Approx 93k words written for this story in a month. :)
This was a bit of a roller coaster, but I'm happy with how it's progressing. Been a fun story to write so far.
Ch 19
I walked out of The Social with a contract in my portfolio and a sketch that would be sold on Monday once I signed and sent the document to Goupil and Cie.
For the first time since I had picked up a pencil or a paint brush, I felt as though I could call myself an artist.
"Next week, then?" Theo asked before he stepped into his waiting carriage. He tossed his striped scarf over his shoulder despite the temperatures being warm enough to go without bundling up.
"It would be a sincere pleasure," I replied. "Perhaps coffee instead of supper?"
"No more leek soup followed by leek soup?" he lightly questioned.
"Possibly not again in my lifetime."
The amount of alliums I had consumed in an hour was already sickening in hindsight, and I had a feeling that leeks were about to join the list of severe food aversions I'd acquired over the years. Red onions, olives, and every imaginable type of seafood were already on the list.
"My employer is going to adore you, Phelan."
I raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are going to be the artist we have courted with the least expensive meals. Thus far I've spent thirty-six francs on supper and twenty was for myself."
"In that case I will find the most expensive coffee in all of Paris and order a barrel of their best espresso."
Thankfully, my taste for coffee, at least, could not be deterred, no matter how frequently I indulged.
We parted ways, Theo in his carriage and me deciding to walk home as it was only two streets from my apartment and a Friday night, which meant there was plenty of entertainment on the streets between The Social and my apartment.
Music filled the tepid spring night air from all directions, a blend of styles and melodies. A trumpet player entertained a street away, an accordion proved a terrible nuisance on the corner ahead of me, and several people were singing in front of the cafes and bustling intersection where I passed.
On the same side of the street as The Social, a magician with a monkey on his shoulder and two little dogs in outfits entertained a large group of people in the courtyard of a cafe that had closed for the day. I paused for a moment, my portfolio tucked under my left arm, and watched the dogs jump through a hoop before the man placed the monkey into a saddle on one of the dogs and it ran through the audience, much to the delight of the crowd.
"Good evening!" a high, feminine voice said as an arm clutched mine.
I turned, fully intending to disengage when I saw my niece grinning at me.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
She looped her arm with mine and leaned against me. "There is a dance tonight."
"A recital?" I asked. "Are you resuming ballet?"
"No, it's a girls dance for school," she said, pointing at a group of at least twenty young ladies her age, all dressed in gowns with their hair in ribbons and combs. "We are all dancing together, no boys allowed."
I immediately noticed Carmen in the throng of ladies, her dark eyes staring back at me with a look of disapproval.
"You should go," I said to Elizabeth.
My niece gave me a questioning look. "But I've only just seen you."
"And we are heading in opposite directions," I pointed out.
Elizabeth looked me over. "Would you take me on an ocean liner?" she asked. "I would like to go sailing."
I furrowed my brow. Ever since she had been much younger, she would take my hand or loop her arm through mine and ask if I would escort her on some daring adventure. The answer was always the same.
"You must think I am made of money."
"I will ask Papa to pay for it."
"Then ask your father to take you."
"I can't. Papa gets seasick, remember? And you don't, so it would be perfect." Elizabeth shifted her weight. "If you don't want to take me sailing, may I travel to Italy with you this summer?"
"Only if you're going to be in the quarry with me chiseling away at marble. I could use a strong back."
"That doesn't sound enjoyable."
"Then I suggest you stay here in Paris."
Elizabeth frowned at me. "Are you coming by Sunday evening? Papa said he left you a note, but hasn't heard from you yet."
"If I have time," I lied.
I could tell by her expression that she didn't believe me.
"Will you take me to a play next weekend?" she asked, making another valiant attempt at spending a day with her. It truly felt as though months had passed since her birthday when truly it had only been a few weeks.
"A play?" I questioned. "We were just at the opera."
