One Good Turn part XII
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"Would it please you, Megan, if we were to marry?" Erik asked her off-handedly. His casual proposal snuck upon her as she was eating a bite of chocolate torte, and it was all she could do not to choke. She sputtered, quickly sipping a bit of her café.
They were seated in a corner nook of a little café near the park, situated quite comfortably near the café's fire place, for which Meg was profoundly thankful. Erik had looked at her knowingly when she ordered a cup of soup and a slice of chocolate torte, and she had stuck out her tongue at him.
They had been discussing more on the works of Tolstoy as they ate, and Meg had felt such a warm glow of contentment settle over her as she listened to Erik's opinion, she swore it was visible to all who looked their way.
After wiping her mouth with her napkin, she stated uncertainly, "Was that just a proposal because I don't really see you as the type to want to pledge before God and man your troth. Am I wrong?"
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "In this instance you may yet be. Tell me, are you particularly religious?"
Meg wrinkled her nose, "I probably should be, and Lord knows Maman tried, but no, I don't have a particular affinity for the Church or any of its affiliations. Why?"
"Because ptichka, a civil ceremony will suffice, and we would be bound legally as man and wife if not by God." The way he uttered the last made it clear how little use he found that particular subject. "However, Megan, I cannot offer you my last name."
Meg blinked and looked at him curiously. In all their many and varied conversations, in all their meanderings together, it had honestly never occurred to her to ask him what his surname was. "What is it, and why can't you offer it?"
He grit his jaw, and Meg knew he was growing angry, but somehow, she did not think the anger was directed at her. "I do not know my family name because the knowledge was withheld from me." His yellow eyes flashed fire. "I was disowned upon birth. The only reason my mother kept me as long as she did was to appease a very misguided sense of Catholic guilt. You see, Megan dear, she thought that if she prayed enough, beat me enough, had us both fast and starve enough, that the ugly in me would miraculously heal itself."
Meg looked at him, stricken. She put down her fork with a clatter and made to grab for his hand. He pulled away, folding in on himself. "And so Megan sees, Erik has no use for God or a church wedding. Nor can he offer her his name. And so, he asks, would it please Megan if she and Erik were to marry?"
Meg took a moment to compose herself. Erik talking in third person was never a good sign. Each time he did it, his emotions were running high, and it seemed he was a bit less than stable. The fact that he would not let her touch him was also another troubling sign of impending Opera Ghostness, as she was learning to refer to these episodes.
Meg couldn't, not for one moment, forget with whom she was dealing; not even after everything they shared!
She weighed her words carefully, making sure that what she said suited her thoughts. "No, Erik, a church ceremony is unimportant to me. I need no church-sanctioned piece of paper to prove my love and commitment only to you." She licked her suddenly dry lips, "Look. The way I see it, you already are my husband, my muzh, and our vows were made the first night we became lovers."
Tentatively, Meg reached for his hand once more, gratified when he let her slowly take it, and she began to stroke his closed hand gently, reassuring him. "We claimed one another, Erik.
"So, alright, our relationship will never be a traditional marriage, but does that make it any less real, any less valid? And if the only reason that you aren't willing to offer me your name, maestro, is because you don't have one, then we need to remedy that forthwith. You are a composer, after all, and as a general rule, they are known only by their last names. The great ones anyway." She gave him a small, hopeful smile, nudging his calf with the toe of her boot to fall in with her gentle, light-hearted teasing.
His expression still looked stormy, but Meg could see the more rational side of him begin to emerge. She decided to just treat him as she normally would. With luck, he would begin to act normally as well.
Gently letting go of his hand and taking up her fork once more, Meg adopted a thoughtful expression. "hmm… how about Ribaldi? Erik Ribaldi. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Acting as if she hadn't a care in the world, Meg took a bite of torte and chewed thoughtfully while looking at him. He was looking at her curiously, "The name is from my favorite fairytale."
His eyes crinkled a slight bit, and Meg knew he was coming 'round. "And here I thought The Red Shoes was your favorite, ptichka." There was warmth once more in his Voice, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Meg tsk'd and waggled her fork at him, breaking off a big bite of torte and holding it up for him to take. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, and Meg fed him the morsel. "They're all my favorites, maestro! But Rigoletto was indeed the one I loved the most when I was a child."
He looked at her laconically as he chewed, "Rigoletto, really my Megan?"
