CH 7

"Dear God," I said. "Again?"

It was Wednesday. Spring had suddenly turned into summer–at least for a day–with an unexpected heatwave that made me forget how dreadfully cold the weather had been for months.

The studio was uncomfortably stuffy despite all of the windows being open, but more concerning than the temperature was my students.

The bohemians were in their predictable circle, but on the other side of the studio as their typical corner was filled with clay pots awaiting the kiln down the hall.

"Do you want to hear the gossip or not?" they asked.

"Just get on with it," I sighed, joining them on the floor, this time with a bag of delicious crisps, which I passed around the room, much to their delight. They were like a flock of starving pigeons practically pecking away at me for a slice of fried, salted potato.

"The opera ghost–"

"Again with the opera ghost?" I groaned.

"Yes! Now listen!"

"Fine," I sighed. "But this had better be interesting."

"La Carlotta has been demoted to a chorus girl."

I arched a brow, finding this to be the only interesting gossip they had shared. La Carlotta, the diva, had been the principal soprano for a number of years, a feat that defied all explanation, aside from she was probably sleeping with at least one of the managers or someone else in an equally impressive position as she was not what I considered talented.

I was not an authority on opera by any means, but even I was aware that her acting was wooden and her so-called presence on the stage was simply her strutting back and forth, seemingly without any destination in mind, while her co-stars scrambled out of her way and props crashed to the floor when the train of her skirt caught on tables.

It was like watching a decorated barnyard animal strut haphazardly across the stage while bleating out an aria.

"Who had the good sense to demote that woman?" I asked. The afterthought struck me that I should have asked if anyone within the circle was related to the famed soprano before insulting her.

"The Ghost!"

Again with the all-powerful ghost. "Does this apparition run all of France?" I asked. "He certainly seems to be gaining more power week by week. Perhaps he will be vying for my position tomorrow."

Now there was a thought. Some poor soul charged with the task of keeping all eighteen of my temperamental little daydreamers in line and on task. Surely he would resign halfway through the first class, begging me to return on his ghostly hands and knees.

"Christine is the lead in the production."

The chorus girl who was engaged to both the ghost and the vicomte, they reminded me. There was a bit of amendment to that theory and it appeared that this poor girl was only engaged to one person.

"And the show is to open in five weeks."

I simply blinked at them, somewhat surprised that the Opera Populaire would sit vacant for a full eleven weeks between the disastrous closing of Il Muto and the unnamed opera that would follow. It seemed a poor business decision, but I assumed that it wasn't possible to learn two operas at the same time.

"And," I was informed in whispers. "The performances are already sold out."

"How many weeks is the opera running?" I asked.

"Nine."

My eyes widened. Of all the rumors I had heard, the most incredulous was a nine-week run, by an unknown phantom composer, with his debut opera after the theater had been closed for almost three full months. Not even Mozart typically stayed on the stage for more than six weeks and he was guaranteed to draw an audience.

"Well, the ghost must be quite pleased. Unless he has purchased all of the tickets himself."

No one found my comment amusing. I cleared my throat.

"What is the name of the opera?" I asked.

"Don Juan Triumphant."

The bag of crisps was returned to me with crumbs at the bottom.

I peered into the empty bag and tsked them. "You ravenous little ravens."

They offered to compensate me, but I waved off their words. Most of them were truly starving artists and although it wasn't much, I never minded passing around whatever treat I brought from home or purchased from a vendor on my way to the university.

"I believe I would prefer painting outside rather than this hellacious furnace," I told them. "Fresh air will do all of us some good."

oOo

Technically speaking, all class activities were to take place on the campus without expressed written consent from the dean. The university, although not particularly stringent on some of their rules, held fast to the belief that if they were compensating me for my time, I sure as hell should spend it in the studio or, at the very least, one of the courtyards.

What the idiots running the university failed to realize, however, was artists were suffocated by dull walls and uninteresting courtyards and my students thrived in spaces where their creativity would flow.

And so, taking the staircase in the rear of the building so that we were unseen, I gathered eighteen giggling children and escorted them two streets away to a small park with plenty of room to spread their belongings, lounge around, and sketch to the delight of their artistic hearts.

