CH 153
"Don't listen to Hilda," Toke said, waving his arms about as he trudged ahead of us and into the barn. "Bap, bap, bap all day long. This one needs this, that one needs that. Too much concern for everyone's business."
He picked up two pairs of leather work gloves from a nearby bench and handed them to me and my brother before he turned, hands on his hips, and looked over the two stacks of hay bales and a dozen sacks of grain partially blocking the large barn doors.
"Do you want the floor or the loft?" Phelan asked me as he strode toward the ladder.
Toke straightened out the ropes attached to a pulley that was secured to a large wooden board before he tossed two bales of hay onto the makeshift lift.
"It doesn't matter to me," I said.
"Floor it is," Phelan said as he scurried up the ladder.
With the hay bales on the board, I tugged on the rope, surprised by how difficult the board was to lift. I set my weight into each long pull, slowly dragging the lift upward as it swayed back and forth and spun fully around.
"If you hit it just right, three pulls is all it should take," Phelan said as he stood above me, hands on his hips. "The smoother the pull, the less it sways and you won't have as much resistance."
"Understood."
My brother's posture was quite imposing as he lingered above us, looking down his nose at where we stood. I imagined what unsuspecting ballet dancers and chorus girls must have thought in the wings of a dark theater if they happened to look up and spot me, the infamous ghost, stark white mask against the shadows, observing my theater. No wonder they so often shrieked and took off running, arms flailing about them. The thought amused me.
My first two runs with the pulley took five pulls each. I felt surprisingly winded as it didn't seem particularly difficult in theory, but took much more energy than I had expected. Another three times sending up hay to the loft and my hands burned while I had yet to succeed in delivering bales in under four pulls.
Frustration thrummed through me. I moved my tongue against the inside of my cheek, my irritation pressing down upon me.
"Tighter grip," Phelan said.
"You want to be lower to the ground at the end of each pull," Toke told me.
Their suggestions did little more than fuel my feelings of ineptitude. Teeth gritted, I put my anger to use and weight into my next attempt and ended up with six pulls–twice as many as it should have taken.
"Wait," Phelan said from the loft. "Let me straighten these out first before they topple over."
My chest heaved. I watched as he barely moved any of the bales as they were not in need of straightening. His excuse further incensed me and I dropped two more hay bales onto the lift before he finished wasting time.
"Erik, Phelan snapped. "I said wait a moment."
Toke took a seat on the nearest hay bale and lit his pipe. He groaned and spread his legs as he took a long drag from his tobacco. From the corner of my eye, I could see him scrutinizing my every move, which unnerved me.
"How did Phelan meet his son?" Toke asked.
I had to pause in order to catch my breath before I was able to answer. "They are both artists," I said.
"The woman who bore his son, does he remember her?"
Thankfully my cheeks were already flushed from exertion as it was a question that seemed entirely inappropriate. "Yes, they saw each other prior to our departure from Paris."
"Saw each other?" He lifted a bushy, gray eyebrow, clearly expecting something far more scandalous than I had meant to imply.
"As parents living separate lives."
He slowly nodded. "An artist and a chef," Toke said. He was staring up at Phelan when he spoke. "Who is the better artist? Father or son?"
"I am. Obviously," my brother said once I translated.
"And chef?"
"Marco, without a doubt," I said.
"He must take after his great-grandmother then," Toke said. "What about you, Erik, what interests your son?"
"Egypt," I said. "Pharaohs, pyramids and the like."
Toke blinked at me, and I wondered if I had accidentally slipped into French. "What is a 'pharaoh'?" he asked.
I tightened my grip on the rope and sent the next two bales of hay toward the loft while considering my reply. My forehead was dampened with perspiration that had begun to slip down my temples and along the curve of my nose, stinging my eyes. "A pharaoh is an ancient Egyptian ruler."
Toke narrowed his eyes and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Why would that interest him?"
He is eight, I wanted to say. Of course he is interested in ancient civilizations. It is what a boy his age finds fascinating, along with trains and garden snails.
"Alex enjoys learning about many subjects, but the Egyptians have piqued his interest for at least a year now. Perhaps one day he will join an expedition and explore the pyramids rather than simply read about them."
"Where did he first learn of these kings?"
"His tutor."
"He has a tutor?"
"Yes, Charles Lowry is his name."
"No music lessons for your son?"
"He is mildly interested."
"You do not make him learn an instrument?"
"No, he will learn if he desires."
