CH 132
Bessie whined from my bedroom, a high-pitched sound of distress. I wondered if the bird had frightened her or if the amount of people had driven her upstairs where she could hide beneath my bed.
"The parlor is available if the two of you would like a moment to speak in private," I said to Marco.
"I don't think so," Marco mumbled.
"Why not?" Phelan asked.
Marco's lips parted. He clutched his hat in both hands and shrugged.
"Hardly an answer," Phelan gruffly replied.
"Marco, I will be in the parlor momentarily if you would still like to speak," I said. "If you would both excuse me."
I walked up the stairs and saw Bessie peek out from the bedroom to see who approached. Her demeanor changed from wary to excited once she noticed me and I smiled at her.
"A most excellent idea," I said as I walked into the bedroom, shut and locked the door, and removed my mask. I sat on the bed in front of the oval dressing mirror, the cloth mask Julia had made for me tossed aside while Bessie jumped onto the bed beside me and nudged my arm so that I would comfort her properly.
My bedroom had been our hiding place whenever Meg and Charles or even Madeline entertained guests. I retreated willingly out of sight like a rat into its dark hole, avoiding contact with others.
Loyally, Bessie had stayed at my side, preferring my company to that of strangers. As a young pup, she fit onto my lap and snuggled up against me, nose pointed at the air as she rested her head against my chest. She would look up at me with her soft, dark eyes slowly blinking until they closed for a long nap that left me pinned in place.
I could have set her aside. Perhaps I should have placed her on the floor and reprimanded her for having the audacity to make me into her pillow, but she was the only one within the house that was allowed to stay with me night and day and quite frankly I couldn't afford to place strain on another relationship–even one with a dog.
Now that Bessie was full grown, however, she no longer fit onto my lap as she had when she was two months old, but she still managed to find a way to have her head and front paws across my lap.
She nudged my hand again with her cool, damp nose and I looked down at her. "It's never enough for you, is it?" I whispered. "I could scratch behind your ears for hours and you'd ask for more."
Her tail thumped in response. As a life-long pariah, it was nice to have company. She spoke to me with the tilt of her head or raise of her wrinkled brows and wags of her white-tipped tail.
"I wanted this," I told her. "This excitement of a house brimming with guests. For as long as I can recall, I've wanted to be in the midst of a gathering, surrounded by friends and family in my own home. And now that every room is overflowing with people, I don't fully know why that is what I desired."
I had spent many nights fantasizing about what it would be like to sit at the head of the table with a dozen guests in attendance, how I would speak of music, of course, and also politics and art. I imagined myself well-versed in trade of both goods and beautiful paintings and sculptures, which of course would adorn my walls and the entrance of my villa.
You are a delight, good sir, I imagined my friends telling me. There would be so many, all of them supporters of the arts. Visiting your home is always a treat.
And of course I would welcome them again the following week where we would enjoy supper and conversation well into the night, perhaps even to sunrise. They would insist that I play the piano or violin as I always had another piece of music being published.
"One more song, Erik, one more song. Please!"
"I've been playing for hours."
"But we cannot get enough of your masterpieces."
They would wear me down with flattery and I would concede, secretly enjoying their pleas. "One more and that is it, my dear friends. Until next week."
I would know what to say and how to say it, always speaking with confidence rather than nervous stammering. And I would have a wife at my side, who would beam with adoration every time our eyes met and sing while I played my music. Our friends would comment on how we were simply perfect together, the composer and his little songbird of a wife, who traveled the world entertaining others and returned home to their adoring friends.
Perfection awaited me. I could imagine nothing else but this life of dozens of friends and a family.
And then the horrors of Persia happened and I wanted to be left alone. The dream of my youth felt like a nightmare, and my primary form of communicating with others became leaving notes–even with Madeline who was preoccupied with her husband and newborn daughter and eventually her dying husband and fussy toddler.
