I got dressed and took myself to the Opera. It seemed a good idea at the time; I thought I wanted to see it. It was coming along beautifully inside, but walking those halls and remembering Christine in every niche and corner of the building did nothing for my wounded heart.
I did not understand at all what was going on inside Christine's mind. I couldn't believe that I'd felt so incredibly connected, so positively where I belonged, and that I'd felt that way alone. I couldn't believe I was just a way to scratch an itch. It had to be about the boy. It had to be that she couldn't take his jealousy. I resolved to be patient; what choice was there?
I took the long way around so I could pass by the chocolate shop. I needed more coins for Masson, and I picked up some of the best champagne truffles in Paris for Christine. I laid them outside the door and went back down to the parlor. Reza was out and it was Darius' afternoon off, so I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could make tea without burning the house down.
Darius hides the pickled onions from me, so I saw an opportunity. I sniffed around and located about half a jar of onions and some delightful peasant bread. I loaded up my tray and headed to the back garden for a minor debauch in the shade. Presently I had a full tummy and decided a nap was in order.
I was just turning up the stairs when I heard a masculine voice in the parlor; it was a fair assumption that it was Reza. I moved across the hall to join him, but I realized at the last moment that it wasn't Reza. It was Raoul; what a cunning bastard he'd become. Pleading his case with Christine, he wasn't even debating that he was a bore. He was telling her that she was a woman now, and she had to put aside her girlish desire for the thrills an unpredictable lover provided. She needed to think of the boy now; she needed to find a steady, dependable father for her son.
Not surprisingly, I suddenly felt ill. I couldn't catch my breath, as if someone was sitting on my chest. I didn't want to hear what Christine had to say in reply; I took myself upstairs.
I wanted my baby. I slipped into Christine's room and plucked him from his crib. He only stirred a little but settled quickly when I stretched out on the bed with him. My chest still hurt. I wondered why I was suddenly feeling a broken heart; maybe it was the realization that if she went with Raoul, I'd lose my little man, too. I stroked his downy head and indulged myself in a fine cleansing cry.
Masson woke me up. He had taken all his clothing off and was playing with his feet and singing. I don't know what he was singing, but I tried to sing along with him. He was only a year old; how sophisticated could the melody be? He seemed to appreciate my efforts.
"Erik?" Christine was staring at us in disbelief.
"Mama!"
"Why is he naked?"
"Because he discovered he could take his clothing off, and he's proud of himself!"
"Oh." She had a very strange look on her face. Raoul, I reckoned.
"I'm sorry, Christine; I just wanted to see him. He didn't wake up, and we just had a little nap together."
"It's alright, Erik. He's your son."
"You're worried I'll be a poor influence on him. He's already inherited my temper. Isn't that right?"
"No; that's not right at all; why do you say that?"
"Because you look strange. Unhappy."
She shrugged. Masson fished in my waistcoat.
"Papa. Shok-lit," he whispered, giving me the big baby eyes.
"Here, you little fiend. Get me in the soup with Mama, as if I can't do it well enough for myself." I handed His Nakedness the unwrapped coin.
"Fank."
"You're welcome."
Christine scooped Masson into his crib and fetched his peg box. He set immediately to banging and singing.
"Mama will be right back, Masson." She turned to me. "May I see you outside, please?"
"Certainly." Lovely; what now? The get out and make room for Raoul speech?
It took an eternity for her to close the door behind her and face me. I thought I was prepared for anything, but not for a kiss—which was what I got.
"Christine…" I didn't even know what my question was. She rested her forehead against my chin.
"I don't want to talk about it. Don't press me; just do what I ask. I know it sounds selfish and unreasonable," she admitted. She burrowed against my aching chest, just as she used to do when she was my little girl.
"Whatever you want, Angel."
The banging stopped and we drew apart in anticipation of His Majesty's summons.
"I think we're adjusting rather well--to indentured servitude, at least," I smiled.
