Chapter 6 - Poor Fool
Twenty minutes more, then he'd send her maid in after her. Raoul's eyes flicked to the clock again — nineteen minutes. He turned back to his plate, slathering an extra dose of butter on a thick piece of crusty bread. It was his third piece. He'd devoured the first two, along with a hunk of mild cheese and an entire bowl of cut fruit, quickly enough to elicit a raised eyebrow from the servant. How long had it been since his clenched-fist stomach been able to manage more than a cup of coffee and a covert cigarette, smoked out on a seldom-used balcony? Today, there didn't seem to be enough food in Paris to quiet his pleasantly jumpy stomach. He picked at the crumbs.
Sixteen minutes.
Raoul tugged at one end of the white satin ribbon, readjusting the bow which topped the small, flat box. He bit down on the smile he could feel twitching on his lips. He didn't want to jinx it, but he couldn't help but feel that things were improving. Over the last week, Christine had been rising earlier, dressing more carefully, and had even returned to running errands and making social visits. She'd called on Madame Giry a few times, which he knew must be doing her well. No...he still hadn't moved back into bed with her, but he didn't want to rush her. And besides, he had a surefire plan to restore their lost intimacy. He drummed his fingers on the box with a satisfying tap-tap-tap, checked the clock and sighed.
Fifteen minutes.
With just three minutes left before his will-power officially expired, Christine swept into the room, dressed in full, swishing skirts, her hair pinned up in neat curls. She hadn't even managed to sit down fully before Raoul, nearly bouncing in his seat, slid the little box across the table to her. "Go on, open it," he said, his eyes jumping between the gift and her curious face.
He watched her graceful hands pluck at the ribbon, letting the smooth satin slip through her fingers and fall loose on the table. She lifted the lid, extracted two slips of paper, and fanned them out on the tabletop.
"Italy?" she asked, her eyes scanning the train tickets in front of her.
"Yes, Italy!" Raoul said, sliding forward to the edge of his seat, "I thought we could stay a month or so. It could be a second honeymoon." He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "It could give us a chance to reconnect after..." he cleared his throat, "after everything."
Raoul scrutinized his wife's face for the first sign of delight, waiting for her eyes to crinkle, or for the familiar little dimple on her left cheek to appear. Finally, her taut lips began to soften, shaping themselves to whisper...
"Oh."
Raoul blinked. "'Oh?'" he repeated, startled by the hitch in his voice. "Darling—" somewhere, far in the back of his mind, he registered that he was squeezing her hands just a little tighter than he'd intended — "I have to admit, that was not quite the reaction I was hoping for," he said, with a laugh that sounded metallic around the edges.
Christine's eyes jumped to his, wide and supplicating, "No, no, Raoul, it's wonderful! But...next week? It's so soon. And for so long..." She trailed off and pressed her lips into an apologetic smile, but her hands felt dead-fish-cold in his.
Raoul dropped them, vaguely repulsed.
He leaned back in his chair, bracing himself, the edge of the table biting into his palms. "Did you have other plans?" The words tasted as sour as they sounded.
Christine chewed her bottom lip. "No, of course not, it's just..."
He stood, his chair scuffing out behind him, cutting her off. "I'll ask the agent if we can reschedule." He snapped up the tickets and stuffed them back in the box. As he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, he could see his wife's stricken face staring at the empty space on the table where they'd been.
Back in his study, his blood thumping in his ears, he flung the box into a waste bin. A few moments later, he fished the tickets out again, smoothing them between trembling fingers.
'Just tell me how to fix it.'
'Fix it? Let me be quite clear. There is no "fix".'
The paper ripped with gratifying finality. Once, twice, three times, four — over and over until the whole silly idea was nothing but a pile of rubbish to be swept into the bin.
…
God, Raoul hated the smell of roses. The cloying sweetness was thick in his nose and throat, choking him, like stepping into a cloud of some shop girl's cheap perfume. That's what it was: a scent like someone's idea of romantic, luxurious beauty. But overdone, artificial in its perfection. Intoxicating, but suffocating.
The terrace garden was like a monument to that ideal. Neatly shaped rose bushes in oversized decorative pots, each petal perfect, each leaf glossy to the point of appearing lacquered. A few feet ahead of him, his mother stood with a basket hanging from one arm and a pair of sharp-tipped golden scissors in the other. Towering over her was a plant covered in cream-colored blooms the size of his hand. He could hear her tutting her disapproval as she inspected each blossom, until finally, one met her standards, and with a flash of gold and a decisive snip, the flower was detached and placed in the basket atop a pile of chosen others. She set off down the path again, with Raoul trailing behind her, waiting to be acknowledged. He couldn't wait to leave.
