A/N: the character Nadir is taken from the novel Phantom by Susan Kay.
Chapter 13 Longing
Pierre stood on the stairwell landing and shifted the heavy basket that he held to his other arm. Then his long legs effortlessly climbed the last few steps. Standing in front of the apartment door, he eyed the fruit in the basket. Yvette was fond of cooking and baking so he had brought her plenty of fresh rhubarb and table grapes, along with a large honeycomb. Raising his hand to knock, he suddenly heard singing and paused to listen. Yvette's clear voice penetrated the door, and her uninhibited song filled him with pleasure. When she finished, he knocked loudly.
The door opened slightly and she peered out at him. Then it quickly opened, and Yvette stood in front of him with a half smile.
"Pierre. It's about time that I finally see you. Lately, you have been too scarce." She wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled him towards her. He laughed lightly as he juggled the basket.
Placing the basket of produce on the kitchen table he unloaded it as she hovered close to him. Quickly she moved around him, and plucked a large grape from the basket. Biting into it, she softly sucked the juice out as she held it in her teeth. Her overtly sensuous action caused his groin to tighten. Turning away from her, he focused on unpacking the rest of the goods.
Reaching into the cupboard, she pulled out a bottle of wine, and filled two glasses. Then she handed him one, and raised the other to her lips. Pierre watched her full, top lip fold over the edge of the wine glass, and his groin tightened a little more.
They sat at the table and talked while they shared a meal. The sun was shining through the kitchen window, and lit up the room with a comfortable, golden light. The wine loosened their tongues, and after the first two glasses they were trading stories about what had happened to each of them in the last few weeks.
Tears of laughter rolled down Yvette's face as she told him about the customer who had ripped his pants so badly during their encounter that she had to go to a neighbor's apartment and buy a pair from him. The look on his face had been priceless when she handed him the pants, and charged him triple for what she had paid for them.
When the second bottle of wine was nearly finished, there was a warm silence between them. Yvette ran her fingers along the rim of her glass, and made a hollow musical tone. Pierre watched, mesmerized by the lazy movements of her shapely fingers. It was half past four, and he had arranged to meet Jade at half past six for dinner.
She shifted her attention from the wine glass to Pierre. It was obvious that he had something on his mind, and that he was holding back. She decided to take the lead.
"It's been at least three weeks since you were last here. Has something new happened that you'd like to tell me about?" She said as she gave him a casual smile.
Pierre looked at her flushed cheeks. She had a lovely face. He had always thought it a shame that she had chosen the work she did. She was bright and pretty, and could have been a good wife to any man. Instead, she had compromised herself. There had been nights when he had held her in his arms, and she had cried over her regrets.
Fiddling with his knife, he tried to decide how to begin.
"Yvette, two weeks ago a young woman came to my market stall and needed my help. She was very tired and hungry. She was starving. I brought her to the opera house that my friend manages, and he hired her. I'm also now a vendor to the opera house so I spend my Friday nights there. I'll be going there tonight to sleep."
He paused and looked at her for a moment. There, I said it. I won't be spending the night here with her.
Yvette was sitting back in her chair with her eyes half closed. That last piece of information had said it all. Then she leaned forward, and laid her hand upon his.
"Pierre, are you in love with this woman?" she asked softly. Her low voice had a husky tone and her eyes were unwavering.
Sighing, he leaned closer to her. Her hand was warm in that slightly chilly room. Yvette only put a fire on when it was very cold outside or when she was preparing for a customer. Her graceful, long neck was bare, and her shoulders were skimpily covered with a flowery wrap. She never seemed to mind the cold much. She's a warm person inside and out, he thought with affection.
Pierre thoughtfully considered the question. What exactly did he feel about Jade? He'd been asking himself that since he first set eyes on her. He came here today to talk with his good friend about his feelings. He also knew that in revealing them, he would change their relationship. There was no other choice. They had always been honest with each other.
"I'm not sure what I'm feeling, Yvette. I'm drawn to her, but I know very little about her. When I'm with her, I feel as if I'm twenty again, and as if the whole world was just beginning. I haven't felt this way since…" he paused. He suddenly realized something. He saw a connection. Madeleine.
