Chapter 44
"The carriage will be here at six sharp," Julia said over her shoulder as she bustled around the bedroom and tied back the curtains.
Comfortable darkness gave way to an assault of bright morning sunlight, and I squinted once I turned over in bed and looked at Julia through gritty eyes.
"What hour is it?" I asked.
"Almost seven."
"Almost?"
"Well...closer to six-thirty."
I grabbed my pocket watch from the night stand and looked from the time to Julia. "It's six thirty-five," I grumbled before I turned over and buried my face in my pillow. "Almost seven indeed."
"Well, perhaps if you did not stay up until four in the morning you would have already enjoyed a full night of sleep."
"Creativity has no interest in this early of an hour."
Julia grunted. "You need to be awake by nine."
"For what?"
Julia closed the curtains again and ran her hand down my back. "For our day together."
"What do you have planned?"
Julia walked out the bedroom door. "You'll see at nine."
I woke at exactly nine to the sound of someone knocking on the door, which I otherwise would have slept through if not for Alex running like a bull and Bessie at his heels, baying for no other reason than she must have found it exciting.
The two of them elicited Madeline's wrath. If I had been able to sleep through Alex, Bessie, and the caller at the door, there was no possible way to close my eyes after hearing Madeline smack the end of her cane against the floor like a clap of thunder.
Sometimes I doubted she needed her cane for anything other than calling attention to herself.
"It's for Father!" Alex yelled. "Where is he?"
"Sleeping," Julia answered.
"Let him sleep," Madeline said. "He has been composing. He deserves to rest."
Her words made me smile as she had spent more than half of her life admonishing my less than ideal sleeping habits. Of course, considering she had slipped into the kitchen and joined me in the study at two in the morning, I assumed she felt guilty for keeping me awake.
Despite staying awake longer than I intended, I was glad for Madeline's company and the manner in which she always invited herself into whatever space I occupied. The moment she saw all of the old letters addressed to Joshua spread out on the dining room table, she pulled up a chair beside me, put her hand on my shoulder, and simply sat with me for two hours. We read together, piecing together parts of a past I struggled to understand.
"I am surprised you are awake this early seeing as how you were up as well keeping him company," Julia said.
"Well," Madeline huffed. I could see her in my mind, hands on her hips as she bristled at Julia's words. "I had to make certain he had eaten something."
"I feed Monsieur Kire regularly," Ruby said from the kitchen. She sounded quite offended by Madame's accusation that I might starve to death.
Unbeknownst to the hens clucking downstairs, Alex slipped into my room and quietly shut the door behind him.
"Father," he whispered. "Are you awake?"
Rather than wait for me to reply, he grabbed my shoulder and gave it a shake.
Only the deaf would be able to sleep in this house, I wanted to say.
"I am," I answered.
"It says it's from the theater," Alex said as he proceeded to shove the envelope in my face as I turned over. He stood over me, his face inches from mine. Despite months of him seeing my face, I still cringed at how close he stood to me. "Do you want me to open it for you?"
"No, that isn't necessary."
Before I finished speaking, Alex ripped open the top and paused, looking sheepishly down at me. "Oh. I thought you would say yes."
He stood upright, allowing me the space to sit up. Lips pursed, he handed me the opened envelope and climbed over me to sit on Julia's side of the bed.
I rubbed my face with my hand and took a deep breath before pulling the card out. Alex unabashedly read over my shoulder until I shot him a look.
"What does it say?" he asked as he leaned back.
"It's a request," I answered. "To meet with the conductor, orchestra and cast before the performance,"I added before Alex could start his barrage of questions.
"Why would they want to meet you?" Alex asked as if it was the most ludicrous idea he'd heard.
"Why indeed, Alexandre. I would assume it's because I wrote the opera."
"Are you going to meet with them before the performance?"
The opera house manager wanted a reply before five, most likely to prepare refreshments and such prior to our arrival. Since I had began playing the violin as a boy of thirteen and then dabbled unsuccessfully for years as a composer, I had dreamed of a reception with my peers and admirers. The more I played out the moment in my head, however, I envisioned myself healed of my scars. I suppose after years of being a mystery to the music world, I allowed myself a bit of fantasy.
But now the idea of meeting with the orchestra and performers was a distinct reality. I stared at the carefully penned card and considered how dreadfully wrong such an encounter could possible go.
"I do not think I will," I answered.
Alex grabbed my forearm and sat on his knees, his eyes bulging from the sockets. "But...but you must!" he exclaimed.
"I beg your pardon?"
Alex tilted his head down and looked me sternly in the eye. "You must."