My grandfather gave me a strange look, as though he were disappointed that Alex was not forced into playing the violin.
"What do you want him to do for a living, if not follow in your footsteps?" Toke asked.
I loaded the next bale and thought for a moment, knowing that above all else, I wanted Alex to have what I had been denied. "I suppose more than anything I want him to be happy."
"How will he make a living being happy?"
I considered telling my grandfather that I had enough money within several bank accounts to keep my son and most likely my son's family quite comfortable and that Alex didn't necessarily need to make a living for himself, but I held my tongue as I had no desire to explain how I had come about my fortune.
"When he is of the age where he is seeking an occupation, we will discuss at that time."
Toke asked no further questions regarding Alex or Marco and simply rested on the bail of hay, smoking his pipe that he dangled between his thin lips.
We had finished about half of the bales when my right side began to cramp from my ribs to the middle of my spine. My arms began to tremble from the exertion, my hands frozen in tight fists. I continued despite the growing discomfort, teeth gritted against the pain, until my left shoulder–the one that had been dislocated in the spring–began to feel as though my joints were on fire.
The searing pain jolted me, my thoughts transported instantly back to the night in the alley where Raoul de Chagny had escorted me after I paid a visit to Christine.
In the midst of pulling up two more bales I lost my grip and the rope slid through my gloved hands. The board and bales clattered to the ground, rattling the floorboards, but thankfully not doing any visible damage. Toke remained seated, but Phelan walked to the edge of the loft and peered wide-eyed down at me.
"Are you–"
"I'm fine," I snapped. My vision began to blur, pain knifing through my left shoulder, same as it had once I regained consciousness in the alley. I hefted both bales of hay onto the board and reached for the rope, putting my weight and frustration into the first pull in an attempt to keep my growing humiliation at bay.
"Erik," Phelan said. "Erik, put it back down."
I ignored his words and gave the rope another tug. In the back of my mind, I saw Raoul de Chagny standing before me, florid complexion and glassy eyes. He swayed, but still drew his arm back before he proceeded to ram his fist into my abdomen.
The blow, I recalled, left me staggering, my knees at last betraying me as I collapsed into a cold puddle of filth. My stomach had churned as I swallowed, the taste of blood in the back of my mouth nauseating.
I remembered the look in his eyes as he stood over me, the utter disdain that mirrored the same expression I had seen countless times from strangers. He thought he was better than me, that he had bested me. He was not better and he had not bested me.
Teeth gritted, I hefted the hay bales, recalling how I had stood again, refusing to be driven down as though I were beneath him and his friends. Defiant as ever. Belligerent to no end. Because no matter how many times I had been knocked down, whether it was my own father or de Chagny, I still stood.
But I knew in that moment that I would not be on my feet for long. I recalled how I had staggered, my mind muddled, my nostrils filled with blood. I taunted the Comte and his friends to strike me again. Do it, I dared them. Do your worst, de Chagny.
They couldn't kill me, I reasoned. I was a ghost after all-and quite absurdly, the notion made me fearless. They could do whatever they desired, I told myself. The Phantom was damnably eternal.
In hindsight I wished I had slammed my skull into his face, shattering his nose. I should have aimed with greater care and punched him in the jaw. But I had not done either of those things. I had wildy–-blindly-–swung my arms and found myself up against the brick exterior in one moment, then face-down the next, nose and mouth beneath shallow water. For a moment I had been certain I would drown.
Most of what had transpired was lost on me as I faded in and out of consciousness. What I did know was that my arm had been ripped from the socket and that the injury still hindered me worse than I had realized. Most everything had healed, or so I assumed, but the injury to my shoulder still lingered, still reminded me of my mistakes-and how much I should have despised Raoul de Chagny.
In three long pulls I managed to reach the loft and Phelan unloaded the board in silence. My lungs burned, my left arm numb as I gently guided the lift to the ground and felt my head swimming.
Blinded by the pain, I turned to reach for another bale, but was met by my grandfather blocking my path. I started to walk around him, but he stepped in front of me and roughly grabbed my left arm.
"Remove your hand at once," I warned.
"What happened to your left shoulder?" he asked as he released my arm, ignoring my tone. He took a step back, his blue eyes gentle, visage calm. Little did he know the ghost inside of me wished to put up a fight.
I blinked at his words, surprised that my weakness was so evident to him, and turned away, forcing the apparition back down where he belonged.
