A/N: For the record, "Gustave" is homage to the only canon name given to Christine's father. I always assumed that if she ever had a son, she would name him after Daddy Daaé (in Evergreen, it was one of the two boys names Christine had narrowed it down to, and that was long before LND premiered). Now that "Gustave" has such stigma attached, I would have changed the character's name if the real historical person's story did not play so heavily into my plot. Ah well. If the name bothers you, I apologize, but trust me that it's necessary. If it doesn't bother you, please carry on your merry way and ignore all of this. ;)
This is a long one – lots to learn about this rather complex individual.
"He carried his childhood like a hurt warm bird held to his middle-aged breast." – Herbert Gold
Wednesday, April 10th, 1912
En route to Cherbourg, France
The rhythmic rumble and sway of the train was lulling, almost hypnotic in its steady progression out of the city. Once the stifling concrete of Paris gave way to rolling countryside, Gustave leaned forward to rest his forehead against the windowpane, watching the world unfold in the delicate green of new spring.
He didn't want to leave.
Absently, he touched his fingertips to the glass. He only had half-formed memories left of this place, warmed by the nostalgic haze of childhood:
Laughing blue eyes, a swing hung from the bough of a large oak tree, iced tea on a white wrap-around porch, chasing fireflies through knee-high grass…
They were the happiest memories of his life. But the cold march of time seemed intent upon stripping him of those lingering scraps of comfort; the harder Gustave tried to hold on to them, the faster they seemed to erode in his mind's eye. He couldn't remember his bedroom any more, or the names of the children he used to play with. He was beginning to forget what his father looked like. The loss forged a quiet desperation in him, a longing beyond the scope of words. Here, in the rolling fields of his childhood home, it simmered almost to the point of physical pain.
The French countryside beckoned him home with the maddening whispers of 'what if?' He'd nearly succumbed to it, too; he had even gone so far as to purchase a train ticket to Chagny. Standing on the platform with the little slip of paper trembling in his hand, he'd mulled over the endless possibilities of his journey. Perhaps there were relatives still alive who could help him answer the endless questions about his heritage, his identity. He could go looking for them, dig through old church records and court documents. Perhaps he could even find his boyhood home, with the white porch and the oak tree…
In the end, he'd crumpled the ticket and walked away. He couldn't do it – he couldn't risk tainting those happy wisps of memory he had left by subjecting them to the cold, harsh lens of adulthood. Deep down, he knew there was nothing left for him there but ghosts.
The train car's door clicked and scraped open, breaking Gustave from his private thoughts. He raised heavy eyes to see his best friend Tom slide into their private car, balancing a glass of ginger ale in one hand, a cappuccino in the other, a biscotti between a thumb and forefinger, and a saltine cracker in his mouth.
"Piffed thif up for you," Tom said thickly, leaning sideways to hand the cappuccino and biscotti to Gustave. Once his hand was free, he shoved the rest of his cracker into his mouth, plopped down on the bench opposite his friend, and put his feet up. "You're welcome."
"Thanks." Gustave used the tip of the biscotti to make swirling patterns in the cappuccino's foam, mindlessly doodling until the coffee grew flat and the biscuit dissolved into an unappetizing, clotted stump. With a sigh, he set both aside, and glanced up to see Tom watching him with a worried expression.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently, with the air of a physician probing a tender wound.
Gustave twitched a shoulder in what he hoped was a good impression of nonchalance. "Nothing to talk about."
Unfortunately, his response only served to deepen the lines on his friend's face. Tom knew better than to push him, though; instead, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Gustave accepted one gratefully, and leaned forward so his friend could light it for him. He inhaled deeply, taking comfort from the familiar burn of smoke down his nose and throat. There was something inherently relaxing in the habitual act, and he fell back against the seat cushions as he blew out a controlled stream of grey, closing his eyes and allowing his head to loll with the rumble of the train.
It was a sorry state of affairs that artificial comforts like this were the glue currently holding his life together. Fortunately, Tom was always there to dab a little more on when the edges began to crack. But then, that wasn't giving him enough credit. The truth of the matter was that if it hadn't been for Tom, Gustave would never even have survived to adulthood.
