Ch 124
Marco walked with his hands in his pockets beside his mother, the two of them strolling along the park path deep in what appeared to be quite spirited conversation.
"No, now, you listen here," Florine argued, poking her son in the arm.
"You do this every time, Mum. Every time," Marco said, sounding quite exasperated.
"Well, if you had half a brain between your ears, you'd understand I was correct."
Even from a distance, Florine was quite striking with her black hair and high cheekbones. She walked like royalty, head held high and shoulders back. I assumed she was nearing fifty years of age, but she was as stunning as any woman half her age–and judging by the way she carried herself– it appeared she was well aware of her attractiveness.
I couldn't help but stare at the woman who had stolen my brother's heart many years ago–and suddenly I found she was staring back at me.
I cleared my throat and turned to Madeline, who was also looking at the woman approaching us.
"Do you know her?" Madeline asked.
"Of course not," I snapped.
"Hello!" Marco called, waving his arms around as though somehow I would not be able to see him in a fairly empty park. "Monsieur Kire!"
"Who is that?" Madeline asked. "And why is he yelling?"
"He's one of Claude's friends."
"Is that his wife?"
"His mother, if you must know," I said tightly.
Marco trotted ahead of his mother and came to an abrupt stop in front of us, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. "Where is your violin?" he asked quite breathlessly.
"At home," I answered.
"Ah." He shifted his weight and raked his fingers through his dark hair. "I suppose you don't walk the streets and spontaneously perform. Although that would be quite entertaining on dull afternoons."
"Perhaps tonight if time allows I will bring my–"
Marco sucked in a breath, arms flailing with excitement. "Truly? You are considering attending our modest gathering tonight?"
"If you would have me."
"Marco!" his mother yelled.
The young man offered a sheepish grin. "Excuse me, I seem to have forgotten my manners ten feet behind me." Marco turned and gestured toward his mother, who strolled toward us at an unhurried pace. "Mum! Do you remember how I told you about the park last Thursday?"
Florine approached, her gaze settling on her son with an ample amount of annoyance for being left behind. "I do, Marco. How could I forget with you rambling on incessantly for two straight days." She turned her attention to Madeline first. "Do my eyes deceive me? I appear to be looking into the past."
Madeline started to speak, then stopped herself and gasped. "Florine? My goodness, you have not aged a day."
"Anne Giry! You look as though you could be your own daughter!"
"Oh, how you flatter me!" Madeline exclaimed. "But truly, I must know your secret. Your skin is radiant."
Florine grinned. "Massage," she said. "A little olive oil and massage morning and night keeps the skin taut. And of course, the sun is my enemy." She twirled her parasol over her shoulder.
I could hear Dr. Khan in the back of my mind sputtering out his protest.
Florine and Madeline were both smiling at one another, which I suppose wasn't much of a surprise as Madeline seemed to know every single person in Paris.
Marco leaned toward me. "Apologies, Monsieur. Mum knows everyone."
I nodded toward Madeline. "Likewise."
"It's very good to see you," Marco continued. "Have you seen Claude recently?"
"I saw Claude earlier in the day. He should be released from the university hospital tomorrow."
"How wonderful. Will he be returning to his flat?"
"At the present time no."
Marco crossed his arms while he waited for me to elaborate further, unaware that I was attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place beside us as I heard Madeline mention her daughter followed by twins and lastly Charles Lowry.
"He will be staying in my home temporarily until more permanent arrangements can be made," I said to Marco. "At this time, the number of stairs up to his apartment would be difficult for him to navigate with his current injuries."
Marco nodded. "You are truly an angel sent from God, Monsieur, a musical angel from Heaven. Claude is very fortunate to know you."
"You are kind," I replied.
"Will you give Claude my best?" Marco asked. "Tell him that I…or should I say we…love him."
"He will appreciate the sentiment," I assured him.
"You know," Florine said as she placed her hand on her son's shoulder. "This one was quite smitten with you, Anne, back in the day. Until he saw Meg for the first time and then your daughter was the only woman he spoke about for at least a year. This boy of mine, such a red-blooded young man. He was certain he would marry Meg Giry. But as you can see, that was merely a passing fantasy."
Marco rolled his tongue along the inside of his fiery red cheek. "Mum," he warned. "Enough. Please."
"Oh, darling, everyone at the Opera House knew how you fawned over that lovely girl," Florine said. "Even the mice heard the rumors."
I had no recollection of anything concerning Florine or her son, which apparently made me less significant than vermin.
"I do believe I have one of your sweet letters somewhere," Madeline said to Marco. "You were such a wonderful poet."
"He's a romantic," Florine said. "Takes after his father."
"How lovely," Madeline said. "His father was a good man."
Florine sniffed. "But you know, for all of his good traits, here he is, twenty-six years of age and still unmarried." Florine shook her head in dismay. "And may I add, not a woman in sight. I'm beginning to think he turns them away. Why, most of the time he's either with his cousins or a rowdy gang of other young men."
Marco looked away, his features taut with embarrassment. "Mum," he pleaded.