"Does she remind you of Madeleine?' Yvette asked. Her eyes were softly curious. At that moment, she looked more like a sister than a lover.
"Yes, she does. I don't know why I didn't see it before. She doesn't really look like her except for her dark hair. But the way she moves, her independence and strength, and a certain look she has in her eyes when she looks away from me…" he stood up and briefly paced the room, then came back to the table and took Yvette's hand.
"But it's not just that. By her own rights, she's extraordinary!"
"But you still don't know if that's enough," stated Yvette. Her tone had a hint of sarcasm and disappointment.
Pierre noticed it, and gave her a keen look. Yvette had been a good friend these last three years. And in the last two she had given herself willingly to him. She had satisfied his undeniable need for intimate contact, and he had tried to satisfy hers as well. Now he was wondering if he had failed her.
"Yvette," he said in a low voice, "you're the last person that I'd ever hurt."
She waved her hand as if she was casually swatting at a fly. Then she got up, and began clearing the dishes and food from the table. Pierre watched her as she moved through the kitchen in a deliberate and casual manner. Unsure of what she was feeling, he waited expectantly. Outside, voices drifted down the hallway as two of the tenants argued. The volume was rising, and soon there would be a fight. His muscles tensed in response to the angry voices. At the same time, he became aware of a growing sense of loss.
A sharp look was in her eyes when she finally sat down and faced him. The softness and hardness of her nature were battling across her face. Softness finally won, and she poured them both the last of the wine.
"Be careful Pierre. It is best to know your own heart before you seek to entangle it with another's," she said in a matter of fact way.
His brow was furrowed as he leaned back into his chair; his eyes now level with hers. In spite of her profession she had always had a tender side to her. He knew that this conversation was taxing it. He waited for her to continue.
"If she were to fall in love with you, and you only gave half of yourself to her, would that be fair?" Her comment stung, for it pointed to a truth in their relationship. There had always been a silent agreement between them that neither one would allow themselves to fall in love with the other. Madeleine had always been there in that room, even during their most passionate encounters.
He answered her. "She needs a good friend, Yvette. Someone she can trust. Whatever else happens between us, I will be her friend."
Nodding, she rose from the table. She walked towards the bedroom with that slight swaying of her hips that always made his groin throb, and then turned to him as she stood in the doorway. "Remember Pierre, all women are not as good at caging their hearts as I am." With that, she entered the bedroom and closed the door.
Pierre sat alone in the kitchen for a few minutes. Then he shouldered his basket and left, as he quietly closed the door behind him.
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That afternoon, Jade brought the large gray Percheron into the stable after an exercise session. She loved these gentle, giant horses. She assumed they were used for pulling sets around and to operate certain mechanisms in the opera house. But she'd also seen them on the streets of Paris pulling large carts and carriages. She thought of Gillian, and what fun it would be to teach her to ride by sitting her on top of one of these huge horses. She could bring several of her friends and there'd be room for them all.
First thing that morning, she had looked in on the roan mare. The wound had looked considerably better than it had the night before. It was already beginning to heal. The salve is amazing, she had marveled.
Walking behind the stable to the back yard, she studied the exercise pens. She was thinking about creating a training area in the far corner of the yard. It was a big enough area for a round pen, which could be useful for new horses that needed lessons.
Slowly, she returned to the stable, as she thought of the person who had given her the salve. It had been a personal gift from someone who understood how important the horses were to her. She smiled as she thought about the gifts. They were insightful and unorthodox. That is why she hadn't ruled out the possibility that it might be a woman. Not one was traditionally romantic. No flowers, or sweets, or jewelry to turn her head.
She went through her mental list of who could be watching her. It was someone who had access to the stables and had seen her working with the mare yesterday. But there had been no one there except Rascon. Rascon! No, that was too odd to consider. He generally despised her, although he had been downright decent today. And she doubted that he had the kind of imagination or creative streak to produce the cloak.
One thought kept repeating itself in her head. She had a debt to repay. What could she give back in return?
The day passed quickly. It was in the late afternoon that a new arrival came to the stable.
