Chapter 3
Exhausted, I slept deeply within the underground caverns. The cave floor was surprisingly warm, most likely due to the hot springs bubbling beneath the rocks, and with a blanket and a pillow of my own, I enjoyed more comfort than I'd been allowed in nearly a year.
I thankfully had the sense to leave several candles burning nearby and woke to the wax melted down into stumps. With no way of telling the time, I rolled to my feet and lit new candles. With no one to disturb me, I dozed on and off, my mind at ease and dreams for once not plagued by nightmares. For a long time I stared at the dark lake and imagined how my uncle would have reacted to our surroundings. I could almost hear his deep, resonating laugh as he watched me dive into the water.
For months on end I had been kept confined by the gypsies, my freedom limited to an hour or two where I was shackled and turned out like a dog released from its cage. The gypsies-Garouche in particular-allowed me a twelve foot radius between the horses and little dogs, his daughter Lipa's bichons. The small white dogs were used in some of the performances, but for the most part they bounced on their back legs and made ungodly noises as they begged for attention.
Garouche intended for the chain around my ankle and placement between animals to be humiliation, but I felt more comfortable silently sharing a meal with six bichons dressed in tutus than I did with most anyone else in the whole camp. The dogs did not judge me for my appearance or treat me as an oddity. In the company of animals I felt content. On some nights when they curled up against my back and licked my neck, I smiled inwardly and found small moments of joy in an otherwise hellish life.
Once I grew tired of lying around, I finished what food Madeline had left the previous night and eyed the stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and boxes. Most were painted with black lettering reading "Opera House", which seemed somewhat unnecessary.
Curiosity and boredom got the best of me and I opened one of the smaller boxes and discovered an entire collection of stage makeup and powders. Disappointed, I set it aside.
The second box proved much more interesting with a collection of monocles, a stage prop cutlass, a looking glass, and several pocket watches.
"Erik?" Madeline knocked on the door and startled me.
"I'm here," I replied, grateful for her company.
She pushed the door open and hurried in with a basket in hand. "Did you sleep well? I do apologize for being late."
"I did not know what time it was."
"Noon," Madeline announced. Her dark skirt swirled around her as she moved across the floor. "Rehearsals lasted an hour longer than normal and unfortunately I am required to attend afternoon rehearsals as well."
"I found a watch," I said as I dug into the box. "I will keep it wound."
"You've been keeping yourself busy. That is well." Madeline smiled and set the basket onto the table. "Come sit and eat while the food is still warm."
That was all I needed to hear to abandon my endeavors. I took a seat across from Madeline as she produced two large bowls wrapped in napkins. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
"Roasted chicken," she said. "With green beans and potatoes."
Hot food was a delicacy I had not partaken in very often, and as soon as Madeline uncovered my food I dove fingers first into the bowl and stuffed so much food into my mouth I nearly choked.
Madeline sat wide-eyed across from me, her lips parted in shock at my animalistic display. With a gasp, she reached across the table and pulled the bowl away from me. "There is plenty more in the kitchen. No need to choke yourself."
Ashamed of my actions, I folded my hands under the table while Madeline proceeded to take two forks, knives, and folded napkins out of the basket. She arranged her silverware, placed her napkin in her lap, and proceeded to say grace.
Like a dog I salivated as I stared at my uneaten food. I waited for Madeline to take her first bite before I slowly reached for my bowl, afraid to be scolded for acting like an uncivil.
"Do you like it?" she asked after several moments of eating in silence.
I nodded readily. "I had almost forgotten food was served hot."
Madeline paused, her fork clattering onto the table. Her cheeks reddened and she looked away. "What have you been eating?"
I fought the urge to push my chair back and walk away from the table, frustrated by her constant questions regarding my life. I thought of my uncle and the stern glance he could issue that would quell my impulsive anger before it swelled into rage. I imagined his hand on my shoulder, keeping me firmly in place at the table, his lips against my ear. She means no harm, my child. Easy.
"Whatever I could find most days," I said quietly, afraid my voice would tremble as I spoke. "Sometimes there was nothing at all."
The horses were provided with fresh hay daily, the small dogs rewarded with scraps straight off their master's plates, and the gypsy performers sat around a fire and shared meals. Most nights I sat alone in the dark and awaited my turn to scrape the bottom of the kettle or scrounge through scraps for something edible. Occasionally there was enough food left for a full meal, but on most nights I slept with my stomach still gurgling.
"I can relate," Madeline said.