"And why is that?"
"Because they will have punch and cookies. Mother said so and Aunt Meg agreed."
His answer made me smile unexpectedly. "Is that so?"
Alex gave a resolute nod. "And when Mother went to collect the tickets, everyone was anxious to meet the composer."
His words threatened to stop my heart. All of my life I had been met with fear, with dread, with contempt...I was not met with warmth or anxious excitement. "That is...that is quite absurd," I answered.
Julia walked into the bedroom with Lisette beside her. "I see Alex brought the invitation from the opera manager."
"You set this up," I said.
Julia shrugged, feigning innocence. "They've performed three of your operas, numerous symphonies and a few of your arias for their summer music series. Monsieur La Blanc said they have attempted for years to persuade you to attend one of the shows or at least a reception and not once have you responded."
Lisette looked up at her mother, lips parted and brow furrowed in a mix of horror and confusion. It was the same look Madeline gave me every time I crumpled up an invitation and discarded it.
They would have a certain perception of me, I told myself, an expectation I would never be able to meet no matter what as I was limited, held back by my appearance. It was better that I stayed away from the theater rather than disappoint the performers.
Each time they sent an invitation, I feared they would see me, tall and thin and masked, and decide they no longer wished to be associated with me or my music. Above all else, that was what bothered me. My music spoke for me. Behind the guise of melody, I was normal. I was exceptional. In person I was nothing but a beast.
"You aren't going to go?" Lisette asked. She stepped away from Julia and stood at the foot of the bed. "Oh, but you must."
"Another time," I said dismissively.
Secretly I wondered when the invitations would cease at last. Now that Le Blanc had met my wife, I had a feeling if I refused this time, the theater manager would finally give up.
"But Papa," Lisette pleaded. She looked crestfallen on my behalf.
"Lissy, it's fine," Julia said. The expression on her face said differently, and before I could say a word, Alex jumped off the bed.
"You look just like grand-mere when she is unhappy with Father," Alex said to Julia.
Julia forced a smile at him. "Why don't you water the flowers for Meg like you promised?" she suggested.
Alex and Lisette raced down the stairs and out the back door. Once they were gone, Julia closed the bedroom door and leaned against it. She exhaled and shook her head at me. "Monsieur Le Blanc said he doubted you would accept his invitation. He said this is the tenth one he has sent over the years."
"What of it?"
"Per my request we have our own box seats open an hour before the performance. They will not tell anyone where we are sitting or if we are in attendance for your privacy. He even gave me a full menu selection for a bite before the show begins and I picked out a few desserts."
I didn't mean to meet her eye just then, but Julia knew what would garner my full attention.
"They do not want to meet me," I said at last.
"Of course they do."
"No, they want the composer. They do not want me."
Julia eyed me for a long moment. "They want the talented, elusive, uncooperative man I married to consume all of their desserts and graciously accept their compliments."
"No-"
"Erik, I spoke to Monsieur Le Blanc at length about this reception. The room will be dimmed as I told him your eyes sometimes bother you in full light. I explained to him that there should be no one in attendance other than the orchestra and the principals. He agreed to every term. If you do not attend the reception tonight, then when will you?" Julia crossed her arms and lifted her chin. "Never. And you will live the rest of your life not once hearing what the people performing your work think."
"You act as though they will be disappointed if I do not attend."
"It is no act," Julia argued. "I could not have been in the theater for more than an hour and yet every single person I encountered was warm and welcoming. The moment I introduced myself, a dozen people flocked to my side and said they had heard rumors of you, Erik Kire, attending the very first performance of your opera some time this week. They've worked in an extra rehearsal simply because they seek your approval."
I could not deny the swell of pride I felt, and yet trepidation consumed me.
"How long is the reception?" I asked, making every attempt to sound disinterested.
Julia offered a gentle smile before she bent and kissed me on the lips. "However long you wish to stay," she answered. "You are in full control of the reception. If you wish to stay for five minutes, so be it. If you wish to stay for an hour, they will be honored to have you."
I looked from her to my mask on the nightstand.
"They know about the mask," Julia added.
"You told them?"
Julia shook her head. "Monsieur Le Blanc said he had heard from someone years ago that you were wounded. He asked me if that is why your eyes are sensitive to the light."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him he was correct and that if anyone questioned you about the mask or if we received word of any rumors stemming from the reception I would personally collect all of your work and they would not be allowed to play any of your music ever again."
I raised an eyebrow at her bold words. "You most certainly did not."
Julia gave a casual shrug. "I suppose if you agree to attend you will find out for yourself."
