Ch 127
Claude proved to be a very quiet and unobtrusive guest in our home. He spent his first afternoon resting as his ankle was quite sore, but the following morning he was in good spirits for someone completely immobilized.
"I see the operas have arrived," he said once I walked into the parlor late in the afternoon.
My desk had been pushed against the wall and the chaise lounge from the parlor had been brought into the study so that he had a more comfortable place to sleep. Julia had cleaned off my desk so that it served as a nightstand for Claude.
"Yes, I believe Julia said Monsieur Agard delivered them personally yesterday afternoon."
"Good," he said brightly. "Shall we begin?"
The thought of Danish lessons threatened to sour my mood. "If you wish to listen to me butcher your native tongue, so be it."
"It shall be far more entertaining than staring at the walls."
I carried my chair toward the chaise and looked around the room, realizing anything of interest was far from Claude's reach. His only belongings were the notebook and art supplies from Bloom's, which were on the rug near the door.
"Have you been sitting here staring at the wall all day?" I asked.
Claude pursed his lips and gave a sheepish shrug. "Not all day," he said. "I've spent part of it napping. And also counting."
"Counting what, exactly?"
"You own three hundred and fourteen books," he said, sounding quite proud of himself. "At least that's how many are within this room. And there are six hundred and forty-two blue pin stripes on the wallpaper from here to there," he said, pointing from one end of the room to the other. "I was going to count the number of squares in the rug next."
"My God, you're a guest, not a prisoner," I groused. "If you would like a book to read or your art supplies, say as much and they will be placed within your reach."
"I know you're terribly busy with your composing," Claude said. "I don't wish to interrupt."
I wasn't nearly as busy as he assumed. A great deal of my time reserved for writing music was spent distracted by an article in the newspaper or overhearing Madeline, Meg and Julia discuss the lives of our neighbors. Occasionally I attempted to balance a pencil on its tip when my muse abandoned me and then suddenly an hour of my time was wasted and I made no attempt to write a single note for the rest of the day.
"Would you like to read over the opera before we begin?" I asked.
Claude shook his head.
"No?" I said, brow furrowed.
"No, I would like for you to translate them aloud without my assistance."
I snorted. "Indeed."
Claude did not appear amused by my response. "How many days until you leave for Denmark?"
"Eight."
Claude made a face. "Only eight? Then I suggest you start reading at once."
I found myself annoyed by his words and released a heavy sigh to show my displeasure. Claude chose to ignore my childish display and crossed his arms. "When you are ready," he prompted.
I took a seat beside him, opened the opera and read a brief, handwritten description of the story, which was thankfully translated to French. From there I pursued the first two pages in silence, attempting to pick our words I was familiar with in hopes that I could string a sentence together.
"Liden Kirsten," I said aloud. "Little Kirsten."
Claude smiled and nodded. "That was the easy part."
Despite my struggles, Claude remained patient for the duration of the two hours he insisted I continue with stammering through each line, and much to my utter disappointment, each time I walked into the study, he opened the book to the last page I had translated and asked me to read one more line, which naturally turned into an entire page. Once I butchered a full scene, he had the audacity to ask if I would, 'Kindly start from the beginning.'
Three days passed. I saw very little improvement in my ability to read Danish and it felt as though the hourglass was down to its last grains of sand, but Claude insisted that I had made remarkable strides. He spoke to me in his native tongue from the moment I entered the room until he was satisfied with my lessons, giving me little choice but to piece together what he said.
On the fourth day–the morning of the excursion I had planned with Julia and our children–I discovered Claude and Charles seated together.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, surprised to see Monsieur Lowry in my study. The moment I inquired, I inwardly cringed and cleared my throat. "A delightful and unexpected surprise to see you this morning, Charles."
Charles stared back at me, his lips quirking into an easy smile that only Charles Lowry could achieve. "Since Alex and Lisette are attending the Exposition with you and your wife, I gave them the task of listing three exhibits they enjoyed seeing and writing about it tomorrow. Apolline will take her lessons here where I thought your guest could use a bit of company for the afternoon while we practice reading. I hope you don't mind my intrusion."