"You'll never find a wife if you continue to spend all of your time with men."
"He's got the whole world ahead of him," Madeline said. "A young man with such good looks needn't settle down until he's ready. There is nothing wrong with following your heart, wherever that may lead you, and if it isn't to the altar with a bride in tow then so be it." She leaned forward and whispered loudly, "Never settle for what others want on your behalf. You make your own happiness, Marco."
"Thank you, Madame Giry," Marco said, appearing quite relieved that Madeline had stood up for him.
Madeline took a breath and turned to her old friend again. "Goodness, Florine, how long has it been since we last saw each other?"
"Far too long." Florine glanced at me. "Ten years, if memory serves me," she answered.
"No, it can't be," Madeline said.
"It's been since that last night at the Opera Populaire."
Madeline's expression faltered. She glanced at me as well and I felt the pit of my stomach drop.
"Surely it hasn't been that long?" Madeline asked. She touched my elbow and I flinched, realizing why the name Fabienne was familiar to me when my brother had mentioned it: not only were they ship builders, but they were also one of the prominent patrons of the theater whose name appeared on the last page of the programs for years, along with the de Chagny family. They were in the top three of generous donors who had supported the theater back in the day. Most likely between the de Chagnys, Fabiennes, and Rialto supporters they'd all contributed quite heavily to my salary.
"Yes, I remember seeing you in the wings when the chandelier came crashing down as though hell had broken open all around us," Florine said. She looked at me again, her gaze pinned on the masked side of my face. "The screaming…my God, all of the screaming. It chilled me to the bone. Thankfully Marco pulled me away from our seats and down the aisle and, well, that's the last thing I remember. The next thing I knew, we were in our carriage heading home as dawn broke. I will never forget how the sky looked that morning, Anne. It was red as blood." She held out her arm and pulled up her sleeve to reveal goose flesh. "Even now, my flesh prickles at the thought of that evening and the sunrise."
I remembered the sky as well, how the smoke clung to my tattered, soaked clothing and my eyes burned from a combination of the fire as well as the tears I had shed for a dark fate I should have expected. Once the black plumes cleared and the fire was put out, the sky looked as though it had hemorrhaged overnight, bleeding over the city abuzz with rumors of what had happened at the opera. A masked madman, thirsting for carnage, had set out to abduct a young soprano and murder everyone within the building. An angel turned devil, a composer turned convict, and a man in love turned into a ruthless murderer. I'd read every single account of that night, desiring the punishment I knew I deserved.
The morning after brought clarity. I'd stood motionless in what had become my bedroom, numb with grief, thinking only of what I had lost: Christine, my opera, and the home I'd known since I was a child. All of it had been destroyed by my own, foolish hands.
The house on that first night had felt strange and confining, and I spent the hours leading up to sunrise certain Madeline would knock on the door and tell me it was time we parted ways, that she could no longer tolerate the sight of me.
I'd imagined myself wandering the streets, cold, hungry, and filthy as I'd been in my youth when I escaped from my parents cellar. I thought of what would happen when I was discovered; the iron shackles to my wrists and ankles, the beating that would follow once I was in chains, and whether I'd be able to walk to the gallows unassisted when I'd been bloodied and bruised. Perhaps I would have been killed in the streets and left in the gutters. It seemed an appropriate fate after all I had done.
"Well, thankfully that night ended and we are here today. I am glad to see you again," Madeline said brightly. She forced a smile, although I doubted Florine was able to tell Madeline's expression lacked sincerity. Madeline was quite masterful at appearing jovial when internally I knew she stewed. "You and Marco should pay a visit soon. I'm sure Meg would love to see you both again and I would certainly enjoy catching up with you over tea."
"Of course," Florine said, studying me still. "That would be lovely."
"You must forgive me, I haven't introduced you yet," Madeline said. "This is my–"
"I know who he is," Florine answered.
My breath hitched and hands turned cold as ice. The ringing in my ears threatened to drown out all other sound as I waited for her to call me by a name I no longer wished to be known as.
"The ghost," she said.
Marco turned to his mother and furrowed his brow. "You speak riddles, Mother."
"Phelan's ghost," Florine clarified.
"I'm not sure what you speak of," I said. My voice sounded distant to my own ears.
Florine nodded. "No, I am certain you don't, Monsieur. Phelan spoke of you often though, his missing brother. My goodness, you look so much like him–at least from this side," she said, gesturing toward the unmasked side of my face. "You have the same jaw, the same eyes…your shoulders…" She glanced at her son, who looked displeased. "The same brooding frown of a Kimmer."
"Phelan?" Madeline questioned. She closed the space between us and placed her hand in the middle of my back and I swore I could feel her relief. "You know Erik's brother?"
Florine offered a tight smile. "I did," she said, lowering her parasol. Her tone was no longer light and pleasant, her eyes no longer filled with affection and mirth. "But that was a very long time ago, and things have changed."
OOO
The interaction with Florine Fabienne didn't sit well with me. My stomach was in knots by the time Florine and Madeline finished with their pleasantries and Marco practically dragged his mother away.
"She knows," I said once we were out of the park.