She shrugged and smiled cheekily up at him, "I can't help it if in this case life imitated art." she licked her fork with a little more attention than strictly necessary, and saw Erik's eyes focus on her lips, specifically her tongue swirling along the pronged tip. She gave a final swirl and then slowly licked her lips. "Delicious. So what now, maestro?" Meg nearly giggled to see him so transfixed, and then he blinked.
"We are—are you ready to go, Megan?" Not waiting for her reply, he threw a wad of bills on the table and quickly stood. Then he was at the back of her chair, ushering her up and out of the restaurant into the chilly Minsk air.
"Erik, what on Earth—" Meg was tugged until she was in the secluded alleyway outside the restaurant. She gasped as he lowered his mouth immediately to hers, his tongue thrusting into her as his arms went around her, holding her to him. The kiss was passionate, it was violent. It was exactly what he needed and Megan gladly gave it, parrying each thrust with a tender stroke from her own smaller tongue.
At length, she felt him pull away and lick the corner of her lip, and then he gently returned once more to her mouth, kissing her more gently, less urgently. He then leaned his masked head on her forehead and breathed in deep. "You had a morsel of chocolate—I had been staring at it…" he stated this as one would a confession, and it struck her absurdly silly.
She laughed, hugging him to her. "Oh, you never need an excuse, Erik. Feel free to ravish me anytime." And standing on her tip-toes, Meg reached for his mouth and gave him a lingering kiss. "Now, come on! I want to see how our portraits turned out." Her arm tucked under his, Erik escorted them back to the portrait-maker's.
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"Ah, so you've both been fed and watered, I see." His bespectacled eyes twinkled knowingly. "But there can be no better food than love, yes?" He removed a case from the bottom of his display cabinet. "The tin-types did turn out rather splendid if I do say so myself." And he gestured for them both to draw closer as he opened the case.
Meg gasped in delighted wonder.
The miniature portraiture showed Erik in his suit looking severe and unsmiling. The lines of the flesh-colored mask just visible if one squinted and looked for them. He looked truly as any other man: ordinary. Neither handsome, nor plain with a noble, almost regal bearing about him. Upon looking closely, however, Meg could just discern a lightness, a gentleness about his eyes. Her heart gave a jolt at the sight. She stood beside him, a small smile and her blond hair a clear relief to his severity, her hand placed just so on his shoulder.
It was very clear the couple was very much in love.
The watch the portraiture was placed in was beautifully crafted, and although Meg really hadn't had a chance to study it before, she took the time to do so now. It was made of purest gold; the watch face itself white with black lettering and roman numerals running 'round encased in heavy polished glass. The outside was engraved on the top with a small golden rendering done with exact precision. She examined it closer; it was a charming park scene. A pond was in the background with a few wisps of clouds and one solitary bird flying o'er.
But it was the foreground that interested her the most; a violin stood leaning against a music stand. Sheet music at the ready as if waiting for the un-rendered phantom musician to take up the bow and begin to play. "And the locket. Does madam like the locket?" The shop-keeper asked anxiously.
Meg took a moment to look it over.
Erik had chosen a locket made of purest gold that was in the shape of an oval. The design was simplistic, unornamented. However, the top was engraved with little embellishments that swirled and moved elegantly. It opened with a little snick, and Meg's heart jumped. There was an engraving on the left inner side.
My beloved is mine and I am hers.
Evermore,
Your maestro
"Oh, Erik!" she turned to find him watching her anxiously.
"Does that mean you like it, ptichka?" His expression was nervous, unsure.
She hugged him excitedly, "Like it? I may never take it off! Put it on me quickly!" She turned her back to him and saw the shop-keeper smile softly as he handed the locket to Erik. He turned away from them ostensibly to prepare the bill of sale. She felt the gentle, dear weight of the locket settle between her breasts, and then his thumbs were caressing her neck lightly. She looked up to find him looking down at her.
She smiled softly, and he lowered his head, giving her the most tender-sweet of kisses. Meg looked up to find the shop-keeper turned towards them, an indulgent smile on his lips. "How you two remind me of my Eliza and myself! The light of my life is she. It seems only yesterday that we married. Yesterday. And how time does fly!" His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "So savor it, each and every moment together."
After donning his watch and fob, Meg watched as Erik tried to pay the man double his asking price, but the shopkeeper shook his head, staying firm, taking only the bills for the fee requested. "I won't hear of it! I won't." Smiling and shaking his head, the man ushered them out of his shop. Meg saw, however, that Erik secreted the remaining money in the shop-keeper's jacket pocket while the man was saying his goodbyes to her.
Impulsively, she hugged the man. "Thank you so very much, sir!" He looked dazed for a moment, and then smiled delightedly waving them off.
