CH 13
"You will never believe what happened yesterday," the Bohemians said when I walked into my studio with a box of four quarters cake on a Monday morning.
"The opera ghost is on holiday," I said. "He's spending a month-long respite in a German castle, surrounded by lovely lady ghosts."
"No!"
"That's a shame. That poor phantom is in desperate need of a new haunt."
And, I thought, releasing some frustration with a harem of equally frustrated female ghosts.
Shoulders sagged. Moans emerged from unamused mouths. "It's even worse!"
"Worse than a holiday? Have you all lost your minds or simply never been on a decent holiday?"
They exchanged looks of confusion, which swiftly turned to glee once I opened the box of cake and presented it to them. They descended upon me like starving little sewer rodents that had never tasted cake before and stuffed their faces.
"Leave some for the rest of your class," I ordered, having to pull the box away from them.
They apologized, crumbs tumbling from their open maws, the uncouth savages.
"What is your gossip?" I asked.
"Christine has quit."
I took a piece of cake from the box.
"Quit?"
Cake-covered lips murmured confirmation.
"What does that mean for the backdrops?" I asked.
"How can you possibly be concerned with the backdrops? The star of the production is no longer employed by the theater!"
I took another bite of cake. "Well, because it personally affects the next two days of my life and I'm certain they can find someone else to play her part. There has to be an understudy, doesn't there?"
"There is a rumor that she has fallen ill," they told me.
"Well, then it sounds as though she has taken a leave for illness, not outright quit," I said.
"She's in a family way," they whispered.
I didn't say anything aloud, but I had noticed the way she held her hands over her abdomen while she sang, and assumed the chorus girl and victome had not waited for their wedding night to become more familiar with one another.
"I heard she's on her way to Northern France to elope with her fiance and have the child in secret."
"I heard she already had the child."
"And the child's father is the ghost!"
"Enough, all of you. Keep your gossip a little less sordid," I suggested. "And more plausible than a ghost fathering a child with a chorus girl."
Wide eyes stared back at me.
"If Christine has officially quit, then who will take her place?" I asked.
They shrugged. Apparently there was an emergency meeting scheduled where this would be discussed by the house managers, the stage manager, and the ballet mistress, among others.
"I am absolutely shocked a chorus girl seems to be more dramatic than all of you combined. It's actually very impressive."
They shook their heads in dismay at my comment, looking from the cake in their hands to me, and finally asked why I had treated them to cake in the first place.
"Because I have an art broker," I answered quite casually. "And I sold two paintings from the last show."
There was complete silence. They were no longer chewing and I was certain that none of them breathed. They stared at me, wide-eyed, lips covered in frosting and crumbs, slowly turning into smiles before the entire room erupted in squeals and cheers. They jumped up and down, twirled each other around, and clapped in a manner that I found both obnoxious and endearing.
"And I have three paintings in another gallery show at Cavari that opens Wednesday evening. You are all invited."
The entire sequence repeated itself, only louder once more students wandered into the studio and asked why there was a celebration.
"Did everyone have a slice of cake?" I asked.
Everyone nodded.
"Then why is there one slice left?" I asked as I surveyed the room, taking mental attendance, which I rarely did. My classes were rarely skipped.
My Bohemians exchanged looks.
"Where is Ink?" I asked.
Most shrugged, but a few whom I knew he had befriended immediately looked away.
"Split into your groups," I ordered.
Once they had divided themselves into their normal smaller groups of six, I approached the five students normally with Ink.
"Is Ink ill?" I asked.
None of them readily spoke. I cleared my throat, feeling more concerned when they didn't answer me as none of them could ever keep a secret.
"He's at Rue de Parme," one student responded.
I started to ask where, as Parme was a long street, but stopped myself short once I realized where he was at. I could picture the black double door entrance and the barred windows frosted to keep inmates from being able to see the street beyond.
"Since when?" I asked.
"Friday."
"Why?"
Again, silence.
