Ch 143
"Mr. Bruno," Phelan blurted out.
The Irishman waved his hands in the air and stalked toward the exit.
"Tadhg," I said. "Another moment of your time, please," I added before he reached the door.
Tadhg bowed his head, his fingers grazing the handle. "I do not wish to speak to you," he said, his voice quivering and accent thicker than it had been all day. "But if you have something you need to say, then you may say it."
He stood with his back to us, his posture speaking volumes even if he had nothing more to add verbally.
"You have set some of my music for printing, correct?" I asked.
He turned his head to the side, but didn't look at me. "E.M Kire's music, yes."
Clearly he still didn't believe I was who I claimed to be. I motioned for Phelan to hand me his sketchbook, which I opened to the drawing of Alex.
My brother had chosen to draw my son in conversation with his lips parted and his hand close to his face as he gestured to whomever he engaged in talks of what I assumed were centaurs juggling or gargoyles baking cakes. His imagination was truly unmatched and his desire for knowledge insatiable.
It was remarkable how a simple sketch somehow managed to capture my son's constant animation. I could almost hear him as he tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I were listening to him if I dared to look away.
The depiction instantly made me smile with gratitude while at the same time made me miss my son more than words could possibly express.
"Mr. Bruno," I said. "I am certain, despite my constant attempts to prevent printing houses from receiving anything other than my compositions and notations, that there have been multiple instances where my son has managed to draw on the back of the pages.
"If you have received a collection of symphonies or arias for typesetting, or have read through one of my operas in preparation for printing, I'm certain you have seen my son's accompanying artwork, typically somewhere along the middle of my music."
Tadhg turned and the look of astonishment in his eyes made me fairly certain he had come across one of these drawings, if not more. There was no telling how often Alex, seeing the unsealed envelope on my desk, had decided to draw something and slip it back inside without my knowledge.
"Egyptian pyramids and a basset hound seem to be his favorites in recent years," I continued. "And when Alex signs his work, the first letter of his name is quite elegantly penned and is usually twice as big as the rest of the letters."
"Yes, yes, the letter A is always creative. Sometimes he will draw a hand or a shoe at the bottom right of the A where it curves upwards. He has excellent penmanship, so beautiful it could be used for printing."
I had no doubt Alex would be quite pleased to hear his writing was admired as Charles had insisted on him practicing the legibility of his sentences for weeks on end.
Tadhg shifted his weight and took a careful step toward me. "The dog in the pictures, it is named–"
"Bessie," I said before he finished speaking. "She is our family pet. A gift to me from Alex a year ago."
Phelan grabbed his book from me and turned several pages. "The hound in question," he said, revealing a drawing of Bessie proudly trotting down the street at my side. Phelan had drawn me from the waist down, but Bessie gazed up at me, her tongue hanging from her mouth and tail straight up behind her. She looked as she always did; droopy eyes, long ears nearly brushing the cobblestones, and boundless joy on four stout legs. She was perfect, and I missed her as well, my constant companion.
Tadhg inhaled sharply. "Yes! Yes, sweet Bessie the basset, loyal hound to the composer. Oh, she is my favorite dog, Mr. Kimmer, besides my own little terrier…" He paused, clenching and releasing his hands. "Your son writes stories about her."
I furrowed my brow as this was news to me. "I beg your pardon?"
"On the backs of the pages. He writes a paragraph here and there, not always in the correct order. It is like an unexpected mystery to receive an opera as well as an adventurous tale. Bessie is always getting into a bit of mischief, and the last story is unfinished. I do hope he submits the last chapter as Bessie was trapped in a bakery with little chance of escape."
"Of course Alex is writing full mystery novels," Phelan said under his breath.
"That certainly sounds like Alex," I said, wondering how many times he managed to sneak his work into my operas and how often his antics were noticed.
"You are Mr. Kimmer? Or is it Mr. Kire? Mr. E.M. Kire, perhaps? What should I call you? Oh! Monsieur, yes, because you are French? But no, you are Scandinavian, not truly French, so I should call you Herr Kire?" he rambled on. "Should I say your name at all? Ah, but of course not as you are traveling and do not want others to disturb you. That is the reason for the mask, yes? You are in disguise."
I held up my hand and at last he gave a breathless pause.
