"Christine, my treasure, do you really need another half of a squab, and to sop up all that gravy with another hunk of bread?"
"I'm hungry."
"My diva, I love you, and if you continue this way, you'll get fat." I was smiling, and my tone was gentle, but I meant it.
"What?"
"Erik did not fall in love with a fat girl, Erik did not marry a fat girl, and Erik does not wish to be married to a fat girl. Christine is not a fat girl."
She stared at me. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! For you, of all people, to put such stock in appearances—"
"When one faces what I do in the mirror each day, Christine, one becomes quite a connoisseur of aesthetics. I prefer to surround myself with beautiful things, and have made it my habit to do so. You may have noticed."
"Don't take that superior tone with me, you hateful old man. You've got grey hairs on your chest; do I threaten to divorce you over it?"
"You had perfection in your little hands, my love. You paddled away with it, I watched you go—but you turned back for this magnificent specimen," I laughed. "I'm not threatening you, Darling. I'm merely pointing out that you are eating like a draft horse—"
"Draft horse! You pig!"
"--and you will soon be shaped like a dumpling. You don't wish to be shaped like a dumpling, do you? Personally, I find the prospect as unattractive as I do your new penchant for speaking your mind." I dodged the fork she pitched at me.
"For your information, Mr Perfection, I am not getting fat. It's a baby."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I didn't want to say anything until I was farther along and I was sure everything was alright. I didn't want to jinx it."
No no no no no nonononononono NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
"Farther along…farther along." I mumbled. "When?"
"Christmas," she replied smugly. It was late July.
"Halfway?" it came out as a squeal. Panic perched on my shoulder.
"Mm-hm, and as you see," she hopped up and spun around like a little turnip, "everything is going perfectly."
"Perfectly," I echoed, feeling extremely nauseous.
"Oh, Erik, I know you're worried," she cradled my head against her ballooning chest, "but there's no need. Everything is going to be alright this time. Look how far along I am, and not the first hint of any trouble whatsoever. I feel wonderful!"
Oh.
I did a hasty bit of research. It was still theoretically possible to flush the parasite out, but it would take a more heroic dosage, and it was much more risky than flushing out something the size of a sesame seed. I would not risk Christine, never. I would have to find a way to kill it after it was safely out of her.
I could not find peace no matter what I did. I could not take enough opium. I could not turn to Christine—she was utterly on the side of the parasite already. I could not talk to Adele—women form a cabal at such times. However, I could vomit and suffer blinding headaches.
"It has been a long time since you consumed so much opium so quickly, my friend," the daroga observed. "You worry me."
"I'm fine," I growled.
"Is this another lover's quarrel, by any chance?"
"NO. She's…embarrassed."
"Erik, this is wonderful news!" He took note of my expression. "You don't agree."
"She's fat, I can't stand to look at her. It's all she can talk about, she's already forgotten all about me." I may have been whining; my head was splitting.
"What did you expect, my friend? If one dances, one must expect to pay the piper…and I take it you have been dancing," he reminded me pointedly.
"Carefully… or so I thought."
"You're married nearly four years now, hm? You've done well for yourself. These things happen, Erik."
"'These thingshappen.' I'm too old for this, daroga. I don't want a noisy, smelly thing tearing around, destroying my things—destroying my life! It's already destroyed Christine."
"Oh, now, it isn't as bad as all that. You're worried, this is understandable, but I assure you that Christine has not forgotten about you. She loves you more than ever, now. But this is the first child, you must expect her to be preoccupied."
"First. Last." I sulked.
"I see," the daroga smiled, humoring me.
"I'll likely not touch her again, now that she's ruined."
"You must make some effort to get your imagination under control, my friend. You're making this far worse than it needs to be. I promise you, once the dear little thing is here, you'll be enchanted."
"I will not, never. Just give me my opium."
I took Christine upstairs to Adele's when the time came. I was not about to have an assortment of doctors, midwives and whatnot traipsing through my cave. I was overcome with grief and terror. I had no idea what the future could possibly hold for me, when already she had been obsessed with it for months and it had not even arrived yet. I took an enormous amount of opium and passed out. Next thing, Adele was shaking me, telling me to 'go see them'.
Christine looked round-faced, puffy-eyed, and transported with joy. "Look, Erik, she's perfect, I told you. She's beautiful."
