Le Cadeau Chapter 2
March 1862
The pearly light of early spring glows with a blue luster this morning. As music makes the finely detailed walls of the salon vibrate, a small fire merrily crackles counterpoint in the hearth. A polyphonic harmony from Bach's Anna Magdalena Notebook flows from the piano with confidence. Blandine pauses to hear Erik play a phrase over – slowly – and try a different harmonization.
"You think like a composer," she interjects. Erik barely looks up from the music as Blandine settles in on her chair.
"Are you feeling a little better this morning?" he inquires as he subtly sways in time with the music.
"The worst of the nausea has passed, but it still finds me when I open my eyes."
"Your color has returned, Mme. Blandine. I am happy to see it." Erik sounds the concluding phrases of the piece and turns to welcome Blandine fully.
"Of course you are happy to see me. If I was sick, I wouldn't be able to give you this." She hands the young man a new portfolio of Mozart piano works. He takes it from her, holding it reverently in his hands like a rare treasure.
"Thank you. I wanted these when the new shipment came in at the music shop, but they sold out so quickly."
Blandine observes the way Erik gently turns the pages, one by one. He can read the music notation now without difficulty. It's as though he was simply remembering it all, she thinks with amazement. She has never heard of someone progressing so rapidly.
"Erik, let us continue working. Please turn to number four. Sight sing the bass line. Begin on 'Mi'." Blandine is hesitant to start Erik with such a difficult task first thing, but she is anxious to test his progress.
The young stonemason takes a breath. He notes that the bass line begins on 'Do' – a C – and Blandine is asking him to both sight-read and transpose up a third. Erik counts out a measure of rhythm and begins.
"Mi – 'Re' – 'Fa' – 'So' – 'Fa' -" He flawlessly sings the bass line, using the solfeggio syllables as Blandine taught him to do. When Erik gets to the bottom of the page, he looks up at his stunned teacher.
"Shall I continue?"
Blandine shakes her head in astonishment. "You have achieved four years of conservatory training in two months. Extraordinary."
Blandine holds out her hands to take the portfolio back. Erik reluctantly returns the Mozart. "Don't worry," she teases, "I'm not taking it away from you for good. I must ask you a few things, that is all."
Erik gets up from the piano. So it has come, he thinks with dread. She wishes to find out my past, my origins. Why I have no home. She will ask to see my face! "How can I tell you such a dismal history as mine, Madame, especially in your delicate condition?" he utters with despair.
"History of what, Erik? You misunderstand me. I wish to know how you plan to spend Easter." Blandine sets the Mozart down by her chair with an air of calm expectancy.
Erik turns back to the seated young woman. The tension drains from his body. "I – I have no special arrangements, Madame."
"If you like, I would be so delighted for you to join us for Easter supper. My father will be joining us, as will my sister Cosima and her husband. We dine in the Hungarian fashion, to please my father, and then he will play for us. I am certain they will enjoy your company."
Erik begins to speak, then stops himself. Blandine sees his hesitation. "What is it, Erik?"
"Don't you think your family will be put off by…by this?" as he points to his mask. "Your husband was ready to toss me off the property the moment he saw me."
"Oh, Emile merely has a hard time adjusting to anything new. That's why he's so busy with the government—he hates change." Blandine gives a rueful laugh. "I assure you, you will be quite normal compared with my family."
Erik goes quite still for a moment. He lowers his eyes in shame. Softly, he begins, "I don't know how to eat with refined people. I was never taught. I will embarrass you with my ignorant ways, Blandine."
Blandine rises from her chair and joins Erik at the picture window. They look out upon the busy street, filled with broughams and phaetons, as well as smartly dressed citizens embarking upon another day.
"Sometimes, I envy you your mask, Erik," Blandine utters in a low voice. "I do not envy what lies beneath it—I know you conceal some terrible mark or injury—but I envy the protection it affords you from prying eyes and ignorant stares."
She continues, heedless of the incredulous look Erik is giving her. "My father never married my mother. The great romance! The reckless lovers eloping to fulfill their dreams! It wasn't enough that my father was a lodestone for the newspapers and magazines. My mother seemed compelled to write one penny-dreadful novel after another. Everywhere I have gone, the whole of my life, people have pointed at me 'There goes the virtuoso's love child! Do you think she inherited his wicked ways?' It never stops!"