"Nothing," I snapped. I swallowed, grappling with the anger that seemed impossible to contain.
"You are injured," he continued. "You are weaker on that side. Was your shoulder broken?"
His words cut through me: You are weaker on that side.
How easily I was provoked, how swiftly the entity I had been for so many years resurrected its miserable
"It was dislocated," I said at last.
"How does one dislocate their shoulder in Paris?" Toke asked as he hefted two more bales of hay onto the lift and proceeded to haul them to the loft as though they weighed no more than feathers. He held his pipe between his lips as he spoke, smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth.
The way in which a man in his mid-eighties performed a task with such ease while I struggled angered me to no end. My throat unexpectedly tightened, my emotions threatening to get the best of me.
"An accident," I said under my breath, barely able to form the words.
"A bad accident." Toke grunted.
A worse accident than he could have ever fathomed, a disastrous event that had nearly claimed my life.
"What is the hour?" Toke asked.
"Eight," Phelan answered.
"Time to rest then," our grandfather said.
"There are still twenty bales left and all of the grain," I pointed out.
"Yes, I see it."
"We aren't done," I argued, desperate to prove myself, to ignore the pain that made my stomach tighten.
"It is time to rest," Toke firmly said.
"I do not need rest."
He took a step forward, wild blue eyes pinned on me. Despite his age and our height difference, his jaw hardened and chin lifted. In an instant his demeanor changed, his patience thinned.
"My farm, my rules. When I say it is time to rest, we rest." He pointed his knobby finger at my chest. "Do you understand me, grandson?"
I looked away first, feeling foolish for arguing with him. When I turned to secure the pulley to the beam, I saw Phelan climbing back down the ladder and remove his gloves.
"Wipe your face," Toke said to me. He held out his handkerchief, which was little more than a frayed cotton rag, brown in color and fabric bare in spots. "You are sweating like a horse."
"I have one," I replied, pulling out a damnably white lace kerchief with my initials embroidered along one corner, the perfect accessory for an individual who resided in the city, completely unaccustomed to labor of any sort.
Aggravated, I turned away and wiped the exposed side of my face before lifting the bottom corner of my mask and dabbing at my jaw. It was as far as I could reach without pulling off the mask entirely, which I refused to do.
"Why don't you remove the mask?" Toke asked.
"Because I don't want to," I answered without facing him.
"You will leave half of your face covered in sweat?" he pressed. "Why?"
I remained with my back to him and scrunched up my face, attempting to alleviate the itching from my cheek and the side of my nose covered by the mask.
My brother sighed heavily. "We have a few hours, and I fully intend on making the most of it," he said, his tone much louder than necessary. "Toke, if there is nothing else needed, we will take our leave."
Our grandfather offered a solemn nod, to which Phelan patted him on the shoulder before gesturing toward the barn doors.
The cows startled at our sudden appearance and trotted further away from us, ears twitching and tails swishing as they grazed.
"Where exactly are you headed?" Phelan asked.
I came to an abrupt stop and looked around, realizing I was heading toward the back of the pasture and not the road.
"How should I know?" I grumbled.
I turned away from him, lifted my mask, and pressed the lace handkerchief to the right side of my face, which stung. When I pulled it away, the fabric was unsurprisingly tinged with bright red blood.
"Damn it," I said under my breath.
"Here," Phelan offered, stepping toward me. He pulled out his own light blue kerchief and nodded for me to raise my chin as he pressed the fabric to my cheek just above my lip with his ring finger, then again below my eye with his index finger.
He inhaled and met my eye. "Take a breath," he suggested. "Relax, Kire. You are far too tightly coiled."
I exhaled hard and Phelan turned his head to the side and sighed. "Yes, precisely like that," he said dryly. "I can see you have relaxed fully. You're practically a soft noodle."
"I am in no mood for your sarcasm," I snapped. Frustration continued to vibrate through me.
"And I am in no mood for your eyeballs exploding from your head when you give yourself an aneurysm," he replied. "Already I am going to take these clothes to the laundry and have to pay a hefty sum for hay and burr removal. If I have to ask some poor laundress to get eyeball debris out of the fabric, you will be receiving a bill from me."
He smirked as he folded his kerchief and took a step back. Once he was not directly in front of me, I found myself surprised at how easily I had allowed him to press his fingers against the scars–and equally surprised that he continued to look at me without the slightest hint of revulsion.
I inhaled deeply and slowly released the breath, attempting to harness my erratic breathing.