"It seems so," Madeline replied.
Her answer did nothing to settle my nerves. "Do you think she will say something?"
Madeline didn't readily answer, which only increased my already escalating anxiety. "Madeline," I snapped. "Do you think–"
She turned to me, her features strained. "I honestly don't know."
The look on her face gave me pause as it wasn't often that her features mirrored my internal distress. Her answer was not good enough for my liking, however, and I sighed heavily, frustrated with the situation.
"If she goes to the authorities…"
"How does she know your brother?" Madeline questioned, ignoring my concern.
I inhaled. "A tryst from twenty-six years ago."
Madeline raised a brow. "Oh. Oh, I see…" She furrowed her brow. "Then Marco is his–"
"Possibly."
"Possibly?" Madeline asked incredulously. "Now that I think about it, he does resemble both you and your brother. And also an older version of Alex."
"That is a bit of a stretch," I muttered. "Alex looks nothing like me."
"Now that he's getting older he does," Madeline said. "Once he reaches puberty in a few years..."
"Did you know the elder Monsieur Fabienne?" I asked somewhat impatiently, having no desire to speak of Alex inching toward manhood. For my own sanity I hoped both Alex and Lisette would remain carefree children a while longer.
"Yes, I knew Baptiste," Madeline answered. "He and Gaetan were acquainted quite well even before we were married."
I turned my head to the side. "He knew your husband?"
She nodded. "A family of shipbuilders and a navy general," she reminded me. "And neither of them were interested in the arts, so they talked about strategies in conquering when it came to war and women when they were together at gatherings."
"Strategies," I muttered. "I hope your husband was only interested in the war portion of their discussions."
"Gaetan and Baptiste have been gone for a very long time," Madeline said, avoiding my comment entirely. "And besides, Florine was known for her promiscuity well before she was wed. It was my understanding that she was quite familiar with many young men, hence the name Port Florine."
"I beg your pardon?"
Madeline snorted with laughter.
"What is that supposed to imply?"
"Many young men docked for a night in her bed."
"Madame, honestly," I admonished, knowing full well if I had made such accusations she would have most certainly struck my shin with her cane or pinched my arm. "Such vile words from a well-respected woman such as yourself. Shame on you."
Madeline chuckled. "It's rather amusing, isn't it? And clever considering she married into a shipbuilding family."
"You are quite privy to the scandals of this city."
Madeline shrugged. "I know a lot of people, Erik," she said. "And no one's slate is completely clean."
"Including your own?"
"I suppose not."
I started to question her on a rather unexpected reply, but she continued speaking.
"Regardless of the men she knew, Florine and Baptiste weren't married long before he passed from an illness, which is a shame. I had hoped the marriage would bring her years of happiness. I can't imagine she found much joy in her lifestyle."
I assumed she found plenty of joy entertaining young men that she fancied, but decided not to argue.
"Phelan said her husband contracted the measles."
"Yes, I do recall that. And shortly after his passing, it was known that his young bride was in a family way. I suppose given her reputation and her relationship with your brother that she was indeed…"
"Carrying my nephew," I said under my breath.
The notion still seemed quite foreign to me that in a matter of months I had not only discovered my brother, but that I had living grandparents as well as an adult nephew-at least by rumor with the latter.
Madeline inhaled. "Your brother introduced you to Marco, I gather?"
"Marco and a handful of other artists. He didn't mention the possibility of paternity until he was nearly on the train heading home."
Madeline nodded. "He has not claimed Marco, has he?"
"He has not."
"That's a shame," Madeline said. "Marco was such a sweet boy growing up, always so thoughtful and generous. He would wait at the stage door with flowers for all of the dancers and hand them out one by one." She paused. "His mother teased him relentlessly in front of others, though. She's always been a bit…much. He could have used a good man in his life as a father figure, someone to guide him."
"Phelan said he wasn't prepared to be a father."
"That isn't an acceptable excuse." Madeline sighed. "Were you prepared to be a father when Alex arrived?"
I scratched my brow. "On most days I feel ill-prepared to be his father nine years later. More often than not I wait for him to ask if I have any idea what I'm doing, in which case I would answer a resounding ingen."
Madeline furrowed her brow. "I beg your pardon?"
"Ingen. The Danish word for 'no'."
"If you haven't realized it yet, no one is prepared for parenthood."
"You had instinct," I said. "That was quite evident the first time we met."
"When I handed you Alex for the first time, it was evident you had the instinct to care for your son."
"I–I appreciate your words, but-"
"I can assure you that you'll be no more prepared for the new baby when he or she arrives."
"That is extremely comforting," I said dryly. "How thoughtful of you to ease my growing concerns of failure."
"You will do fine, especially with Julia by your side. I have no doubt you will give your new son or daughter everything he or she desires and then some."
We reached the front steps of my home. "Are you coming inside or returning to your own home?"
Madeline looked up at me. "They are both my homes," she said, cocking a brow. "Aren't they?"
"True enough," I said as I stepped aside and motioned her into the foyer.