Blandine places a hand to the curve of her belly that is just beginning to swell. "I am a married woman, honest and respectable, but I tell you this, Erik. I am beyond false, petty embarrassment."
Erik turns to Blandine in time to see her stagger a little. She is pale and the skin under her eyes has a bruised appearance. As she collapses, Erik grabs her before she hits the floor. His strong arms enfold her as he lays her on one of the canvas-draped divans. Erik carefully positions a pillow under her legs to allow more blood to flow to Blandine's head.
The young woman is as motionless as an ivory carving in the morning light. Erik kneels by the divan and furiously rubs Blandine's wrists together in an attempt to rouse her. She stays limp. Erik looks toward the door in despair. Should I call for help, he thinks. They will think I harmed her in some way.
A soft whisper escapes Blandine's lips. A name, a single name.
"Daniel," more of a breath than a word.
Blandine's eyes flutter open. She tries to lift her head from the divan, but then allows it to fall back. She looks at Erik questioningly.
"You fainted, Madame. I put you here for your comfort."
Blandine nods. She takes one of Erik's large hands into her own and squeezes it in thanks. As she does, she feels the hard calluses that armor Erik's palm and fingers. She shakes her head. "That does not resemble a musician's hand, Monsieur Mason."
Erik bows his head. "Not yet, Madame Tutor. Not yet." She is ill, he remarks to himself and yet she seeks to put me at ease. "Did you eat this morning, Blandine?"
"I tried, but it all revulsed me. I sent it back." Again, Blandine struggles to get up from the divan, and again, a wave of nausea overcomes her.
Erik rises and goes to the door. He opens it and barks instructions to a passing maid, then returns to Blandine's side. As he kneels again, she waves him off in protest. "Erik, our time is very short. You must report to the master builder soon. Play something for me. Something you hear in your head."
As Erik settles in at the keyboard, his mind races with all the possibilities. What to play? Something passionate…He puts his hands on the keys, but then lifts them away. No, something soothing. That will be better.
Erik outlines the melody of a folk tune with a gentle, lulling rhythm. "This is a simple berceuse from the region where I was born," he calls out over the music. Erik then adds a lightly resonant bass line under the folk melody. The song now echoes in the salon, yet never becomes strident. The harmonies gradually become more complex, as Erik adds raised seconds and diminished seventh chords to the phrases. The sweetness of the lullaby weaves a spell of comfort and tranquility. Blandine's color returns to her cheeks. She is able to sit up as the final measures of the song die away.
"Is that what you hear in your head, Erik?"
"Sometimes."
A sharp rap on the salon door breaks the reverie. The maid opens the door as she balances a small tray. A toasted baguette shares the salver with a steaming bowl of milk. Erik takes the tray from the girl and shoos her out. Blandine wrinkles her nose as he approaches with the food.
"You must keep something in your stomach. For your sake, and the child's. Here, try this." Erik takes the toasted bread and crumbles it into the bowl. As the pieces absorb the hot milk, Erik stirs the mixture. He spoons up a bite and brings it to Blandine's lips. "Please, Madame, take a little."
Blandine makes a face, but reluctantly opens her mouth. Erik carefully feeds her the milk toast, making certain that she consumes the better part of the bowl. He watches her with trepidation. "Do you think you can keep it down?"
Blandine ponders this as the mantel clock chimes softly. "That is your time, Erik. You must not be late." She slowly gets to her feet and walks with Erik to the door of the salon. "We will work on more of the Mozart tonight. Please give my invitation some thought."
Erik gives a little bow as he takes his leave. Something else she has taught me, he realizes. "Perhaps you will instruct me how to be a proper guest, Madame Ollivier."
"With pleasure, Monsieur Erik."
Erik turns to leave, then thinks of something else. "You said your father would play for us, and that he is a virtuoso. What does he play?"
Blandine give a smile that is equally proud and rueful. "He no longer plays in public. Now he is a composer. But when I was a child, the crowds would stand twenty deep for a chance to hear him play the piano."
Erik is completely taken aback. "There has only been one pianist with that level of fame. It is said he played like the Devil himself. The mad Hungarian, Franz Liszt."
"I like to call him Papa."