The summerlike temperatures didn't last, and a week later the chill of spring returned, but in a half-hearted way in which the coat I wore in the morning was much too heavy by the time I returned home.
Paris began to show signs of rebirth all around me. Buds began to bloom, the birds began to sing, and my sinuses felt thoroughly assaulted by both pollen and mold from the rain.
My wallet had simply appeared on my doorstep one day when I returned from the university. A week and a half had passed since I had seen Guin, and I felt somewhat surprised that she hadn't delivered it to me personally. It was for the best, I thought. We had seen enough of one another.
The bohemians were waiting outside of my studio in the morning, as I had apparently–for once–locked the door on my way out. They squealed like piglets when I approached, and I shook my head at them.
"No ghost gossip?" I asked.
"Better than ghost gossip," they answered.
The talk of the theater was a pleasant distraction, quite possibly the highlight of my day, unfortunate as that seemed. I unlocked the door, opened one of the windows to allow in fresh air, and placed my satchel on the seat behind my desk, which served no purpose aside from collecting a mish-mash of forgotten art supplies, hats, gloves, and a lunch pail I hoped to God was empty as it had been left behind for at least two weeks.
They followed in behind me, a line of gostlings murmuring at my heels, all of them vying for my attention.
"Don't you want to hear the news?" they asked.
"Not really," I blandly answered, simply to annoy them.
They gasped, almost in unison, as I had expected, and I chuckled to myself.
"Out with it before you all implode and I have to summon our poor janitor to pick up your splattered remains."
"We have been selected," they told me, pausing for dramatic effect.
I leaned against my desk and pretended to thumb through a forgotten sketchbook containing nothing more than feet. Dozens and dozens of different feet, all of them apparently belonging to different people.
"What have you been selected for?" I asked at last, not bothering to look at them.
"Set design!"
I lifted my gaze. To my knowledge, the university's spring play had already been performed back in late February. "Set design?"
Six very giddy heads bobbed up and down before they all began speaking at once. There had been a call for additional artists to help paint and construct sets for the Opera Populaire as the production was scheduled to open in two weeks. Typically the sets would have already been done as dress rehearsals were in full swing and adjustments made here and there, but the original design had been scrapped by demand of the composer.
"The ghost, you mean?"
"He is very strict."
He sounded like a pain in the ass.
The original opening day would possibly be postponed as a backdrop had fallen, injuring several ballet dancers.
"Nothing mortal," I was assured.
"Well, I would hope not," I replied. I placed the sketchbook back on my desk and crossed my arms. "So, you have been selected to paint sets? Is there compensation?"
There was not.
"Not even in the form of complimentary tickets?"
Again, no, but there was an offer to sit in on a read-through of the first two scenes and listen to the aria from the second act. I supposed considering the theater had no income for at least eleven weeks that they weren't interested in paying a handful of art students for their services.
"You realize that there is no real talent involved with painting a set, correct? You will literally be moving a brush back and forth against a very large canvas that you have not designed and that there is no adding personal style or touches involved?"
They didn't care. It was at least an opportunity to say they had worked as painters in Paris, even if it was for free.
"But, there is something more we would like to discuss, Monsieur Kimmer…"
Of course there was a 'but'. There was always a 'but'.
"We must have a chaperon."
My shoulders sagged. "You are all technically adults able to look after yourselves."
"Yes, yes, but we are students and therefore an official from the university must also be in attendance."
I suggested that they ask my colleague, Monsieur Raitt, whose studio was down the hall closer to the kiln and pottery room, which was met with groans. Monsieur Raitt was possibly older than the building itself. He was soft-spoken, shuffled when he walked, and couldn't hear a damned thing, but he was a prolific artist and a knowledgeable professor who was an absolute treasure to the university, especially when it came to pottery.
"What's wrong with Monsieur Raitt?"
"You are more enjoyable," they explained. "And besides, he is probably in bed by eight."
Little did they know that I was normally dosing in my chair by seven forty-five and sound asleep in my own bed by eight. And I was far less enjoyable, despite what they thought. I made a point of being disagreeable.
"And when precisely did you sign me up to volunteer as your chaperone?" I asked.
"It starts Wednesday, at twelve-thirty, if you are available, for ninety minutes per day. And we are expected to finish on the eighteenth."
"Six days of labor?"
They nodded.
"Will we be meeting the phantom composer?"
"No," they solemnly told me. "There shall be no talk of the phantom while we are there."
"Why not?"
"There have been too many accidents."
