CH 4
I should have felt more than I did.
More affection, perhaps. Certainly not more melancholy.
It was odd, this feeling of being broken, without knowing what parts were in need of repair or how it should have fit together.
Others desired connections. Physically I excelled, connecting sometimes several times a week with different partners. I had connected with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of women over the years. We parted amicably, our needs sated in terms of what the flesh desired. They glowed, little sparks turning into roaring fires, and once we said good night and returned to our regular lives, I felt a part of myself extinguished.
No, not extinguished. Simply unlit. Like a broken flint or a pile of wet sticks. There was nothing there to ignite.
Why do you not want this? I wasn't sure whose voice was in my head. Not my own, I was certain. It didn't matter who was asking the question as I had no answer. I simply didn't want intimacy that went beyond physical, to give up any part of myself that wasn't flesh and bone.
And now you are a liar. That was my own voice and also a bit of Valgarde thrown in for good measure to thoroughly shame me.
"This is the day I go mad," I muttered under my breath. "Perhaps the blood-drinking ghost has a spare room for me to take up residence."
I wasn't cold as I walked home, one hand over Elvira's back in an attempt to keep her from freezing. Numb was a good description of how I felt for no particular reason. There was a reason, of course, but I didn't want to think of it.
Elvira had nestled close to my head and neck, her feathers soft against my flesh and smooth beak tucked beneath my chin. I tried to pull the scarf around her, but she grabbed it with her beak and tossed it aside.
"I will eat you for supper, you ungrateful chicken," I said under my breath.
"You love me and you know it," she said in her sing-song voice.
I did love her. And I enjoyed her company, even when she was an insolent feather duster acting like a toddler.
We passed by many storefront windows, some brightly lit and others dark. I caught a glimpse of her riding on my shoulder, her eyes closed against the wind.
She had been a pathetic mess when I first saw her years earlier. There was not a single feather on her back or chest and only a few on her tail and wings. She truly looked ready for the pot, naked little bird that she was in a noisy salon where the rats of society poked her with their canes and teased her relentlessly.
No one knew how long she had resided there in such a horrific state. No one knew what type of bird she was or what she needed to thrive. She should have been gliding through a rain forest on the other side of the world, screeching from the treetops.
I was barely caring for myself at the time I first saw her and the last thing I needed was someone or something to depend on me, but I took her regardless.
She had drawn blood the moment I opened the cage, biting me on my forearm, her bare wings extended in warning. In hindsight I realized it could have been worse. A bird of her size could have severed my finger clear off, and after a while I thought of her unnecessary taste of my flesh as her way of saying thank you.
Since I had freed her, she'd bitten me several more times. Some were my fault, others were hers as she was temperamental, but I never punished her. Cursed, yes, and she had learned quite the colorful vocabulary with astonishing ease. Many people found it entertaining. Valgarde hated it. He disliked Elvira more than he disliked me, which was amazing in and of itself.
Her feathers had come in some years earlier and she was simply stunning once she felt comfortable in my presence. I didn't have the heart to clip her wings to keep her from flight, but she rarely left my shoulder, especially out in public. I kept her on a chain when we roamed the streets for the safety of others, but when in the comfort of our home, I left her untethered and allowed her the freedom of soaring–albeit short distances–from one stand to the other and on top of her evening cage to my chair.
We were close to home at that point. The interaction with the girl still bothered me, as did the violinist and his inexplicable vanishing act. Guin bothered me as well, but for entirely different reasons.
I returned home and Elvira flapped her wings as soon as we entered the building. By the time I reached my flat, I had taken the tether off and she flew from my shoulder and onto her stand by the window where she proceeded to screech a long series of choice words.
I failed to see the note on the floor for quite some time, and once I noticed it, there was an unfortunate boot print on the envelope that smeared the name of the sender.
"My God," I groused. "Val with his note this morning and now this?"
How I detested notes. I tossed it onto the table by my well-worn chair and made myself tea first, a very hot and strong cup that took a while to cool down. Then, deciding I wished to ignore it a while longer, I picked up a book and read a full chapter before I glared at the envelope, wondering who it was from and what they wanted on a Monday evening.
Clearly it was someone who knew where I resided, which meant it wasn't one of my students. I doubted it was from Guin; there was no need for further words between us. Val wasn't the type to bother me twice in the same day, I reasoned, although I wouldn't put it past him.
Who else did I know, I wondered?
I fit my finger beneath the seal and tore it open, revealing a yellow card inside with an embossed F on the front.
I sighed to myself, temples pinched between my thumb and middle finger, feeling my pulse.
Elvira flew across the room and landed on the back of my chair, ripping through the threads that were barely clinging to the high back as it was. She preened me, gently nibbling on my hair and then gripped my collar and pulled at my beard. It didn't hurt, but it was an odd sensation, having a macaw decide I needed to be groomed by her.
"Would you care to shred this?" I asked, holding up the note.
