Ch 98

Claude sat with his head down and his quivering lips tightly pursed. Eyes closed, he sniffled and I looked away, focusing my attention on a magazine Lisette had left on my desk. I rifled noisily through the pages my daughter had marked with slips of paper and notations on the stories she wished to read.

From the corner of my eye I saw his lips part twice before he managed to compose himself. "The headmistress offered to speak with me in private when I visited Apolline. I was under the initial impression that she was quite pleased to send my sister home with me, but then she expressed how difficult the past year has been financially for the home."

"I see."

I envisioned Claude as he followed the headmistress into her dark-paneled office, a severe woman in an equally cold environment. I imagined Claude in his light trousers and white lawn shirt, hat gripped tightly in his fists as he took his seat and waited to be given custody of his sister.

But then, as the moments passed, his eagerness and excitement faded once the woman who ran the home made it clear that his sister would not be returning with him.

"She said that the amount of funds they have spent nurturing Apolline for the last six years must be repaid before they would consider releasing her into my care. I must provide fifteen percent a week before I wish to take her home, then an additional ten percent the day I arrive. The remainder must be paid monthly in installments of ten percent."

I studied him for a long moment, at the visible anguish apparent in his diminished weight and the dark circles under his eyes.

"They wish for you to reimburse them for six years of care?" I asked.

"Demanded outright."

"How much?"

"Quite a lot."

I sniffed and rubbed the back of my neck. "It seems far more likely that The Elise School for Girls has failed in a much greater capacity than you have."

"And yet she is still there."

"What is the total?" I asked impatiently as I reached into my desk drawer in search of my checkbook. Whatever the amount, he would be able to pay in full and finally bring his sister home to live with him.

Claude hesitated. His gaunt cheeks reddened and he stared at the checkbook I produced, then turned his attention to his slender, calloused hands. "May I ask you a question first?"

I nodded once and opened my checkbook to the first blank check and wrote the date at the top.

"Do you...do you consider me a friend, Monsieur Kire, or...or someone in need of financial assistance?"

I paused. "You are a talented artist," I started to say, but Claude immediately pushed his chair back and stood abruptly, which garnered my full attention.

"I will not disrupt another moment of your day."

I stared up at him, my brow furrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

Claude started toward the door, his hands in fists. "Good day to you, sir. I shall not disturb you again."

"Claude-"

He turned from me at the exact moment Alex burst into the parlor and collided with our guest, nearly toppling himself in the process. Claude managed to reach out and grab Alex by the shoulder to keep him from falling, which my son mistook for a hug. He flung his arms around Claude and patted him heartily on the back.

"Monsieur Gillis, you really are here!" Alex stepped back and offered his hand, grinning with unabashed delight. "How do you do?" Before Claude could answer, Alex furrowed his brow. "Have you forgotten to eat again? You look very thin."

Claude cleared his throat. "Alex, I do apologize-"

"Would you care to have breakfast with me before my lessons? There is plenty of food to share. You should see our kitchen! My mother and aunt made a terrible mess again."

"I'm afraid I must be on my way."

"But you only arrived a moment ago. My mother told me."

"A brief visit, I'm afraid."

Julia burst through the door, her eyes wide and face red. "Alex, there you are," she said, making a failed attempt at hiding her frustration. "What did I say about interrupting?"

Alex looked as though Julia spoke a language foreign to him. "I was trying to be polite and invite our guest to breakfast."

Julia took a deep breath. "Your Aunt Meg has prepared eggs for you and Lissy at her house. Go join your sister at once before Charles starts without you."

"But-"

"Madame, you needn't worry," Claude said. "I was about to leave. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"No inconvenience at all," Julia assured him. "But I simply must insist that you stay a moment longer. The coffee is hot and the bread is still warm from my cousin's bakery. Plus," Julia added with a proud grin, "I've finished the first batch of strawberry jam and if you don't have at least a spoonful, Alex and Erik will undoubtedly finish the jar before lunch."

Alex made a face. "I hope there is more than one jar," he muttered. "They're so tiny."

Julia's eyes cut to me and then back to Alex. "You are far too much like your father," she said under her breath. "I'll not argue with you, young man. Off you go."

Claude averted his eyes and swept his fingers through his light hair. "You are very kind, Madame. Strawberry jam is my favorite, but-"

"Make yourself comfortable," Julia said as she turned on her heel and exited the parlor with Alex in tow.

"My lessons are only three hours long! Please wait, Monsieur Gillis! I want to ask your opinion on something extremely important," Alex said before he was ushered out of the room.

Claude's mouth hung open as he watched the door shut behind my wife and son. He shifted his weight and stood for a long moment, clearly bewildered by the situation and unsure whether or not he should excuse himself or simply bolt from the room and never return again.