They were an extraordinary group, most of them strangers the day they walked into my studio and now, two months before our classes came to an end, a tight-knit community. They had their own smaller groups and gathered at the theater and cafes or explored art shows together, but as a whole, it was known we were all intent on improving our art. There would be no criticism for the sake of being petty. Suggestions were for the betterment of their fellow students. Cruelty was not tolerated, and I made it clear that if I found a remark to be unwarranted and unkind, the person whose critique was inappropriate would be dismissed.

Most of my students had attended the art show where two of my paintings were on display, and while they worked on the day's assignment–finding earthly wonder and capturing it in a style they had not previously explored–they discussed the twenty-two paintings on display, finding meaning and depth to landscapes and portraits.

"Why aren't you drawing anything?" one of them asked me.

"Because I must make sure none of you scamper off and fall in the river," I answered.

I was certain it was simply a rumor, but supposedly several years earlier, while out of the classroom, a male student had drowned in the Seine when he should have been safely in his chemistry class.

"Would you jump in and save us if we did?"

I smiled, imagining all eighteen of them tumbling into the filthy water, one after the other, like little dominoes.

"What sort of question is that?" I groused. "I would save my favorites."

When asked who was my favorite, I simply smiled and told them to concentrate on their sketches rather than rambling on, lest they wanted me to push them into the river.

oOo

I dismissed them six minutes later than class ended and without complaints as they were enjoying the sunlight on their winter-pale faces and no one seemed concerned about rushing to their next destination.
"If anyone asks, class was canceled," I reminded them.

Once they dispersed, I spent my time between morning and afternoon classes walking past the opera house to see if they had banners for their new production in place since the show was only three weeks away.

I arrived in time to watch the likenesses of La Carlotta, the star of the stage, unceremoniously collapse one by one as all four banners for Il Muto were removed. The sight was comical, watching her fold in half and slide down the first few steps, eyes staring up at the cloudless sky.

Behind me was her family estate–one of the few private residences that still remained on the boulevard, and despite being mere steps from the stage door, I knew she took a carriage to and from the theater and made quite a fuss, like she was a celebrated Empress visiting from a foreign land.

Given that the windows of her estate were open, I was surprised I didn't hear her weeping with the fall of her glorious reign on the steps and her recent demotion from star to chorus girl.

There was someone else watching the removal of the banners and the consequential replacement with the newer ones advertising the upcoming production of Don Juan Triumphant. I caught a glimpse of the other individual behind me and to my left, noting that he or she was dressed from head to toe in dark wool cloak that was much heavier than seemed necessary for the tepid weather.

He–I was certain the individual was too tall for any woman–reminded me of Elizabeth with his stork-like legs and gangly frame peeking out from beneath his cloak.

"New production," I said over my shoulder, sensing the shadow of a man stared at the back of my head instead of the exterior of the opera house. It was quite unnerving, being watched from a distance by a stranger.

He didn't answer, instead preferring to take a step to the right, out of my line of vision.

Wonderful, I thought to myself. It was probably the vampire ghost waiting to strangle me from behind in broad daylight, such had been my luck as of late.

I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek and watched the first banner secured to the outside of the building in between the long columns. The artwork told nothing of the story as it was merely a woman's hands around a jeweled goblet with the rim to her lips. The way the slender hands gripped the stem struck me as incredibly suggestive. I smiled to myself like a teenage boy amused by phallic symbols.

"I've heard the entire run is completely sold out," I said, turning to see that the figure was still behind me. He didn't move, appearing more like a stutue than a living being. "Nine weeks. Pity I was not able to acquire a seat for this production."

Again, no response. I shifted my weight and tugged at my collar, feeling as though I would bake beneath the full sun. I couldn't imagine what the fellow behind me felt like with the hood of his cloak over his head.

"Were you the gentleman who played out here the other evening?" I asked. I gestured toward the corner of the stairs. "Right here, if I am not mistaken?" I waited for any sort of acknowledgment, but there was of course not one. "It was lovely, if you missed it," I said. "Well, more than lovely, it was actually hypnotizing, like nothing I've heard before. I was informed that it was the overture for this new opera."