"If I minded the intrusion I would have changed the locks."
"Monsieur Lowry said that Apolline is very far behind on reading and writing," Claude interrupted. "I am very disappointed to hear this considering The Elise was supposed to be supplying her with a suitable education."
"You needn't worry. I will have her up to the same level as Lisette in no time. Your sister is quite eager to learn."
"She is fond of you," Claude said.
"Anyone who has a pulse is fond of Charles," I said.
Charles' lips parted in surprise. "You flatter me, Monsieur. And now if I may return the same sentiment to you, Claude tells me you have made remarkable strides in speaking Danish."
"Claude is overly kind in his assessment of my progress."
"You are being critical of yourself," Claude said with a disapproving shake of his head. "I have no doubt your grandparents will be pleased to meet you at last and delighted by your ability to converse with them."
"With four days remaining to practice, I find that doubtful," I reminded him.
"Plenty of time for learning if you would set your pessimism aside."
I narrowed my eyes and stared at Claude. "Perhaps on the shelf next to one of my three hundred and fourteen books?"
Claude snorted. "My apologies if I offended you, Monsieur. That was not my intention."
Before I could reply, I heard the unmistakable stampede of three children and a dog being chased through the house. The entire house seemed to rattle with their antics and I sighed to myself.
"If you would excuse me, gentlemen," I said before I turned and stepped into the hall where I was met with Bessie barreling directly toward me. I pressed myself against the wall, but not before her long tail whipped me in the shin as she lost her footing, collided with the wall, and came to an abrupt stop several feet behind me. Preoccupied with the dog's antics, I neglected to see Alex, who flew past me first and skidded around the corner, followed closely by Lisette, who was shrieking in delight. I turned in time for Apolline to run full force into my chest.
The collision was so forceful that Apolline lost her balance and rocked backwards on her heels. I managed to grab her upper right arm and steady her before she fell. For a moment her face was against my chest, small hands gripping my shirt. Her breaths were fast and hard until she looked up at me and drew in a sharp breath.
The look in her eyes reminded me of a young rabbit I had once freed from a net. Although it didn't make a sound, the terror in its gaze told me all that I needed to know: the tiny creature was frightened of me, despite my best intentions.
"Careful," I said, releasing my grip on her arm. In similar fashion to the rabbit, the moment Apolline was able to escape, she scurried down the hall and safely away from me where she hid behind Alex and Lisette.
"No running in the house. Alex, you know better," I sternly reprimanded my son. "And Lisette–"
"It was my idea," Lisette blurted out. "I apologize, Papa." She pursed her lips and batted her eyelashes.
"I trust you will both be on your best behavior for the rest of the day?"
They both nodded in unison.
"You have five minutes to dress yourselves for our day out," I sternly said. "Otherwise, your mother and I will leave without the two of you."
Lisette and Alex ran into their respective rooms, leaving Apolline at the end of the hall.
"Your teacher is visiting with your brother in the study," I said. "You may join them."
I had barely finished speaking when she darted into the study and to the safety of her brother's side. She stared at me briefly before I closed the door and returned to my bedroom, leaving the rabbit of a girl safely burrowed on the chaise.
OoO
Lisette was truly overjoyed to attend the Exposition, and seeing her reaction was quite entertaining. She gasped in delight at least two dozen times before we reached the gates and then another two dozen times once we were within the vast fairgrounds.
"Look at the giant candelabras!" Lisette said, tapping me on the shoulder. "Do you see them?"
"Where?"
The two massive lights at the main entrance were impossible to miss, which earned me quite the dramatic sigh from my daughter.
"Papa!"
"Thankfully you pointed them out or I would have walked right past them."
"May we stay until dark to see them light up?"
"We will certainly try," I said.
Given that it was a Tuesday afternoon, the grounds weren't overly crowded, allowing us to leisurely stroll through the buildings and explore the exhibits at a comfortable pace, starting with the Gallery of Machines.
The building–made of iron and glass–spanned the width of the exposition grounds. The sheer size of the enclosure was breath-taking, and Alex informed me that the Gallery was the largest building in the world.