Well, it didn't have my face, and it looked as though it had all its arms, legs, and other parts, but it looked like a hairless, wrinkled, red monkey. It was latched onto a hugely swollen breast like a leech, and its little monkey hands were kneading ferociously. Christine stroked its fuzzy little head and crooned something like, "Look, Erika, it's Papa, say hello."
Yes, say hello, you little assassin. What you've got there, that used to be mine, but no more. I had imagined that Christine had looked at me with love, until I saw her gazing at that flat-faced thing. She had fallen instantly, absolutely in love with it. It was perfectly clear that I could not kill it after all, because that would have broken Christine's heart. No more love for Erik. Something died inside me. I choked down a sob.
"Erika? You can't call it Erika," I declared flatly.
"Can't call her Erika. Her. Why not?"
"Because…"
"Erik, she's your daughter—"
"No, it's not. It's yours, you wanted it; I didn't."
"Oh, and you had nothing to do with HER, I suppose?"
"As little as possible; clearly not little enough." I was feeling out of control.
"Fine: you name her then."
"Ophelia." I was probably thinking about the drowning bit.
"Ophelia! Erik, I am not going to call our darling baby Ophelia! What is wrong with you?"
What is wrong with me? Me? "Well, I am not going to call it Erika."
"Her! She is not an it!"
"Fine." I repeatedly wished I was dead, but I could not just lay down and die; I tried. I have read about certain native peoples who can do so. They simply decide to die, lay down, and expire.
Christine brought it down in a week. She was fussing to come home before that, but Adele insisted she stay up with her. When she got home, I was relieved to see that she seemed to feel quite well. Her appetite was good, and she needed to rest a lot because the parasite was at her every two hours for food. Christine wanted me to sleep with them; yes, it was there too, in my former marriage bed. That room I painted all that time ago? It looked as though the thing would never see it. Christine turned her back to me and curled up with it. It made noise all night and never let her sleep, but she didn't mind at all. Woe betide me had I ever tried to wake her from a sound sleep to help myself to a bit of nipple. But that fiend, which had caused her an incredible amount of pain from what I had heard, had unrestricted access at all hours. I had never made her suffer like it had, and I was invisible—no, forgotten. I was forgotten. Once again, I was brought up short against my ridiculous conviction that things should be fair in life. Ha, ha! Imagine me, with my face, expecting life to be fair!
All day long, I did everything to care for Christine and everything else in the house, because she was strictly assigned to feed that thing, nothing more. I have always required that my surroundings remain neat and orderly. Now, even with Adele's tireless assistance, the place looked as though the Visigoths had come to call. Christine was demanding refreshment at odd hours, so the kitchen was never finished. Tiny garments were everywhere: needing to be washed; draped all over, drying; or waiting to be put away. There are endless rags associated with these creatures. They eat constantly, but can't seem to work out how to swallow and keep it down, so rags must be kept at the ready in case they choose to spew. They give no warning of this whatsoever. Neither do they warn that they intend to pee or shit all over themselves and whoever happens to be holding them. After observing the thing's habits, I was confident that Christine would sicken of it quickly, but it never happened. Women adore these parasites, the more disgusting the better, apparently. My coffin was the perfect place for me, for never was a man more truly in mourning. I had turned my perfectly-ordered life upside down to please her, only to be supplanted by a sucking, spewing, shitting monkey.
"Here, Erik, hold your daughter while I eat."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to."
"Erik."
"It's…too small."
"Just support her head. Come here, don't be afraid. You'll never learn if you don't try."
"I'm not afraid. I just don't want to."
"Erik!"
"It'll pee on me."
"She will not. Anyway, your clothes wash."
I made a face which Christine blithely ignored. Suddenly, I was crying. "Christine, don't make me," I pleaded. "I hate all this, everything is a mess. You never speak to me anymore except about that thing. It's always on you, I can never hold you. Please, I just want it to be like it was before. Love me, Christine!"
"I had no idea you could be so childish," she replied imperiously.
I wish she had just stabbed me. Pleading with the only light in my life for some comfort, begging for her to love me again, and she tells me I'm being childish. I tell you, I could not get my fragile mind around what had just occurred.
"That was not childish, Christine," I replied, icily. "This is childish." I flung the dinner tray at the dressing table. The mirror and china shattered, and the creature awoke and started to shriek.
"Erik, stop it!" she was shielding the thing's head, as if it would be traumatized to witness the scene. So what.
"This is childish," I repeated. I kicked the nightstand and sent the lamp and assorted stuff flying, crashing. My nemesis shrieked even louder. I made for the door, which I slammed fiercely. "THIS IS CHILDISH!" I screamed from the hallway.