"I know, but there's a comedy at The Little Play Company. Papa already has tickets, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to go."
"Why doesn't your father want to go?"
Elizabeth shrugged. "He said it doesn't look interesting."
"I'll think about it."
Elizabeth shifted her weight. "Uncle, what is it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You don't want to see a play with me and you don't want to come by on Sunday. What is wrong?" she questioned.
Carmen continued to stare at me. I pulled my arm from Elizabeth's and sighed. "Go back to your friends," I said. "I will speak to you later."
"Uncle Phelan," she said quite angrily. Her eyes welled with tears as they always did when she was upset. The poor girl could have been livid and tears would stream down her cheeks as if her heart was broken. "Why are you treating me like this? Have I done something wrong?"
"No, of course not," I said, regretting that despite my fondness for her, Val had requested I not speak to my own niece unsupervised. "I don't want you to be late for your dance."
"I don't believe you, Uncle."
"Well, it's the truth."
It was the first time I had not called Elizabeth by a more affectionate name. No darling girl, no beloved niece, no Eliza Beth, and not even by her given name.
"Your mother is waiting," I said, nodding across the street.
Elizabeth issued one last pleading look. "Please come by Sunday. Please."
I did nothing more than offer a close-lipped smile. She lingered a moment longer before bowing her head and trotting back across the street where Carmen put her hand on her daughter's elbow and ushered her away, her gaze still pinned on me until they rounded the corner.
I sighed to myself, certain Val would have something to say on the matter the next time our paths crossed.
oOo
Monday morning I walked into my studio and found the Bohemians all attempting to sit on the sofa at the same time.
I had heard them shrieking from the moment I walked past the side of the university art building and through the courtyard, their voices growing louder as I made my way up the stairs.
Monsieur Raitt was in the hallway and shook his head in dismay at me as he steered a wobbling cart of pottery toward the kiln. The man couldn't hear a damned thing, but apparently he could hear my devilish delinquents and most likely thought the inmates had gained control of my asylum.
"My God, I could hear you from two blocks away," I snapped as I walked into the studio. "Why does it sound like you're all being gleefully murdered?"
They were red-faced and stacked on top of one another, like a teetering pile of plates in a rainbow of colors.
"We have a surprise for you!"
I disliked surprises almost as much as I detested yelling. With a sigh, I gestured wildly at them. "Off the sofa before the whole thing collapses. And quit being so loud. For God's sake, even Monsieur Raitt can hear you."
There was a murmur of apologies. Someone swiftly attempted to erase the phallic drawings from the slate board on the right-side wall before I noticed, to which I simply shook my head.
"Absolute children," I muttered.
"Don't you want to know what the surprise is?" they asked.
"I assume it has something to do with the opera house and their ghost infestation."
"No!"
I found myself mildly disappointed as the opera ghost had become quite the topic of discussion. He may as well have been my nineteenth student in the studio for how often he came up in conversation.
"No? Well, that's certainly a surprise. The ghost must be so pleased by your painting that he's too busy admiring your work to cause mischief."
Or perhaps he'd discovered my robust addition to the final backdrop.
I paused, finding they were all staring at me with identical, overjoyed grins plastered on their jovial faces.
"You all look mad," I commented.
They continued with their toothy smiles.
I brushed my hand down my waistcoat and sleeves. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Look at your desk!" they urged.
I turned, expecting they had finally claimed all of their wayward sketchbooks and other personal belongings, but instead found several plates of homemade baked goods covering every available spot on my desk. A few of the plates seemed to be missing cupcakes and cookies, which I assumed explained them bouncing around the sofa.
"How much sugar have the six of you consumed?" I asked.
"Aren't you pleased?" they asked.
"Should I be?"
"Yes!"
"Why? Is this your collective way of saying you've all transferred to the culinary school?" I asked. "Or are you attempting to poison me? Arsenic, is it?"