I sighed to myself. An American student incarcerated for over three days either meant he had no ability to bail himself out or he had done something extraordinarily stupid.
I supposed I would find out after the backdrop painting at the Opera Populaire concluded in the afternoon.
oOo
I warned my Bohemians that there was to be no mention of rumors once we approached the theater and not a word uttered while we were inside. They solemnly agreed, asking if we could cut through the park.
Naturally after the weekend concluded with a day of nonstop rain, Monday was pleasantly warm and sunny, no trace of a single cloud in the sky. The pollen was relentless, tulips and daffodils popping from the ground and the cherry trees displaying their best colors with a hefty dose of intolerable allergens.
Still, despite the tickle in my throat and stuffy nose, I enjoyed the walk through the streets, knowing my allergies would subside in a matter of weeks once early spring became late spring with summer on its heels and the burst of pollen thankfully tapered off.
Hugo was seated on a park bench when we approached. His hands were linked in front of him, head down beneath a large hat. I could hear him snoring well before I took a seat beside him.
"Five francs to spare?" I whispered in his ear.
He snorted, roused from sleep, and immediately reached for his back pocket. "Yes, yes of course…" He sucked in a breath, snorting again before he realized who had sat beside him. "Ah! Phelan! Did I fall asleep here?"
"Resting your eyes, my friend."
He pushed his hat back and looked at me with bloodshot, drooping eyes. His face looked puffy and pale beneath his wildman beard sticking out in all directions.
"Have you been unwell?" I asked.
"Me?" He chuckled. "If this weather would decide what it wants to do I'd be better. One day warm, the next day snow, followed by rain and more rain. Between my joints and sinuses, I'm miserable. You know how it is, Phelan, always another ailment to add to the list. At this point in my life, I'm surprised nothing has fallen off." He winked and slapped me on the back. "How are you?"
"Very well."
"Oh?" He wagged his eyebrows. "Is it a lady?"
"No."
He scoffed at me. "One of these days the answer will be yes, along with an invitation to your nuptials."
"Highly unlikely, my friend, and I suggest you not pin your hopes upon my marriage." I smiled at him. "Might you have an evening free this week?" I asked.
"For you? Of course. Any day you like."
"Thursday," I suggested. "Before the salon meets. Around five?"
Hugo nodded. "Any place in particular?"
"Wherever you like. My treat to you."
His face lit up. "You know, I've been meaning to try Cortez."
I knew the location he spoke of and had never seen anyone over the age of twenty-five walk inside, which is why I assumed he wanted to dine there in the first place. Hugo was an old dog if ever there was one, and while he flirted relentlessly with any woman who crossed his path, I was fairly certain most women looked at him like they smiled at their elderly grandfathers. He did, after all, complain about his aching feet and sore back, and in my experience, that was not something women wished to discuss with men.
"Cortez it is. Five on Thursday?"
Hugo searched my face. "You are up to something, aren't you?"
"A surprise. That has nothing to do with marriage."
"Are you moving out of Paris?"
"Never," I assured him. "Someone has to teach these fools and keep an eye on you."
He blinked and slowly nodded, his eyes somewhat glazed over and coloring still pallid.
"Are you sure you're well?" I asked.
Hugo nodded. "Never better. I will see you Thursday."
oOo
We were three minutes late reaching the Opera Populaire, which the stage manager reminded me of as he ushered us inside. Although still somewhat of a maze, now that we were on our fifth trip to the theater, the corridors were easier to navigate and I knew which doors would take us where before we passed through.
"Why are you late?" Charlot asked.
My students scurried off toward the stage, clearly wanting no part of being reprimanded for tardiness, while I bristled at the question.
"It's a beautiful day and we took our time before we came to volunteer our services," I said tightly. "If I were you, Monsieur Charlot, I would not concern myself over three minutes when you have an entire workforce at your disposal receiving no compensation whatsoever."
Charlot stiffened. "I am not the only one aware of the clock," he said quietly.
