Christine hauled Masson out of my arms, weeping and kissing and swatting his bottom simultaneously.
"Oh my baby, oh thank god…what the devil do you mean, Masson Gustave? Don't you realize how worried everyone was? Don't you realize anything could have happened to you?...Oh, thank you, thank you Holy Mother…What if Papa hadn't found you? What would have become of you? If you ever, ever, ever run away again…you'll wish you weren't found! Do you understand me? I'll give you such a hiding, I'll—"
"Right, Darling, let's see what we can do to get this little man something to eat."
While we gave him warm cereal, I gave Masson the word.
"Right, Son: no sweets, no ducks or park, and no zoo for the week. No throwing, stomping, yelling, biting, disrespecting, or disobeying, or we'll begin to take toys away. Most of all, I want you to think how you would feel if you woke up tomorrow and could not find Christine anywhere. You looked all day, and you could not find him. How would you feel, Masson, if Christine was gone?"
"I would feel sad!" he cried.
"And what else?"
"Scared!"
"Mm. Can you imagine how Mama felt?"
He nodded, snuffling. "I'm sorry, Mama!" Christine embraced him, overcome again.
"Now I want you to apologize to Uncle Reza, Darius and Mademoiselle Anci as well. We shall go visit the police so that you may apologize for all the trouble you caused them today."
He nodded, sucking on his fingers.
"Masson," Christine murmured. "You must apologize to Papa. Papa ran all over Paris looking for you today; he was just as upset as Mama."
"I'm sorry, Papa." Oh, my sweet boy, I wondered as I held him, what have I bequeathed you with my blood?
Masson didn't seem chilled at all, but I at least wanted a hot bath. By the time he was tucked in, he was already gone; as a matter of fact, the entire household succumbed to nervous exhaustion and its relief by nine.
"There's a group of mothers with young children and they meet in the playground area of the park every day, late morning. I'm going to take him once his week is up. He must learn to get along with other children," Christine was saying.
"Good idea," I nodded, with saintly patience if I say so myself. I was in my new coffin, rattling like the bag of bones I was, having caught a diabolical chill. I was trying like the devil to get Christine away from me. I didn't want her getting sick in her condition…and I didn't want her looking at me. When I am ill, I really, really must be left alone.
"Erik, won't you please take this broth?" she insisted.
"Go, and I'll take it. It's disgusting enough watching me eat under normal circumstances, but a noseless skeleton with a headcold? No. Leave me some dignity; I'll be alright."
"Erik—"
"I promise I'll take the broth, Darling. Run along now." I slurped the soup and drifted back off to sleep.
For most of his week of penance, Masson wandered rather shiftlessly around in my cape. Christine had a cape made of a linen towel, and the two of them moped about as if there were no toys or diversions to be had anywhere, without the pegboard, the park or the zoo. If it was intended to make us pity him and relent, I am happy to say it had no such effect.
One afternoon after about four days of fever and shaking, slobbering and snorting and generally feeling unworthy of membership in the human tribe, I heard…well, it sounded like a violin.
No, I wasn't dreaming, because I was in danger of drowning in my own juices if I didn't get up and cough them out. After I'd cleared my throat, I peered over the edge of the coffin. It was a violin—mine. In his boredom, Masson had wandered in and plundered my armoire. He was wearing my shoes and my waistcoat, and was sitting, sawing away at the violin he'd also found there. I watched him experiment with his fat fingers on the fingerboard, observing how different sounds came from different things he did.
There, before my spellbound, disbelieving eyes and ears, I heard him picking out a melody as best he could, given the limitations of his little hands.
Finally, he awoke from his reverie and spied me staring at him.
"Papa, I found this!" He beamed. Christine was sitting alongside, having a bath as usual.
"Yes, it's a violin, Masson. You may use it if you like."
He nodded. "I like it!" He clumped off in my shoes and waistcoat. "MAMA! LOOK!"
It turned out that Masson wanted to do little else once he'd discovered the violin. He had worked out that he could sit it flat on his lap and work the bow in a most bizarre fashion. He and Christine sat, played and sang for hours. Actually, Christine usually just sat, dozed, and flicked his tail in between wash-ups.
"He's like a new person," I was marveling to Reza.
"He is an amazing child, Erik; he has so much of you in him. I hope—"
"I know, Reza."
"Papa." Masson appeared in his official music-playing waistcoat and shoes.
"Yes?"
"Could you play the pinano? I need to know something," he said, very solemnly.
"Certainly. If you'll excuse us, Reza."
Masson took my hand and led me to the piano in silence; clearly he was working something out in his mind. I sat at the piano, and he got settled with the violin.
"Play this." He gave me the E just above middle C.
"I can't see," he grumbled. He laid the violin aside and shoved my big chair over to the piano as easily as you please. It never occurred him to ask me for help with that chair. In addition to everything else, he is as strong as an ox. I prayed his disposition stayed good; in another three months he'd be able to whip my bottom, no trouble.
He settled back in the chair, and Christine on the arm.
"Right, can you see now?"
"Mm." I gave him the E again.
I continued playing notes while Masson worked out the geography of the keyboard in relation to the violin.
"Right, Papa." Oh, god, he sounded just like me. I had all to do to keep a straight face. "Can you play 'Sur le Pont d'Avignon'?"
"Yes," I replied, somewhat befuddled, I admit. "Can you?"
"Mm. I think so," he nodded. "You say 'Go', Papa."
"Go?" I was still back on him saying 'I think so'. "Oh! Oh, right. Well, normally, in music, one would count the tempo, thus: One and two and three and four and…Do you see?"
"Mm. You do it," he repeated. Highly focused, he was.
We played it. A bit slower than it should have been, but I'm not one to quibble with a two-year old playing violin by ear.
I sat there dumbfounded. Finally, all I could come up with was, "Jesus H Christ!" I bolted to the top of the stairs. "CHRISTINE! REZA! COMMERE!"
Christine went white and clutched Reza's arm when she saw me; my bones were rattling inside my skin and I was laughing like I'd gone irrevocably round the bend and halfway up crackpot street.
"I think I've finally flipped, Darling. Come see if you'll have to put me away, please."
When we entered the room, Masson was picking something out thoughtfully.
"Son? Can we show Mama and Uncle Reza?"
"Mm."
We played it again. Christine and Reza applauded in wonder. Masson beamed.
"So, am I headed for the cracker factory or not?" I demanded. I was beginning to feel that I was not headed for the cracker factory after all.
"Masson, you worked it out all by yourself?" Christine asked. She looked…frightened, actually.
"Mm. It's easy if you just find out where one is," he replied.
"One what?"
He plucked a note.
Christine looked at me. Her eyes said 'What do we do now?'
How the hell would I know?
"Why, that was absolutely marvelous, Masson!" Uncle Reza laughed. "I think this calls for a celebration. What would you say to a trip to the opera?"
"YAY!"
"I think you'll enjoy the theater, Masson, it's all colors and music…" They made their way downstairs hand in hand; Christine and I continued staring at each other.