They exchanged looks in silence and, involuntarily, I felt myself shiver. Perhaps I had become more obsessed with the opera ghost than I had initially realized.
oOo
Val and I met for supper once a month, and we both took turns paying for the meal. It was my turn, and often it felt as though I were paying to be berated for ninety minutes.
"Good to see you, Phelan," Val said when I approached the small cafe that he had mentioned the previous month. He sounded genuine in his greeting. His jovial tone, however, still made me suspicious.
"Likewise, Val."
The establishment had only eight tables indoors, but the food was good, and due to the small space, it was difficult to engage in private conversation, which meant that I was fairly sure Valgarde wouldn't ask me anything I had no desire to answer and the topics would be dull and predictable.
I hadn't seen him since the night of Elizath's birthday, which wasn't atypical as he lived on one side of the city and I had purposely decided to live on the other. He had not bothered to invite me to another dinner party, which I assumed was an order from his wife.
We sat near the door, an unfortunate arrangement as every time it opened, a blast of cool air assaulted us. I hoped that the chill would hurry us through our meal so that I could return home by seven-thirty.
"How is the university?" he asked.
"Winding down for another year," I answered, scarcely able to believe my most adored delinquents would no longer be waiting for me on the floor in about seven weeks.
"Is that good or bad?"
"Both, I suppose," I answered, surprised he took an interest in my classes as he rarely asked about the university or my gallery shows. "Both of my first year classes have been excellent, particularly my Monday and Thursday one."
"Any plans for the summer?"
I paused. "Carrara," I answered.
"Italy?" He raised a brow. "What is in Carrara?"
"The same marble Michaelangelo used."
Val paused and give a nod of approval. "My brother and Michaelangelo have a common interest," he said, sounding almost proud of me.
I didn't agree or disagree with him, attempting to enjoy the pleasant conversation and avoid arguments. I told Valgarde that I had never been to Carrara, but the prospect of harvesting marble from the same quarry was a dream of mine, even if I only departed with a single piece the size of my fist.
"Perhaps one of these days I'll sell art as priceless as the famed sculptor."
"I heard both of your paintings on exhibit are already sold."
I snorted. "If you're referring to Jean, I have not yet agreed."
"Why not?"
I shrugged. "I suppose I will wait and see if there are any offers for the asking prices before I consider his bid."
"And what is his bid?"
It was always the same, regardless of whether the sale price was two hundred or two thousand. "Six thousand."
Valgarde nearly choked on his wine. "For both?"
"Each."
"Take it and run to Carrara," Val said. "Twelve hundred francs is generous."
His words annoyed me. 'Generous' was not the correct description of purchasing art. I was not painting for charity. The paintings I sold provided an income, one that I had earned.
"Are you taking a holiday this summer?" I questioned, still finding his company enjoyable even if he didn't find worth in my art. It had been years since it seemed as though we could simply talk to one another, like friends rather than bickering relatives.
His expression darkened and I knew, somehow, I had inquired about a topic he didn't wish to discuss. "Cypress would be nice."
"If I'm not mistaken, that's where you and Carmen spent your honeymoon?"
"Yes." He looked past me and frowned. "I suppose we did."
Their marriage intrigued me. Carmen was polite, but distant and had always been somewhat stiff, like a mannequin that came to life and wasn't certain how to act in front of others. I knew she had grown up outside of Paris, but anything else of interest was a mystery.
"I've never been to Cypress," I said.
"Perhaps next year," he mumbled.
Neither of us spoke. Our food was brought to the table–a generous helping of spaghetti with meatballs for me and ravioli with a wine sauce for Val.
"Elizabeth said she had a lovely time at the Glass Frog," he commented once the lapse in conversation became uncomfortable. "I hear you shared the famous beef and asparagus."
"It was two thinly sliced pieces of beef and three spears of asparagus. We shared legalized robbery."
Val chuckled, a sound that seemed foreign to him, at least in recent years. Our eyes met briefly, just long enough to catch another welcomed glimpse of how we had once been, after we had been introduced and before the move to Paris changed our dynamics.
"But yes, it was nice. Overpriced, but enjoyable. You and Carmen have done an excellent job raising Elizabeth. She is fortunate to have such attentive parents."
"You spoil her." The sternness returned, far swifter than I would have ever imagined, and I looked away first, feeling as though somehow he disapproved.
What had felt like a return to friendship became a rift once more. It saddened me.
