Chapter Fifty Two
Nadir Kahn concentrated upon his hands, crosshatched and mapped with the scars of a long-ago ordeal, ignoring the two restless young men who also sat at the café table across from him. For the first time in two days Nadir felt the muscles in his shoulders and back begin to relax, the anxiety and regret of another situation gone sideways subsiding. Anton Villar had already reported the one salient fact Nadir most wanted to hear.
Aislyne Butler was safe.
She was not on the streets, or being held by the assassin who pursued Erik. She had, in fact, found the safest place to be in a city where many hunted her. And Nadir Kahn knew exactly where she was, If Villar's initial statement could be trusted. Nadir's instincts said it could.
Naturally, Nadir Kahn had no intention of sharing this information; not with his employer the Minister, or Captain Heizel, and most particularly not with these yozzles.
He was not surprised to hear Mademoiselle Butler had so cleverly outsmarted these two. It was the manner in which she was able to do so that puzzled and astonished him. The woman was indeed blessed by God!
Looking at the self-important Villar, he asked, "And you are sure Mademoiselle Butler was alone the entire day? No one approached her, no chance for slipped messages or clandestine contact with these musicians...anyone?"
Villar shook his head rapidly, yet responded with one "Oui, Monsieur Kahn." At his superior's motion to do so, Villar elaborated, saying, "We watched the...ah...subject the entire day, Marcel and me. The only time she was out of our sight was when she went to the facilities at the edge of the park. The attendant motioned her to the urinals at the back, naturally...but the mademoiselle pointed to the closed stall. We could plainly see it was empty before she entered, and there was no entry from the sides or back, as I checked it out thoroughly. I believe…"
Kahn stopped any further personal observations with a look. He instead turned to Marcel Lamand, asking, "And the two women...they were, indeed, bona fide musicians?"
Lamand nodded crisply, saying,..."Yes, Monsieur Kahn. They both played beautifully, particularly the cello player. The cello player..." Marcel fanned his hand upon his chest.." was meraviglioso."
Villar snorted derisively at his partner's use of Italian hyperbole.
"Hmmm." If Kahn was amused at Lamand's open appreciation for the woman who played the cello, he would not show it. Eleanor Smythe-Walsham reportedly had little use for men.
"The Mademoiselle fled directly through the middle of the standing musicians to these two women, after pushing...you?... into a group of seated civilians, yes? And, Monsieur Villar, she then slipped past you...hmmm?
Villar looked as if he were sucking on a lemon. Nadir found it hard not to smile. "Did either of you see what happened when she reached the woman musician? Was there a discussion? Did the Mademoiselle have time to request their aid? Offer them money? Tell them who she was?"
Villar shook his head, exclaiming, "No Monsieur Kahn! I was but a few yards from her...I would have known...seen and heard...if she would have done so! Instead, I see this scantily dressed woman jump from her chair and grab the mademoiselle...like so!" Villar stood and reached for Lamand's shirt collar, jerking him out of his chair. "She held her by the neck...out, like this...as if she were a dead cat!" Villar's theatrical performance now included holding his partner up on his toes, easily done as Villar was nearly a half a foot taller than the diminutive Lamand.
The 'dead cat' squeaked a protest.
Kahn frowned, motioning both men to return to their chairs. "We are in a public place, Monsieurs!"
Lamand's face was flushed, his eyes rolling when Villar abruptly dropped his hand from his collar, and both dropped to their seats. Leaning across the table, Villar continued in a lower tone. "The woman...the musician, I mean...seemed unsure of what to do with the mademoiselle, glaring at her with a great deal of irritation. And that is when Marcel spoke up, asking if we could relieve her of the...ah..."
Lamand, sensing his friend's hesitation in referring to the mademoiselle as 'garbage', stepped in, saying, "I said, 'May we remove this unfortunate from your view...'. Lamand shot a smug look at his partner.
Villar continued smoothly. "Exactly. But the woman holding our…holding the mademoiselle immediately set up a horrible fuss, screaming for the plainclothes flics who hang about most evenings. She accused us of 'threatening' her servant...she actually called the mademoiselle 'Thomas', as if she were a man! Suddenly we were surrounded by the other musicians, who did not seem inclined to listen to reason!"
Lamand interjected, "We felt it unwise to detain the mademoiselle at that time."
Both men looked at Nadir carefully, unsure of his response to such craven behavior.