OoO
An entire stack of letters had arrived from Belgium, the majority of which were addressed to Alex, who could not have been more delighted. He spent his hour before supper reading and responding to his uncle while Apolline and Lisette made our meal under Julia's careful subversion.
Being that The Elise required its young wards to tend to all duties of a household, Apolline was quite proficient in cooking, cleaning, and mending articles of clothing and did so without prompting or complaints. She seemed to take pleasure in being of assistance to Julia, and my wife was grateful for the help, particularly in the morning when she wasn't feeling up to preparing food for breakfast or lunch.
"Oh!" Julia exclaimed. "Apolline, did you burn yourself? Let me see."
"I'm fine," Apolline quickly replied.
"But your hand…"
"It was already like that."
"Apolline-"
"May I peel the potatoes?" the little girl asked.
At last Julia sighed. "Yes, of course. Lisette, would you like to chop onions?"
Lisette sniffed several times. "I am going to pretend I received very sad news and that's why I'm crying. Apolline, do you want to play too? You can pretend the potatoes are onions and we can both weep."
After their exchange, the house went silent, aside from Alex with his pencil furiously scribbling along the page as he responded to one of his uncle's many letters.
"Father," he said, interrupting the letter I was reading from my brother. "Uncle Phelan isn't married, correct?"
"No, he is not."
"Who cooks for him?"
"I would assume he cooks for himself."
Alex made a face. "That sounds terrible."
"Being self-sufficient is never terrible," I said as I turned the page over and found a doodle of what appeared to be a combination of Bessie's body with my head attached making a very unflattering expression.
"Have you ever cooked for yourself?" Alex asked.
"Of course I have."
"That must have been before I was born," Alex said under his breath.
I looked across the room at him, my eyes narrowed. "I assure you it was after you were born," I muttered. "And on more than one occasion."
My son looked unconvinced by the very notion of me being able to care for myself in any capacity. "Why doesn't Uncle Phelan have a wife?" he asked. He started to write something down–most likely the question he'd asked me–then decided against it and rubbed an eraser across the page.
"Perhaps he hasn't found the correct woman to marry," I said, finding another doodle on the bottom of the page, this time with my head atop a bird with the word 'Squawk' written beside my open mouth and a cloak made out of feathers. His talent as an artist was overshadowed by his juvenile tendencies. I shook my head and smiled at the discovery. He would return in two weeks, but it felt as though a lifetime passed between our conversations.
"How could he have difficulty finding the correct one? Girls are everywhere," Alex pointed out, making the idea sound positively dreadful.
"Do you want to marry every girl you see?"
Alex wrinkled his nose. "No, I suppose not. The only woman I would marry is Ruby."
"I don't believe Monsieur Leach would be pleased to hear you say that about his new wife."
Alex shrugged. He continued to read quietly to himself while I finished the letter from my brother. It appeared Phelan had written most of his correspondence on the train as aside from the doodles, he complained about how the cars swayed on the track and a man across from him snored loudly. To my surprise, he made no further mention of Florine or Marco nor anything else of substance, which I found disappointing.
After the brief meeting in the park, I had no desire to cross paths with Florine Fabienne ever again and quite frankly, aside from being an attractive woman, I had no idea what Phelan saw in her that he pined for her affection some twenty-six years later.
"Father?" Alex said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"I hope Uncle Phelan finds someone nice to marry."
"As do I."
oOo
"You won't be out late, will you?" Julia asked as I grabbed my overcoat from the coat rack in the foyer.
For a solid week I'd walked Bessie at nine, returned by ten, and was in bed beside Julia no later than eleven, which was several hours earlier than usual. My wife was typically asleep when I slipped beneath the covers beside her, but I'd at least stayed true to my word and retired at a decent hour.
Being in bed much earlier had an unexpected benefit: the nightmares, at least for the week, had subsided. Rather than waking several times throughout the week, I experienced one dream in which I had walked through my parents home while they were both away. When I heard my father's key in the lock and wished to return to the cellar, the door handle was missing and I couldn't escape down the stairs. Thankfully I woke just as the front door opened, my dream curbed by Bessie sneezing at the foot of the bed.
"I shall return in two hours," I told Julia.
It was a few minutes past ten and Julia looked less than pleased by my answer, but didn't argue.
"Ninety minutes," I offered.
"Shall I wait up?"
"There is no reason for you to lose sleep."
She still appeared unconvinced, but rather than argue, Julia simply kissed my cheek and told me she would see me in the morning. Bessie, sated with her long evening walk, trotted up the stairs before I opened the front door, clearly choosing sleep over another excursion.
"Us girls are going to bed," Julia said.
The salon was a short distance from my home and took me around the portion of the park Bessie and I rarely traveled as there was often more foot traffic than I preferred, which meant my companion could not be safely off her lead. There was a man with a trumpet playing somewhere in the distance as well as another performer-a younger boy by the sound of it-singing as he banged on a drum.
Both individuals were soon drowned out by the raucous laughter from the artists meeting at the salon. I was still halfway down the street and could clearly hear them shouting to one another as the door was propped open on a humid late summer night. They were all talking at once in what sounded like a playful argument amongst friends when I stepped through the doorway.