I fully expected him to ask who had informed me, but apparently the individual was not interested in conversation.

I was aware of my ramblings, but didn't attempt to stop myself. Erik would have known what to say, I was certain. He would have gleaned the knowledge over the years of what skill was required to play as the man had done. Or perhaps, given his talent at such a young age, he would have snatched the violin from the musician and played a melody all his own, shaming the musician into retirement as he realized his talent did not compare to Erik Kimmer.

Would my brother have continued with music, as I had continued with art, I wondered? Or would he have grown bored like Elizabeth, who had hung up her ballet slippers, having tired of dance.

Erik would not have abandoned music. I felt absolutely certain of this. He would have played until his fingers bled and then he would have bandaged them and continued playing. There was no base for my convictions, but I wanted to believe that wherever he was in the world, he was still fond of music.

It struck me then that instead of the newspapers, I should have put ads in the programs for all the theaters across Europe, searching for him that way. Most assuredly he would have seen that someone was looking for him. If he was alive.

He had to be alive. Weaving his way through the shadows, as the gypsy woman had claimed. Little did she know my brother disliked the dark. He spent the night clinging to me, his body wrapped around mine for comfort when the silhouettes of trees frightened him. Part of that was my doing as I told him the trees came alive after dark and moved about the forest, sometimes bumping into buildings. They also, on occasion ate children, but only those under the age of four.

No, if Erik was alive–and he was–he would not be lingering in the shadows. He was not meant for such things. He was meant for greater things.

"Are you attending–" I started to ask, but when I turned my head, the stork man had disappeared.

I took a breath and wandered back in the direction I had come, intending to walk home to feed Elvira before I arrived for my afternoon class. The sun had given me a headache, and I felt dehydrated. I crossed the street and saw someone quickly turn away as I approached.

My eyes narrowed, but I made no attempt to quicken my pace or call out to the young man who had evidently been watching me from a distance. I assumed he'd spotted my class in the park and followed me to the opera house steps, but decided against approaching.

He glanced back, his pace at a decent trot, and nearly tripped over his own feet. I paused to look in the window of a shop, allowing him to gain a bit of safe distance as I had no desire to pursue him like a hunter. After all, I would not have wanted to be chased by my father, either.

Eventually he turned down a street, toward the house I had once frequented, and I continued toward my apartment where I could hear Elvira screaming her choice words from the street below.

"Phelan?"

I had unlocked the building door when I turned, greeted by a familiar face I hadn't seen in quite some time as she had moved out of Paris a year or two earlier.

"Valentina?"

Her name didn't suit her one bit. She was a few years past her prime as far as standard beauty was concerned, but she exuded warmth, like the human equivalent of bread straight from the oven.

I held the door open, inviting her in, which she accepted, as I assumed she would. She was dressed in a skirt the color of milk and red blouse with white embroidered flowers up the sleeves. Her hair was a mix of golden and large chunks of white, but her face showed very little sign of her true age.

"Tell me how you have been," I insisted, gesturing toward the chair in my home that wasn't shredded by Elvira, who was more concerned with her meal than causing a disturbance.

Valentina loved to talk about herself. Most people did, but she had a soft speaking voice and way about her that was both calm and commanding.

She was also a sturdy Dutch woman, taller than most and built with large calves and thighs while her upper portion was much smaller. The white skirt did not flatter her figure, but she had a bit more confidence than most and I was certain she could have worn sticks and leaves and been ravishing in her matronly way.

"And you?" she asked, once she had finished talking about her home, her servants, her adult children, her travels, and even her two cats, Trouncy and Pouncy. "How have you been?"

Perhaps she did truly care and wanted me to answer her honestly. Perhaps, in her warm, welcoming way, if I had told her the truth, she would have taken my hand and offered worldly advice and compassion.

"Wonderful as always and pleased to see you."

The last part was the truth. She was a lovely woman in my eyes, and being with her physically had a sense of innocence to what was nothing more than another sordid affair.

