Neither Christine nor I could really face leaving France completely. We decided to try for half-measures; safe or sorry? Who knew? We went to Perros-Guirec. Between Reza and me, it was no trouble to buy a sprawling place right on the shore. When Christine learned she had her own beach, she danced and giggled like a little girl. All the worry that had darkened her features since I'd been carted off to jail washed away. I thought that even if we had to leave ultimately, it would be an idyllic interlude.
Masson seemed to be fine with the idea of moving. He treated it as a big adventure. His main concern was that everyone in the household was coming—most of all, Christine the cat. When he learned we would be living by the sea, he asked if I thought there would be pirates. Right, Mama would love that—though I suspected she could well take care of any buccaneer who tried to carry her off. I took him and Miri-ange to bid the ducks farewell, and police be damned. He told them he was going to the seashore and they could come visit, there was plenty of water.
We held off the inevitable trauma of saying goodbye to the Chagnys by carting them along. Ostensibly they were helping with the move and were due for a holiday at the shore anyway, but goodbye was an elephant in the middle of the room.
The week before we left Paris, we began pounding it into Masson's head that he never, ever, ever went near the shore alone. Nevertheless, within a day, he was trying to drag my coffin down to the beach in order to set sail. I caught him myself and polished his behind royally. He ran off, swearing "I'll get you!" The boy had no idea I was his closest ally. Christine might have beaten him to death if she'd caught him. As it was, when I told her about it, she had apoplexy. I had to restrain her from dragging him from his bed and whipping him again. Predictably, the incident evolved into the standard Masson argument, Christine insisting the boy was completely uncontrollable and berating me for 'not doing anything'. She never had any suggestions about what I was supposed to do.
He's just a boy. It was a typical boy thing to do. I was more concerned with him vowing revenge. I didn't mention that to Christine; I should have done, but at the time, I was already in it up to my neck. I took the cowardly husband's way out and kept my trap shut, agreeing whenever possible.
The next morning, Masson snuck into our room and bit me while I slept—right in the fleshy—well, relatively so—part of my hand. It was a novel way to come awake. Erik screams, the culprit flees, Christine comes flying out of the bed and rushes for the baby, who's terrified and shrieking. I had to restrain my darling until I could get my hand wrapped up; it bled like a bastard. She was off to kill the boy.
I think Masson genuinely believed that his retribution was so heinous that I'd never dare to spank him again. Sadly for him, the world can't work like that. He got a whipping and was restricted to the house for a week; no beach at all.
My boy avoided me all day and glared at me when he couldn't avoid me. The next day when I went downstairs, the lining of my coffin was shredded. When we confronted him, Masson refused to answer us, even after being swatted again.
Christine was nagging me mercilessly to 'do something', as usual. I suggested the move might be disturbing him more than even he knew. She didn't care to know anything, she wanted results. The woman thought I had a magic wand; wave it and everything's fixed, Erik. Well, I do have one, but it only works in bed.
Right, Masson and I needed to talk. I visited him in his new hiding place; his first real lair. I knew right away where it would be, I'd spotted it the first time I saw the house. The first floor of the house was raised and there was a porch. You could get into the area beneath the porch and watch people pass through the latticework. You had to enter from the cellar, which I'd appropriated for my music room. I knelt and called for him.
"May I come in, Monsieur le Fantome? I have biscuits in my pocket."
"Enter if you dare." Impressive.
He had it set up nicely. He was using a crate for a wardrobe; half my clothes were in it. He'd pilfered several blankets and a posh cushion for Christine. He'd stolen a handful of my pastels and was drawing pictures of pirates for the walls.
I handed him a biscuit.
"Son, you know when the police took you and Miri-ange home?"
"Mm."
"Did Mama tell you they took me to the jail?"
"Mm."
"Son, we can't hurt people when they make us angry. It makes people sad; that's the main reason. Another reason is that we go to jail for hurting people. When we go to jail, we can't see our family or friends, we can't go anywhere—"
"Did you hurt somebody?"
I drew a deep breath. Not yet three; he doesn't need the story of my life.
"A long time ago I used to hurt people, Masson. The police wanted to punish me for the things I did then. I don't hurt people anymore, because it's wrong, and it makes them sad, and because I want to stay with you and your mother and sister. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"It's scary for Mama when she sees you get so angry, because she doesn't want you to grow up hurting people. You have to learn ways to be angry without hurting people. Can you think of any ways to be angry without hurting people, Son?"
"Run really fast."
"That's an idea I've never thought of; it sounds good. What else?"
"Play angry music."
"I play angry music when I'm angry. It helps me; it might help you too. You can try it and see. What else?"
He thought awhile and finally shrugged.
"Would you like to know some other things people do?"
"Mm."
"Some people talk to someone special. Mama and I talk to each other when we feel angry, and I talk to Uncle Reza. You could talk to Mama or me."
"Or Christine."
"You could tell Christine about it, yes."
"Papa, guess what? I cut your box up."
"I know, Masson."