"Then if someone wishes to discuss these three minutes, I am at their service."
My voice boomed through the theater far louder than I had intended, followed by stunned silence. All eyes were toward the rafters as though the roof would come crashing down at any second.
In an instant Charlot's finger was in my face, his chest nearly up against mine. "Watch yourself, Monsieur," he said through his teeth. "You are treading closer to danger than you realize."
"Remove your hand from my face," I warned through my teeth.
He remained precisely where he stood, nostrils flared and his breaths hot against my cheek. "I said watch yourself."
"I suggest you do the same."
He took a step back, and before I could relax, he shoved me in the chest.
Out of all the altercations I had been a part of over the years–and there had been many–I had never been the aggressor. At least not physically. I was quite guilty of goading agitated men into fights, but I never threw the first punch.
Once someone pushed me or took a swing, however, I no longer saw a nameless stranger. I saw the face of a man who had shoved me into walls, doors, and sent me stumbling across floors. I saw a man who had once grabbed me by the arm and thrown me into the dining room table and chairs with such force that it broke off a leg to one of the chairs.
I saw a man who had shoved me down the back steps of the small shack where I had been born, leaving me covered in mud and with a splinter jutting through my palm. I saw a vile bastard of a man who had held my arm over the fire and left me screaming, my flesh blistered and ruined.
But most of all, every time someone provoked me, I saw the putrid drunk who had taken my brother from me, and who had left him with blackened eyes and a bloodied mouth the last time we had seen one another on a beach outside of the village where we had been born.
I saw my father in every fight. Bjorn Kimmer. The man I despised with every fiber of my being.
My jaw clenched, my hands slowly curling into fists, and I stalked forward. Charlot took several steps back, a look of panic taking over his visage. Blood drained from his face as he realized his folly.
He had no idea that the orchestra pit was six or seven steps behind him, that he was in danger of toppling over the lip of the stage and falling a distance that would leave him with two sprained ankles at the least or two broken legs at the worst.
Charlot took two more steps back, hands out as if he could beg for my mercy. I paused, allowing him to take another step back, then another. One more and he would fall, arms flailing, mouth open, eyes wide. The last thing he would see before he tumbled over the edge would be my face.
My students shrieked, the terror in their voices giving me pause. I looked over my shoulder at them standing around the backdrop covering the back half of the stage and realized they weren't looking at me or Charlot. They were staring at the rafters.
I followed their gaze to the chandelier, which appeared to be dancing. The glass beads swayed back and forth, the entire unlit apparatus bouncing up and down, then swaying back and forth. Several beads came loose and fell from the fixture, shattering as they hit the stage.
Charlot took one last step back and his left foot found no solid ground. A look of horror swept over his features. His arms shot out, his body leaning back and before he could scream, I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him forward.
I released him once he had enough momentum to avoid crashing into the pit. He reeled forward and splattered hard on the stage with a tremendous thud. His hands screeched against the polished surface, nose hitting the ground with a crunch that probably meant he'd broken it.
Beside him, a note floated down from the flies and landed several feet from him, completely unnoticed as he clutched his face in both hands, writhing on the ground in agony.
I stepped over him, boots crunching over shards of glass, and retrieved the note. There was no name on the front of the envelope, but I assumed it was for Charlot.
"Another note," I said as I placed the envelope on the stage in front of his outstretched body.
He looked like a worm squirming about. Once he managed to turn onto his side, he yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and plugged his nose with the fabric. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with unshed tears, and I imagined within a few hours they would turn black from the trauma.
"They will paint for an hour and then we shall be on our way," I said with my back to him before I straightened my overcoat and walked away.
oOo
The hour passed swiftly and almost in complete silence. I sat toward the bottom of the backdrop on my knees, which I cushioned with my overcoat, and painted alongside my students. They continued to glance up at the chandelier from time to time, but no one dared to ask questions or make speculations.
At the end of sixty minutes, they packed up their belongings, pulled the backdrop as far back from the stage as possible, and made room for the ballet to utilize the stage.
