*Giuseppe 1845- 1849
I was tinkering with a new machine when I saw a young boy sitting on a rock in the square. I sauntered over to him and examined him, he was a sturdy boy. Black hair, blue-gray eyes, tall, and thin, but he wore a mask over half of his face. He seemed to be day dreaming so I left him alone, but then he said, "Sir, may I ask why you approached me, but made no introduction?"
"I am sorry; I am Giuseppe the humble inventor. Who may I ask are you?" I said.
"I am Erik, the humble musician and artist," he smirked and then bowed gracefully. He had to have been from France because of his accent, but his bow was distinct of the Persian's.
"How old are you, 13, possibly 14?" I inquired.
"I am 12 years old sir," he respectfully answered. Such a polite boy for 12. "Excuse me for asking, but you did say you are an inventor?"
"Yes, I am," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Would you care to look at some of my designs?" he was amazing. He handed me a stack of papers and I led him inside. As I sifted through the papers he had an excellent concept of design and motion. So many small things, and then a flying machine, a cart without horses, and devices that ran without human or animal assistance.
"Would you like to make some of these things possible?" I asked him, hoping that I would get to see some of his own work.
"I would," he said respectfully, although he was preoccupied by the piano.
"Do you play?" I asked. What an idiotic question, of course he could, did he not introduce himself as a musician.
"Yes, would you like me to play for you?" he asked stroking the keys gently. I shook my head yes and he sat at the little bench looking over the sheet music I had. He picked out "Moonlight Sonata," and started to play.
He didn't seem like he knew where he was when he was playing. A look of placid and ever loving joy came upon his face when he was playing the piano. His blue-gray eyes sparkled like the sun and his lips curled into a contented smile.
He played for about 20 minutes and then stopped, "Bravo," I said as he got up. He bowed as a joking gesture. Then he said something that I truly found witty.
"Well, where are my roses, every performer gets roses after their debut," he laughed and what a powerful laugh it was. In the middle of a laugh he spotted Figaro, my little cat, and froze.
"Do you not like cats?" I asked.
"No, I love them, I had a cat when I was a younger boy, but he was masticated by a dog. I do miss my little Jesse," he trailed off as tears filled his eyes.
"Well, from now on, you can call Figaro your cat. He will be yours for as long as you stay," I said hoping this young genius wouldn't refuse my offer.
"Thank you sir. I promise to take care of Figaro as long as I stay," he said as the tears backed up and a smile came upon his beautiful face once more.
I showed him to the attic where he could stay and I would teach him how to be a master inventor. He was eager to learn, more than any other child I have known.
The next day I gave him some clothing and we got strait to work. He took in everything I said like he was a sponge, absorbing every last bit of knowledge he could. The moment of truth came when I told him to assemble one of his drawings and he made a magnificent little music box, I know that if Isabella were alive she would have loved it.
Isabella was my only child. She was a gem. Her golden curls and blues eyes shone in the sun whenever she sat outside. She was always wearing her pretty dresses and shiny black shoes. She made dolls out of wood shavings and cloth and played with them all the time. She died one winter, she was six years old and she had contracted a spot of pneumonia and died just when we thought she was going to get better. Maria was already too old to any other children, so when Maria died I was left alone with no one. But, that was 6 years ago and I've learned to live with it.
It was a Saturday afternoon when Erik went into my yard for the firs time. I had a barn with two horses, a cat, and two pigs. Erik was interested in the horses so I taught him to ride.
Erik took a special liking to Rosa, a strawberry roan mare. Rosa was only about 4 years old, but smart as a whip, much like Erik, smart beyond their years. When he wasn't trying to make his little gadgets he was brushing Rosa.
Some days you would think that you would go blind from the shine of Rosa's coat. The thing that I noticed most was that Erik had a way with her, I could never even get the saddle pad on her back, but he could ride her with all the tack on. He would go to the square and ride her around where as all the little girls would giggle and whisper over the handsome new stranger with a half-mask.
Sometimes Erik just rode around to be a show off, racing other young boys and beating their young stallions with his mare, while all the pretty girls watched.
When all the young girls would walk around and whisper about the mysterious new boy Erik would pretend not to notice, even though I know he did. It never seemed to bother him when all the boys would make fun of him; he learned to get along with criticism.
After many months of getting know and respect the 12-year-old boy I housed he was like a son, or a younger brother, never once did he complain about anything, seldom did he even talk. Erik was always either coming up with new inventions or composing.
I would look over his compositions nightly and I noticed his bad handwriting. It seemed like no one taught the child to write. Also, he only wrote in red, never black, or even blue, only red.
One day, Erik came into my house with utmost rage. "What's wrong Erik?" I asked worried about the boy I had come to love like a son.
