I met with my new employers. As aesthetes, they were a bit taken aback by my appearance. Naturally, I had anticipated this and dressed as finely as possible. We opened a discussion on the arts. Shortly, my apparent erudition and obvious qualifications for the job put them at their ease. I had another look at the work area and my architectural juices began to bubble. The first task was to assemble a work crew; I set about finding a foreman immediately. I arranged for an advertisement to be placed in tomorrow's L'Epoque.
I arrived home in a delightful mood, and by some miracle, found Christine alone in the library. She was engrossed in a book, but a daroga-free moment with my angel was too rare and precious a jewel to squander. I decided to press my advantage slightly and see where it took me. I pried a delicate hand from the book. Christine rearranged herself so that she could continue reading one-handed. I kissed each petal-like fingertip; her palm smelled of lilacs. I kissed the back of her hand and made a bracelet of kisses around her wrist before her sleeve thwarted my progress briefly. Undaunted, I continued my journey up her arm, over her shoulder to the tender flesh of her neck. She did not object, but that damnable book…
"Erik…" ah, wonderful; I had been noticed.
"Yes, Angel…"
"Did you know that in legal cases as recently as five years ago, a married woman was judged to be the absolute property of her husband, and thereby entitled to no right of self-determination?"
I admit that my education in these matters is woefully lacking, but this did not sound much like lovemaking talk.
"I did not know that."
Fortunately, my response was sufficient for the time being. Christine slipped a ribbon into the book, marking her place, and turned agreeably into my arms.
"Was it a good day?" she asked, smiling. My little darling was returned to me.
"A very good day, and still improving…" Christine reclined on the sofa, drawing me down with her.
"That is your piano in the parlor, isn't it?" she guessed between kisses.
"Mm." I was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable, in a pleasant way. "Would you like to sing?"
"Mm, but not right now," she confessed.
I found the game we were playing bewildering. Christine seemed content, even eager, to kiss and cuddle indefinitely; perhaps such behavior is more tolerable to the gentle sex. For myself and those of my ilk, however, there comes a point of diminishing returns in the exercise. The enjoyable discomfort was already beginning to metamorphose into an irritating sense of urgency. There was no hope of a satisfactory resolution, if you will, and even as Christine caressed me, I considered the wisdom of initiating such contact in the future. Obviously, I felt constrained against escalating the proceedings; Christine had made her feelings perfectly clear in that regard. Conundrum.
Fortunately, my ubiquitous Persian friend came to my rescue yet again. Imagine being glad of an interruption under such circumstances; how much more bizarre could my life become?
"Oh, I beg your pardon," the daroga let slip. No doubt it was a comic sight as I leapt to my feet and pretended to search for a book while Christine fussed with her hair, smoothed her skirts, and fumbled her book open.
"Not at all," I lied with considerably less than my usual finesse. "I was just recounting my day at the Louvre to the Comtesse…and she was telling me, ah, what was that again, Dear, about absolute property and so on? Fascinating, really."
I could not face my friend; his smirk was too much to bear. However, when I looked at Christine the situation only worsened. She was red as an apple and holding the book upside down, for God's sake.
"Yes," she chirped. "I was saying that only five years ago, a married woman was considered to be the absolute property of her husband and thereby entitled to no right of self-determination—legally speaking."
"Why, that is astonishing," the daroga replied. I was unable to determine whether he was having us on or had a sincere interest in what Christine had revealed.
"Do they mean to say, do you think, that a woman does not belong to herself?" Christine asked.
"I daresay that is precisely what they mean to say. I must admit I'd never given it any thought, but it is quite extraordinary when one encounters it in plain language like that," Reza marveled. He did seem genuinely interested, actually.
"I'm going to work," I announced, and made my exit.
I had not been free an hour when the daroga descended upon me. He entered my room uninvited and settled brazenly in my favorite chair. I could feel his irritating grin as one feels a ray of sunshine burning the back of one's neck.
"What?" I snapped when I could stand it no longer.
"I've been considering, old friend, that we should work up some sort of signal."
"Signal."
"Yes, you know; something which says, 'Look, daroga, we're up to a bit of mischief in here; go away.'" He chuckled.
"How about this: GO AWAY."
"Erik, I believe you are the only man in the world with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever."
"A sense of humor comes with a face."
"Well, I think it's delightful, you incorrigible grump. You've begun a job you're delighted about and you're in love. It's as if you're nineteen again."
"I was never nineteen," I replied, scribbling away.
"Somehow, I have no trouble believing that."
He sat so silently for several minutes that I actually imagined he might have gone. I should have known better, but I gave a bit of a start when he placed a cognac on my drawing table.
"Thank you—but why are you still here?"
"I'm wondering how the late encounter plays into your role as the—what was it—'kind, gentle, noble lover'?"
"You forgot 'beautiful'. How could you forget 'beautiful'?"
"Ah, yes. 'Beautiful, kind, gentle, and noble'," he intoned. "Erik, I should have married you when I had the chance."
