This morning I was thinking some more about those nights where the two of us sat outside together and talked about the stars, all the landmarks we could see and so many other things. First there were the nights on the balcony at the top of that tower, then the balcony in our new house. Sometimes I came out there when I'd had a nightmare, sometimes I just wanted to be with Papa.
My reverie was interrupted by a sound from the present: a key in the front door. I jumped, and then recovered quickly when I heard my daughter's voice.
"Only me, Dad,"
"I'm in here, Christine,"
She put her head around the sitting room door, where I was trying to tidy up quickly.
"So good to see you, sweetheart," I told her as I greeted her with a kiss. And indeed it is. My wonderful daughter… So like her mother in looks but I can see much of her namesake in her too, especially in her lovely singing voice.
As Helen was off visiting a friend we had the house to ourselves and it was nice to sit and chat over coffee. I rarely get time alone with her like this anymore. She is so busy now, with her own family and all her activities. We talked about the children, her husband's new job, local news…
"I see Greenberg's is going out of business at the end of the month," Christine told me sadly, "There was an ad for a closing down sale in the paper yesterday. It's so sad. Too much competition I guess. It used to be the best toy store in New York."
"That is sad.." I remarked wistfully, "Such a great store.. Your mother and I used to get your Santa Claus presents in there, yours and Charles'. I guess people are shopping out of town more and more."
I teased her about how we could never pass by the window of that store without her wanting to look at something – a doll, a doll's house... They always had a nice window display, especially in the weeks leading up to Christmas and both Christine and her brother liked the elevator with the lattice door that you pulled across. And for me it held even more memories.
"Your Grandpa Erik took me in there the first time we went to Manhattan together on the train-"
"And he bought you a toy yacht, a mouth organ and a kite, and then you sat in the park and ate doughnuts. Yes, I know, I know!"
"Sorry, sweetheart. I'm getting very predictable and annoying in my old age, aren't I?"
"Just a little," she replied drily, "But I'll still listen to you, even when you're drooling and falling asleep mid-sentence."
"You'll be old one day too, you know. It'll happen to you!"
We both chuckled at this. It's the only way to cope with these things, strange as it may seem.
After a while she asked me the question I was expecting.
"Have you been writing about Grandma again?"
"Yes, and Grandpa Erik too. It's brought back a lot of memories… I know I've said this many times, but I wish you'd known her. Just think; she'd be 90 if she was still alive!"
She put down her cup and paused before responding. "You know, Mom says you've been spending a lot of time on it recently. Is everything ok, Dad? It's not upsetting you, is it?"
I squeezed her hand. I appreciate that she is concerned but…
"Everything's fine, sweetheart. Your mom worries too much. I just need to clarify everything, get it all down on paper in some kind of order before I.. well, start forgetting what day it is or leaving my slippers in the oven."
"I'd like to read it when you're finished. If that's ok?"
"Yes, in fact I was going to ask you to read it and tell me what you think."
She agreed to this readily, and I know she will give me an honest opinion. Where would I be without her?
With that business out of the way, we talked about other, more recent things until it was time to for her to leave, as she had errands to run and then the children would be getting in from school.
"Have you got everything, dear?" I asked her as she was about to get into the car.
"Gustave, have you got everything? You don't want to be late on your first day..."
"Coming, Mister Y..."
I was jolted back into the present as the car door slammed.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I thought about that day – our first visit to the Manhattan shopping district on the new electric train. It would be the first of many. Mister Y did not like being away from the familiar territory of Coney Island, where he was respected and where people were used to seeing odd looking people from Phantasma out and about shopping in the local stores. But he did not have much of a choice now – he had a child, a child who needed clothes and toys among other things and sometimes he had to venture further afield, whether it was running errands in Brooklyn or shopping in the heart of Manhattan. He clutched my hand as we made our way through the busy streets and all I could see were shoppers staring at us, or at least at this strange man with a hat pulled down over one side of his face in an attempt to hide the mask.
"Mama, why is that man wearing a mask?" a little girl asked her mother.
"I don't know dear, now come along," she replied sharply, staring at Mister Y as if he was about to harm them both. It was strange to see the great Mister Y looking so awkward and uncomfortable when he was usually so confident and full of authority.