I cleared my throat and he glanced at me before once again averting his gaze like a child expecting to be scolded.

"I do hope you realize that if you leave now, Julia would consider your abrupt exit my doing, thus placing me in mortal danger of her wrath," I said. "I'm afraid she would not allow me a spoonful of the aforementioned jam, either, which would be the cruelest form of punishment."

Claude remained silent, either unaware that my words were meant lightly or annoyed by my facetious tone.

"Now, Monsieur Gillis, I must insist that you kindly take your seat."

"I…" Claude said without meeting my eye. He took his seat just as the clock began to chime, ten bells for the mid-morning hour, and Claude was forced to wait until the last tone rang out. He refused to look at me for the ten seconds it took for the clock to give the time, but his cheeks were bright red, which said enough.

"I should inform you that I've decided to sell all of the art supplies I've bought myself and return the paints and canvases purchased under your account," he blurted out. "You should be refunded at Bloom's in full for this month. It won't be much as I've only bought one canvas and two of the brushes I've yet to use, but nonetheless they will be sent back."

I studied him, brow furrowed at his unexpected news. "I see."

"I am no longer able to accept your generous offer as my patron," Claude said firmly. His bottom lip quivered, his light eyes filled with remorse. "I appreciate very much the financial generosity you have offered, but I have accepted double shifts at the factory, which means I will no longer have time to-"

"You are giving up painting to work longer hours in a factory?" I interrupted.

Claude inhaled and nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

He offered a humorless laugh. "I am finally admitting that I have failed to create anything worth selling in the six years I have so ignorantly called myself an artist. I am barely able to afford my rent and put food on my table for myself. The extra hours will be worth it when I am able to bring Apolline home at last and care for my sister." Claude began to fidget in his seat, his fingers tapping the arm of the chair. "It is what my mother wanted and what I have been unable to provide. Quite frankly, I should have done this years ago, before my sister was in the home at all."

"How much will you receive for the supplies you have purchased yourself?"

Claude shrugged. "Fifty francs, perhaps?"

"For everything?" The easel alone had to be worth at least seventy-five, and I could only guess what other items he had accumulated over the years.

He nodded. "Better than nothing at all."

"And then you will no longer be considered an artist?"

Claude's lips parted, but he didn't readily speak. "I suppose not," he said under his breath. "Better a failed artist than a failed brother."

I sat back and steepled my hands. "How long do you intend to work double shifts for extra income?"

"As long as necessary."

"How long are the shifts?"

"Ten hours."

"How many days a week?"

"Three to four."

"An additional thirty to forty hours a week?"

Claude gave a single, wary nod.

"Twenty hours spent in a factory with four hours rest between shifts," I said. "That is an exceptionally long work day."

Claude raised his chin. "I am aware. I have worked four extra shifts this week."

I lifted a brow, understanding why Claude appeared so exhausted. I noticed his hands were raw, his fingertips cracked from the chemicals.

"Do you enjoy the work?" I asked.

Claude shrugged. He continued to fidget, apparently unaware that I studied his overused hands. "I've grown accustomed to being on my feet all day. And the smell is barely noticeable now."

I'd passed by the factory on evening walks when Bessie needed to expend more of her energy as it was a considerable distance from our home. Even several hours after the building was void of workers, the pungent chemicals used for treating leather stung my eyes depending on the direction of the wind. I imagined in the winter it was freezing cold with the windows open and in the summer stifling hot within the building, creating discomfort all year long.

"Who would care for your sister during those hours? I can't imagine you would wish to leave her alone in your flat while you are at work six days a week."

Claude's determination faltered, the resolution in his tired gaze crumbling. I expected a flare of anger and a defiant outburst, as I would have been quite annoyed if our places had been exchanged and someone had dared to undermine my plans with reasoning and facts.

I thought of Madeline and how she had attempted time and again to gently point out the errors of my ways or the flaws in my intentions, but I had never listened. I hadn't wanted her opinion; I had wanted confirmation that I was correct and she supported my endeavors, regardless of how foolish. As Claude sat before me, his gaze once again averted, I dreaded that he would do as I would have done: stormed from the room and slammed the door, erupting in rage.

But Claude didn't move, much less speak. He considered my words in silence, his eyes distant and morose.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Kire," Claude said at last. "But you have enjoyed much success and celebration. I do not think you would understand what it is like to fail so miserably, to leave those around you devastated with their disappointment."

My eyes snapped up and I stared at him, waiting with breath held for the inevitable snide remark I knew would follow. I'd been the biggest failure in not simply Paris, but all of France.

"Is that what you think?"

Claude's cheeks reddened as I stared him down. He looked away and shrugged. "You've been a successful composer for as long as I can recall," he pointed out, his response apologetic. "I could not imagine there has been a time when you were not celebrated for your work."