I turned into a ghost that could not possibly attend gatherings and who had no friends and certainly no adoring wife. I had my music and my own thoughts, neither of which sustained me in the ways I desired most. I felt every bit an apparition, completely invisible to the world around me.
Out of necessity, I retreated. Out of my oddness. Out of my loathing for what I was forced to be: an intolerable monster and oddity whose only use was to frighten others simply by showing my face. No one wished to hear my music or listen to me play. The loneliness I felt consumed every minute of every day. I had nothing.
Bessie gazed up at me in her knowing way. Somehow she always seemed to understand my mood better than I could. I tilted my head toward her and she licked my face.
"There are four children in the dining room, all of whom I am confident will wish to draw your portrait," I said to her. "Shall we return downstairs?"
She sighed heavily and I nodded in agreement. "Another minute then."
We sat in comfortable silence and I stroked her ears, having no desire to leave the quiet contentment of my current situation for the tumultuous conversation I knew awaited in the parlor if Marco agreed to stay.
I couldn't imagine what it would have been like meeting Alex as an adult rather than a newborn, but nonetheless I felt a strong sense of irritation with my brother regarding how he interacted with Marco. I hoped that if our roles had been reversed, I would have been far more welcoming toward my adult son, grateful to meet my own child and have a relationship if he would have me in his life.
From the parlor below, Elvira made a vocalization that sounded very much like she said, "Careful, she bites."
"Yes, yes," my brother said. "Everyone knows you bite, my love, now if only you could tell others that I bite as well."
"What are you going to do with her while you're in Denmark?" I heard Marco ask. I was surprised to hear his voice, but grateful he had decided to join his father in the parlor.
"She will stay with Chrisophe," Phelan answered.
"He is here as well?"
"Yes. He's staying in my hotel room for the week while my brother and I are away. He had friends he wished to visit. His moping around has become quite tiresome and quite frankly he needs out of his own depressing head."
"I suppose at least someone is using your hotel room," Marco muttered.
Phelan scoffed. "Would you like me to apologize for visiting with your mother?"
"Visiting?" Marco gave a cynical laugh in return. "Is that all you were doing?"
Phelan sighed heavily. "Erik and I leave tomorrow night," he said. "I would rather not argue with you at this present time."
"No?" Marco shot back. "An argument is a hell of a lot more than I've ever received from you, Monsieur."
"Then by all means, tell me what you want from me."
"I don't want anything from you," Marco said through his teeth.
"Then shall I tell you what I would like from you?"
Marco didn't speak immediately. I grabbed my mask and started to stand, dismayed by their conversation thus far, but Bessie crawled further across my lap and I practically peeled her away.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur? What could you possibly desire from me?"
"A moment of your time."
"My time was made available to you readily and you dismissed me with every chance. Every single one. You would sit as far from me as you could during our salon meetings or when we painted as a group in the park. If I asked you to meet me for a drink, you refused. I asked you to supper, you said you had other plans. You come into town secretly and avoid me. Every time. Every damned time." Emotion strained Marco's voice, the resentment in his words palatable. "But now you think I owe you another opportunity? Are you mad?"
"You owe me nothing," Phelan said. "And you are correct, I have done all of those things and probably a great deal more."
"Perhaps I do want something from you after all," Marco said. "I would like to know why."
"Because sometimes I have no desire to be seen," my brother answered. "I meet with my broker and return home without a lot of fanfare. It has nothing to do with you."
"I meant why you've never said…" Marco fell silent briefly and I held my breath as I swiftly made my way from my room and down the stairs.
"That you are my son?"
"Yes."
Phelan didn't speak immediately and I rapped my knuckles on the door.
"Kire?" Phelan said, which I took as an invitation to enter the room.
Phelan stood by the window with Elvira on his shoulder while Marco practically blocked the door. He moved aside as I entered and closed the door behind me.
"Why don't you both have a seat," I said, gesturing toward the available chairs that were left unoccupied. Neither of them moved.
"I'm not staying long," Marco answered.
"Well, while you are here in my home, I insist that you make yourself comfortable."
