I took Masson onto the stage and picked him up, encouraging him to hold on tight. I did a bit of phantom magic, and we plunged through the floor. He squealed in delight and squirmed out of control.
"Let me go, Papa!"
"Masson, wait, what did I say?"
"Stay with Papa, hold hands. Eye touching."
"Good man."
We ran to 'the spooky floor', under the stage; how odd it was to see Masson's little lion eyes reflected back at me in the darkness. I brought him back up and into the flies, showed him how to bring the backdrops up and down. I bade him hang on, and we flew across the stage on a rope.
"WHEEEEEEEEE!" he chuckled and kissed me repeatedly. "Papa, you're magic!"
We went underground.
"This is the way I brought your Mama a long time ago."
Masson's eyes glowed huge in the torchlight.
"A boat!" he gasped.
He murmured at the stone gargoyles, reached his hands out for them. I had to grab his collar to stop him going into the drink. He required several trips around the lake before he was willing to go anywhere else.
"Over there, Papa! What's over there?"
"Down there is where I used to live."
"Show me! Show me!" My fat boy rocked the boat in his excitement.
The portcullis rattled up haltingly. Needed maintenance; I made a mental note that I had to make a proper inspection of my lair and stop being such a lazy family man.
"Papa, look!"
"Yes, I know, Son." I handed him out of the boat and he darted off immediately, all warnings forgotten.
"Ah-ah! Masson!" He returned and caught my hand, contritely.
"This is where the piano used to be."
"Look! Pretty Mama!" He scooped up the scattered watercolors. "Can I collect these, Papa?"
I assured him that he could.
I showed him my early-warning system of bells; when we walked the caverns I would show him how they were activated. We sang and hollered in the caverns, enjoying the echoes. I took him into my torture chamber, though I called it a Magic Mirror room. He didn't like it there; the multiple reflections of himself were unsettling.
We made smoke over the lake. Masson thought this was absolutely marvelous, and we had to take another few turns in the boat, picking our way through the fog. We became intrepid jungle explorers. I threw my voice, making exotic animal sounds for him. He pointed out the monkeys and birds he spotted in the imaginary trees.
He wasn't ready to leave my old home, but I wanted to bring him back upstairs. I didn't want him to get too enamored of life in a rat hole. We went up under the managers' office. They were in, and it was delightful to eavesdrop on them from beneath the grate. Masson wanted to see where Christine had lived, and I brought him as close as I could. It would take a special trip to actually get into the dormitories, and I promised to bring him again.
We enjoyed a snack up in the flies and watched some preliminary preparations for the evening's performance before heading home undiscovered. Masson seems to have an instinctive understanding of stealth and silence.
"Papa, why can't we come and live down there?" Masson asked on our way home.
"People don't live underground like rats, Son."
"But you did. It's fun!"
"Just because I did it doesn't mean it's a good thing to do. It's damp, and dark, and cold, and there is no sunshine or fresh air. A person gets sick if he stays down there too long. Children grow up in the light, Masson. Don't worry, we can come and play here when you like."
I set him down in the front hall.
"MAMA! I FOUND OLD PICTURES PAPA MADE OF YOU! LOOK!" He raced upstairs.
If you'd told me I'd be sitting to dinner with pink, foppish Raoul and his pale, plump wife, I'd've told you that you were sadly mistaken, but I was. The initial invitation had been tendered for us to dine at Chagny, but I'm damned if I'm cruising willingly into the lion's den. Christine called me a suspicious fool.
"--bugger that. I'm not walking into a trap," I insisted.
"Trap? Erik, he has a wife. Why would he want to do you harm now?"
"She can't be anything like you, Christine; he's settled for some little chit in a pinch!"
"Manon is not a little chit! She's my friend!" Christine protested.
"He'd still rather have you—any man would."
I nearly cringed when she approached me. I thought I was in for a swat for calling Manon a chit, but she melted into my arms—a pleasant surprise.
"You're so adorable, Erik. You really do think I'm…"
"Yes, I really do."
Right. So, there we were, Masson, Reza, both Christines, me, and the Chagnys, enjoying a fragrant Moroccan stew, luscious crusty bread, and a better wine than Raoul deserved.
The ladies were talking about what they couldn't eat, and the odd things they found themselves wanting. Manon couldn't tolerate even the smell of coffee anymore, and she wanted sweet preserves and salty cheeses together. Christine was off white wine and cheese altogether, and was subject to asking for marrons glaces or candied violets and rose petals at the oddest times of day or night. I had laid in a supply so I could avoid scouring the streets at midnight. Try locating candied flowers at midnight. Bugger Raoul if I was going to give him the benefit of my experience, however.
