Settling into his chair next to the bay window, Erik takes a sip from one of Christine's strawberry teacups, one of a whimsical set of pottery found at a street fair. An addition to her collection of homemade craft items ranging from pottery to hand-carved wooden bowls, statues and toys for the children – with an odd blanket or shawl purchased if she liked the pattern.
The family suffers no lack of knitted goods, as she kept them all well supplied with sweaters, scarves and caps from her own efforts. Still – a gifted craftsperson deserved to have their work appreciated and the best way to show appreciation was someone buying the crafted item, as she explained it to him when he questioned some of the odder pieces she brought home – like this set. The cups hardly large enough to hold a decent serving.
"The set was created for a child's tea party, not an adult man," she said when he made the comment. "We have all manner of cups and mugs to choose from – yet you insist on the strawberries."
"The silly set cheers me – my complaint is one of longing, not criticism of the maker."
"I wondered that myself when I made the purchase, but Pappa said while the craft was created from love, the creator needed to eat."
"I suppose you were questioning the taking of payment from those who threw coins into your cup at fairs."
"True – while I was happy people liked to hear Pappa play and me sing, I nevertheless felt awkward and shy and embarrassed."
"I certainly understand those feelings. Often our person is the only thing we have to sell. If that person has an instrument to play…in your case, your voice…there is no sin in being compensated."
Refilling the cup from the equally small teapot, he smiles at the recollection.
The conservatory is still dark, the sun not yet risen, the single lamp provides the illumination reflecting off spatterings of raindrops clinging to the windows. Despite years living in the "light" as he calls it, sleep is still illusive at times, so he takes to roaming the halls of the large Bay Ridge house, much as he roamed the cellars beneath the Garnier.
Of course, the house is a house – warm, thanks to a system of radiators throughout, and furnished. Fleck and Helen's rooms are in the rear of the house near the kitchen. Christine and the children are asleep on the second floor – the attic formerly claimed by Gustave as his bedroom/study, vacant. The younger children argue daily over who might be granted the privilege of having the privacy of the third-floor lodgings with its view of the street and the bay.
At this time of the day, he can hear the waves break against the sea wall, mildly reminiscent of lake back in Paris – a reservoir in all actuality, and yet, the occasional lapping of the rainwater collected in the cistern against the cement blocks, allowed him to imagine a touch of nature in the underground world he created for himself.
For now, he finds comfort in the room of windows looking out on the garden already showing signs of spring, drinking his tea, as Ayesha sits curled in his lap, kneading his right thigh. Erik grateful he cut the now adult cat's claws, so her dreams of momma cat are not disturbed by his yelps when unclipped claws meet sensitive flesh.
A sense of longing grips him as he gazes at the gazebo – where he and Christine spied on Gustave's proposal to Julia – now his wife. His son has a wife. Who would have imagined? Gustave's absence disturbs him far more than he imagined it might. The early days of parenthood had him gradually come to terms with living in the intimate company of other human beings. Not just the joy of Christine by his side, in his bed, fulfilling every possible wish he had and more about what loving her might mean, but having a son.
Everything changed for him in that moment – when Christine told him the true paternity of the boy who came to the Eyrie and played music like his own. Understood his own heart. Moments in time – a kiss, a second kiss, a night of shared love…passion, he never expected. Then meeting a boy – a shy, polite little boy, who loved music as he did. A boy who was his flesh.
Now that boy is a magnificent man. He hopes his efforts are partially instrumental in Gustave's development – although most of the credit must go to this mother…with a definite nod to Nadir, beloved uncle – the savior to both of them.
Living now with Julia – his son is no longer there to tease him about his new wigs, or choice of dress. Having abandoned poet shirts and frock coats he adopted the more acceptable discomfort of tailored suits, white shirts and ties of other businessmen – much like the formal wear he once imposed upon himself to fit in with the Parisian upper classes. Despite his efforts to get with it, he has yet to completely conform to wearing the soft flannel shirts and loose trousers Gustave introduced him to and insists he wear.
"You are still too stodgy, Papa. Those tweeds and starched collars cannot be comfortable."
"I am a businessman and should dress accordingly."
"You are the master of an amusement park – I should rather see you in the poet shirts and frock coats of old. You are unique – and never stodgy."
Shared cups of coffee or tea in the early morning hours – Gustave sensing his father's night journeys, joining him in the conservatory to just talk. Watching the sun peak through the leaves of the trees in the garden.
Their private time.
Attempting to maintain some level of closeness, they agreed to meet at a small café on the boardwalk twice a week to catch up. While not the same, these meetings ease some the loneliness he feels for his first born.
The sound of the front door opening jolts him from his reverie. A burst of adrenalin rushes to his heart, setting it racing. Jumping to his feet, he fingers the garrot always ready in the inside pocket of whatever garment he is wearing – in this instance – a burgundy velvet housecoat. "Who is there?" he calls out, quickly slipping on his mask as he races from the conservatory, down the long hallway to the front of the house.
"Oh, Mister, I did not mean to disturb you," Helen says, closing her umbrella, placing it in the stand next to the glass-paned oak door. Removing her bonnet and overcoat, she hangs them on the coat hooks in the small room created for the stowage of everyone's outer clothing. "I am not late, am I?"
Checking the watch he pulls from his pocket, he responds, "No, not late, simply unexpected – I thought you were in your room."
A flush rises coloring her pale clear skin. "It is Monday, sir," she explains. "Yesterday was my day off, I stay with Gustave and Julia on Sundays."