His first year of American boarding school had been a living hell. The other boys teased him mercilessly for his foreign accent and faltering English, while the teachers whipped him for laziness, when truly he did not understand the lessons. There was no rest, no escaping the day-to-day torment. Everyone hated him, and he'd grown to hate them back. Eventually, he had stopped trying to please anyone, since it didn't seem to make any difference one way or another. He began to talk back to his professors, he met his peers' insults word for word and blow for blow, and by the end of the first term he was sitting alone in the dormitory on Christmas Eve, trying to figure out whether his necktie would hold his weight if he hung himself from the closet rail.
He was nine, at the time.
He had chickened out of suicide that night, but he knew it would only have been a matter of time if Thomas Drake Martinez Cardeza had not transferred in to the Academy that January. From the moment he laid eyes on "the new boy" Gustave had known there was something different about him. Tom strutted around the campus with an air of unshakable self-esteem. He laughed at the peers who attempted to bully him into submission, and fired off such scathing, witty comebacks that the boys deemed him more trouble than he was worth and went back to terrorizing more accessible targets. The professors adored him, the hall monitors made exceptions for him, and the rest of the boys wanted to be friends with him. Within two weeks of his arrival, Tom had secured his place as the undisputed prince of the Academy. And, for his part, Gustave hated him as much as he hated everyone else at the school.
That was, until they happened to bump into one another – literally – in a hallway one morning on the way to their lessons. Gustave's books and papers spilled everywhere, and he dropped to his knees with a groan as he attempted to sweep them all up again. He'd assumed Tom had purposely tripped him, just as the other boys made a habit of doing. Imagine his surprise when Tom immediately fell to his knees beside him and helped him to collect his items, apologizing profusely… in French!
The look of utter shock on his face had caused Tom to laugh, but not unkindly. He explained that he and his mother had spent the past year on safari in Africa, hunting lions and elephants and hippos and all other manner of ferocious beasts. The locals spoke French, so he picked it up gradually over a few months. He added that he was anxious to continue his practice, as he and his mother planned to go back to Africa over their summer holiday. He asked very humbly if Gustave might tutor him after evening lessons if he paid him five cents a week. Gustave had thought it over for a minute, and asked instead if Tom might tutor him in English in exchange for French lessons.
The agreement was made, and the connection was immediate. Once Gustave and Tom joined ranks, none of the bullies dared touch him again, and as his English improved, so did his grades and his relations with the professors. By June he was making high marks on all of his examinations, and the troubles that nearly caused him to take his own life at Christmastime were all but a distant nightmare. He loved school, and he loved Tom, and he dreaded going back home to his mother and stepfather as if he were a death row inmate preparing to walk to his execution. On the last night of school he stayed up in tears, begging the morning to hold off. When Tom woke up to find him in such a frightful state, he immediately invited Gustave to come with him and his mother to Africa for the holiday. There was no hesitation on Gustave's part; together, they drafted a counterfeit letter from his mother offering her permission for him to go, claiming it would be a wonderful "cultural experience."
Lady Cardeza, while surprised, was thrilled to meet the "famous Gustave my son has told me so much about," and graciously took him under her wing for the duration of the holiday. Meanwhile, Gustave's mother, insipid sheep that she was, did not protest when he sent her a letter telling her he was going away to Africa to hunt lions and elephants and hippos, and he would be back when he damned well felt like it. His stepfather was probably thrilled to be rid of him; the feeling was mutual. That summer abroad was the best of Gustave's life, and he and Tom had made arrangements to spend every sequential summer in the same manner, traveling to whichever exotic destination pleased them best.
When the boys were fifteen they dropped out of school entirely, persuading Lady Cardeza that a private tutor would be more than sufficient, and that they could certainly bring such a tutor with them on their cruise to the Mediterranean. She obliged them, of course; Tom was her only child, and she seemed incapable of telling the charming boy "no." They had been on the move ever since, traveling the globe in luxury and leisure. The Cardezas were Gustave's family now, and on more than one occasion he considered changing his last name to theirs, making the tie official.