"Flan," they impatiently said. "We brought sweets to celebrate your paintings."
My head immediately snapped up and I stared at them, my gaze moving from one grinning face to the next as they awaited my response.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We cannot have you purchasing your own four quarters cakes."
The gesture left me completely speechless. I simply stared at the six of them, then back at my desk.
For as long as I could recall, the only celebration that I'd experienced was Hugo taking me to supper the night before I'd started teaching at the university and again six months later when I was still employed.
I'd never had a single cake given to me in celebration of a birthday, much less anything else, and I was months from turning thirty-seven. Gyda never seemed to know what day it was, Bjorn didn't care, and Alak was never home when the date on the calendar came to pass.
The last time Alak had given me anything at all was before Erik went missing, and I assumed he still wished to punish me for letting my brother out of my sight while I drew on the paper he had given me when I turned seven.
I recalled being nine and looking at the date with my name scribbled beneath it with the number ten below. I wasn't sure if Alak or Val had marked my birthday, but I was excited to finally reach double-digits.
Turning ten seemed incredibly grown up, as if I had reached a milestone that deserved recognition. The weeks leading up to the date seemed dreadfully slow, as if the world tried my patience. I marked each day at night, until the third of July was only a day away. When I marked off the second, I smiled to myself, hoping for a gift and a treat to mark the occasion, but settling for Val or Alak to simply acknowledge the day.
Happy Birthday, Phelan. How does it feel to be ten?
Look at you! I cannot believe how big you are!
Alak was gone for the day when I woke, and when I looked for Valgarde, I realized he'd gone with his father, which was rare as even calm waters seemed to make him seasick.
It didn't matter. I was certain that they had left together in order to make the evening a bigger surprise, one that I would never forget. They would stop in town and bring me something special, something worthy of a tenth birthday. I was absolutely certain.
I spent my day like a feral creature in the woods, leaving crumbs for the birds, climbing trees to watch for deer and fox, and keeping myself amused. I made a fire, started building a dam beneath the bridge that led to the house, and dug a little trench using a flat rock I'd found weeks earlier. My hands and feet were caked in mud, my spirit light and free.
The days of being a child were behind me; I was ten years old.
It was nightfall when I heard Alak and Val's voices, the two of them singing, and I smiled to myself. They had finally returned and by the sound of it, the festivities had already begun.
Through the meager light and stand of trees I saw them walking single file toward the house, Valgarde with a leather pack over one shoulder. He had brought me a new pencil, perhaps, or a few sheets of paper for drawing. Something to celebrate, to make it known that I was not forgotten. I was elated.
Alak had spent the day drinking, as he always did, and Val struggled to guide his father home. He dropped the pack by the fire, helped Alak out of his boots and clothes, fixed himself and his father supper, and scraped a bit of food from the kettle into a bowl for me.
I waited, staring at the forgotten pack while I ate, still giddy with excitement. I looked from Alak to the calendar, then to Val and back again, waiting for them to say the words I longed to hear.
Happy birthday, Phelan. Did you think we forgot?
Dishes were scrubbed clean and dried, the pans left to soak overnight. Eventually the two of them retired to the room they shared while I sat alone at the table and waited until midnight, until the third became the fourth and the acknowledgment I had desired turned to disappointment.
Uncle Alak still punishes me, I had thought, knuckles pressed into my eye sockets to keep the tears from falling. Children cried; men did not. I was ten. I was no longer a boy who shed tears. I was a man who would suppress every drop of emotion. He will never stop punishing me, not for as long as he lives.
A lifetime of birthdays and holidays had gone by unnoticed and suddenly, the students I had known since September spent their weekend baking on my behalf. The emotions I kept carefully intact, pressed against my insides.
"This is too much," I said. My pulse quickened, the feeling of emptiness overflowing with gratitude. "You should not have gone through the trouble."
"Nonsense!"
"Don't say that!"
"It was no trouble at all."
