon returning to my home. This little piece was the result. I then performed Lizst's "La Notte," one of his three funeral odes, and I wrapped up the night with my own "Solitude." I poured my heart and soul into this final selection, its melody subtly changing from melancholy to hopeful romanticism to heart-wrenching despair. I had written this before I revealed myself to Christine, when she still thought of me as her Angel of Music and I remained in the shadows, resigned to a life alone and apart from everyone. The music reflected my tortured soul, my empty heart, my continual longing for human contact. Even though I no longer was trapped in that solitude, the music transported me back to that time, and I once again felt the pain, the inner torment that had imprisoned me. The sadness enveloped me like a fog, and it poured out of me in the music.
The final notes of "Solitude" hung in the air. My hands sat motionless on the keys. My head was bowed.
The silence in the hall was deafening.
They did not like me!
Then, suddenly there was thunderous applause. I looked up to see everyone in the hall on their feet, clapping enthusiastically. Some of the ladies were dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
This was for me?
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I remembered myself and stood next to the piano and bowed to the audience. This brought an even louder round of applause. It was then that I noticed Erica and John sitting in the front row. Erica turned and picked up something from her seat, then came up the steps to join me onstage as hostess of the evening. She presented me with a single red rose and kissed me on the cheek. That action brought even more applause.
I was dazed. It had to have been simply a coincidence that she chose to give me a single red rose. Surely she could not know the significance this gesture held for me.
After more bows and more applause, the curtain finally closed. I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly and sat back down on the piano bench. Erica put a hand on my shoulder.
"You were wonderful," she said.
"I was adequate."
"Adequate?" Erica exclaimed. "You had half the room in tears! I don't think you have any idea just how talented you really are!"
I looked up at her. "Do you really think they liked me?"
"Oh Erik, I know they did."
I held the rose up to my face and inhaled its heady fragrance. "Thank you for this," I said. "Roses hold a special meaning for me."
She smiled at me. "You're welcome. Now, come with me." Her smile grew into a grin. "Your adoring fans await."
# # # # #
Erica had planned an opening-night reception to take place after last night's performance; due to a certain temperamental performer, it had to be postponed until tonight. The hotel lobby was filled with people, people I did not know; once more I felt quite the outcast.
Erica was the perfect hostess, taking my arm and leading me through the throng, introducing me to Mr. So-and-So and Mr. and Mrs. Such-and-Such. I smiled politely and said as little as possible. A uniformed waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes and I took two, handing one to Erica.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that the lobby piano was being played, very badly I might add, to provide background music for the reception. I would rather have had no music at all than that inferior drivel. I leaned over to mention this to Erica when I felt a rather hard slap on my back. I jumped about a foot into the air from the shock.
"Well, my boy, it seems that my wife knows talent when she sees it!"
I turned to see John Campbell standing next to me, a big smile on his face.
"Well, I..."
"Oh, come now, don't be so modest! I don't know very much about music, but I must say you were outstanding."
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
Glancing around the room, I marveled that this was all for me. These people accepted me. They appreciated me. No one was shouting to hunt me down and kill me. It was insane. Insane, but nice.
"Oh, Erik, here's someone you absolutely must meet!"
Erica tugged on my arm. I glanced back at John who shrugged and raised one eyebrow as if to say there's no stopping her when she gets like this. So I was pulled across the room to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody, who were at the very top of Charleston society. They introduced me to their very good friends, who introduced me to their cousins, who introduced me to their next-door neighbors. My head was spinning from all the names I heard and faces I saw during the evening.
At one point I spied Annabelle, standing off by herself by the piano, looking rather pretty in a dark blue gown. At last! Someone I actually knew! Our eyes met, and I was going to go and say hello to her when I was dragged off to meet some more very influential people.
After a time, I found myself standing next to the poster advertising my concert. I gazed at the photograph of me in wonder once more, still amazed at how Monsieur Rossignol managed to make me look so–dare I say it?–handsome.
"That is a remarkable likeness, sir."
The man standing next to me gestured to the photograph.
"Yes, it is," I replied.
"You know, you should sign the poster."
"Sign it?" I asked him incredulously.
Erica once again was by my side. "That is a splendid idea!" she exclaimed.
"I would not wish to ruin the poster."
