This was a fun one to write. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Ch 119
My brother cleared his throat and sat back. He regarded me with a bit of mischief in his gaze before he spoke.
"As I'm certain you heard, my exceptionally bright nephew has insisted that you would be able to educate me on music, which is the only area Alex believes you are well-versed in." His dry tone had returned, a trait of his I never thought I would miss until he arched a brow and looked at me with his lips pulled into a devious smirk.
"Alex would undoubtedly expect me to speak of his favorite composer."
"His father, I presume?"
"He prefers Mozart."
Phelan snorted. "The boy has exquisite taste and dare I say a bit of his uncle's sense of humor."
"Indeed."
"I'm afraid Mozart is of little interest to me," Phelan said. He rolled down his sleeve and retrieved his cufflinks.
"What is of interest to you?"
Phelan exhaled. "What is the name of that one opera? The Fox Retrieves?" he asked, adjusting his sleeve.
I furrowed my brow. "The Fox Pursues?" I asked, unsure if he simply didn't know the name of my opera or if he purposely said the title incorrectly to rile me.
"You're familiar with that work?"
"Of course I am."
"It's a favorite of mine."
"Is it?"
"Yes, I've seen it twice, actually. I do enjoy the ballet in the first act with the three red vixens. And the aria at the beginning of the third act is simply exquisite. The first time I heard it was in Vienna with Antoinette Algoretti as the Crimson Vixen. She was truly remarkable."
The aria was at the end of the third act, but I simply nodded and accepted the compliment. I'd not had the pleasure of hearing Algortetti sing, but I'd read a review–from none other than Luc Testan–saying that she was 'the only saving grace in a long-winded and rather droll attempt at performing arts by a composer who continues to leave audiences waiting for an opera with substance. Monsieur Kire, we are ready when you are.'
"The composer of that opera is M. E. Krie, isn't it?" Phelan asked.
"Yes," I said dryly. "Me Krie must be your favorite composer as you've certainly proved yourself well-versed in his music as well as his name."
"Well, we can't all choose Mozart, can we?"
"I suppose not."
"I've heard a rumor about Krie."
I scowled at his adolescent attempts at humor. "Concerning?"
"A very important matter, actually, although I suppose it isn't directly related to the composer."
"Oh?"
"I've heard he has a very talented and exceptionally handsome older brother who is a celebrated painter." He straightened his collar and offered a closed-lipped grin. "I wonder if that is correct?"
"That description seems subjective."
Phelan raised a brow. "Considering I've heard this same rumor multiple times, I am inclined to find a bit of truth behind the words. He's most definitely handsome. The celebrated part is probably a bit of a stretch."
I grunted, unable to mask my own amusement at his ability to always draw the conversation back to self-flattery. "Utterly fascinating."
"What have you heard about this Krie?"
"Kire," I corrected. "And there is not much to…"
I stopped myself short, noting the disappointment in my brother's gaze when I refused to participate in his light-hearted attempts at conversation. I risked a glance at the mask on the table between us, the empty eye staring blankly at the ceiling.
"He is a half inch taller than his brother," I said.
It was Phelan's turn to scowl. "You most certainly are not, Kire."
I snorted. "Believe what you will."
"How old were you when you wrote your first opera?"
"Thirteen."
Phelan gave a nod of approval. "Impressive."
I shrugged. "Mozart was eleven when his first opera was published," I grumbled.
"Yes, you were quite the late bloomer waiting until you were thirteen to write an opera," he dryly retorted. "It's a wonder you became a musical genius at all given your late start."
I grunted. "Genius also seems like a subjective description."
"Those were the exact words of Madame Anne Giry, which hardly seems subjective to me. I don't believe there is any arguing with someone so admired for her lifelong work in the theater."
"She tends to exaggerate, but her words are appreciated nonetheless."
"When did you publish your first piece of music?"
"Far later than I would like to admit," I said. "A symphony sold in London two weeks after Alex arrived. I still remember how I had read the letter several times, scarcely able to believe that after decades of writing music at all hours of the day and night, I had finally cultivated a sale. Then a month later, I had three more pieces of music garner interest and I had multiple contracts on my desk beside bottles, rattles, and burp cloths. I credited it all to Alex being my good fortune."