Valentina desired soft affection. She liked to have fingers raked through her hair and a kiss planted on her brow. She wanted to be held and caressed with tenderness. I often wondered if it was because she was not the most feminine looking creature on the outside and the need to feel as such was neglected by other males.

She was also a partner who would have been perfectly satisfied simply being held, and there had been evenings where there were no expectations beyond simple embraces and butterfly kisses.

She took a breath and looked me over, her posture slightly more rigid, her gaze searching mine.

"Would you like to…"

Her unfinished question lingered in the air between us. I uncrossed my legs and leaned closer, gaze dropping from her eyes to her lips.

"Spend time with you?" I asked.

Her cheeks immediately flushed, her lips quirking into a flustered smile. "I do like when you put it that way, Phelan."

I looked her over again, wondering if Valentina was her real name. She looked like a Beatrix to me or a stately Geertrudia. When I stood, she climbed to her feet, and placed her hands on my arms, just above my elbows. She stood timidly, like a young bride on her wedding night, unsure of what to expect from her groom now that they were two expected to become one.

My lips brushed softly against her cheek, then her forehead and temple before I dared to touch her lips to mine. She sighed, her mouth parting to my tongue, her belly against mine.

The build-up was maddeningly slow. I removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair and stood to my full height, looking her over as I ran my fingers through her hair. She smiled at me, but didn't make a sound. Rarely did she make more than a muffled moan, as if voicing her pleasure was forbidden. Twice I had not been sure if I'd truly pleased her, but she assured me that she was more than satisfied.

"May I kiss you again?" I asked.

She smiled and nodded, and I could tell she liked when I asked for her permission, that there was safety in a time when she was vulnerable.

I pressed my lips to hers and she ran her fingers along my shoulders and upper back. There was urgency to her touch, more heat to her hands as she worked my arms from my suspenders and snaked her hands up my shirt, against bare flesh.

"I should tell you," she said softly. Her gaze flickered up to mine and I paused, cradling her cheek in my hand. "There is…someone."

I stroked her cheek gently with the pad of my thumb. Her hand reached up and settled on my right wrist.

"Are you engaged?" I asked, despite no ring on her finger.

"Not yet, but I shall be, when I return home. He wanted to ask me before I departed, but I said that he should wait. I didn't tell him why."

I was happy for her, truly. I knew that she was lonely with her children out of the house and her husband had been dead for many years. She was an only child, her parents deceased and no immediate family living nearby. Why would she not wish for an engagement and a life with her new husband?

Many times I had wondered what a life would have been like with her, not because she was extraordinarily attractive, but because she was warm and pleasant. I genuinely enjoyed her company, and she mine, but she deserved more than what I could possibly offer.

"Did you come here to tell me farewell?" I asked lightly, kissing her temple.

"I suppose I did," she admitted. Her fingertips still trailed down my spine. "I've been thinking of you."

I smiled with my lips still pressed to her face and held her closer, understanding that no matter what happened, it would be for the last time. Perhaps nothing more than a parting kiss, perhaps taking her to bed and leaving her with a more memorable end to what we had shared for a handful of nights.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

She held me closer, her cheek to mine, and for a long moment neither of us spoke or moved. I closed my eyes, allowing myself a rare moment to experience a connection beyond flesh and pulse, knowing that there would be nothing more once she left my apartment. I wished to savor the feel of her, the sound of her breaths and the feel of her caress.

It felt like a moment where a profession of love would have come next. I adore you, Valentina, you marvelous, sturdy woman. I love the feel of your generous thighs and the way in which you look at me, as though the world resides within one gaze. When we are together, I feel as though the only time worth living is spent in your arms.

I wasn't sure if any of it would have been true or not.

"I have been thinking about the first time we..." she cleared her throat, her hand squeezing mine.

There had been too many firsts for me to keep track of and I merely smiled, still holding her for as long as she would allow.

"Would you undress me?" she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She tilted her hips forward and smiled against my lips.

"You really are something special," she said to me. She reached between our bodies, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of my trousers.

I made no reply and didn't thank her, knowing that in whatever way she found me remarkable was not how I truly wished to be admired.