"Five francs!" I heard a woman shout.
"Fine! If you'll shut up about it, I'll pay you right this moment."
I walked into an apparent wager taking place, which was forgotten the moment they noticed me standing in the doorway with my violin case in hand, feeling suddenly quite awkward by my intrusion into their circle of friends.
"By God," Pierre said as he chewed on the end of a cigar and met my eye. "It is him."
A fit of laughter and excited squeals broke through their group, which only added to my growing anxiety of being out of place.
"Monsieur Kire!" Delphie said, motioning me into the salon. "Come sit with us, please! Marco, be a dear and fetch a chair."
At once three different people asked me questions before Pierre pounded his fist on the table and silenced the bunch.
"Allow the man to sit and relax before you vultures frighten him away." He took another puff from his cigar and shifted his weight. "Insolent children, all of you."
"Oh come now," Marco said. "He's Phelan's brother. Do you honestly think this man is frightened of us when he's related to Kimmer?"
A chair was drawn up between Delphie and Marco and I took a seat, clutching my violin case to my chest like a child holding a toy for security.
The salon itself was much smaller than I would have imagined, the walls painted bright orange with silhouettes of tree trunks and empty branches adorning the walls to cover the cracks in the plaster. Small paintings decorated the wall to my right while the group of artists crowded around a single, round table with their art lined up on easels toward the left of where they were sitting. The table, with its nicks, several choice words and at least one very large depiction of male anatomy etched into the surface, was drenched with wine and cigarette ash.
Their gathering was quite different from the polite one amongst musicians in the orchestra pit at the Golden Palace. I couldn't imagine the piccolo player wagering with the flutist, or Adrian Agard pounding his fist to garner their attention when the pit became quite rowdy.
"Have you brought work to critique?" Calista, Pierre's sister, asked once I was situated between Delphie and Marco.
"I haven't done much drawing in many years, I'm afraid," I answered. "I was not aware I was meant to bring art with me."
"You don't have to," Calista assured me. She looked to be Pierre's twin with her bright eyes and high cheekbones. "Marco hasn't brought anything for weeks."
"I brought a self-portrait last week and I have two paintings tonight," Marco argued.
Calista offered a sweet smile. "And none of those are truly art, my friend," she teased.
The group burst into laughter and Marco crossed his arms, slumping in his seat as he feigned insult.
"Enough, enough," Pierre shouted over them. He threw his hands in the air and stalked toward the door. "My God, you have all turned into feral creatures. Show some respect to our esteemed guest. And Calista, apologize to your cousin."
"Apologies," Calista said under her breath to Marco.
"How sincere," Marco shot back.
Pierre stood beside the first easel, one hand in his pocket, while he gave his thoughts on the painting displayed, which belonged to Claude's friend Paul, who looked quite annoyed with Pierre from the moment he opened his mouth. I recognized Paul immediately as one of two gentlemen Julia had mended clothing for several weeks earlier.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Gouguin?" Pierre questioned.
"Because I can't stand you," Paul answered.
"I've done nothing to you, Paul. In fact, I've spent the last three minutes doting praise on your artwork, you deaf fool."
Paul crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "I don't need your praise," he snapped.
Pierre grunted. "Why on earth are you here, then, if not for critiques? Are you and Vincent on about something again?" Pierre asked as the artist in question became increasingly agitated by their leader's remarks.
"How dare you speak of Vincent. You're a talentless bastard," Paul shot back. "A petty, talentless bastard who has no right leading this group."
"Better a talentless bastard than a man who fancies little girls."
Gouguin's face turned crimson.
Pierre crossed his arms. "Did you think for a moment that your interest in children went unnoticed? Your work may be brilliant, but outside of that I find you quite repulsive."
"Go to hell, Pierre!" he shouted before he snatched his painting from the easel and stormed out of the salon.
"Lover's quarrel, I suppose," Pierre sighed. "Vincent and Paul are both immensely talented, but lacking all sense. And morals, if we are making a list of their worst qualities."
"Don't tease him," Calista admonished. "You know Vincent hasn't been well for the last few weeks."
"He's never been well, not for as long as we've known him," Marco said under his breath. "Poor bastard and his love affair with the bottle. He hasn't been in his right mind since…since I don't know when. It's a pity to see him so lost."
Delphie leaned toward me and whispered, "Vincent has returned to the asylum. Fourth time this year."
"Poor soul won't be alive this time next year," Marco said. "Mark my words."
"Don't say that," Delphie pleaded.
"He's as good as dead," Marco continued. "You saw how he looked last time he was here. His eyes, they are of a man who has lost his will to live…"
The room fell silent. Calista frowned and shook her head. "Pray for him, cousin."
Pierre cleared his throat. "And now, with Gauguin's abrupt and childish exit, along with my dear cousin Marco's depressing observation regarding Van Gogh, we move on to the third attempt at a tree by my lovely sister," he said as he stepped toward the next easel. "Jan Maass, start us out, please."