Phelan and Marco exchanged looks as if they were unwilling to be the first to sit. Aggravated by their collective stubborn nature, I sat in my well- worn chair—the high back of which was covered in a blanket that had an unfortunate amount of black fur thanks to Aria.
"Lan," I said, nodding to the chair beside mine that Madeline typically used.
My brother glanced at me with a look of annoyance, but still took the seat and allowed Elvira to move from his shoulder to the back of the chair where she preened her feathers.
Marco looked awkwardly at the two of us.
"You asked why I never called you my son previously," Phelan said suddenly.
Marco nodded silently.
"I honestly thought it would be easier." Phelan answered.
"For you?" Marco questioned, his tone accusatory. He had one hand on the door handle as if he would bolt from the room if the answer was not satisfactory.
"No, not for me," my brother said. "The situation was never going to be easy for me and I knew that from the time your mother said she was expecting. Our time together was all going to end much sooner than either of us wanted."
"Because of me?" Marco asked defensively.
Phelan shook his head. "No, it was never your fault. The day she told me that you were inside of her womb, I was immediately overjoyed in the first moment and devastated in the next because you were mine and she was promised to another man."
"Why didn't you do something?"
"What would I have done?"
"Told her that you loved her, for one."
"Your mother knew my feelings for her. She was truly my anchor." He smiled to himself. "If I'd professed my affection publicly, what would that have done? Embarrass your mother for my own pride? She had a good life ahead of her with a wealthy husband and a family that could provide for her and for you. I stepped aside so that she could give you the life you deserved."
"You make yourself into a saint, as though you sacrificed anything at all. No, Monsieur Kimmer, you went about living your life, heedless of what I may have needed."
"I couldn't imagine you having more. A wonderful home, a good education, prominent name–"
"Did you never once consider I wanted a father more than a good name?"
Phelan paused. I noted the slight change in his posture, how he attempted to organize his expression to mask his emotion. For a brief moment I saw the remorse in his gray eyes before he managed to display a look of indifference. "I truly thought your mother would remarry."
"I wanted my father," Marco said. "The one I heard my aunts whisper about when they thought I wasn't around. The father I heard guests gossip about when they enjoyed far too much wine at our gatherings."
"No," Phelan answered. "No, I could not imagine you wanting me as your father."
"Do you know what you are? You are selfish," Marco declared. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes burning with malice.
"I am," Phelan admitted.
"Is that it then? Is that all you have to say?"
The room fell silent. I gripped the arms of my chair, fingers digging into the fabric as seconds ticked by and I was certain Marco would turn and leave. As it was, my brother had not given him many reasons to stay.
"No," Phelan said at last, his voice softer and more apologetic. "No, that isn't it. Would you sit, Marco? Please?"
"I prefer standing."
"Well, then stand with your arms at your sides rather than crossed over your chest," Phelan groused.
"What does it matter?" Marco argued.
"Because you look angry."
"I am angry."
Phelan's jaw tightened, his nostrils flared. Pewter eyes narrowed in frustration, but he didn't entertain an argument.
"I was released from incarceration the day I met your mother," Phelan said. "Out of jail for no more than three hours thanks to my cousin, who went on and on about how fortunate I was that he'd been charitable yet again and saved me. I would say I have no idea how Valgarde knew I was sitting in a cell, but that was most often the reason why I didn't return to the home we shared back then.
"He kept a tab of sorts," Phelan continued with a humorless laugh. "A log of how much I owed him for retrieving me. 'You are lucky', he would say to me, 'Lucky I still care for you.' As if I owed him for still claiming me as family."
"How many francs were due?" Marco asked.
"It wasn't monetary in nature," Phelan replied. "I could have reimbursed him tenfold if what he desired was checks in return, but he wanted me to feel as though I were quite fortunate he gave me the time of day."
Marco said nothing in return. He still appeared quite frustrated, but willing to listen.