"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "Your signature would only make it better."
"I do not have a pen."
Several gentlemen immediately reached into their coat pockets and produced writing instruments. I took one. I laid Erica's rose in the easel tray that held the poster and signed my name next to the photograph. Those few people nearby applauded; why this simple action warranted such a response I have no earthly idea.
Two glasses of champagne later I knew I had had enough of socializing with Charleston's elite to last me for a very long time. I found Erica and told her I was leaving. She begged me to stay for a few more minutes, but I told her I was exhausted and needed to rest. Truth be told, I could not stand being around all these "very important" people any longer. My face hurt from smiling so much, and my head hurt from the wine–and the horrible piano music. I slipped away upstairs and fell into bed without bothering to undress.
April 19
My "performance schedule" fell into a routine of four performances per week: Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings, and a Sunday afternoon matinee. I varied the programme every few nights for my own enjoyment as well as for the audience, since many people told me they came back time and again. I was pleased to learn that nearly every performance was sold out.
Something very strange began happening after that first performance, when Erica presented me with the lone red rose. After the next few concerts, red roses mysteriously began to appear in the lobby next to my concert poster. At first, only a few turned up in the little easel tray where I inadvertently left Erica's flower during the reception, but soon dozens spilled onto the floor around the entrance to the performance hall. Soon just leaving them outside the performance hall was not enough–the flowers were tossed at me from the audience as I took my final bows.
"It seems as though you have quite a few admirers," John said to me one evening at dinner.
"I doubt that very much," I retorted.
"Have you seen the lobby lately, man? It is full of red roses, all of them left for you!"
I had indeed been through the lobby earlier that afternoon, and it was literally awash in red: nearly every available surface contained vases filled with the fragrant flowers. The desk clerk told me that as soon as they collected an armload and put them in water, more of them seemed to magically appear.
"John is right, Erik," Erica chimed in. "The ladies love you."
I turned to glare at her. She had a sly smirk on her face. "We just might get you married off yet!"
Timothy, who had been quietly eating his dinner up to this point, perked up at this remark. "Mr. Erik is getting married?"
I looked across the table at the six-year-old boy. "No, Mr. Erik is not getting married," I said to him as I turned back to pointedly glower at his mother.
April 22
I must admit, however, that due to my newfound... celebrity... I am no longer apprehensive about venturing out into the city alone. I have on occasion taken an afternoon stroll, enjoying the warm Southern sunshine, admiring the architecture (I do not know if I will ever get used to seeing such stately homes painted in bright pastel colours, but they certainly are enjoyable to look at), and I have even been known to converse with passers-by from time to time. I do receive the occasional sidelong glance, but for the most part the citizens of this fair city have accepted me and will stop to chat or inquire about my next concert date.
I have even acquired, or so I have heard through rumours, a nickname: "The Masked Musician." Smiling inwardly when I first heard the name, I surmised it was an improvement over my previous moniker of "Opera Ghost."
I had a particular purpose to my afternoon stroll today. I had been to Monsieur Rossignol's–rather, Mr. Ross'–photography studio. The man kept me for nearly two hours, asking endless questions about France and life in Paris. I humoured him by answering his inquiries the best I could; after all, I am not the most authoritative expert on life in Paris. Aboveground, that is.
As I left his shop, I noticed that dusk was swiftly approaching. No more than a block separated me from the studio when I heard a high-pitched cry somewhere nearby. It was a woman's voice, filled with fear. I surveyed the area to try to find this lady in distress, and I saw some movement in a narrow alley across the street.
Without another thought, I rushed to the scene. Sure enough, two men were attacking a young woman. One of the ruffians was holding her against the brick wall while the other was touching her in very inappropriate ways. Both were leering at her. The poor woman was crying and struggling to break free of their grasp. As I got closer, however, I was horrified to see that it was not just any young woman: it was Theresa, young Timothy's governess!
How dare those ruffians attack that sweet, shy girl!
And, knowing of her disposition, I knew that she must be paralyzed with fright in her present predicament.
In an instant I was upon the scene, my hand upon the throat of the man who dared touch the innocent girl.
"I suggest you leave the lady alone," I said in a low voice.
"I suggest you let us have our fun and go find a whore of your own," he retorted without even taking his eyes off Theresa.