"Erik," I said. "You may call me Erik."
He licked his lips, his blue eyes filled with wonder and cheeks bright red. "Erik! All of this time I imagined you were an Edgar or an Emile. Did you know that your first name is the same as your last name, but in reverse?" He sucked in a breath. "But of course you did. I do not know why I would question you, Monsieur. Mister. Sir. Herr. Your excellency. You are truly the composer, aren't you?"
I nodded. "I am, and there is truly no reason for you to call me by anything other than my given name."
"No, no, I can't call you by your given name. You are too important for such informality. You are Mr. Erik." At last he smiled, grabbed me by the shoulder, and shook me with such force that I was surprised he didn't wrestle me to the ground. "I should have known! Yes, of course you are the composer. No one would be able to play your music like you."
"I believe you are more familiar with my compositions than I am, Mr. Bruno."
"You must call me Tadhg," he said. "Your loyal and obedient typesetter, who could not be more pleased and anxious to make your acquaintance." He clasped his hands together and grinned at me. "Should I stop speaking? Normally by now people tell me to stop speaking."
"Only if you wish to play more music."
The Irishman appeared completely bewildered. He grabbed another piece of chocolate, hastily unwrapped it, and popped the sweet into his mouth. "No, I could not play, not in front of you."
"You already have," Phelan reminded him. "And in my uneducated opinion, you were quite good."
Tadhg shifted his weight. "Thank you, Mr. Phelan, but that was before I knew that Mr. Erik was Mr. Erik. Now I could not possibly play a single note." He dropped his arms straight to his sides and stared past me. "I do not know why I continue to speak. My mouth feels like I've swallowed a fistful of dirt and my arms feel twice as heavy as they normally do. My skin does not seem to fit comfortably over my muscles and bones. May I please sit? I feel as though my legs will give out if I stand a moment longer."
"By all means, make yourself comfortable" Phelan said.
Tadhg took a seat and placed his folded hands on the table. He took several deep breaths while staring at me from the corner of his eye while Phelan poured tea for all three of us.
Our guest smiled to himself in a way that reminded me of Alex when there was something on his mind that he greatly desired to say, but waited for me to address him.
"This is better than seeing you at the Golden Palace and yet at the same time it is far worse," Tadhg blurted out.
"What makes it worse?" Phaelan asked over his shoulder.
"Because now I must speak to my favorite composer," he said as if it were obvious. "What does one say to the individual responsible for composing so many of my favorite pieces of music?"
His flattery took me by surprise. For years the only opinions I heard regarding my music either came from Madeline, who loved everything I wrote, or Luc Testan, who despised every note.
Early on in my career as a composer I had decided that Madeline had to praise my music because she was my family and therefore obligated by our association.
Luc Testan, on the other hand, gave an honest, albeit scathing review because he owed me nothing and had no reason to hold back his true feelings.
"How many compositions have you finished?" I asked.
"Oh!" Tadhg nearly jumped out of his seat. "No, I cannot discuss my music with you."
Phelan delivered two of the cups of tea to the table. "Why not? You're both musicians and composers."
"It would be like a schoolboy speaking of his rough draft poem to Shakespeare."
"Do you think Shakespeare only wished to discuss himself?" Phelan asked.
"I do not know what Shakespeare would prefer discussing. That is of course if he were alive. He would be over three hundred years old. I do not believe I would wish to speak to someone who has been alive for three and a quarter centuries."
Phelan furrowed his brow. "Your mind is truly fascinating."
"Would you care to play one of your compositions?" I asked.
This time Tadhg leaped from his seat.
"My goodness, are you on fire?" Phelan groused.
"No, I am not aflame. I am stunned by the suggestion and wish to run from such an unexpected inquiry." Slowly he returned to his seat and took another piece of chocolate from the bag. "I would care very much, Mr. Erik. But I don't know if I could fulfill your request properly."
"How about tonight after supper?" I questioned.
Tadhg shook his head. "I'll be off the train before supper."
"Following afternoon tea?" Phelan suggested.
"Isn't this afternoon tea?" Tadhg asked.
Phelan smiled and nodded. "Why yes, it certainly is. Since you have occupied our private train car for several hours, it would be a delight to hear your own original music as over the next week I will be subjected to nothing but my brother's operas."