"Those dirty bastards," he hissed through his clenched teeth. "They stole my damn mask," and as he said this he turned towards me and stared me right in the eyes. There was a most distressful scar on his face. A burn, perhaps.
I didn't reply. But, there was a look of anger and hatred in his eyes that no other mortal could ever possess. They had changed from a blue-gray to almost a black and his lips were curled, like he was a dog ready to bite. Then, he stomped up the stairs and on the way picked up Figaro and kept going.
I didn't bother him; I feared if I did then he might take out his rage upon me. I didn't see him until the next day, and when I saw him the next day he looked much better, the hatred was gone and he was fine. It was like nothing had happened.
For the next three months he didn't leave the confides of the house. He only went from the kitchen to his room and no where else. When I would inquire about Rosa he said that she deserved a better rider and he could not fulfill that.
When he was in his room I could hear the violin and the piano interchangeably. Sometimes I would sit by his door and listen to the music that he would play.
He had been with me for almost two years when someone came to my door. A young girl, couldn't be over 7 was standing out there. I asked her what was her name and she replied, "I am Allegra Zuleika Waterloo and I am looking for my brother, his name is Erik."
"Erik," I called, "you have a visitor."
He rushed down the stairs and stopped dead cold on the last stair. He saw a little girl with sparkling green eyes and raven hair standing in the doorway. "Brother?" said the young girl anxiously.
Erik rushed over to the little girl, "Allegra, can it be?" he asked as he swung the little girl in the air.
"Yes brother, it is I! I missed you; although I was very young at the time of your disappearance I can still remember when you played your violin for me at night. Papa had to learn to play just to put me to sleep. Come home, please," the pretty little girl said as she hugged him.
"Come home, to what? I'll tell you, a mother who wanted to hide me from all people, a mother who wanted to get rid of me, she didn't say it but I knew it was true. I refuse to go," he said shoving the girl away.
"If you refuse to return home I will stay with you, I rather like being around someone who could play music decently. Also, I've been taking voice lessons I would love to sing with you," she said innocently.
"Not now Allegra, you must go home. However you found me I don't know, but you must go home. Maman needs you and so does this Papa you speak of. I will write you though. Give me the address and I will send you a letter every week without fail. Now leave me be, I don't want to know of my past," he said coldly. She wrote the address and then went outside to the carriage that had pulled up.
A middle-aged woman sat in the carriage too, I figured it was Erik's mother but I didn't want to disturb him with that notion. How different the two were, Erik being very tall, while his sister petite. Also, Erik had a dark and mysterious feeling about him; his sister on the other hand was cheerful and sweet. The differences were as distinguishable as the similarities.
One, they both seemed musically inclined. Two, both Erik and Allegra were emotional, a bit overly emotional it seemed. There were also physical similarities, Erik and Allegra had the same black hair and beautiful hands. So perfect and gentle, but at the same time strong.
Every week Erik sent and received a letter. He let me read them as he liked to have his writing critiqued by people. I can specifically remember one, it read:
"Dearest Sister,
I am glad to hear your singing is going on splendidly. You excite me with the news that you are performing a piece from "Othello," as it is one of my favorites. Also, I would like to know if Maman is well, you said in your last letter she suffered with headaches and I want to know if my cure worked.
I am still composing and inventing. I wrote a piece for you, "The Point of No Return," it sounds morbid, but it is quite a piece of work. I am definitely not suggesting anything but something about you reminded me of it. I have included the piece and I hope that possibly Maman would play it on the piano and you could sing it.
Your loving brother,
Erik"
I rather liked reading about his sister; she gives the impression of being a sweet enough girl and he seemed as though he cares about her. It's rather nice to know a little bit about Erik's past, as he would not tell me anymore about it other than the accident.
When I read his letters it reminded me of my sister, Stephanie, what a smart girl. Her head was always in a book and she never stopped learning. She moved to Florence when she was 16 and I never saw her again. From what I heard she married a violinist and they had a daughter, Christine, I think. But, I know nothing of her now so there's no point in wondering.
For months every Friday letters would come and go. I worried that Erik dwelt on the letters; he read them over and over and then kept them in a portfolio for safe keeping. I would find him reading them when he was upset, like if he had to go to the square to get something and people called him monster and such.
As years wore on I became sicker and sicker. I found it hard to stand sometimes as my knees would buckle and my back would creak. Erik would give me remedies of all kinds but nothing soothed my pain. Soon enough it would ache my heart and lungs to get up and I was bedridden.
Erik left my side less and less. He would play his violin for me and I would fall asleep to the music while he would watch me and make sure I wasn't dying.
One day when he wasn't there I got a stabbing pain in my chest and the sensation I couldn't breathe. Then, I wasn't breathing and with my last bit of strength I saw Erik come in and drop my medicine on the floor and run away. Then all I saw was darkness.
