After the first few lessons, Mahtab got better and better at shooting. She was soon able to shoot and score on moving targets as well. Erik was proud of her, as he did not think she will be so good at this hard sport. She got rewards for each great shot as encouragement, which did not make Christine happy at all. She did find the idea of the lessons a big enough craziness and mistake without the treats as well. She hated that pistol and Mahtab's self-defense lessons for more reasons. She was always terrified that Mahtab will once cause an accident with the weapon, wounding or killing someone in the family, and there was a bigger problem as well:
The younger children wanted to try it as well, especially Noel, but Erik always sent them away strictly while the lessons lasted. Noel did not really like the fact that Papa does not let him shoot, as he was sure he would be able to handle the gun just as well as his older sibling, but Erik wasn't changing his mind. Yet, he was willing to offer him something for a compensation.
- So, you may ask anything but the shooting lessons, Noel. What should that be?
The boy, who already was taller than Flo, thin as a rake, and even his voice was now similar to Erik's, even though he was only 10 years old, stroke his chin for a few seconds, then his eyes lit up with sudden interest and he sent a glance at his father, then he spat out:
- Fireworks.
- What?
- I want to make fireworks for New Year's Eve.
- No! – Christine shook her head as she heard what her son was up to.
- Mama, don't be so slavish. It is nearly 1900, I pray. The new century is coming. Everyone is having fireworks but us.
- True, even the de Chagnys. – Erik replied.
- I don't care what they might have. – Christine retorted. – We aren't having them.
- Christine, it is a manly project. – Erik argued. – If you don't wish to do it, then don't. We will.
Erik allowed Noel to have fireworks for two reasons. Firstly, if it is supervised by an experienced engineer and scientist, things will go fine, it is actually, in Erik's opinion, safer than shooting lessons. Secondly, he had to admit, he loved the idea as well. Also, a reason he did not like to admit: Noel was just as mischevious stubborn and naughty boy as Erik was in his childhood, so he was afraid Noel might do even worse things than the shooting and the fireworks if he declines both, and the boy will search for a way to entertain himself. There was a downside of having two children with scientific interest in the house, who also happened to be smarter than the average children. Florian thankfully was only a slave of music, and wasn't into burning, exploding and shooting things. Erik was relieved at that thought – two children with dangerous hobbies were quite enough for one household.
- Well, just wait until I tell your new crazy acts to Mohammed. I will inform him about both the shooting lessons and that you allowed Noel to meddle with gunpowder. Wait and see what you get from him! – Christine spat out angrily while leaving the room.
The Daroga…? He did not even show up lately. It was strange, and alarming, as he did not arrive for Christmas either, yet he was invited. He sent him a letter. Did he not get it perhaps? It was alarming, to tell the truth. The old Persian cop would always look after him, and follow him to play the usual silly game of his. If he did not show up for… hm two weeks… maybe three? Was something wrong with him?
He decided he shall check on his old friend, and left the house, shortly informing Christine about his worries. Christine repeated that she hoped Erik will get what he deserved for the new crazy plans, and asked Erik to tell the Daroga her best wishes.
With strong misgiving, he walked up on the stairs of the flat at the Rue de Rivoli. Well, if the mountain does not go to Mohammed, then Mohammed shall go to the mountain. Well, this stairwell seems to be bigger and bigger, especially now with his knees in pain. He had to lean on his walking stick as it was nearly impossible for him without it to go up those floors. He wondered for a time how on Earth would he walk up and down those thousands of stairs at the Opera. He knocked on the door, and hoped to talk to the Daroga and resolve whatever problems they might have. Did he get angry? But he did not say anything hurtful to him when they met for the last time. It was taking extremely long until the door finally opened. Erik was thinking of worse and worse possibilities while waiting for someone to finally answer his impatient knocking, then later, doorbell concert. After some time, he even banged on the door with his stick. What on Earth has happened here? Everyone is dead and buried?
Finally that fool Darius opened the goddamned door, and looked at Erik as if he was a lunatic.
- Monsieur, I'd suggest you to stop it. – He groaned angrily.