The stallion was brought in tied to a large cart and towed behind. How they had attached him to that piece of equipment was a mystery to everyone who saw him arrive that day. When the cart stopped, the two men signaled for help as they tried to get the horse into the stable. Hearing the commotion outside, Rascon came out and sized up the situation. By then, the stallion's eyes were rimmed with white, and he was squealing with fury. He fought the men, and it took nearly a half hour to get him into the stall. After his release, the men pulled back fast from the slashing teeth as the horse flew at them. They left the halter on him since it would be nearly impossible to get another one on later.
Rascon barked at the two men, "What fool ordered you to bring that devil here?" He was told that the horse belonged to a M. Meley who had recently purchased it from their employer.
The men walked away, and Rascon watched the animal that was crashing against the walls of the stall. He shook his head in disgust, and checked the stall door latch. He'd need to reinforce it.
Turning around, he saw Jade behind him. Her eyes were fixed on the stallion, and there was a far off look in them. Rascon looked at her sharply, and then a suspicion crossed his mind. God help us if she thinks she can ride that devil. I'd better talk with DuChant about this. I won't be responsible if she gets her neck broken. He turned to her, and said in a rough voice, "That horse belongs to M. Meley. It's his personal property, and we won't be working with it." Then he spun on his heel, and walked to his workshop.
Jade watched as the chocolate brown stallion tore around his stall. He moved with astonishing grace. He knew the distance from one wall to the next and had perfect timing as he attacked each in its turn. His long neck twisted and thrashed about with a powerful, sinewy energy. His large eyes, small head, and large nostrils showed the Arabian in him. He was absolutely wild.
She judged the distance carefully so that when his head came over the stall door, his bared teeth came close to her face. She held her ground, and calmly looked him in the eyes. He fiercely stared back at her for a long minute. Then growing tired of the encounter, he turned his back on her, and completely ignored her.
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Later that evening, Pierre and Jade walked along the river. The meal had been excellent and both were pleasantly full. Pierre was singing a local folk song. His voice was deep and sweet sounding. As Jade walked beside him, she felt it coloring her senses. Along the boulevard, shapes were softened and edges blurred in the light of the half eaten moon. The weight of the night air gently pressed on their shoulders, as it pushed them closer to each other.
Pierre was wearing a dress shirt that he had brought for their visit to the fine restaurant. Once again, Jade became distinctly aware of his good looks. It was pleasant to be with a man as handsome as him who was without smugness or vanity.
Ahead was a bench at an overlook where a backdrop of trees draped their branches, and created a private alcove for confidants. They sat, and gazed at the river while Pierre spoke of his plans for building a new section onto his house. He needed more room, and was currently working on the design.
"Pierre, next time you come here, would you bring your plans so that I can look at them?" Jade asked.
Pierre looked down at her with surprise, and then smiled. "Of course I will. But they're not much to look at. They're just basic sketches that lack imagination."
Jade gazed at the river that flowed below them with its slow moving current. She never tired of this place. She turned to Pierre who was smiling down at her. Exactly when had she started to feel this comfortable with him? It seemed as if they had been friends for a long time, yet she had only known him a couple of weeks. At supper, she had almost told him why she had come to Paris. When he talked about his family and his orchards, it reminded her of her childhood home. It felt good to hear of his simple life. It gave her hope that someday she too would be content and happy.
After an hour by the river, they returned to the opera house. As they walked the long hallway to their rooms, Jade accidentally brushed against Pierre. His skin tingled at her touch, and the sensation ran up his forearms to his neck and chest. He looked down at her to see if she too had been affected. She was walking calmly beside him as she looked towards her room, and appeared to be unaware of his reaction.
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He listened to their conversation as they lingered in the alcove by the river.
Why do you suddenly need a larger house, Monsieur? Do you have plans to take a wife in the near future?
The first time he had seen them together, the man had hovered close to her, and she had been indifferent to him. That had changed. She was now leaning towards him as they talked. She was acting differently with him than with others. Her normal stiffness and aloofness had receded, and was replaced by an acceptance of his nearness. An intimacy was growing between them.
His jaw tightened as he thought of the man's intrusion into his affairs.
As they moved away, he watched them from a distance. While trailing them to the opera house, he pondered his situation.
He was not in love with her. His heart still belonged to Christine. But since this young woman had come to his opera house, his boredom had disappeared. The eternal dullness had lifted. He had started composing again, and he would have been a fool if he had not recognized that she was the impetus that had broken the ice jam of his blocked music. Since she had come, life had acquired a new excitement.