"The income must have been welcomed as a new parent," Phelan said.
"I didn't submit music for compensation," I answered. "I wanted my music to be heard and the checks that accompanied the letters were simply an added incentive."
Phelan shifted in his chair. "How were you not a starving artist?" he asked.
"Compensation from the theater," I answered.
My brother studied me for a moment. "I wasn't aware you were employed by the Opera House."
"Employed is perhaps not the best description," I replied. "I became acquainted with the long-time soprano, Cathedra di Carlo, shortly after I came to live within the Opera House. A piece of her jewelry went missing and I returned it to her and after that, we formed a sort of friendship. Unfortunately, she was quite ill, but before her passing, she gifted me forty thousand francs. Her final request was that upon her death, the theater continued compensation at twenty thousand francs."
"Per year?"
"Per month."
Phelan's brows shot up. "Twenty thousand francs per month?"
I nodded once.
"What sort of acquaintance did you have with this woman?"
"One that was quite enticing to a red-blooded young man, but honestly quite benign in nature being that she was well into her forties. She was the person who fueled the rumors of a theater ghost."
"Is that so?"
I nodded again.
"I do hope you understand there will be no more complimentary tickets to my next art show," Phelan said lightly. "In fact, you will be asked to pay double."
"The accumulation of funds has allowed me to offer patronage to Claude," I said.
From the kitchen I heard both Alex and Apolline singing a folk song that Madeline had taught my son years earlier. Alex was purposely singing in the most high-pitched voice possible, then dropping into a manner of singing that was astoundingly flat. Apolline, on the other hand, did a marvelous job of carrying the tune for the two of them.
"You must have been quite sensible with your funds. At thirteen I would have spent every last franc without batting an eye," Phelan commented.
"It was a generous salary," I admitted. "One that afforded me plenty of ink, paper, and violin strings."
Footsteps pounded down the hall, indicating that Alex approached. I reached for my mask and turned from the door as it swung open with such force that the papers on my desk flapped like the wings of a dozen white birds.
"Alex! Knock first!" Apolline loudly whispered from behind him. "There are adults in the room."
Alex slammed the door shut in response to her suggestion, causing my papers to take flight and scatter across the ground. "Father, it's me, Alexandre," my son said, knocking on the door. "Could you hear me singing?"
Beside me, Phelan snorted with laughter.
"I did."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"You sounded like Bessie when I step on her tail."
Alex chortled. "I told you," he whispered.
"Your partner in the duet, however, did a satisfactory job."
"Are you going to let us inside?" Alex asked, sounding annoyed by my praise for Apolline.
"You may enter," I said as the door flew open for a second time.
"We made lunch, tidied the kitchen, washed all of the dishes, and put everything away," Alex said. He glanced over his shoulder at Apolline, who clutched her doll to her chest. "Now may we see Claude?"
I feared that if Claude was not already awake, he would be soon and most likely set into a panic once he realized his sister was missing.
"Where is your mother and Lisette?" I asked Alex.
Alex shrugged.
"With your aunt," Apolline reminded Alex.
"Oh, yes. She was with Aunt Meg. She said that she didn't want to hear you play."
Apolline looked horrified. "Your mother said she was disappointed that she wouldn't hear your father play. The babies…"
"Oh, yes ,that's right. Xavier and Audrey were awake," Alex said. He looked to Apolline for confirmation. "And mother said getting them to sleep again any time soon was going to be a miracle. And then you should have heard it! Xavier passed gas like an elephant! Do you want to hear how it sounded?"
My brother, despite pursing his lips, was unable to contain his laughter. I issued him a warning look before turning back to my son.
"Alex," I said through my teeth.
"Well, he did! Uncle Charles said so."
I closed my eyes and took a breath. "Where is your sister?" I asked.
"Here!" Lisette exclaimed as she hopped into place behind Alex and Apolline, clutching her doll in one hand and a small basket in the other.
I stood and Phelan did the same, bending to retrieve some of the papers that had flown off my desk while I took up my violin.