- How much time does it require you to answer a door? Is this not your job? – Erik retorted without tiring himself with the formalities of apologizing or saying hello.
- Leave, Monsieur.
- I wish to talk to the Daroga.
- It isn't possible now.
- Why?
- Because he receives no visitors.
- I am not leaving until I talk to him. Is he angry with me?
- No.
- Then he will talk to me. – Erik passed through the small opening of the front door next to the astonished Darius. Well, that skeletal man was thin enough to fit. And Darius always knew Erik had no manners, but he should at least have taken up some politeness in those years…
- Monsieur, stop! – Darius took that bony shoulder and tried to turn the uninvited visitor towards the door, but the next moment he felt a forceful push on his stomach and he fell back.
Erik was really nervous now. He did not like if Darius messed with him, especially not when he was worried. He found it strange that the Persian did not arrive in the hall to investigate the quarrel and scrummage between them. It wasn't a good sign at all. Nervously he knocked on the living room door, but no reply came. He, not paying any attention to that stupid servant getting up and wheezing behind him, he headed to the bedroom door. He was now sure the Daroga was ill, or… dead…
He opened the door without knocking this time as he was prepared for the worst. The Daroga was in bed, indeed, in a poorly lit and airless small bedroom. There was a total mess with clothes laying on the floor, some untouched and cooled food on the end table next to the bed, and an unemptied chamber pot next to the bed's leg which, of course made the room's air more unbearable. Erik nearly threw up when taking a deep breath and walked to the window to open it. His eyes grew wide open upon seeing the chaos and the miserable state his friend was in. He did not speak after noticing Erik's presence in the room. The man though the Persian did not even acknowledge it was him. He walked to the bed and covered the Daroga up. He wasn't hot to touch, maybe he did not have fever?
- I am sorry, I have to get some fresh air in. – He explained. He did not expect the Persian to reply, but thankfully, he did.
- Erik… you… here…
He sounded strange, as he was drunk. His tongue was forming words with a great difficulty.
- Erik is here. – He nodded, and patted the Daroga's hand. – Can you tell me what has happened? – He inquired partly with the knowledge of an experienced doctor, and partly worried about his old friend.
- I… I… got… dizzy and… fell.
- And?
- And.. woke up ….weak. can't… move with… left hand.
- Only your hand or your leg also?
- Hand.
- When did this happen?
- Few days…
- Did Darius fetch a doctor for you?
- No.
- Why not? – He got angrier, and turned towards the door, where he saw the servant, but the miserable rat ran away before he, at least could have thrown the chamber pot at him.
- I… did not… want to. – The Daroga replied.
Erik found it a better idea not to say a thing to this stupidity. He just shook his head, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves down a bit.
- Erik it is… not his fault. – The Persian explained. – I… I… was unbearable… in these.. past days. I know. I threw… things at him.
- He deserved. Daroga, you would have needed a doctor right after you woke up. – Erik sighed bitterly. – Daroga, I am afraid you had a stroke.
- No… I believe not…
- I believe yes. – Erik barked. – And we will find it out.
- You know… I dislike… doctors.
- And yet it was always you that nagged me to see one if I had some problems.
- It is easy… to advise… until it is you…
- I know. – He nodded. – But now you really are in need of a doctor. Please.
- Can't you…?
- Me, Daroga, I am not a doctor, and you know that.
- You… know a lot.
- I am not enough to treat this, Daroga. Please let me take you out of this stable and fetch a doctor for you.
- Take… out…? Where do you want to take me?
- Home. Look, you can't stay here all alone.
- Darius… is here.
- I see, he is very useful and caring. – Erik snorted sarcastically. – Enough of this, Mohammed- Ismael.
Erik wrapped the Daroga in a warm blanket, putting the hat on his head, and lifted him out of the bed. Erik carried his friend outside, accompanied by the Persian's protesting.
- Erik, are you crazy? I am heavy, and you are old… and…
- Shut up, Daroga. – Erik ordered in Farsi, then added softer, nearly begging. – Daroga, you can't do this to me. Please let me help you. You will live up to the next century, understood? If Erik stays alive, you stay alive as well. You are younger, you should outlive me and dance on my grave.
