Chapter 28
Conversations with Mamma
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Friday April 1, 1881
Mamma's House
Erik woke to the distant crying of gulls as they circled the harbor at Perros-Guirec, waiting for the fishing boats to return. It was still taking him some getting used to, this notion of waking up to the sound of birds after living for so many years beneath the opera house, where the only sounds usually heard were the occasional muffled notes of the orchestra as they filtered down to the fifth level. Easing himself out of bed, he carefully stretched, then grabbed his robe from the back of the chair where he had left it the night before.
Tying the robe around his middle, Erik headed out of his room and towards the washroom, with its pedestal sink and toilet, at the end of the hall, sighing once again at his disappointment over there not being a bathtub. What he wouldn't do for nice hot bath. What he wouldn't give for hot water with which to wash and shave, even. But that would require disturbing Mamma, having her heat a kettle of water and bring it upstairs, and his presence was already creating additional work for the woman. No, he would make do with cold water. As he made his way into the washroom, he considered how much of a job it would be to install a boiler.
Grabbing a clean towel and cloth from the linen press, he washed up as best he could, the task made cumbersome by several fingers still sore and bandaged. It was even more of a challenge to shave. (Thank goodness Anatole had picked up a shaving mug and brush, a cake of soap, and a razor on one of his previous shopping trips into Perros!) Erik nicked himself more than once, but managed to get the job done. Inspecting his face in the mirror – something he only did when shaving – he considered growing one massive "muttonchop" sideburn on the good side of his face and to hell with the rest, at least until his hands were healed and he could hold onto a razor and not slit his own throat.
Returning to his room, he glanced over at the clock on the dresser – it showed the time to be almost 10:30. A little chuckle came out when he realized how late the hour was.
Hmm, I guess I overslept…again.
Now that he was no longer confined to his bed, Erik had been trying to conform to the schedule kept in this house. Both Mamma and Christine were early risers, but years of keeping his own irregular hours made doing the same hard for him to do. Besides, it was not as if he had an agenda that needed to be met.
Going over to the window, Erik drew back the curtains, filling the room with sunshine flooding in through the east-facing window. The apple tree growing in front of the house, its branches filled with blossoms, caught his eye. Opening the window, he inhaled the fresh air with its faint tang of the nearby sea. He reached out and touched the branches, remembering the time that Christine had told how she used to pick apples from this very tree.
I've spent too many years living in darkness. This is what I want to see now – light and brightness. I want to be with Christine in the light. I want to see her hair shine in the glow of the sun. I want to see the play of light and shadows across her features. I want to feel the sun's warmth as it pours through the window.
He closed the window and noticed a new aroma, this one coming from the kitchen downstairs. Tired of looking at these same four walls, Erik decided to head downstairs. The only other times he had been down there were that first day he'd gotten out of bed, and the past Monday when Christine had sprung her idea about the trip to Paris.
Though recovering rapidly from his ordeal, he still had not regained all his strength and needed to take his time. Walking across the room or down the hall had not been very difficult, but stairs were another matter. Continuing to use a cane for support, he took hold of the handle in the less injured of his hands and gingerly tested the first couple of steps. Not experiencing any great discomfort, he took the next few more forcefully, his confidence in his return to health improving with each step. The steps were still a bit tricky to navigate, but as long as he took his time, he made it to the bottom without any great difficulty.
By the time he reached the bottom step, he was slightly out of breath, but satisfied with his progress nonetheless. It felt good to be out of bed. Now, all he needed was for Christine to return from Paris this afternoon bringing his clothes…and his mask. He was working hard at trying to conquer this overpowering need to hide his disfigurement.
Mamma Valérius had made it clear from the start that there was no need for him to do so while in her house, but it would take more than a few days to counteract what had been ingrained over a lifetime. Even when no one was around, Erik often found himself instinctively placing his hand over the damaged side of his face. He chided himself for such foolish behavior, reminding himself that there were now other people besides Christine who were accepting him for himself and not judging him because of a piece of leather and some misshapen flesh.
He looked around at the first floor of the house and noticed he was in the main hall, with other rooms running off of it on either side. To his left was the door to the kitchen, and to his right, the parlor where he had joined Christine and Anatole earlier in the week.
He heard Mamma Valérius bustling about in the kitchen. From the occasional clatter of pans and Mamma's humming to herself, he assumed she was preparing the day's meal. Unfamiliar with the rituals females observed in the kitchen, Erik decided it might be best if he stayed out of her way. Instead, he decided to head for the parlor and take a closer look. True, he'd been in this room twice before, but he had not paid attention to his surroundings earlier.