"That sounds wonderful," Tadhg said.
"I believe there is a bit of a language barrier that causes my attempts at humor to fall flat."
"No," Tadhg said with a shake of his head. "I understand what you are saying, but I do not find you amusing."
To that I chuckled while Phelan bristled.
"Bring your violin," I said.
oOo
An hour passed and I was fairly certain that Tadhg had changed his mind and would not be paying a visit to our train car with his violin in hand.
The train made another stop and Phelan and I both peered out the window, concerned that our Irish friend would disembark early and wait for the next train simply to avoid playing for us.
"He's a strange fellow, that Mr. Bruno," Phelan remarked.
I inhaled and removed my mask. The rain had stopped and the window was open again, providing a refreshing breeze. "Words I am certain he has heard far too often," I said under my breath.
"Strange isn't necessarily an insult," Phelan said.
"Have you ever been called strange or odd and found it to be a complimentary description?"
"I mean to say he's difficult to speak to," Phelan said, frowning at me.
"Because of his accent?"
"Because he has no sense of humor and takes everything literally, but yes, also because when he is speaking with an abundance of excitement, he is quite difficult to understand."
"Not everyone is as eloquent as you."
My brother shrugged. "I am quite fascinating and I've been told I weave a riveting tale at dinner parties. I should become a novelist in my spare time."
"Spare time indeed."
Once the train pulled out of the station, I thumbed through my brother's sketch book while he donned his spectacles and read while he hummed to himself.
His art work was still largely unfamiliar to me, but from his drawings it appeared his focus was mostly portraits. For mere sketches, the details in his work were quite outstanding. The lines in overworked hands and aged faces, a sweater with a piece of yarn unraveling or the scuffs on boots caught my eye.
"Do you draw landscapes?"
"Sometimes."
"Still life?"
"Yes."
"Nudes?"
"Do you wish to model?"
I ignored his question and turned the page, noticing a drawing had been ripped out and wondered what he had removed.
"You prefer portraits?" I asked, seeing the drawing of Lisette and Julia.
"Are you aware that it is impossible for me to read while you incessantly question me?" he grumbled, glaring at me from the corner of his eye.
I made a face and initiated him under my breath.
"I can still hear you clearly and I don't sound anything like that, Kire," he groused. "You sound like a dying goose."
I had initially opened the book toward the back where the spine was creased from use and flipped my way through the pages until I reached the last page, which was a self portrait, but upside down. Once I reached the end of the drawings, I opened the book to the first page and discovered it was blank, as were the ones that followed. The discovery left me with my brow furrowed as there was nothing in the sketchbook until the drawing of Marco, which was toward the middle.
"Lan–"
"What now?" he impatiently snarled.
"Did you purposely start from the center of the book?" I asked, ignoring his tone. "All of the pages in the front are blank."
"I did."
"Is that typical?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Phelan smiled to himself and turned the page. "Because."
"That's hardly an answer"
"Because it tends to annoy others, such as what you are doing in this very moment."
"I should have known it was for a juvenile reason."
"Actually, there is an explanation, if you must know," he said, pulling off his glasses. "The first sketch book I obtained was a beautiful, imported piece of art in its own right, hand-sewn somewhere in Italy. Supple, dark red leather with gold embossed initials on the cover and crisp stock pages with rounded edges. It was unfortunately stolen."
"Stolen? By one of your students?"
"No, I was sixteen at the time and I was also the thief."
My eyebrows shot up. "You stole someone's sketch book."
"Thief would imply theft, wouldn't it?" he dryly questioned.
"Why did you steal it?"
"Because it was left unattended and the man whose initials were on the front could afford another one with the coins in his pocket whereas I would go hungry for a week before I could purchase one half the quality. Because I was new in Paris and had no friends and slept like a dog in my cousin's aunt's flat and didn't much care if I was caught or not. Because I'd already taken several pencils and a few paints and brushes and no one had noticed." He shrugged. "Mostly because I was foolish, I suppose, and had no means to acquire supplies honestly, so I swiped it off of a cafe table."
"Were you ever caught?"
"Within forty-eight hours gendarmes were pounding at the door and I was yanked from the flat by my collar with the stolen goods in hand. Valgarde's aunt made no protest with my arrest. She said they could keep me for good, and I was taken down to the police station two streets away where the constables threatened to break both of my hands."