My first memory of Valgarde was the day Alak carried us both into his home. Val had been seven, almost eight years of age, while I had been three and Erik weeks old, at most. I wasn't sure if it was late in January or early February. I was exhausted caring for Erik as he required feeding and companionship night and day to keep him from crying.
Whenever he wailed, our father remembered that the unwanted beast he had left outside still lived, and there was nothing more alarming than the sound of Bjorn's footsteps pounding the floorboards. If he opened the bedroom door, I feared he would kill us both.
And then a new danger suddenly emerged in the form of a lanky, yellow-eyed man with missing fingers. The sheer sight of him frightened me to death. He took my brother from me and refused ot hand him back. When I protested, he swept me up and carried both of us from my parents house.
I remembered it had felt like hours passed before we arrived at a tiny cabin nestled in a deep forest. Then there was another boy, Valgarde, who was instructed to hold me back while Alak kept Erik in his possession.
Val was much bigger than me at the time and I fought him, wildly swinging my arms as he grabbed me around the waist and drove me down to the floor while this stranger with his spidery frame and missing fingers took Erik from me. I recalled trying to bite Val, but he put his knee onto my shoulder and immobilized me.
They were going to kill my brother. I remembered thinking very strongly that their intentions had to be malicious in nature as the baby I adored was imperfect and our own father had left him to die. Erik was screaming–a sound that was so piercing I began to cry along with him, afraid that his last moments would be spent without me, thinking I had abandoned him.
I have to care for him. Please let me have him back. Do not hurt him! Put him down and I will take him and we will run away, never to be seen again.
The feeling of desperation was what I recalled most. And then the screams were replaced with silence and I sat motionless, no longer attempting to fight my assailant, my heart broken with the assumption that the stranger that had abducted the two of us had killed my brother and I was next. I wanted to be next, to be with him again in the afterlife I had imagined back in those days, where we would be whole and perfect and no one would separate us.
But then Alak turned around, a rag placed between Erik's lips that had been soaked in milk and he was suckling like a baby calf, the silence replaced by eager grunts. Alak dipped the rag in milk again as there was no proper bottle on hand, and slowly my infant brother relaxed, his belly finally filled for the first time since he had been born. Phelan swaddled Erik in a sheet, Val released me, and Erik was back in my arms.
I was relieved, but I never forgot how Val and I had first met. I wondered sometimes if he recalled it differently.
"What are you thinking about?" Valgarde asked suddenly, rocking me from the daydreams of a different time.
I inhaled, blinking at my untouched plate and then at Val, who was half finished with his supper.
"Erik," I answered honestly.
Val didn't appear surprised. Perhaps disappointed, but not surprised.
"Elizabeth told me that you spoke of him Saturday. You've been thinking of him a lot lately."
There was not a day I didn't think of him. I simply chose to keep my thoughts to myself.
"Is his birthday approaching?" Val asked.
"Erik's birthday has passed." I wound spaghetti around my fork and forced myself to take a bite. "He's thirty-three now."
Saying his age aloud was startling. It didn't seem possible that the toddler who had once poked me in the face and whispered in my ear had grown up.
Val stared at me in his disapproving way, which had been the only way in which he had looked at me for more years than I cared to count. I felt the scales tip out of my favor and knew that the void between us would start to grow once more.
"I am going to take out an ad," I said.
"Again?" Valgarde sounded surprised.
I sniffed. "Yes. In one of the theater programs."
He sat back and dabbed at the corners of his lips. "Really?"
A single word was spoken in the most condescending fashion.
"I figured since he was so fond of music that perhaps I have neglected an avenue that he would frequent. I will try Paris first, then in a month or two I will contact another theater and another until every city in Europe has been thoroughly examined."
"I see."
I took another bite, dragging spaghetti through red sauce and finely chopped vegetables, grated cheese and crumbles of ground beef. Minced garlic and an array of spices clung to the noodles, allowing me something to focus on that wasn't my cousin seated across the table.
"Are you seeing the new production?" I asked.
"Which one?" he asked.
"The one at the Opera Populaire. Don Juan, Don Julio? I forget the name of the triumphant hero. Or possibly villain, for all I know. I saw the banners for it being erected the other day."
Val shrugged. "I heard it's been postponed."
"Where did you hear that?"
"One of my colleagues at the bank said there was an issue with financing. The theater has practically been hemorrhaging money at this point. I suppose if it does appear on the stage we will attend. If Carmen desires."
"How is Carmen? I didn't have a chance to speak with her on Elizabeth's birthday."
"Carmen is concerned."