The plants were the Comtesse's pride and joy, though Raoul wasn't sure she should be able to take much pride in something she hadn't lifted so much as a finger to help grow. She would select the varieties, but from there on out, the cultivation was left strictly to the gardeners. And, of course, she would reap the reward.
Raoul used to love the garden. As a child, he'd hide amongst the plants, his hand smothering fits of giggles as he waited for his governess to find him. Back then, the flowers were the most beautiful thing — their open faces innocent and eager, their scent fresh and heady. He would imagine himself in a forest, each blossom a colorful bird perched in the branches. But one day, when the air was thick with the humidity of summer, making it seem as though he could taste the roses in the back of his throat, he backed into a pot set up on a carved ebony stand, and the pot and the very rare miniature rose it held came crashing down to the tiled floor. After that, he was forbidden to set foot onto the terrace. He stayed inside, surrounded by vases of cut roses, arranged with heartless precision.
"Alone again?" His mother asked, not deigning to so much as glance back over her shoulder at him.
"She had some, ah, urgent letters to write," he said, gritting his teeth into an apologetic smile. "You know how it is." Honestly, Raoul hadn't even thought of asking her. He couldn't bear to hear another excuse.
The slanting rays of the afternoon sun kissed the exposed skin of his neck and the back of his hands. The warmth made him twitch. He recognized that the day was glorious. It was one of those last warm days before the crispness of fall sets in, with a cloudless blue sky, and the softest touch of breeze. He shifted and squirmed in the sunlight, like a nocturnal animal disoriented by venturing out in the daytime. It felt obscene to be out enjoying a day as nice as this.
A snip, and another blossom was placed into the basket. "Ah. I thought she might be out again. You know...my kitchen maid spotted her, just last week, at a café with that Giry woman."
Raoul scuffed at the tile with the toe of his shoe. "That's not surprising. She's been spending quite a lot of time with her lately."
"I could never understand why. She seems so dreadfully dull."
"She's the closest thing Christine has to a mother."
"Ah yes," she said, "forgive me. I sometimes forget the tragic origins of the poor waif you rescued." Raoul was grateful that her back was still turned toward him; he could feel his eyes rolling heavenward of their own accord.
They walked along in silence for several minutes more, with Raoul trailing behind as his mother tutted and snipped. His neck began to prickle under his stiff collar. This ridiculous show of play-acting the role of obedient son was a waste of precious time. He belonged at home, in the cool darkness of his study, beating at his thoughts, trying to force them to reveal some hidden key.
Raoul had always been able to make things right. For every problem that might arise, he was ready with a solution. When Christine's scarf had been caught by the wind and tossed into the sea, he didn't hesitate for even a moment before running headlong into the surf to snatch it from the sucking embrace of the gray, foaming waves. When she'd pressed her face into his chest, the wind whipping at them and the lights of Paris glimmering far below, she'd begged him to take her away. By midnight, they'd been cocooned in his finest carriage, the city lights fading in their wake.
Now though, he could do nothing. He'd been forced to accept that there was no path that would lead them to what they'd yearned for. It was terrible, but he believed they could make it through, together. But now...now he realized he stood on the edge of a canyon, and his wife on the other. His only purpose now was to search for anything at all that would allow him to construct a bridge.
Raoul had had enough. He opened his mouth to ask if he might tell the maid to start their tea, but the Comtesse paused, the scissors in her jeweled hand open, poised to take another flower.
"You know, I must say..." Her cadence was casual, but there was a tight, self-satisfied tone to her voice that made the muscles across Raoul's shoulders tense, "it was quite a surprise to me that a woman, so...unappealing as Giry would have such a handsome, well-dressed brother." Her scissors closed on the stem with a snap. "Or so my maid described him."
"What?" Raoul shook his head, vaguely irritated, as if a small fly had perched on his brow. "Madame Giry doesn't have a brother."
"Oh, doesn't she? Well, now I'm truly confused." Finally his mother glanced back over her shoulder. Her hard eyes glittered. "Then who was the man sitting with them? The one whom I heard was chatting so intently with your wife?"
Raoul could see his mother's mouth moving — the only thing still in focus. Everything else had gone dark and fuzzy, and was undulating in a way that forced him to take a bracing step to ensure he was still on solid ground. Through the whoosh of blood rushing in his ears, he could hear her voice, artfully bemused, helpfully describing the man in an attempt to help Raoul place him: blonde-haired, moustached, maybe a few years younger than Giry? And yes, very handsome, very well-dressed.
