A/N I edited the previous chapter on "Hannah's" age after doing a bit more research, so if you're reading this and wondering why the change, you'll see.
CH 24
I had met with the strong man whose mother liked amaryllis twice previously, once on a Monday after class and again on a Friday morning when I didn't need to be at the university at all.
His name was either Ferdinand, Francis, Franz or Fritz. He'd mumbled it the first time we had sat in the studio. I hadn't been paying attention, and after an hour of discussing technique, it seemed somewhat rude for me to ask him for his name again.
Whoever he was, he was not meant to be an artist. His grip on the pencil or paintbrush was like watching a squirrel that had fallen from a tree attempt to draw an acorn. He was clumsy, needed directions repeated several times before he understood, and–worst of all– lacked self-confidence.
Enthusiastically, I accepted the challenge of teaching him to draw as every single one of my students was quite the promising artist and it was interesting to have someone who didn't know a thing about art wish to learn.
While he was not about to surpass Monet or De Gas, I was certain that he was going to paint an amaryllis, mostly because I needed the distraction from myself and he needed my full attention.
It was by no means a difficult flower to sketch, but even so, my newest student, whose classes were not simply private, but offered at no fee, handed me his pencil.
"I am not drawing it for you," I said firmly, giving the pencil back to him.
We were seated outside of the gymnasium at dawn on a Saturday morning after an exhilarating two hours of lifting heavy objects, grunting in victory, and sweating quite profusely. All things considered, my mornings in the gymnasium were almost as gratifying as pleasing a female partner with a different type of release and in front of quite a few spectators, no less.
My incredibly well-muscled student rolled the pencil between his finger and thumb and pouted like a toddler who happened to be the size of a mountain.
He had an incredibly thick mustache that reminded me of a bristly brush, his hair cut a little too short for his square head. Despite his size, he held the pencil with great care as if he feared snapping it in half with too much pressure.
"But you're better than me," he pointed out.
"Yes, quite a lot better," I agreed, "and the answer is still no."
"But Mum's birthday is in six days."
"And she is going to be very disappointed if, in those six days, she must imagine what her favorite flower would look like if her son had actually painted it for her."
What would have taken me two minutes took him twenty, but it was a start. An out of proportion start, but he did it on his own and was quite proud of himself once he looked at his work.
"Isn't it more gratifying to do it for yourself?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I suppose. But you would be much faster."
"I didn't become proficient at art by having other people do it for me. Keep practicing," I said. "And come back Monday with at least two more sketches. I'll be here at four to unlock the gymnasium and you can practice a whole bouquet at six."
He started to put the paper into his pocket, crumpling it up in the process, and I gaped at him. Sheepishly he removed the drawing and smoothed it out.
"My God," I said under my breath. "It's art, not rubbish."
"It's only practice," he reasoned.
"If that's the best one you do in six days, you'll want to keep it."
He sighed. "I suppose you're correct."
"Sign your work," I said. "And allow me to hold onto this for you so that it doesn't sustain further damage."
He scribbled down his name in nearly illegible fashion, and I squinted at his handwriting. "Did you tell me your name was Flurb?"
"Franz," he said, chuckling to himself. "Where in the world did you get Flurb?"
I held the page closer to my face. "Your handwriting is atrocious," I said. "Work on that as well."
oOo
There was a market around the corner from my apartment that was somewhat overpriced compared to a similar market twelve streets away, but with the check from the painting Theo purchased for his firm and the sales from both Jean and Raoul de Chagny, I decided a slight increase in price was worth saving myself an hour-long round-trip of hauling goods clear across town.
The market around the corner from my apartment was located in a long, one-story brick building with crowded walkways that seemed far too narrow for the amount of customers. In the warmer months, all of the doors were open, making the building more spacious and I imagined quite a bit more comfortable. I'd never been one prone to discomfort in cramped spaces, but even I found turning one way or another to squeeze past people annoying and inconvenient.
The amount of people present forced me to browse much slower than I would have preferred. I craned my neck to see ahead at the booths where vendors sold dry goods and perishable items, as well as some household necessities from their respective stalls cramped together in the noisy, uncomfortably warm confines.
I had walked by hundreds of times and knew in the warmer months, additional booths were open outside selling everything from flowers to honey and live chickens that were butchered on the spot.
The market also boasted two cafes at opposite ends that sold beverages and small meals, both of which I thought were outrageously overpriced. There was also typically a magician or some other type of performer to draw in children who wanted nothing to do with gathering lard and flour for the pantry. It wasn't uncommon to see twenty or more children cross-legged in front of a performer with puppets or a trumpet.
Despite the lack of entertainment, it was clear I'd picked the most unfortunate time to complete my weekly shopping.