My head snapped up. "With?"
Val took a breath and looked me over again. I wasn't certain why I insisted on maintaining eye contact. "You."
His words struck me as humorous. Carmen Kimmer, my brother's wife who rarely said a word to me and most of the time seemed miserably married to my cousin, was concerned for me. I wasn't sure if I should find it endearing or laughably absurd.
"Why?" I asked, against my better judgment.
Val pushed his plate away. "Carmen doesn't think you should be spending time with Elizabeth. Alone."
My breath hitched. I ran his words through my head several times, attempting to rearrange them in a way that made better sense. When it still seemed unfathomable, I chose to continue eating, despite how tasteless my meal had become, and wait to see if Valgarde would elaborate.
For a long moment I listened to the buzz of conversation around us, the bits of small talk and laughter from the other patrons whose evening were going much better than mine.
"I see," I said under my breath.
Elizabeth was largely the only reason I kept in contact with Val and the only reason I ever spoke to Carmen, which was a rare but still painful occurrence.
"Phelan, I am sorry," Val said.
"For what?"
Val rambled on about their concerns for my well-being, which was the primary reason for their decision. He could not stress enough how much he wanted to know that he cared and we were family, raised as brothers, and nothing would change that.
Then he expressed the need to moderate what their daughter was exposed to, particularly fantasies, such as an uncle missing for thirty years who was still alive, Val said.
"She's young, Phelan, and impressionable. I don't think you realize how easy it is to put these ideas into her head. You don't know what it's like to have a child of your own."
Unhealthy, I heard him say.. Let go. Move on. Do you honestly believe he is still out there, after all this time? You cannot keep believing this tale that you've convinced yourself is true.
I had heard more than enough.
"Just because your little brother is dead does not mean mine is as well," I said, my voice dripping with as much malice I could muster. I hoped he felt the venom in each word, that it poisoned him in a way that he could never fully recover.
Valgarde gaped at me, which gave me much more satisfaction than it should have.
"Does Elizabeth even know about your brother Alak?" I asked. "Grotesquely deformed, so twisted that he was not able to walk, not that he ever reached the age where he could have learned."
"Phelan," he growled.
"Do you remember him? It certainly doesn't seem like you do. It's almost as if you don't care enough to recall him."
I couldn't tell if he was angry or hurt, and in that single moment, I didn't care.
"You needn't stay a moment longer. In fact, I must insist that you leave."
"Phelan," he tried again, this time softer, as if there was still a chance to smooth over the cracks.
I looked up at him and practically shouted my reply, telling him to leave at once, which silenced the diners around us.
Valgarde blanched. He asked me several more questions, none of which I answered, and eventually collected his coat and hat and walked out, leaving me with my meal–which suddenly looked more like a pile of worms swimming in a puddle of blood.
We did not meet for supper the following month. As far as I was concerned, there was no need to speak to him again.
oOo
I desired a treacherous decision, one that would either land me in a jail cell or a stranger's bed and quite frankly, I didn't care which one.
My heart hammered, and I replayed every word that I had directed at Valgarde. He had never spoken of his brother for as long as I could recall and in doing so it was as though the infant, born with some affliction of the spine, had never existed.
I would not allow that to happen to Erik. Even if I never saw him again, he thrived in my memory where he was protected and loved. He would live as long as I did.
In despair I roamed aimlessly through Paris, heedless of where I walked. I vaguely recalled the playhouses and Ink's building, the spires of a cathedral a street away and the park before I turned around, having a destination in mind.
I found myself standing in front of the opera house, halfway up the stairs I detested. The structure looked like the ominous bones of a forgotten building, the pillars bandaged with the four banners in front and the phallic stem of a wine glass grasped by the hand of a woman almost lost in the shadows. I could make out her lips touching the rim of the glass, lusty red and full.
There were no buskers in front of the lifeless theater, which seemed to have been infested by a ghost driving away the music.
I cursed the spector and turned on my heel. I was barely down the stairs when the music started and I paused as though ensnared in a trap made entirely of sound.
At first I couldn't pin the location of the music. The notes were mournful, filled with the regret I felt attempting to surface within me, a sensation I wished to drown in my ever growing apathy.
I searched the street for signs of a traveling musician, but there was no one visible and the music seemed to be growing closer, not further away.
My brow furrowed and I held my breath, looking toward the night sky, fully expecting to see the musician suspended by a high wire above the city.
I jogged down the stairs for a better look at the top of the opera house.