"Better?" Phelan questioned.
I couldn't look him in the eye, but nodded.
"I will warn you, Kire, out of my adoration for you, that you are about half a step away from trudging through an enormous cow pie," my brother said. He shook his head. "My, my you city folk are all the same. So oblivious."
"You will never tire of being a child, will you?" I half-heartedly grumbled, side-stepping the manure in order to follow him toward the fence at the rear of the pasture.
"Never," he admitted.
With ease Lan climbed up onto the fence and seated himself, hooking his feet through the bottom rail for balance. Given how my arm still ached, I merely leaned against the post, mask in one hand as I allowed my flesh a moment to breathe.
"How long does a dislocated shoulder take to heal?" he asked without looking at me.
"A while."
"When did you dislocate your shoulder?" he asked.
"A while ago," I answered.
"April?" he guessed.
My silence was answer enough for him.
"April must have been pure hell for you."
He truly had no idea. I glanced up and saw him looking across the pasture and noticed Toke slowly making his way toward the house, hobbling with a bit of effort.
My brother hopped off the fence rail and took a seat on the ground. He shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand as he looked up at me.
"Shall we discuss something different?" he asked. "Perhaps my illegitimate adult son?"
Reluctantly I took a seat beside him directly onto several rocks protruding from the ground, which added to my overall misery, but seemed quite fitting.
"I detest that word," I said through gritted teeth.
"Which one? Illegitimate?"
"Yes. It is meant to degrade an individual who has no control over their birth."
"I suppose you are correct and I will not refer to Marco in that manner again."
Phelan shifted beside me and grimaced. His face was shadowed by his growing beard, and I couldn't help but think that with his hair mussed and unshaven face, he looked quite a bit like our father.
We sat in silence for a long moment, both of us lost in our thoughts. The sun was inching higher into the sky and the flies buzzed near us.
"My God, Kire, how can you tolerate sitting here?" Phelan said suddenly. "The audacity of the ground to be covered in rocks."
"I was not the one who chose to sit on the ground."
I started to climb to my feet, same as my brother, who was quite a bit more agile. Once he stood, he offered his hand, which I accepted, using my right hand exclusively.
"You know, you needn't be frustrated over an injury that impedes the use of your left arm," he said, patting me on the back. "Quite honestly, I don't know how you managed the way that you did."
"It was not enough," I complained.
"It was more than enough."
"No, Lan, an eighty-five-year-old man is able to do what I cannot with considerable ease," I groused through my clenched teeth. "How is that not frustrating? Demeaning? Utterly shameful for a man of my age?"
Phelan casually turned his head and regarded me for a moment. "Not just anyone. Toke is a man who has been working a dairy farm, mostly on his own, for his entire life," Phelan pointed out. "I am certain he was hauling hay from his first steps. It is all he has ever known and done. He will be working until the day he dies."
I shook my head, feeling no less frustrated by the situation.
"Bring your violin later on this afternoon, settle it into his arthritic hands, and ask him to play one of your overtures. I will bet you five hundred francs he cannot string three notes together without it sounding like a cat whose tail has been shut in a door."
"That is different," I said.
Phelan shrugged. "You can't be good at everything, Kire. You aren't your older brother."
I took a deep breath, finding my mood lightened by his ridiculous comment. "How do you always manage to turn my complaints into compliments for yourself?"
"It is most certainly a talent, isn't it?"
"Indeed."
"May I accompany you to the telegram booth at the train station?" he asked as we turned and walked the length of the pasture and toward the house and road.
"Of course."
We exited the pasture through a rusted gate and made our way toward the street, gathering burrs on our trousers as we navigated through the tall grass and weeds until we reached the road.
The train station was far busier than it had been the previous day, and as we walked inside, I discovered the telegram booth had a line six people deep awaiting service. I walked toward the side and asked the same woman who had been of assistance the last two times if I could take a few cards, which she allowed. I took two pencils with me and found Phelan seated in the middle of the station beneath the glass plate ceiling. There were several tables grouped together, most of them occupied with weary travelers.
"Lemonade or strawberry lemonade?" he asked. "I simply cannot drink another cup of tea when there is lemonade available."
"Strawberry."
Once I was seated, he walked to the opposite side of the station where a little cafe was tucked between two separate tracks heading east and west.
I wrote to Lisette first, asking what she was currently reading and how her studies were progressing, attempting to utilize all of the space on the card as she had done in sending her telegram. For Alex I asked if his tooth had come out yet, fully expecting at least three telegrams worth of gruesome loose-tooth details.