Kahn drummed his fingers upon the table, snapping his gaze from one to the other. "Monsieurs...anything else?"
Both men indicated 'no'.
Kahn leaned back into the chair, thinking of the rather wide trail the Mademoiselle had cut, and how best to cover it. "How did you come to think this person to be Mademoiselle Butler? Dressed in men's clothing, taller than both of you, and armed with a knife. This does not sound to me as if this…person …could have appeared to be a woman at all!"
Lamand immediately held up his hand from the tabletop, saying quietly, 'It was I who decided she was…who she was."
Kahn was disappointed...but quietly asked Lamand, "And how did you come to that conclusion?"
Lamand, intimidated by Kahn's stiff expression, licked his lips, but faced his superior squarely. "It was her coat, sir. It is…was Donegal tweed, done in a muted bronze houndstooth. You don't find Donegal tweed worn anywhere but Ireland, or maybe Scotland. It's not popular enough to export."
Kahn was surprised... "Go on."
Lamand shrugged and said, "I saw the coat before I paid any attention to the…er…person wearing it. She…had just returned from purchasing a meal at one of the outdoor grills…and I saw the fabric...the coat, and recognized it for what it was despite its terrible state of disrepair. I…my father was a tailor. Fitted 'off-the-peg' during the day…adjusting coat sleeves and such. In the evenings he worked for himself, making bespoke suits. He was very good, and always busy." Lamand became faintly pink at the admission of his humble antecedents. He sighed then, saying, "My father was custom tailoring for a Scots gentleman, an expat' who had made a great deal of money here in France. But the man insisted on 'good wool tweed' for his clothing, and my father sent away for it. We had bolts of it laying about for months. I was my father's unpaid assistant, and I learned a great deal about the stuff."
Kahn let his honest admiration show, although his first ploy at derailing further interest in Aislyne Butler was thoroughly scuttled. "So you based your decision on the fabric of the coat?"
Lamand sighed. "It was the way she walked, Monsieur. In fact, every move she made…it just said 'female' to me. She is very graceful, a most striking woman, despite the clothing, and grime and...blood on her face." Lamand sat back at the sudden intensity of Kahn's expression.
After a moment Kahn snapped, "Please continue."
Lamand nodded and continued. "She would forget and straighten her back, or lock her hands before her, just as any gently-raised woman will do when they are...ah...doing nothing. She kept her face hidden for the most part, but you could not mistake her for anything but a woman if you saw her bone structure, her expressions…" Lamand shrugged again.
Kahn looked at Villar, asking, "And you? Did you notice any of this?"
Lamand laughed at Villar's dark expression. Villar admitted he had not.
"I see." Kahn steepled his fingers, looking from man to man. Superior directive it would have to be.
"We are not, in fact, looking for Mademoiselle Butler, so we will not be pursuing this line of investigation. It is interesting that she is still here, of course, but obvious she is no longer with Jerrod Bouchard. I will give this information to the police and they can do with it what they wish. We will not be doing their work for them. Do you understand me?"
Nadir waited for either man to offer a dispute, but neither did.
"I am assigning you, Monsieur Lamand, to the rail station on the peninsula, where your discerning eye will do the most good in recognizing Monsieur Bouchard…whom we are pursuing…if he should try to leave Lyon via rail. Monsieur Villar, you will be his partner, but will answer fully to Lamand. Please write up your reports and submit them to me at your earliest convenience."
When neither appeared ready to leave, Nadir stood, bid both a good day and headed out of the café. Walking away, he could not contain the spring to his walk.
Both young men looked taken aback and more than a bit annoyed. Kahn had left them with the check.
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How could I have forgotten Teresé Martineau? Why did I excise from memory the first love of my life, the woman who was everything to one hideous little boy?
And how wondrous the returning memory! To feel again the strength and comfort I found in her custody, a bulwark against the heartless deeds of my own parents. Nanny Tess was all that was good in my life for nearly eight years.
My hands busy with needle and thread, I allow the memories to come...
Teresé Martineaucared for me from the very hour of my ignoble birth, my parents unable to bear the sight of their afflicted son. I wonder that they did not find the usual drink-addled crone to 'foster' me, hidden in the back streets and stews of Paris, for a few centimes a month until I expired from 'natural causes'. My father must have possessed a conscience; I know my mother did not.