I was waging a silent battle with Masson over the turnips in his stew as Christine made expectant figure-eights between us when my gallant pink friend cleared his throat.
"They, ah, say some men gain weight in sympathy, Erik; have you, ah, noticed yourself putting on weight?"
"Me?" I stared at him blankly. Stupid git.
Reza and Christine laughed. "I'd love to see a portly Erik!" Soon everyone was laughing but me, of course. A table full of laughing adults was too much for Masson. He danced around the table on tip-toe.
"FAT PAPA! FAT PAPA!"
Fortunately, Gaston turned up just as dinner was ending. My fat friend has a nose for frangipane tart. Reza poured brandy and Raoul produced some excellent cigars. With his reporter's gift, Gaston managed to keep the conversation bubbling along relatively well until we all got oiled up and dropped our animosity.
Raoul is a whiny drunk, but I'm a compassionate drunk, so it worked out quite well. He confessed he was scared of fatherhood. What's going to happen to Manon? What's going to happen to his life? What if the child is sickly? Next thing I knew, I was taking the weepy boy under my bony wing and reassuring him like I was his big brother.
I told him how marvelous it is to be a father, about how Masson and I had our regular walks in the park, and the good talks we shared. I assured him that Manon would only love him more when they'd had a child together; none of us men understand it, but we all recognize that it's true. Gaston chimed in with his experience, and we got Raoul sorted out.
Then we started talking about women; we told him about the Persian coffee house, and before we knew it, the four of us were lurching out the door in search of hookahs and sparkly ladies. Raoul proved to be marvelous bait. The dancers fluttered around our table, spellbound by the blond Adonis in our midst. The poor boy had scarcely ever been in such proximity to a bevy of scantily clad lovelies—except, perhaps, at the theater—and he all but came unhinged. I suspected that, like me, he was on a starvation diet where feminine charms were concerned.
We had such a marvelous time, we lost track of the hour, and closed the place. We wobbled home at half-three, stumbling and ssshhhing each other into the parlor, where we awakened the dozing pregnant women. They came fully awake and launched dual broadsides.
"Say goodnight, Raoul," Comtesse Manon tapped her little toe ominously.
"Erik…" he sniffed solemnly.
"Raoul…" I nodded. We fell into each other's arms, giggling. I patted his perfect pink cheek fondly, and he gave me a couple of mushy cheek kisses.
Christine snatched me to my feet, making the room spin precariously. "If this is how you carry on as friends, I liked it better when you were at each other's throats."
We waved weepily at each other as our wives dragged us apart; Raoul to his carriage, me to my coffin, most likely.
"I love you, man!"
"You're a good fop, Raoul!"
"You're a disgrace, old man!" Chistine huffed, pulling me upstairs. "Getting Raoul blotto and dragging him to that den of iniquity!"
"Awww. Christine, it was no den of iniquity, it was a den of…sparkly ba-bas!" I amused myself so much I nearly took myself and Christine ass-over-teacup down the stairs. She cracked me.
"Stop it! You're a mess," she grumbled.
"But I'm your mess," I crooned, making suggestions.
"You'll be my dead mess if you don't watch your hands," she threatened. She only needed to push me slightly off-balance to flop me into my box. Undaunted, I tried to pull her in for a cuddle.
"Chris-teeen…kiss…"
"Egads, it's like you have ten hands--stop it—there's not room for me in there—remember what the midwife said, Erik!" Breathless, she wrestled me away.
"Rub my peepee."
"Rub it yourself, you pickled fiend!"
Christine was still angry with me in the morning. I knew this because she encouraged Masson and Christine to come wake me up.
The door crashed open. Stomp stomp stomp. "PAPA!"
Even with my eyes shut tight, I was seeing stars.
"Masson, ssshhh…"
"WHAT'S WRONG?" He clambered up and plopped his substantial bulk on my queasy stomach.
"Ooooff! Son…"
"PAA-PAA," he whined, bouncing up and down for effect, "MAMA SAYS GET ME BREFTISS, SHE FEELS YUCKY!"
"Unh. Masson," I gasped, "See if Darius—"
"NO!" Bounce bounce. "PAPA! YOU!"
"Alright. Get off…and, Son, let's whisper today."
"Why?"
"Because Papa feels yucky today too. Papa's head hurts."
"Mama said if you feel sick to tell you the wages of sin is deaf."
"That is 'death', Son. 'The wages of sin is death', but your point is taken. Thank you."