Chapter 104
Madeline was seated at the dining room table when I came down to let Bessie outside in the back garden the following morning. She had her usual cup of coffee in front of her and several papers spread out on the table.
The unexpected sight of her in my home nearly stopped my heart.
"Do you ever sleep?" I grumbled.
To my surprise, she chose to ignore me and I was forced to walk out of the room and into the kitchen as Bessie whined to relieve herself. Once the dog was outside, I returned to the dining room and stood in the doorway, waiting for Madeline to acknowledge me.
It was rare that Madeline deployed the tactic of the silent treatment, but when she did, I had no idea how to react or rectify the situation. For years I had become tolerant of overall silence, but I never grew accustomed to her ignoring me.
"You are not speaking to me?" I asked, irritated by her silence.
Madeline eyed me over her reading glasses, a flicker of annoyance cast in my direction. Still, she said nothing.
"You are in my home, drinking my coffee-" I said through my teeth.
She rose to her feet and gathered her papers and coffee cup without sparing me a glance. My lips parted, but anything I wished to say would be a detriment to my cause. In silence I remained in the doorway and watched her brush past me.
"What have I done to earn your wrath?" I asked, following Madeline out onto the ramp Alex and I had built for Charles. The wood was slick and cold from dew beneath my bare feet and I paused, eyeing the pebbled walkway Madeline trudged through. My mask was still upstairs on the bedside table, leaving me no choice but to cover the scarred side of my face with my hand as I stood outside of my home.
"Madeline," I growled.
"Perhaps once I finish the list you were supposed to send to Le Blanc last night I will start another one detailing why I am not speaking to you at this time."
I furrowed my brow. "That is why you are upset with me? Because I didn't obediently reply to Le Blanc?"
"One of the reasons."
"How many are there?"
Madeline turned to face me and grunted. She appeared quite livid, but at least she had acknowledged me. "When it comes to you, Erik, there is always more than one reason."
"I suppose that is true," I admitted.
She shifted her papers into the same hand as her coffee cup in order to jab her finger in my direction. "I spoke well of you," she said through her teeth, body rigid as a board. "Assured Antonio and Adrian that you would be prompt in your responses and attentive to the details so that when you were allowed to conduct the orchestra, the performances would take place without a single issue."
Allowed. As if I required permission to lead the orchestra in playing my own music. Wisely I kept my annoyance to myself and merely inclined my head.
"I put my reputation on the line for your sake," she continued. "After eight years of serving as the consultant for the Golden Palace, I wonder now if I have made a mistake in my high praise of you."
Her words stung. "I assure you that you have not."
"I thought you wanted to do this."
"I do."
"Then explain to me why you are ignoring Antonio," she demanded.
"I have been preoccupied with an urgent matter."
"An urgent matter?" She marched toward me, and despite the considerable differences in our height, I still took a respectful step back and accidentally planted my heel on Bessie's paw, causing the hound to shriek as though I had lobbed off her foot entirely. I stumbled over the dog and cursed under my breath before righting myself while Bessie bellied toward the back door with her tail between her legs.
"I have been attempting to aid a friend of mine."
"A friend of yours," Madeline scoffed. "And what friend would that be?"
I turned and closed the back door once Bessie scurried inside and out of harm's way. For a brief moment I faced away from Madeline, unsure of whether I should be insulted or hurt by her words.
I chose to feel insulted.
"Claude Gillis," I answered.
"The young painter?" she asked.
"The very one. Tell me, Madame, does it surprise you that someone as grotesque as me could have a friend?"
Madeline rolled her eyes. "You will not garner an ounce of sympathy from me and I am in no mood to argue with you." She motioned me back into the house with a flap of the papers in her hand that looked like a bird struggling to take flight.
"You have responded to Le Blanc on my behalf?" I asked over my shoulder, eyeing the papers in her hand.