Apollo and his lyre stood watch over the theater district, an imposing sentinel guarding his dark abode perched upon a copper dome. I searched the statues on either end; harmony to the left and poetry to the right, thankful the statues had not come to life and made me further question my sanity.
The music, however, most certainly came from the rooftop, and at last I caught the faintest movement against the night sky, somewhere between harmony and the pegasus. The building was so detailed–garishly so–that it was difficult to concentrate on one part for long.
There he was, his dark cloak whipping around him as he continued to play his mournful tune about Paris. A handful of other people paused to listen, murmuring to one another, before they went on their way, none of them finding the music enjoyable.
The violinist was driving people away with his song. Perhaps he longed for solitude, a life in which no one bothered him.
Or perhaps, I cynically thought, he was already alone and had come to the conclusion that there would never be more to life. He had come to terms with what the world around him lacked.
Perhaps I should have done the same.
Not so silently I cursed him, this entity who had the audacity to stand closer to heaven when he belonged in hell.
"You can rot for all I care," I said under my breath, the words meant for both the musician and Valgarde.
oOo
"Kimmer?" Guin said when she opened her apartment door.
It was late, I knew, after ten, at least, and I was surprised she answered.
She greeted me in her silk robe, the belt tied tight around her small waist. Her straight dark hair framed her face, eyes wide with surprise.
"How did you get in?" she asked, eyeing the door down the hall.
"One of your neighbors was walking out."
"Hmm."
I took a deep breath. "Are you alone?" I asked impatiently.
She looked me over, tapping on the door frame with her fingernails. "If there was another man already in my bed, would you care to join us?"
I was in no mood for games. "Is there?"
She took a moment to answer me, and I considered leaving at once, having no desire to find out.
"Sadly, there is not."
"Do you want company?" I asked flatly.
"Yours?"
I nodded once, my frustration escalating. In one way or another, I would find my release. If it wasn't in her bed, it would be far more dangerous, but equally satisfying.
Guin stepped aside and I walked into her tidy apartment. Once the door closed, I turned away from her and swallowed, pushing down everything that was ricocheting through my mind.
The only light within the room was provided by the fireplace. I squeezed my left hand into the most tolerable fist I could make, reminded of why the nerves were damaged.
I felt along the meatiest part of my thumb where the burn either ended or began. It was the part that was most tolerable as long as I didn't apply much pressure. The burn had not been as bad that far down as the flames had focused their damage along the middle of my forearm, which stung with the slightest brush of fabric against it, as if the flames were always upon my flesh.
The worst part was that after the burn, it was difficult to hold my brother as I rested his body against my left arm and fed him with a bottle in my right. I closed my eyes, wanting to remember him while at the same time unable to tolerate how raw it made me still feel.
It's been thirty years. You need to move on. This isn't healthy. You are hurting… You are hurting Elizabeth.
Perhaps Val was correct.
Guin's hand brushed my shoulder, drawing me away from my thoughts. I heard the soft woosh of fabric hit the rug. It was the distraction I had desired, the physical pleasure I knew would pave a thin layer over the torment racing through my mind. I smiled to myself.
"Shall we get on with it?" Guin asked, her voice low and husky. She stepped closer, the heat of her body against mine.
I glanced at her hand and inhaled, thinking of the banners with the stemware and the slender fingers, the lush lips and the suggestive nature of the advertisements.
At last I turned to face Guin and she planted one palm flat on my chest, the other hand lingering beside my cheek. The pad of her thumb stroked where the bruise had finally disappeared. She jutted out her lower lip as if disappointed that the mark no longer existed.
"I still think I owe you an apology." She dragged her thumb along my lips, prodding until my mouth opened ever so slightly.
"This time, I was thinking I could do a little something for you, same as you did for me last time…" Guin unbuttoned my shirt, her gaze dropping, eyes focused on the task at hand. "When was the last time you felt as though your soul left your body?" she asked.
"Would you like me to say it was with you?"
She arched a brow, her hands reaching my hips. "Tonight, it will be."
With a smile she pushed her silky black hair over her shoulders and licked her lips. I kissed her first, long and hard, rough as she thought I desired, and heard her inhale sharply in surprise.
"I intend to keep you wanting more," she promised.
I raised a brow. "Is that so?"
"Until you can no longer tolerate a moment more."
She knelt and I stared straight ahead, my gaze directed away from the firelight and fingers running through her hair.
I was well past my threshold when it came to my tolerance for wanting something. And that threshold had nothing to do with Guin.