My breath stilled. It angered me to think of my own brother left with no one to defend him even if he was clearly in the wrong. "What happened?"
"They brought out a hammer and called Monsieur Courbet into the station so that he could properly identify his property and me as the thief. The chief inspector said that the rightful owner could dole out the punishment as he saw fit."
Phelan placed the bookmark between pages and sat back.
"As it turns out, the sketchbook was a gift from one of Gustave Courbet's former models. There were rumors Monsieur Courbet was the father of her child, but he no longer had a relationship with the mother and he'd never claimed the boy. What he did maintain was the sketchbook from the lover who left him devastated. Until I took that from him as well."
Lan took a long pause, his gaze distant.
"I was terror-stricken the moment he walked in, Kire," he said without looking at me. "Absolutely certain he would smash both of my hands until they were turned into pulverized meat. He was filled with rage, his eyes aglow with madness."
A shiver rattled through me. I thought of how my father had threatened to castrate me, how I hadn't truly understood what he had implied, but I knew I should be afraid. He had made certain I was always fearful of him, but that particular threat had felt different. He had not wanted to simply harm me, he had wanted to ruin me.
"And then what would I have done with two broken hands?" Phelan wondered aloud. "I would not have been able to work for a living or steal to survive. I would have been reduced to begging on the street for scraps of discarded meals and forced to eat like an animal."
"Were the charges dismissed?"
"No. Monsieur Corbet stormed into a windowless room where I sat with my wrists bound to a table. He picked up the hammer and smashed the head into the wood several times until it splintered around my clenched fists. He paused, looked at my left arm, and asked what had caused the burns to my flesh. He seemed disinterested in my answer and told the guards to deliver me at six in the morning to the address of One Robert Farnier Place. Then he snatched up his sketchbook and stormed out.
"I spent the night in a jail cell with three other unpleasant individuals, two of which became quite agitated late in the night and fought each other in a bloody brawl that the guards ignored. I was exhausted by the time the sun rose, but as instructed, I was transported in chains to the specified location."
"Where were you taken?"
"His residence on the west side of the city. He handed me a paint brush and said I had ten hours to complete the task of painting all the rooms within his home."
"A day of painting doesn't seem horrible."
"It was two weeks worth of painting. Six days a week, ten hours each day."
"It took that long to paint the house? My God, did he live in a castle?"
"Hardly. Painting should have taken me two days at most, but he kept changing his mind on the color. I believe the first day was blue, followed by red and then green if I remember correctly. By the fourth visit I was furious seeing as my entire day was wasted and I knew that every morning when I returned he would have a different can of paint and tell me to start over."
"That does seem like quite the punishment."
Phelan shrugged. "It was a boring waste of my time and quite the strenuous labor, if I'm honest. By the end of the first week, I dreaded lifting my arms as they felt like I carried tree branches, but at the end of my 'sentence', he gave me a pouch containing several pencils and a knife to sharpen them along with a plain sketch book with a soft cover. He grabbed me by the throat, struck me across the face, and told me I was a decent artist but a terrible thief, and if I stole from him or anyone else, he would see to it that I never painted anything again, not even the walls."
"Merciful," I said.
"For a threat, yes. When I returned home with the sketch book he gave me, I discovered that there were several drawings in the middle of the book that Courbet had done of me painting his kitchen, along with a note regarding a salon he thought would benefit my style if I wished to improve. I drew my first sketch on the pages that followed and have started from the middle ever since."
I flipped the pages to the center of the book and saw that Phelan had started with Marco. There were only around twenty sketches filling the crisp, white pages, but I was glad to see the first one was his son.
"Did you ever see Courbet again after that?"
"Many times. Eighteen months later he allowed me to show one painting of mine alongside his and several other prominent names at a gallery on the opposite side of the city. I had to walk two hours to attend, but being that I was just a month shy of my eighteenth birthday, I would have walked to Nice for the opportunity to have my work displayed."
"Has he attended other showings?"
