CHAPTER THREE - Fruits of Love

"Would you like to walk around the garden?" I asked. "We have a fish pond, and they've woken up now from their winter nap."

"I think I've had too much sherry," Christine said.

"Good reason to walk, then."

"This garden looks so wild," she remarked, as we passed thick over-arching boxwoods.

"It's deceptive. It takes more work to keep something looking wild than tame. Look, we can sit here."

Rough stones sat in between flocks of tiny white and yellow Japanese iris, and in the deep navy pool, orange and white shapes flicked back and forth.

Instead of carving a bench, you had taken a rectangular stone and planed off the top, buffing the edges so the children wouldn't bump their heads. She ran her hand over its glossy grey-veined surface and said almost to herself, "So like him to do it this way, so simple." Then she looked up at me with her deep wide eyes. "Meg, can I ask you something? Something that might be hard to answer?"

"Yes, of course. If you'll answer something hard as well."

We had a game long ago called "You first." One would dare the other to do something like climb up on the flies above the stage, or sneak out late at night through the chapel side gate. The other would say, "You first," and we'd go back and forth until one of us yielded and went first, usually me.

"Go ahead," she said. "You first."

"No, please," and this time she yielded.

"How did it happen?" she asked. "I mean, the two of you. All we knew was that you disappeared. They looked for you in the lake but there was nothing. Until you wrote, your mother thought that you were dead."

"Don't remind me. She never really forgave me."

"Then Raoul and I were in New York on holiday, and we saw the theatrical poster for Hades and Persephone."

"It was his debut in New York. Did you go?"

"No. But then we read the reviews the next morning. They said you were the principal ballerina. That you were from Paris, and married to the composer. I always wondered, how did it happen?"

"All very quickly. I had just changed for the second act of Don Juan Triumphant, to play the squire. It was the fastest costume change I'd ever made in my life. I stripped down right there backstage, and no one even looked at me. Everyone's eyes were on the stage.

"No, don't be embarrassed. You were beautiful that night, glowing. I thought I would faint, my heart was beating so fast. The two of you looked like angels on the bridge, or gods, and then … then when the fire started, I ran down the stairs after my mother. She knew exactly where to go and everyone followed us. She told me not to come any farther but I did anyway. I waded through the lake and saw you and Raoul on the boat, very far away. Then you were gone.

"I went up to the top room, the room with the big bed. I don't know why. I think I wanted to see it, to see everything there. Then I found the mask and I just wanted it, it was so shiny and beautiful. As I reached over to pick it up, I saw a curtain flutter, the one that partly covered the mouth of the tunnel.

"I didn't think at all. I just ran as fast as I could into the dark passageway until I came to a blind end, and then I yelled and pounded on the stone, all around me. He pulled me through a hidden door of some kind. At first I thought to give the mask back to him, but something inside me said No, no more masks. No more deception.

"I threw away his mask in front of him but he didn't get angry. I did worry for a short time that he would kill me, not because of anything he did, so much, but because it seemed to me that it would have been the easiest thing to do to get rid of me if he didn't want me there.

"He had a little cave fixed up down below the fifth cellar, someplace no one knew about, and he took me there. I didn't know what he was going to do next." Then it got hard to speak. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

"Yes," she said. "Please."

"I gave myself to him, Christine. It sounds insane, I know. Even more insane was that he didn't send me away. He didn't leave me there, he didn't kill me, he didn't drag me back to the lake. Instead, he cried, for a long time. He fell asleep in my arms exhausted, and then when he woke up he took me in the dark.

"I knew he didn't love me, not at the beginning. I was this warm comforting body he escaped into, who held him without asking questions. I didn't mind, because from the moment I ran into the tunnel, I was ready to do anything for him. My biggest fear was that he would send me away. He didn't, though. He had things all ready to go to New York. I think he must have planned to take you at some point, but he took me instead. Oh, please don't cry. I don't tell you this to hurt you.

"I'm all right. Please, I want to hear more."

"We had very little money. The Atlantic passage was expensive, and New York cost more than we ever dreamed. I danced in the row, and he played violin in orchestras. Then it seemed like demand for opera exploded. Anyone, especially a European, who had any familiarity with the repertoire could play every night of the week, almost, and he did.

