Chapter 7 – Yesterday Once More

"The letters are like pictures, Uncle," Emilie says, running her fingertips over the chart Nadir had laid out on the pounded metal round table in the center of his den.

The room is unlike most any other library in Brooklyn, New York or any other place outside of Mazandaran. The structure of the room is still that of the Victorian home he and Adele purchased, tall windows, a brick fireplace, the doors and windows framed in deep walnut. Beyond that, the furnishings were soft sofas in colored brocades. The one concession to modernity is his leather reading chair and matching hassock. A small end table with a brass lamp completing the décor.

The older man and young girl sit cross-legged, knee to knee, examining the Persian alphabet. "I am not sure I can learn this."

"You have not even started, yet you wish to quit?" Nadir says. "I am surprised, you do not seem to me to be someone who would walk away from something simply because it seems difficult."

Turning her face to look at him, the eyes the color of honey moisten. "Everyone else in the family is good at something – singing, playing the piano, dancing – Margaret dances better than me and she has short legs. Even Angelique sings and Joshie draws. They do not even seem to try and it just happens. I cannot do any of those things."

"I find you to be quite talented," Nadir says, patting her hand. "You are quite clever when you speak – much like your father…and your stories are always very amusing."

"People laugh at them," she pouts.

"Do you not mean for people to laugh? I rather thought you enjoyed the smiles and chuckles."

"I just want them to like what I write."

"Laughter at a happy story is the highest compliment you can receive, little one."

"Everyone laughed at my Christmas story – I did not mean that to be funny."

Wrapping an arm around her, he gives her a hug. "Oh my, well, they…we were laughing at the babies, not your story. One thing you might want to consult with your father about is the casting of your plays."

A frown furrows her brow and her lower lip pushes out as she ponders his advice. "Casting?"

"When you create a show of any sort, you must find the people most appropriate for the roles in your story."

"Like when Maman sang certain songs and Meg sang others?"

"Exactly."

"Maman has a prettier voice than Meg did."

"Very true, your mother is quite gifted. Meg's first love was dancing, like her mother, your Auntie Adele."

"Maman does not dance."

"I believe she did at one time, but when it was discovered she had such a lovely voice, the managers of the opera house wanted her only to sing so she did not dance anymore," he says. "There, you see, not everyone can do everything."

"Papa can."

"Yes, it would seem so," the Persian chuckles.

Pushing the chart around with her fingertip, she says, "If Papa taught her, why can he not teach me?"

"Your Papa did tutor her, but the gift was already within her. Some sort of basic talent must be a part of a person. He heard her singing and wanted to help her become better. Just as he helps Gustave with his music and Henry with his drawing."

"What is your gift?" she asks, pushing the chart to one side, resting her head on her fist.

"I am very good at seeking solutions to problems and discovering the secrets of others."

"That is a gift?"

"Well, I have made a very good living at it for most of my life," Nadir laughs.

"I would not think asking questions would be so special."

"One must know which questions to ask and of whom – and then one must listen carefully to the answers," he says. "As a writer, this would be a good skill to have in developing your characters and stories."

Pondering his words, she says. "I see pictures in my head, but I cannot draw what I see. I can describe them on paper, though. Do you think I have a talent for writing?"

"I do."

"And you want to help me become better?"

"Yes, if you would like that."

"Do I still have to learn Persian?"

Nadir's head falls back in laughter. "No. But I thought that was what you wanted, so you could read the Rubaiyat."

"I think I would rather write better stories."

"Erik!" Adele cries out as she walks into the room.

"Adele, my dear, what are you doing up?" Nadir says, rising to his feet from the tasseled pillow, straightening his jacket as he walks toward her.

Ignoring him, she walks to Emilie, still seated, looking up at her.

The girl's amber eyes wide with a combination of fear and curiosity watching her Aunt Adele approaching her. "Hello, Auntie Adele."

The woman kneels down next to the girl, pulling her into a hug. Relaxing her hold of Emilie's shoulders she examines the oval face, framed in black hair recently cut into the newest bobbed style. "Your face healed. Oh, I am so happy. The horror of your face. No child should be forced to live with such a tragedy."

"Adele, what are you talking about?" Nadir asks.

"You! How did you…he get here?"

"What are you talking about?" Clenching his fists, he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Not now," he mutters to himself, "please, Allah, no scenes in front of the child."

"Erik, of course. The boy. Who else is there?" she growls at him, cleaving the girl closer to her. "Did you finally repent, you vile human? Thank God if you did. The boy looks healthy enough, clean and his face – beautiful."