In one corner of the room was an upright piano that had belonged to the late Prof. Gustav Valérius. Erik remembered Christine telling him this was the same piano the professor used when he taught voice back in Stockholm. For Erik, the lure of music was great. He walked over to the piano and spent several seconds simply staring at it, imagining what it would feel like to play again. Unable to resist the pull any longer, he sat down on the bench, lifted the cover and placed his fingers on the keyboard. The outside of the piano had been well cared for, but as for the interior? The real test would be in the playing.
Gently, he pressed down on the keys, his musician's ear cringing when he heard the piano had fallen out of pitch. Maybe later, he thought, when he was better, he could fix this for Mamma. He was starting to make a mental list of things he could do for the woman – first, a hot water boiler, second, tune the piano. These would be such small gifts to repay the woman's many kindnesses.
Out of tune or not, Erik gave in to the urge to play and tried a simple melody. It did not matter that many of the notes fell flat; his heart soared at their sounds. He closed his eyes, ignoring the ache in his fingers as he continued playing. The tune came to an end, and he wanted to try something more complex, but knew that he should not push himself too much yet. Reluctantly, he closed the piano, hoping that the day would soon come when he could play some Schumann or Liszt for Christine and Mamma.
He looked around and saw that the rest of the room was filled with the usual furnishings found in a modest household. There was a fireplace, a sofa with two bolster cushions, upholstered in a pink-and-green cotton print and accented with several needlepoint pillows, a pair of matching upholstered arm chairs, a two-door bookcase cabinet and a narrow glass-fronted curio cabinet filled with the usual bric-a-brac and souvenirs, a large circular tilt-top table in one corner and a smaller side table by the sofa, both covered with hand-crocheted lace tablecloths and vases filled with spring-blooming flowers. Sitting on a pedestal in front of the window was a large fern, and on the floor was a cream-colored Aubusson rug.
Glancing up at the pastel-papered walls, Erik saw that one wall was covered with numerous portraits and photographs of people and family. He walked closer. Some bore names he recognized from the music world, no doubt acquaintances and colleagues of the late professor's. Others were labeled with Scandinavian names; these were probably family members and long-time friends. Hanging above the fireplace was the centerpiece of this collection, a large portrait of Prof. Valérius draped in black bunting. Mamma, it seemed, still mourned his loss.
Going over to the bookcase, Erik decided to see what titles Mamma had in her house, hoping to find a book with which to fill his idle hours. One book in particular caught his attention, and he pulled out Victor Hugo's novel on the French Revolution, Ninety-Three. Taking it with him, he settled into one of the chairs and began browsing through its pages.
"At the same time that it threw off revolution, this Assembly produced civilization. Furnace, but forge too. In this caldron, where terror bubbled, progress fermented. Out of this chaos of shadow, this tumultuous flight of clouds, spread immense rays of light parallel to the eternal laws,—rays that have remained on the horizon, visible forever in the heaven of the peoples, and which are, one, Justice; another, Tolerance; another, Goodness; another, Right; another, Truth; another, Love."
His eyes fixed upon those words: justice, tolerance, goodness, right, truth and love. These were what he had been seeking all his life. Could it be that, with the help of these good people – Mamma Valérius, Anatole Garron, Reynard d'Aubert, and Christine Daaé – he might at long last know firsthand what had long been only a dream?
Leafing absentmindedly through the book, he came across some pamphlets nestled between the pages. They attracted his attention far more than the book itself – they were Marxist tracts. Christine, it seemed, had been quite serious that evening they had gone Christmas shopping when she had spoken of Mamma being a "free thinker." Smiling to himself, he carefully replaced the pamphlets and sat back, returning to Hugo once more.
About two chapters into the book, and aroma emanating from the kitchen demanded his attention. Mamma was baking cookies. Erik could not remember ever smelling anything as delicious as what he smelled coming out of the oven. He made up his mind to set the book aside and join Mamma in the kitchen.
"God dag!" she said, greeting him cheerfully. "I did not realize you were up. You should make more noise instead of sneaking around like a cat." He might have thought she was chastising him had it not been for the glint of humor in her eyes. "Here. Sit. Sit. I'll get you some breakfast," she continued, pulling out a chair from the table for him.