I slammed my coffin lid shut too; not that anyone would have heard me sobbing over the assassin's squawks. I even asked god for help that night.
I retreated into the role of the Phantom in my own home. Adele cared for Christine and glared at me wordlessly whenever an opportunity presented itself. No matter, I was clearly through with women forever. I was overjoyed when my Persian friend visited. I felt certain he would be a sympathetic ear, an ally in a world of feminine madness. The first thing he did was ask to see "The little blessing." I was stunned, but remained convinced that once he saw the thing and had a chance to observe the situation, he'd fully commiserate with me over the tragic depths to which my life had fallen.
He joined me in the library. I had raced around and made that room at least look inhabitable. When I handed him a glass, he raised it in toast to 'Your little angel.' I grimaced, drained the Merlot and poured myself another.
"Christine is my little angel, thank you."
"She is lovely," he continued. "She has her mother's coloring, and your graceful hands, I think."
"Are you having me on?" I demanded.
"Not at all. Why?"
"Daroga," I threw my arms wide, "look at my home, will you? Look at what that little fiend has done, in, what, a matter of weeks? It looks like a monkey, it is noisy and filthy. I told you I didn't want it to start with, and it's worse than even I imagined. I have no life. I have no wife! It has completely stolen her away."
"She is a new mother, Erik. What did you expect?" He did not sound sympathetic at all.
"You saw her, daroga. You remember what she used to look like, don't you? What is that…pony in there? Christine is gone, she'll never be back; I just know it. I just know it. It doesn't matter…I no longer exist for her."
"You're pacing."
"So I am."
"You're nearly raving."
"If I were, I'd be within my rights."
"Sit your conceited, selfish, infantile self down," he demanded.
"What!"
"Sit, you ass." I sat and glared at him. He ignored me, as usual.
"Erik, Christine is feeling quite vulnerable just now. Very dependent, very much in need of all the support and understanding that you can muster. I recognize that is not much, as tragic as you are feeling, but you must try."
"Very nice, very nice. She is vulnerable? She needs understanding? She is having a glorious time with her new love—she could not be happier. My life is in a shambles. Why doesn't anyone care about me? I thought you were my friend!"
"I am, even when you pout."
"Then why do you take her side in this?"
"In what? This is no feud, Erik. The child is here, like it or not. Your child. What will you do: stay or go?"
"Go."
"Then go," he shrugged. "Did that Vicomte ever marry? Perhaps he would take the pony off your hands."
"I should have killed you years ago."
"Mm."
Once again, I attempted to make him understand. "She doesn't love me anymore. I'm invisible, she never even speaks to me except about the monkey."
"She loves you more than ever for the priceless gift you've given her. Not a monkey, by the way."
"Priceless gift?" I was nonplussed. "I've given her music—her voice—her career! Assorted sparkly things that women love, all my devotion, everything; but this? It was an accident!"
"Not to her."
"Well," I shrugged, "I'm dispensable now. I've made my…contribution."
"She risked her life to give you this gift, you know. Women die all the time giving birth."
"This is not working, daroga. I refuse to be made the villain in this drama. I will not apologize for wanting my life back!"
"Poor Erik, you really are frightened, aren't you? It is alright to grieve, my friend. You are right that things are different now. They need not be awful, as you imagine, but they will be different." He handed me another bottle of Merlot to open. "I'm sorry if I seem unsympathetic, Erik. If you want to complain, please complain to me—not Christine. She can't understand it, and I know you don't want to hurt her."
"No, I don't."
"You must stop referring to the baby as 'it'".
"It's ugly and messy," I insisted. "Daroga! How could she possibly want more ugliness in her life? I'm not even ugly enough for her!"
He shook his head. "You are not a family sort of man. You are old, spoiled, and set in your ways. You are incoherent with jealousy of a completely defenseless infant."
"Yes, absolutely. I agree. It was a terrible idea; now do you see? No one ever listens to me!"
"Too late, my friend. You should have continued to love Christine from afar," he chuckled.
"Stop it, for god's sake."
"Erika is not ugly. Have you noticed her eyes? They are the eyes of someone you love…"
"They are not."
"When did you look at her last?"
"When it first came out."
The daroga laughed. "That was weeks ago. Brand new babies are a bit strange, I agree, but she looks nothing like that now. You are such a hopeless case, Erik. Her skin is the softest thing you will ever touch. If you give her your finger, she will clutch it so tightly with that perfect, tiny hand."