I heard the poor girl whimper at the ruffian's remark.
Without another thought, my hand tightened around his throat. He cried out in surprise as he grasped my hand, trying to break free from my hold. I slammed his body against the opposite wall of the alley, and I heard the sickening crack of his skull as it met the bricks. His body went limp in my hands. I released him, and he fell in a heap on the ground. I turned to settle accounts with the other man, the one who had held Theresa up against the wall, but the cowardly blackguard had already run away.
Theresa sank to the ground in tears, covering her face with her hands, her body shaking uncontrollably with great sobs. I knelt down beside her.
"Theresa, are you all right? Did they hurt you?" I asked her.
As she shook her head in response, I heard footsteps approaching. Mr. Ross appeared a few seconds later around the corner.
"Oh my goodness! What happened here?" he asked, wringing his hands.
"The lady was attacked," I said to him. "Fortunately I was able to stop it before..."
I didn't finish the sentence, but Mr. Ross got my meaning.
"Oh, yes... I understand." He caught sight of the man lying motionless a few feet away. "I must summon the police."
"No. No police."
"But, sir, the man could be dead. We must."
I thought for a moment. I was no longer the Opera Ghost. I had to live as a law-abiding citizen. I acted in the best interests of a lady in distress. What was done was justified.
I sighed and looked up at him. "If you must."
Mr. Ross turned and disappeared around the corner. I focused my attention on the trembling girl next to me.
"Theresa, everything will be all right. It is over now."
She sobbed louder and threw her arms around me, searching for reassurance that my words were true. I knelt there, in the filthy alley, holding and comforting this traumatized girl, while the man who attacked her was lying not ten feet away from us. He had not moved or uttered a sound in all this time.
"My dear, may I ask what you were doing out by yourself at this late hour?"
Her head remained buried in my chest as she spoke between sobs. I could barely understand her muffled words. "Mrs. Campbell... sent me... druggist... Timothy... sick..."
I glanced over to the corner, where those ruffians must have grabbed her, and lying alongside her reticule was a small brown paper sack. The contents of the bag had more than likely broken, as the bag was stained dark with some sort of liquid.
I had not been aware that Timothy was ill; no one had informed me of this news. I was about to ask Theresa about the nature of his illness when I heard footsteps approaching.
Two police officers appeared in the alley, followed by a very distraught Mr. Ross.
"What do we have here, then?" the first officer said upon seeing me with Theresa.
I looked up at the man and said to him, "The lady was viciously attacked by two men. That one..." and with that I nodded my head in the direction of the criminal lying motionless across from us, "...and another who escaped."
The second policeman knelt by the body, avoiding the large pool of blood around the head. He felt for a pulse, then looked up at his partner and shook his head in the negative.
"I see," said the policeman. "And where do you fit in, if I might be so bold as to ask?"
"I just happened by. If I had not, who knows what they might have done..."
The officer eyed me skeptically. "You ain't from around here, are you?"
I was beginning to lose my patience with this imbecile. I gently disentangled Theresa's arms from around my neck and stood to my full height, which was about eight inches taller than this so-called man of the law. He immediately took a step back from me, an action that I did not fail to notice. I smiled to myself.
"No, I am not, Monsieur. My name is Erik Destler. I am newly arrived from France. I am currently residing at the Carolinian Hotel, where I also work. This young woman works as a governess for the Campbells, who own the hotel."
"Ain't you the one they call 'The Masked Musician'? I've heard about you," he said.
"I do not like that name, but yes. I am he. Do you have any more questions?" I demanded.
The officer cleared his throat nervously. "Yes, just one."
I glared at him. "Well?"
"How did he... how did he get like that?" he asked, gesturing to the man on the ground.
"I shoved him against the wall. If I had not, he and his accomplice would have done unspeakable things to Mademoiselle Theresa. I would not stand for that."
I picked up Theresa's purse and my package, then knelt back down in front of the sobbing girl.
"If that is all, monsieur, I believe I should take the mademoiselle home so she can get some rest."
"Oh, of course," the policeman replied. "We can reach both of you at the Carolinian?"
"Naturellement," I said as I picked up Theresa in my arms.
"And, Miss, what is your last name?"
