"Papa. What's that?"
"It's a razor, Son. I am shaving."
"It hurts?"
"Not so long as I hold the razor properly. If I hold it the wrong way, it's very dangerous, sharp like a knife. Must never touch Papa's razor."
"Don't touch knife, rope, stove, razor."
"That's my clever man."
He climbed up to study the process more closely.
"If you like, I will shave you when I've finished."
"YAY!"
"LOOK MAMA! Papa shaves Masson!"
"I see, what a big boy you are!"
"Boys are fuzzy. Girls are fancy."
"Oh, really? And who told you that?" she asked, shooting me a look.
"Masson is a brilliant child, Mama. That is solely his observation," I insisted.
"You are a pair," she sighed. "Will you go out today?"
"I think I shall. We're all clean-shaven, we see what sort of trouble we can get into, hm?"
"YAY! SUR LE PONT D'AVIGNON—"
"Masson, will you please go ask Darius for a spoon? Thank you, my big helper boy."
We watched him run off, feeling most important. I turned to Christine with a smile.
"What is it that you must send him off on this pretend errand, my dear?"
"What is happening with the annulment? Have you spoken with the Bishop?"
"I've not secured an interview yet. (Completely true.) He's a busy fellow, I suppose."
Christine sighed, frustrated.
"Is there some urgency of which I'm unaware?" I smiled. Mistake. Christine no longer bore even the semblance of a sense of humor about things marital.
"Only that Masson will be in school soon! Erik, please!"
"Well, in that case, don't worry. I'm sure I'll be in to see the Bishop before Masson is a world-famous tenor." I pecked her cheek. "Darling, did you just growl at me? Christine mustn't growl at Erik; most unbecoming. I shall have to beat you," I chuckled.
When Masson and I walked past the Opera House, it looked alive again.
"Masson, see that building over there?"
"Pretty!"
"Yes. That is where I met your Mama."
"Ooooh. Why?"
"Well, because I lived there, and so did Mama. You know how beautifully Mama sings. I fell in love her, and her beautiful voice."
"Mama's fancy voice."
"Yes, you're right; her voice is fancy, as well."
"Papa, let's go there."
I took my son to the place where he actually began. Eyes wide as saucers, he reached out to caress the cool marble.
"Pretty steps," he whispered reverently.
He caught great handfuls of the velvet draperies, fingered the gold fringe trim, cooing with amazement. He went directly for the breasts of a golden statue; my son.
"Pretty, fancy gold lady," he murmured. "I fell in love with her."
"She's very pretty, Masson."
We strolled down the aisles; walked the stage. I took him up on the catwalks, which he adored. I brought him to Box 5—but I did not take him underground; not yet.
We returned home and I penned my managers a note, advising that Christine was rehearsing and would be ready for their summons. I instructed them to leave a note on the shelf in Box 5 advising of their dates and plans. Remote management of the theater and those two geniuses would be challenging. It was easier to be in the building at all times, so I could keep my eye on every detail. I told Christine that we'd begin rehearsing again, since the Opera was preparing to reopen. Naturally I assumed she would take this for the wonderful news that it obviously was.
"But, I'm not going back to the opera," she said, stunned.
"Of course you are," I replied, digging through my music.
"I have Masson now. I don't want to work anymore."
I stopped rifling through papers and examined to her to make sure I was speaking to the correct woman. I was.
"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. What the devil has Masson to do with it?"
"Mothers don't work if they have the money not to…"
"Darling, you never worked for the money. You worked for your music, for your voice. Now: we shall rehearse beginning tomorrow morning. Run along now, Erik is busy."
"Erik, my baby--"
"Christine. I did not fall in love with you because you could make a baby. I fell in love with you because you could sing, and sing you shall. Why are we still having this conversation? You want your baby? Go: go play with him now. Tomorrow morning you go to work."
"Erik!"
"Not another word, Christine."
She departed in stunned silence.
. . .
Masson was asleep, Christine was fresh from the bath and I was just fresh. For some reason known only to Christine, however, she was being maddeningly uncooperative. I scooted her gown up. She drew it back down.
"Chris-teeen, what are you doing?"
"What are you doing?"
"You know…" She scrunched her neck up before I could latch on.
"Don't. I have to get up early for rehearsal, remember?"
"Not that early, Darling. I'll be quick," I promised.
"You most certainly will not! What do you think I am; a convenience? I'll derive some enjoyment or I won't be bothered." She shoved me away.
"Make up your mind; shall I take my time or be quick?"
"I don't want you to be anything; I'm going to sleep, thank you."
"What the devil is wrong with you? You're not even letting me persuade you," I was most definitely whining. I think it had been three or four days; I get headaches. Really.
"Erik. I am not letting you persuade me because I am not interested. Can you understand?"
"No, I can't! You're not interested, and I am; how do you suggest we meet halfway on this? What do you expect me to do?"
"I expect you to leave me alone. If you're in such dire straits, take yourself next door and do what you must. Good night." She gave me her back, clearly expecting that the conversation was over. I was nonplussed.
"I can't believe you said that, you nasty girl."
"Erik, go to sleep or get out."
"Fine. Fine!"