"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Alex asked as he bounced around with his usual exuberance. "Anything at all in your entire life?"
"Never," I said, appreciating the vastness of such a structure.
Alex let out an exaggerated sigh. "You have lived a very long time," he said. "I am glad you are able to witness this with your own eyes."
"Yes, quite fortunate I am still living at my age," I dryly replied.
"How do you know it's the largest building in the world, my dear?" Julia questioned.
"Uncle Charles told me," Alex answered. "He knows the architect and the engineer."
That came as no surprise given that Charles knew at least half the world's population.
"Uncle Charles told me he was invited by the architect to see the building before the fair opened," Alex continued as he walked an imaginary tightrope.
"How wonderful," Julia said.
Alex shrugged. "I think Uncle Charles was a little sad."
"Why would he be sad?" Lisette asked.
"Because he declined the invitation." Alex shrugged, then put his arms out for balance as he teetered on his unseen wire. "It would have taken two people to carry him inside with the wheelchair."
We walked in silence for a while, pausing to read the placards of sewing machines, industrial contraptions, and farming equipment. The Electrical department was of special interest to Alex, who marveled at the machinery on display by an American whose invention defied description with its belts, wheels, coils, levers, and incandescent bulbs.
"Can you imagine?" I said, awestruck by the display. "The entire house fashioned with these bulbs?"
"They want to see the whole city illuminated," Julia said. "Is it safe?"
"According to Edison it is."
Parts of New York City had been outfitted with his lighting for a few years, but the trend was slow to progress, and seeing the enormous machinery needed to provide electricity for a small display such as the one at the Exposition, I could see why it was not readily available. Providing service to all of Paris would have taken machines that spanned further than the fairgrounds. I had my doubts it would be as widely used as gas lighting, at least in my lifetime. Perhaps in a century or two the idea would catch on and Edison would be illuminating the world.
"Father," Alex asked, tugging on my sleeve. "May we have electric lighting?"
"Someday, perhaps," I said.
"The summer home," Alex said. "With the big chandelier in the hall where all of the instruments are kept."
"I will add it to my list of improvements."
In one moment I was awestruck by the American inventor and disgusted in the next as we turned the corner and found the display of phonographs and telephones.
"An utter abomination," I muttered while Alex and Lisette went from one display to the next, listening to the various cylinders one of the demonstrators had to offer for guests to sample.
"Would you like to listen to Claude Debussy or E.M. Kire?" the young lady at the last phonograph asked.
Alex, Lisette and Julia gasped in unison, leaving me quite surprised that there was any oxygen left in that damnable corner of the building.
"Debussy," I said before the three of them could answer.
"Kire!" my family said, overriding my decision.
"Ah, he's been very popular today," the lady announced. "If you would like to fill out one of these forms, we are giving away a complimentary cylinder to one lucky person per week. Simply fill out your name, address, and which cylinder you'd prefer. That is, of course, if you own a phonograph…"
"We do!" Alex said, hopping up and down. "Mademoiselle Leach sold one to my father."
"Papa," Lisette whispered before I could correct Alex's statement. She wiggled around, every inch of her small frame radiating with delight. She pointed to the phonograph and it's wretched sounds. "It's you."
I politely smiled back at her, then proceeded to suffer through all eight minutes of an aria from one of my more recent works before we walked through the remainder of the building and out into the fresh air.
"That was my favorite exhibit," Lisette proclaimed.
"Was it?"
She took hold of my hand. "It was."
oOo
The Javanese village was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. It was as though a civilization had been transplanted into the middle of Paris, complete with pagodas and an open-air pavilion made of wood and stone that greeted us with exotic music and dance from Indonesia.
My feelings were quite mixed; the sixty inhabitants of the village were placed on full display for onlookers where they conducted their ordinary lives as though thousands of people did not gawk at their house keeping, basket-weaving, and cooking.
For a fee one could sample meat on skewers accompanied by a spicy, chili-based sauce for dipping. Julia declined entirely, Alex took a single bite and declared his mouth was aflame, and Lisette asked for seconds.
