Try to Forgive
Thank you to MarilynKC, FleshofMidnight, and SloaneDestler for the lovely reviews!
Mlle. Perrault prepares a supper of potato and leek soup with a loaf of bread. Mama and I help where needed. I settled for chopping vegetables and trying to spice our soup. Madeleine's kitchen is small, as is her dining room, which is understandable considering the cottage was only meant to house three. Shadows lurk everywhere—the home itself is dark and garish. It would not be save for more opened windows and more lit candles.
Mlle. Perrault hums to herself while stirring the pot on the stove. She has a lovely voice, with some warmth in her chest voice and a lovely middle range. It sits lower, constantly warbling and quiet to betray her timid nature. Yet there is some might there; she carries more strength than even she knows. She and Mama got along well, and interchanged laughter in the conversation. Though it is odd hearing Mama be called by her first name from a woman we only met hours ago.
"Tell me, Christine, was that what Erik was like when you first got married?"
"Able to pop out and frighten me at random times, yes. And unfortunately this one," she glares her eyes my way, eyes sparkling and lips curled, "learned the secret as well."
And he taught me how to ride astride, speak Farsi, and pick locks! "Yes," I snort. "As a child I used to appear out of nowhere and scare the family. My cousins used to scream and then had to ban me from playing Hide-and-Seek. My tante said I 'fired her poor nerves.'" I laugh at the memories: saying 'boo' and coming from behind curtains or under the table, Melodie's screams and the other children howling with laughter, Richard falling backwards after I jumped down from a high tree (it was unintentional on my end).
Mama gives me a strange look that ends my laughter. I suppose her "second marriage" is not to be spoken of. "Yes. I was a lot like my father when I was younger."
"You still are, min alskling." She turns to Marie. "Madeleine was always a sweet girl, so kind and polite. She was always bright and intelligent, that she got from Erik. She eventually managed to learn Swedish, my native language."
Marie raises her brow my way while peeking at the loaf of bread. "You can speak Swedish?"
"Ja, jag har lart mycket svenska." I translate the sentence and then laugh, "I had a professor teach me when I was younger. I also learned music from another professor when I was young. He was from the Academie de Musique. His wife always gave me chocolates or some other sweet." Dear Professor and Mme. Valerius! They thought of me as the granddaughter they did not have, which made our relationship much more precious.
"And I suppose you are a young musical prodigy?"
I blush at the compliment. Mama confirms Marie's theory. "Yes, she definitely was. Our daughter was always drawn to music."
"So was Erik," says Madeleine's frail voice. We all turn to look at her as she hobbles into the kitchen. She leans against the wall, and I almost have the mind to support her. The poor woman will fall like a weak plant. "Music was his first love. It just…sprang out of him. He used to play on that piano for hours at a time, he would bang on plates and use the cutlery as percussive instruments, my fine china." A part of her flares at that. "But I should have appreciated it more," her voice grows quiet with sorrow.
"What else was he like?" I ask, voice quiet. What kind of stories could she tell? She was his abuser—and abusers do not often speak highly of their victims. My father and mother later having a healthy relationship is an anomaly.
"Too smart for his own good. Reckless, too. He would hide things on me just to get my attention. He would jump to that high tree from the attic window."
She speaks of him as though he was merely a foolish child—and he likely was. "How old was he when he would do that?"
"Seven or eight, I believe." Each word is spoken with care, laden with heavy regret. "He was an amazing boy. He would write the most complex melodies at age five. That music on the wall? That was his. He could read Latin and sing Mass with Fr. Mansart at around age four."
"Erik enjoyed Mass?" Mama asks, disbelief in her eyes.
"He did. He was a good Catholic boy."
Should we discuss the exorcism? His words from hours previous echo in my head. Good Catholic boys do not need an exorcism unless in a state of mortal sin. I want to ask about it, but press my mouth into a line.
"Papa does not often come with us for Mass now, but he likes to hear it sung. He forbade me from church choir since I am supposed to rest my voice."
Madeleine raises her eyebrows my way, but the surprise is either from calling him 'Papa' or knowing that her good Catholic son apostatized from the faith. It is likely the former.
"Not allowed in church choir?" It is Mlle. Perrault's turn to be surprised. She gives me an odd look.
I have to dispel the fear from their faces. "I sing most other days of the week in the opera. I am currently on leave from singing in Italy." I turn the attention back to the older woman behind me, forcing myself to look into her eyes. It is odd to see a weathered, near identical copy of my own eyes in another woman. "I heard you were an opera singer?"
"Yes. I gave that up in order to marry Charles."