Charlot was nowhere in sight, but another gentleman said we were welcome to watch rehearsals and that Tuesday's painting session had to be moved back to three as there would be no one available to let us inisde until that time.
"You may stay if you like," I told the nine students in attendance.
Seven decided to stay and watch. The last two followed me out of the theater.
Reginald and Sylvie were somehow related. I couldn't remember if it was brother and sister, cousins, or distant cousins, but they had come from the same town somewhere in the south of France and shared an apartment.
"Monsieur Kimmer," they said when we were halfway down the miserable set of stairs.
By the second semester, my students dropped formality and addressed me by my first name, which I preferred, or my surname, which I accepted. The 'Monsieur' part typically meant they were nervous and thought being polite would somehow remedy whatever situation they assumed would annoy me.
When I turned to face them, Sylvie was hiding partially behind Reginald. I could only imagine her reaction was due to the incident with Charlot.
"What?" I impatiently asked.
They exchanged nervous looks.
"We no longer wish to participate," Sylvie said as she continued to hide like a mouse behind Reginald, who looked as though he wanted to exchange places with her.
Quite frankly, I had no desire to return to the theater either, but unfortunately the rest of their colleagues still needed to finish one last backdrop to complete their task and couldn't do so without supervision.
"You are not under obligation," I said.
They appeared relieved by my words and collectively sighed.
"May I ask why?"
Reginald swallowed. "The spirit," he said. "It is evil."
"These types of entities attach themselves to the living," Sylvie said.
"And follow them for eternity," Reginald said.
"Until they attach to other unsuspecting people," Sylvie added. "When we return home for the summer, I don't want to bring this home with us to Mother and Grandmother. They are in poor health as it is."
As much as I doubted a spirit existed, I was somewhat relieved that their decision wasn't based on my actions.
"This activity in no way impacts your final grade," I said. "I respect your decision."
They thanked me and started walking the rest of the way down the steps, saying over their shoulders that they would see me on Wednesday and giving one last congratulations on the sale of my paintings and work with a broker.
I watched them walk across the street and continue presumably toward their shared apartment before I hailed a cab.
"Parme," I said.
The driver nodded. "Address?"
"Police station."
The ride in a cab was short and fairly fast, costing me a mere fifteen francs. The building was familiar to me, the doors painted black reminding me of a dank dungeon entrance despite the jail itself being brighter than most. In twenty years, I'd spent my fair share of nights in several different jails throughout the city, and as far as incarceration went, Ink had at least stayed for a long weekend in one of the nicer Parisian jails.
The man at the desk looked up as I entered. "Kimmer?" he questioned.
"I'm turning myself in," I dryly said.
He blinked at me as he stood. "I beg your pardon?"
When he found no humor in my words, I sighed to myself. "What is the bail for…"
I thought for a moment. It had been at least six months since I'd addressed Ink by his real name, whatever that was, and I couldn't for the life of me think of his first name, let alone his surname.
"You have an American here," I said.
The man at the desk looked suspiciously at me. He was young, but I knew I had seen him before and he clearly knew me. I doubted he'd arrested me as I hadn't been in any altercations in quite some time. Perhaps there was a poster of my likeness somewhere in the station, a portrait for one of their most favorite degenerate citizens. I could only hope it was my head on the body of a donkey.
"An American?" the man asked.
"He's here, isn't he?" I asked. "Around nineteen years of age, dark hair, blue eyes, this tall," I explained, using my hand for the purpose of measurement.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To post his bail," I impatiently said.
The man excused himself and returned a moment later with another officer whom I most definitely recognized.
"Boucher," I acknowledged.
"What are you doing here?" he barked, his voice gravelly. He sounded precisely what I expected a bulldog would sound like if it could talk: rough and uncivilized. We had a few mutual friends in common, but that had never made me like him any more and Boucher certainly didn't care for me, either.
"Bailing out a university student," I said.
