"Look at you, permitted back in the conservatory!" I pressed a cup of coffee on Reza and kissed his forehead. He smiled, pleased to be holding court in his favorite sunbeam again.
"Thank you, my friend."
"Daroga, you mustn't frighten me that way again."
"Don't be ridiculous; you'll not be rid of me so easily." I was relieved to see that his chuckle did not end in a spate of hacking. "Erik, I want you to keep hold of this for me; will you?" He fished into his pocket and handed me an envelope.
I opened the pages and got no further than the first line.
"'Last Will and Testament'? What the hell is this?" I squeaked. "You just said–"
"I'm not going anywhere, I told you. But no one lasts forever. I want to make sure things are taken care of." He picked invisible lint off his smoking jacket self-consciously.
"You mean, you want to make sure Silke's taken care of, you clever dog. All these years with your nose in my business, and you refuse to take me into your confidence when you come to an arrangement of your own. How long has this been going on, exactly?"
"I don't believe I'll answer you while you're wearing that wolfish grin. At my age–"
"You're not dead," I reminded him.
"It's not as it appears," he insisted lamely.
"Oh? It appears as though Farideh's in love. My, that's a different color for you." My friend was too embarrassed to speak, and suddenly I felt like a fiend. "Here, Daroga, don't you see I'm happy for you? No man wants his friend to be alone year after year. Tell me how this came to be, won't you?"
"It happened naturally enough, I suppose," he shrugged. "Everyone else in the house was coupled and worried about their young families; we began conversing, and discovered we made good companions."
"And?" He wasn't about to get off so easily.
"And when we were returning to Paris, I offered to help her find another position if she wanted to remain in Perros. She seemed to enjoy the seaside; we'd discussed it. And it happened to come out that she didn't want to remain, and that I rather didn't want her to."
"Nine years? You've been sneaking around for nine years? What the hell for?"
"We weren't 'sneaking around', thank you very much. Masson doesn't even sneak around in this house," he huffed. "What would you have preferred, for me to take an ad in L'Epoque?" he groused.
"See here, Reza, you've no excuse for being grumpy; you're getting laid."
-0-0-0-0-
My son didn't come down for rehearsal. Normally, regardless of the lady's charms, he did not miss rehearsal; he knew I wouldn't stand for it. So naturally, I was furious that I was forced to climb the stairs and drag him out of bed; too goddam many stairs in the house for an old ghost.
"Masson! Masson, you've got rehearsal!"
"Go away! I'm not rehearsing!"
"What are you talking about? Masson? Let me in!"
"It's open! Let yourself in!"
He was curled up with Christine, his face buried in his old friend's fur. I rushed to his side. Will there ever come a day that my heart doesn't leap to my throat when I see that my children are suffering?
"Son?" I touched his shoulder tentatively. He looked up at me, his face telegraphing pain I was powerless to stop.
"I should have listened to you!" He rubbed at his puffy eyes fiercely. "You were right, she's nothing but a whore! Why didn't I listen to you Papa?"
I sat quietly while he went through another crying jag. Finally, I asked him if he wanted to talk. He shook his head no, but the words came pouring out.
"I don't know what I did wrong. She said it wasn't me, it was her, but I must have done something!" Masson looked at me as if I had some answer for him. "Everything was fine–everything was wonderful! And then all of a sudden, she started making excuses why she couldn't meet me. I tried to be patient, honest I did." (How patient could a sixteen-year-old in love be?)
"But it was obvious she was avoiding me. When I confronted her, she said I'm just too much, I overwhelm her. What does that mean, Papa? What does it mean?" he demanded, clearly baffled.
Before I had the opportunity to answer, he started in again. "She loves me, I know it! I know she loves me every bit as much as I love her! She's always telling me how good I am to her, that she doesn't know what she's done to deserve me being so sweet. Papa, how do I get her back?"
I paused in case Masson was still not ready for me to speak, but he was. Poor boy, asking me for advice about women, there's a laugh. But this 'how do I get her back' stuff; unfortunately, I did know a little about that.
"I'm sorry, Masson; you're not going to like hearing this, but you can't get someone back who doesn't want to be gotten back. You know I had to let your Mother go with Raoul. It was my good fortune that she came back, but it had nothing to do with me, do you see? It was all her decision; I had to let her go."
"But she came back!" Masson insisted.
I'd known even before I spoke that he would hang all his hopes on the improbably happy ending his parents had.
"No, Son, I told you, you can't place any stock in that. What's happened between your mother and me is bizarre enough to be statistically impossible; please don't–"
"I know I can get her back!"
Oh, Christ. I took a deep breath and tried another tack.
"Masson, I want to talk to you as a man, now. In all of these encounters you've had, I'm sure that sometimes you've just been having fun, hm? Just having a good time with a pretty girl?"
He was hesitant to respond.
"Alright, then, let me say this: I've been with a woman when it's been nothing but a good time. We liked each other, but there was no great love affair. And it's…" Christine would kill me for this, I thought, "…alright if that's all there is to it, so long as the people involved are honest with themselves and each other. The problem is, what if I'm having fun and she's making love?"
I waited for the idea to penetrate.
"Son, what if Annemarie was having fun?" I suggested, as gently as I could.
"No!" My young lion leapt to his feet, furious at the implication. "No, get out! You don't know anything about her!"
I raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Hold on, Masson; I'm not casting aspersions on your darling. It doesn't make her a bad woman; you know it's not just men that enjoy bed sport."
He shook his head in vehement denial. "No; she loves me."
"Alright, Son," I nodded, "Forget I said it, then." He lay down and wept again. I didn't know what else to do, other than just be there, so I stroked his mane and sang to him. Eventually, he dropped off to sleep. I penned him a note that I was available any time he wanted an ear and left him until it was time to ride into Paris for the concert. I was absolutely convinced that keeping to his routine was the best thing for him, just as it had been for me all those years ago when Reza had taken me in hand and saved my life.
I slipped out to the back garden unseen and hid under the arbor. How I longed to take Masson's pain away. I'd been triple his age when I lost Christine; I prayed that youth would add some resilience to my son's tender heart. The thing is, sitting there, I felt my own heart grow heavy and begin to ache. I was glad of it; it made me feel that perhaps there was something I might do for my boy after all. I spoke to Christine's God. I felt like a right jackass, but paternity had stripped me of my false pride.
"I know You don't think much of me…but I've not asked You for much, other than healthy babies and safety for Christine. Oh, and the time Masson ran off; I know I still owe for that. There's probably some Divine prohibition involved, but if there is any way I can take this heartbreak from him…any way I could bear his pain–well, but You're omniscient, so I suppose there's nothing to say. Er, thank You…"
I sat awhile longer, unable to concentrate on anything in particular. Right, you've wasted enough time out here, Erik; go inside and compose something, you lazy git. I drew a deep breath and felt a piercing in my chest; good, maybe the Almighty's coming through, I thought. I dragged myself back to the house and fiddled at the piano, but I was just too preoccupied with Masson's trouble to accomplish much; at least that's what I attributed it to. Feeling exceptionally old and tired, I decided to have a lie down on the sofa. I stretched out and drifted into memories of Masson as my chunky toddler; I could even feel his familiar weight on my chest, and almost smelled his sweet baby hair again.