"I was in the park sketching before a storm. The weather fit my mood and I had every intention of involving myself in an altercation so that I would be sent back to jail that evening."
"Why?" I asked.
Phelan eyed me momentarily. "Because I preferred sitting with bloodied, ruthless strangers to a judgmental familiar face." He studied his son, his gaze distant and morose. "And then I saw Florine with the dark clouds behind her, the pink and white petals from the trees raining down all around, and the twirl of this lemon yellow parasol, like sunlight battling the storm. There was my port, the one place I desired to be more than jail."
Marco took a step forward. He glanced at the two empty chairs and decided on the one beside me, which was the furthest from his father.
"I had no idea who she was and she of course knew nothing about me, a lowly artist. I simply asked if she would wait a moment for me to draw a few lines here and there and she agreed, quite impatiently. The first raindrops had already started to fall when I finally had the shapes in place. She shook her head and left me kneeling with my notepad on my knee, and I was absolutely smitten with her."
"And then you saw her the following day and gave her the drawing," Marco said.
"No, it was weeks later and she thought I was quite bold to approach her for a second time. She struck me with her parasol and demanded I give my name so that she could tell the gendarmes that there was a man in the park drawing pictures of unsuspecting women. So I gave her my cousin's name."
My lips parted and Marco audibly gasped.
Phelan chuckled at our reactions. "Or at least I considered giving her a false name. I was far too enamored to think with clarity and I wanted her to know the name of the man who was in awe of her beauty. I probably would have climbed up to the highest bough of the nearest tree and jumped if she asked me." He inhaled, smiling to himself. "I should have walked away right then and there, but she was not the type of woman a man simply forgets."
His affection for Florine reminded me of how I had felt for Christine. There was nothing I would not have done for a moment of her precious time–as long as I was safely from her view.
When I was behind the mirror, Christine trusted me fully, her guardian angel. Her eyes would sparkle with curiosity, her chest would heave with desire as she sang for me, her beloved teacher, the mysterious entity that praised her voice and increased her confidence. She would look at herself in the mirror, her smile wide and glorious, and whisper how much she loved me.
Wherever you lead me, I shall willingly follow, my angel of light and music, she told me.
But when we were face-to-face, when she saw what I was, her face crumpled and she drew back. Desperately I kissed the muddy hem of her dress on my hands and knees. My heart sank when she looked at me, her once dazzling eyes filled with fear and malice.
I would have kept myself masked at all times if it would have made her love me. I would have forever stayed behind a mirror if it would have made her say the words I longed to hear. And it would have been false, I knew now, infatuation that would never truly be love.
"Did you return to jail?" Marco asked. There was still an edge to his voice, a desire to be combative.
"I managed to avoid altercations while we were visiting each other," Phelan said.
"Visiting," Marco grunted in disgust.
"I painted a portrait of your grandparents as commissioned by your grandfather during that time."
"I've seen it." Marco sniffed.
Phelan seemed somewhat surprised. "Is my painting still displayed?"
"No, it's in the cellar covered by a ragged tarp, damaged by the humidity in a rotting frame," Marco replied.
"I'm surprised they didn't burn it."
Marco shrugged. "One night after Nonno's birthday, Alessio pulled me aside and asked me if I wanted to see something by my real father."
Phelan stilled, his expression sobering.
"Alessio took me down to the cellar, rummaged around a bit, and showed me the family portrait from my mother's side of the family. He said it was from il pittore bastardo."
"The bastard painter? Honestly, that's far more flattering than I would have expected," Phelan said.
"Alessio enjoyed a bit too much wine and freely told me that their family name would die with him and his brother Leo," Marco continued. "He said my mother was a whore and that God Himself had killed Baptiste for marrying a sullied woman carrying a bastard child. Do you know how old I was at the time? I was a boy of ten longing for two different fathers I would never know."
Phelan inhaled. "Baptiste contracted the measles from Alessio while they were away on business," he said. "Unfortunate, but no divine intervention. If anyone wants to bring God into the conversation, it should be in praise of sparing you and your mother."