He had the beady eyes of an insect and the fleshy face of a hog. Everything about him was vile and I suspected he thought the same of me.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because he has been languishing in a cell since Friday and his attendance record is surely about to suffer for it."
Boucher shrugged. "He's where all homosexuals belong."
I squared my shoulders. "May I ask for the documentation of the law stating you are able to keep a man incarcerated for homosexuality?" I asked.
Boucher scowled at me. "Two hundred francs and you can take the homosexual back to your apartment," he grumbled. "And do whatever you like with him."
"That is his bail?" I questioned, ignoring the rest of what he said as I was quite aware of what he wanted. One snide remark leading to a threat and I'd be in the cell with Ink.
"Per day."
I had paid enough bails in my day to know for certain that Boucher was nothing more than vermin in a uniform. I was fairly certain he pocketed fees paid in banknotes and had probably purchased a summer home with mine.
"The sign indicates otherwise," I said, nodding toward a printed sign in a glass case to his left.
"Sodomizing another man is a higher fee."
I grit my teeth, finding the need to ignore him becoming increasingly difficult. "A higher fee for an act that isn't criminal?" I questioned. "Might there be an inspector available to clarify the fee, Boucher?"
"Do you want to be in the cell next to your homosexual American?"
"If it means no longer speaking to you, I would consider it."
Before he could speak, the door opened and two more gendarmes walked in, followed by the inspector, whose pace came to a halt once he saw me.
"What are you doing here?" he questioned.
"And lovely seeing you as well, Inspector Alonzo."
I had always liked Inspector Alonzo, all things considered. He was a year or two away from a much-needed retirement, but despite frequenting his precinct frequently in my youth, he had never been cruel or rude when addressing me. He was stern and always seemed disappointed when I was brought in for disturbing the peace or being a public nuisance, but I thought we had a decent relationship. He was also an artist, or at least an artist in secret. He often doodled on the backs of paperwork and I thought if he had put in the effort to take classes he would have been quite good.
"I am here to post bail," I said to Alonzo. "Four days would come to…?"
"Two hundred," he answered.
I looked from Boucher to Alonzo. "I must say, Inspector, you may wish to have Boucher brush up on his mathematics as he told me two hundred per day."
Alonzo inhaled. "Pay the fee and be on your way, Kimmer, or you'll be paying your own as well."
I turned back to the desk clerk and reached for my wallet. "The American," I said.
"The filthy homosexual," Boucher said as he grabbed his keys from his belt and walked into the back.
It was a long and uncomfortable wait for Ink's belongings to be retrieved from the room where everything one had on their person was stored while spending a night or two in a jail cell. Half the time I assumed whatever had been of value in my pockets would not be there when I was released, and once Boucher appeared with a box containing Ink's muddied, torn coat, I was certain the pockets had been emptied.
The same coat my student had allowed me to borrow on Elizabeth's birthday was in complete disrepair. One sleeve was nearly torn off, the cuff stained with blood and dried mud. Boucher pinched it between his finger and thumb as though he couldn't bear touching it and flung it at my feet.
"Looks worse than your homosexual," he said under his breath.
I grabbed the coat from the ground, surprised to find a wallet in one pocket and keys in the other. I reached into the one containing the wallet and felt banknotes inside, assuming that due to Boucher's revulsion toward a homosexual man he had not removed the contents.
"Daniel Lincoln?" the desk clerk clarified.
"Yes," I said. Once the clerk read the name, I recalled addressing Ink as such during attendance the first week.
The clerk turned to Boucher. "Would you...?"
"I won't touch him," Boucher said.
The clerk appeared annoyed. He handed me a form to sign, took Boucher's keys, and disappeared into the back. I signed the paper releasing my art student and heard a cell door creak open and shut moments later, all the while feeling Boucher stare through me.
"I didn't take you for the type to entertain men," Boucher said.
I ignored him and looked over the form. Daniel had been taken in at apparently eleven-thirteen Friday night for disorderly conduct. There was another charge as well, but the handwriting was illegible.