"You wish to attend?"
Her stern expression gave way to a smile. "I wish to stand at your side no matter what, but yes, if I am being quite honest then I would relish the opportunity to hear every single person in Paris sing your praises."
"Aside from your uncle," I pointed out.
"Aside from my uncle," Julia agreed.
"Then tell Le Blanc…" I hesitated, my gaze settling on my mask once more. The mask of a ghost, as Phelan had put it.
"You are the composer," Julia said. She took a seat beside me on the edge of the bed and placed her palm against my cheek. Gently she pulled my attention from the mask to her face. "You are the man who has created this breathtaking piece of work and you are going to give your wife a memorable wedding gift."
"Of course," I replied.
Julia offered a smile of satisfaction. "I will send back word at once," she promised. Her gaze settled on my lips and she leaned forward. "And one more thing."
"Hmm?"
"Dr. Kahn said you may resume your marital duties."
I pulled back and looked her over. "A memorable wedding gift indeed."
Julia threw her head back and laughed as she playfully pushed against my chest. "Up with you, E.M. Kire, dress yourself and have breakfast with your family."
oOo
Lisette lit up like a firefly once Julia announced we would be leaving early for the reception prior to the performance. She clapped at the dining room table, then hopped out of her seat and ran up to hug me before she returned to her seat.
In steep contrast, Alex merely shrugged at the news and continued eating faster than Ruby could put food on his plate.
"Monsieur Le Blanc is a very nice man," Madeline commented. She had declined eating with us, but still sat at the table with her usual cup of black coffee.
"How do you know him?" I questioned.
Madeline gave a shrug. "I know everyone."
That was quite possibly the truest statement ever uttered.
"And everything," Alex glowered.
Julia looked up from her breakfast and eyed Alex. "I beg your pardon, Alex?"
He slouched low in his seat and muttered something under his breath.
"I told him I have eyes in the back of my head," Madeline said. She looked at Alex from the corner of her eye. "Didn't I, Alex?"
"Yes," he groaned.
We finished breakfast and Julia told the children to wash their hands and brush their hair for a walk to the park.
"Fresh air will do everyone good," she said before she chased after Alex to make sure he did as she said.
"Did you find anything last night?" Madeline asked once we were alone in the dining room.
"I went to bed after you left," I answered.
She grunted. "Phelan Kimmer," she said to herself. "I've heard his name. I wonder if Charles knows of him, being that he knows so many artists."
"He may."
"Ask him," Madeline suggested. She leaned closer and patted the back of my hand. "Monsieur Le Blanc will treat you well."
"Was he employed at the Opera House?" I asked. His name was not familiar to me, but there were a hundred people employed within the theater at any given time and quite frankly I made no attempt to remember most of them.
"No. He was in Florence up until a few years ago."
"Do you know any of the dancers or members of the orchestra?"
Madeline searched my face. "You are worried about being caught," she said quietly.
Lisette giggled down the hallway. The music in her voice gave me pause and I looked away from Madeline and toward the doorway where Lisette told Alex to quit splashing her and Alex told her to stop standing so close.
"You should know by now I am not concerned for myself," I said quietly.
"You are hardly the only man in France wearing a mask."
I shrugged. Her words made me feel no better.
"There is nothing tying you to the old theater other than rumors," Madeline pointed out. "And no one knows where you went after that night. The world thought you were dead."
That wasn't quite true. There was a decent number of people who knew who I was and where I lived, including Raoul de Chagny, Phelan Kimmer, and Kamil Khan. Not quite a list of champions in my corner.
Madeline rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and exhaled. "What are you going to do then?"
"Attend the opera reception," I said. And hope to God no one whispered of the rumors concerning the opera ghost of long ago.
OoO
Apparently afternoons in summer were reserved for concerts and performances in the park, which was why Julia decided to drag everyone out for the day.
Lisette and Alex ran ahead toward the music while Julia clung to my arm as we strolled down the street in the opposite direction from the noise and crowds of the world exposition.
"A few hours out of the house will pass the time," Julia commented. "I don't recall when I last attended an opera. I must say, I am looking forward to a night out with my husband to hear his work as it should be heard." She gave a dreamy sigh and briefly rested her head against my arm.
Unlike Julia, I could recall every last miserable detail of the final opera I had attended. The heat of the lighting, the suits the members of the orchestra wore, and the gendarmes guarding every entrance and exit were forever burned into my thoughts.
This time would be different, I told myself. The theater managers, conductors, and performers were not simply familiar with my work, but they sent complimentary tickets and invites to events several times a year.