It was in those moments that she solidified what I had always known: she didn't truly understand anything I said, instead picking up cues by my tone and series of sounds that were familiar to her. The patterns made it seem like she understood when really it was mimicking.
The revelation always saddened me. My best girl didn't understand a damned thing I said. All for the better, I supposed, as she knew all of my secrets and had witnessed far more than I cared to consider.
"Fine." I sighed to myself. "Let's see what Florine has to say, shall we?"
oOo
"Good grief," I groaned, finding my favorite delinquent bohemians in their rainbow circle, tucked within the corner of the studio near the windows, which they had taken the liberty of opening.
It was probably a good thing they had the sense to open the windows as the confines of our artistic haven were filled with turpentine fumes. Given that Monday had been a terrible headache, my Thursday absolutely had to be better. It was, after all, my niece's birthday. That alone made it a decent day.
"What are you foolish children mumbling about now?" I asked as I placed my leather satchel on my desk and turned to issue a harsh glare while holding a bag of peanuts.
They begged me to sit with them and I huffed, but took a seat on the floor where one of the female students asked if she could braid my hair, which I adamantly declined, instead offering her a peanut, which was soon enjoyed by everyone gathered around.
"The opera ghost," one of the students informed me.
I gave all six of them individual, pointed looks. "You are all obsessed."
"We are not obsessed. We are simply interested."
I rolled my eyes. "What has the opera ghost done now?" I asked, knowing the answer would most likely be that he had sprouted wings and was now flying through the theater, terrorizing the audience like a giant, rabid bat.
Instantly I thought of the violist and the flap of his cape, but discarded the silly notion.
"The overture for the production has been released," they whispered.
I truly wished to say I had zero interest in the tale of the supposed ghost and that my reply was simply based on humoring my six artists who had come into the studio prior to the start of class, but I was perhaps a bit obsessed myself. Or, as they had put it, I was interested. Mildly interested.
"On purpose or it was leaked?"
"The music," I was told with giddy excitement, "was found on the opera house steps near the stage door."
I sat in silence, evaluating their words, wondering if the stage door was where the violist had disappeared. If that were the case, he hadn't vanished at all. He'd simply returned to the theater, most likely laughing his way to the orchestra pit with the hundreds of francs he had earned for a twenty minute performance.
"When was this?" I asked.
They were thrilled to death by my inquiry, all of them encroaching upon my personal space with unparalleled delight. Everyone spoke at once, mostly saying the same thing with different wording.
"So it was noticed at midnight?" I asked after gathering their intel. "Who in the world enters the theater at midnight on a Monday?" I wondered aloud.
This was the part they were dying to share.
"The vicomte."
Wonderful, I thought to myself. Just what the opera ghost tale was lacking: a vicomte.
"You will once again need to give me more details than simply 'the vicomte'."
"Raoul de Chagny."
That name was familiar to me. We had once spent an entire season seated in the same row at the theater. He was directly in the middle, Row D, beside his brother. They also had an opera box at their disposal, but for one reason or another didn't use it. The orchestra seats, although not private, offered a better view, and who amongst the upper crust of society, attending a theatrical production in Paris, wanted to be confined to a box rather than flaunt their jewels four rows from the stage?
"And why was the Vicomte de Chagny approaching the stage door at midnight?"
The bohemians fell silent, grinning at one another as if they collectively possessed the most delectable secret in all of France, gossip so juicy it threatened to spill from their lips.
"Because of Christine."
"Who is Christine?" I asked.
"The chorus girl!" they all shouted, as if I should have been more invested.
"Ah. Yes. The chorus girl with the chalet of blood abducted by the vampire ghost."
They returned the pointed looks I had issued to them previously. How they amused me, my darling children.
"Continue," I said with a wave of my hand. "You have five minutes before class starts, so whatever you intend to say had better be good."
With the time limit imposed, they assaulted me with rapid-fire explanations, none of which seemed to make sense. Vicomte de Chagny was there because he couldn't sleep, as he was worried about the chorus girl, whose life had been threatened by the ghost, who was also demanding she be cast in his unnamed opera, and to whom she was engaged. She was technically engaged twice, however, once to the ghost and again to the vicomte. The vicomte did not approve of the second engagement, but his own engagement to Christine was not supposed to be common knowledge.
"Then how do you little gossiping imps know of their engagement?"
Because, they explained, someone's cousin was a stagehand and had it on good authority that the chorus girl Christine had an engagement ring that she wore on a chain around her neck, supposedly so the ghost would not know of her betrothed.
"What?" I said once everyone stopped speaking. "This makes absolutely no sense. She's wearing it in plain sight?"
"But it's not on her hand."
"I would assume the ghost would notice her necklace before her hand."
Twelve more students filed into the studio and I stood, dusting off my pant legs.
"May we discuss after class?" they asked me.
"No," I said. "I've heard enough for one day."