Mlle. Perrault takes the bread out of the oven. "Careful, it is hot." Mama helps get out bowls. I get Madeleine into a chair, keeping proper distance from her while maintaining pleasantries. I ask her about what Charles—my grandfather—was like.
Memories of her late husband, even after all these years, still bring wisps of happiness to her eyes. It's a similar look that Papa wore as my Maestro, when speaking of his "late" Divina. "He was everything I wanted in a man. He was poorer than I was—my parents were not so happy about me marrying below my station—but I didn't care. He cared deeply for architecture. He built this house and was a fine mason, luckily quite wealthy. He was a good man."
Funny that my grandparent's generation included marrying outside of a social class. Papa-my first papa-did the same. Later, Pere married a wealthy widow. My Charles will likely do the same.
"Where did you marry?"
She thinks for a moment. "A church nearby. Mlle. Perrault was in the wedding. I wore a beautiful dress, the church was magnificent. Had Charles lived, we would be married fifty-nine years."
Mlle. Perrault gathers bowls and silverware. "Supper is ready!" She starts putting soup in bowls and nervousness flickers in my chest on seeing a full bowl. I do not normally eat that much unless I am famished. But I will not refuse to eat out of rudeness.
I help set the table and find a seat when the front door opens. Pere.
Mama excuses herself and goes to meet him. As she always does, she kisses him warmly on the lips whenever he returns. "Supper is waiting for us if you're hungry, Erik."
He does not respond but comes into the kitchen. Mama looks at him with hopeful eyes. "Mlle. Perrault and I made potato and leek soup and bread. Would you like some?"
He gives a terse nod, likely aware of Madeleine's and Mlle. Perrault's eyes on him. Pere and I both share a minimal appetite, and he told me the stories of how as a child he distressed both women about it. Food is something we tolerate. He is given a bowl of potato soup and a slice of bread.
Everyone is seated, and Mlle. Perrault offers to say grace. Pere does not cross himself but waits for us to finish grace. The meal begins in amicable silence. Madeleine glances up at my father at points, watching him eat. I watch as well. His mask must make eating more uncomfortable. I want him to take it off. Yet he won't. Not here.
"This is delicious, Marie and Christine," Madeleine says. Her voice is weak, and her hand shakes as she gets the spoon to her lips.
My father just barely grimaces at the use of Mama's Christian name. Mama smiles at the older woman. "Thank you, Madame de Rouen. Mlle. Perrault did most of the cooking."
"Do you cook at home, Christine?"
Will she mention that my father often helps? I help at times, though the servants are still mostly the ones handling work in the kitchen. "I like to cook dishes from my homeland of Sweden. I've taught Madeleine and Erik both some recipes."
"Erik?" Madeleine asks. I bristle and glance at my father, who is painfully eating his soup with minimal bites. The mask is impeding him. Please, don't react poorly.
He clears his throat and responds to her question in a factual tone. "I had to gain that skill to survive on my own. And I learned how to make many things after…long years of traveling."
Madeleine looks up, like she wishes to say something, and Pere merely looks at her. Almost daring a response out of her. I can feel the tension from him, radiating and pulsing like bass notes in an underscore. I try to give him discreet, reassuring glances. There, there, Papa.
The soup is delicious, though I am overfull after finishing a whole bowl. Madeleine watches Papa the entire time. He puts down his spoon and some of his creamy soup is left over. He ate less than I did. "Do you want more?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I'm alright."
Though I've a feeling he is only saying this because his mother is in the room. If she wasn't in this room, he would be eating freely. His mask would be off. Since he and Mama married, he does not wear the mask at home. After he kisses Mama and I after coming in the door, he removes his hat, cloak, and mask.
"Please, eat some more, Erik," Madeleine says, her voice quiet.
"I am fine, Madame. Thank you."
She looks pained by his refusal, but says nothing. Likely since she expects him to refuse her hospitality. Mama begins to clear the table. Mlle. Perrault takes over, but Mama quietly stops her from emptying Papa's bowl. Understanding, Mlle. Perrault goes to Madeleine and offers to take her into the parlor. "It's more comfortable there."
Once Madeleine is safely inside the other room, he takes the bowl back. Noting Mama's and my sadness, he says in our heads, not while she's awake. Mama and I give each other a disheartened look as he takes small bites of food.
Madeleine is sitting in the parlor with a book in her hand when I enter. I also have the book of fairy tales I received two Christmases ago. The year my life fell apart, or, at least, changed dramatically.
Yet I would not be here if not for that.