My father was convinced I was damaged, cognitively as well as physically. He spoke about me, never to me. The few times he visited the suite where I lived with Nanny Tess, he merely inquired if Tess needed anything 'for the boy.' One memorable day she requested paper, pencils, and suitable books for a young child…for me at 3 years of age. My father laughed, saying, 'That monster will never be able to read or write. He cannot even speak!"
Of course, I never spoke when he was anywhere near, terrified of the man and his power over Tess. What if I say the wrong thing? My mother would frequently threaten to send Tess away, but it was Charles August de Carpentier who could actually do so. Even at two years of age I understood the hierarchy of my world.
Tess bought paper and pencils to appease my need to draw the things I saw, both in the world around me…and within my mind. My infantile sketches were pinned to curtains and arrayed about our apartment as if each were a work of art. Tess saved those I considered good enough in a large book she kept under her bed. And naturally, she taught me my letters and numbers; I can remember her hand on mine, helping me to spell my name, my age, the date and place…
'Erik August de'Carpentier, années 4, 14 Mai 1843 - Paris, France'
Nanny Tess read to me from the time I was an infant; by age four I read the daily paper and understood a great deal of what I read. Having bought a subscription to the local lending library, we would walk there at least once a week, I wearing my hated mask. Pouring over the shelves of books, Tess helped me choose my weekly allowance of three books, prevaricating if necessary so as to introduce me to subjects I might not have found interesting otherwise. I was allowed one story book, but those on ancient history, the sciences, the classical tales of adventure and mythologies came home with us as well. I loved to read, and would have done so nonstop had she not directed my interests in other ways as well.
The basic primers, with their simple illustrations of happy children in a loving parental home, gave me some idea of how my life compared with that of other children, so I was aware very early of the differences.
I was fascinated with cats, and my childhood pet was a cat named Newton, in honor of the great scientist. Newton was a refugee from the unkind streets, having suffered the loss of most of his tail and half an ear in his early years. He was not a young cat when he joined us in our small corner of my father's house. Newton soon became an icon to his noble name, suffering from a surfeit of gravity, being well-fed and tending to ride a little low in the belly. He was my second greatest love, fostering my lifelong affinity with God's greatest creations, the animals.
Of all the giftsTeresé Martineau gave me, the most important was the gift of music!
My very first memories are of her face bent over mine, soothing a fussy, hungry infant Erik by singing the aria from Handel's 'Xerxes', 'Ombra mai fu.' I was comforted when she sang, and thrived upon goat's milk and opera music.
I learned to sing every aria, every duet she had performed or heard during her 30 years singing with the various Paris opera companies. She taught me the basics of using my vocal instrument, concentrating on the middle register because of my immaturity. She found me an apt student, although an exacting tutor, she still made our lessons the brightest part of every day.
It was she who also introduced me to the pipe organ. She served for many years as the organist for our Catholic church, and twice a week I went with her to where she taught me the rudimentary skills of playing it while she rehearsed new music with the choir
I was given my first violin upon my 3rd birthday…a gift from Master Luthier Jean Baptiste Vuillaume, who was a member of St. Sulpice and had heard me picking my way through a Frescobaldi toccata using both the primary manual and the center footboards of the church organ. He had walked up to the organ and asked me who I was, wherein I had told him as I hid my masked face, "I am Teresé Martineau's ugly little boy." The man had frowned so fiercely I had become truly frightened, but he said, "You may have an unfortunate face, but you have the soul and heart of a gifted musician. What instrument besides this do you play, Master Martineau?"
After a long discussion about music and birthdays, he shook my hand firmly. Within the week, Tess took me to Monsieur Vuillaume's shop, where he gave me two short lessons on my new one-quarter-sized violin, and a hand-scribed book of scales and practice songs so I might learn the notes and tablature. We visited his shop many times in the following years. I loved the violin, although I had to keep the bow away from Newton, who chewed the horsehair.
A piano appeared in our rooms one day, moved there from the front drawing room when my mother had decided she no longer wanted it. Tess asked for it, and so it was now 'our' piano. I remember her stretching my small hand over the keys, showing me where the notes to our favorite songs were located. From that day the piano was my personal passion. I immediately sought out the notes for every bit of music Tess had taught me, that we had ever sang, first as single notes, then as chords, and finally as complete melodies. I was playing my own compositions on the piano by age 5, something that terrified the servants. Tess allowed me to play as I pleased when my lessons were done, in the time between dinner and bedtime.
My parents initially thought it was Teresé Martineau playing the piano. No one thought to tell them different.