Once the sample was consumed, we made our way toward the sound of unusual music in the stone pavilion. Women in traditional garb danced to captivating songs while onlookers filled the pavilion and perused a booth that had music for sale from all over the world.
"What instruments are they playing?" Alex asked.
"Percussion mostly," I answered.
"What is that," Alex asked, pointing to our far left at a giant, brass disc suspended with two thin ropes on a wooden structure.
"I believe that is called a gong."
Alex's eyes widened. "May I ask them if I may play the gong when they are finished?"
I looked at him and smiled. "No."
Alex returned a devious smile. "May we purchase a gong?"
"Ask your mother later."
Men in ornate, sleeveless costumes of red and gold sat on the stone floor in front of long xylophones with mallets shaped like saber tooths while others sat cross-legged with drums or flutes and a few other instruments I'd not seen previously. The instruments themselves were beautifully crafted, the larger drums painted with depictions of tropical leaves and flowers that matched the costumes.
And then there were the dancers, whose movements told a story of mermaids evading a cruel sea serpent. Flutes carried them through the seas, the gongs resonated like thunder in a turbulent storm and cymbals shimmered with the cry of the serpent. The xylophones and drums became a downfall of heavy rain and swirling winds on the high seas before the serpent and storm relented.
They were clearly skilled at their craft, both dancers and musicians alike, performing artistry that to onlookers was truly exotic. I wondered what compensation they received for their skills and how they felt being placed on display in a mock version of their home from the time the fair opened until it closed late in the evening, seven days a week. It was perhaps a far cry from the cage I had inhabited long ago, but nonetheless they were still on display.
The performance ended and Julia squeezed my arm, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"They're getting hungry," she said.
I took one last look at the pavilion and nodded. "How are you feeling?"
Julia was slow to answer. "My feet would welcome the opportunity to sit for a while."
I pulled out my pocket watch, surprised to discover it was nearly six in the evening and we had been walking the grounds for over six hours.
We chose to ride the train that transported visitors around the grounds where we disembarked at the Mexican pavilion, marveling at the Aztec temple on our way toward the booths serving cuisine from around the world. Julia Alex sampled several different types of foods from Africa to the Netherlands.
Once we were sated, we took the train toward the entrance and found a suitable place in the shade near one of the fountains facing the infamous tower that had divided the artistic community.
"May we look at the souvenirs?" Lisette asked.
I gave Alex and Lisette five francs each and watched them run as fast they could toward a stand selling various trinkets.
"You spoil them," Julia said.
"I give them what I lacked at their age." I smiled to myself and kissed my wife's temple. "Plus, I'd rather Alex leave with a postcard or a top rather than asking again about a gong."
Julia grinned back at me. "Don't think for a moment I didn't overhear you telling Alex to ask me later."
"As you said, I spoil them."
There was a great deal more to see as the Exposition had more than sixty-thousand different exhibits, however, the heat and sun exhausted Lisette and Alex, who returned to our sides with Exposition-themed toys, while Julia had no desire to walk any further than necessary with her aching feet.
"Can we return before it closes?" Lisette asked as we approached the exit.
"If time allows," I answered.
We passed by the side of the Gallery of Machines where the docks for loading and unloading the exhibits were wide open to allow for a breeze. Several men pushed dollies and wheelbarrows up the winding ramp where other men unloaded the goods and sent them back down to a wagon stacked high with boxes.
Both Alex and Lisette waved good-bye to the tower before we walked to the nearest exit, hailed a cab, and returned home.
With the shades drawn over the windows, I momentarily lifted my mask–a newer one that Julia had made of cloth for me–and blotted my face dry from perspiration. Lisette had fallen asleep the moment the carriage pulled away from the entrance while Alex had fought to keep his eyes open until we reached the corner. He had managed to find finger cymbals, which was as close to a gong as he was ever going to own while under my roof, and tapped them together until he was asleep at last.
"I apologize if I ruined our day," Julia said once I folded my handkerchief and returned it to my pocket.
"You are incapable of ruining any of our days."
Julia placed her hand in mine. "It would have been nice to see the city from the tower," she said.
I shrugged. "It will still be standing for another two months."