Another telegram I sent addressed to Madeline, asking if she was aware of the changes to the program at the Golden Palace. The moment I finished the first line, I paused, imagining her disappointment when I inquired about the performances rather than asking if she was doing well.
I tore the telegram in half as my brother approached with a turkey sandwich and two glasses of strawberry lemonade. He sat back in his chair and silently watched people bustle by while I rewrote my inquiry to Madeline, starting out my message with a pleasant greeting before I delved into my true reason for writing to her.
"Should I write to Marco?" Phelan asked suddenly.
I looked up. "That would be nice," I said. "Wouldn't it?"
I hadn't realized that he had grabbed a pencil and a card. He rolled the pencil between his thumb and forefinger and stared off into the distance. "What should I say to him?"
"Whatever you like."
He tapped the pencil against the table, momentarily stumped for words, before at last he began filling in the space. While he wrote his message, I penned my reply to Julia, asking if she would open the letter from Le Blanc and reiterate what he had sent. Once that was complete, I wisely sent her a second note, which I labeled as telegram one of two, and told her that I loved and missed her and that I hoped the mornings were becoming easier on her. My days without her were not the same and I looked forward to returning home.
"What else should I say?" Phelan asked as he turned the telegram card toward me.
I looked at the card, then at my brother. "You have literally written 'Dear Marco'."
Phelan's lower lip protruded. "Yes, I am aware, and now I am asking for your assistance on what I should say next," he grumbled.
"You have kept in contact with Pierre and Calista since moving to Belgium. You have never written to Marco?"
"No," he answered flatly. "He sent me a letter shortly after I moved to Brussels, but I never replied."
Inwardly I cringed at his actions. "Why?"
"Why do you think I never replied? I had no idea what to say to him, just as I have no idea what to say now."
"Tell him you know how to make Danish cheese," I suggested. "And ask how he is doing."
Lan briefly eyed me. "You write it."
I took a sip of lemonade, which was much more tart than I had anticipated, and found myself nearly choking on it. Despite my affinity for penning notes, I had no desire to write to Marco on my brother's behalf, and shook my head.
Phelan sighed. "'Dear Marco'," he said aloud. "'I hope you are well.'" He glanced up at me for confirmation and I nodded, despite the stringent tone. "'Erik and I made cheese, but we will not know if it is edible for another six months. With any luck, we will not poison unsuspecting cheese consumers.'"
I chewed on my thumb knuckle and blinked at him. "Interesting, I suppose."
"'Fondly yours…'" Phelan paused again. "How should I sign it? With my name or…a paternal title?"
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his wording. Paternal title indeed. "Phelan Kimmer or Father?" I asked.
There was an unexpected hint of terror in my brother's steely eyes. "I suppose using my given name is preferred," he hastily said under his breath. "Since I am not…"
"Either would be acceptable," I said before he began scribbling anything on the card. "How do you want him to refer to you?"
My brother sniffed. "What I want and what Marco wants are two different things," he said under his breath.
"Father, then," I said.
He eyed me for a long moment, gaze searching my face. The uncertainty was still quite evident, the longing for a role I knew my brother didn't feel he had earned or deserved.
"Are you certain?"
I nodded. "Yes, I think so."
At last he put the pencil to paper and ended his telegram in a way that made me chuckle:
Yours Fondly,
Father (Phelan Kimmer, in case there was any question as to who is the sender.)
Lan shared half of his sandwich with me as we relaxed in the train station, sipping our lemonade as people walked in and out of the building, trunks and smaller bags in hand. We listened to several announcements of trains on time, trains departing late, and something about a disruption on Track Four. A woman with three young children trailing behind her weaved through the crowd like a mother goose and her goslings, and boarded a train heading north into Denmark.
The line for the telegram booth finally cleared and we stood, Phelan taking the plate and glasses back to the cafe while I approached the booth.
"Kire?" the woman said once I was at the counter. "You are quite the popular visitor."
I stared briefly at her. "I assume Alexandre Kire has sent more telegrams?"
She smiled. "Yes, there are three from this morning."
Alex, I mentally admonished.
"But there was something else," the woman continued. She looked over her shoulder at the man sending and receiving the codes at the machine. "Riddo, look who it is."