Or another time, some man in the crowd shouted out "Hey buddy, get back to the freak show!" I remember how Mister Y glanced at me, squeezed my hand and took deep breaths as he did his utmost not to explode there and then. This type of thing did not happen every time we went shopping, but sometimes all it takes is one rude or abusive person to ruin your day. I realised that people would probably stare at us both when we were together. Or pretend not to stare, that was almost as bad. It soon dawned on me that I could no longer be anonymous when I walked down a street. But we could face those inconsiderate people together, he and I, and soon I learned to stare right back at them. Or politely tell them how rude they were being. That soon put a stop to it.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
My grief was strange and unpredictable. Every time I thought my tears were finished, something would happen and I would cry again. Raoul wrote to me and told me about the funeral – just a small private affair with him and a few of Mother's old friends in attendance. She was buried in her father's burial plot and he assured me he would visit it as often as he could. But I could not imagine her lying in the cold ground. She was always too full of life for that.
I tried not to sit around doing nothing. If I did that, all too soon I would find myself thinking about Mother, which only made me sad, so I tried to keep busy by helping Mister Y as much as possible. It did not help that there were reminders of her everywhere – the theatre, the hotel and of course the beach. I tried to avoid the latter as much as possible and in fact I've never really liked going to the beach in general. I've never even learnt to swim, which is something I regret. Imagine – growing up in Coney Island and disliking the beach! No-one ever believes me when I tell them that.
Even walking down a street was hard. At first every young chestnut haired woman I saw seemed to look like Mother. Or someone would be wearing a similar coat or hat and I feel a painful stab of memory. It lessened after a while of course, but that was no comfort at the time. I would see boys my own age, walking down the street with their mothers, going into stores and cafes. It's so unfair! I would think bitterly in my weaker moments. Why do they have a mother and I don't? But I knew the reason: Meg Giry. It was because of her that I had no mother and had bad dreams and felt sad at seeing women in fur hats.
Thankfully I was sheltered from all the newspaper coverage of her death although I have discovered some of those articles since then. So many fanciful accounts! You would almost think that choirs of angels came down to that beach and carried her up to Heaven. Much to my amusement, New York has sometimes tried to claim her as their own, despite the fact that she only spent a few days here. "She became an angel on American soil" as one sentimental article put it.
I suppose it has all the hallmarks of a great story – the beautiful singer returning to the spotlight, gunned down in the prime of her life by a jealous former best friend … It is one of those stories that creates more, not less, interest among certain people as years go by and facts are replaced by legend. All that I can hope for is that no-one makes a movie about it… And given that Raoul hated his wife being addressed by her maiden name, it is quite ironic that here in America at least, she is remembered almost entirely by that name.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
At first, school was just as confusing as I'd imagined. It was so disconcerting being in a classroom full of children when I was so used to individual attention, first from the Professor, then from Mister Y. And having to use English all the time was hard. Making polite conversation was one thing, but now I had to learn everything through it. I had been taught cultured, formal English, the kind that my old tutor once learnt from his English mother, not this American slang that all my classmates spoke. And of course, I was faced with a whole new syllabus in subjects like history and geography.
My teacher Miss Philips was sympathetic though, and used to dealing with immigrant children. She gave me extra work to do to help me catch up and Mister Y helped me, scoffing a little at the apparent simplicity of it. He hated losing me to the education system for several hours a day, and made no secret of it, but the alternative was getting letters and perhaps visits from what he called "nosy officials from the school board", and that he definitely did not want.
I hated sounding different to everyone. There were a lot of German Jewish children in the school but nobody from France. Some of my classmates made fun of my accent at first and mocked how I pronounced certain words, especially how I rolled my r's. They called me "froggy" and always asked me if I had snails for lunch. I hated them.
When I told Mister Y, he was furious and went with me early to the school the very next day, before the other pupils arrived. I sat out in the corridor while he "had a few words" with Miss Philips. He never really told me what he said to her, but it did the trick. The boys responsible were spoken to and left me alone after that.
In fact it soon became common knowledge that I was Mister Y's son and that I lived in Phantasma. That was enough to deter bullies. Everyone wanted to know what it was like to live in an amusement park. However even with this novelty I still found it hard to make friends at first. To attempt to blend in more, I listened to how the other children spoke, the slang and expressions they used as well as their pronunciation, and I tried to copy them. When I came home one day and described something as "swell" Mister Y teased me about how I was turning into "a little American."
"Are you French, Mister Y?" I asked him that evening on the balcony.
"I don't claim membership of any country, including this one. But yes, I was born in France."
"And you lived in Paris?"
"For most of the time, yes. But that was all a long time ago."