"Did you hear me?" Boucher growled.
"I did," I answered without looking at him.
"Then answer," he demanded.
I inhaled and set the form aside. "Currently I am not a resident of your fine precinct and am in no way obligated to answer you."
"I'll remember that the next time I see you, Kimmer."
I merely smiled in return. "Have a pleasant day, Boucher."
The clerk returned a moment later, and behind him, a man I would never have recognized if I had passed him on the street.
My breath hitched, my heart stuttering. I stared at Daniel Lincoln for a long moment, then looked away, my heart dropping somewhere deep into my rib cage. Daniel didn't look at me, his head hanging low, eyes so swollen I wasn't certain if he could see me at all even if he did lift his head.
Awkwardly we stood beside one another in silence until at last he lifted his head. Through the slit of his swollen eyes, I caught a glimpse of familiar blue irises. His cracked lips parted, his breaths suddenly faster once he realized who had come for him. He swallowed hard, choking back emotion.
"May I…may I have my coat, please?" he asked in English.
His voice sounded strange. He had been timid in my class, but his voice was weak and listless and filled with terror. I handed him his coat, which he immediately dropped on account of his wounded hand.
Behind the desk, Boucher grunted, apparently amused by the state of his former inmate.
"Here," I said, grabbing the coat from the ground. I shook it out, attempting to remove the dried mud from the sleeves and the back of the coat before I asked Daniel to lift his arms.
I pulled his arms through the coat, dressing him like a child. Purposely I brushed my hands over his shoulders and buttoned it up to his neck, maintaining as much eye contact as possible. In all of the times Val had bailed me out, he refused to look at me, as if he were too ashamed to meet my eye. By all accounts, Daniel Lincoln was ashamed enough to last a lifetime.
"Are you cold?" I asked, noticing him shiver.
He started to shake his head, but nodded. "A little."
When he bowed his head, I looked him over. Daniel's right hand was bloodied and bruised, his thumb nail cracked down the middle and the joints of his fingers swollen. I made every attempt not to stare, but I was certain he would not be able to hold a pencil or brush for the rest of the semester, if not the duration of summer.
"Let's go," I said, mustering as much strength into my voice as possible for his sake.
He followed me out onto the street like a timid stray dog, his head down and breaths ragged. We walked in silence until the end of the street when I turned to make certain he was still following me.
"Give me your coat," I said once we began attracting attention from nearly every person we passed on the street.
I practically wrestled him out of his coat and swiftly dressed him in my overcoat, hoping that it would detract from the onlookers.
We continued walking until I hailed a cab and forced Daniel inside. Neither of us said a word. I picked dirt from his ruined coat until the carriage came to a stop across the street from my apartment some fifteen minutes later.
"Sit," I said once we were inside at last. He had difficultly climbing two flights of stairs as his legs appeared stiff and he had trouble seeing where he walked. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
He did as I requested, sitting without looking at all comfortable. To my surprise, Elvira made several clicking sounds, but didn't screech or imitate any of the phrases she knew.
Once Daniel was seated, I flung his coat over the back of my chair, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a damp rag and a liquid cleanser I used for minor cuts.
Daniel's wounds were anything but minor, however. It had been quite some time since I'd seen anyone bloodied to a pulp and I found myself speechless at the sight of such a soft-spoken young man injured so badly.
"Would you like to…?" I held up the rag, realizing he couldn't bend his fingers in order to hold it properly.
His eyes closed, and the tears he had held at bay for the duration of the cab ride slipped down his bruised face. He brought his hands to his face, then reconsidered and crossed his arms as his body silently shook.
"Please," he begged, saying nothing further.
I had cleaned many of my own split lips and scraped cheeks from the time I was quite young all the way through my adult years when I sat alone in my apartment, the mirror I used for shaving in one hand and a rag in the other, but I had never done it for another person, let alone a student whose real name I had forgotten.