The man hunched over the telegram machine glanced up, then back at the desk in front of him before he quickly looked up again. He was around my age with a receding hairline and a long, thin face. "Ah! Kire!" he said quite enthusiastically.
Phelan came up beside me. "What is this all about?"
"I have no idea."
Riddo pulled off his glasses and reached for a stack of papers on the edge of his desk, which he proceeded to hold out to me as he scurried toward the counter.
"Is this you?" he asked.
I glanced down at the cover page to The Soldier and the Shell and back at him, brow furrowed as I had not expected anyone in the countryside of Denmark, where herds of cows outnumbered people by a great majority, to recognize my name. He smiled with eagerness for a response.
"It… it is," I said with a bit of hesitation, not knowing the ramifications of being known in such a small town.
Riddo slapped the woman on the arm and stamped his foot. "See! I told you, Myyri! And he speaks fluent Danish."
The woman, Myyri, was not nearly as thrilled with the revelation, and smiled politely.
"Did you really play in a barn? In Skyderhelm as your telegram indicates?"
I felt slightly concerned that the two people at the telegram booth were privy to what had been a private exchange between me and my family despite the obvious need to read my note in order to translate it for transmission.
"I merely tapped a few keys," I answered, quite modestly.
"The church organ, yes? Jensen residence?" He leaned in closer and whispered, "The one with the goat."
"What on earth is this commotion?" Lan asked. He craned his neck and looked at the cover page. "Where did that come from?"
"He hasn't said."
Riddo returned the sheet music to his desk and took a breath. "Forgive me, Herr Kire, for my exuberance. Might you be performing during your stay? An overture or concerto, perhaps?"
"I have no intention of performing."
Riddo inhaled sharply, taken aback by my unintentional harsh tone. He licked his lips and hooked his thumbs through his suspenders. "That is unfortunate. Forgive the trespass."
"What is happening?" Phelan asked.
"He asked if I would be performing."
"I take it you declined."
Myyri held out her hand to accept my telegram cards, which I gave to her and she passed to Riddo. Inwardly I cringed at the content of the telegrams meant for Julia and Madeline as I wasn't keen on Riddo reading about the note from Le Blanc, but unfortunately there wasn't much of a choice.
"Yes, I declined," I said impatiently to Phelan, keeping my voice low despite speaking to him in French.
Phelan briefly looked me over before handing his single telegram to Myyri. "I must say, Kire, I'm a bit surprised. You must be saving all of your talent for Paris."
"I am doing no such thing," I muttered.
Riddo nudged his glasses further up his thin nose and began sending the telegrams while Myyri retrieved the three that had been delivered. She returned to her stool and wrote out a receipt for me.
"You may place all of the telegrams on the receipt," I said, including the one from Kimmer."
Myyri's head snapped up. "Kimmer?"
"The painter," my brother replied. He issued a sly look in my direction. "Good morning, Fru Myyri."
"Another Kimmer," she said. "Not a common surname around here."
Phelan and I exchanged looks. "I beg your pardon? There is another Kimmer?"
Myyri nodded. "Bodil Kimmer."
"Does he live in Skyderhelm?" I asked.
"She lives in Onkerat."
I turned back to Lan. "A relative?" I questioned.
He shrugged, appearing quite disinterested in the person with his surname. "If it is, she is related to Bjorn, not Gyda–and that is if there is a relation at all."
"Yes, I am aware, but..."
"But?" Phelan asked impatiently.
"Where is Onkerat from here?" I asked Myyri.
"West of Skyderhelm," she answered.
"Do you have an address for this person?" I asked Myyri.
"I am afraid I cannot give you such information."
I frowned, disappointed by her reply, but nodded nonetheless and waited for her to write my receipt.
"Will you be waiting for a reply?" Myyri asked me.
I turned to Lan. "When will we return to the farm?"
"We still have two and a half hours."
"Can a reply be sent to our hotel?"
Myyri consulted with Riddo, who nodded. "If there is one I shall walk the telegram down to the front desk on my lunch. Does that suit you, Herr Kire?"
Myyri scratched out the total on the bottom of the receipt and added an extra eight krone to the amount due, which I paid without verbal complaint.
"Here," she said before we turned away. "A telegram for Phelan Kimmer."
Again Lan and I exchanged looks. "Favorite Uncle indeed," he said to himself.
I glanced at the name on the telegram, noting that it was not from Alex, but Marco.
"It appears you both had the same idea," I said.
"Indeed," Lan said, folding the card in half and placing it into his shirt pocket.