As it was, Gustave's surname on this particular trip was the product of an ill-placed bet in Cairo. He and the Cardezas had spent the past few months working their way up through their old favorite spots in Africa, big-game hunting, as usual. They ended their safari in Egypt's capital two weeks ago, and he and Tom had gone out on a late night celebratory binge at one of the more disreputable bars in the area. Somehow – he was still a bit hazy on the details – they'd ended up in an all night poker match at a table with all sorts of riffraff that had stumbled onto the scene. In the end, it had come down to Tom, himself, and a Moroccan thug with black teeth. The Moroccan folded, finally, but Tom was too drunk on cheap beer and pride to let the game go. On the last hand, he offered an ultimatum to Gustave: they'd split the winnings 50/50 regardless, but whoever won would get a solid month of voluntary servitude from the other. Gustave called him a crazy drunk and prepared to bow out, but the jeers from those watching and the obnoxious smirk on his best friend's face pushed him stupidly forward. He laid his hand down – two pair – and waited. With a hoot and a holler, Tom threw down a flush, and proceeded to strut like a peacock for the rest of the night.
It was a stupid game and a stupid bet, and Gustave had banked on the fact that Tom would wake up in the morning too hung-over to remember the previous night's dealings. How wrong he'd been! By noon Tom had assembled a three-page list of things he wanted Gustave to do for him, including a foot massage, booze on command, and laying a red carpet down every time he wished to enter or exit a car. As if that weren't mockery enough, he'd also come up with a new last name for Gustave for the duration of their journey: Lesueur, a French name meaning, as he quoted with a smirk, "either an occupational name for someone in the service of a great lord, or a derisive nickname for a person who gave himself airs and graces." Tom had a good laugh about that, and thought himself quite clever. He'd even gone so far in his little prank as to book the rest of Gustave's journey under the name Lesueur, and marked his occupational status as manservant to Mr. Cardeza.
Gustave was not amused. He had no intention of honoring a bet he'd made while too drunk to see straight, let alone think logically. He'd been about to tell Tom as much when suddenly his friend had doubled over and vomited on the hotel's expensive Oriental rug. With a roll of his eyes, he'd helped Tom back over to the bed, given him a wastebasket to throw up in and a cold washcloth for his head, and went in search of a maid to clean up the mess. He hadn't thought anything more of it, dismissing the episode as a normal remnant of a night spent drinking too much.
As it turned out, though, Tom's condition never eased up. His stomach was especially sensitive – ginger ale, plain bread, rice and saltine crackers had been the extent of his diet for the past two weeks. His face had grown sallow, and the circles under his eyes darkened. Of course, each of them had picked up their fair share of foreign diseases over the years; it came as part of the territory when living as world travelers. Nobody was particularly concerned with a bug that seemed no worse than the average stomach flu, and they had continued on to Hungary to visit the manor house and hunting lodge Tom had bought some years ago. His wife, Mary, was staying there, and he suggested paying her a visit since they had a few days before they were to return to America on a ship out of Cherbourg, France.
His mother had been none too pleased about the detour. Lady Cardeza detested her daughter-in-law, and not only because Tom's marriage had been a complete secret, which she had only discovered through reading an article in the New York Times. She and Mary competed viciously for his attention, and the stress began to take its toll on poor Tom. His symptoms had worsened, and he developed a cramping stomach pain that would not be alleviated by any medication they had on hand. Weary of the bickering, he'd conceded to his mother that perhaps it would be best to carry on to France. He'd kissed his wife good-bye, and they were off again.
During their trip to Paris from Hungary, Gustave did, in fact, wind up tending to his ailing friend like a manservant, though not because of any silly bet. He fetched water and aspirin, helped Tom to get to the restroom, and stayed up nights holding his friend's hand when the pain was too bad to sleep. Fortunately, the bug seemed to be working its way out of Tom's system, slowly but surely, for he felt much better by the time they reached the Gare de l'Est. He could stand and walk without trouble, and his nausea spells were fewer and farther in between. More often than not, he had begun to wave away offers of help.