The head of staff knew the quality of my compositions and had spent years attempting to draw me in to their theater. For once, my presence was requested, not dreaded.
And of course as Madeline had pointed out, there were other men, some scared at birth, others scared through wars or occupational hazards, that donned masks to conceal their faces. I had already decided to wear a flesh-toned half-mask instead of the white one in hopes of being inconspicuous.
"Are you feeling unwell?" Julia asked as she came to an abrupt stop.
I blinked at her. "I'm fine."
She frowned at me, her hazel eyes searching mine. "Good. I didn't know if you spotted him and wished to leave."
I started to ask what she meant when I saw Phelan from the corner of my eye in a group of other gentleman.
"I don't think he saw us," Julia said. "At least he hasn't looked this way."
Much to my relief, Phelan shook hands with the men he spoke to, tipped his hat at a woman slightly overdressed for the park, and continued on his way. As soon as he left, I realized two of the people he spoke to were Elizabeth Kimmer and Anthony Seuratti.
Julia squeezed my arm, apparently noticing them as well.
"Lissy!" Anthony exclaimed. He pulled Lisette into his arms and whirled her around, oblivious to her blatant look of disapproval. Given our previous conversation, I assumed she was too mature to be spun around. "Where is your mother?"
Lisette pointed to where we stood and Anthony looked startled to see me beside my wife in a crowded park in the middle of a summer day. That made two of us.
"You just missed my uncle," Elizabeth said as she reached out to Julia. Once she noticed me following along like an obedient dog behind its master, Elizabeth waved and smiled.
"You look beautiful," Julia commented.
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over her skirts. "We are going to have a photograph taken," she said with a grin.
Julia's mouth dropped open. "How exciting."
Elizabeth leaned in close and said in a voice I could barely hear, "The photographer worked with Camille Silvy when Silvy was still in London. Uncle Phelan paid for the session and requested Monsieur Silvy attend the shoot."
Julia's eyes widened. "That was quite generous."
Elizabeth smiled back. "He calls me his one and only favorite niece," she said with a laugh.
Although Silvy had fallen out of popularity almost twenty years ago, he had made a name for himself with an impressive body of work that included many members of the British Royal Family. Once he closed his studio, he returned to France and fell into obscurity. From what I had gathered out of the newspaper and bits of conversation with Charles, who knew of Silvy through his associates, the famed photographer had spent the last few years in and out of hospitals and asylums. The very thought made me shudder. I wondered what state of mine he was presently in if he considered attending a photography session.
"Will we see the two of you tomorrow evening?" Elizabeth asked. She looked from Julia to me when she spoke.
"I believe so," I answered.
"Tonight they are attending one of Papa's operas!" Lisette exclaimed far louder than necessary. Several people around us turned to briefly stare before they continued on their way.
"Oh, how wonderful! I read in the paper that this will be your first time?" Elizabeth asked as she turned her full attention to me.
"Of my own work, yes," I answered.
Julia squeezed my arm. "The first of many."
Anthony and Elizabeth excused themselves and headed in the same direction as Phelan. While Alex and Lisette browsed several vendors hawking puppets and small trinkets, Julia clung tighter to my arm.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked.
If I answered truthfully, Julia was more than likely going to issue a disapproving look in my direction.
"I enjoy every moment with you," I answered.
Julia looked at me sideways. "The two of them will be tired soon enough," she said with a nod toward our children. "Then we can leave."
We walked aimlessly around and listened to the music from a four piece orchestra. Painters perched on folding stools set up easels around the park, some under the shade of trees and others in full sunlight. Every single one of them sat with brows furrowed and sleeves rolled up their forearms. A man on a unicycle weaved through the crowd juggling wooden balls, much to the delight of younger children.
The city was alive with art and entertainment, and I found myself fascinated by sight and sound melding together. I paused in front of a young man with sandy blond hair and a scruffy beard slightly darker than his shoulder length hair and watched as he sat hunched forward, chewing the end of his paintbrush.
He seemed to be in the midst of a daydream, his foot tapping wildly against the ground, which reminded me of Alex.
Compared to the other people walking around the park, this painter was, by all appearances, a starving artist. His clothes were ill-fitting and shoes falling apart. More than his appearance, however, I noticed he had painted a piano in the middle of a field of what appeared to be lavender. Sitting atop the piano was a poodle. Compared to the rest of the fine landscapes created by his fellow artists, this particular scene was enjoyably ludicrous.
The young man stood to stretch and caught me staring at his work. He gave a sheepish grin, placed his paintbrush on the easel ledge, and stuffed his paint-covered hands in his pockets. "Does my work offend you?"