"Are you going to play for Claude?" Alex asked.
"If he's up to it," I answered. "Let us hope Monsieur Gillis is accepting visitors."
OoO
"I will scout for lions!" Alex said as he took a flying leap off the front steps and dashed ahead.
Before I could say a word, he was several houses down, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he crouched behind a tree and gave quite the visual performance.
"What is he doing?" Phelan questioned as he waited for me to lock the door.
"He's playing African savannah," Lisette said. "We are the zebra and he is a wildebeest. Apolline and I have our baby zebras."
"Father and Uncle Phelan are giraffes!" Alex shouted. "Make haste! I spotted a very hungry lion!"
The streets weren't crowded, but the people around us still turned to see the zebras scuttle ahead while the lumbering giraffes eluded imaginary lions on the streets of Paris.
"He has a remarkable imagination," Phelan said. "Possibly more inventive than his father."
"I rarely see myself in him," I replied.
"That is a pity," Phelan said. "The way he leaps around and the expressions he makes reminds me of you."
The comparison made me smile, not simply because Alex and I shared traits, but because I had longed for the simplicity of childhood. I may not have remembered it, but there was comfort in knowing I had once been a carefree child. Not a child with scars on his face that made him different, nor a boy that had been forced to live in a cellar, but simply a child with an active imagination and the ability to pretend I was something else or someone else for the joy of make-believe instead of necessity.
"I assume I was a squirrel and you were a bird," I said.
"Close. I was an owl and you were a mouse and I would chase after you while wrapped in a sheet, screeching while you squeaked and asked me not to eat you."
"Eat me? Did I enjoy this game?"
Phelan shrugged. "You always wanted to be the mouse and never the owl, so I assume you found it quite exciting to be chased about. Besides, I only managed to eat you a handful of times. You were typically faster than me and able to duck beneath bushes and fallen trees."
"Run!" Alex yelled. "They've seen us!"
Without thinking, Phelan and I obediently trotted across the street ahead of an approaching carriage. Apolline and Lisette shrieked as they took off ahead of us, both galloping like horses with their dolls cradled in their arms. The ladies riding in the carriage poked their heads out, gloved hands blocking their smiles as they chuckled.
"We look ridiculous," Phelan commented as we rounded the corner with the physician's office in sight. "But I think I prefer this game to owl and mouse."
"We made it!" Alex announced. "Zebras, giraffes, and wildebeest safe from the lions. Well done, savannah animals."
Dr. Khan was at the desk in the front of the office when we walked into the building.
"Savannah animals?" he asked, looking over the rims of his glasses. "I certainly hope there won't be a stampede while my patient is recovering."
"Is Claude awake?" I asked.
"He was briefly," Kamil answered. "He was a bit agitated when he stirred earlier, so I gave him a small dose of medication to ease his troubled mind." He turned his attention to Apolline and offered a tight smile. "I am glad to see you have returned in one piece, Mademoiselle. You had us quite concerned."
Apolline blushed and looked away.
"We have spoken on the matter," I assured Kamil.
The physician inhaled. "By all means, wake him. Surgery will take place today in two hours. You may stay and visit for the next ninety minutes before we must prepare for the procedure."
"We brought lunch," Phelan commented.
"I'm afraid that will be supper as Claude cannot eat prior to surgery," Kamil said. He stepped toward my brother and examined the wound to his forehead. "Your wound looks to be healing quite nicely. Did someone apply an ointment?"
"Madame Giry," I answered.
Dr. Khan didn't appear surprised. "Ah, yes, I believe she uses the English salve. I should start referring patients with superficial wounds to Madame Giry for treatment."
My brother gasped and feigned insult. "Superficial? Dr. Khan, I assure you this wound was life-threatening in nature. The fact that I stand before you is a testament to God's good will."
Dr. Khan pulled off his glasses and shook his head. "Give me twenty minutes to finish this note and I shall make certain you still have a pulse."
He gestured for us to proceed down the hall and Apolline took the lead, rushing ahead. The door to the small office where Claude had taken up residence was ajar and she slipped in to see her brother.
"Sister," I heard Claude rasp. "There you are. You had me worried."
