Wedding preparations (cont.)
It was on a hot Friday that the funeral of the unhappy girl who had committed suicide took place. General curiosity had won the day, and more mourners came to this funeral than had come to all the recent burials put together. Even Father Johannes came. He claimed that he had simply wanted to lay some flowers in the graveyard, but given this opportunity of course he could say a prayer for her poor soul; that wasn't forbidden. Even the Vicomte and his wife made an appearance, in order to offer their sympathies to the grieving family.
Then Father Johannes opened the doors of the church and invited everybody inside to hear a new Requiem that had been composed. Erik was already up in the organ loft, giving instructions to the four 'calcants', namely the men who had to pump the bellows. When an expectant silence fell in the church, he laid his hands to the keys and began with the prelude.
It was no problem for Erik to play the entire Requiem without a score or libretto; he had sung and played it so often that he could do it by heart. It was much shorter than, for instance, Mozart's Requiem, with a duration of about twenty minutes. When it had ended, breathless silence reigned within the church. The congregation could not grasp what they had just heard: a Requiem sung by a heavenly voice that in the "Dies Irae" evoked before their eyes an angel with a flaming sword and made them cower in fear before wrath and punishment. They felt the total despair and remorse of the sinner over his transgressions. And then came the gentle finale of the "Requiem æternam", as wonderfully comforting as if the soul had just that moment been saved from the fires of Hell and arrived in Heaven, infinitely grateful for its salvation.
At length, one after another, they left the church. Erik remained hidden in the organ-loft. He sat slumped on the organ bench, trying to calm himself down. The Requiem had demanded all that he had to give, both physically and above all mentally, and now he was exhausted and bathed in sweat; he felt sick and giddy. He was afraid that if he stood up now he would fall down the stairs.
"Erik?" He heard Babette's voice, then felt her hand on his shoulder. Erik shook his head, trying to drive away the giddiness, then looked at Babette with a tired smile. She had a basket in her hand in which there was a flask of water, which she now held out to him. Erik took the flask and drank greedily. The lukewarm water helped with the dizziness and the exhaustion, sufficiently at least for him to feel capable of descending the staircase.
"The Vicomte is waiting below with the carriage," Babette said softly. She still had her hand on Erik's shoulder, as if she never wanted to let go of him again.
Erik nodded. "Thanks. Has everyone gone?"
"I don't know, but you'll have to give it a try."
"I can't. I'm so tired that I'm afraid I'm about to collapse, and I'm terrified they'll tear me to pieces if I collapse in front of them."
Babett grinned and folded back the cover of her basket, in which she was also carrying her large frying pan and a carving knife. "They'll have to go through me first," she promised firmly.
Erik went carefully down the stairs, clinging to the bannisters, since the steps seemed to sway before his eyes and he sometimes saw double. Then he took Babette's hand and went out of the church. They were all standing there: the whole village, the entire funeral party. The carriage was waiting at a few metres' distance, but it couldn't come any closer to the church. He would have to cross that distance through the crowd of people. With his right hand he clung to Babette; with his left he felt in his pocket for his lasso, although he knew that in this situation he would have no chance at all.
At that moment a bent old woman in a black headscarf approached Erik. She gazed up at him and said quietly: "Thank you for singing the Requiem for my poor daughter." The woman's voice failed and she broke down in tears.
Erik managed only a nod. Then he went cautiously to the carriage, taking great care to keep his movements smooth and calm. No panic, no jerky motions — nothing that might unsettle a crowd and turn it into a violent mob. Raoul opened the door for him, Erik and Babette climbed in, and they were off.
Erik closed his eyes and let himself sink back into his seat, leaned back his head and all of a sudden heard nothing more and saw nothing more. He was not even aware of the swaying of the coach. When next he came to himself he was in bed, and the first thing he saw was Babette, sitting next to him and holding out a glass of water.