Erik tried to discourage her from going out of her way. "Please, that is not necessary. I usually don't eat breakfast."
"Nonsense." She eyed him up and down, not pleased with what she saw. "Look at how thin you are. You need to put some flesh back on those bones of yours. Now then, what would you like? Pancakes? An omelet? Something else?"
"I…I really do not wish to put you to any trouble. Perhaps a cup of coffee and some toast?"
"Ja, I have some coffee," she said. She went and got the pot off the stove, pouring a cup for Erik.
"You want cream? Sugar?"
"No, black. Thank you." He looked around the kitchen, its cast-iron cook stove and oven dominating the room. On the counter to his left, cooling on a rack, were several dozen cookies.
If Mamma knew one thing, it was that the old saying was true about the quickest way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She could tell that Erik was not quite at ease, and smiled when she saw him eye the cookies. "They're sablés nantais, almond butter cookies. You would like one of them rather than the toast? They're fresh from the oven, still warm and soft and chewy." She went over to the counter and handed him one to try.
Erik bit into it, savoring each sensation on his taste buds. It was like the ambrosia of the gods. "Might I have another?"
Mamma laughed. "You may have as many as you like." Getting a plate from the cupboard, she filled it with cookies and set it on the table. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she took the seat across from him. "They're good, are they not?"
There was something about the situation – Mamma Valérius at the kitchen table, fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter, a pot of coffee on the stove – that Erik found relaxing. Perhaps it was simply that this was what he had always wished his own home had been like when he was growing up. It was not too hard to sit here and imagine his own mother sitting across from him. Even after all these years, it hurt to think that had it not been for his father, his mother might have loved him. But such thoughts were a waste of time and energy, and he shoved them aside; there was no way to change the past.
The two of them sat quietly for several minutes, eating the cookies and drinking their coffee. Erik remembered Christine telling him how she always wrote to Mamma, told her everything that was going on in her life, even about Erik. He was curious as to what it was she included about him in those letters to her foster mother. "I…I was wondering…" He stopped, not sure how to proceed, .
Mamma smiled. It was as if she knew he suddenly felt tongue-tied. "Ja? You were wondering…" she encouraged him to continue.
Erik felt his body tense. He should not have brought up this topic. The dear lady would think he was being overly inquisitive, but it was obvious that she was waiting for him to continue. "Christine told me that she writes to you all the time when she's in Paris. That she told you all about me. I was wondering…what did she say?"
"Only that your life has not been easy, that you grew up under adverse circumstances."
"Adverse circumstances. I…I suppose that's as good a way to put it as any."
"Is there something you would like to tell me? Something you want to talk about?"
"Only…oh, it's nothing. I was only thinking…." He stopped as an overwhelming sense of sadness washed over him. "I was thinking that this is how I always dreamt a home should be like, filled with love and affection."
"Yours was not?"
Erik shook his head.
"Was there a problem at home?" There was concern in Mamma's voice.
"My father…" Oh, this was going from bad to worse. He tried to shrug off the feeling that he was making a first-rate fool of himself, but there was no turning back now. "He was…difficult at times."
"Ah," Mamma said. "I've heard that phrase used before. Was he intemperate? Abusive to you, your mother? No," she said, holding up her hands and shaking her head, "please do not answer. It was rude of me to ask. I'm only a nosy old woman…"
The woman's frank, down-to-earth manner eased the strain that had been building in Erik. He let out a melancholy chuckle. "You are many things, Anna Valérius, but 'only a nosy old woman' does not seem to be one of them. Everything you said is true. Yes, my father was 'intemperate' in his drinking. That often led to violent behavior. Many times, he told me I was an embarrassment to him. But…but how did you know? Did Christine tell you?"
"No. It was simply an educated guess based on what you said to me just now, about dreaming of a home filled with love."
Throughout their conversation, Erik had been turning his face without realizing it, unconsciously trying to hide his disfigurement. Without meaning to offend the kind woman who had never once indicated that she was upset by his face, he blurted out, "I regret that you must tolerate my appearance. Christine is bringing a mask from Paris, and I will wear it whenever I am out of my room. You won't need to see me…like this…" He stopped, not knowing what had gotten into him, fearing that perhaps it had been the memories of his father that caused him to unintentionally insult his hostess.
Mamma frowned. She reached across the table and took Erik's hands into her own, the way a mother would hold a child's hands, even an adult child. "What troubles me, young man, is that you feel the need to say this to me. What matters to me is what's up here," she said, pointing to her head, "and what's in here," pointing to her heart. "The rest is superficial."