Because of the music, operatic and otherwise, I wished to learn Italian, Spanish and English. Tess knew conversational Italian and was fluent in English and Latin, and taught me. I learned Spanish later, although in circumstances nowhere near as salubrious.
In our short seven years, she gave me what most would consider a complete classical education. I was taught the liberal arts: Latin, logic, and rhetoric, literature, history, and music, as well as mathematics, and the sciences: geometry, astronomy, engineering and physics. I was required to translate from the Latin the poetry of Virgil and Horace into English, and then translate it back into Latin in another grammatical tense. I read Horace, Justinian, Tacitus, Thucydides, and Plato, willingly…and sometimes not. In short, she gave me in our few years what normally required eight years of private school, four years at university, and a Grand Tour. I can only wonder at what she could have achieved with her little demon had she been allowed twice the time by fate.
I suffered from an uncontrollable curiosity that included the 'other house' connected to ours. I had once escaped the garden, and once slipped through the iron gate between my parents' home and mine.
The time I slipped through the gate, I had come upon my older brother, Alexander, who was five and thus two years my senior, and also up to no good. Having outwitted his nurse, he was chasing one of Mother's Prince George spaniels with the intent of riding it like a horse The poor little dog was terrified, pressed into a corner shivering with fear, yipping at Alexander.
My unmasked face had been swollen with an infection…something I fought most of my childhood was infection in the tender and frequently raw tissue upon the right side of my face. Nanny Tess had applied a gooey green poultice to my cheeks and nose and allowed me to go unmasked. I must have appeared properly hideous to Alexander, all over green slime upon one side of my face. The combative expression I assumed at his mistreatment of the little dog sent him into panicked terror; he had immediately begun screaming and liberally soaked the carpet around his baby-shoed feet.
My hasty retreat had not spared me a solid hiding from my nanny, and we again went over the reasons I was not to go through that door. Poor Tess suffered a severe reprimand by my mother, and that alone cooled my ardor for adventure in that direction for several months.
It was, in fact, my mother who finally provided me with the motivation to stay away from the remainder of the house.
Late one afternoon I was able to escape Tess for the few moments it took me to climb the (then) short garden wall and slip into the 'other house' through the French doors into the library. I hid beneath the largest table I had ever seen, fascinated by the array of books that filled the massive room.
A maid found me, although I hid my face innocently behind the 'Oiseaux Illustrés du Monde' I was enjoying. She left me there, much to my continued delight, but fetched my mother. Unnatural woman that she was, Mother pitched a hysterical fit upon finding me hiding in her library. Screaming for Tess, she then attacked my poor Nanny when she ran into the room, white-faced and tearful.
I watched as my mother slapped Tess, not once, but twice, shrieking things I could not understand. Nonetheless, I would not allow my mother to hit her again. Launching myself from beneath the table, I ran between the women and shoved at Mother's legs through her elegant blue silk gown, attempting to push her away from my Tess.
My mother's face registered shock and horror simultaneously. "His mask…where is that…that monster's mask?"
Nanny Tess immediately knelt to pull me into her arms, saying "He wears no mask when he is with me, Madame. He is just a baby…he is no monster!"
Mother leaned down, her face twisted, hissing, "He is a monster, and he will wear a mask! Else you will be dismissed and I will send him to Charenton!" She then glared directly at me, saying, "Get him away…he has no business here, in my house. He is to never come here again!"
Striking so quickly there was no chance to avoid it, she deliberately backhanded me in the face, hard enough to break the fragile cartilage that held the shape of my nose to that of near-human. Blood and green goo sprayed everywhere…the carpet, across the skirts of both women's gowns. My shirt was soaked with blood by the time we were safely returned to our quarters.
I never willingly crossed the barrier that stood between our little corner and my father's house again. I finally understood that which I could not before.
My mother hated me.
How unhappy my life could have been, yet it had been extraordinarily perfect because of Teresé Martineau. As a boy, I was well aware I was ugly. I knew the way people reacted to the sight of my uncovered face...to the open wounds and gaping holes the constant infection and irritation caused. Yet I found strength and acceptance with my devoted silver-haired Nanny and tubby cat, unaware how quickly life could change...
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Ruthlessly I chop off my hair, scissoring away the generous length Aislyne left to the front, leaving it all short...less than two inches overall. Dabbing the ink-black liquid over my shorn head, I carefully remove any smears from my skin, as it will block the effect of the skin dye.
