"Sweet suffering Christ!"
It was Paris all over again; dueling perfumes in the entry hall and cackling hens in the library. Here it was, the morning after and nauseating floral demons still lurked, waiting to leap at my pitiful olfactory as I descended the stairs. I staggered to the kitchen table and asked Darius for something to settle my stomach. He clanged a chamomile tea down in front of me and stomped off.
"What the devil's wrong with him?"
Reza peeked over the paper he was reading. "Are you asking me?"
"No; I'm asking the roast in the pot. Who else would I be asking?"
"His wife was with the suffragettes last night," he replied.
"Anci? Oh, for god's sake, he's got nothing to worry about. She wouldn't understand a word they're saying—she probably fell asleep in the corner," I snickered.
"I hope so, for your sake."
"Where was the baby, anyway? Surely Darius didn't keep her!" Darius did not do childcare; he firmly believed that was woman's work. No doubt I seemed more alien to him than ever, given that I'd leapt into active fatherhood with both feet.
"No; I believe that's part of the problem. She took the baby along. I believe Darius suspects little Soraya will absorb the poisonous ideas simply by being in the room," Reza chuckled.
I meditated awhile on the idea that Darius might hate me for being the indirect cause of his little wife becoming a suffragette. I would have thought he had other, rather more personal reasons to hate me, prickly, proud Muslim that he was. I took extraordinary pains to avoid Anci—and not just for Christine's sake. At the heart of it, it seemed to me that I wanted to know that Darius forgave me, if that makes any sense. It was a strange place to find myself in; not so long ago the only good graces that interested me were Christine's. Now, the short list of people I gave a damn about was into double digits. Ridiculous; no wonder I couldn't scare anyone anymore. Who's ever heard of a warm, cuddly ghost?
I drained the chamomile tea. "Anyway, Reza, I can't stay. I've been sent after candied ginger." I began rummaging in cabinets. "Where the devil would candied ginger be?" Luckily Silke came to my rescue.
"Candied ginger?" Reza's ears pricked up. He donned his 'We're Having Another Baby' grin.
"Don't be ridiculous; the woman's entitled to have a bit of dyspepsia. It doesn't mean anything."
Masson trundled in holding Miri-ange's hand. They looked breathtaking; all rumpled and tousle-haired from sleep. Clearly they'd been ordered to find Papa. My little diva released her brother's hand and padded over to be picked up. She set her head on my shoulder, whispering my name and patting my cheek.
"Mama says hurry up with the ginger now," Masson announced.
"Right, there's my cue," I nodded at Reza and hustled upstairs with Miri-ange.
I was searching for Masson; it was time for his lesson. He wasn't in his lair or in the garden; he and Christine weren't trailing Silke; ultimately I went upstairs to look for him. I heard little voices coming from the bathroom.
My children were arranged around Masson's potty, pants at their ankles, both of them. Masson was explaining that Miri-ange was to point and pee when he realized that there was a problem. He leaned over to have a closer look; I decided that was most definitely my cue. I breezed in, trying to seem nonchalant.
"Miri go big girl," my little diva explained.
"Yes," I smiled, turning her around and seating her properly. "This is how big girls go." I turned to her brother, who was wearing a concerned frown. "Pull your pants up, Son."
"Papa, I was tying to show her—"
"I know; that's very kind of you. We'll discuss it later, hm?"
Meanwhile, nothing was happening with the little diva. Perhaps it was a rehearsal. She was just sitting there, looking at me.
"Is it coming, Miri-ange?"
"Uh uh. No peepee."
I plucked her up, fixed her clothing, and sent her on her way. She made her way downstairs, dutifully clutching the railing, muttering something about The Smudge.
After story time, I sat patiently with Masson, waiting for him to formulate his questions. I found it strange that he'd never noticed before that Miri-ange was different since they had bathed together. Oh, well; I suppose that is a salient difference between little boys and big boys.
"Papa, what happened to Miri-ange?"
"Nothing, Son; she's a girl like Mama. You're a boy like me. Remember girls are fancy?"
He nodded, very solemn. "Why are girls different?"
Oh my. "Well, I think they're different so boys like you can find them beautiful and fall in love with a very special one someday."
"Like you and Mama."
"Mm hm."
He seemed satisfied with that, but something was still on his mind. "You're old, Papa, like Uncle Reza, but Mama is still pretty new."
"Yes, Mama and I have several years between us," I admitted.
"Why didn't she choose a newer man?" My big bear wondered, scooting down under the comforter.
"You'd have to ask Mama," I smiled, feeling slightly used up. "But I suspect she chose me out of love, without consideration for age. I know that's why I chose her."
"When I marry, I'm going to choose a new lady like you did," he decided.
"That sounds fine, Son."
I told Christine that her son had wondered why she'd chosen such an old man. I didn't want to tell her about the potty incident, because I felt that would be another Biblical-scale fiasco.
"Oh, Erik," she crooned, setting her book aside. She cuddled me sympathetically. I really wasn't feeling depressed about it. I knew Masson meant nothing; he was only trying to get information. However, if Christine wanted to commiserate with me, well, I wasn't going to complain. "You don't feel old to me."
"Well, that's what they say," I agreed.
"What do they say?"
"You're only as old as the girl you feel."
She pretended to be horrified, my little suffragette. There was nothing for it except to convince her that I wasn't a pig; it was a delightful game.