Only now, as they chugged steadily toward France's northern coast, did Gustave finally buckle beneath the crushing grief of a childhood lost violently and suddenly to him all those years ago. It was remarkable how swiftly the tides turned; how quick Tom was to surrender his own comfort to attend to his friend's needs. The moment he caught wind of Gustave's misery, he resumed his longtime role of shining knight and defender. Ill though he was, he'd shoved Gustave out of the way when he'd attempted to go get refreshments from the dining car, and insisted upon doing it himself. When that hadn't worked, he'd moved swiftly for the next line of comfort in a pack of cigarettes. It was about as effectual as pressing a handkerchief to a mortal, gushing wound. Still, Gustave knew that if he didn't visibly perk up, Tom would worry himself ragged on his behalf. With a flash of guilt, he thrust his private grief back down under lock and key, deep within him where it belonged. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and looked up at Tom with the most convincing smile he could muster.
"Still got that deck of cards on you, brother?"
Tom quirked an eyebrow, and pulled it from his back pocket. "I do indeed. Intent upon losing again so soon, o trusty manservant?"
"Yeah, you'd best laugh it up now, pal, because in a minute you'll be licking my boots clean."
Tom grinned as he fanned the cards in a brisk shuffle. "Nothing like the taste of leather and giraffe dung in the morning."
The banter came fluidly, gentle insults batted between them with the ease that came with years of familiarity. Soon enough, each friend was demanding "best out of three hands," and then "best of five," until they were each so wrapped up in the card games, enjoying one another's company, that they'd completely forgotten the violent troubles that ailed them. Outside the window the sun blazed a golden path across the sky, and before they knew it, the squeal of metal brakes announced their approach into Cherbourg.
Their ship was an hour late in her arrival at port; evidently there had been some sort of delay in getting out of the harbor on the other side of the English Channel. Lady Cardeza sniffed at that, insisting that she had paid far too handsomely to be met with inconvenience so early on in the trip, and on her birthday to boot. The staff scrambled to make amends, offering a full complimentary supper at the most elegant seafood establishment along the water. Gustave had no appetite, and Tom could not stomach any more than the bread served in advance of the meal, and so they simply sat across from the Lady and her maid, nodding and mumbling politely where appropriate. From their window overlooking the water, they finally saw, nearing 6:00, their ship glide onto the horizon. Even from a distance, she was a thing of beauty – a glittering palace set against a brilliant pink sunset. Since he'd first taken up traveling with the Cardezas, extraordinary luxury had been the standard for Gustave; even still, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the "unsinkable" RMS Titanic.
Perhaps, he thought, the trip back home wouldn't be so terrible after all.
A/N: With the conclusion of this chapter, you have been officially introduced to all of the key players in this story from here on out. For the most part, I will be keeping to a steady POV rotation of Erik, Christine, Gustave, rinse, repeat. There might be cause once or twice for me to switch that around, but generally speaking, that's the pattern you can look for. And while I know – I know – you guys will be tempted, at first, to tap your toes impatiently for the E & C chapters, be advised that Gustave is just as central to this story as they are, so you'd do well to pay close attention to his stuff too. (An analogy: how much of Evergreen would you have understood if you skipped all the Raoul and Emily chapters?)
I suppose I should take a moment to say that the Cardezas (and Gustave Lesueur) were actual people, who were actual passengers on Titanic, and actually went big-game hunting on safari, stopped in Hungary, etc. I'm walking a delicate line here by incorporating real lives into fiction, and so I should make a huge disclaimer: there are a few eyewitness accounts, newspaper articles and biographies written about these people (very little about Gustave, though, which was hugely helpful), so I'm going off of bits and pieces I've read, but mostly my own imagination. AKA Don't sue me, please!
My infinite thanks to SquidPire, who has graciously taken up the reins as beta for this fic, while my darling Flora Grey is occupied as a new mommy. :)
Also, thank you so much to those of you – my faithful crew – who are so good about leaving me feedback. You light up my day and offer such encouragement!