Julia rested her head against my shoulder. "Doesn't it make you sad to think all of these beautiful buildings will be destroyed once the Exposition is over?"
"Should it?" I questioned. "Iron and glass cannot feel. They will have served their purposes for millions of visitors. I would say it's quite impressive, not sad. If there is another exposition, the buildings will be even more impressive."
Julia lifted her head and looked at me. "Sometimes you are far too sensible."
The children woke just as the carriage pulled up in front of our home, their energy magically restored with their twenty minute nap.
The sky had started to blush with sunset as we walked into the house. Claude was reading with his sister while Charles looked over a large stack of papers he appeared to be editing.
"How was the Exposition?" Charles asked, pulling off his reading glasses.
"Expansive."
"An apt description, to be sure," he replied.
"Alex said you know one of the architects responsible for the largest building in the world?"
Charles folded his hands. "Yes, the Palace of Machines, designed by Monsieur Dutert. A fine fellow and master of his craft."
"He invited you to see his work?"
Charles' expression faltered. "In the spring, yes."
"And you declined."
"I was not able to attend."
"That is quite unfortunate," I agreed.
Charles focused on the notes he had laid out across my desk. "Misfortune is part of life," he muttered.
"Indeed."
Charles glanced up at me. "I look forward to your son's description of the Exposition. I have no doubt he will provide ample details in his paper and I will feel as though I have been to the Exposition myself."
"Would the words of a nine-year-old boy be sufficient?" I questioned.
At last I had his full attention. Charles furrowed his brow and stared at me for a moment. "No," he said flatly. "No it would not."
I could have counted on one hand the number of times over the last eight and a half years that I'd seen Charles Lowry appear frustrated. He was the most even-tempered individual I'd ever encountered, and while he made every attempt to appear fettered, the tension between his brow said otherwise.
"Do you have interest in attending?" I asked.
Charles' lips parted, his gaze flitting from me to his knees. "Interest, yes, but capabilities–"
"Interest is enough," I said before he stammered on with words I had no desire to hear.
Charles gave an exasperated sigh. "My experience living confined to a chair says otherwise," he bitterly answered.
"Claude," I said.
Claude–who had clearly been eavesdropping–nearly dropped the book in his lap. "Y-yes, Monsieur?"
"Is there enough space on the shelf next to my pessimism to hold Monsieur Lowry's as well?"
Claude nodded. "Yes, yes, plenty of room, Monsieur Kire."
OoO
With less than forty-eight hours before Phelan would arrive in Paris and we would travel together to our grandparents home, my mind betrayed me in the middle of the night.
I woke at three in the morning, my heart racing. The train leaving Paris never arrived, and so Phelan and I had decided to set out on foot. We had barely made it to the city limits when my brother fell ill and, in similar fashion to my uncle, he was suddenly pale and unable to breathe. The nightmare ended when I jolted awake, my hands twisted in the sheets, my brain convinced that the bed covers were soil and that I had been on the verge of burying my brother, just as I had buried our uncle.
My stomach was in knots when I sat up and placed my feet on the floor. I glanced over my shoulder and found Julia thankfully sound asleep.
If my brother had lived within Paris, I most certainly would have walked to his home and woke him in the middle of the night to quiet my erratic thoughts. But he was in a different country, in his own bed, and I would not have confirmation that he was alive and well for another two days.
I walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the back garden where I stood beneath the moonlight, mask carefully held in my right hand.
I sat on the ramp Alex and I had built for Charles and stared at the leaves on the trees quivering in the night. Frogs and crickets created their own symphony, a tranquil sound that failed to put me at ease.
Weeks had passed since I'd been tormented by terrible dreams. Typically I would gather my latest compositions and write or rewrite my music until I was satisfied by the changes or frustrated enough to rip them to shreds. Standing, I turned and walked back into the house, pausing at the door of the study.
Candlelight flickered from inside the room and I tapped gently on the door.
"Is someone there?" Claude whispered. "Please say it is a person and not a ghost."
Both, I thought to myself.
I peeked into the room and Claude sighed in relief. "Thank heavens, Monsieur."
