I couldn't believe that Christine was back on the Women's Rights thing after a minimal hiatus to bear a couple of children. Surely there was some womanly instinct that had not yet kicked in with her; Manon had never been a strident type, but she was perfectly mollified with just one little baby. (Oh, and another one waiting in the wings. Manon had scribbled a note to Christine; apparently our visit was all it took for Raoul to apply himself once again. Manon said he was thrilled and scribbling lists of boy names.) And Charlotte was a fairly ordinary baby, besides—cute enough, to be sure, in a chubby, pink, average baby sort of way—not brilliant and angel-kissed like ours. How many exceptional offspring would it take before Christine chucked the Votes for Women nonsense? I began to doubt that I was up to the challenge at my age.
Christine was poring over some books—the sort which are laced with poisonous ideas--and I was trying to distract her. I'd tried music, whining, clowning, and lovemaking, all to no avail; I pulled my trump card and told her about the goat.
"We already have a goat, Darling; we have you," Christine reminded me absently.
"But Masson's got Christine, and—"
"She's rotten, Erik; rottener by miles than Masson was at her age. You never tell her no."
"That's not true." I told her no once; she was about to dart into the street.
"You carry her absolutely everywhere when she's got two perfectly good legs to stand on."
"It's a crime for a man to cuddle his baby now?" I demanded, outraged.
"Anyway, I don't see how indulging this momentary fascination with goats will help. She's a baby, Erik; in another week she won't even remember what a goat is."
"Well, you would say that. If your precious firstborn asked for an elephant with bright blue spots, he'd have one." I may have been sulking.
"Erik Opera Ghost Rouen!" She slammed a book shut in amazement. I knew I was for it when she called me by my full name, such as it was. "Who brought that mangy cat home? Was it me?"
I did not like the way the conversation was shaping up; I retreated a little deeper into my sulk.
"Was it me, Erik?"
I went for my best Phantom scowl.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice." She was actually wagging a finger at me. Imagine it; five years ago that look would've given her nightmares. I was sadly out of practice, that's what.
"You brought Christine home—Masson squeaked once and you brought the cat home," she insisted on rubbing it in. I attempted a tactical withdrawal, but the shameless harridan pursued me.
"You're the one who's laden with chocolates like Papa Noel!"
I wheeled on her.
"Hah! That's what you know! I used to leave you chocolates when you were a skinny rat-ballerina! You owe whatever figure you've got to me and my chocolate, you ungrateful little baggage!"
"I owe whatever figure I've got to Masson and growing up, you delusional old man."
"Hah! Masson, see, you prove my point! Masson, Masson, Masson! The poor dear neglected—"
"NeGLECTed?"
"—little angel; all she wants is one little goat. One little goat, and Papa will care for it; it will be no trouble to Mama or anyone else. One little goat; what harm could it be?"
Christine threw up her hands. Shameless wheedling will often produce results when nothing else will.
"You're impossible. You're worse than a child; get the goat then," she grumbled, pushing past me.
"I already did."
"What?" Her eyes flashed delightfully.
"Farmer's delivering it tomorrow."
'Don't look at me in that tone of voice.'
I could still hear Christine chiding me as if I was a naughty choirboy. I stared at myself in the mirror. In the flesh-colored mask I could almost pass for a burn victim. Without it, well… And then the white mask: classic, elegant, theatrical; it looked like the Opera Ghost staring back at me. I tried out a scowl, a haughty glare and a mad stare.
If I didn't know me, I'd still be scared. Obviously, Christine didn't share my view of things. To her, I was as forbidding as a wet kitten.
"You're making entirely too much of this, Erik."
"The devil I am."
"What are you, having some sort of crisis of encroaching old age?"
"Well…" I whined. Reza leaned forward confidentially.
"You're not having…some trouble?"
"No no no. I wouldn't resort to that poison you foisted on me last time anyway," I grimaced. I still ached in unmentionable places just recalling that amatory debacle. "I'm just…not the Phantom anymore, Daroga."
"I should say not; and a good thing, too. You're a husband and father, living at the seaside with a lovely young family, a cat and a goat. All to the good, as far as I'm concerned, or would you rather be alone with your rheumatism and rats in that fetid dungeon?" He huffed, just in case I'd failed to catch his disapproval.
"People used to scream and run if they even thought they heard my footfalls. Christine herself was scared of me, back in the day," I shoved my hair back.
"I'm going to submit that she's not been scared of you in a very, very long time, old friend. Perhaps you've been deluding yourself as to just how horrifying you are. I find it hard to believe that a young woman would run to a marauding gargoyle when she's been disappointed in love. She came to you for comfort, not nightmares, as I recall," Reza chuckled.
He just didn't understand; it was stupid my even bringing it up to him. I was a used-up old has-been, a toothless old tomcat.
On my goat-purchasing visit to the farm, I had, of course, selected the mildest and most exemplary goat of the batch. I don't know much about goat aesthetics, especially from a baby girl's perspective, but I found it to be an attractive goat; mainly white with a heather grey splotch here and there. When the farmer unloaded it from the cart, I noticed that its eyes were the same color as mine and Masson's. I confess I hadn't noticed that odd detail when it was in the bunch with all the other goats; I was more worried about them eating my trousers and what I might be stepping in; I think I would not have made much of a farmer. To this day I don't know if all goats have golden eyes.
The household was duly summoned to the garden. Actually, Masson crashed in the kitchen door and hollered 'MAAAMAAAAAAA! THE GOOOOOAT'S HEEEEEEEEERE!'