To Emilie: "You look well. You were so sad when I last saw you, I could not bear it." After glancing at the floor next to the girl's pillow, she asks, "Where is your violin?"

"I do not have a violin." The girl folds her hands over the older woman's, pushing them away. "I am Emilie. Erik is my papa." Looking toward him, she says, "Uncle Nadir, I do not understand."

"Emilie?" Adele shakes her head, looking at her husband. "Nadir? I am sorry…I am confused."

"Not a problem, my dear. I am Nadir and this is Emilie – Erik and Christine's daughter. Remember now?" he says, walking over to her, guiding her to the low sofa. "I am…was teaching her Persian."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted to read Omarr Khayyam."

"I see. I am sorry I interrupted," she says, wringing her hands, the dark eyes darting from one place to another, refusing to rest. "I was napping and heard voices. Well, if you are engaged I should leave."

"You can stay if you want Auntie Adele. I changed my mind about learning Persian. Now I just want to write," Emilie says. "Did you know my papa when he was young?"

Looking off away from both her husband and the girl. "Not really. I only met him once when he was a boy."

The sound of the violin drew her to the gypsy wagon at the fairground. Never had she heard anything so lovely, even dancing at the Paris ballet where only the finest composers and musicians played. Who was creating such a glorious sound?

The sight of the boy, dressed in a loose shirt and worn jodhpurs, a ragged hood over his head stood on a box in front of the wagon. The sign "Child of the Devil" written in a rough hand leaned up against the pedestal. A tall man with tanned skin, black hair and deep green eyes, dressed in the colorful garb of his Romany heritage stood just behind the boy – in an odd contrast. His heavily lidded eyes watchful – both of the crowd and boy.

"Where is this devil child?" Someone in the growing crowd shouted out.

"Yah, just a boy with a bag over his head. Some devil."

"Plays good enough, but so what? Not worth a franc, if that is what you are seeking."

"Erik!" the man who was known as Javert called out. "Stop playing and remove the hood."

The boy stopped, placed his violin and bow on the stool next to him. As he sighed deeply, the frail body appeared to shrink even more into the ragged clothing. The command he held when playing gone. With slow movements, he raised his hands to remove the head covering. Lifting his chin, he opened his eyes and confronted first his master, then the crowd. Amber eyes filled with disdain.

The combined gasps and groans from the crowd stunned her.

When his gaze met hers, he offered a strange, crooked smile. Her own smile in return was instinctual. Were it not for the deformity, he was quite beautiful, particularly the strange eyes. Digging into her bag, she found a two franc coins and held them up. It was far more than she could afford, but, at the moment she only wanted to hear the boy continue. "Please play," she said walking over to Javert, keeping her eyes on the boy.

"You are no devil's child to play in such a way," she called out to him.

"Aw, lady, get on with you," a man in the crowd chided her. "Who but the devil would be cursed in such a way?"

"The Lord teaches the devil is beautiful, otherwise no one would follow him," was her retort.

"Ah, but 'tis the beauty of his music that is the gift of the devil," Javert said.

"You are the devil," she said, tossing the coins at him.

Walking to the boy, she asked, "Your name is Erik?"

"That is what I am called – a name among many – my name has no meaning."

"Will you play for us?" she asked, turning to Javert.

"The audience has paid," he replied. "Go ahead."

Before beginning Erik asked her name.

"Adele."

"And what would you like me to play for you Adele?"

His voice was strong and deep, much older than his appearance would suggest. "Vivaldi – the Four Seasons."

A small smile and with his next question, she heard a shift in the voice, a break. So he was young – younger than she at any rate. "Which one?"

"Winter, if you would."

"Winter it is." With a slight bow, he looked over to Javert who shrugged.

"We met again when he was older – at the Palais Garnier."

"You think I look like him? I sometimes think so."

"Do you?" Nadir asks.

Emilie nods. "Sometimes I will cover half my face when I look in the mirror, but he is an old man so I cannot really tell."

Nadir chuckles. "Yes, I suppose all of us must seem very old to you."

"Well, you are," Emilie says, cocking her head. "Maybe I can write about Papa…and Maman…and you and Auntie Adele."

"You could do that, certainly."

"I think I will, but you must tell me things..."

"Over the years I wondered what he might have looked like without the…damage," Adele interrupts their chatter. "I would say he looked very much like you. I think your new hairdo was a bit of shock. What happened to your curls?"

"Oh, all the girls are cutting their hair like this." She shakes the bob that still holds the waves of her thick black hair.

"Meg likes her shortened hair, too," Adele says. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. Said the long locks were too much trouble."