Meg turned and looked at Erik. "Come on, my dear." He offered her his arm, his eyes agleam with love. "It grows late, and we have a performance to attend.
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The Minsk Theatre was not nearly as opulent or as well-appointed as the Populair, but Erik found he could not complain. The acoustics were passable if not perfect, but the acting was indeed first-rate. He looked over at Megan, the golden locket he had given her glinted softly in the theatre lamplight as they waited for the production to begin.
They had dined at the restaurant the man this morning had recommended, sampling true Belarusian cuisine. Erik had found he did not care for the taste of the little potato cakes overly much. But Megan had indeed fallen in love with them, joking that it was a good thing they were just passing through as she would be round as a little dumpling if she lived here.
"You? Never, my dear." He had watched as she took another lusty bite of the draniki, her eyes closing in her pleasure, and he had felt a wave of desire so strong pierce him at that moment, he had almost groaned with it. Her joie de vivre over new experiences was unrivaled by anyone he had ever encountered. Each and every thing she savored, urging him to share in her excitement, her passion as well.
Had he ever been that way? Had he ever been so idealistic, so embracing of what the world had to offer?
He shook his head. No, definitely not. He had learned almost from infancy never to reach so high, never to expect too much from the world as it had only caused him pain.
But Megan? She was completely open to new experiences, new pursuits. Just as she had jokingly told him at dinner, "I'll try anything once, maestro." The chit had then given him a saucy wink as she sampled her sambouk, pronouncing it a bit damp but palatable.
Erik had spent the rest of the meal dreaming of experimental ways of sampling her.
And as they waited for the curtain to rise, Erik looked at the little woman beside him and thought that at this moment here, holding her hand, he was the happiest and luckiest of men. And just at that moment—that perfect moment—she turned and smiled to him, and his heart broke free, galloping with the love he felt for her—his Megan—at his side.
The curtain rose to resounding applause, and the limelight caught center-stage upon a man dressed as a wealthy merchant. "Good evening ladies and gentleman. Tonight, may I please present for your pleasure, the world debut of Leo Tolstoy's play 'The Living Corpse'." Megan's hand jumped in his, and grimacing, Erik looked over.
Her other hand was at her throat clutching her locket tightly; she had gone white as a sheet.
She leaned in close and whispered to him, "Erik. Please, let's leave. I want to go back to the train."
He drew his arm around her shoulder in a gesture that she should sit back, return to her seat. He shook his head, and directed his Voice so that it was heard by her ears alone. "Yes, it is true. I have performed in Russia as 'The Living Corpse' years and years ago, but the odds of Leo Tolstoy having encountered me are quite minimal ptichka. You may rest-assured, whatever the subject-matter of this play, it is not based upon me." She still looked uncertain as the man on stage began to speak, extolling Tolstoy's works and genius, and she shook her head, making to rise. He urged her back with a gentle but firm hand to her shoulders, "Megan, calm yourself. It will be alright. Just sit back and watch. the. play."
She still retained a hold on his hand, but Erik could tell she was not happy with this turn of events. He prayed that his words of reassurance to her weren't false.
Oh, but the performance was filled with the irony that was so prevalent in Erik's life. It had everything—everything that Erik had been trying to forget—jealousy; a love triangle involving the protagonist, his wife, and an old childhood friend that ends up being a rival for her affection. The play even had gypsies. Gypsies!
He should have listened to Megan. That thought kept playing over and over in his mind as he watched parts of his life unfold on stage.
The protagonist, having been overcome by jealousy, leaves his young wife thereby forcing her into the arms of the very man he thinks she secretly loves.
And so, he runs instead to a gypsy encampment.
While there, he has an affair with a young gypsy dancer named Masha. His wife, presuming him dead, marries her childhood friend, and when he learns of this, the man leaves the gypsy girl, and immediately returns to his wife, and she is charged with bigamy as well as arranging for her husband's disappearance.
While the man refutes these claims, the court still tells her she must either give up her new husband or face exile in Siberia. The man, mad with rage, gathers the courage to shoot himself and end his life, thereby freeing his wife to be with the man he thinks she loves.
And crying hysterically, the wife proclaims to all that she has always—will always— love and want to be with her husband.
And then the curtain was drawn.
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A/N: Ah, but happiness and perfection are only temporary states are they not? Would that one could dwell there evermore, but alas!
The authoress would like to thank those of you who continue to offer encouragement and support with your messages and reviews. It does help ever so much to have feedback and helps keep the creative juices flowing!
DGM
review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.