Masson and I went to pluck Sissy from her crib. In the garden, everyone was clustered around the guest of honor, who was already munching some bit of the flora. Christine's arms were folded, and her eyebrow was dimpled as she eyed the creature.
"Let's see what's here for Papa's little diva," I crooned, crouching alongside the goat. Miri-ange emitted a series of ecstatic shrieks and giggles and lunged at the startled creature. I caught her pudgy little hands. "Wait, we mustn't frighten her, she's a baby, too, just like Miri-ange. Can we pat her nicely?"
Yes, of course we could; pat pat pat on the neck. I plucked a bit of grass and helped my little darling to offer it to the goat. The rapture on my daughter's face as the goat lips tickled her fingers brought tears to my eyes.
"Beebee," Miri-ange whispered.
"Yes, she's a baby, too."
Suddenly, Christine began fishing on my person in a most proprietary way for my handkerchief.
"Erik, it's got a smudge on its nose," she disapproved. She scrubbed mercilessly on the little thing's snout until it began to set up a bleating protest, which naturally set Miri-ange to screaming; already she and the goat were soul mates. Masson began to moan in support of his sister; 'Mamaaa, nooo.' He hid against Uncle Reza's leg.
Darius grumbled something in Persian about city folk and shoved through the mass of humanity to the pitiful goat. He wrestled the handkerchief from Christine and crouched, glaring at the little goat's nose as it calmed itself with a mouthful of weeds.
"No, it's just a few black hairs, Comtesse, it's no smudge," he assured her.
"MUDZH!" Wailed Miri-ange, all but throwing herself from my arms. "MUDZH! MUH-HUUUDZH!" There was nothing for it; she had the strength of her brother in a daintier package. I set her down and she flung her arms around the neck of the creature thereafter to be known as The Smudge. The Smudge continued munching in perfect equanimity.
The rest of the afternoon passed relatively uneventfully, considering that Miri-ange refused to leave the garden under any circumstances. Knowing what little I did about baby attention spans, I reckoned twenty minutes of watching The Smudge eat would have been plenty for her, but no. She sat with the damned goat for hours, patting and talking, singing; oh, they had a marvelous day. I was not permitted to leave her alone with the goat, so I sat on the back stoop and lost all feeling in my bony ass until Darius finally took pity on me and brought me a chair, a snack, and a cognac.
Of course, he also brought me little Fahim. Darius and Anci's firstborn was a timid soul. (Why couldn't Christine and I have such a peaceful, easy child?) He did not wish to pat the goat; he would sit on my lap and observe, thank you very much. Darius refused to see a goat as entertainment; it was nothing but stew to him, and so he had no interest in helping Fahim overcome his reserve. Anci was no good; she was scared of the goat, predictably enough. Besides, she was half gone again and no good for anything except eating, sleeping and crying. So Fahim and I became great friends that afternoon; turned out I actually remembered a few Persian folk songs, and by dinner time, he, Masson, Miri-ange and I were serenading The Smudge.
The first hurdle of the evening was actually bath time. To Miri-ange's way of thinking, Mudzh should come to the bath with her. Needless to say, Mama did not agree; it only took the briefest glance at her face to realize that suggesting bathing the baby in the garden was not on.
"You see? I told you this would be nothing but trouble, but you had to get her a goat. At least Christine can come in the house!" She flounced off, leaving me to deal with the whole bath situation.
Right. I gave a peep in the kitchen to see that Darius was not around; he'd have a bloody conniption. The way was clear; it was only a dash through the kitchen and dining room, up the stairs and into the bathroom. I reckoned I could make it, so I ducked the human baby under one arm and the goat baby under the other. What's a little more cleanup? The bathroom was always a disaster after bath time anyway.
"HAHA! SMUDGE!"
"Masson, ssshhh. It's a secret bath time with Smudge," I counseled. "Just this once for a special occasion." As if Miri-ange would understand that.
Normally Christine leaves us to ourselves at bath time. To this day, I believe we were ratted out somehow. All I know is that we'd just finished shampoos when the door clattered open and I was in trouble. Her toe was tapping ominously on the tile floor and she looked as if she'd been sucking on lemons. The babies were splashing gaily and…actually, The Smudge was eating a towel, I believe.
"Erik."
"Hm?" It is extremely difficult to affect a look of beatific blamelessness with my face and yellow goat eyes. "Bath's going very well…"
"Take that animal back into the garden immediately, or I'll tell Darius it's up here."
Those are words to strike terror into anyone's heart. Have I mentioned that Darius is a bit of a nelly? You'd think we were the hired help the way he carries on about his house. As I put The Smudge to bed, I could hear my little diva wailing disconsolate as Mama finished up the bath. When I returned to the bedroom, Christine was trying in vain to nurse Miri-ange to sleep. To say she shot me the Stink-eye doesn't approach it. I retreated with Masson to his room for story time.
"Mama's angry about Smudge," he observed softly.
"No; Mama and I conferred about it, and she agreed we could get a goat. She just wants to establish some ground rules. We neglected to discuss ground rules, and sometimes people's expectations differ. Remember that when you're a grown man."
He nodded solemnly.
"Christine gets to sleep on the bed with me, but Smudge has to stay outside."
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
It took about two weeks to establish a new routine around The Smudge which was satisfactory to both of the women in my life. Even at her tender age, Miri-ange drove a hard bargain; right then I thought God help her husband, whoever he may turn out to be.