The group offered Calista feedback on her painting of a flowering tree, which was apparently one in a series. I half-listened as they went around the table and gave their thoughts on the painting, offering advice on the petals and the background that both Delphie and another woman said drowned out the focal point.
From the corner of my eye I noticed Marco studying me, although I wasn't certain if he was curious about the mask or if he was more interested in staring at a man who was quite possibly his uncle.
I had cherished the thought of being an uncle, perhaps more so than fatherhood, which had always seemed unlikely given my appearance. I wondered what it would have been like to mentor a niece or nephew as my own uncle had done for me. Aside from Madeline, there was not a single person in the world that had meant more to me than my Uncle Alak, and I greatly desired to be like him.
It saddened me to think that not only had Phelan been a mystery to me for all of those years, but that I potentially had a nephew who had grown up in the same city–our paths nearly crossing multiple times at the theater–and we had not known one another.
"Monsieur? Monsieur Kire?" Pierre said. He knocked on the table in order to garner my attention.
I realized I hadn't been paying attention to the last remarks on Calista's work. "I beg your pardon?"
"We will skip you for now, yes?" Pierre said as he issued me a pointed look before he gestured toward Marco. "Thoughts?"
Marco sat up straighter. It was evident he hadn't been paying attention to the ciritiques either by the expression on his face. "It's the same tree from last week and I already told Calista how I feel," he said.
"And how do you feel?" Pierre asked.
"Her trees are rubbish."
Another heated argument started between Marco and Calista before Pierre once again pounded his fist on the table, sending a spray of wine onto everyone seated near him, which went ignored as everyone began yelling at once.
"And on that note, the meeting is adjourned," Pierre loudly stated. "And I quit. You are all far too much trouble for the compensation I receive, which I will remind you is zero francs. I dislike all of you. Aside from Monsieur Kire, whom I do not know well enough to dislike, and Delphie, whom I find quite charming."
Delphie leaned toward me again. "He quits every week," she whispered. "Sometimes twice in the same meeting."
"I do not quit weekly and I am no longer fond of you, Mademoiselle Dedelow." He gave an exasperated sigh. "Please, Monsieur Kire, tell your brother his presence is desperately needed. The Carlisle Club grows more feral with each passing week."
With that, the meeting was abruptly adjourned less than twenty minutes after my arrival. Pierre gathered his things and said he would see everyone in the park next Thursday afternoon.
"And not a moment sooner, do you understand? I don't want to see any of you before I absolutely must. I'll have you all banned from the Exposition grounds if you come anywhere near me." He paused halfway out the door. "Monsieur Kire, a pleasure seeing you. If you wish to attend the fair, I would be honored to leave two complimentary tickets at the main gate."
"That would very much be appreciated."
"Consider it done."
"Your tab," the salon owner reminded Pierre. He stuck his head out from the back room, bushy eyebrows furrowed and bald head shining in the lamp light as he scowled. "You owe for the last two weeks."
"Of course. Thank you for tolerating us once again," Pierre stalked across the length of the room, handed the owner several crumpled notes, and patted his pockets while muttering that he had misplaced his keys.
The rest of the artists slowly gathered their belongings and paid their tab to the salon owner, who shook his head in dismay at what was apparently a regular occurrence. He stuffed banknotes into his trouser pocket and thanked them for their business before returning to the back room.
"Is it always like this?" I asked once Pierre found his keys and stormed out.
Delphie shrugged. "Sometimes there are fistfights."
"That was once!" Marco assured me.
"My first evening, to be exact. It was quite the welcome seeing two grown men swing at one another," Delphie said. "Salons are for the intellectuals, but this group?" she shook her head and chuckled to herself. "They are all barbarians."
Marco issued a pointed look in her direction before he addressed me. "Please forgive Pierre as he is overworked at the Exposition. His patience has been thin as of late." He frowned, his shoulders sagging. "But if we're being honest, it's more organized when Monsieur Kimmer is leading and a lot kinder when Claude is here to remind us of our manners," Marco said. "Claude brings the calm to our raging storm."
Delphie nodded in agreement. "He is a lovely person and impossible not to adore, isn't that right, Marco?"
Marco blushed at Delphie's comment and hopped to his feet, turning away swiftly from the table. He removed his painting, folded the easel, and tucked it beneath his arm.
"Marco is very fond of Claude," Delphie whispered to me.
"So are you," Marco snapped. "Always batting your eyelashes at him and giggling at his every word."
Delphie shrugged. "We both have our charms, Marco. I cannot compete with your smile and that dimple in your chin. It's your best quality."
"Enough," Marco grumbled. "You're starting to sound like my mother."
Again Delphie leaned forward. "His mother dislikes all of us. We are a bad influence."
I couldn't argue with that observation and merely nodded. "Claude gives his best to both of you," I said.
Marco turned his head and I saw him smile to himself. "He is greatly missed. Will you tell him we said so?"
"I shall. He wanted me to tell the entire group that he looks forward to returning to critiques next week."
Quite frankly I had no idea why he would ever miss such chaos. Twenty minutes of sitting in the midst of their arguments and raised voices and I had a headache from their spirited exchanges.
