Chapter 10

~Erik~

"Here. A little gesture of my appreciation for yesterday." I tossed a fresh apple into Blanjini's open hand. His fingers wrapped around the fruit even as his blind eyes widened in welcome surprise. He was already seated in front of the same iron pillar as the day before when I had first found him. Leaning my shoulder against the rusted metal, I bit into my apple letting the sweet juice run down my throat. After swallowing, I added. "I have to admit it was pleasant having enough coins to make a selection from the carts for once."

Savoring the fresh fruit, sucking the juices from his fingers first, Blanjini took a long time to reply. "Beggars so rarely get the chance to indulge."

"Nonsense." I scoffed, adding the apple core to the already rubbish strewn street. Quickly drying my fingers on the edge of my cloak, I tucked the violin under my chin and played a brisk series of notes. "Indulging oneself comes in so very many forms."

His answer came swiftly in a series of notes from his own violin. "Nightingale, I had hoped you would return."

"I promised, did I not?" The street was nearly shoulder to shoulder with people, promising to be a good day if we could but bend their ears. "So, what is on the concert program for today, Blanjini?"

With a laugh he let his fingers drift through some chords, warming up in the slight chill of the August morning. "If there is indeed a program, my dear friend, you shall have to be the one to read it."

A twinge of guilt tugged at me as I realized the cruel tease of my words. All I could do to make up for my unintentional slip would be to help draw the largest crowds possible. I allowed a slow smile as I let the bow pull out a few tell tale notes. "My, do my eyes but deceive me? It appears to be a day for royalty. Is that the Tzar?"

A wistfulness shadowed his features as tears began to well in his useless eyes a moment before I shut my own eyes to the chords of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto in D. The piece was absolutely exhilarating to play, challenging enough to require reserves of concentration even for me. The place for this piece was an imperial palace, the audience … the royal family. For the way Blanjini fell into the music, I now was privy to at least part of his story. Many talented Romanian musicians were called upon and honored with the chance to perform in the courts of Imperial Russia. The strings in his hands sang of that golden experience with such exquisite richness that nothing short of having played for the Tzar himself could have produced that sound. As the piece progressed, I heard the source change in height. I knew he was now standing beside me caressing the strings as a lover. His violin sang for him, gloriously and triumphantly as he reprized the performance.

Driving through the finale, I watched as he dashed his bow against the strings in the final chord before executing a low bow at the waist. Tears traveled down his straggling beard as he righted himself to the applause and the clinking of coins tossed at out feet.

Breathless, he wiped the tears.

"It must have been quite a performance for the Tzar those many years ago." Gently turning the peg on my violin, I made a minute adjustment essential after such a vigorous performance.

"Not so very many years ago." The color flushed on his cheeks. "How … how did you know?"

"I am no stranger to the Russian landscapes, Blanjini. Nor am I a stranger to the rumors of the habits of the Imperial Court. A Romanian musician of your talent would have attracted attention. Few are capable of playing that concerto from memory."

"It was the talk of the whole village." He swallowed, lowering himself back down to the ground with practiced ease. Joining him, I cocked an ear hoping he would continue. "Indeed, I was requested to come and play for the Tzar and his court. More than once. The palace was so beautiful. Like nothing I had seen in all of Romania. Who was I but a humble violinist. After the invitation, the first one, I was no longer unknown." He smiled and for a moment I thought he might utter his name. A shudder racked him, the joy faded as swiftly as it had come. "That was before things changed in the villages. Where once we had been safe and welcome … where once we had made our homes … we were ordered to leave. Leave or be killed. As long as I could I held out, keeping my practices silent. But nothing can remain a secret forever. Like the others, I was forced to leave all because of how I worshiped."

I had guessed as much about Blanjini's heritage, a Jew rousted from his home during a time span when those in power were unsympathetic. He wasn't alone in having sought refuge here.

Hanging his head, he continued with a slight tremble to his voice. "There was little I could do, this ward being the only one I could find a roof in."

With an empathetic laugh, I affirmed, "A fact that still remains for many."