"Here," I said.
Silently I cleaned his face as best I could, until the rag was red with his blood and I was forced to grab another. I doused the second rag with the cleanser that smelled strongly of cloves and black pepper and ran it over his cheeks, nose, and forehead until it no longer looked as though he wore a crimson mask. He wept the entire time, tears streaming down his contorted visage as he apologized repeatedly.
"Did this happen before or after you were taken to Parme?" I asked.
"Both."
"Inmates or gendarmes?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see them."
I shuddered at his words, feeling somewhat confident that Boucher had most likely been responsible for the worst of the injuries. Daniel should have been taken to the hospital, not a jail cell, if he had been struck so hard in the face his eyes were practically sealed shut.
Emotion continued to rattle through Daniel, weeping turned to hyperventilation that made his body jolt as if he had a series of violent seizures.
I wondered if this was how I had looked as a child after Bjorn struck me again and again, his hands in fists, pummeling me with as much force as he could muster. I only barely remembered the time before Erik was born, the moments when Bjorn, the man whose seed had resulted in my birth, dragged me from my bed in the middle of the night and decided he wished to beat me simply because I existed.
I recalled screaming, telling him to stop, biting at his arms and his hand when he attempted to silence me. I also thought that I remembered Gyda came into the room and clawed at him, yelling words that were not familiar to me as she spoke a different language.
And then the memories seemed more like fantasies. I thought that at least once Gyda had held me in the dark, rocking me back and forth, stroking my hair as I continued to wail as young children do when they don't have the words to voice how they feel. I swore she kissed the top of my head and pressed her hand to my bruised cheek, humming to me until the tears finally stopped and I melted into the comfort of her much-needed embrace.
There were moments when I caught a whiff of certain smells, mostly cream from coffee, that I thought of her, of the woman who sometimes knew me and mostly didn't, consoling me. I could not be certain it was ever real, but I wanted it to be true. In the memories I wished to believe, she was soft and warm, gentle and kind. If only for a single night, she had been a mother to me, one that I wished I could have loved and been loved by during a hellish childhood.
I knew for certain the beatings had happened, but my memories were thankfully vague, and when I thought of Bjorn's cruelty it was as though I saw it from outside of my body, like a spectator watching a grown man violently attack a toddler in the middle of the night.
I swallowed and reached for Daniel's right hand, but he pulled away and cradled it against his chest. I wasn't sure if he was ashamed or scared or fueled by what had to be more pain than he'd previously experienced. Perhaps all at once, I guessed, coupled with being in a strange place with someone he only saw twice a week for class.
"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded in English.
"You have my word, Daniel."
His bottom lip quivered. "I have forgotten how to speak French," he said, and the tears started again, harder than the first time. "I don't know what is wrong with me."
"I speak English," I offered. "Not well, but...enough."
He nodded.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"Illinois," he said.
It was a strange sounding word. "Where is Illinois?"
"It's in Chicago." He sucked in a breath. "Forgive me, I mean to say Chicago is located in Illinois."
I nodded even though his eyes were closed. "I've heard of Chicago," I said. "You Americans and your odd choices for names. Chicago. Illinois. Awful. Not a bit of elegance."
He allowed a half-hearted chuckle to momentarily replace his tears.
"Is it nice there?" I asked.
"It can be," he answered.
He sniffled and I thought for certain he would weep again, but he managed to compose himself.
"How did you know?" he asked. "How did you know I was there?"
I took a breath. "Some of the people in your critique circle were aware."
His swollen lips formed a frown. "They know," he whispered, shamefully.
I didn't ask him to clarify his statement. Whatever happened in his personal life was none of my concern.
"Regardless of what they know or do not know, it will be kept private. I will make certain of it."
He nodded. Again I reached for his hand and this time he allowed me to clean off his fingers and thumb. His thumbnail had separated from the underlying flesh. I couldn't tell if it hurt, but he had no reaction when I accidentally caught the rag on the end of the nail and pulled it off completely.