"His capacity for work almost frightened me. I would come home from dancing, fall asleep exhausted, and when I woke I'd serve him coffee at his desk. He hadn't slept at all. I learned to sleep through him composing on the piano.

"By the time Vanderbilt's Metropolitan Opera opened in 1883, he'd already had several commissions. Hades and Persephone was the first, followed by Iokannon and Salome, and then David and Bathsheba. The Metropolitan asked him for a score, and he wrote Attila.

"It was so curious; he would never show himself at premieres. Instead, he'd buy the cheapest ticket, up 'in the heavens,' you know, the highest rows, and dress shabbily, just well enough not to get thrown out. He said that if his work wasn't audible and enjoyable from the worst seats in the house, then it wasn't any good. The story grew up that he never attended his own openings. Of course he did; it's just that no one knew he was there."

"He never lost his love for disguise," she said. "But no one … noticed? His face, I mean?

"I think he wanted to see how long it would take, but they never did notice him sitting in the cheap seats. In New York, having the right clothes and a box at the opera meant a lot more than your face. They had just gotten over a terrible war. There were men walking around without limbs, without ears or noses. But you're getting cold. We'll go back now."

"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I can almost see it in my mind." Then she took my hands and the trees grew very still, as they do right before the sun goes down. "You made him happy."

"As happy as I think he can be. Not always as happy as I would like."

"I made him so unhappy, I thought he would die. You didn't see him the way I did … the last glimpse I had of him as Raoul and I took the boat."

"He didn't die, Christine. You need to know this, it's important. He doesn't understand it, and neither do I, but when you gave him your ring you saved his life. He told me. He was ready to let the mob take him, but before they could, you came back and gave him your ring. Then he didn't want to die anymore, and instead of waiting for them to kill him or arrest him, he ran away. Please tell me, why did you do it? Did you know what would happen?"

"I don't know," she said finally. "I just had to. My father used to tell me about the witches and wizards of the North, how they would hide their souls in some object or sometimes even in another person. They kept their soul safe that way, and they couldn't die. Don't look at me that way, Meg. I know you don't like it when I talk like this."

"No, I don't."

"It was as if I put a part of my soul into that ring. I wanted to send it with him. So that he wouldn't forget me. I'm sorry if it hurts you when I say that."

"It does hurt, but it's all right."

"I sent something of me with him. It left a black hole that nothing could fill. I used to dream that I'd stayed with him, and that we'd had a child. Those weren't ordinary dreams. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and still be in the dream, even though my eyes were open.

"Raoul was in his own room, so considerate of me. He didn't want to bother me, because I didn't want another baby right away. And yet I dreamt of a baby. A baby that could never be."

"That must have been terrible for you. But surely, after your daughter was born, it showed you that you didn't need to fear?"

"He came back to our bed. But there were no more children."

Tears started up in my eyes. "We think we're going to have a baby a year, and then look what happens. It's out of our hands, isn't it?"

She twisted my handkerchief in her hands, back and forth. "Tell me," she said after a second, "does he still have it? The ring, I mean."

Why does it hurt so much not to lie? "Yes," I answered. "But I don't know where it is. I've only seen it a few times, long ago. He doesn't speak of it to me." Then something occurred to me. "Did you … do you want it back?"

Her face twisted with emotion. "No, Meg. Never. Please, don't let him give it back to me. Not while I'm living, anyway. He doesn't want to, does he? I told you, he needs to have it. You have to tell him that."

"Of course I will. I'll tell him anything you want," and I meant it.

She sat on the bench and silently cried. She used to cry like that at night in the dormitory, so she wouldn't disturb anyone.

I gave her my handkerchief and put my arm around her. This would be so much easier if we had some years in between us, instead of nothing but those last raw months so long ago.

"Please, don't. Look at all you have, your children, and a man who loves you. Yes, he may have said harsh things to you, but men say harsh things when they hurt. Is that why you won't go with him to Brussels, because of what he said?"

"I'm not crying for myself."

Oh, God. We're all so tangled together, and no end in sight. You were wrong, my love. She did love you. She still does.

Calmer, she said, "As for Raoul, I don't know. Yes, I'm angry with what he said, although he did apologize. He wants me there with him when he goes abroad, that's true. I've gone almost every time, except when I couldn't because of the babies.