"Have you prepared a response?" Madeline slammed the papers onto the butcher block and proceeded to rinse out her coffee mug in the sink. She glared at me when I didn't reply and I looked away, which earned me a heavy sigh of disgust. "That is precisely what I expected and why I woke before sunrise to complete this so that Antonio would not be empty-handed yet again."
"I will prepare my notes this afternoon and deliver it myself before supper."
"No. You are meeting Antonio at noon."
I picked up the papers and browsed over the contents. Most of the details Antonio had inquired about had little interest to me, including what type of flowers I preferred for the reception on opening night. "I have not received confirmation of this meeting."
Madeline dried the coffee cup and set it aside before she turned to face me. She eyed me with sternness, her expression commanding and hands clasped in front of her. Somehow she had managed to look far more intimidating than she had when she stood in the wings and watched over her dancers.
"Consider this your confirmation. I suggest you sit so that we may go over the requirements while there is still time."
I started to argue, to say that I would make a list of my own and speak to the opera manager at a time I designated, but Madeline cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes. The slightest tilt of her head and she stared down her nose at me, daring me to contest her words.
"Yes, Madame," I obediently said under my breath.
oOo
Antonio Le Blanc had very little recollection of our paths crossing the previous evening. He nursed what appeared to be a pounding headache while he sat in his office with the lights dimmed and his head in his hands.
"Good morning, Monsieur Kire," Antonio hoarsely greeted me when I stepped inside of his office and closed the door behind me. "How wonderful to see you."
It was fifteen minutes past noon, but I simply nodded in acknowledgement and took a seat in his office. "I apologize for neglecting my duties to the Golden Palace. I hope my silence was not misconstrued as an insult as that was never my intention."
He winced as I spoke, the volume of my voice apparently much louder than he could tolerate. "No apology needed. I am simply grateful you are still interested in conducting. There is quite a lot of speculation regarding the performances as it is and I have no doubt they will sell out immediately. I was honestly worried you were no longer interested in partnering with us."
"I've been preoccupied," I replied.
"A new opera, I hope? One you might wish to debut at our prestigious theater? It would be an honor."
"The honor would be mine to have your theater as the first home of a new production," I replied.
"A discussion I hope we have in the future. Now, what have you decided?" Antonio asked as he poured two cups of tea and tore off a piece of bread that appeared to be drizzled in olive oil. He rubbed his free hand down his face and sighed. "I apologize for my current state. I am not feeling well this morning, but Monsieur Agard assured me this bread would cure me in no time."
"What is in the bread?" I asked.
"Olives and onions," Antonio answered. He turned a shade greener, his nose wrinkling. "Would you like some?"
"Thank you, but not necessary."
Madeline had warned me that the theater manager and conductor had poured themselves additional drinks once they returned to the theater. The entirety of our conversation had been brief and to the point, and when she returned home, I feared she was still quite upset with me.
"My suggestions," I said as I pulled an envelope from my coat pocket and slid it across his desk.
Antonio opened his desk drawer and rummaged around through the clutter before he pushed his chair back and made a second attempt. "Hmm," he said to himself. "My reading spectacles appear to be missing. Would you excuse me for a brief moment? I believe I left them in the ticket office."
"Of course," I said with a nod.
Antonio wobbled to his feet and zig-zagged from the room, closing the door softly behind him. I sat back and examined his cluttered desk with its stacks of programs in precarious towers and assortment of other papers fanned out across every available inch of the polished wood.
On a piece of paper on the stack nearest to me was a list of upcoming shows to be performed at the theater starting with my music. I grabbed the paper from the pile, curious as to what operas were to be offered in the upcoming season.
The Beloved Music of E.M. Kire
Tristan and Isolde
An Evening with Bach
In Memory of Christine de Chagny: A Charity Event to Benefit Less Fortunate Children
I glanced over my shoulder and listened for signs of Antonio returning, but he must have still been searching for his reading glasses, which allowed
I turned the paper over and found various notes scribbled in Le Blanc's slanted handwriting regarding theater capacity and offering patrons an exclusive night of shows for an additional fee to be donated to charity. At the very bottom I noticed my name circled with an arrow pointing to the letters CdC.
