I offered Darius my hand. I wanted to offer him a brandy, but I'd learned years ago that Darius does not drink. He is an actual Muslim, not simply a cultural one, and a genuinely good fellow. The last thing I would want to do is insult him.
"I understand congratulations are in order."
"Oh, yes; thank you, Mr Erik." His smile seemed genuine, and I was glad of it.
"I want you to know that you've nothing to be concerned about from me."
"I understand that, Sir; it's in the past," he replied, clearly wanting to leave the subject. I realized he must be desperately in love with Anci to be able to overlook the history the girl and I shared, proud man that he was.
"Well then, much happiness, Darius. I'm sure she'll be a marvelous wife to you. Will she become Muslim, do you think?"
"Yes, she is being taught by the mullah's wife even now," he nodded happily. I suppose one god is as good as another to a dim little thing like Anci.
"Good; good." I patted his shoulder and wandered away, wondering how long I'd feel like an egg-stealing dog in his presence. Anci wasn't his at the time, but…eeesh.
I had nearly settled down with a book when I heard what sounded like a herd of ponies upstairs, and screaming.
"NO! BAD MAMA, NO! PAA-PAA!"
The little man dissolved in tears. Sounded like my cue. I reached the top of the stairs and the fat, naked baby threw himself against my legs. He was making a good job of climbing up my trousers.
"Papa, Papa," he moaned. He was trying to tell me that Christine was evil and had been beating him, I think.
"I hope you're satisfied now. He refuses to keep his clothes on. I've dressed him twice already this morning! Oh, and I trust you're prepared to assume all his care, because he now refuses to let me…touch him to get him clean." Christine shoved Masson's clothes into my hands and stomped away.
"Wait, Christine," I called, genuinely baffled. "How is it my fault that he won't let you touch him?"
"Well, you had to show off in the bathtub, didn't you? No doubt you filled his head with what a BIG BOY he is!"
For the record, I did not show off. All we did was have a brief conversation establishing that we were boys and Mama was a girl. He's a very clever little man; one certainly can't disguise the fact that Christine is different from him, of all people. At any rate, it did not seem the time to point out that big boys have no trouble with girls touching them; I let it go. Who says I can't learn from my mistakes? A half dozen house shoes bounced off my head had made an impact—pardon the pun.
"GUMP Mama!" My son, the diplomat.
"Not now, Son," I whispered. "You must learn timing. Timing is everything."
"Evvyt'ing."
"Yes, timing is everything. Now let's get dressed, shall we?"
"NO!"
"Not 'no', sir. Yes," I frowned.
"No dress Masson."
"What did you say? Say again? Who is this?" I pointed at his chest. He'd always called himself "'Son" til that moment.
"Masson."
"Masson! Yay! Masson!" I scooped him up and ran hollering for Christine. She came instantly, breathless, imagining something was wrong.
"What!"
"Listen! Tell Mama; who's this?"
"Mas-SON!" my son declared proudly.
Celebration reigned; Masson is beautiful and brilliant. No one will ever believe he's a Chagny.
. . .
"What's wrong?" I placed a fluttering kiss on the back of Christine's neck.
"I just…can't seem to relax," she sighed, frustrated.
"Yes; but what's wrong?" I brushed her hair back. She was silent a long time. I felt her considering whether she should speak or not.
"I suppose it's stupid Anci getting married," she admitted finally.
Ew. "Hm?"
Christine gave a large sigh; then another…then the telltale quivering of her shoulders began.
"I'm never going to be married!" she sniffed. She spun on me angrily. "And it's all your fault for running off to Hungary! Bastard!" she thumped me hard in the chest.
Tricky. Once again, I think I made a wise decision in not mentioning that, technically, she was still married to our friend Raoul. I was taken aback by this sudden onslaught of conventional morality, but I knew that Christine's moods are caught up with moon phases, planetary alignments, and the migration of birds.
"I'm sorry, Christine. Surely there is something we can do," I struggled.
"Well, I'm not going to ask the Bishop about it, and I don't intend to ask Raoul to ask; the poor dear. He's done more than enough on my behalf and has nothing but a broken nose to show for his trouble," she said pointedly.
Things were deteriorating bizarrely. Christine was angry with me, the man she wished to marry, and was in sympathy with Raoul, the man she no longer wished to be married to. My chest tightened up, and I developed a dizzying headache, even though I was lying down. Time to assume the fall-back position.
"You're absolutely correct, Angel."
Christine turned to me with an I-Mean-Business face.
"Then you'll go and speak with the Bishop, explain things to him, and get my annulment."
"Christine, I'm…not even Catholic." I know it was weak; I was reaching.
"Of course you are," she scoffed. "What else would you be?" She turned around and snuggled in happily. "Go to sleep, Erik, darling."
Right.
I took up this disturbing turn of events with Gaston as soon as possible.
"I'm sorry, Erik; I don't understand why you no longer wish to marry Christine."
"Of course I want to marry her, man. You think I want to face my son in twelve year's time and explain to him why he's Masson de Chagny? " I began pacing. "I just…don't like priests. They make me queasy."
"Come; the Bishop won't hurt you," Gaston smiled.
"The devil he won't. First, he'll ask if I'm Catholic. I'll say, Well, sort of. Then he'll ask if I'm confirmed; I'll say no. He'll ask if I've made my first Holy Communion; I'll say no. Finally, he'll ask, Well, then, you are baptized, aren't you? And I'll say, You know, I suppose so. Mummy and I never discussed it. Next thing you know I'll be in a catechism class, trying to memorize Pope's names, while a troop of vicious eight year olds call me names. No thank you."
"I see your point, Erik. I must say, I like the way you put it so theatrically. I can actually picture you, squeezed into that little school desk as the delinquents bombard you with spitballs."