He could not have been older than ten years of age when the Opera Populair had burned to the ground. Perhaps it was simply he was too young to recall the reign of the Opera Ghost, or perhaps he'd been preoccupied with caring for his sick mother. Whatever the reason, Claude's expression revealed he truly thought of me as Erik Kire, not the Phantom.

"Indeed," I said under my breath. His perception came as a relief as out of all the people I had become acquainted with in recent months, Claude was the only one who didn't no my past. "Fortunately you were not yet alive or old enough to bear witness to my many failures. And apparently you've not read a single review by Luc Testan if you think I've been celebrated exclusively."

"I've read them," Claude answered. "He's a pretentious old fool who has terrible taste in music and seems to hate everyone and everything. I would not give much consideration to his opinions."

I grunted. "Easier said than done."

In my young mind, my first lofty attempt at writing an opera had been a glorious masterpiece worthy of praise, a production that should have been performed in every corner of the world for decades. I recalled thumbing through the finished score, elated with myself and all I had accomplished. From start to finish, my opera had taken me six weeks of composing day and night, practically without a moment of rest. Mozart would be shelved to make room for my music. Bizet all but forgotten. Offenbach's unfinished opera thrown into the rubbish bin.

"What was it about?" Claude politely inquired.

"I don't recall the details." Truly I had no desire to recount the sloppy, overwritten and melodramatic opera that I thought would be my legacy. It was six acts long and centered around a frog and a vole entwined in forbidden forest romance, and as an adult I could hardly believe I had once thought it would be well-received and performed forever. Not to mention how many hours of my life I spent dedicated to my beloved disaster.

"That is a pity."

"Hardly," I assured him. "It was no great masterpiece, despite my weeks of toiling away for hours on end. That was the first of many failures in almost three decades worth of writing music. In fact, it was the first in a steady stream of work that would never be heard. Far more of my music has been used for kindling than for entertainment."

Claude looked from his raw, paint-stained hands to my ink-stained fingers. "Three decades? That is an impressive amount of time you have spent as a composer."

"The first twenty years were forgettable at best and probably don't count."

"But still...that is longer than I've been alive," Claude said more to himself than to me.

"An unnecessary reminder of your enviable youth," I muttered.

"Why did you continue to write music if you struggled so greatly for such a long time?"

The most honest answer was loneliness. I had no mother or father, no siblings that I knew existed, and my uncle had died and I had buried him alone. I'd spent more than a year being exploited six days a week in a traveling fair where I was beaten daily and had escaped to live beneath an opera house.

The nightmares were relentless, and to keep from being consumed by my suffering in a life I had no desire to live, I put all of my focus into melody, into the only aspect of my existence that didn't hurt me physically or emotionally. Deep inside my thorny mind, there was beauty that begged to be discovered. Without music, I was ugly and unwanted, a burden on the rest of the world best forgotten. I had grown tired of being reminded of my ugliness, of how I did not fit in.

It made no sense to me how I could have been surrounded physically by darkness, but inside me there was a different world, a better world that no one would have guessed existed. I could disappear there for hours on end, surrounded by the lush music that swelled within my mind.

And I could arrange or rearrange the notes to my liking, creating a new scene to an opera that unfolded behind my closed eyes. I saw the flow of the story in my thoughts and willed my sleep to reflect these moments, to push past the reality of what my nightmares revealed, and float through a world of make-believe. There I was safe, the master of my own fantastic domain. In my music-filled dreams, I had control and the notes obeyed me. I had a purpose when it came to music, a reason to live and breathe that I'd never had before outside of misery.

I had to write music, there was no choice to be made. Every note, every melody, every bar and chord was inside of me, waiting to be brought to life and played. The music relied on me as much as I relied on the sounds swirling inside of my thoughts. As alone as I was in the rest of the world, there I was a part of something that had never pushed me away or made me feel insignificant.

"I'm a composer," I said simply when I realized I hadn't answered aloud. "I cannot deny the music inside of me any more than I could avoid breathing."

Claude readily nodded, one artist understanding another. "How did you support yourself when you struggled?"

I sat back and straightened the handful of envelopes someone had left on my desk from the morning post. "Not by composing."

Claude waited for me to elaborate, which I did not, and thankfully Julia walked back into the room with a tray of fresh bread and jam, which she placed in front of Claude and nearly out of my reach.

"Would you like…" Her voice trailed away once she noticed Claude's strained expression, and she gave me a questioning look.

"Tea," I said. "For both of us, if you would be so kind, my dear."

Julia silently nodded and looked to Claude, who didn't meet her eye.