"MAMA! MAA-MAA!"
She squeezed my hand and returned to Masson.
"Erik!" Reza was jubilant. "The most marvelous news! A Persian coffee house is opened—a real one—right here in Paris! I know the boy's family!"
"Really."
"Yes, I ran into one of my countrymen this afternoon, and he told me about it! It's not open but a couple of days—think of it, Erik! Real coffee, hookahs, good music and dancing girls!" He clapped his hands gleefully.
"Reza, you're transported," I grinned.
"I can't wait to tell Darius—I can't imagine this bit of news escaped him!" Darius had his finger firmly on the pulse of the Persian expatriate community in Paris. It was odd that he'd not mentioned an event of this magnitude.
"I've got to dress; I've sent word to Gaston to be here by half-eight."
"I don't know about me tonight, Reza; I'm tired." I really did feel all in.
"Erik!" Reza's disappointment was palpable. "Remember!"
I did. It beat any occidental gentlemen's club I'd occasioned before or since. Shame about Persia; with a few notable exceptions, I'd quite liked it. The more I thought on it, the more I agreed that it would be delightful place to become a regular patron of. "Alright; you've twisted my arm."
Reza slapped my shoulder and giggled like Masson. He ran off to become presentable while I wandered back to the kitchen, peckish again for some reason.
"Oh, hello Darius. Sorry about the onions," I offered sheepishly.
"It's alright, Mr Erik."
"Reza says there's a Persian coffee house opening; we're off to it tonight. It's a wonder you hadn't heard about it."
"Yes; strange that I missed it," he agreed.
"Anyway," I brightened, "you're welcome to join us."
"Thank you, Mr Erik; another time. May I get you something?"
Poor Darius. He set me up with turnips and chicken just to stop me digging around in his pantry. I opened a Merlot and importuned him for more peasant bread.
"This is delightful, Darius; if only there were more onions…"
"Mr Erik, you'll be fat as Mr Gaston soon. No more onions."
We had an exquisite time at the coffee house. We began Gaston's education into the fine points of oriental dance; he proved an avid pupil as the girls were lovely. When we arrived home, it was after two, but I was buzzing merrily from too much coffee. I was still buzzing and reading when Christine knocked.
"Good morning," I smiled.
She blinked her eyes in confusion at my evening clothes.
"PAPA!" Masson threw himself at me. "Ooooohh." He crinkled his nose at the sweet smoke smell which clung to me.
"I didn't realize you…were out last night."
"Yes, likely you'll hear all about it, Reza's ecstatic. They've opened a genuine Persian coffee house; we went with Gaston last night. It was just like being there again, delightful."
"What happens at Persian coffee houses?"
"Well, there's no alcohol--one drinks wicked strong coffee and smokes fruity tobacco through a water pipe. There's music and dancing girls—"
"Oh," Christine replied glumly.
"OH!" Masson echoed. He'd never been in my room before, and he was itching to get down and into things.
"Christine, you're not going to fret over dancing girls now are you?"
"No…should I?"
"No," I chuckled. "I'm not a Persian woman's…ideal, shall we say. You've nothing to fret about. Would you like to come with us sometime?"
"Oh good heavens! No!" She turned colors.
"NO!" said the Bear.
"It's alright; there were women there last night, Darling—with their husbands, of course."
"Papa 'son down." I set him down; he went straight for my coffin and climbed in. "Boat."
Christine was mortified. "Erik, get him out."
"He doesn't know what it is, Christine."
"It's morbid; get him out."
I lifted him out; he promptly climbed back in. He knew his own mind. Good; at least one of the three of us did. "Of course, you didn't always think it was morbid..." I reminded her.
"Hush!" She wasn't as horrified as she made out to be. "Later," she whispered.
"Promise?" I stole a quick glance at Masson; he was perusing my book, so I ventured a nip and a cuddle.
"Yes, now let me be or he'll have a fit."