- You… say I can die?
- If it is what I think it is, then yes. – Erik sighed. – Please don't die earlier than me.
- I am only younger by two years. – The Persian smiled tiredly. – It is not much in our age.
- Two and a half. – Erik retorted. – And I said shut up. If you keep your mouth open in this cold weather, you catch a cold. And that is what you need the least in this situation.
Erik placed the Daroga carefully in a coach and ordered it to his home. He was now cursing in his mind that he had those seizures earlier, as it resulted in the leech denying him from driving an automobile, so he had to sell that precious possession, forcing himself back in the situation of depending on cabs. He had to admit though, that Bonsanté was right, as he knew he could get another seizure anytime, and maybe he would not be so lucky the next time. He understood it, of course- but did not like the fact at all.
The Daroga was moved in with the Spöke family. Christine felt utterly sorry for the poor old Persian, and she liked him a lot, she thought the Daroga shall not be left alone for the rest of his life in that flat, and the children were happy to have the loved Uncle with them – even if he was a bit of ill these days. Yes, he had a stroke. Thankfully, it wasn't too serious, as if it was, the Daroga sure would have died by that time Erik had found him. The doctor said he might be able to use his hand again, if they work on it with Erik. The man was so patient with his old friend and encouraged him to try to move his left as well.
- I'd have never believed it will be you one day to care about me. – Mohammed admitted.
- Me neither. But to be exact… I just repay the services you did for me once.
- Thank you for… not letting me there alone.
- Daroga, you don't believe me maybe… but I could kill to save you. Still.
The Persian, yet he wasn't too happy to hear this sentence from Erik, because it contained the word "killing", yet he appreciated the fact that his old friend got to like him so in the last twenty years or so. He was nearly killed by him in 1881, yet he was saved by him now, and Erik was really kind and supportive towards him. Working with his hand contained a task he would have never imagined to happen: Erik offered to teach him to play the piano.
That made the Daroga so happy, as he always wanted to learn an instrument, but Erik always refused to bother before, as he thought the Daroga as a total talentless person.
- You can't carry a tune. Everything you do is off pitched. You can't whistle, you can't sing, you have no sense of rhythm, and you are most certainly tone- deaf, Daroga. – He would state earlier.
Yet Erik still wasn't delighted about his friend's musical talent, or to be clear, the lack of it, as he was really terrible at learning things, he did not show it, or did not remark it any more. Mohammed was happy, as he was able to learn how to play a scale with at least his right, and sometimes, if Erik placed his ill hand on the keyboard, he was sometimes able to softly press a key.
Florian was also glad to see Tonton Mohammed wishing to learn music. Other than Erik, he was the one who took Tonton under his protective wings, and during a music lesson, on 31st December, he leaned closer to the Daroga and softly whispered:
- Tonton, I wrote a symphony. – His voice was so eager and happy, that the Persian, even though he could not read music, asked the boy to show the work to him.
Flo ran away for some seconds, then arrived back with a thick sheet music under his arm, and sat back down on the piano bench, handing the Daroga his first symphony ever. The Persian was smiling as he was looking at the carefully and beautifully written notes and rests, linebars and some other signs he could not name.
- I am proud of you, Flo, even though I can't read it. – He smiled. – It is a man's work to write such a thing. Did you show it to your father yet?
- No. – Flo shook his head. – I did not dare to.
- Why? – Mohammed inquired with astonishment.
- Because Papa says one can't make a living out of music only and he often scolds me that I spend too much time composing or playing music, and too little to study science or Math. He says I need a job, and he will most likely send me as an aid for some workshop.
- It is strange from your father. Do you want me to talk to him about this?
- Would you… please? – Flo swallowed, and looked the Daroga in the eye, as he was asking for help.
- But of course. Leave this here, and I will show it to Erik. I am sure if he notices your talent, he will be understanding and lets you follow your dreams.
Flo walked away with a relief and hoped the best of outcomes to happen if Papa sees the score.