Once my wife left again, Claude sat back and sighed. "I promised Apolline when I was there for a visit that I would see her in six weeks and we would leave together. I did not tell her that the home would not release her into my care without receiving substantial compensation." He paused, his blue eyes glassy as he produced a pamphlet from his coat pocket. "She has written to me three times and each letter practically bursts with her excitement at the mere thought of coming to live in Paris with me. I fear she will never write to me again once she realizes I am not competent enough to provide for her."

"You can provide for her."

Claude stared across the desk at me, his jaw working in a moment of silence. "Forgive me, Monsieur Kire, but I cannot financially provide for my sister. You could, but I cannot. At least not on my own."

"You have no other living family?" I asked. "Aunts and uncles? Cousins?"

"None willing to offer assistance on my mother's side and my father's?" Claude shrugged. "I am not certain they know he has a daughter to be honest. He is not the sort of man to keep in contact."

I immediately looked up from the stack of letters I'd started to straighten, one of which was from my brother, surprised by Claude's words. "Your father is still living? You've never mentioned him before."

"As far as I am aware he is still alive, but of course I haven't seen him in three months despite his vows to keep in contact."

"He lives here?" I asked.

"He is a vagrant that occupies whatever corner of the world that hasn't asked him to leave. Quite frankly I'm astounded he hasn't run out of corners yet," Claude answered, a bitter edge to his voice that didn't suit his usually amiable demeanor. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and eyed the food Julia had set in front of him. I waited for him to elaborate, but he chose to keep the details to himself, which I supposed was fair enough. All men deserved to keep their secrets.

"Regardless of whether he is alive or dead, he has proven time and again that we cannot rely on him. I am solely responsible for my sister."

He placed the pamphlet on the desk and absently reached for a generous piece of bread, which he slathered in a thick layer of jam.

"Is this from the home for girls?" I asked, eyeing the folded paper on the edge of my desk.

Claude nodded, his mouth stuffed with bread and jam that prevented him from verbally replying. He pushed the pamphlet toward me and continued to chew furiously.

I opened the modest brochure advertising The Elise Christian Home for Girls and browsed the contents while Claude managed to say that the headmistress had included it with the letter he'd received from his sister.

The Elise boasted praise for their nurturing ways and guaranteed all of their orphaned or unwanted wards were healthy, content, and would make excellent additions to a family opening their arms to a less fortunate child. Their waiting daughters were exceptional and would be grateful to be adopted, whether they were infants or nearing young adulthood. All were groomed in fine manners and had learned how to keep a tidy home, for which they would be honored to do for prospective parents.

"This," I said, tapping the top left inner corner where a number had been written and circled several times in red ink. "This is the amount of repayment?"

Claude had finished chewing his food, but he remained silent a moment longer. His face was drained of color, but he finally nodded.

"This is…"

"A considerable amount," Claude finished for me.

I doubted he would be able to repay The Elise the proposed fifty thousand francs in his lifetime with the meager wages of factory work, no matter how many hours he put in. Perhaps two or three lifetimes he would be able to compensate the godly institution for their child rearing, but he would work himself to death in the process.

I pushed the brochure back toward Claude and sniffed. "Unless your sister is housed in her own private quarters on some sprawling estate, I doubt the validity of their claims that her care has put such a financial burden on their establishment."

"I know for a fact they have not put fifty thousand into her care. Apolline shares a room with five other girls, three to a bed," Claude explained, keeping his voice low. "Their living space is comparable to my bedroom in my flat with the same leaking roof and a few extra mice in the walls."

"How lovely."

"The girls her age and older are responsible for the day-to-day upkeep of the home as well as caring for the younger children. They are not coddled, delicate girls living in a comfortable countryside manor as the drawing depicts." He eyed the pamphlet with disdain. "They are free labor for the headmistress and her sisters."

"Do they receive an education?"

Claude shrugged. "One of the donors recently supplied a number of books and other gifts for their school house, but they do not have a teacher this year from what I understand, so I am not certain why they have made mention of their updated library. Apolline spends more time on her hands and knees scrubbing floors than she does at a desk learning to read. I saw it for myself when I paid a visit. Quite frankly, I don't know what else I am to do."

I considered asking him to save the last morsels for me, but he managed to eat the last piece of bread before I could speak. I settled for a deep sigh and pursed my lips.

"You understand my predicament, then?" Claude muttered once he swallowed the last of the food. "And you realize why I have no choice but to quit painting and do as much as I can in order to bring my sister home with me?"

"I understand you've already made up your mind," I said. "What is unclear is why you seem to be soliciting advice on a matter that you have already decided."

Claude moved the last crumb around on his plate and frowned. "I did not walk to your home to end the patronage you have so generously offered me," he said, his voice tight. He swallowed hard, and took a breath before he closed his eyes and continued speaking. "To be completely honest, I came to your home hoping, perhaps foolishly, that I could consult with someone I have come to greatly admire and value, someone I would like to think of not as a source of charity, but as...as a friend."