"Christine is the softest thing I've ever touched. Christine has perfect, tiny hands. I am not interested in anyone else."
"You're incorrigible." He stood and held his hand out to me as if I was I child. "Come along, let's go meet your daughter."
"No."
"Erik, have I been wasting my time here with you?"
"Yes."
"If you don't make some attempt you will lose Christine, do you understand that?"
I shrugged. "She is gone anyway. The parasite took her, you can see that for yourself."
"The child is not a parasite. How long will you persist in this?"
"Til one of us dies. It is a parasite—it lives off her."
"So do you! Pull yourself together or I will take a switch to you! Stop sulking!" He shook me. I cried. It's all I ever did anymore.
"You're enjoying this, you're having your cruel amusement at my expense!" I accused.
"You do love your misery, don't you, Erik? Come along, let's make friends."
Christine was sipping tea in the kitchen. It was stuck on her arm, as usual, staring at her. We at least have that in common.
"Look what I found, Madame," the daroga smiled, dragging me along like a schoolboy due for a whipping. "This bad boy you may remember." He made me sit.
"Yes, I remember," she replied softly. He was right, I'd hurt her. No wonder she hated me.
"Erik, why don't you hold your baby so your wife may enjoy her tea?"
"No."
"It's alright," Christine sighed. "I am finished anyway."
"Erik," the daroga snarled through gritted teeth, "why don't you hold your baby so your wife may clean up?"
"I'll clean up," I hopped up.
"Sssssiiiiiiiittttttt," he hissed. "Give him the baby, Madame," he ordered.
"Daroga, it'll pee on me. Can't I just look at it—her? What if it squirms and I drop it—her? Christine will beat me."
"You see, it's useless," Christine informed him. She started to leave, and my Persian friend shot me the Look of Death.
"Wait," I grumbled.
"I don't want you to force yourself to do something you'd rather not," Christine replied coolly.
"You say that now," I accused, "after you tricked me."
"You have my word that I will never trouble you again," she sniffed. I know it, Christine!
"Children…" the daroga pleaded, "if you would kindly postpone your mating dance until I've departed. Erik, take the child before I thrash you."
It was dreadfully small and light. It would have been simple to drop except it was made a bigger parcel by the blanket it was wrapped in. It wasn't red anymore, it was pinkish—a nice pinkish, with blond fuzz on its head. It looked right at me and knit its little brows in a sort of monkey-frown. It seemed to be thinking. It did have Christine's eyes. It didn't stink; I was surprised. It smelled…sweet and clean. Finally, it decided that it definitely did not recognize me. It made a horrible face and started to scream. I pressed it back on Christine, mortified.
"You frightened her, Erik," she scolded.
"I frighten everyone, remember?" I snapped.
"You were frowning at her; you need to smile at her. How else will she know you're friendly?"
"It was frowning at me. She, I mean."
"No she wasn't."
"You didn't see. It was. She was."
"She was not frowning at you. She was just looking at you." She spun away, walking around the room and speaking softly to it. It stopped screeching as soon as it beheld its dairy cow. "That is your Papa, you may not remember. He doesn't mean to be scary, he just frowns when he is nervous, and you make him very, very nervous. Yes, you do. You're so tiny and so precious, he's afraid you'll break, isn't that silly? Silly Papa, he loves you very much. He is the handsomest, most brilliant man in the whole world, and he is your Papa. What a lucky little girl you are."
It made a sound, like, Now you're lying, Mother. Christine continued undaunted. "Yes, I know. Very soon, he will sing for you, and wait until you hear his voice. That's how I came to fall in love with him, he sang for me. You'll see; your Papa is an angel."
"Does she talk to it like that all the time? Her--" I whispered to my Persian friend.
"Mm. They like to be spoken to."
"But…nonsense like that?"
"If she spoke nonsense like that to you, you'd kiss her feet!"
"I'd do better than that…"
Fortunately, I had very little to do with it after that. Most of the time, Christine was content to haul it around. I don't understand exactly why you can't just plop them down someplace; they can't run off. Sometimes Christine would foist it upon me if she wanted to do something, and it would monkey-frown at me, but it had stopped shrieking everytime I got it. Perhaps it understood Christine's propaganda. It had begun to vocalize and wiggle a lot as it grew, and it was beginning to appear adorable in a conventional baby sort of way to people who care about such things. Presently, however, in addition to peeing and spewing and shitting, it began to drool. So it was really as unsavory as ever.