"Are you still injured?" Apolline asked as the rest of us filled the small room. She returned to her brother's side and carefully sat beside him.
"I'm afraid so."
Claude appeared in no better condition than he had earlier in the day. His eyes looked swollen and droopy, his coloring sallow.
"Are we disrupting your rest?" I asked.
"No, no, not at all, Monsieur," Claude said, his voice sounding strained. "This windowless room has done little for my mood and provides nothing as far as creativity."
"Then you desperately need to get out of this stuffy room," Phelan said. "If you will excuse me."
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Somewhere," my brother answered.
Claude adjusted the blanket draped over his legs. "I've started the artwork you requested," he said as he twisted in his seat and reached for his sketchbook. "It isn't much…"
He flipped the book open and passed it to me, a look of trepidation etched into his features as though he feared I would dismiss his work the second I laid eyes upon the drawing.
"Do you want to hear about the lions that chased us on our way over?" Alex asked.
Claude blinked at Alex. "Are the lions loose again?"
My son could not have been more delighted to have a conversation about something delightfully absurd as lions chasing us through the streets. '
I half-listened to all three children bombard Claude with the details while I looked over the drawing.
He'd completed more than a simple rough draft of his idea. The drawing consisted of a man depicted at a desk with his back to the viewer. On the corner of the desk was a cat curled up while all around the room there were depictions from many of my published operas: Mauro with his gloves embracing Jewel, a fox in a crown, the soldier with a necklace of shells, and the moon over the ocean.
"I apologize, Monsieur," Claude said once there was a break in conversation. "I asked Dr. Khan for descriptions of your operas as I've not had the pleasure of seeing one performed. These were the ones he told me about. If I am missing something–"
"You are missing your signature," I said. "So that everyone who receives a program may know the artist responsible for this extraordinary piece of art."
Claude appeared relieved. "It's not finished," he reminded me. "The shells I would like to re-do and the fox I think should have a bushier tail now that I look at it and the moon–"
"Claude," my brother said. The sound of his voice made us both turn to see him standing in the doorway. "You are hardly qualified to critique art. Stop picking apart your own work and accept the compliment from the composer."
Claude's cheeks turned bright red and he looked away. "It needs to be perfect, Monsieur Kimmer."
"The artist undoubtedly needs a bit of sunlight and fresh air to regain his stamina and creativity. You'll wilt in this dismal prison," Phelan gruffly said.
"My office is not a prison," Dr. Khan said. His voice was accompanied by the sound of squeaking, and a moment later he appeared behind my brother with a wheelchair that had a board fixed to the bottom to keep the legs elevated.
"For the creative it is," Phelan argued.
"You may borrow my patient for an hour," Kamil said.
Phelan looked at his pocket watch. "Seventy-five minutes."
Dr. Khan appeared increasingly frustrated by the second. He wheeled the chair into his office and waved his hands about to accentuate his point, "You'll return him in an hour."
"Where are we going?" Lisette questioned.
Phelan guided the chair toward Claude. "The park," he answered.
OoO
I recalled only vaguely how difficult it was to navigate the streets of Paris confined to a wheelchair. The apparatus itself–borrowed from Charles Lowry–had been far too narrow for my hips and short for my legs. Every bump proved excruciating and the entire ordeal took longer than it should have thanks to the many ruts in the road and uneven cobblestones that made a smooth ride impossible.
Thankfully the park was around the corner from Dr. Khan's practice, but still the five minute walk on foot took twice as long.
We had barely reached the first shady trees and benches when a group of young men and women with their bicycles in a circle around their easels noticed both Claude and Phelan. They were dressed in bright colors like a paint palette come to life.
"Monsieur Kimmer!" they shouted in unison, waving their arms and jumping up and down to garner his attention.
My brother smiled inwardly at their display, however, once he approached, he sighed and rolled his eyes, pretending to find their enthusiasm exhausting.
"Do you vagrants collectively live in the park?" he grumbled as he walked around with his hands behind his back, sneering at the portraits and landscapes crafted by eager artists. "Spoiling a perfectly good day with your pathetic excuses for art."