"No, we fell out of touch long ago. He was exiled and I had his address for some city in Switzerland, but never wrote to him, assuming he would return a few years later. And then the next thing I knew, I was reading his obituary one Sunday morning while I was preparing for a gallery exhibit featuring my work that I had started with the pencils he gave me." He paused and sighed. "He died twelve or thirteen years ago. We were not close by any means. I was not interested in the ramblings of a middle-aged man attempting to instill his knowledge on the son he never had in his life and he had a very stringent style that he thought I should have adopted."
"Do you still have the sketch book he gifted to you?"
"Somewhere," Phelan answered. "In the attic, probably, half-filled with drawings of long-forgotten people and places." He grunted. "I haven't thought of Gustave Courbet in several years. I should rummage through the attic and see if there is anything worth painting in that book."
I gazed down at the leather bound book in my hands, at the depiction of my adult nephew with his waves of hair and closed-lipped smile. The way his jaw was set and gaze off to the side made him appear quite noble, as if he were in line to become king. Important, I thought. Phelan had drawn his son as someone of great importance. I wondered what Marco would have thought of his likeness, if he had any idea how much his father did value him-and if Phelan realized his own feelings toward his son.
"When you think back at the life you've lived thus far, what do you regret most?" Phelan asked me suddenly.
I briefly met my brother's eye and considered his question. "Some days, everything."
"Everything?"
"Many times over the years I have regretted not running as fast and as far as I could from our parents home without ever looking back. I used to imagine building a hut in the woods and surviving off the land."
I saw myself befriending squirrels and taming foxes, creatures who would not judge me by my appearance, but by my kindness shown toward them.
"And other days?"
I thought for a moment. "Other days I know I had no instinct to survive and most likely would have eaten poisonous berries and dropped dead hours later in front of a pile of sticks that I couldn't properly turn into kindling."
Phelan grunted. "What would you change, if given the chance?"
"I don't know anymore," I admitted. "In the past, I would have erased the reason behind every challenge I have ever encountered." I adjust the mask balanced on my knee. "Should I want to erase everything?"
The thought made me shiver. From my first breath I was meant to live a short, meaningless life, one appropriate for a child whose only fate was to grow into a feared monster. For as long as I could recall, my days and nights were filled with unimaginable torment. Physically, mentally and emotionally, I had suffered, and I had learned to expect nothing but pain and denial of my most basic needs.
The beatings ceased, but as I approached manhood, I languished in the deepest place beneath the Opera House, longing for more.
Some days I stood in front of the mirror and recoiled at my own reflection, disgusted with myself when I stood shirtless, my mask held loosely in my hand. In silence I berated every flaw from my thin hair and protruding ribs to the cigar burn on my arm and the marks left behind from the traveling fair. The hatred I felt for the hopeless wretch staring back at me seared through my veins. I despised the boy I had been and the man I was becoming. Others had disliked me, but their loathing did not compare to how I had felt for myself.
And other days, which were few and far between, I looked into the mirror and imagined the what-ifs, the dreams of a young man who desired affection, who heard the most beautiful music swell inside of his mind day and night. I would force myself to smile, to believe that there was something for me still, a reason I had survived. That I continued to wake each day.
I noted that there was still softness in my gaze, that my hands were gentle and used for composing and playing music. I wanted quite desperately to experience the love that actors and actresses portrayed on the stage, their sorrows erased in the span of a duet that professed their feelings.
I waited for someone else to notice that I was worthy of affection. That despite my appearance, I was good.
"If I had run off into the woods or escaped the gypsies in any other city, would I have Julia?" I wondered aloud. "Or Alex and Lisette? Would you and I have found each other?"
Phelan rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, his gaze remorseful. "If I stayed on mine, would I have a wife and a house filled with children?" Phelan whispered. "Would I have searched for you still?"
"I have no doubt you would have looked for me," I said.
"You are an optimist, my dear brother."
His words were spoken dryly, but I took his comment to heart.
"Perhaps I am. Believing that there had to be something more around the corner was the only way I survived." I glanced at my mask resting on my knee and traced along the edge. "I sincerely hope you realize that you are quite fortunate to be graced by my delightful company."
Phelan raised a brow, his expression softening. "Delightful indeed, little brother."
"I suppose the sketch book makes sense."
"I beg your pardon?"
I kept the sketch book open to the drawing of Marco and returned it to Lan. "As long as you continue moving forward, there's nothing wrong with starting from the middle."