Stripping down to the skin, I begin applying the skin dye. Everything must look natural... everything. Resolutely, I apply it to both sides of my face.
The oily skin-darkening concoction is cooling, the rag I will use to apply it already stained dark brown where it is resting half in the pan.
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One afternoon, Nanny Tess fetched me in from my room to come to our parlor, where I found my mother sitting at the piano. Tess had given me the mask, so I knew we had company. My mother told me to sit down, which I did immediately after I had bowed nicely and inquired as to her health, just as Tess has taught me.
My mother's expression was one of amused derision. 'He has no need of gentlemanly manners, now does he Mademoiselle Martineau? After all, there is no way such a disfigured monster could be more than…a sideshow curiosity."
Tess's expression remained cool, yet I could feel anger radiating from her stiff body. My mother than said, 'I gather he plays the piano well. I suppose it is for the best that he be able to do something, yes Teresé?' And Nanny Tess had smiled grimly, murmuring "Yes, Madam".
My mother stood then and turning to me, said, 'You are fortunate I did not send the piano out with the old furniture to be burned, Erik." I remember feeling such horror for the piano, something that had taken on a personality, become more than a 'thing' in my mind. I actually gasped, and begged her to have mercy for the piano, 'No, please…never do that, Mother. It is a very good piano…I do love the piano!"
And my mother brought her narrow, pinched face closer to mine than she had ever in memory, and for one second I thought she would kiss me. I must have shown something on my face, because she laughed at me, still close. Then she hissed, "Then never give me reason, Erik, to punish you. For I will have your piano broken into a thousand pieces and burn every one in that fireplace, right there!" She turned violently, and pointed to the small firebox that heated the dining room, and she actually laughed into my shocked face.
I remember turning to Nanny Tess and hiding my hideous face in her stomach. Tess was shaking; I watched her hand wrapping itself in the apron fabric at her side, and I thought to myself, 'she is tying her hand down so she will not slap my mother!' And then, 'No, please do not hit Mother, Tess! God knows what she will do to us!'
My mother's vindictiveness had an element of impotent rage to it, fed no doubt by the fact she had, ultimately, so little say in my disposition. I know she wished me dead…gone…that I was an embarrassment, and constant aide memoire that she had given birth to a monster. I was reminded frequently that she found comfort in knowing I was her second son, and Alexander…her beloved firstborn…true heir to my father's estate.
In her mind this was far more than any money or property my father could have bequeathed his firstborn. My grandfather's family was of la noblesse, having been so since Louis IX. Alexander Erik de'Carpentier, Duc de Aiguillon, lost the title that went with the name de'Carpentier when he lost his head to the guillotine during the last years of the Terror. My mother was openly hopeful it would be reinstated, the title restored to my father. My father reportedly could not have cared less.
Then Alexander fell from a tree house he and my father had built in a large oak tree in the estate garden. I was six. Alexander broke his neck and apparently died instantly. My father carried his body into the house, and I heard my mother's screams for hours before we were told what had happened.
My father tore the tree house down, his face hard. I stood and watched from my small corner of the garden. He never spoke to me, did not so much as look at me. But I KNOW he knew I was there…
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The skin dye is…unpleasant in feel and odor, yet I continue to rub coat after coat of it into my skin, being careful to do so evenly as possible. It burns the tender flesh of my nose, especially on the right side, and I dare not get any in my eyes, as I have no idea what the affect would be there. I have it rubbed well over every bit of skin, checking each area piecemeal with a silver mirror I 'borrowed' along with many other supplies from a cobbler's shop in the Jewish district. I continue to apply extra coats to my face, arms, legs and other such areas that might conceivably be exposed to the sun. I apply it to my back using a large fleece pad on a long handle…manufactured out of necessity, and I believe it works well. I am not too sure how the scar tissue on my back will take the color. If it is anything like my face, it will take some color…enough to match the general shade of my skin.
It will be enough…it has to be enough.
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Upon my seventh birthday I realized I was now the only child. Since my brother's death, I was left alone by my parents, and happily so, as I had Nanny Tess and Newton, my music and books, and our excursions to the library, to Monsieur Vuillaume's shop and the church. I could not miss my mother, and all the drama and violence her visits brought to my quiet, well-ordered world.
I was always curious about my father, however, as he was an architect, just like his father, and I found the art and science of architecture endlessly fascinating. At that time I envisioned a day when I might talk with him about these subjects, asking intelligent, insightful questions, to show him that I, too, was a son with whom he might find pride. That I was no mindless, uneducable monster.