The handful of painters giggled in unison, nudging one another. They waved to Claude and beckoned him to join them.
"I heard what happened," one of the young ladies said. I've been worried sick about you."
"Clearly it's worse than we thought," one of the men said. "He's with Kimmer."
"Pierre Gudois, is that you?" Phelan asked, squinting at a man with a bushy beard who was dressed in red from his shoes to his top hat. His mustache was waxed, as were his eyebrows, making him look like a caricature. "I hardly recognized you with clothes on."
The artists erupted in laughter, some of them doubled over with amusement.
"And you without your beard, Kimmer. Tell me, are you so poor at shaving that you cut your temple?"
"This wound, which was nearly mortal, was the result of heroism, Pierre."
"So we've heard."
Phelan arched a brow. "Have you?"
"You're the talk of the town."
I noticed the young lady from Bloom's in the small crowd. She knelt beside Claude and took his hand, speaking quietly to him while the other half-dozen individuals flocked to my brother and eagerly shook his hand.
Alex came up beside me and tugged on my sleeve. "Why is everyone so interested in Uncle Phelan?" he asked.
"Because I am interesting, favorite nephew," my brother said over his shoulder. "And they have always been interesting to me as well. They were some of the very first artists I met at the salon when I founded artist night five years ago."
"It's been six years. We are the founding members of The Carlisle Club," one of them said, his words met by cheers. "A fancy name for street rubbish."
"Artists, Marco, not rubbish," Phelan corrected. "Less talking and more painting."
At my brother's orders, everyone returned to their easels or sketchbooks. Delphine, the young lady from Bloom's, remained at Claude's side and I watched as they both exchanged sketchbooks.
"This is very good," I heard Claude say.
Phelan walked up beside me and nudged me in the arm. "Shall I introduce you or would you prefer playing anonymously?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you intend to stand there with your violin case or put the instrument to use?"
All eight of the artists paused to listen to our exchange, most of them looking on curiously.
"My brother," Phelan announced. "A composer and musician."
"The two of you saved several people from the factory collapse, didn't you?" Marco asked.
"Several? Is that the current rumor?"
A young lady passed a newspaper to Marco, who in turn handed it to my brother. The headline read 'Community comes together to save factory workers caught in rubble.'
"'Phillipe Kriner,'" Phelan read aloud. He glanced at me and grinned. "'And another individual thought to be a local musician risked their lives in order to save several factory employees trapped beneath the rubble'." He flicked the newspaper with his finger and handed it back to Marco. "Now this is what I would call absolute rubbish. The local musician, yes, but Kriner? Indeed."
"Local musician," I muttered.
"A fair description, Kire," my brother said. "At least they didn't butcher your name." He shook his head and acknowledged the young lady who had obtained a copy of the newspaper. "Marci, how on earth did you guess it was me?"
"As Pierre stated, you are the talk of the town," the young woman answered. "Honestly once Delphie said you came into Bloom's this morning to purchase supplies for Claude we figured it had to be you. Plus of course we knew Claude had a patron who was a composer and you mentioned your brother in the past, so it made sense."
"You are all much smarter than you look," Phelan said. "Now, would you care to have a local musician play for you?"
The group collectively nodded and murmured in agreement.
There were only twelve people gathered around and yet still I fumbled with the latches of my violin case, feeling far more anxious than I should have in front of a small crowd, all of whom I doubted knew me as anything more than Phelan Kimmer's brother.
Local musician, I reminded myself. Nothing more than an unknown violinist performing for unknown artists.
"You don't mind, do you?" Phelan whispered.
"I suppose it's a little late to retract the offer," I said under my breath.
Phelan met my eye. You're…you're nervous."
"Of course I am."
"If it would make you feel more confident, I'll play first."
I narrowed my eyes. "You play?"
"No." He offered a close-lipped smile. "But someone has to entertain the Carlisle Club."
I rolled my eyes. "You are highly irritating," I groused.
"And a good distraction from your nerves, little brother."
Phelan took a step back. I inhaled, straightened my spine, and began to play the overture from The Lost Soldier. I allowed my gaze to focus on a distant point across the park where an older couple had stopped to rest on a bench in the shade, my thoughts drawn to the first time I had played on the corner of the street across from the Opera House.