I was tinkering with a new machine when I saw a young boy sitting on a rock in the square. I sauntered over to him and examined him, he was a sturdy boy. Black hair, blue-gray eyes, tall, and thin, but he wore a mask over half of his face. He seemed to be day dreaming so I left him alone, but then he said, "Sir, may I ask why you approached me, but made no introduction?"
"I am sorry; I am Giuseppe the humble inventor. Who may I ask are you?" I said.
"I am Erik, the humble musician and artist," he smirked and then bowed gracefully. He had to have been from France because of his accent, but his bow was distinct of the Persian's.
"How old are you, 13, possibly 14?" I inquired.
"I am 12 years old sir," he respectfully answered. Such a polite boy for 12. "Excuse me for asking, but you did say you are an inventor?"
"Yes, I am," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Would you care to look at some of my designs?" he was amazing. He handed me a stack of papers and I led him inside. As I sifted through the papers he had an excellent concept of design and motion. So many small things, and then a flying machine, a cart without horses, and devices that ran without human or animal assistance.
"Would you like to make some of these things possible?" I asked him, hoping that I would get to see some of his own work.
"I would," he said respectfully, although he was preoccupied by the piano.
"Do you play?" I asked. What an idiotic question, of course he could, did he not introduce himself as a musician.
"Yes, would you like me to play for you?" he asked stroking the keys gently. I shook my head yes and he sat at the little bench looking over the sheet music I had. He picked out "Moonlight Sonata," and started to play.
He didn't seem like he knew where he was when he was playing. A look of placid and ever loving joy came upon his face when he was playing the piano. His blue-gray eyes sparkled like the sun and his lips curled into a contented smile.
He played for about 20 minutes and then stopped, "Bravo," I said as he got up. He bowed as a joking gesture. Then he said something that I truly found witty.
"Well, where are my roses, every performer gets roses after their debut," he laughed and what a powerful laugh it was. In the middle of a laugh he spotted Figaro, my little cat, and froze.
"Do you not like cats?" I asked.
"No, I love them, I had a cat when I was a younger boy, but he was masticated by a dog. I do miss my little Jesse," he trailed off as tears filled his eyes.
"Well, from now on, you can call Figaro your cat. He will be yours for as long as you stay," I said hoping this young genius wouldn't refuse my offer.
"Thank you sir. I promise to take care of Figaro as long as I stay," he said as the tears backed up and a smile came upon his beautiful face once more.
I showed him to the attic where he could stay and I would teach him how to be a master inventor. He was eager to learn, more than any other child I have known.
The next day I gave him some clothing and we got strait to work. He took in everything I said like he was a sponge, absorbing every last bit of knowledge he could. The moment of truth came when I told him to assemble one of his drawings and he made a magnificent little music box, I know that if Isabella were alive she would have loved it.
Isabella was my only child. She was a gem. Her golden curls and blues eyes shone in the sun whenever she sat outside. She was always wearing her pretty dresses and shiny black shoes. She made dolls out of wood shavings and cloth and played with them all the time. She died one winter, she was six years old and she had contracted a spot of pneumonia and died just when we thought she was going to get better. Maria was already too old to any other children, so when Maria died I was left alone with no one. But, that was 6 years ago and I've learned to live with it.
It was a Saturday afternoon when Erik went into my yard for the firs time. I had a barn with two horses, a cat, and two pigs. Erik was interested in the horses so I taught him to ride.
Erik took a special liking to Rosa, a strawberry roan mare. Rosa was only about 4 years old, but smart as a whip, much like Erik, smart beyond their years. When he wasn't trying to make his little gadgets he was brushing Rosa.
Some days you would think that you would go blind from the shine of Rosa's coat. The thing that I noticed most was that Erik had a way with her, I could never even get the saddle pad on her back, but he could ride her with all the tack on. He would go to the square and ride her around where as all the little girls would giggle and whisper over the handsome new stranger with a half-mask.
Sometimes Erik just rode around to be a show off, racing other young boys and beating their young stallions with his mare, while all the pretty girls watched.
When all the young girls would walk around and whisper about the mysterious new boy Erik would pretend not to notice, even though I know he did. It never seemed to bother him when all the boys would make fun of him; he learned to get along with criticism.
After many months of getting know and respect the 12-year-old boy I housed he was like a son, or a younger brother, never once did he complain about anything, seldom did he even talk. Erik was always either coming up with new inventions or composing.
I would look over his compositions nightly and I noticed his bad handwriting. It seemed like no one taught the child to write. Also, he only wrote in red, never black, or even blue, only red.
One day, Erik came into my house with utmost rage. "What's wrong Erik?" I asked worried about the boy I had come to love like a son.