As Erik walked in the music room and sat down at the piano, the Persian called out to him, and lifted his healthy hand holding Flo's work.
- What's that? – He asked.
- Your son's symphony. Will you look at it?
Erik took the sheet music, and without even looking at the notes, he started criticizing with an irritated little sigh. The title announced "Symphony of the new sentury".
- "Century" is written with "c", not "s", son.
- Erik, for the beard of the Prophet, he is only a 12 year old child! Look at the music, and shut your face.
As Erik started reading the work, he had to admit it was something new, and genial, especially from such a young person. It was very good, containing unusual, but not unpleasant harmonies, which really indicated the threshold of a new century. It was modern. He often nodded while reading, and when he finished the first movement, he placed the music down on the piano.
- Florian gave it to you? – He turned to the Daroga.
- Yes. He did not dare to show it to you.
- I know. – He nodded shortly.
- Erik, why do you say he can't live from music? You are a musician yourself, for Allah!
- That is why.
- Explain.
- Well, you see, I am not a musician, or at least I did not make money with music. – Erik started. – Even if I led a normal life, I worked as a contractor, or a mason, or an aid for a smith in my youth. I made money out of the work of my hands. It was the surest way possible. Music, Daroga, is not a job you can earn with. It is rather a religion.
- But your wife is an opera singer!
- Singers are fine, but Flo does not have that a great singing voice to be able to do so. I would say he would be an excellent concert pianist, but as I noticed, he rather wants to compose than perform already existing works. And the problem lies here.
- Why do you say he can't earn money by composing?
- I am not sure how familiar are you with music history, but please list me rich composers if you know. Other than Handel, as he was a rare exception. Well, not even rich, but who at least could make ends meet. I warn you, it is nearly impossible.
- So are you afraid Florian will be poor?
- Flo reminds me of Mozart in a way. – Erik sighed. – A child prodigy with much energy and determination to compose. He was celebrated by whole Europe as a child, yet when he grew out of the role of the cute boy, no one found him such a miracle any more. He was no longer a cute boy, just a talented, mostly ordinary musician in the eyes of most people. Later he wrote masterpieces, true, but ordinary people are not intelligent enough to appreciate a genius or to even KNOW his work is magnificent. Mozart had trouble selling his works, and he was in financial breakdown in all his life. The poor devil was also a very emotional fellow, so he took everything too seriously which resulted in him utterly burning out and working himself to death at the age of 35. Florian is nearly the same. Naïve, easily impressed and easily influenced, he thinks everyone wants the best for him. Just like his mother. He is choosing a profession for himself which is ruining and wrecking his soul in twenty years or so. That is why I don't like the thought of him wanting this as a main profession. I would be calmer if he chose a safer job, and kept music as a dear hobby, just like me. If I did not dare to live on publishing only, being a much stronger person than him emotionally, what will he do?
- I see now what you mean. – The Persian lowered his head. – But at least praise him for this symphony, Erik. He is so clinging to your opinion.
Erik nodded and picked up the work from the piano, walking outside to search for Flo.
He was humming to himself, holding his Math book on his lap. He would have needed to study, as Erik was asking him every day, but he was lost again in music. Erik had to realize he did not do it intentionally, it was just the way he was. Erik gently lifted the book up from Flo's lap and put it down on the table, closed.
- Let's not focus on that on the last day of 1899. – He smiled and patted the boy's dark curls and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.
- Oh Papa… thank you! – He hugged Erik's neck with love.
- I really like your symphony, Flo. – Erik stated proudly. – You write better music than your father.
- Really? – His eyes filled up with tears of joy and thankfulness.
- Yes. – Erik nodded. – You are a talented musician, my son. I am proud of you and I love you a lot.
- I love you too, Papa… so, will you allow me to be a musician?
- Let's make a compromise. – Erik started. – I will send this symphony to a publisher with a letter that it was written by my son, who is not older than 12. If we get a positive response, I will support your career as a musician. If not, we will search a safe and respectful profession for you we both like.
- It sounds a fair idea, Papa. Thank you. – Flo smiled widely.