"If you loved my mother so damned much, why didn't you return once Baptiste was gone?"
Phelan turned his attention to the corner of the room. He flexed his left hand slowly, grimacing as he made a loose fist. Wordlessly he unbuttoned his shirt sleeve. He pulled the fabric down past his wrist and absently ran his thumb over the scars. Marco watched him in silence, his brow furrowed.
"You've seen this before, yes?" Phelan asked.
Marco swallowed. "I have."
"And you know what it is from?"
Marco didn't reply. He glanced at me, then back at his father without answering.
"You know–"
"I've overheard you speak of it previously," Marco blurted out.
Phelan continued to pull his sleeve up. "I was three and a half when Bjorn Kimmer lost his temper," he said. Sullen eyes turned to me briefly. "I am certain it was not the first time he took out his anger on me, but whatever happened before I don't recall. Other than the birth of my brother, this is my earliest memory; the memory of my own father burning my arm to the point where my flesh blistered and peeled off days later."
I knew the story, but I still shuddered at the memory my brother had shared, unable to imagine unleashing such malice on anyone, let alone my own three-year-old child.
"I remember screaming and crying and burying my arm in the snow, which wasn't nearly deep enough to cool my burned flesh. I remember tearing apart fabric to create a bandage, how I had to use my teeth because my left arm was useless."
Marco sat up straighter.
"I resemble my father," Phelan continued, his voice soft and even. He glanced at me and I shook my head. "I do. You know I do. With the beard I looked a lot more like him, but appearance aside, I have his temper as well." He traced along the red, raised flesh on the inside of his forearm. "I used to wonder if we were identical inside and out, two surly bastards cut from the same cloth, our paths laid out before us and unable to veer off course."
Phelan left his arm exposed. He rested the back of his hand on his knee and examined the scar tissue as if he noticed the marks for the first time.
"Our father and uncle were fishermen." He looked up at Marco, who sat forward, his blue eyes filled with sadness. "They were no longer close by the time Erik and I were born, but our uncle used to tell the same story about how he'd saved Bjorn's life when their ship took on water and they were tossed overboard."
Our eyes met briefly. A shadow of a smile touched the corners of his mouth and I wondered what was on his mind. The story was unfamiliar to me as my uncle had not said a word about my father once we left Conforeit. In my mind, my father had never been a child or a young adult nor had he ever been sober; he had simply existed as a burly, short-tempered brute who smelled of dark liquor, stale cigar smoke, and old sweat.
"They were close in age," Phelan continued. "Born eleven months apart, to be exact. Practically twins, Alak would say. When they were boys, no one could tell them apart, so when one got into trouble, they were both to blame and according to Alak, they were always up to some sort of mischief.
"Alak found employment on a fishing vessel when he was thirteen and he convinced the captain to allow Bjorn to earn his keep as well. They couldn't bear to be parted, having lived their entire lives joined at the hip. But neither of them had stepped foot off dry land and Bjorn was sick as could be for the first day and a half. The captain threatened to toss him overboard if he didn't find his sea legs and start being of use, so Alak did twice the work to save his brother's skin.
"Three days in, they were caught by a storm," Phelan continued. "The ship was tossed and turned and Bjorn spent the whole evening sick to his stomach. Once they reached the first port, the captain suggested they spend their day in Oodorp and return to the dock at dusk when they would depart and continue north to Amsterdam. Between the two of them, they had earned enough wages to split a hot meal, so they ate, aggravated the locals, and returned to the docks well before dusk to find the ship had left without them hours earlier."
My heart stuttered. I thought of how my uncle had died and left me without guidance, how the abandonment, however unintentional, had affected me well into adulthood.
"It took several days, but they found another ship that was heading south. The captain said if they worked hard, he would take them back to Conforeit. If they did not, they would remain on the ship as his crew until their debt was paid, so the two of them labored day and night scrubbing decks, repairing nets, and doing whatever else was required of them so that they could go home together.