~o~
It was not long after this that Babette asked the Vicomte for a day off, as she wanted to introduce her children to her husband. Raoul had no objection. He was only astonished by Erik's newfound enthusiasm for the church — Erik would disappear after breakfast, in general along with his dogs and horse, and would not return until late in the evening, more often than not covered in dust and cobwebs as if he had been crawling around somewhere or other. All day long the organ was constantly to be heard, and that was undoubtedly down to Erik; meanwhile the dogs hung around in the parish garden. On the other hand it was definitely pleasant not to be obliged to worry constantly what craziness Erik would get up to next.
Babette had appointed the meeting with her children for the afternoon of a beautiful Monday in early spring. They met in the village inn, which was run by the husband of the eldest daughter, and where Mondays were quiet. Thus they were on their own and had ample room.
Erik was more than a little nervous at the idea of getting to know those who were soon to become his children. When he entered the inn parlour, the five of them were already sitting behind a table, and two chairs were still empty. Erik turned and wanted to leave again, but Babette caught hold of his arm and held him fast.
"You're staying right here, my dearest!" she told him in a tone that allowed of no contradiction. Then she shoved him towards the table and said: "Sit!"
The three dogs immediately sat. Erik made a face, with an embarrassed grin that looked as if he were baring his teeth, but he sat down.
"Right, I'll make the introductions," began Babette. "This is my eldest son, Alain. His father was a blacksmith, and he's a farrier at the stud farm, is married and has a daughter." Alain was a thickset, enormously muscular man with dark hair and eyes.
"This is Cecile, my eldest daughter. She married the innkeeper and they have two sons." Cecile resembled her mother; she too was very plump.
"This is Leonie. She is the daughter of Father Johannes and is married to one of the stable lads, is soon to have a child and works as a seamstress at the chateau." Leonie was tall, slim and red-haired.
"This is Heloise, my youngest daughter. She works as a washerwoman and seamstress at the chateau." Heloise was small and plump, with brown hair and green eyes.
"And my youngest son: Hector. He is an undergardener at the chateau." Hector was short and swarthy, with jet-black hair and eyes.
"Let me guess — his father was a passing gypsy?" asked Erik, and Babette nodded.
After the introductions were over, a deafening silence reigned, until the innkeeper's wife got up and set a pitcher of watered wine and some clay beakers on the table. Erik was grateful for the water, since the wine was so sour as to be almost undrinkable. Only with salad would it be even passable.
He looked at the clock. They'd been sitting in silence for ten minutes. If no-one said anything, then they would never get anywhere.
"That's very nice conversation, children," Babette observed at the same moment. "But don't all talk at once."
Erik couldn't help grinning, and Heloise stared down, embarrassed, into her beaker, in order not to have to look at him. Cecile, on the other hand, stared at him almost as if in challenge.
"I know it's difficult for you to accept me as your father," Erik began, feeling foolish. He was supposed to be taking on the role of paterfamilias overnight, a role about which he had no idea at all. "But you don't need to fear for your mother — I'm not as bad as I look." He had to smile at that, since he was all too well aware that it was not true.
"No, that's not it," Alain responded, "we're just wondering if you know what you're letting yourself in for."
Erik choked on his wine and had to cough. "What?" He stared at Alain, completely astonished.
"Our mother described you as a sensitive artist, a cultivated man of honour, and we heard your Requiem. And so we're asking ourselves if you know what you're letting yourself in for."
Forgetting to close his mouth, Erik tried to make some kind of sense out of what he had just heard. He failed, since it made no sense at all. "You're playing some kind of joke on me — and I don't find it funny."
"No, it's not. From what our mother said, you are by all accounts a marvellous man — the most hideous man on God's earth, but with a great heart and a brilliant mind."
Erik gave Babette a suspicious look. He was convinced that this could only be some kind of prank. Babette knew more about him than anyone else, since more than once when he started to lose control she had witnessed him
clinging to her like a tiny child, weeping and trembling, out of sheer terror at himself and out of despair when once again he had to struggle hard against the impulse to use violence. She knew what his life had been and what he had done. Or had she lied to her children? But why should she have done that?