Cold was spreading from deep inside Raoul's belly, trickling down his legs, seeping through his arms. Inside his shoes, his feet tingled, itching to move, to carry him out of this place where the suffocating scent of dank soil and wilting rotten-sweet petals wouldn't allow him to draw enough breath. His heart pumped an urgent message: Get out get out get out.
He blinked, and the world snapped back into focus. Raoul could feel his head nodding, his mouth stretching into a smile. "Oh, him? That's just an old friend of Giry's. A conductor, I think. He'd been abroad." He smoothed his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead in a motion he hoped appeared nonchalant. "Christine, ah, volunteered to help make some introductions for him, now that he's moved back to Paris."
His mother stared at him through narrowed, flinty eyes for several moments, while he struggled to keep his face blank-page smooth. He'd never been a good liar. Finally, she turned with a shrug, not even bothering to reply.
…
The curtains of the study were drawn, the fire extinguished, the door locked. Once, some hours ago, the doorknob had rattled, and Christine's muffled voice had called his name several times, her tone rising in confusion with each repetition. He held his breath until he heard her soft footsteps fade down the hallway.
Behind his closed eyes, he was back in the doctor's office. The scene played and looped and played again, until he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't actually hearing the man's exasperated voice.
'Monsieur. Let me be quite clear. There is no "fix". It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'
This first part was almost comforting in its familiarity. He'd learned the truth of those words, had planned to find a way to make his peace with them. But the scene shifted, and his roiling stomach sent a fresh wave of acid into the back of his throat. His mind had always shut down before the final minutes of their exchange, without him even intending it. But the words had remained there, back in the deepest recesses: a coiling snake, ready for its chance to strike and spread its venom through his veins. He had tried to convince himself that his wife had not come to the same conclusion. He had been a fool.
'Do I understand?' Raoul's voice seethed through gritted teeth. 'Oh, I understand. I understand that I was right about you from the first.' He shot from his seat and pulled a fistful of francs from his billfold. 'You, "Doctor", are nothing but a fraud, plain and simple. You don't know a damned thing.' He slammed the notes onto the desk, snatched up his coat and hat. He raised his chin, defiant. 'You'll see. My wife will have a baby.'
The doctor held up a placating palm. 'Now, wait one moment, chap.' He gathered up the francs, tapping them into a neat pile. 'I never said she wouldn't. She very well could—' he adjusted his glasses, then extended the stack of money back to Raoul with a cool smile. "With another father."
...
The doctor's words echoed in his mind all night. A drum beat of pain, pounding out its incessant rhythm. By the time the blackness behind his lids turned to glowing red — the signal to wake from what was never sleep — the repetition had transformed the words with brutal clarity. A path appeared before him, lit full-moon bright.
…
Raoul flicked away the stub of his spent cigarette. It landed with a faint hiss on the wet cobblestones, and he ground it out with the toe of his shoe. The damp, musty scent of fresh rain on the alley's hot sidewalk rose from beneath his feet. The rain had stopped, but the streets had yet to refill with its usual bustling crowds. He opened his little silver case and withdrew a fresh cigarette. Just one more, but he'd have to make it quick. It was now or never.
In the end, he had to thank the doctor. The retort which was meant to sting — a goal which had certainly been accomplished, the barb throbbing away in his heart for weeks now — was also plain truth. A plain truth which could either be his undoing, or become his salvation. It all came down to a matter of control.
He rubbed his bleary eyes with his free hand. How much sleep had he actually gotten since that day in the garden? It felt like something that happened months ago, yet the sun had only set twice. Or at least he thought it had. Enveloped in the darkness of his study, never eating, hardly sleeping, he couldn't quite be certain.
He took a long drag on his cigarette, let his eyes follow the stream of jaundiced smoke blown out through tight lips. Far down, where the alley met up with the street, a carriage rumbled across, sending up a spray of murky water as it rolled through a puddle of quickly stagnating rain. His head felt hollow. He took another long drag, savoring the burn in his lungs.
Once he could see the path before him, deciding to venture down it was easy. It felt inevitable, really. He could be selfless. He had laid his life down for her, hadn't he? He could bear anything, so long as he kept her love at the end.
The devil, really, was in the details.
He'd made lists, puzzled through scenarios, racked his brain for an alternative. In the end there was only one answer.
Raoul tossed the spent cigarette, this time making no effort to put it out. He glanced down the alley to the street: it was empty. He pulled a small leather-wrapped flask from an inner pocket and drained it in one long swallow. It blazed a path down his dry throat and set his belly on fire. It was nice to feel something other than numb.
One last time, he scanned the street: still empty. He had to do this. It was time to make the first lurching step down this fated path. He crossed the alley in seconds, and before he could give himself a chance to change his mind, he slid open the rusting grate and made his way down into the secret pathways under the Opera.