"Her hair was very pretty," Emilie says, looking at Nadir from the corner of her eyes.

"I wish she would come to see me," Adele says, walking to the long window, drawing back the heavy brocade drapes. "Gregory brings the child, but Meg never comes with them anymore." Turning back to Nadir. "Is she angry with me?"

"How can she come to visit, Auntie? Meg is dead," Emilie blurts out.

"What?"

"Adele, sit down," Nadir says, guiding her to the leather chair. Pressing a finger against his lips, he implores the girl's silence.

"I do not want to sit down." Pulling away from his grasp, she returns to Emilie, kneeling next to her, taking her shoulders again, only this time gripping her arms. "What do you mean she is dead."

"You know." Twisting from her grasp, Emilie gets to her feet. "You cried so much at the funeral. Uncle Nadir…"

"Let the girl be." Nadir follows Adele, lifting her from the floor. Lifting his chin – he indicates Emilie move away, before turning Adele to face him.

"Now I remember, you said she went back to Paris. How can she be dead? How could this child know such things and I do not?"

"There was an accident," he says. "In her dressing room."

The thin lips twist. "A broken mirror," Adele says, breathing deeply. "Now I remember. Glass all over. Her face was cut up – not in Paris?"

"No, dear, not in Paris," he sighs.

"Here. She died here." Standing stock still, she closes her eyes and cries out. "Oh, God. Oh, dear God."

"Come sit down." Turning to the girl, he says, "Emilie would you mind pouring your Aunt a glass of water…and call your papa to fetch you – I think our lessons are finished for the day."

Nodding, her eyes going back and forth between Nadir and Adele, Emilie pours the water from a carafe on the round table and brings it to him. Stepping back quickly away from them.

"The telephone is just outside the room, in the hallway."

"Can I help?"

"Thank you, no, dear. This is fine." Holding the glass to Adele's lips, he presses his lips against the dark hair.

After studying the couple for another moment, Emilie takes a deep breath and runs from the room.

"Papa, you must come here."

"So soon? You have only been there for…" checking his pocket watch… "less than an hour."

"Uncle says you must fetch me."

"Alright," he sighs. "Did he say why?" Hoping the answer was little more than Emilie becoming bored with the lessons and Nadir was adhering to her own wishes to come home.

"We were talking and Auntie Adele came in and thought I was you. Then she forgot who Uncle Nadir was."

"Oh dear, I can see why he would need to end your lesson."

"I decided I no longer wanted to learn Persian anyway."

"I see. Well, we can discuss that later. More importantly, is Adele alright, otherwise…except for the memory lapse?"

"She did not remember Meg was dead."

"Oh?" His stomach sinks, he presses his eyes shut. "Did you tell her?"

"Kind of. We were talking about my hair and Meg's hair and she complained how Meg never came to see her anymore. I just said Meg was dead."

Emilie's tone was so matter of fact, as if just saying it was raining outside. Was it because she was only eleven years old or simply had no sense of others' emotions? Was this why Christine always seemed so upset with the girl?

"She has no compassion, Erik. Angelique is three – that horrible age of tyranny but will still show concern if one of the others seem upset or hurt."

"You exaggerate – she is simply honest and outspoken."

"Worthy traits, but she is also cold and unfeeling except when it comes to her own desires."

"Perhaps if she had a skill…a gift these traits might be turned into something positive."

"I hope these lessons with Nadir will reap some rewards in that area."

Continuing her story, Emilie says, "Then she remembered and started to scream and cry. I gave her some water and Uncle is holding her now."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am fine. Uncle is very upset though – he said you need to come now."

"Of course, we are wasting time talking on the telephone," Erik says. "I shall be there shortly. Stay where you are."

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Would this make a good story?"

"I am sorry?"

"If I wrote this as a story, would people want to read it?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Uncle said I was a good writer."

"I see," Erik sighs. "Yes, I suppose it would be a good story, but I would not say anything to him about your idea – at least not now."

"All right – maybe at our next lesson," she says. "Please hurry. Adele told a story about when you were young and I want to learn more about that from you."

"Me? Well, we shall see," he says, "Get your things together, I will be there shortly." Hanging up the phone, he presses his hands on the desktop, head lowered. "Who are you, Emilie?" Putting aside his confusion and distress over her nonchalance, he lifts the receiver again, giving the operator a number. "Darius, we are needed at Nadir's – Adele appears to have recovered her memory and Nadir needs some support."

Leaving the study, he gathers himself as he enters the hallway. "Christine?" he calls out walking toward the conservatory. "We need to go to Nadir's."