"You don't know what became of our real fathers, do you?" Cecile asked him. Erik shook his head and wondered how this farce was to continue. At some point someone would have to break out in laughter and confess that it was all just a joke.
"My father was a smith," began Alain.
"The one whom Babette knocked down with the frying pan?" Erik asked, curious.
"The same. But do you know too that after that he was never right in the head? He stuttered and could barely remember anything." Erik looked at Babette with respect. It must have been a truly mighty blow.
Cecile was next. "My father was a poacher. One day he disappeared without trace, but the rumours didn't die away... rumours which had to do with a carving knife."
Erik looked at Babette, who returned him a look of complete innocence and said, shrugging: "I helped him with cutting up game. One day he was gone, and he was never found." Erik was beginning to ask himself whether the jest was not being laid on too thick; this was all just too comical.
Leonie didn't have much to tell; her father was the priest, who after his affair with Babette had taken orders. "He'd had enough of women once and for all," Babette said with a grin.
"My father was a dissolute wastrel who got up to all sorts of no good," said Heloise. "He's been in prison for decades and has no chance of being released."
"Somehow it appears you have a certain preference, my dear," Erik said to Babette with a smile. "You always pick the wrong man."
"Oh no, I never had any intention of marrying any of those idiots. I didn't want to marry you either, but I've changed my mind." Babette gave him a cheerful wink. "How many women can say that they've tamed a Phantom?"
Hector knew of his father only that he had been part of a passing group of gypsies and had played the violin.
"And so, now that you know, do you really want to marry our mother?" asked Cecile.
Erik only laughed. "It was an original attempt, telling me all this. You're really very creative, but... I don't believe a word of it. You just don't want me to marry your mother."
"Yes, because we're worried about you!" Leonie shot back.
He simply laughed. It really could only be a joke, but one that had been laid on so thick that it was simply ridiculous.
"Erik, this is no joke," said Babette. "What they have told you about their fathers is true. I wanted you to know about it before the marriage. You can still say no."
"Wait a minute — say that slowly so that I can follow: you really mean it? You... you told your children nothing but good of me and now they believe that I am the saint and you the sinner?" Erik simply couldn't believe it.
Babette was still serious. "I want this to work. And my children are my children and will always remain so — if you take me, you take them as well. And that goes for all of you too: he is soon to be your father, and you are to pull yourselves together and be nice to him!"
"Yes, Mother," all five chorused.
Erik massaged his temples and tried somehow to understand what had just happened. He didn't manage it at all, and only ended up with a headache. Then he heard Leonie whispering to Heloise: "It will be a challenge for us. How are we going to manage it so that he doesn't look at the wedding as if he has just risen from the graveyard?"
Heloise took a peep in Erik's direction. "Not black. Anything but black. Perhaps blue? Or dark green?"
Alain stood up and clapped Erik on the shoulder. Erik was involuntarily propelled forwards; Alain was enormously strong. "Right then, all the best, Father. I've got to go home — my wife has supper waiting."
"You're not my father yet, and I really hope the two of you come to your senses and call off the wedding," said Hector, standing up and leaving likewise. Erik remained behind with the four women. Leonie and Heloise were already eager to decide on the clothing for him and Babette.
"I'll prepare the wedding breakfast," said Cecile. "I'm the hostess here and I'd take it amiss if you held it anywhere else." Erik didn't know how he ought to react to this, and so simply said nothing.
Babette took him by the hand and said goodbye to her daughters, who were discussing fabrics and menus with great enthusiasm. Then they left, the dogs following closely behind them.
"That was a bit bizarre," observed Erik. "I'm wondering if this is really a good idea... Not because I don't love you, but because I... I simply don't know if I can get through this. You have good children, but... they will hate me."
"Rubbish, they'll love you," retorted Babette. "And if they don't, I'll beat them black and blue." Erik had to laugh. He could well imagine that Babette had her children admirably under control.
"Good, then the wedding will go ahead," he decided.