Christine and Masson were napping; Miri-ange and I were wearing circles in the library carpets. She liked to lie with her tummy pressed against my palm, her head resting on my forearm, her arms and legs dangling. She was quiet as long as I kept moving.
Reza watched us with a sadistic little smile on his face. "How many miles do you suppose you've covered?"
"Shut up; I have more important things on my mind."
"Of course you do, Papa."
"Look, what is it with women?" I took up the earlier thread of our conversation. "Do you have any idea what I would have given for one kind word from a woman ten years ago? Nothing dramatic, just a genuine smile. Now I'm getting propositions, for god's sake—here's-my-body-Erik propositions! I had to have another look in the mirror. I'm beginning to think I dreamt the last fifty years; it's been a nightmare and I'm actually Raoul de Chagny."
"I must admit, I never imagined I'd hear you complaining about too much feminine attention, but we've discussed before that you don't see yourself as others do."
"Reza. I see a fatally ugly murderer. Am I wrong? Am I deluded?" I held my arms wide, emphasizing the question; Miri-ange stirred and gurgled. As she wriggled, I cradled her face-up in the crook of my arm.
"Hello, Miri-ange; is Miri-ange awake? Yes, Papa sees you; do you see Papa?" Little babies study human faces with incredible intensity. My voice was not back to pre-idiotic suicide attempt form, but it was better, especially when I spoke softly as I did to Miri-ange.
"Erik, this is exactly what I mean. Look at you: you're an astonishing father. I don't dispute what you did before, but people are so much more than their pasts, or their appearances. Perhaps now that you're no longer hiding underground, people are able to see your considerable good qualities."
I was not really listening. I was kissing a fragrant, downy head; humming, cuddling a tiny princess. I didn't understand what had happened to me, what continued to happen with each passing day. I only knew that I adored my children with an intensity previously reserved for my murderous rages. I wasn't sure how to behave when such a powerful – but good -- emotion overtook me. I whispered to Miri-ange that perhaps I was an infant myself.
"Erik. Did you hear a word I said?"
"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry—"
"Your good qualities," he reminded me.
"Yes. I don't know. I suppose I'm a good enough architect…"
"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you, Erik—your personal qualities, you dolt."
"Right. I'm, ah, hostile, impatient, homicidal, jealous, vengeful—"
"Generous, soft-hearted, childlike—"
"You mean childish," I corrected.
"Impossible."
"Yes. I'm impossible; aren't I, Princess? Is Papa impossible? Yes, are you smiling at me? Smiling at impossible Papa? Look at this princess, Uncle Reza; was there ever a more perfect little girl anywhere?"
"God help the young man who comes to court her," my Persian friend chuckled.
"I'm afraid she'll have to remain a spinster. There's no boy good enough, that goes without saying."
I decided that locating a new house was a bad idea. Masson was going through enough upheaval with a new baby sister; he didn't need moving house as well. There was nothing for it; we'd have to build onto what we had. I dragged my drafting table down to the kitchen and shoved the kitchen table aside to take advantage of the light. Darius took every chance to give me the stink eye, ostensibly for gumming up his kitchen, but I knew better. I was permanently on his list since I'd put the fear of cannibalism into Anci.
Reza was mortified at the idea of expanding the house. He opined that we'd never obtain permission to expand in the middle of the city where we were, until I reminded him our dear Raoul would use his influence on our behalf. Thus I set to work.
Poor Silke made herself scarce every time she saw me for a week or so, but I went overboard to treat her as normally as possible. Finally she stopped blushing scarlet and stumbling all over herself. I was grateful that drama was behind us.
Christine ambushed me in bed, to my complete surprise. Aside from her mood swings, she had been sweet and cuddly as a kitten. I attributed this to a sort of honeymoon grace period I was enjoying because I was the fellow responsible for her delightful new baby. So when she snuggled up and whispered how wonderful, helpful and patient I'd been, I never imagined that she had any ulterior motives. Perhaps the Erik who had existed before would have been quicker on the uptake, but the current Erik, father of two was feeling about as amorous as a house plant.
It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting to. Certainly I loved Christine more than ever, if such a thing was possible. Even if (by some miracle) the opportunity and the energy happened to coincide, horizontal refreshment just didn't occur to me anymore. Perhaps my own overwhelming identification as a father above all else was to blame. I only knew that since Miri-ange was born, Christine was The Mother to me; she was not an object of desire. It's not that there was anything wrong with Christine in my eyes…but I didn't really feel there was anything wrong with me either. I just…felt like a father.
I knew that wouldn't do. I knew she would neither understand nor appreciate the sentiment, no matter how nobly I tried to frame it. She would hear 'You're not girlish and seductive, you're frumpy and maternal'. She would hear 'I'm taking up with Anci.' If I so much as sneezed, she heard 'I'm taking up with Anci.'
Delightful; something new to worry about, just when I was down to an even dozen dramas on my list. My darling wife, promising to make it up to me for all the deprivation I've suffered and all the forbearance I've demonstrated, and once again I was praying for an infantile squeal or bed-wetting incident so I could extract myself politely. I fiddled around as long as possible, but neither of the children came to my rescue, so I begged off with a stellar performance of a leg cramp.
I felt horrible. I hate lying to Christine—especially because fatherhood had done something to my memory. I was forgetful for the first time in my life, and if there's anything an accomplished liar like me knows, it's that you're finished if you can't keep your story straight. I heartily recommend the general policy of telling the Wife the absolute truth out of enlightened self-interest if nothing else. So there I was, feeling like a reprobate, as if faking a leg cramp was the worst crime of my life. Christine's adorable pouty lip conveyed her deep disappointment.
"Erik…who knows when we'll get the chance again?"
Precisely.
"I know, Angel; the joys of parenthood, hm?" I smiled.
"You've been so patient," she worried.
"If you like, I'll wake you early in the morning," I suggested.
"Would you? Perhaps after Miri-ange falls asleep after a feeding?"
"Of course, but you must say if you're feeling tired."
"No," she purred, snuggling again. "I want to get back to normal."
"There's no rush, Christine, it's no contest," I assured her.
"I know it. I just miss you; I just love you."
Right. I dug through my junk box like a madman in search of the unused vial of lust potion Reza had given me. Be careful, for God's sake; it'll kill you, he said. Whatever; I'd be dead anyway if I didn't…stand up for myself.