Theresa looked up at the officer with a tear-stained face. "S-s-simpson, sir."
# # # # #
Mademoiselle Theresa Simpson may be a tiny slip of a girl, but carrying her several blocks through the city still proved to be a very taxing endeavor. By the time we finally reached the Carolinian, I was gasping for air. I laid Theresa down on one of the upholstered sofas in the lobby and shouted at the first person I saw. For better or worse, that person was Annabelle, who had been dusting the furniture.
"Go fetch Madame Campbell, quickly!"
Annabelle sidled over to where Theresa lay.
"Is she sick?" she asked, gaping at the still form of the other girl.
"No, she is not sick, she's been hurt. Just go. Quickly!"
After taking one more peek at the motionless Theresa, Annabelle scurried off in search of her employer. I kneeled down next to the poor girl as she lay on the sofa.
"Everything will be all right, I promise you," I whispered to her.
She turned her head to look at me with frightened eyes. I nodded at her with as earnest a face as I could muster. Her tiny little nose wrinkled up just then, and then she let out a terrific sneeze! And then another one, and still another one. She looked at me helplessly with watery eyes and then meekly pointed to the vase of roses just inches from her head on the side table.
"Would someone please remove these blasted flowers?" I called out to no one in particular. "The mademoiselle is allergic!"
As if to validate my claim, Theresa sneezed twice more.
The desk clerk bustled over and made a big show of removing the arrangements that were near us. I think they found a way to multiply: there were containers of the flowers everywhere I looked, and the poor man had quite a time finding places for the vases that he removed from our presence.
It was at this time that Erica came running into the room.
"Oh, my heavens! What happened?"
She knelt down next to me, taking Theresa's hands in hers and searching my face for answers.
I answered her quietly, trying to avoid the ears of the others in the lobby.
"She was attacked by two hooligans, Madame. I was fortunate to have come upon them before... well, before anything truly terrible actually happened."
"Oh, my God! Theresa, are you all right?" Erica cried, searching her for obvious wounds.
"I... I am fine," she whispered. "I lost the medicine."
"Oh, child, don't you worry about that!" Erica patted Theresa's hands.
"Madame, I believe we should get her upstairs where she can rest," I suggested.
"Oh, yes, that is an excellent idea."
I scooped Theresa once more into my arms and followed Erica to the family's apartment on the second floor.
# # # # #
"So, Timothy, I hear you are not feeling well," I said to my young companion.
He looked up at me with tired eyes from under the blankets of his bed. "No, I do not," he said quietly.
He certainly was not the spirited, inquisitive boy I had come to know. I turned to John who had been sitting next to him, reading him a story. "What are his symptoms?"
"He has a cough, a sore throat, a fever and a headache," John said.
"And what was it that Theresa bought from the druggist?"
"I'm not sure. Erica sent her to fetch a patent medicine of some sort."
"No, no, that will not do. That will not do at all," I said. "Those medicines are nearly all alcohol mixed with who knows what other dangerous ingredients and can cause more harm than good. Especially in one so young. What this young man needs is some hot tea with honey, that will soothe his throat and help break his fever, and lots of fluids. Bedrest for a day or two will put him to rights. None of that dreadful snake oil."
Erica stepped in the room during my tirade on the evils of patent medicine. "I have heard that they work wonders for illness."
"Madame, I know a little something about the healing arts, and Timothy will do very well with the regimen I have prescribed. If you like, you can even add a little mint to the tea and honey. But please, none of that appalling patent medicine!"
She looked unconvinced, but grudgingly agreed.
"How is Theresa?"
"She is sleeping. What a terrible ordeal to go through!"
"Yes," I agreed. "It was fortunate that I happened by."
"What of the two men?" she asked.
I glanced over to the boy, not wanting him to hear the details of this incident. Thankfully, he had fallen asleep.
"I pulled one of them away from Mademoiselle Theresa, and he hit his head on the alley wall. He is dead. The other one ran away."
Erica clasped her hands and held them to her chest as she gasped in shock. "Oh, dear Lord, you saved her life!"
"I don't know about that..."
"Yes, you did! And, even if you did not, you certainly saved her virtue! Oh, Erik, you are a hero!"
I looked solemnly at Erica.
"I killed a man, Madame. I am no hero."