"Those dirty bastards," he hissed through his clenched teeth. "They stole my damn mask," and as he said this he turned towards me and stared me right in the eyes. There was a most distressful scar on his face. A burn, perhaps.
I didn't reply. But, there was a look of anger and hatred in his eyes that no other mortal could ever possess. They had changed from a blue-gray to almost a black and his lips were curled, like he was a dog ready to bite. Then, he stomped up the stairs and on the way picked up Figaro and kept going.
I didn't bother him; I feared if I did then he might take out his rage upon me. I didn't see him until the next day, and when I saw him the next day he looked much better, the hatred was gone and he was fine. It was like nothing had happened.
For the next three months he didn't leave the confides of the house. He only went from the kitchen to his room and no where else. When I would inquire about Rosa he said that she deserved a better rider and he could not fulfill that.
When he was in his room I could hear the violin and the piano interchangeably. Sometimes I would sit by his door and listen to the music that he would play.
He had been with me for almost two years when someone came to my door. A young girl, couldn't be over 7 was standing out there. I asked her what was her name and she replied, "I am Allegra Zuleika Waterloo and I am looking for my brother, his name is Erik."
"Erik," I called, "you have a visitor."
He rushed down the stairs and stopped dead cold on the last stair. He saw a little girl with sparkling green eyes and raven hair standing in the doorway. "Brother?" said the young girl anxiously.
Erik rushed over to the little girl, "Allegra, can it be?" he asked as he swung the little girl in the air.
"Yes brother, it is I! I missed you; although I was very young at the time of your disappearance I can still remember when you played your violin for me at night. Papa had to learn to play just to put me to sleep. Come home, please," the pretty little girl said as she hugged him.
"Come home, to what? I'll tell you, a mother who wanted to hide me from all people, a mother who wanted to get rid of me, she didn't say it but I knew it was true. I refuse to go," he said shoving the girl away.
"If you refuse to return home I will stay with you, I rather like being around someone who could play music decently. Also, I've been taking voice lessons I would love to sing with you," she said innocently.
"Not now Allegra, you must go home. However you found me I don't know, but you must go home. Maman needs you and so does this Papa you speak of. I will write you though. Give me the address and I will send you a letter every week without fail. Now leave me be, I don't want to know of my past," he said coldly. She wrote the address and then went outside to the carriage that had pulled up.
A middle-aged woman sat in the carriage too, I figured it was Erik's mother but I didn't want to disturb him with that notion. How different the two were, Erik being very tall, while his sister petite. Also, Erik had a dark and mysterious feeling about him; his sister on the other hand was cheerful and sweet. The differences were as distinguishable as the similarities.
One, they both seemed musically inclined. Two, both Erik and Allegra were emotional, a bit overly emotional it seemed. There were also physical similarities, Erik and Allegra had the same black hair and beautiful hands. So perfect and gentle, but at the same time strong.
Every week Erik sent and received a letter. He let me read them as he liked to have his writing critiqued by people. I can specifically remember one, it read:
"Dearest Sister,
I am glad to hear your singing is going on splendidly. You excite me with the news that you are performing a piece from "Othello," as it is one of my favorites. Also, I would like to know if Maman is well, you said in your last letter she suffered with headaches and I want to know if my cure worked.
I am still composing and inventing. I wrote a piece for you, "The Point of No Return," it sounds morbid, but it is quite a piece of work. I am definitely not suggesting anything but something about you reminded me of it. I have included the piece and I hope that possibly Maman would play it on the piano and you could sing it.
Your loving brother,
Erik"
I rather liked reading about his sister; she gives the impression of being a sweet enough girl and he seemed as though he cares about her. It's rather nice to know a little bit about Erik's past, as he would not tell me anymore about it other than the accident.
When I read his letters it reminded me of my sister, Stephanie, what a smart girl. Her head was always in a book and she never stopped learning. She moved to Florence when she was 16 and I never saw her again. From what I heard she married a violinist and they had a daughter, Christine, I think. But, I know nothing of her now so there's no point in wondering.
For months every Friday letters would come and go. I worried that Erik dwelt on the letters; he read them over and over and then kept them in a portfolio for safe keeping. I would find him reading them when he was upset, like if he had to go to the square to get something and people called him monster and such.
As years wore on I became sicker and sicker. I found it hard to stand sometimes as my knees would buckle and my back would creak. Erik would give me remedies of all kinds but nothing soothed my pain. Soon enough it would ache my heart and lungs to get up and I was bedridden.
Erik left my side less and less. He would play his violin for me and I would fall asleep to the music while he would watch me and make sure I wasn't dying.
One day when he wasn't there I got a stabbing pain in my chest and the sensation I couldn't breathe. Then, I wasn't breathing and with my last bit of strength I saw Erik come in and drop my medicine on the floor and run away. Then all I saw was darkness.