"Why?" he asked, in his hollow, emotion-filled tone.
We sat in silence for a long moment. His eyes were shut, his face still crumpled. I folded the rag and left it on the table beside me and sat back.
"Why?" he asked again, his voice still weak and distant. "Why did you come for me?"
"Because you were absent this morning," I said. "And you've been tardy on several occasions, but have never missed a class entirely and I thought to myself that I couldn't have you miss Wednesday as well, Daniel, not when we are almost at the end of the year."
He nodded slowly. "Was there a fee involved? To release me?"
"No," I lied. "I am familiar with the inspector and he wanted me out of his precinct."
I couldn't tell if he believed me or not. He bowed his head and took a ragged breath, and within seconds, he released one last, mournful sob before the sadness and fear that he'd clung to for days finally left his body.
"Did they tell you why I was there?" he asked.
"No, and I didn't ask," I said. "My concern was my student missing my class."
That was the absolute truth. His eyes slit open and met mine and I nodded. He was one of my eighteen Bohemians, one reserved, talented young man in a foreign country who came into my studio, eyes wide with wonder and the desire to improve his art.
"May I ask you one question?" I inquired.
He hesitated briefly, but nodded. The look in his swollen eyes indicated dread at what I would ask.
"Why do they call you 'Ink'?" I asked.
His swollen eyes searched mine for a moment. "You are the only one who calls me Ink," he said. "The rest of the French students call me 'Linc'," he said. "Short for Lincoln."
My eyebrows shot up. "Oh."
His lips parted as he stared at me.
"You have allowed me to call you 'Ink' for six months without once correcting me?"
I imagined he would have turned red if not for the bruises. At last he cracked a faint smile. "I thought it was because I always forgot my supplies. Or that you didn't know my name at all."
It was definitely the latter, but there was no reason for him to know this, not after what he had been through for the last four days.
"You are notorious for forgetting your pencils, not bottles of ink," I said. "For the remainder of the semester I may as well refer to you as 'Pencil'."
He bowed his head again and sniffled. "What do I owe you for the cab ride?"
"Attend class on Wednesday and I will consider your debt settled," I said.
He swallowed and shook his head. "I can't go like this," he said. "They will know I am…I am a…"
"Then you'll return to the studio officially on Monday," I said. "Unfortunately I can't guarantee there will be cake left by then, not that you would want a piece of four quarters cake that's a week old. You'd crack your tooth in half."
"Cake?" he asked.
"Isn't that how you American's say it?"
"Yes, but why was there cake?"
"Because I had news to share," I answered. His eyes opened slightly wider, his expression less contorted. I watched his features soften and body turn less rigid as I told him the reason behind the cake.
"I am very pleased for you," he said. "Truly, you are without a doubt my most favorite professor. Quite possibly my most favorite person in all of France."
"And you are clearly not aware of my ego," I lightly said. "Which has been thoroughly stroked like a very spoiled lap dog."
Daniel sucked in a breath that turned into a yawn. He started to rub his eyes until he thought better of it.
There had not been a single night spent in a jail cell where I had gotten a minute of sleep. Sometimes it was to prevent being pummeled by a cell mate when the jail was crowded and other times it was simply because there was far too much noise and the slab of concrete or the sheet draped over an iron cot proved far too uncomfortable. Whatever the reason, I doubted Daniel had slept at all since Friday.
"Rest," I said.
"I should return to my apartment."
"I'll find you a cab shortly," I said. "But be forewarned, it will be a while given the hour, so stay seated."
"I could walk," he suggested.
"No," I said firmly. "That will not be happening."
Reluctantly he nodded and sat back in his chair. I stood, tossing the rags into the refuse, and rummaged through my kitchen for a bite to eat. When I returned to ask if he wished for a sandwich, I was thankful to find him asleep, feeling safe enough to relax for an hour or two. I draped a blanket over him, then returned to my studio and began sketching ideas for new paintings until I heard him stir.