"Late into the night, impressed by their work, the captain offered them a seat at their table where the crew drank until they were blind drunk and gambled away their wages. There was not a sober one amongst the sailors and as the crew became increasingly agitated, Bjorn and Alak returned to the deck as Bjorn was still not accustomed to the ship's movement.
"They stole a bottle of whiskey from the captain's chambers and as they climbed the ladder to the deck, the drunken helmsmen hit something, most likely a rock jutting out of the water, which cracked the hull, nearly splitting it in two. The ship took on water fast and trapped several sailors below. Somehow Bjorn and Alak made their way to the deck as the whole damned thing began to sink, helm first. Unable to find purchase on the deck, they both toppled from the side of the ship into the dark waters where they were separated."
"How far were they from land?" I asked.
"Far. Although I suppose when you can't see anything and the water is nearly over your head, it feels like you're in the middle of the sea, particularly if you are not a strong swimmer, which Bjorn was not. Alak said he could hear Bjorn frantically calling for help, but he couldn't find him in the dark and the waves did them no favors."
I should not have cared if my father nearly drowned, nor if he was terrified, sputtering salty water as the waves lapped over his head. Perhaps I should have found some satisfaction in his suffering, in the moment where he must have been certain he would die, but I felt more alarmed for his plight. I knew what it was like to be young and alone, of nearly suffocating at the hands of the man who had almost drowned with his brother.
"What happened?" Marco asked. "How did they survive?"
"Alak was not a very good storyteller when it came to how they managed to find dry land," Phelan answered. "Sometimes they happened to find a piece of the ship and cling to it, paddling to safety. Other times the captain pulled them into a rowboat and deposited them on the shoreline. Once or twice he had simply grabbed Bjorn by the collar and dragged him, flailing about like a fish, all the way to the shore. No matter the real story, they survived." His expression darkened. "And despite what they had endured, they both went out to see again, became reliant on the bottle, and ended up despising one another a few years later. Alak would say that Bjorn died that night as the man who returned to Conforteit was not his brother."
"Do you know why?" I asked.
Phelan shook his head. "Another story with multiple endings, all of which were Bjorn's fault. I believe the narrator made himself into the hero."
The three of us sat in silence, lost to our own thoughts. I wondered if their brush with death had changed their courses in life, if they had not boarded the first ship, if they had gone onto farming or mining or another occupation, their lives would have been different. Perhaps our father would never have met our mother and Phelan and I would not have been born at all.
"Why are you telling me this?" Marco asked at last.
"Because when you were a few months old, I saw Florine again. She walked you through the park in your little pram, wrapped in a yellow blanket. We spoke for a while and your mother asked if I wished to hold you. The second she attempted to place you in my arms, you became inconsolable. The sounds you made were so shrill and I thought of the time Bjorn grabbed Erik and started to shake him because he was hungry and would not stop crying. I had put my brother down for only a moment to warm his bottle. I don't recall how I had managed to take my brother back, but I remember how angry Bjorn was for his sleep being interrupted, so very incensed I thought he would truly kill us both. I took one look at you and declined her offer."
I suppressed a shiver at my brother's words, knowing that once our father started, he had no intention of stopping. His rage became all-encompassing, fury that exploded like a dam breaking.
"You thought you'd harm me?" Marco asked.
Phelan was slow to answer. "I had not once seen Bjorn curb his temper and I didn't want to find out if I was the same as him while holding you."
"I would have preferred a father with a temper to none at all."
Phelan studied Marco for a long moment and shook his head. Our father had been cruel to both of us and our uncle had lashed out at Phelan when he was not quite seven years of age the day I had gone missing. My brother had grieved silently for so long, lost in his anger and regrets.
"No," Phelan said at last. "No, you would not have preferred the father I had. You deserved someone far better than me."
Marco moved to the edge of his seat. "It doesn't matter what you think I deserved," he snapped, standing abruptly. "I received nothing from you, Monsieur. Not even an apology after all these years."