And then there were rumors my father had left Paris and my mother; a broken man, he had given up everything and went off to work for the colonial government in Algeria. I never heard of him again…
Tess worried, fretting that my mother would do something 'ungodly evil' to me if my father was not here to stop her.
Paris, in 1846, suffered the coldest winter in memory, with snowfall to the rooftrees, and temperatures far below what our crude thermometer could register. New Year's Day, 1847 brought celebration to none but the idle rich, who could afford the wood for the fires, endless oil for the lamps, and the wine and provender for guests. For a great many in Paris the day assured only more misery. Deaths from starvation and exposure to sub-zero temperatures rose to hundreds a day.
Closed into our small apartment, cozy and sheltered from the lethal weather, Tess continued my education in languages, deportment and music. Because of the difficulties I suffered in the cold weather, we did not go out at all. Even Newton chose to join us before the fire instead of checking out the stables for mice seeking shelter from the bitter cold. Although I heard our housekeeper and Tess discussing the troubles outside our doors, I was untouched, content to immerse myself in books and music.
Upon the release of Winter's lethal grip, flooding then swept France. The rains began in late March on the heels of the last snow, and continued through April, driving the rivers of north and central France out of their banks, drowning crops, livestock, and low-lying villages. As one crop after another failed, food became more expensive, jobs more scarce and France tottered upon the brink of economic collapse.
I suppose I was not to notice the lines of strain that grew deeper upon Tess's forehead, or the way she would hug me for no reason. We practiced little economies, mending and turning our daily clothing and only purchasing that which was absolutely necessary. We ate less, although I was never really hungry, and conserved oil and candles by going to bed earlier...the hardest on me as it meant I could not read late into the night.
Tess began to suffer from a shortness to her breathing should we walk too quickly across the street. She sang with me less, insisting she was happier to listen while I played the piano and sang to her.
Twice I found her sitting upon the floor, face ashen with pain she would not identify, and so weak I was hard pressed to help her up. Never a large woman, she now seemed to melt away, her cheeks hollowed with bruised shadows beneath her eyes. Not fully understanding the reality of mortality, I begged her to get well, to rest and save her strength. I soon found myself caring for her in small ways, even as she continued to tutor me in math, geography and voice.
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Sitting naked beneath a quartering moon, I stare at the star field overhead, having come to the conclusion I am a fool. Blindly I have skipped, lighthearted, down a path that in some way I must have KNOWN would turn to razor sharp stones beneath my feet. Now I remember…the gut-wrenching agony of her sudden absence, leaving me alone and ultimately unprepared for the world outside our magic sheltered circle. One moment loved, safe, whole, wreathed in her protection. The next betrayed, sold and caged as if an animal, to be beaten and broken, abused and used in the basest of ways...
My oily brown fingers clutch at my face as tears wash the stars above into bright smears of light. Chest aching with helpless rage, the broken-edged memories cut away at the fragile sanity and humanity once again.
And now I know why...I know why I chose to forget her...
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Having finished the prescribed practice of violin and piano, I ran to find Tess so I could play my newest composition, a fugue in four voices on the piano for her. I found her lying upon the floor just inside her bedroom, her mouth working soundlessly, her eyes widely dilated as her back arched from the floor, her hands lying useless by her side. I tried to help her, wrapping my arms about her neck and shoulder to pull her up, but without success. Tears rolled across her cheeks to land upon the hard floor, and I realized she knew I was there, knew I was frightened...but was unable to see or talk to me. I needed to fetch help.
Running to the gate that separated our apartment from the rest of the house, I quickly broke the locking bar with a decorative cast iron door stopper and ran through the vast rooms of my parent's house to find my mother. She was in the conservatory, two other ladies with her. Bowing quickly, I calmly told her Nanny Tess had fallen upon the floor and couldn't speak or get back up…that she needed help immediately!
I must have stunned Mother speechless at first, as she and the other two ladies sat, mouths open, staring at my uncovered face. But my mother recovered soon enough, and jumping up from the settee, began screaming for the butler and maids, her clawed hands raking the air inches from my face. Suddenly she slapped me so hard I spun about, tripping and falling to the floor. When I got up and began telling her yet again of Nanny Tess, she grabbed the small wooden footstool near her chair and hit me again, this time knocking me senseless to the floor upon my face.