"I know. But I'm just wondering about..well, lots of things really. You taught Mother, didn't you? She told me that the night before she died. You taught her to sing."
"Yes, I did," he sighed. "She was just a child when she came to live at the Opera House. The same age as you in fact. Such a scared, innocent child… She had only just lost her father you see. As you know, they were very close. She used to come down to the chapel at night to pray for him and she would talk to him there, asking him if he would send her the Angel of Music, just like he had promised. I know this... because I used to listen to her."
"Did you live at the Opera House too?"
"In a way... And she would beg him to send the Angel because she was so alone and afraid. It broke my heart. She really believed in her Angel you see, because of the stories of Little Lotte which her father had told her. And after a while, when she realised he was not coming she broke down in tears."
He sighed again and laid his head against the wall, closing his eyes.
"She needed her Angel so very badly.. and she was so young and lost. I spoke to her, trying to comfort her. But.. I spoke from my hiding place, throwing my voice. I am a ventriloquist as well, you see. And she cheered up immediately and asked me if I was the Angel of Music. And.. I said yes.."
"But you're not an angel! You're a real person!"
"I know. But I wanted to her to trust me. You see, she and Meg used to sneak down to the stage at night and sing, and hers was the sweetest voice I had ever heard. She used to sing for her father in the chapel when she was alone too. All those nights I listened to her angelic voice... It needed training of course, and I wanted to teach her so badly. I couldn't have gone to her as I am, she would have been terrified. So I let her think I was the Angel of Music and after that I gave her singing lessons-"
"You lied to her! The Angel of Music is just a story!"
He buried his head in his hands.
"I wanted to go to her, to speak to her face to face. Don't you see? But I thought she would ask me about the mask and would want to see my face.. She was alone and I comforted her. She trusted me and I nurtured her voice in secret. She never even told Meg about our lessons."
Mister Y continued to sit there, his face in his hands, and I eventually left him there and went back to bed, feeling a little confused.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
We did not celebrate Thanksgiving that first year. I didn't even know about this great American tradition until my classmates started talking about it.
"Mister Y, can we have a Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow?"
He had just finished playing the piano and it was safe to talk to him – I quickly learnt never to interrupt him when he was engrossed in his music.
"I never celebrate Thanksgiving, Gustave. And I certainly won't be celebrating this year," he added darkly, "I lost the only woman I have ever loved. What have I got to be thankful for?"
But you have me! I thought sadly. My heart ached when I realised that I could not take Mother's place.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"Mister Y, your real name is Erik, isn't it? I heard Mother call you that when she was..dying."
"Yes, it is, why?"
"What's your surname?"
"I don't have one."
"But you must! Everyone has a surname!"
"Well, here in America I'm Mister Y and in France I had…other names..."
But he finally gave in. "My parents last name was Durand", he admitted with a sigh. "I suppose you could consider that my name too, although it is such a dull, ordinary name. Mister Y is far more mysterious."
"Erik Durand. I like that name. Am I Gustave Durand?"
He looked at me with a little sadness.
"You are my son and I would very much like you to have my last name. But I cannot force you. When you are old enough to decide, I will let you choose."
I nodded, but I'd already thought of another question.
"What were your parents like?"
"You should go back inside. It's getting cold."
"All right. But will you tell me about them when you tuck me in?"
"Perhaps.."
When he had tucked me in, I asked him again about his parents and where he was born. Reluctantly he told me a little of his story. But I almost wish he hadn't.
"I was born in a small village near Rouen," he began hesitantly. "My father was a master mason who was killed in an accident before I was born. My mother was an opera singer before she married and she was very beautiful. She longed for a son to comfort her in her grief. When I was born.."
He seemed to be struggling with the words and I regretted asking him. He fumbled with the bedclothes as he continued.
"When I was born, she hated me. She made me a mask, that was the first garment I ever wore. She always hated and feared me and kept me in the attic room, out of sight. I-I could only come downstairs if I wore my mask, or else she would beat me. She never touched me or kissed me. Once I begged her for a kiss and... and she screamed at me. And then.. then she made me look at my face in the mirror. I thought it was a monster…"
He was crying now and I was frightened. I did not know what to do.
But he kept going, his voice becoming more and more choked, "Your mother was the only woman who ever kissed me. She showed me such love and compassion, more that I'd ever known. She always loved me and she was going to stay with me forever. And now she's dead!"
Consumed with grief he staggered from the room and I tried to follow him.