"If you don't want the cookies, we will eat them for you!"
"No! This is all for Phe-lan."
"Are you going to say anything, Flan?"
"Are you…upset with us?"
I realized that my silence came across as disappointment when nothing could have been further from the truth. I simply wasn't accustomed to feeling anything at all, much less elation.
"Not at all," I assured them, turning away from the six of them. I pretended to look over the selection of treats and wiped my eyes with my knuckles, same as I had done on my tenth birthday, but for a completely different reason. "But I do hope you are all intending to indulge as this is far more than I care to eat."
When I turned around, eleven more students hurried into the studio, most of them carrying additional food.
"It appears we are waiting on one more," I said.
"Here!" the final one of the twelve breathlessly announced.
Ink, as always, was the last into the studio. I was pleasantly surprised to see he had decided to stay.
"Linc!" his colleagues exclaimed. "You're back!"
"I brought you coffee," he said, holding up a carafe. "Otherwise I would have been here five minutes ago."
I glanced from him to the clock. "You're actually on time."
"For once," he said under his breath.
"A first for everything. Now, everyone grab something to eat and find a place to sit. Lesson and quiz this morning."
My words were met with groans, to which I raised a brow.
"Are we not still celebrating me?"
"Yes," they collectively answered.
"Good. Then a little less groaning. Once you finish your quiz, we will spend the rest of the day outside."
oOo
I put the finishing touches on the sketch of my brother before I looked at the clock and decided I should start making my way to the opera house for our meeting.
The irony was not lost on me that I'd dedicated almost an hour to sketching the likeness of my brother when the date on the calendar–the twenty-ninth of March–was the day I had reserved for thinking of him again.
My attempt at forgetting Erik for fifteen days had been a complete and total failure. I took a deep breath, closed my sketchbook, and pressed my palm to the leather cover.
"If you're out there, I will find you," I said before I placed the book onto the side table and put Elvira onto her perch. She screeched in her foul-beaked way and I crossed my arms.
"Watch your language," I told her.
"I love you," she cooed.
"Your sweet talking will not work on me, Elvira. Behave yourself while I'm away. The neighbors are listening."
She whistled and imitated my sneezing, apparently amused by my worsened allergies, and screamed that she loved me before I shut the door and walked down the stairs to the street.
A secretary for the opera house greeted me in the lobby and escorted me toward the ticket counter. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror that spanned the length of the double staircase and noticed it vibrated when I walked past.
"Why does it do that?" I asked, having never noticed the phenomena before.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The mirror," I said. "It appears to be moving, as though someone is thumping on it."
The secretary hastened her pace. "This way, Monsieur."
"Ferdinand Kramer," one of the managers said, extending his hand. "Lovely to meet you."
"You as well, Monsieur Kramer."
His expression faltered. "I beg your pardon? My name is Richard Firmin," he said. "Forgive me, are you not the art professor?"
"Yes, but Kramer is not my name," I said, amused by his mistake.
His cheeks reddened. "Ah. My most sincere apologies. My secretary's handwriting leaves much to be desired."
The young woman who had escorted me to his office looked mortified when the manager blamed her for his folly, but she walked out of the office and closed the door without remark.
"Your students are quite talented," Firmin said.
I couldn't tell his age. His face appeared youthful, but he was graying at his temples and his expression looked quite pinched, like a man who had far too much on his mind or too many troubles in his life.
"I agree, they are exceptionally talented."
"I inspected the backdrops myself and they are lovely. I hope you will relay my praise to them. The details…" he placed his hand over his heart. "Exquisite."
"Of course," I said. Particularly the hidden breasts and male anatomy, I thought to myself.
He placed a card onto his desk facing me and nudged it forward. I glanced down at the note.
"What's this?"
Firmin cleared his throat.
The note read: The 'opera ghost' is listening. Give no indication that you have read my note.
I met Firmin's eye, his expression strained as if he feared I would not play along with his scheme.