Erik was ashamed of himself. He had come into this room feeling full of confidence, but that confidence was still fragile. He lowered his head, wanting nothing more than to leave the kitchen and return to his room. But Mamma was not one to let him to wallow in self-pity.
"You have been taught to think of yourself in this manner, to believe yourself to be undeserving of love and kindness. You perceive yourself as unworthy. What you must do is re-teach yourself, and avoid people and situations that reinforce this negative perception."
Erik bristled at being spoken to in such a manner. His head shot up. "You do not understand," he said bitterly. "You can never understand. You don't know what it's like to live with a face that sickens people, to be ridiculed, to be thought of as less than human because of it!"
His outburst did not seem to upset Anna Valérius in the least. "You are right. I have not had to endure what you have endured. And it is true that there will always be rude, unkind and hurtful people. There will always be people with small minds. But they are not all there is. I have not lived your life, nor would I wish anyone else to. What I want to do is help you to understand that at least here, within the walls of my house, you are accepted for being Erik duBois, my foster daughter's fiancé and a man who happens to have a scarred face. Don't keep living in the past, Erik. That way leads to more heartache. Live for the present…and the future. Now, put to rest all ideas of covering your face while you are in my house. Let this be our last discussion on the subject."
She got up and refilled the empty plate of cookies.
Erik sat staring at them, uncertain of what – if anything – he wanted to say at the moment.
"If I have spoken out of turn, Erik, it is only because I care for Christine…and for you." She was standing next to him, holding out the plate of cookies as if they were an olive branch, a peace offering.
He looked up at her.
"Yes," she said. "I care for you."
Tears were forming in his eyes, and he tried blinking them away as he took the plate and set it on the table. "No," he said softly, "you did not speak out of turn. I am a stubborn, bull-headed man. Once I get an idea in my head, it is hard to get it out." As he spoke, he could feel his mood lighten ever so slightly. Until now, Christine was the only person he had ever spoken candidly to about his face. He was surprised at how good it felt to be able to do so with another person. He gave Mamma a crooked smile. "I needed your lecture. I thank you for it, and for your patience in dealing with me. I hope that in time I shall live up to your expectations."
This time there was no sadness in Erik's smile.
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The inevitable Author's Notes:
Victor Hugo (1802–85) was an ardent republican and defender of the revolutionary legacy who went into exile during the Second Empire (1852–70). He lived long enough to become an icon of the Third Republic. He portrayed the democratic aspects of the Revolution in glowing, indeed somewhat romanticized terms.
Ninety-Three (Quatrevingt-treize), was Hugo's last novel, published in 1874, shortly after the terrbile bloody upheaval of the Paris Commune. The novel concerns the Revolt in the Vendée - the suppression of the counter-revolutionary revolt in 1793 during the French Revolution. It is divided into three parts, but not chronologically; each part tells a different story, offering a different view of historical general events. The action mainly takes place in Paris and in the Vendée region of western France, and to a lesser extent at sea off the Channel Islands, where he latterly lived. Hugo has been criticized for his portrayal of the Bretons, whom he describes as "savages" and as speaking "a dead language".
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And now for the recipe! Almond Butter Cookies / Sablés Nantais. These buttery cookies are flavored with almonds and kirsch.
INGREDIENTS:
6 Tablespoons salted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1-1/3 cups flour
1-1/2 oz. ground almonds
1 egg
1-2 Tablespoons kirsch
For the wash: 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 Tablespoon milk
PREPARATION:
1. Cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl.
2. Add all the other ingredients and mix until a smooth dough forms.
3. Shape the dough into a ball, wrap with plastic and chill for 1 hour.
4. Preheat the oven to 400F.
5. Lightly flour your counter and roll out the dough till it's 1/4-inch thick.
6. Cut out the cookies with a cookie cutter and place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Brush the tops with some of the egg wash and bake for 8-10 minutes.
To serve: Allow to cool on a rack. These cookies keep well.
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Last but not least, a little shameless self-promotion. If you are ever in the mood for some sometimes irreverent, sometimes bawdy "mature" humor, may I recommend the Gypsy Heart of Darkness series I have written in collaboration with MadLizzy and Jaxboo? I'm not able to post a direct link here, but just click on my profile and you'll find them there. They're quite funny, if I must say so myself. And I will! Thanks as always to everyone who drops by and reads this story.
HDKingsbury