"Thanks, Gaston. I'm going to throw up."
He abandoned the sofa, allowing me to lie down. "Here, loosen your cravat. Would you like a brandy?"
"No. Have you any morphine?"
"We must come up with something a bit more concrete, Erik. We need to evolve a plan. Small steps at a time, so you won't overwhelm your delicate sensibilities."
"Ha ha."
"I'm perfectly serious. I appreciate how difficult this normal life stuff is for you."
"You are a saintly man, Gaston."
"You may name your next child after me. Now, to begin. How do you feel about securing an interview with the Bishop as a first step?"
"Horrible."
"Let's think about it, shall we, Erik? The Bishop is a busy man. Likely you'll have several weeks to prepare for your interview; and I'll help you."
"What must I do, then?"
"Same as for anyone," Gaston shrugged. "You just go to the cathedral and ask for the Bishop. You'll get some secretary of his, and you ask for an interview to discuss an annulment."
"It's not my annulment," I pouted.
"We've been over this, Erik."
"Shit."
. .
"NIIIIIIIIGHTTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"
SLAM!
Feet on the stairs. The door to the parlor flew open.
"What are you doing?" Christine demanded, toe tapping, arms crossed.
"Nothing, Darling," I replied innocently.
"Then take him outside. He has been singing and asking questions for three days."
I complied immediately. Masson had suddenly decided to verbalize, and he could not stop. Christine blamed me utterly, for everything, back to his conception.
"Papa!" Masson smiled and came into my arms. "NIIIIIIIIGHTTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"
"Yes yes yes. Would you like to go for a walk? Perhaps your geese are about."
"Why?"
"Because it's daytime, and they're probably hungry."
"DAAAAAYTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"
"Masson, we can sing more quietly when we're indoors."
"Now Masson goes outdoors!" He careened down the steps without incident. I felt as though someone had put my heart in a vise. I should have had children thirty years ago, before Christine was born.
"Papa, look! What's that?"
"You know that's a horse, Masson."
"No, that."
"That's horse poo."
"HORSE POO! HORSE POO!" He ran skipping and chanting. Two old biddies passing by glared at me for corrupting the angelic child.
"Masson," I caught up to him and grabbed his hand. "Masson, let's not sing about poo."
"Why?"
"Because poo is private."
"What's private?"
"Private is something we discuss quietly."
"Why?"
"Because people are hypocrites and they like to pretend some things don't really happen."
"What?"
"We'll discuss it later. Would you like to learn a new song?"
"NEW SONG! NEW SONG!"
"Right. This is called 'Sur le pont d'Avignon'…"
We located our geese; rather, they located the chubby child with the bread.
"Papa. Why are the babies fuzzy?"
"Because they don't have proper feathers yet. That is called 'goose down'."
"Hahahaha! Sit DOWN! Put that DOWN! Goose DOWN!"
I wondered if I had delighted in language as he did. Likely not. If I was a chatty one like Masson, likely I was locked in a room and told to shut up.
"Was Masson fuzzy?"
"Not at all; you were just as you are now, only smaller."
"You're fuzzy."
"Yes; when you grow up you'll be fuzzy too."
"Boys are fuzzy. Girls are fancy."
"They certainly are." I'd never heard it described that way, but it suited.
"Why?"
"Um, well, you see how the Mama and Papa geese are different, so we can tell who's the girl and who's the boy."
"Papa, look! Kite!"
Thank god.
I returned him to Christine asleep and adorable once more.
"Thank you," she smiled. Her first genuine smile in days. I decided to push my luck, slithered close.
"Fancy a nap?"
"NO."
"Have I done something wrong?" I thought I might weasel her into it if I could get her to admit that I'd been exemplary—which I had been.
"No. I just don't have the energy to deal with that right now. He's too much," she sighed.
"Well, that's alright, Darling. You don't have to do much."
For that error in judgement, I received the slap of the millenium.
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded!" I whined.
"Liar; go away. Where's my annulment?"
"I'm working on it!" I grumbled. What the hell, she'd already called me a liar.
I spent some time considering the annulment conundrum; specifically, how long I could delay before Christine suspected foul play and began to revoke privileges. I had noticed a slippage in her tolerance level which I believed could be traced to the problem of Living in Sin. I decided to speak with her about it. Not entirely candidly; just enough to halt the erosion of my good standing.
I brought her a glass of wine and began brushing her hair. When the moment seemed right, I opened the campaign.
"Angel, these annulment proceedings will likely be protracted," I tried to sound apologetic.
"Oh?" her eyebrow shot up as if she suspected some subterfuge. She can smell it, I swear.
"Well, you know that an august institution such as the Church moves ponderously. It is on God's time, after all."
"You're right," she agreed, relaxing.
"I wonder if there is anything I can do in the meantime to…"
"Well, I have your ring," she smiled, admiring it. I could almost catch a whiff of victory. I leaned forward for a nibble.
"Oh! Erik!"
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Yes, there is something. You could get a tattoo."
"I'm sorry, Darling, say it again; I thought you said I could get a tattoo."
"I did. You know, something with a roses and a black ribbon, 'Christine' in fancy letters," she elaborated.
I was speechless. She may as well have said 'Grow a couple of horns on your head'.
"Well?" she asked.
"I…don't know what to say…where did this idea come from?"
She shrugged. "I saw a book of tattoos at the library, and I think they're quite pretty."
"Ah. They are quite permanent. Gentlemen don't get tattoos, anyway."
"No one would see but me."
"Ah. Where did you plan for this tattoo to go?"
"The top of your arm, I suppose. Not your chest."
"Ha. Ha. Thank you."
The Catholic catechism or a tattoo; why not offer me the third choice of a hemlock aperitif and have done with it?