My gaze shot up to meet her eye. I highly doubted she could relate to me in any way, but still I listened intently.
"My first year in the ballet I learned to elbow my way through the food line or starve," Madeline said. "In fact, my first week living here in the dormitories I think I had one potato and a cup of cold soup." She made a sound of disgust. "You would not believe how ruthless ballet dancers can be when there is chocolate mousse to be had for supper. Honestly they are fortunate I did not bite their fingers off."
Her words saddened me and I looked away, unsure of how to respond. I could not imagine someone as kind as Madeline ever suffering. She did not deserve harsh treatment or hardships, and when I looked in her eyes, I had no desire to think of her life reflecting any part of mine.
With a sigh, Madeline dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and held up her index finger. "Which reminds me. I brought dessert."
I swallowed and sat forward in anticipation.
"Do you like sweets? I know some do not care for indulgences."
I nodded and watched in silence as she produced a small tin wrapped in paper and tied with a string.
"Apple tarts," she said proudly. "The very best apple tarts in all of Paris and they are made right here in our kitchen."
I finished my food in silence while Madeline talked about morning rehearsals, upcoming afternoon rehearsals, the slippers and ribbons one of the dancers had lost, wept over, and found in a matter of fifteen minutes.
Madeline had the ability to tell complete stories with seemingly one breath. I listened and nodded as she spoke, mesmerized by the movements of her hands and the way she sat forward and spoke with such enthusiasm. When she looked across the table at me she smiled each time, even though I no longer had my hood to hide my face. She was truly extraordinary in every way-and each time she laughed or grinned, I knew I did not deserve her friendship.
Every night I sat alone in the darkness watching the gypsies and their children share meals and stories while I sat in the shadows with my knees up to my chin. Late into the night they sang and laughed, and I longed to be included in their circle. I had spent my entire life living beneath my parent's home, out of their sight and out of their mind, but in the cellar I was rarely lonely as I dreaded my father's company.
However, with the gypsies I could hear every word and see their every interaction, the way mother's caressed their children's faces, the way men held the hands of women. The loneliness I felt was magnified by depths I did not know ever existed.
While I sat chained in the distance, I imagined my uncle across from me, his hands wrapped around a mug, his thin legs stretched out. While he was alive, we had talked about the different frogs singing in the night or the roads we had traveled during the day. He told me of books he had read, adventures on the high sea, and stories of his children whom I had never met. Other than his stories, I found immense enjoyment on the nights he played the violin and sang songs in different languages.
Did I ever tell you about when I heard the siren's song one night after a storm? Sweetest sound I had ever heard while out to sea.
His eyes twinkled when he spoke of mythical creatures, and although I was old enough to know his stories were fabricated, I sat on the edge of my seat and listened intently each time. The sound of his voice soothed me, made me forget the rest of the world. He understood me like no one else; like a father should have known his son.
All of our conversations seemed so meaningless and simple-and yet I wanted to hear his voice one more time as he told his fantastical tale of nearly falling victim to a siren.
Madeline, on the other hand, had a much different way of speaking. While my uncle spoke slow, his voice deep and low, Madeline spoke almost as though she were singing. She was animated and laughed often, especially when she pushed her hair back from her oval face. Her stern, matronly demeanor turned girlish and she became more of a confiding sister than a motherly figure.
"What time is it?" she asked abruptly as she took a bite of the apple tart.
I looked at my pocket watch. "Three minutes past one."
She gasped and sprang to her feet. "Second rehearsal start in seventeen minutes. I must leave at once."
I stood with her and together we hastily gathered the bowls and silverware. She tossed them into the basket and ran to the door with me at her heels.
"I will see you tonight," Madeline said over her shoulder. She briefly squeezed my arm and I winced as her fingers pressed into a healing wound.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked.
"It is nothing."
"Let me see," she insisted.
I lifted my sleeve with great reluctance and shook my head, but Madeline gave me a disapproving look before she examined my arm briefly. She sucked in a breath through her teeth as she circled her thumb around the puncture wound.
"How long has it been like this?"
I shrugged. "Not long."
She shot a disapproving looking in my direction. "By the looks of it, I would say far too long. I will bring something to help that heal before it becomes infected and your whole arm falls off."
Apparently my uncle was not the only one fond of exaggerations. I smiled back, appreciating her motherly concern.
"I will return with supper. Stay here," she said before she closed the door and disappeared from sight.
And just like that I was alone once more.