"Get back into bed! Leave me alone! Isn't it enough that you made me tell you?"
"I'm sorry! Mister Y, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Tears were running down my cheeks in fear and sadness.
"Just leave me!" he yelled, his face red with fury. I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I could still hear him weep, with more sorrow than I ever thought possible.
"Christine, my sweet Christine.. Why? Why did you have to leave me? I can't do this, I can't be a father…"
I could not shut out the sound and even when I finally slept I could still hear his uncontrollable weeping in my mind.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
There were so many things to think about now, like why was he in love with Mother all those years when she was married to Raoul? He often spoke of how he had wanted the three of us to live here together and even now he was telling me how Mother was going to stay with him. Surely he was not supposed to think of her like that? And that kiss, as she lay dying.. Only your husband could kiss you like that, or so I thought. In any case the word "divorce" barely existed for me back then.
He had loved her at the same time Raoul had, back in the Opera House; that much I knew. It would explain a little of Raoul's hatred of him. And yet she had not married Mister Y, or Erik as she knew him at the time. Why not, if she had loved him? He had adored her, worshipped her and now she was gone and he was left with me instead.
But what bothered and upset me the most was that story about his mother, and how she had refused to kiss him! Her own son! Such a thing was unthinkable for me. I felt so young and helpless. I could not give him all the love that he needed, could not make up for what his mother had done to him. But I knew I had to try. He always comforted me when I was upset just like he once comforted Mother. She had loved him and for her sake, I would try to comfort him.
I went to him the following evening after a dark, silent day. He was holding my photograph of Mother and looking at it sadly, his mask and wig on the table. Slowly I approached where he was sitting. I must be brave I told myself.
He looked up at me curiously as I stood in front of him.
"I'm sorry your mother wouldn't kiss you," I told him softly.
Then I reached up and kissed his unmasked forehead. It was the first time I had kissed him, and I could hear him gasp. He lifted me into his lap and held me close.
"Such a good boy" he whispered, kissing the top of my head, "I'm sorry I was angry with you. None of what happened in the past was your fault. How could you have known?"
We sat in silence for a while as he held me. Then he said gently, "Next year, we will celebrate Thanksgiving together. I was wrong. I do have something- someone - to be thankful for."
And so did I.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Christmas was coming; our first one together and the streets of Manhattan were busier now. In some ways Mister Y preferred crowds as he could hide in them. We'd made several other visits to Greenberg's for toys, but now there was one particular toy I wanted for Christmas. It was an electric train set, with a beautifully painted train running on a track with bridges and tunnels. It was on display in the window and every time we passed it I had to stop and look. Other children would crowd around too. One day I peeped through the door to see an assistant demonstrating the set to a crowd of fascinated customers, as people brushed past me. I badly wanted to have a look as well.
"Come along, Gustave, we have a lot to do today," Mister Y told me sternly.
I followed him reluctantly but glanced back at the window before we set off.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Mister Y was looking into available properties in the area, within easy distance of the park. "This apartment is too small for us, Gustave. Before you came to live with me it was just somewhere for me to sleep, and eat a little. We need a proper home, something for the two of us. We're crammed into that bedroom and you will need your own space as you grow older, as well as somewhere to study,"
"But I like sleeping in the same room as you!"
"You need your own room; you won't be a little boy forever. There's a house that I'm thinking of, but we won't be going anywhere until after the New Year, so don't worry about anything yet."
OOOOOOOOOOOOO
Last Christmas was so different, with Raoul drinking heavily and Mother trying to put a brave face on things as usual. Last year I'd believed that Pere Noel, the French version of Santa Claus, had brought my presents but this year I wasn't so sure. So much had happened to me in the meantime.
I was allowed to join the church choir, which I loved. It kept me busy and I could meet other children who liked music. However, Mister Y still refused to come into the church with me on a Sunday morning, even when I was singing. I was not chosen to perform at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, which I was secretly relived about. I knew I would have been the only child there without a parent.
But it snowed in the week before Christmas and I was so excited. Last year Louis and I had built a snowman and another day Mother and I had played together, before enjoying hot chocolate in front of the fire. This year, one of Joe's sons, Frank, helped me build an impressive looking snowman. He was 14 and the youngest of his three brothers but he was kind to me and played with me sometimes, despite teasing from his friends. Mister Y came out to admire our snowman but he was not enthusiastic about the idea of a snowball fight. In the evenings I played quietly with my toys while Mister Y composed on the piano or worked on his designs. So for most of the time I did not feel too sad, even though I still missed Mother and still thought of my old home occasionally.