"Not at all."
His smile widened. I noticed a scar down his cheek that cut through his beard, a thin, straight line that appeared almost silver against his light complexion. "That is quite unfortunate."
The response made me chuckle. "Oils?" I asked.
He nodded. "An expensive waste of paint, I'm afraid."
"Would you sell it?"
The man laughed. "You wish to purchase this?"
I glanced from him to the painting. "Yes."
"Who sent you to inquire about my painting? Paul, was it?" He nodded toward a heavy-set man who looked rather pompous as he studied his own work.
"I do no man's bidding," I assured him.
The young man's face straightened. He attempted to hold my gaze, but his eyes kept returning to my mask for a half second at a time. "Claude Gillis," he said, offering his hand. Before I could accept, he grabbed a rag and attempted to clean the paint from his fingertips to his wrist to no avail.
"Erik Kire," I answered.
"Pleasure meeting…" He paused, eyes narrowed, and stared at me. "Paul did send you over here as an elaborate jest, that bastard."
"No one sent me," I said. My patience waned.
Claude's hand dropped away from mine and he shifted his weight. "But then...you would be…"
"The composer," I answered with a sigh. Truly, I could not understand why the few people I had met in recent weeks gawked and stammered like fools once they heard my name.
He ran his hand through his thick hair, leaving behind a small streak of blue as he looked around as though he needed clarification for my response.
"The composer Erik...Monsieur Erik Kire, wishes to purchase my painting. This particular painting."
I nodded, unsure of what else to say considering he had described my intentions and I had nothing else to add.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I like pianos," I answered.
Claude stared back at me as though he was not certain if I was serious.
"Have you sold any of your work?" I asked.
"Three paintings," Claude said. "To my mother."
He may as well have answered 'no'. Clearly he was not much of a businessman.
"How much do you want for it?" I asked.
Claude puffed out his cheeks as he considered my words. "Price of materials, with the paint I used and of course the canvas would come to-"
I motioned for him to stop speaking as I had no desire to hand him enough money to pay for his art supplies. "Would four hundred francs suffice?"
Claude took a step back and visibly swallowed. "You cannot be serious," he said as he looked back at the painting. "This is hardly worth four francs."
"Art is worth what someone is willing to pay for it." I was fairly certain I had overheard Charles say that to one of his artist friends.
"Erik," Julia called as she approached. I turned my attention from the bewildered artist to my wife, who had gathered Alex and Lisette.
"A moment," I said to her.
She looked from me to the artist, offered a smile, and then caught sight of the painting and raised an eyebrow.
"Claude Gillis," the young man said to Julia.
"Julia Kire, pleased to meet you," she answered absently.
"You are his wife?"
Julia nodded.
"Then he is the composer?"
"Yes." Julia gave me a questioning look.
"I am Alex and it's far too hot outside," my son groaned as he stared up at the sky and appeared terribly inconvenienced.
Lisette put herself in front, curtsied, and gave a toothy grin. "My name is Lisette. How do you do?" she asked with a flutter of eyelashes.
Claude offered a deep bow in return and pretended to kiss Lisette's hand, which delighted her in the most alarming fashion.
I cleared my throat and garnered Claude's attention once more. "I will send payment at once," I said. "Do you have a studio?"
"Not at the moment," he answered. "But once the paint has dried sufficiently you must allow me to deliver this to you, especially for the amount you wish to pay."
Claude scurried around his easel to a pack lying beside a bicycle I hadn't noticed in the grass. He took out a small notebook and pencil and handed it to me.
"Wherever you wish to meet, I will be there with the painting," he assured me.
I wrote down the address to Julia's old house and handed it back. "Monday at noon," I said.
He scribbled down the date and time and nodded. "Yes, yes, absolutely Monsieur Kire, he said. "I would offer you another painting as well, but perhaps you would like to commission a piece?"
"I will consider it," I said before I offered my arm to Julia and bid Claude Gillis fair well.
"You bought that painting of a dog on a piano?" Julia whispered.
"In a field of lavender," I added.
"How much did you pay him?"
"I haven't yet, but I offered him four hundred francs."
Julia gasped. "Four hundred?"
I could have afforded a much greater sum, but four hundred seemed reasonable. Monsieur Gillis would be able to purchase whatever supplies he desired, new clothing which he needed, and rent if he had an apartment in Paris.
"Four hundred," I confirmed.
"I thought Charles was the one who collected art."
"He does."
"What are you going to do with this painting?"
"Prominently display it in our home."