"I'm not good at parties, I know that, but I watch things. I pay attention to what's going on. Then he'll ask me, what do you think of So-and-so, or, what did you make of his wife spending so much time in the parlor talking with the ambassador's maid, and I tell him. My impressions. Sometimes it helps him to just talk, even if I don't understand most of it."

"It sounds like you fought because you were afraid for your son. Fear makes people do stupid things. It makes people think stupid things about others."

"It's your turn now," she said. "Can we talk on the way back?"

"Would you like to walk through the orchard?" I asked. "It's beautiful just as the sun's going down. But if you don't feel like it, we can skip it."

"No," she said. "I'd like to see it."

The pear orchard spread out before us, heavy with white blossoms tinted pink in the falling sun. A few bees headed home for the night, and the air was so still we could barely smell the blooms.

"What do you do with all these pears?" she asked.

"Ancel is Rochelle's husband, and our gardener. He makes wine and is trying to branch out into pear brandy, but so far hasn't had much success. When we bought the place, these trees were almost buried under brambles. Ancel cleaned them out, pruned them, and amazingly enough, the first year there was a small crop. Since then it's gotten better. I'll send some pear wine home with you, if you'd like."

"I would."

We walked back through the orchard and past the pond until I could bring myself to speak. "You know, just as you were afraid to meet me, to come here, I was afraid to have you. I know you promised never to tell, but it always terrified me that you and Raoul still knew. You knew everything that anyone would ever need to find us. Well, not find us, because we were always more or less in plain sight, but expose us."

"Expose you?" she asked, confused.

"Because of Joseph Buquet. Because of Piangi."

"Piangi lived, you know."

"Yes. I saw the papers in LeHavre, when we were on our way to New York. Our lives are in your hands. You must know that."

"There was your mother," she offered. "She knew, too."

"Mother would never tell anyone. Well, maybe she confessed it to the priest, I don't know. She loved him, and she would have hanged herself before knowing she put him on a prison ship. I didn't understand that at the time, which is why I didn't write her at first. But I see it now."

"Why I should tell?" she said quietly, but with a fierce undertone. "Why would I do that? You didn't think your mother would. Why would I?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling stupid. "Jealousy, maybe. Revenge. He hurt you, Christine, in a lot of ways."

"We hurt each other. No matter how much he hurt me, I could never tell. He asked us both not to. He begged us, with tears."

"You still love him." It was a fact, baldly stated.

"Yes."

"And it keeps him alive."

"I need to know he's alive. That he's somewhere in the world, alive."

"What about Raoul? He had every reason to hate him."

"Don't fear me. Don't fear Raoul. Raoul loves me. He lost his temper with me, but he does love me. He wouldn't do something like that. It would kill me, and he knows it. He wanted revenge for awhile. But not any more.

"Listen, Meg. Raoul told me of Devil's Island. There are sharks that swim in the bay. They sense the ships coming and they swarm. Men die on the prison ships, and the guards don't even bother to bury them. They just dump them in the bay before they dock. I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear it. He didn't understand at first why I cried. Then he knew."

"Oh, my God," I said. "The horror of it. To think that … " Our eyes met, and there it was before us both. Your body, sliding into the water, flesh turning to red mist, bones crunched.

I had to tell her. I even wanted to. "He still loves you. It's behind his eyes, in his compositions, in the nights when he doesn't sleep. But we have a life, and I thank you for that."

She squeezed my hand. "Of course he loves you. Look around you. Don't you see it? It's everywhere."

The path faded into purple with the twilight. Through the boxwoods I could see the house. Right at the horizon the green spark of Venus came out against the violet night. I said a prayer for the dead of Devil's Island, who were your brothers; for Raoul and his suffering; and for her, that she would keep loving you.

"Are you going to go to Brussels?" I asked.

"I think so," she said. "Yes."

The kitchen lights were on, and through the window I could see the red-headed coachman, deep in conversation with Nabilah. She still covered her face, but looked at him intently with her luminous eyes. Rochelle fed the boys their porridge and milk before bed, and the first fireflies winked on the lawn.

The liquid golden light poured over us as we walked in.

"We're back," I said.

(Finis)