It had been cold and dark for my first performance. My knees had turned to jelly, my fingers painfully stiff from the night air. People had gathered to listen, dance, and clap along as I played familiar tunes, and as they appeared to enjoy themselves, my anxiety eased and I found the music flowed through me. My nervousness was replaced by exhilaration and it felt as though I opened my very soul and allowed the world to see me as I had longed to be seen.
This time was different. The sun was bright overhead and I knew that not only the artists were staring at me, but anyone within the vicinity that passed by was at liberty to pause and not only listen, but see the masked man perform.
You're on display, the voice in my head taunted.
Willingly, I reminded myself. Because I write music for others to hear.
I risked a glance at Alex, who sat with his legs outstretched and one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He smiled up at me, head bobbing along with the music while Apolline and Lisette both cradled their dolls in their arms, rocking them back and forth.
Behind them, Claude grinned back at me, his eyes filled with mirth while Delphie opened her sketchbook and began to draw. Some of the artists continued painting, others merely stood and listened.
Phelan stood slightly behind me, and I took a half step back and glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He stood with his arms crossed and eyes closed, his lips quirking into a smile as I played.
The overture came to an end and I was met with a round of enthusiastic applause that settled my nerves. A woman passing by with a poodle dropped coins into the open violin case, and I noticed she was not the first one to show appreciation in the same manner as there was quite a few coins as well as two bank notes.
"Did you write that?" one of the women inquired.
"I did," I answered.
"I enjoyed it."
I offered a deep and appreciative bow in return. "Thank you."
Alex raised his hand. "Would you play the Traveling Toy Tinker?"
"I'm not familiar with that one," Phelan said.
"It's actually called The Talented Thinker," I said.
"From?"
"The Fallen Star."
Phelan shifted his weight and cocked his head to the side. "That isn't one of yours, is it?"
"It is."
"But it's a play. I thought that was by…"
"Jean Alexandre!" Alex shouted. "My middle name and first name in reverse!"
The artists immediately began to talk amongst themselves and I assumed that they were familiar with the only two-act play I'd written as it had been performed in the park twice in recent years. It was a light-hearted comedy that I'd written under a different name as it didn't fit the rest of my catalog.
"May we clap along?" Delphiei asked.
"If you feel so inclined."
"What about singing?" Pierre questioned.
"And dancing?" Marci added.
"All acceptable," I answered, amused and grateful for their interest.
The Talented Thinker had been Alex's favorite since I'd first played it for him, mostly because of the way I plucked the strings, which was followed by him clapping. Originally there was supposed to be a rest between the string plucks, but Alex clapped each time I played through the melody and eventually I added his input officially into the composition.
He's a talented man, a talented thinker
He knows how to mend, he knows how to tinker,
He has a house on a lake overlooking a hill,
And there's stardust and moonlight on his windowsill,
Every evening he looks out and he calls her name,
And from the sky she looks down and she does the same,
But at the end of the night there comes the dawn,
And the tinker waves his hand and he starts to yawn,
Good-morning my love, good morning my dear,
When the moon returns, I will be right here
When I finished, there were at least two dozen more people in attendance. The majority were women with small children in tow out for a walk before they started supper and afternoon chores.
My heart thudded as several more people dropped coins into the open case, offered verbal praise, and began walking around the displays of art, much to the delight of the artists.
Claude caught my eye, a wide grin spread across his face. He looked boyish and happy despite the bandages and bruises, a far cry from the young man confined to a windowless office.
"One more, Monsieur?" Claude requested.
The hour was almost up, I realized, and once we returned Claude to Dr. Khan's office, he would undergo surgery to repair his broken ankle.
"I shall play whatever you desire."
"The waltz you wrote for Lisette," Claude said. "I should like to hear that if you would be willing."
"As you wish, Monsieur Gillis," I said, offering a bow.
"Who is he?" one woman asked another seconds before I began to play.
"A local musician," Phelan answered.
"Do you know him well?" the woman inquired.
"Well enough. He's my brother."