The Daroga did not really like the fact either that Noel created fireworks using gunpowder, but he wasn't in the state of health that he could stop him. He felt still a bit of weak and could only use one hand, and Noel was a healthy young boy who ran faster than a rabbit. And anyways… he was sure Erik will take care so that he won't cause trouble. Around nine o clock the first dosage was launched and Noel was jumping around laughing in the snow as happy as Erik did not remember seeing him in his all life. Flo just stood in the doorway pale from fright as he thought there will be a bad thing to happen, but after some moments he giggled as he liked the sight of fireworks exploding in the air. Mahtab and Noel worked in team, while Erik checked every movement of theirs to make sure everything was all right, and after he asked them to go back in the house as it was cold. He did not want them to start the New Year with a nasty cold.
The children were allowed to stay up after midnight on that special day, so that they will wait for 1900 together, save for Belle who fell asleep on Mama's lap not much after half past ten. Christine went to the children's room to put the small sleeping girl to bed, as she was yet too small to stay up so late. As the mother left with Belle, and Erik and the Daroga were waiting for her to return in front of the fireplace, the Daroga smiled at his friend.
- I think I can thank you for being alive tonight and going to the next century with you.
- You would've never imagined this scenario to happen, did you, eh?
- No. – The Daroga laughed shortly.
- You know, I did not think either that I would be still here on this Earth in 1900, with a beautiful wife and four beloved children. Unbelievable.
- Don't forget the cat. – Christine returned with a chuckle and sat back down.
- True. – Erik nodded. – Monsieur, forgive me for nearly leaving you out. – He stroke the cat's chin as the animal appeared near his feet.
Suddenly all three children ran to the drawing room as they got tired of running around the house, and Christine also warned them to be more quiet as their small sister was asleep. Erik suddenly had an idea, having all of the kids in the same room, and left the room for some moments. He returned with both Flo's and his violin and handed his son his instrument.
- Erik, quietly… - Christine warned the boys, but the proud father waved in the air playfully.
- Belle slept through the second Hungarian Rhapsody on the music room's couch with her fists closed and mouth wide open. She did not move a bit while I was thundering Liszt. She will be fine.
They played parts from Flo's symphony, proudly showing it to Christine and the Daroga, who were utterly speechless of the boy's talent. The child was beaming with pride as the accords he wrote were floating in the air. He was smiling widely as his parents, his Uncle, and his siblings were congratulating him.
At midnight, Noel and the others ran to the backyard to launch another set of fireworks, and when they ran out of them, they returned in the drawing room. They sang Ode to Joy together, everyone was singing, even the Daroga, as Erik asked him to join. The children held hands, Erik and Christine hugged each other lovingly and the Daroga placed a friendly hand on Erik's shoulder. The children received a cup of hot chocolate, after the singing for clinking cups, and were sent to get ready for bed as they finished it. They did not whine about it this time – they were a bit of sleepy already to tell the truth.
- Here, Daroga. – Erik arrived with a glass and handed it to the Persian.
- I am not allowed to drink…
- Alcohol. I know. But it is orange juice. – Erik laughed out.
- Oh…. You… - He laughed as he checked the contents, and found out it was really orange juice. – Christine, your husband is turning mature. This is the first time he doesn't fool me with the drinks.
- How come? – Christine looked at Erik with surprise. – Why would you fool him?
- You know dear, he is not allowed to have alcohol because of his religion, and I used to trick him by pouring him a glassful of white wine that looked like water in poor lighting, claiming it was only water. He always had a sip before realizing what he had. I can't believe he always got fooled. He never learned.
- I just hoped you will stop. – The Daroga laughed. – Which would finally happen, perhaps?
- Maybe. Or you could just say I did not fool you once in a century. Maybe we should wait for the next New Year's Eve and see, eh?
They laughed, even Christine found it funny, as they had a glass of wine with Erik. They did not know what the New Year got stored for all of them, but they were sure in one thing: They loved each other and knew they will be together, whatever happens.
They wished each other a Happy New Year and New century smiling, looking forward to the future with growing hopes.