"I'm sorry you brought your violin tonight and didn't have a chance to play," Delphie said as she stood. "Perhaps next time? That is, if you ever want to return. We were not the best versions of ourselves."
"We're often worse," Marco said with a grin.
"I'll see you next week," Delphie said to Marco. She turned to me. "If Claude is in need of anything, I will personally deliver it to your residence."
I doubted Claude was in need of any art supplies yet, but I nodded and thanked her all the same. She made her way out of the salon, leaving Marco to linger at my side with his hands in his pockets.
"Monsieur," he said as soon as Delphie walked out of sight. "I wish to apologize."
I turned to face him. "This evening was not your doing."
"No, I suppose not, but that wasn't what I meant." He turned his attention to his canvas of a woman bathing an infant in a large, green and blue ceramic bowl. "I wish to apologize on behalf of my mother for this afternoon when we saw you in the park."
He spoke without looking at me, his words nervously blurted out. Visibly he swallowed and looked truly mortified by his admission.
"I see."
"My mum often comes across as a bit…severe." He made a face displaying his discomfort. "I hope that you and Madame Giry can find it in your hearts to forgive her."
"I am certain Madame has thought nothing of the exchange."
"You've known Madame Giry for a long time?" Marco asked as he walked toward the open door.
"Many years," I answered, standing aside so that he could pass through with his easel and canvas.
"Me too. We met at an opera gala when I was eight. I imagine the majority of people acquainted with Madame Giry know her from the theater."
I nodded. "She has been a fixture in French ballet for decades."
"I remember very little of that night at the gala other than she let me play in her apartments when I was bored to death by stuffy old aristocrats flaunting their wealth."
"You were hardly a street urchin if you were attending galas at the age of eight," I pointed out.
"True, but it was still dull."
I'd seen more than my fair share of galas over the years and had determined that the acting that took place between wealthy men pretending to enjoy one another's company was often more impressive than the performances on the stage. The wealthy may have had their diamonds and furs, but they typically had no substance to make them appear interesting.
"Were you a musician?" Marco asked. "At the Opera Populaire, I should say?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"But that is where you met Madame Giry, correct?"
"Yes."
"Were you employed by the theater?"
I turned in the direction of my home and paused. "Which way are you heading?" I asked, ignoring his inquiry.
He stared at me for a moment. "Rue de Lourmel. The house with the yellow curtains and the garish statues of two lions guarding the entrance. And you?"
"Rue de l'Église," I answered, naming the closest cross street to where I lived. "White curtains with blue stripes and a basset hound who is an exceptionally poor watchdog." And, I thought to myself, she would probably be terrified of the two lion statues.
"Would you mind if I walked with you?" Marco bashfully asked.
We were heading in the same direction for two more streets before he turned north and I continued east.
"As opposed to walking on opposite sides of the street?"
Marco chuckled to himself. "Shouting to one another all the while may be quite entertaining."
We walked for a short distance in silence. I wondered what my uncle would have said to the shy young man walking beside him if there had been any question regarding our relation to one another. My uncle always seemed to know precisely what to say at the correct moment, and for that I had always been grateful. Conversation had never been my strong suit, but my uncle had been easy to speak with and never reprimanded me for stammering or speaking too quickly when my nerves got the best of me.
"Have you heard from your brother since he returned to Belgium?" Marco asked at last.
"I received a letter today, actually."
Marco eagerly nodded. "Is he well?"
Given that Phelan had chosen to doodle on the pages rather than give any indication of his health or well being, I simply shrugged. "Tired from his brief visit here, I assume." I looked ahead at an older man limping toward us, relying heavily on a crutch. His eyes were hooded and face weathered as if the weight of the world had taken a heavy toll on him. "Do you write to him often?" I asked.
"No, I don't write to him at all. Pierre has a time or two but…"
"Why don't you?"
Marco blew air past his lips. "Honestly I doubt he would reply."
"Why is that?"
"He's quite preoccupied with his classes at the university from what he's said and he has his own paintings and life." Marco's pace slowed, his gaze distant and troubled. "Do you know when he is returning?"
"He hasn't said," I lied, unsure of whether or not my brother wished for the rest of the critique group to know when he would be in town again.
Marco nodded. "If there is one aspect of life that Monsieur Kimmer excels at, it's doing as he pleases. I suppose I admire a man who is able to put himself and his desires first, without regard for others."
"That doesn't sound like a compliment."
"No, I suppose not. It sounds rather selfish, but still it must be rather nice to live for yourself and no one else."
"Have you known him for very long?" I asked.
"A little more than three years now, I think?" Marco said, squinting as he thought for a moment. He shifted the easel and canvas as he walked. "The first year and a half he was at every single meeting and then…then there were some changes to his personal life, which I assume you are aware of?"
"Yes, I am aware."
"He never told us that he was moving away," Marco said. "We all showed up to the salon one Thursday evening and he wasn't there. Pierre thought perhaps he'd fallen ill as Monsieur Kimmer was always there before any of us arrived. None of us thought much of it until the following Tuesday when he wasn't in the park to paint with us. And then he wasn't at the salon that Thursday and we all began to worry that something terrible had happened."
