"Christine come on walk too, Papa." Masson turned and ran back upstairs. We would definitely be discussing referring to Mama as 'Christine'; that would please with Mama like a rat in a punchbowl. Imagine my surprise when he reappeared with Kitty.
"Christine come," he smiled.
"Masson, who is Christine? Kitty?"
"Mm. No more Kitty; Christine."
"Son, Christine is usually a girl's name—like for Mama. Kitty is a boy."
"No! Pretty name for my pretty kitty."
Poor Kitty; how ignominious. I prayed for the hateful beast that none of the other tomcats in the neighborhood caught wind of his name-change.
Christine (the woman) suddenly decided that our son—and I, likely--needed religion. She instituted saying 'grapes', as Masson called it, before meals, and bedtime prayers. 'God bless Mama, Papa, Uncle Reza, Darius and Christine (the cat), and help me to be a good boy; amen.' Then, Christine (the woman) took to reading a bit of her Bible before bed. These were extremely disturbing developments; clearly intended as irritants to impel me into the Bishop's clutches. I sent for Gaston.
"Right, now, we'll just do a bit of role play to prepare you for your visit. The more rehearsal the less apprehension on opening night," jolly Gaston assured me.
"If I get really nervous and throw up on the Bishop, do I get excommunicated?"
"This is going to be great fun! I'm so glad I'm here!"
"Shut up, Reza."
"Alright now, let's begin," Gaston cleared his throat, calling the farce to order. "Good afternoon, my son; what brings you here today?"
"Er…um, I hope I can persuade you to review the Chagny annulment. I wish to marry the Comtesse."
"Very good, Erik. Ah, Chagny…Chagny…yes, I happen to have the particulars of the case right here. Oh. I am afraid that there can be no annulment here, my son. I'm sorry; what did you say your name is?"
"Erik."
"Erik--?" Bishop Gaston looked at me expectantly.
"What?" I growled, irritated at the charade.
"You'll need to come up with a last name, Erik."
"Leroux. Whatever!"
"You see, M Leroux, there is a child. The annulment is not possible. The Comtesse is a married woman in the eyes of God and the Church."
"Alright. Thank you." I made a pretend bow to the pretend bishop.
"Erik!" Gaston cried.
"What?"
"You're supposed to explain to the bishop why the annulment can go forward…why the child is no impediment…" Gaston explained, looking at me hopefully once again.
I looked back blankly.
"Because the child is yours, man! Good Lord," Gaston shook his head. "You're not supposed to give up and walk out!"
"I don't think it's any of that nosy old celibate bastard's business, frankly," I sniffed.
Reza howled.
. . .
"Erik, may I speak with you, please?"
"Certainly," I slammed my pencil down. Normally such a request from Christine would have panicked me, but things were not going swimmingly at the theatre. No matter how I redesigned the costumes, my ballerinas still looked like piglets, and someone had decided to repaint the dressing rooms; the fumes were dreadful and I had not approved the color. I suspected Carlotta; the color was a nauseating, unnatural pink. Who else would demand a repainting so soon after construction—and have their request honored? Finally, my managers were treating the pay raise I had 'requested' as a discretionary matter. I tried not to frown at Christine, but I probably was.
"Erik, I can't have you undermining me with Masson."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean yesterday, when I sat him in the corner, and you took me to task about whether it was really necessary."
"He's little, he doesn't understand—"
"He's going to grow up never understanding if you won't let me teach him. It does him no harm to sit in the corner, yet you act as if I'm killing him. He knows you can't stand it, and he works us one against the other, can't you see that?"
I did, actually, but I felt rather proud of it. It's proof of what a clever little man he is, isn't it? In my experience, manipulative behavior has an undeserved bad reputation. It's stood me quite well in my day. I understand Mama has to teach about table manners and et cetera; he will be a gentleman, after all, but he needs to learn other things too; manipulating effectively among them.
"Yes, you're right. But I think you're being too hard on him all of a sudden." I believe that was a fine concession on my part, and she should have let it lay. Naturally this was not to be.
"I'm being hard on him all of a sudden because he is insufferable all of a sudden. He thinks we all jump at his every whim! He cannot grow up to be like you, Erik—"
"I beg your pardon, Madame! I taught myself to be more of a gentleman without a woman's carping than your husband did with a proper upbringing!" I spat.
"Oh, no you don't! You think you'll get me arguing about Raoul and deflect my concerns about our son. I know how you work!"
"I work harder than I have to, thanks very much to Raoul," I grumbled.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about my theater! I don't have time for this child-rearing nonsense! Do what you want, you're the mother!" I dismissed her with a wave of my arm and turned back to my pig sketches.
"Erik, there is so much wrong with what you just said, I have no idea where to begin," Christine snipped.
"Good; then leave."
"I will not. You may not order me around, and neither may your son. What has Raoul to do with your being overworked at the opera?"
"Would it have burned if it weren't for that sniveling fop?" I demanded.
"Did Raoul bring the chandelier down?"
"Yes, he did!"
"Erik!"
"Raoul refused to leave you alone. Time has proved that he was wrong; you are with me. Therefore, he is responsible."
"I see; Phantom Logic."
"Yes." Once again I attempted to return to work.
Christine was having none of it; she started in again. "Now, about your referring to civilizing our son being 'child-rearing nonsense'…it is not my sole responsibility as 'the mother'—particularly since you are the worst and most consistent offender in acceding to his tantrums."
"He is a little baby—"
"He is a precocious baby, going through a normal stage, from what I understand. If we don't begin to discipline him now, when he is little, how do you propose we control him when he is older?"
"He'll learn to control himself, as I did," I shrugged.
"What?" Christine fell to laughing hysterically. I was nonplussed.
"What the devil is wrong with you?" I frowned.
"You--control yourself? You murder people as if you were swatting flies! "
"Christine, I have already been taken to task for that, I'll thank you to remember. I consider it in very poor taste for you to bring it up again."
"Alright, but even leaving out your most heinous behaviors, I can still make my point." She had sobered somewhat, but now began to go hysterical on me again as she ticked my shortcomings off on her fingers. "You destroy buildings! You throw better tantrums than Masson does! You get nauseous every time you are confronted with something you don't want to face! You run away! Oh…my heavens!" she clutched her ribs.
"I fail to see what is funny—"
"No, you wouldn't," she sniffed, calming herself. "Erik, my love, I am sorry to have to tell you this, because I know you've never heard these words before, but you are wrong. Wrong," she smiled sweetly and kissed my pretend-nose. "You must change your mind about disciplining Masson, and the sooner the better, my love." She kissed my forehead. I had the distinct feeling that she was still laughing at me, or treating me like a senile old uncle.
"Now," she continued, "if he misbehaves on a walk, the walk is over. If he misbehaves about a toy or Christine, they will be separated. If he persists, he will go to the corner. If you disagree with something, we can discuss it out of hours, but never in front of Masson, please; we must support each other. Alright?"
"No."
"Would you like to go in the corner, too? I should have whacked your bottom from the start," she laughed, turning to leave me to my sketching.
"You may whack my bottom any time you like," I called after her. "I'm serious!"