He enjoyed the way she stood aloof from others, and attached her self to simpler beings, such as horses or children. In that way they were alike. He was curious as to what had made her that way.
Some day she would dance to his music. The thought of her leaping through the air or folding in upon herself in response to the songs that he would play was intensely stimulating. But he wouldn't rush their first encounter. He would be patient, and allow time for her to become interested in what he would offer her. Gifts were the first devices he would use to pique her curiosity.
She was entranced with the gothic novel that he had given her. I will create drama for her that will fire her imagination. My opera house is a superb setting for a novel. I will weave a spell of familiarity that will comfort her, and add enough of the unknown to lure the adventurer in her.
He watched them as they turned towards the opera house. His eyes narrowed and focused on the man. I will not get the chance to complete my plan if this farmer woos her away from here.
Inside of his cloak was a pocket that held his Punjab lasso. It would be very easy to eliminate this nuisance.
He had promised Nadir at their farewell in Persia that he would not kill again unless in self-defense. In the final months of his last year with Christine, madness had gotten the better of him. Killing had again become natural and easy. Everyone had become his enemy as they plotted to take Christine away from him. He had lost his reason and part of his skill as he desperately fought for his survival, for his reason for living: Christine.
Touching the supple rope in his pocket, he thought, It would be easy.
What would she think if she found out that he had eliminated her suitor? Surely hatred would follow. That was the trouble with having sanity and a conscience, it made one aware of the consequences of one's actions.
He prowled the opera house, restless, unable to sleep. The old familiar insomnia was back. Eventually, he entered the staff quarters. First he went to the mirror that was in Pierre's room. The man was lying on the bed, stretched out with his chest exposed. It would be simple to open the mirror, and enter while the man was sleeping. He would never know. It would be over without a sound.
Backing away from the sight, he turned towards her room. She was sitting at the table reading, and wrapped in the cloak that he gave her. Her glossy hair fell over the back of it, and her face looked small and child like as she focused intensely on the story. He wondered how far she was from the ending. When she finished the novel, he would have to think of something else for her to read. Perhaps Byron. Would she enjoy poetry?
He watched her hands as she turned the pages. They were very small with square palms and long fingers: an artist's hands. The long fingers indicated a tendency to thoughtfulness and artistry, the square palms a strongly practical and productive nature, and the smallness of the hand showed an intensely spontaneous drive that would rule her life.
He thought of how he could enter her chamber as she slept. It was a satisfying thought. Since he had seen her dance on the stage, he had at times wanted to visit her. But if she saw him, it would be over, for she would leave. They must not meet until the time was right.
Traveling to the hallway that led to her room, he noticed something on her door. It was a folded piece of paper with the words Thank you.
He removed the note and pocketed it, and then quickly left the staff quarters.
Later that night, after several hours at the organ, he sat at his table, and retrieved the note from his cape. Opening it, he read:
Dear benefactor,
I am certain that you already know that the mare is recovering from her injury. The salve you made worked beautifully. I am grateful that you gave it to me.
I am reading the book. I am sorry to say that I will not be using the cloak. I have already ordered a winter cloak and that one will do nicely.
Liar You are using it at this moment, he thought as he smirked.
You know who I am, but I know nothing of you. Do you not think that the time has come for us to meet? Would it not be more satisfying to receive my gratitude in person rather than watching it afar from the shadows?
I propose a meeting between us. My only condition is that it be in a public place. You could send me a note telling me when and where. Also, a signal would be useful so that I may recognize you.
I have told no one of your gifts. They are a secret between you and me.
Sincerely,
Jade Bouta
He folded the note neatly, and placed it in a drawer. It was his first letter from her. There would be more. She would chafe under the control of his anonymity but it would also intrigue her. By the time they met, she would be eager for the encounter.
He touched the mask as he thought of how Christine had spoiled his plan to win her on their only night together. This wasn't a courtship. It would be different this time.
He pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote a response to her letter as he unconsciously hummed a melody from the opera Romeo and Juliet.
A/N: thank you readers and reviewers for patiently staying with this story. I know it's atypical because of it taking awhile for the OW to meet the Phantom. Just hang in there a little longer.