I raised a brow.
"Are you surprised, Monsieur?"
Joshua had told me that Phelan appeared and disappeared on a whim, and the first time I'd been introduced to my brother it was due to him arriving unannoucned a day early. Still, I found it difficult to believe he would have simply disappeared without informing the group of people he met with twice a week.
"How did you find out he had moved to Belgium?" I asked.
"My cousin Calista saw your cousin Valgarde. He informed her of Monsieur Kimmer's decision to accept the position offered by the Free University. Monsieur," he said suddenly. "I am glad that you are able to keep in touch with him. Monsieur Kimmer spoke of you quite often during our meetings at the salon."
"Did he?"
"Yes, of course. Other than his affection for his awful bird Elvira, he spoke fondly of you, particularly the last time he was at one of our meetings."
"When was this, if I may ask?" I inquired.
"The gallery show at the Rodan back in July."
That would have been the first time we were introduced by Joshua, a time in which I was certain Phelan had not thought fondly of me.
"'The ghost'," Marco said absently. "Phelan never called you that at meetings. I'm not sure why my mother referred to you as such. Do you?"
"None whatsoever," I answered swiftly, which I assumed implied the opposite of what I said.
Marco fell silent again. I balled my hands into fists, regretting my words.
"Did he mention me in his letter…" Marco asked suddenly. He winced and swiftly added, "Not me specifically, I mean to ask if he mentioned us. From the salon, I should say."
"I'm afraid he did not," I answered.
Marco frowned. "I suppose we aren't a significant part of his life, all things considered."
"Our conversations have mostly revolved around family," I said.
Marco's lips parted. He stared at me briefly, then bowed his head and nodded. "Family. Of course," he said under his breath.
"Specifically our grandparents, whom I had no idea were still living until recently," I attempted to clarify. "And his niece and nephew, whom he met for the first time over the summer."
"Alexandre and Lisette."
I raised a brow. "Correct. Your memory is quite impressive."
"They are…" he looked at me, his jaw working in silence. "Your children are very well-behaved."
"In public, thankfully," I replied. "Do you have siblings?"
Marco shook his head. "I'm an only child, raised by my mother with the assistance of my grandparents. My father…" His voice trailed away momentarily. He looked at me, his gaze searching my face briefly before he decided to stare at the cobblestones. "My mother was wed in Nice and her husband passed away months later. She never remarried after his passing. But I think you were aware of this already, Monsieur."
My lips parted. "I heard that your father passed before you were born."
He scoffed at my words. "Is that what you heard? Truly?" he snapped. "No other rumors of my siring?"
I hesitated. We were still a good distance from parting ways and Marco seemed both agitated and in no rush to return home. Somehow our conversation had gone terribly wrong and I had no idea how to rectify the situation.
"Yes, I have heard another rumor," I replied. "Do you wish to address it?"
"Do you?" he countered angrily.
I shrugged. "I assume that is the reason you asked to walk together."
He sighed in frustration. "Not the primary reason, no."
"No?"
Marco stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets once more, which drew his shoulders up to his ears. He exhaled hard and looked at me again. "Yes, if I am being perfectly honest, that was the reason I wished to walk with you. But I also wanted to observe your disposition," he answered.
I came to an abrupt stop, flashes of the traveling fair invading my thoughts. "I beg your pardon?" I gruffly questioned. "You wish to observe me? Like an animal on display?"
Marco gawked at me. "No, of course not. I merely wished to see the resemblance between you and Monsieur Kimmer. Given the brief time we have spoken, I can already see you are far more level-headed and less prone to grumbling than he ever was."
Apparently my children were not the only ones who showed well in public as Marco seemed to think I was quite even-tempered. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"Is that so?"
Marco nodded. "I have been called hot-headed, ill-tempered, and tetchy," he admitted. "Baptiste was known for his benign disposition and a voice barely over a whisper. Nothing could ever agitate him, no matter how others attempted to instigate arguments."
"He sounds pleasant."
"He sounds dull."
I snorted. "Perhaps both."
"From what I have been told, Baptiste would think a splattering of ink across paper was magnificent artwork and rain on a windowpane a symphony. He was magnificently uninspired by anything but ship building."
"Thus you did not inherit artistic talent from your father."
Marco looked at me from the corner of his eye. "I inherited nothing from Baptiste Fabienne, save his well-respected surname. I do not look like him, I do not act like him, and I do not sound like him. I've been told I greatly resemble someone else, however."
"Is that a statement or are you looking for an opinion?"
Marco looked away and neglected to reply.
"How did you come about meeting with this particular group of artists, if I may inquire?" I questioned.
"Are you asking if I attend because of your brother?"
"If I desired to be uncouth, I would ask outright. I am asking, Monsieur Fabienne, how you came to meet with these other artists and form your Carlisle Club," I said impatiently.
Marco appeared taken aback by my tone. "You sound like him," he muttered. "Like…"
"Like my brother."
"Like my father."