'Ask Monsieur Kire for an aria?'
The entire sentence had been struck through with two lines and NO written behind it.
The meeting between Madeline, Antonio, Adrian and Raoul made perfect sense. I wondered how long the benefit had been in the works and if Raoul intended for The Elise to be the benefactor of the theater's charitable contributions in memory of his wife-and if he had been the one to strike down the suggestion that I contribute music in Christine's memory.
"Thank you, Margot," Antonio said as he opened the office door. I slid the paper onto the pile where I had found it and sat back, pretending to pull a loose thread from my sleeve.
Antonio returned to his seat and opened the envelope containing my suggestions. He furrowed his brow, grunting every now and then as he made notations in the margins and nodded as he perused the two pages worth of notes Madeline had dictated to me.
"You have requested ten tickets," Antonio said. He looked over his glasses at me. "Per performance or in total?"
"Per performance," I answered.
Quite honestly I had asked for nothing, but assumed Madeline had already designated the tickets as she saw fitting to her myriad friends and colleagues.
"Actually, for the first performance, may I have an additional…" I made a list in my head of people I wished to invite. "Six."
"I will make it an even twenty." Antonio scribbled another note and absently reached toward a pile of papers on his desk. "I have a sample of the cover for your program if you'd be so kind as to sign off on it while you are here," he said as he handed me a mock program.
"Is it finished?" I asked.
Antonio's head snapped up and he frowned. "Yes, Monsieur. Is it not to your standards?"
I looked at the program again. My focus for weeks had been on the music itself, not the advertisement for the shows, and while I had not considered what I wanted as a visual representation, I found the sketch of a violin standing on end underwhelming.
The music I had selected ranged from whimsical to sweeping, melancholy to romantic. My unexpected run as a conductor deserved equally unexpected art.
"When does the program artwork need to be completed?" I asked as I turned the paper over and found another, much more extravagant depiction on the back that I assumed was of Tristan and Isolde.
Antonio hesitated. He took a deep breath and exhaled hard. "Ideally I would like the final artwork and text sent off the last week in September. If you have a different idea, I suppose I could put you in
to contact with our artist."
"I would like to solicit an artist of my choosing for consideration."
Antonio pulled off his glasses and folded the paper with the list of requests and suggestions, tucking it back into the envelope. "Jacques Vega has been our primary artist for the last six seasons," he said.
"And I am certain he will be your primary artist for years to come," I replied.
He frowned at me. "Monsieur Vega excels at portraits, however, since the two of you have not had the pleasure of meeting, he thought a violin would be a lovely representation."
I held up the artist's rendition and looked at Antonio. "The likeness is quite uncanny," I said dryly.
Antonio cleared his throat. "You are quite the mystery, Monsieur Kire. Vega meant no offense in his portrayal, I assure you, but it is simply that..." he swallowed and glanced at the masked side of my face far longer than necessary. "You as an individual are an enigma."
"And therefore I would like to entertain other ideas if you would be so inclined to humor me."
At last Antonio gave a reluctant nod and began sorting various papers into folders. "If you can submit whatever art you would like considered by the end of the week, I will ask Monsieur Vega if he would kindly step down from this project and begin work on...the final promotional content for the rest of the season."
"If he desires compensation, by all means take his usual cut from my salary," I said as I stood.
"That is a very generous offer, however, I believe Monsieur Vega will decline as he has many other projects to complete and we compensate him very well for his work."
"But of course."
May I have the name of the artist you would like to create the program?" Antonio asked as he saw me to the door.
"His name is Claude Gillis," I answered.
"Forgive me, but I am not familiar with his work. A friend of yours, I presume?"
I turned the door handle. "We are acquainted," I vaguely answered, hoping that perhaps a commission by the theater for his work would fuel Claude's confidence and restore his faith in our friendship.
