Erik tried to tell himself that it got a little less strange to be greeted like a normal human wherever he went, but he remained unconvinced. Mme. Benne, who proved to be the town gossip as well as alarmingly chatty, paved the way for him—it seemed that in each new place he went, he was already expected, and more often than not he was asked about his music, what he thought of their town, and whether the cottage's roof still leaked. The latter question had not yet been answered. His compositions were taking an odd, fey turn, full of woodwinds in minor keys. The cathedral was reported to be very fine, so he went to Mass for the first time in years and sat in the back reveling in the sound of the organ and trying not to cringe over the choir.
He discovered that he did like fish but not the little black mussels that everyone else appeared to relish. The fish market appealed to his more lurid nature, and when he couldn't sleep he would walk down at dawn and stare at the weird, flapping creatures that seemed to gape back at him with their huge wet eyes. Once he saw an enormous fish with rows and rows of wicked teeth, which he sketched for a couple of days straight. He even put small drawings of it in his letters to the Girys and to Christine. Surely such things would be amazing even to those who had lived in the world.
He wrote to Christine daily, though very few of the letters were ever sent. She was his talisman, his muse, and he had a series of little books filled with letters to her—thoughts, drawings, snatches of music. Declarations of love. When he sat down by the sea and listened to the waves, he was writing to her. When he composed, it was for her. Erik made certain, however, that the letters he actually sent were light, full mostly of description and support. It would be far too easy for her to simply stop writing if he offended her, and he would not be able to bear it. So he sent letters only as often as he dared, which was rarely more than once a week.
Soon it was time to buy coal for the stove, and then a storm blew in that lasted for five days with no break, during which he found that the roof did in fact leak. He was used to a home that dripped, so it was not as bad as it might've been. M. Benne was unconcerned by the weather and came up on her usual days. She had a remarkable talent for removing ink stains from sleeves. Erik spent the time revising a couple of his scores. The few people he actually talked to seemed to want to know when they would hear his music, and it stirred his old ambitions. He had a violin concerto and sonatina in the same key that were both fairly complete—he spent a couple of days playing through them, making changes, and a couple of days very carefully writing clean scores. Once the weather lifted, he posted them to Paris, to the boy in the music shop.
After the storm, the weather was noticeably colder. Boulogne-sur-Mer was not an elegant sort of town—his embroidered opera cloak would look entirely out of place. He found a second-hand clothing shop and spent a very little money to acquire a thick, nubby sweater and woolen jacket such as the fishermen wore. They were a little short in the body, perhaps, but broad enough of shoulder and long enough of arm. Then he set about fixing his roof.
After five days of such close concentration, physical labor was not only welcome but restful. He knew nothing of roofs, having lived underground, but the engineering seemed simple enough. Several of the slate tiles had gotten cracked, and an animal living in the attics had pushed at them, making a hole. He replaced the tiles and mucked out the tiny attic and declared it a deeply satisfying day. He sat alone that night with his feet stretched toward the stove and marveled at the pleasure to be found in such small things. As he wrote in his little book of unsent letters to Christine, he had not cared for things as simple as comfort in his old life. He had wanted finery for its own sake, because finery was a form of drama. Intensity had been all he knew—brief moments of transcendence and the long, dark times of despair. Peace had not been something he despised, exactly, but he had always thought it beyond his grasp.
He went to Mass again on Sunday and decided that he approved of the organist. His ache for a keyboard gave him courage enough to approach the man and introduce himself after the service. M. Druyon was overjoyed to meet the new resident composer, and their conversation lasted far past supper without a single mention of masks. Erik was astounded by this later. Christine had been the sole other person he had ever talked with of music, so his happiness in finding a sympathetic ear was very great. M. Druyon was fond of modern music but not of opera, so Erik felt safe. Of course he was welcome to play the organ any time he liked. Erik hoped that he would remember not to abuse this.
As he walked home in the darkness, with his breath misting about his head, he thought of writing a mass for the cathedral, something specific to the place of this ancient town by the sea. They were very proud of their history here, so there would be an element of medieval plainsong in it—in the Kyrie, to begin. And then, in the Gloria, there would be an echo of the sea chanteys that he often heard as he walked the streets. These were usually in minor keys, with strange little trills all over the place that pleased his ear. He had never written liturgical music. Mostly he had hated God. But this: it would be a good project.
Then he looked out to sea. The nearly full moon made a silver road on the black water, and it was all woodwinds again in his head. What would be the end of such a road? To walk in moonlight across the ocean … there would be heaven at the end of that. There would be a white face surrounded by dark hair. There would be two kisses, and they might be followed by a third.
The letter that he sent to Stockholm said that he had fixed his roof, that the weather was turning colder, and that he was writing as much as ever. He added a little sketch of the boats in the harbor, just to fill out the page.