I choose to sit on the floor, praying Madeleine will not mind. The fire is roaring, and I sit down in front of it and open the large tome onto my lap. I am absorbing the words of the text when I feel her eyes on me. She is studying me, watching me, as if wondering what to do or say. Does she find me odd? Strange? How did she react knowing Pere—her son—had a child and is married to a woman who loves him?
Pere enters the room, and Madeleine puts her head back into her book. I look up at him, hoping to distract him. Tension comes into the room whenever he is near Madeleine, and I need to try and dispel it.
"Papa?" I ask, voice soothing and quiet.
"Yes, my sweet?"
"You're finished in the kitchen?"
He nods, and then his eyes move to the book in my lap. "What tale is that?"
"East of the Sun and West of the Moon." I scoot over and pat the floor next to me. "Come, sit."
He does, and I move the book further onto his lap. The lovely illustration of the girl looking on her husband is in my lap. The text is in his. I lean my head back against his bony shoulder. He is not the most comfortable, but he is there nonetheless. He does not mind. We both read in silence, and I turn the page when he signals for me to do so.
He brushes his lips against my hair, though I nearly grimace due to the edge of the mask against me. Yet I smile at his display of affection. Since I learned I was his child, he has not been shy in holding back affection—simple, fatherly things such as a kiss to my head, a smile, an embrace. It took me a while to adjust to the change in our relationship, but it was one I welcomed nonetheless.
We continue to read on, raptured in the story of a woman determined to do anything to find her lost husband. I can see Mama in her—the youthfulness, the expression, and that zealous affection. Mama has always displayed such, toward both the men she has loved.
Behind me, Madeleine sniffles. Her eyes are on us, taking in the sight. There is disbelief there, anger I can feel. Though it is not directed at us.
She sniffles and then her eyes are off us. She is concentrating on her book, attempting to not notice our presence in the room. That is likely how my father grew up, given what he told me. With her pretending he was not there, or being beaten and yelled at. Any good he did was pushed aside. It is easier to hate him and ignore him rather than acknowledge her sin.
I put my arm around him and we continue to read. The fire crackles on, in a rhythm to our quiet breathing. Mlle. Perrault sweeps into the room and towards Madeleine. "I brought you some tea."
Her breath hitches. "I…thank you, Marie."
Mlle. Perrault's voice lowers and takes on that soothing tone. "What's wrong, darling?"
"Nothing, Marie." Madeleine's voice is sharp. Pere twitches. He must remember that awful tone. In response, I nuzzle closer to him. "It's alright, Papa."
It's not you, my love, he says, projecting his melodious voice into my head. Not you at all.
"Marie, could I take the tea upstairs?"
Mlle. Perrault gives us a forlorn glance, as if to apologize. It is fitting; neither her nor my father will apologize to each other. His mother is acting as a petulant child. I glance over at her. She is uncomfortable at this sight. Almost deeply disturbed. Madeleine manages to hobble past us and up the stairs to her room. Away from the sight that has perturbed her.
Perhaps she has not changed as she so claimed.
Pere cannot concentrate on reading now. His face is too hard, trying not to let his anger rise to the surface and explode. I try to read the tale aloud, using my voice for him to concentrate on. Like a raft amid a storming sea.
"Can you read the next paragraph?"
He sighs, but obliges. His spellbinding voice, so enchanting even when he speaks, draws me into the story. I am hearing the tale of the brave girl caught in a bargain for the man she loves anew. The poor girl, facing against the ogres, the cave-dwelling monsters for her handsome suitor…
Mama comes into the room and smiles down on us. "May I join you?" she asks.
Pere gives a terse nod, and Mama settles in beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. He is tense still. I understand it, though I am disappointed at it. We may be his family, but I cannot imagine the rejection by a parent. Pere may not ever get over that, no matter how loving Mama and I are. He may never fully escape his horrific past.
We read while the fire crackles. The three of us are absorbed into the story, and just make it to the happy ending, in which the bear becomes a man, when Mlle. Perrault returns. "I am sorry," she says. "Madeleine is…she's not well, as you know."
"It would appear her temperament has not changed, Mlle. Perrault," Pere says, an edge in his voice. He stands up, his attempt to regain some lost pride. "She claims to want repentance and yet acts contrary."
"She's jealous."
He stiffens at that, and I stand up as well. "Jealous?" He sounds incredulous, unwilling to believe that anyone, much less his mother, could be jealous of anything he has. Pere has always been the one on the outside, always coveting what others have. Not the other way around—at least until recently.
"She is upset at…at, well, the happiness you three have. More importantly, I think she is angry at herself. She knows that things would've been different if—"
"-If I hadn't been born with this face," Pere finishes. "You do not need to add anything more, Mlle. Perrault."