"Is this your offer of compensation?" I asked, picking up the note card in order to play along.
Firmin nervously swallowed, clearly unprepared for how well I intended to play his game. "Why…yes…"
"This is quite generous," I said. My words were spoken a bit dramatically, but if there was truly a ghost listening to our conversation, I intended to give him a show.
"Your assistance is worth it." Firmin reached for a pencil and scribbled something onto the back of another notecard, which he placed on his desk.
But not too generous.
I smiled back at him. "Have you considered my ad that I would like placed in the programs?"
Firmin folded his hands. "Yes, actually, and I have spoken to Monsieur Andre and we've decided that it isn't the type of advertisement we would normally run."
I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek and nodded slowly. "But you are making an exception," I said, holding up the second note card, the one that said 'but not too generous'. He was going to be quite generous whether he liked it or not. "And I cannot thank the two of you enough for allowing me this opportunity."
Firmin's nostrils flared. He looked from me to the wall on my left and I heard a muffled rattling sound, as though someone walked through the wall. It sounded far too large to be a rat, but I refrained from asking what made the noise.
"Since you are offering me ten thousand francs," I said, pretending to examine both of the cards. "How about I make you a counter offer?"
Firmin was livid, I could tell. He started to reach for another card, but I cleared my throat.
"A counter offer means I make the first move, Monsieur. If you are not satisfied with my proposal, then you can make your offer, as a counter to mine. Understood?"
Firmin's complexion was a fiery red. "By all means," he replied, his every word dripping with malice.
"I believe I would prefer the full page ad running the nine weeks of the show," I said. "It is still nine weeks, correct?"
"That is our intention," he said, practically speaking through his gritted teeth.
"Excellent. Then instead of ten thousand francs, I will accept the nine week run of my ad." I paused, deciding if I intended to push Firmin, I may as well push him to his limit. "Plus four tickets to opening night."
He offered a grim smile in return as if he had ensnared me on a technicality. "Opening night is sold out."
I leaned forward. "So I have heard. However, I am certain that you, Monsieur Firmin, are able to make arrangements and see to it that four seats open up before then."
"Opening night is less than two weeks away," he argued.
"Then I trust you shall make haste."
He exhaled through his flared nostrils and rubbed his glistening forehead. "I could possibly find four seats, but they would not be together."
"Two and two?" I asked.
I realized it would have been better if they were separated, as I expected if I offered two tickets to Florine she would not have wanted her son sitting near me. The other two tickets would be for myself and Hugo, whom I was hopeful would be in good enough health to attend.
"Possibly," Firmin said. "But I cannot make guarantees."
"I trust that you will do everything within your power." I grabbed the pencil from his desk and scrawled my counter offer onto the back of one of the cards. "I will accept four seats, two and two seated together, and a nine week ad instead of a cash payment. Would you kindly sign here to confirm our agreement?"
He looked at the card and then back at me as I held out the pencil. "Wouldn't you prefer if I double-checked the tickets first?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I have my utmost faith in you to acquire four tickets, whether it's in the front orchestra or a box. Come to think of it, I do believe one of your patrons has a box that typically goes unused, doesn't he?"
The wall rattled again. Firmin's red complexion turned pale.
"Box five, I believe? Belonging to the de Chagny's."
There was a loud thump on the wall, as if a fist hit the wood paneling. Quite distinctly I heard footsteps walking away, followed by what sounded like wheels squeaking and a door sliding shut with a loud bang. Both Firmin and I jumped several times at the noises before the manager snatched the notecard from my hand and scribbled his signature.
"Good day to you, Kramer."
"It's Phelan," I said. "Kimmer."
oOo
Firmin said he was terribly busy and hadn't another moment to spare. He handed me a receipt that simply said no charge for the advertisement I wished to place and sent me on my way without bothering to leave his chair.