As soon as Manon felt up to the trip, famille Chagny turned up for seaside fun. The new addition was another girl, Madeleine. She looked exactly like Raoul—if Raoul was tiny and toothless. Manon seemed a little drawn and carried her lips tightly; I knew Christine would sort her out.
I could scarcely admit to myself how much I'd missed Raoul. We slipped away after dinner for a stroll around town. He fished out a couple of exemplary cigars. It's delightful to be in public with Raoul; all the lovely ladies slow, and smile. I felt he appraised the local talent a bit too closely, however, deliriously happily married as I was.
"This isn't such a bad town after all," he chuckled, after a particularly comely trio passed.
"You're dreadful; Manon has just given you another perfect little angel!"
"Forgot to put the stem on the apple, didn't she," he grumbled.
"I'm sorry?"
"I need a son, Erik!"
"I certainly hope you haven't conveyed this disappointment to her," I worried.
"Oh I have—she knows I'm disappointed."
"Raoul, for god's sake! You're young, there'll be plenty more babies!"
"Hmph. You've heard of men with four, five, six daughters, even." He shook his head. "I've got a baaaad feeling about this. I don't even know that I want to bother."
"That's perfectly ridiculous. She's a beautiful girl and a marvelous wife to you. Go on and complain to me then, if you must, to blow off steam—but don't make dear Manon suffer."
He was thoughtful for about a block. "I could take a mistress," he mused.
"You've not even been married five years and you're giving up! Is this the same man who pursued me all the way to Budapest and hung onto Christine like a terrier dog?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Could a boy child really be that critical?
"It's not like it is with you and Christine, Erik," Raoul shrugged. "I don't expect her to be everything to me. She was a suitable girl, pretty and pleasant. I knew she'd be a good hostess."
"You love her though, Raoul; I know you do," I insisted.
He nodded. "I do," he admitted. "But—never mind." He patted my shoulder. "You're a dear friend, Erik."
"You too, my Comte."
We finished our walk and our cigars in companionable silence. I knew what Raoul was going to say; I was glad he thought better of saying it. So long as it remained unsaid, it was alright there between us.
"Erik, I need you to entertain Manon for awhile tomorrow."
I looked up from my book. "'Entertain Manon'; very well," I agreed.
"I need to give Raoul a piece of my mind," my darling bride muttered. She was taking out her irritation with Raoul on her lovely hair.
I popped out of bed and went to the rescue. "What's this all about?"
"Poor Manon! Erik, he's made her feel miserable about having another girl baby," she slammed the brush into my hand.
"He mentioned it to me—"
"And you gave him the devil!"
"I had a few things to say, yes. He's terrified of ending up with a houseful of girls," I explained.
"And so what if he does?" Christine demanded.
"I believe he's concerned about the title, my Love. It's different for nobility."
"It's ridiculous and archaic! Wait til I—"
"Christine, I don't think this is your fight," I ventured, as gently as possible.
"What?"
"I think you might do best in comforting Manon. Surely this is a just a moment's reaction; Raoul will come to adore little Madeleine just as he does Charlotte. It's between the man and his wife."
"This fascination with boy children is not just between Raoul and Manon, Erik! Don't you think there are men all over the world who feel precisely the same way?"
"I don't know. I do know that I'd hate having Raoul and Manon butting in and giving us marital advice," I confessed.
"I'm going to have my say, Erik!" She was spoiling for a fight; Manon's heartache had her steaming, but I had no stomach for it.
I brushed her hair away from the back of her neck and kissed the sweet spot tenderly. "Of course you will, Darling; I just wish you wouldn't."
She humphed, but that was the end of it. Later, she did a fair bit of tossing and turning before she finally dropped off to sleep. At least she was thinking about it. I suspected she'd still do exactly as she pleased in the morning, but for once in her life, she'd actually listened to something I'd said. I felt some sort of marital milestone had been achieved—though I knew better than to imagine that it portended any great changes. After all, Christine was my Diva; I was the luckiest man in the world, and I knew it.
Masson and Miri-ange came back from the beach all aquiver.
"CIRCUS! CIRCUS! Papa, the circus is coming! We saw the strongman on the beach, he gave us a flyer, see?"
They twirled and danced as I perused the flyer. It was a circus coming, sure enough. The flyer promised animals, beautiful girls, death-defying acts, marvels for young and old, magic…and a sideshow.
"We're going to go, Papa! Papa!"
"Papa," Miri-ange tugged on me to be picked up; I nodded and cradled her absently on my hip as I stared at the flyer. The word was searing itself onto my eyes. S-I-D-E-S-H-O-W. There was a stone where my stomach had been.
"PAPA!" Masson screeched.
"Yes, yes, of course, Son."
"Mudzh," whispered Miri-ange.
"Let's go out and see The Smudge now, Son. Sissy wants to see her friend."
"Smudge!" he hollered, crashing out the back door. "We're going to the circus! The circus is coming!"
I set Miri-ange down in the enclosure and dragged myself back to the stoop, still clutching the flyer which screamed THRILLS! CHILLS! It was a lovely, mild afternoon, but there was an icy finger trailing slowly down my spine. Perhaps I was no longer much of a ghost myself, but I still had ghosts aplenty, and they were coming home to roost at the seaside.