She shakes her head, green eyes looking worn and full of pleading, like those of a kicked puppy. "If she treated you better."
He stops at that. I move to grasp for his hand. It is dead in my own. "She said she needed counsel after I ran off," he says, voice low and careful. "Was that true?"
Mlle. Perrault sighs. "Let us sit down. I think that will be easier for all of us."
After she makes tea for all of us, Mlle. Perrault settles down and smooths her dress with shaking hands. "That morning after you left, I found Madeleine almost catatonic. She was up in the attic, holding the note you left behind. She was repeating, "it's my fault, my fault, my fault." After I snapped her out of it, she said you were gone. I told her we had to look for you. She was too distraught for that. I left the house and looked all over town for you. There was no sign of you. I came back and Madeleine was standing right there—" she points to a place on the rug— "and burning all of your masks. She broke down and said she never should've made you wear them. She said she should've loved you, that she realized she loved you too late. She couldn't lose you."
"She was contemplating sending me to an asylum, Mademoiselle."
"She chose not to, Erik. She sent Dr. Bayre to Paris. After two weeks, she put an advertisement in the paper. She grieved you, more than she did Charles. The town shunned her even more after that notice went into the paper. The church became her sanctuary. She prayed constantly that you were safe and alive. She never moved away out of fear you would return. Fr. Mansart had to give her as much counsel as she could take in. She later took up a small job to support herself. She never forgave herself for the way she treated you."
I want to ask who 'Dr. Bayre' is, but Papa asks her another question. "She never thought to look for me outside of Boscherville?"
Mlle. Perrault shakes her head. "We heard some stories, and always wondered, but she never…" she sighs. "She couldn't bring herself to. I suppose she thought you would…reject her. And, we never quite knew where you were. She chose to finally do it now after hearing word from the Madame you worked with…Giry, wasn't it?-that you and your family lived in New York."
"Yes," Mama affirms. Papa is stoic still, hiding emotions but never letting them show on his face. His own mother not reaching out…the worst kind of rejection. I still struggle with feelings of anger due to his long absence in my life. Yet I understand why: our safety. Madeleine never reached out because of…cowardice.
"We only lived near Rouen for…about three years," Mama amends. "So she couldn't have known we were close."
Papa gives her a look as if to warn her not to talk of such, but Mlle. Perrault seems to not notice. "Yes…I need you to know, Erik, that I always thought of you as the son I never could have."
He is stiff at her words. "Thank you, Mlle. Perrault."
She leaves us, and the three of us sit under the weight of the story we were just told. Now I do not know what to think of the unfortunate woman I share blood with. A woman who came to love her deformed son when it was far too late. I dare not look up at the portrait above the fireplace, lest the younger woman's cold stare freeze my heart and take away all sympathy for her.
Yet if I have learned one thing from my father, it is that our broken family needs love and time. Space if needed, but definitely time. At least, I hope so.
He speaks first, and nothing about the topic of conversation we just had. "Tomorrow night, I wish to take you both to the cathedral. I am certain that old organ needs a good player."
Mama nods at the request. "Will the priest be all right with that?"
His too-thin lip twists at that, as if to disregard that societal politeness. "I shall procure his permission."
"Thank you."
He looks at me. "You, my sweet, should probably practice that violin."
"I do not wish to disturb anyone," I protest, also knowing that my things are upstairs in the room where we will be staying.
"You won't be. Not if you play quietly enough. Play down here and then take your things back upstairs. Your mother and I will be around the house. I trust you have all your music with you?"
I nod. Then I glimpse the old piano. "When will we get to use that?"
"Perhaps tomorrow or another day, my love. But we will only be here during the day. Tomorrow, I will take us to the hotel we are staying in. For the night," he lifts his eyes up to the ceiling. "We will be in a guest room." He sighs and mutters something of it being his first time on the second floor.
He then turns to Mama. "I want to show you the attic, mon ange. Where I once lived. Perhaps my dear mother has kept my old violin and musical scores."
Without waiting for a response from her, he sweeps up the stairs.
"He's being irascible again," I mutter, trying to keep my voice low so he cannot hear.
She sighs. "Yes, but I do not blame him. Then she looks at me, "you should still practice, Madeleine."
"Scales it is," I sigh.
My parents and I go our separate ways, they go to the upstairs attic, and I go downstairs. I place myself in a small corner of the kitchen, trying to play as discreetly as possible. I practice my scales as always and try not to wonder about the unnerving conversation my parents could be having.
They will be speaking in hushed tones. I smile and play the Seguidilla.