"Living was so very hard I had to make a choice. Music had to wait. So my blessed companion sat safe within her case while each day I worked in the factory. I had my dreams of earning enough to move out of the Bowery. To move up in the neighborhoods of the concert halls … " His voice dropped as he sighed. "That was until the day my world grew dark. My eyes burned in an accident. Unable to see any longer, they would not let me return to the factory where it had happened. No one else would hire a blind man. What could I do?" Embracing the violin, a soft smile once more played on his face. "Then, I remembered I had abandoned her. My fingers remembered how to make her sing. They had no need of vision to bring forth the vivid images of music. So I played. Here on these streets I have played through the seasons once and again for whatever coin those who will listen offer me. Each time it feels just like … just like standing in that court under the admiring gaze of the Tzar of all of Russia. For those blessed moments of my day, I am not the exile from Romania, no … I am brought back to that time when I played my heart and soul out as an honored guest in the bright shining halls of the Imperial Palace. There is nothing that can take that memory from me. The memory that sustains me even now in my eternal darkness."

My hand drifted to the neck of his violin, the bare skin of our fingers touching for the briefest moment. "We see through the music the images of the heart." … my beloved Paris Opera.

"Thank you, Nightingale." He bowed his head, his voice breaking with emotion. "Thank you for playing my memory."

Respectfully, I remained silent as he collected himself. There were hours yet to play before I must return home in time to conceal my secret activity from Nadir.

~Erik~

Inhaling the sweet dragon's breath I leaned back in the chair, letting the wash through my body quell the faint muscle tremors that had built in the later portion of my time spent with Blanjini. The opium I had managed to purchase prior to returning home was not of the best quality, nor from the best source. Weak, but it would do for now to satiate my dependency on the drug. The price had allowed me to purchase the ingredients for something of a more hearty stew that was currently simmering on the coal stove.

Watching the puffs of smoke rising lazily as I exhaled, the clenching anxiety released within me leaving behind a familiar numbness. This opium lacked the ability to produce the euphoria to the extent that I desired. And yet, it was a comfort to know I would be spared the humility of succumbing to laughing fits. Distantly, I heard the door open and shut. Nadir shuffled in pausing in the door frame as he inhaled.

"Do I smell … can that be?" He stared at the steam rising from the pot, his eyes widening. "Beef stew?"

Letting the smoke drift out, I studied the rolling puffs as they drifted before replying. "Yes."

Crossing the room he peered into the pot. "Is it edible?"

"I am surprised at you." I raised an eyebrow, unseen beneath my mask. "You know I can cook. I would have had to in my solitude beneath the Paris Opera or I should have starved to death. Just to name one part of my life where I was self-reliant."

"Indeed. You just so rarely do so that I figured you never would." He turned slowly, suspicion in his eyes as he spied the pipe in my hands. Days ago he had known I was running out. "The question isn't so much that you are … the question is where you got the ingredients."

Studying my fingers with idle interest, my fogged brain tried to formulate a reply. A reply that never fully formed.

"Erik." He stood before me now. I had not heard him approach and it was only by sheer luck that I did not startle at that realization. This opium may not have had the euphoria, but it was particularly relaxing, too relaxing. Folding his arms over his chest, he eyed me.

"What?" Unable to help it, I heard a little slur invade my speech.

"You told me you detest walking through the Bowery's market. How did you get this?"

"Get what?" I offered a little flash of a smile, at least I hoped it read as one.

A moment later he threw his hands in the air and shouted in English, "You bastard! You're stealing."

That stunned me. I felt the slow blink as I thought through the lessons I had given the aged Persian. "Clearly you have been learning some new words. I know I did not teach you that one. Nor is that accurate."

He glared down at me. "It is an insult, is it not?"

Nodding, I took another rather long draw off the pipe before replying. "Oh indeed it is an insult. However it implies that one is uncertain of his parentage. While I admittedly had never met my father due to his premature death, he was undoubtedly my mother's husband. By definition, I am no bastard." Holding up a hand I added, "Nor am I a thief—this time."

Blushing at his error, he flashed a glance at the bubbling pot before fixing me again with those piercing jade eyes. "Then what other means supplied this? You have not had a meeting with client in some time now!"

With a grin I made him wait for another long inhalation before I replied slowly. "You might be surprised where it came from, you suspicious old goat. But I think I will refrain from telling you."

"Why?"

"Because it is far too amusing to watch you fret and squirm, pondering the worst." Speaking around the pipe, I leaned back all the way, the delicate balance of the chair threatening to deposit me unceremoniously on the floor. "I made you a promise and I have kept it. That is all that need concern you."

Shutting my eyes to dismiss the affair, I heard him sigh as he shuffled across the floor. He paused right where I knew he would. The rumble of a bottle being lifted from the shelf ... the scrape of the cap twisting against the glass before the breathless gasps that accompanied the rushed swallowing.

Peaking open one eye, I chuckled. "You are welcome for the whiskey."

He made no reply, even after his thirst was slacked.