I was preoccupied with reading the receipt when I nearly tripped over a man on all fours directly outside of Firmin's office.
"What in the world are you doing?" I snapped, reaching for the wall to keep from losing my balance and ending up beside him-or worse-on top of him.
The man muttered to himself in a language that was not French, and when he glanced up at me, I saw that he was Persian.
"What are you–"
"Shhh!"
I narrowed my eyes. "Pardon me, Mon–"
"I said shhh!"
I blinked at him, my patience waning.
He crawled practically beneath me, ear pressed to the wall.
"Are you searching for rats?" I asked, stepping over him.
The man glared at me.
"No," he whispered, waving one hand at me. "Be still!"
"May I–"
"Silence, you fool!"
My lips parted. I had half the mind to kick him in the behind for his insolence.
The man felt along the wall, fingers tapping here and there, before he scoffed. "Well, he's gone now," he grumbled, adjusting his glasses.
"Who?" I asked.
He ignored my question. "Apologies, Monsieur. I wasn't expecting anyone to walk out of that door." He looked up at me for the first time, squinting. "I'm sorry, you are?"
He spoke flawless French, which surprised me. He was also dressed like a European down to the waistcoat with brass buttons and expensive Italian shoes.
"Apparently I'm a terrible nuisance," I grumbled.
"I meant no offense. I was merely listening for something." The man climbed to his feet, grimacing as he brushed off the knees of his trouser legs.
"Did you fall?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"No, no, I have excellent balance," he said.
Somewhere in the distance I heard cackling laughter. The gentleman pressed his ear to the wall, then stood to his full height and shook his head as if he'd finally given up.
He took a deep breath and turned to me. "Nadir Khan," he said, offering his hand. He wore two rings; a garnet on his thumb and a black opal on his smallest finger. "Your name, Monsieur?"
"Phelan Kimmer," I answered.
His thick eyebrows knit above his dark eyes. "Phe-lan Kim-mer," he said to himself. "Hmm. That is not what I expected you to say."
I narrowed my eyes. "And what precisely did you expect me to say?"
"Something Nordic. Something familiar." Nadir Khan studied my face far longer than was polite. "What is it? What is it indeed?" he said to himself, tapping his thumb on his chin. "It's the jaw. Yes, yes it's most definitely the jaw. And the cheekbones as well, I think. Oh yes, the cheekbones are unmistakable. I wonder…" He pinned his gaze on the right side of my face and turned his head to the side, then blatantly stared at the left side of my face. "Indeed, I can see the similarities. The ears are different though. Eye color definitely not the same." He took a step back and looked me up and down. "Same height, probably down to the centimeter, but different build. Much different build."
"I suggest you explain what you are doing right this moment," I demanded.
The Persian took another step back and cleared his throat. "Oh, dear, how terribly rude of me. You resemble someone I have been asked to find," he said. "Someone I haven't seen in ages."
"Are you a detective?" I asked.
I looked him over, same as he had done to me. He was of average height, thicker build, but not muscular, with round glasses and a mole above his left eyebrow. His eyes were olive in color, quite sharp, and his smile welcoming.
"A detective? Yes, I suppose I am. And also the former head of the Persian police under the shah of shahs," he answered proudly.
"And who have you been asked to find?" I asked.
Nadir Khan inhaled. "Someone who is brilliant," he said fondly. "An architect, a musician, and a magician." He looked at me again, his expression changing from one of admiration to concern. "Someone whom I am afraid has forgotten the best parts of himself, Monsieur, who has exchanged his genius for darkness." He looked away from me and felt along the fabric wall. "And that is where I shall find him, I believe. He is roaming the darkness."
My breath hitched. "What did you say?"
Firmin's office door opened and the manager peered into the hall. "Ah! Monsieur Khan! Please, come in."
The Persian gave me one last look. "Kimmer, you said?"
I nodded.
"Curious," he replied before walking into the office where the door promptly closed behind him.