"Yes; sadly, there is only one of me to go around. But, to answer your impertinent question, I was asking myself the same thing; a little more than an hour ago, as a matter of fact. She quite fancies all that aimless fiddling around; seems to have an endless tolerance for it. Small wonder the beautiful boy was at her constantly." I drained my cognac.
"Hm. What do you intend to do?" my friend asked gravely.
"Nothing. That's what I'm allowed, as I understand it."
"No, I mean, about the situation. You can't continue indefinitely in this way. Can you?"
"Well, naturally, I'll give it a bit more study before I make a final determination."
"Naturally," the daroga agreed.
"Of course this all presupposes that the lady in question does not return to Chagny…I believe we have about fifty hours to go before I lose my bet?"
The daroga studied his watch. "About that. But what if she does stay?"
"I'll worry about that in fifty-one hours." I admitted.
I crept into Christine's bedroom early: around midnight. I expected to interview foremen in the morning, and wanted to get an early start. I considered just turning in to my coffin, but I was concerned that she would awaken in the middle of the night again. In spite of the fact that she'd seen me unmasked, I preferred not to have her creeping up on me stretched out in my box, asleep and faceless. So I settled in the chair again; it was not so terrible. The room smelled like Christine, and just knowing she was near was compensation enough for a bit of stiffness in my back in the morning.
In sleep, Christine had embraced a pillow. I studied her for a moment. That could be me, I mused. If I'd lain down with her as she invited me to last night, she could be cuddled up against me right now. Wouldn't that be restful? Nooo, but wouldn't it be heavenly?
Alright…she'll be gone in two days, back to her life of privilege. She'll have those babies dutifully, absolute property that she is, and I'll never see her again. Alright.
It must have taken me a full ten minutes to lower my cadaver onto the bed without disturbing the sleeping angel. I scooted behind her as closely as possible and placed my arm around her, slipping my hand between Christine and her pillow friend. I pressed what passed for my nose into the nest of her curls and closed my eyes. Yes, I slept; it was restful, much to my surprise. I had never felt so at home, so peaceful anywhere. I constructed a delightful fantasy as I dropped off to sleep; that it was Christine and I who were four months married. We were asleep in our sweet little bed in our cozy little house, already hopeful of having started a perfect little baby—one of many we longed for. My desires are not so grotesque and fiendish after all. They are the simple moments of life that likely flutter past most men unnoticed. I wished I could have slipped away from this life with little Christine asleep in my arms, but it was not to be. I did awake in the morning, and I found that I had no remorse over the memory I'd stolen.
"I am going to the library today, Erik, may I bring you anything?" Christine looked especially radiant at breakfast. Her dress was the same blue as her eyes, and the wide white cuffs showed off her delicate, graceful hands.
"Thank you, no, Angel. I am hiring a foreman today; I fear there is not much leisure for reading in my future."
Christine approached my chair and slid her warm hands onto my shoulders. My friend pretended to be engrossed in L'Epoque.
"Oh, dear. I'm afraid I won't see you at all once this project begins, if you work at this as you compose!" Christine worried.
"But the workers must have Sunday off, Christine. I will see you on Sunday, and I expect to be home for supper most nights." I chuckled. "You are sounding like a proper little wife."
She kissed my ear.
"I am a proper little wife," she smiled, "if I say I am."
"I see. Wouldn't the Pope have something to say about that?" I wondered.
"Hmph," she sniffed. "No doubt he would consider me absolute property, too. Ah well, I'm off."
The daroga and I watched her breeze from the room. She left the scent of lilacs behind.
"Remarkable young woman," my friend murmured.
"Mm-hm," I concurred.
"Erik, how do you suppose such a charming creature takes it into her pretty head that she belongs to herself, alone, and can bestow and reclaim herself however she sees fit?" he wondered.
"I don't know, but I am no fool. Happy beneficiary that I am, I say well done, little Christine, declaring your emancipation from marital tyranny."
"You'll sing a different tune when she goes independent on you," the daroga cautioned.
"I've always been hers to command utterly, and she bears no illusions about it. If ever she defers to me, it is merely out of good form," I replied dryly.
"We shall see what we shall see," Reza intoned. "Look, old friend, would you be so good as to let me know where and when you've scheduled this afternoon's intrigue? I'd like not to intrude on you lovebirds again," he grinned.
"I had thought we might have a go right here on the table, or is that a bit much, do you think? You fiendish voyeur," I grumbled. I left him laughing, the old fool.
I trudged through five candidates before I found my foreman. He was a bullish fellow named Jules who regarded me with great suspicion initially. This made me like him right off.
"You're the architect?" he peered at me skeptically.
"I am."
He eyed my rather fine clothes; I knew what he was thinking. I gave him a rundown of my career sufficiently detailed to persuade him that I knew what I was about. He grunted with approval, I believe, when I was finished. In return, he described his work experience for me.
"What's the mask for, then?" he demanded.
"I'm ugly."
"So am I."
"No, I was born wrong," I elaborated.
"Can I see?"
"No."
Jules shrugged his assent. I knew we'd get on splendidly. Suddenly I had the sense that I was applying for the job; was I qualified to be his boss?
"Right. I'll do it, if you want," he growled.