I even persuaded Mister Y to put up some decorations and buy a tree, which he'd never done before. Trees were not popular in France so I really wanted to have one this year. All in all, our little apartment looked suitably festive when I woke up on Christmas morning.
"Merry Christmas Mister Y!" I yelled, jumping on to his bed.
He rolled over, grumbling and looked at his pocket watch. "Why did you have to waken me so early? Go back to sleep, child."
"But it's Christmas!"
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked at me, smiling mysteriously. "Well, then you'd better look under the tree, hadn't you?"
Intrigued I went to the living area to find a large parcel tied with a bow sitting under the tree. With childish eagerness I pulled off the wrapping and opened the box to find…
"The train set!" I cried, running towards Mister Y who had come to watch me open it. He laughed as I threw myself into his arms, thanking him over and over.
Later our friends, the Trio, joined us for Christmas dinner which was cooked by Miss Fleck. She enlisted my help too. I wasn't used to preparing meals, but I soon got into the swing of things, chopping vegetables, setting the table and doing any other jobs she asked of me. Household chores were new to me, but I could wash and dry dishes fairly well now, and Mister Y and me often cleaned and tidied the apartment together. After dinner we sang songs together and I showed everyone how my train set worked. Dr Gangle told us some ghost stories, in typical melodramatic fashion and Mister Y performed some card tricks, which he promised to teach me some time. Everything was so different from last year, in every way.
Much later, when we were alone, Mister Y made me hot chocolate and the two of us sat on the sofa. He was not yet convinced that hot chocolate was the best drink ever but he liked making it for me. I leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling happy and contented. After a comfortable silence he asked me about Christmas at the chateau.
"Last year we had goose for dinner but when I was little we had oysters and foie gras."
He raised an eyebrow at this expensive sounding dish and I thought I heard him scoff a little. He was not fond of the aristocracy, that much was clear by now. So to change the subject I told him about my presents instead, which interested him. "What did you do after the meal?" he asked me, "Did your mother sing?"
I looked down at the carpet. "Raoul got drunk and shouted at Mother when she tried to take the bottle away. He shouted at me too." I told him sadly. I did not really want to remember that though, or the way Grandmother had blamed Mother for her son's problem. Mister Y was not happy when he heard this. He never liked hearing about Grandmother's treatment of Mother or the snobby women that used to visit us, especially Madame du Laurent.
"That fool! That ignorant boy!" he fumed, "How dare he treat Christine that way! And as for that mother of his!"
I hung my head again. "I should have stood up for her more," I confessed sadly,
"Gustave, you're only a child and you were brought up to respect your elders, there wasn't much you could do," he sighed, calming a little. "And anyway, Christine was very lucky to have you as a son. I'm sure you were a great comfort to her."
"She used to tell me that sometimes."
"What a horrible world she lived in. She was just as trapped as you were, you know that?"
I realised how true that was.
"Some of her friends were nice, though." I tried to explain, but he was no longer listening.
"She should never have gone through all that; feeling out of place, putting up with gossip... That boy! I thought he would look after her, make her happy. That was why I..." His voice trailed off at this point as he looked at me but soon he resumed his rambling monologue. "If only I'd known! I wish I could have given you both a better life. I didn't even know you existed until a few months ago. Things would have been very different if I'd known Christine was expecting you."
But things hadn't been different. And somehow it didn't matter any more. I had a father now, a proper father, and a new home in an exciting world. Soon a new year would begin and then the preparations for Phantasma's next season. And who knew what adventures lay ahead?
I played some nice music for him on the piano and that calmed him a little. It was Christmas after all, and I did not want to talk about unpleasant things any more today. We tidied the room together and when we had finished I embraced him spontaneously. Chuckling, he returned my hug and lifted me up, much to my surprise. "Thank you for a lovely day, Mister Y," I told him happily, and he smiled gently.
"My pleasure, Gustave, and thank you for sharing my happiest Christmas yet."
I was glad that he was not angry or upset any more and made up my mind to try and avoid telling him upsetting stories again. He loved me and now I wanted him to feel loved too. I'd always had Mother to love me, even during the bad times, and he'd never had anyone.
That night I climbed into Mister Y's bed and we slept in each other's' arms, at the end of our first Christmas together. That was the night I called him Papa for the first time.