"What would you have done if a ghost had entered?"
"Well, I nearly jumped out of my skin as it is, but I would have screamed in a similar fashion to Apolline and Lisette."
I grunted. "What keeps you awake?"
Claude inhaled sharply and marked his page before closing the book in his lap. "My mind refuses to settle. I thought reading would make me drowsy, but this story is far too engrossing and I fear I'll be awake all night to finish it." He placed the book on the edge of the desk and looked up at me. "May I ask why you are awake, Monsieur?"
"My mind is equally restless."
"Would you care for some company?"
I took a seat across from Claude and folded my hands.
"Apolline," he said suddenly. "She has no memory of our mother."
I studied Claude for a long moment, unsure of how I should respond.
"We were speaking last night after supper and I said to her, 'You favor Mother greatly'. She looked at me, cocked her head to the side and told me she doesn't remember her. I told her that surely she recalls something. The days we walked to the park, getting sweets from the bakery on Saturday mornings…napping with our Mother when she was too weak to leave the apartment. She remembers none of it."
"She was young when your mother passed," I commented.
"Yes, but…" Claude shrugged. "I am angry. I shouldn't be angry, should I?"
"I am not the greatest resource when it comes to temper," I said.
Claude blinked at me. "Then what should I do? Her only memories were being taken away to The Elise. She told me that if I didn't tell her we were related, she would have not remembered me either."
"Tell her what you remember," I suggested.
"I thought it would jar her memory when I said to her, 'Apolline, min elskede–'"
I inhaled, my eyes narrowed. "Min elskede," I said, repeating Claude's words. "What does that mean?"
He nodded. "Come now, Monsieur, you know this."
I started to shake my head, but Claude would have none of it.
"Yes, you've said it several times reading the opera. Kirsten, liden Kirsten, min elskede, Kirsten," Claude said, singing the lyrics.
In my mind I replaced Kirsten with my own name and swallowed. The words were senseless, jumbled sounds muttered by someone who spoke gibberish. They couldn't be translated. It meant nothing. For decades, these words had meant nothing but madness.
"Monsieur," Claude said softly, garnering my attention. He nodded. "Min elskede. What does it mean?"
My throat tightened, a rush of emotion bearing down on me. "It means 'my beloved'," I said at last. I swallowed again, pushing back with all of my wavering strength against the feelings clawing their way into my mind. "My–my mother spoke those words when I was a child."
For years I had thought it was a chant to ward off the evil spirit she had birthed, to keep the devil in the cellar at bay. I had sat frozen listening to her repeat those words for what felt like an eternity, my stomach in knots and eyes filled with tears.
My beloved Erik. My beloved Erik. Erik, my beloved.
Claude's features softened. "She spoke Danish and you did not?"
"She never learned enough French to communicate with anyone effectively as far as I know," I said. "We were…we were not close," I admitted.
"You may not have thought you were close, but her words suggest that she felt differently."
The grief was unexpectedly fresh again. Taken from her family, unable to speak the language of the people around her, and suffering through madness in a house isolated from the rest of the town, I thought of her differently. She had not wanted to keep me away–or at least whatever she thought Erik was or had been to her. Perhaps she had never seen me after birth. Or perhaps she had, but her mind had replaced her deformed son with a different newborn, one she could have loved.
I wondered if she grieved me when she saw the headstone bearing my name, a child who was very much alive and longed for his mother and a mother who had screamed every time she saw her husband drag a filthy, emaciated boy back into the cellar where he belonged. I wondered if she knew Phelan had saved me from the back steps, that he had taken it upon himself to do what my mother and father had not.
"I wish I had been able to understand her," I said. To remember her with greater fondness, to have some memory of her laughing or smiling or holding me close. To have her be more to me than a rocking chair in the corner of the room by the fireplace. Her absence had a much greater impact than I had realized, her rejection–however unintentional–creating such abhorrence for myself.
"Perhaps you will be able to know her better when you meet her parents," Claude said.
I opened the opera to the last page we had read and took a breath. "I will read at the dining room table if you prefer."
Claude shook his head. "By all means, Monsieur, from the beginning of the scene."