"Of course, of course. Did Gustave drive you? Why did he not bring you to the drive at the rear of the house? Especially in the rain." Opening the front door again, he looks out onto the street.
"Please, sir, it was nothing. I insisted. The stairs were no problem. Truly," she insists. "He spoke of having to be at work early – being Monday and all."
"I must speak to him about this. A few more minutes to be certain you were safe is not too much to ask. Those steps can be treacherous, even when dry." With no automobiles apparent, he closes and locks the door – resetting the alarm. "He has become quite the busy man. For myself, I tend to lose track of the days when the park is closed – there is no need for me to stick to a strict schedule."
"Please, do not be angry with him – I insisted. It was not his fault…and I did not fall." She offers the glimmer of a smile.
Examining her small hands kneading one another and a furrowed brow, he snorts, "All right, but in the future, he is to drop you off in the driveway. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," she says, her eyes focused on the green and tan floral runner, refusing to meet his.
"Good." Stepping to one side, he allows her to pass. "Outside of being rude, how is he? And Julia? I have not spoken to them since last week."
"Fine. Fine. As usual," she says, biting her lower lip. "I should be getting ready for the day…the children will be clamoring down the stairs shortly and I should like to have their breakfast ready…"
"Of course, well, then, go about your business," he says. "As you say, everyone will be rising shortly, and I should change my clothes. Cannot have the entire household dressed and me in my pajamas."
"Yes, sir." Making a quick curtsey, she half-runs down the hallway to the back of the house, disappearing into the door of her bedroom.
"Helen just came home," Erik announces, closing the door to his and Christine's bedroom behind him.
Only having just awakened, her aquamarine eyes are still heavy lidded. Yawning widely, she covers her mouth, muttering, "Since when has that become newsworthy?"
"I thought she lived here – slept here," he says. "When did that change?"
"When Julia moved out – she began staying with them on her days off – otherwise there is no change," Christine answers, throwing back the bed covers, toeing on her slippers and wrapping her pink chenille robe around her. Padding to the bathroom she asks, "Why do you ask?
"I just did not know – I was having a cup of tea in the conservatory and heard the front door open. I thought she was a burglar."
"I wondered why you had your mask on…and your wig," she says. "I am surprised you are not completely dressed."
"Should have left the mask off, would have frightened off anyone foolish to break into this house," he smirks touching the wig, now sporting streaks of gray. "Habit I suppose, I still feel a level of discomfort even around the family – one should not be forced to look at ugliness…" he raises his hand to stop whatever argument she might make. "…however much I am loved, my darling, so save your comforting words."
With deep sigh, she shrugs, calling over her shoulder, "I hope you did not pull out that thing. Did you? Oh, I hope you did not. That would certainly terrify the poor girl if she saw it."
"No, but I was prepared to if necessary." Following her into the bathroom, he sits on the edge of the tub.
"Might you turn away to afford me a modicum of privacy?"
"What…oh, of course," he says shifting his position. "Would you have me leave?"
"No, I have come used to your presence in the strangest of places. My body is performing as intended and I should not like risking putting any restrictions on a natural process."
"I am sorry, I am a selfish oaf."
"You are nothing of the sort – simply wrapped up in your own thoughts and not mindful of the world around you – somewhat of a usual condition."
"She said she spent the night with Gustave and Julia and both of them were fine," he says, taking off first the mask, then the wig, laying both on the vanity.
"Did she? That is odd."
"I thought so." Removing his robe, he turns on the water in the shower.
"Did Gustave not telephone Julia was under the weather, and he was taking care of her?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Where do you suppose Helen spent the night if not with them?" she asks, moving to the sink to brush her teeth.
"I hesitate in saying what I suppose."
"With Raoul?"
"Where else?" he says, testing the water temperature in the shower. Shucking his union suit, he steps into the tub drawing the plastic curtain around him. "None of our business, of course, but I am concerned for her."
"Her not knowing about Julia is concerning – this is not just about last night," Christine sighs. "I suppose I should speak with her, if only to let her know her sister is unwell."
"Better you than me," he chuckles. "I am quite proud I did not blurt out my thoughts at the moment. Especially when she told me Gustave dropped her at the curb."
"That would be unusual," she agrees. "It never occurred to me to ask how she was getting home – a cab would not be unheard of…Albert could easily arrange something for her."
"If she said it was a hotel car, I would have thought nothing of the driver simply leaving her on the street."
"But you did not confront her?"
"Only suggesting Gustave might have had the courtesy to bring her to the rear of the house so she did not have to walk up those steps. She insisted I not confront him about it, so I let it drop," he shouts over the sound of running water.
"Restraint after all these years?" Christine laughs as she removes her robe, letting her chemise drop to the floor.
"Who said you cannot teach an old dog new tricks?"
"You are hardly an old dog," she says pulling the curtain aside.
"What is this?" His eyes take in her naked form – a sly grin on his face.
"It occurred to me we never showered together – perhaps we can both learn a new trick or two."
"I would not be a bit surprised," he says, extending his hand to help her climb in. "Not a bit."
"And despite your protestations, I thought a little bit of comfort might be in order – letting you know how loved you are."
"Thank you."
"No. Thank you," she says taking the soap from his hand and creating a lather on his chest. "I have always preferred baths, but this might become my favorite way to bathe – depending upon what sort of new tricks we can come up with."
"I am in your hands," he chuckles, pulling the curtain back into place.
"Indeed, you are. Indeed, you are."