Mother began crying hysterically. Pushing myself to my feet, I staggered from the room, past the shocked butler, footmen and maids, none of which had been brave enough to step through the open door to where my mother battered her hideous not-quite-secret son.
Frightened, I ran back to the apartment where Tess and I lived; Tess's eyes were open but she was no longer moving. I thought perhaps she was better, resting...and I patted her cheeks and hands, begging her to wake up, to reassure her ugly little boy, but to no avail. Confused with all that had happened, I finally lay beside Tess's body, hugging her until Madame Turcotte came to find us so, many hours later. Lunch and dinner had come and gone and Teresé Martineau had not fetched our meals; Cook became worried and came to check on Teresé, and the strange little boy for whom she cared.
For many days thereafter I was numb, wandering the apartment, in deep shock.
One morning I realized she had left me…vanished. Her things remained, every shawl and lace cap, her handkerchief and library book next to her bedside, and the Wellies and long brown Ulster she favored still hung from the hook by the back door. I, too had been left behind in limbo, now unsure from one day to the next what was to happen to me.
For weeks I lived in the apartment alone. Mrs. Turcotte no longer came in the mornings to make my breakfast, or indeed, at all. There was a new cook, a taciturn woman with long hair on her chin and a rank smell, who now delivered all my meals and generally made sure I was alive and nothing beyond that. I sat at the piano and played until I was exhausted enough to sleep. I read the books Nanny Tess had read to me, and drew pictures of her. I actually drew her on the wall in our sitting room…standing life-sized, wearing her favorite linen dress and Brussels lace shawl. It comforted me just a bit.
It was during this time that Newton disappeared. I realized his fate was most likely decided by my mother…she had complained endlessly at the idea of a cat in the house.
The piano was next to leave; I was directed by Cook to go to my room with my dinner, a novel enough idea that I should have guessed the reason. The sound of several pairs of heavy shoes accompanied the squeak of the piano's rough wheels moving across the parlor floor, almost as if it were calling 'goodbye'.
Increasingly I was ordered to my room at odd hours of the day, so that each of the apartment's rooms could be stripped; all the books, the drafting table next to the window along with my paints and pens, charcoals and colored chalks. Tess's bedroom suffered the same fate, the closet and clothes presses emptied, her bed reduced to the frame leaned against one wall, leaving me nothing to hold when I could no longer hold my fears at bay. Soon even the furniture was gone.
My violin remained because I hid it behind a loose board in the wall of my closet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There is no love without pain, Erik. You cannot know one without the other."
Kneeling in the loose shale beside the river, I beg her spirit to withhold the rest, to close it away! Yet I know she cannot, and I tear at my face in an attempt to derail the memories… "I know you are right, Tess, I know it! Please…please take this away!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had been told to take a bath, and clean attire had been set out for me to wear by one of the maids. My mother appeared in the apartment, and announced we were to go for an 'outing'. To have my mother appear willing to be seen in public with me was far outside my experience, and I was numb with terror.
After a prolonged carriage ride wherein my mother kept her fan before her face and said not a word to me, we stopped at a large Gypsy camp on the outskirts of town, to which was attached a shabby sideshow attraction of the sort that are still popular even in these enlightened times. I recall being frightened by the appearance of the misshapen unfortunates who were exhibited as freaks, either voluntarily...or not, as evidenced by those who were shackled to trees or caged.
My mother put her hand on my shoulder and viciously ripped the black silk mask from my face. This was the only time I remember her touching me while not screaming. How could I not know what was to follow?
She talked with a man named Javert, who owned the entire sideshow. They spoke in English although it was apparent my mother was not fluent; she had no way of knowing I was. I understood every word of their conversation. I listened with ice filling my heart as she was guaranteed I would surely die within the first year; watched as she accepted a packet of cash notes. I realized that she was, in fact, delivering the killing stroke to her inconvenient monster son.
"Mother, why did you do this?" I wept. "Why did you hate me so?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~OoO~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is morning when I awake, the sunlight on the river casting bobbing lights upon the cave walls of my lair. Wrapped in an old blanket, I am hungry, sick and cold.
A good inspection using the mirror assures me the color looks quite natural, especially on hands, face, neck and ears. Very little else will be uncovered under normal circumstances, although I have insured the skin color is fitting, whatever the situation. I have secured the textiles and the dyed hair cuttings for the facial hair.
Soon I will be ready to go hunting for Hashim. But first I must find Aislyne, and insure she is safe.