Being that it was eight on a Saturday morning in early spring, the market was crowded with women and their gaggle of runny-nosed, crying children. Some of their offspring were holding onto long skirts with one hand while chewing their fingers, others touching everything in sight or putting various items into their tiny mouths.
All of them seemed to be crying for one reason or another, and as I reached the end of the aisle and prepared to walk down the opposite side, I could not wait to return to my peaceful apartment and my not so peaceful screaming, destructive bird.
I managed to grab two types of bread from one vendor and both hard and soft cheese from another before a hoard of toddlers licked or poked the food I intended to purchase. Thankfully, my selections were toward the rear of the stalls and out of their filthy reach.
With my bags filled with a roast, root vegetables, cream and coffee, and most everything else I intended to eat for the week, I paid for the last of my items and turned, nearly colliding with a boy weaving through the crowd.
He had his mouth open as he screamed from the top of his lungs, face crimson and eyes wide. He managed to sidestep before running directly into me, but in his haste, the carrots in his hand smacked me in the chest, cracking one in half.
"Clarence!" his mother scolded from across the aisle. She briskly walked between booths, the top of her head the only part of her visible. "Apologize to that man this–"
I turned to face the woman, certain I had seen the boy previously, and found Abigail Soward had paused mid-sentence from reprimanding her son to gape at me.
She held up her skirts with one hand while the other held several bags bulging with her market purchases. She sighed, most likely wishing she could retract her words and tell her child to kick me in the groin or stomp on my toes for good measure, both of which I probably deserved.
The noise from the market went unnoticed for the brief moment our eyes met. For several fleeting heartbeats, I hoped that nothing had changed between us, that she would greet me with her typical fondness and I could ask how she had been since we had last seen one another.
"Phelan," she said without a hint of affection.
"Abigail," I greeted her.
"The coat should be finished Wednesday," she said, shifting her weight.
My heart fluttered to the pit of my stomach in despair. I wasn't entirely surprised by her words, but I still found myself disappointed that she had nothing more to say to me.
"Wonderful," I responded, attempting to sound cheerful.
She stared at me for a long moment as if she had expected me to say something different, and I looked past her briefly, at a loss of what to add to the conversation.
So much of what I wanted to say to her was better spoken in private, not exchanged in a crowded market with lamb legs and dismembered chickens hanging from the booth behind her.
"You look well," I said.
Her moss green eyes appeared strangely hardened when she stared back at me, her straight teeth that were always showing with the slight gap in the middle hidden behind her closed lips.
"You look as you always do," she replied.
I felt myself still in a way that made the unfilled space inside of me feel more prominent.
Empty? I wanted to ask. Like someone who could not possibly give you what you truly desire?
"I sincerely hope that's a compliment," I said.
She didn't reply, not even with a shrug of her shoulders to acknowledge my words. I would have preferred anger to indifference. Amends could be made with anger, but indifference was difficult to overcome.
There was no way to express how I missed the sound of her mirth, the feel of her breath and the easy flash of her smile when she found my words amusing. The longer we stared at one another, the more I missed how she would laugh at my comments, her hand clutching my arm as she doubled over. More than anything, I missed the way I felt when we were together well before she asked if I was coming upstairs with her. She was enjoyable to be around for more than physical desire.
"May I hold your bags?" I offered.
"And do what with yours? Your arms already appear full."
"I can at least take one," I said.
"No, I don't believe that is necessary."
In my mind, I heard I don't believe you are necessary.
"May I buy you a coffee Wednesday?" I offered suddenly, surprising the both of us.
Abigail looked me over with a more scrutinizing gaze than I had expected for someone who had always been cheerful and welcoming. "As payment for my services?" she asked.
"No, that was not my intention."
"Then what is your intention?"
I shifted my weight, feeling as though any hope of a second chance was swiftly slipping through my fingers. I stepped closer to her and swallowed, aware that I didn't deserve her forgiveness. "I suppose quite brazenly I had hoped you would allow me the pleasure of your company for an hour."
Abigail lifted a brow. "An entire hour? Your calendar isn't filled?" she asked.
"Eight on Wednesday," I offered. "My class starts at nine-fifteen. Bertha's is across the street from–"
"I know where it is and I will consider it," she blandly answered, taking her son by the wrist.
"Abigail–"
"Eight-fifteen," she said. "Clarence and Alice start their classes at eight."
I nodded, resisting the urge to grin like a fool simply because she agreed to coffee. "Eight-fifteen Wednesday," I confirmed.
She exhaled, showing no sign of looking forward to our plans. "Good day to you, Phelan Kimmer."
I took a deep breath and watched Abigail hand two of the bags to her son before the two of them turned and walked out. Her son glanced back at me and made an angry face that felt as though it echoed how his mother felt.
"I suppose that could have gone worse," I said under my breath.
oOo
The gallery opening was at three in the afternoon and Stefan had mentioned I was to be there by two-thirty, which gave me almost six hours to agonize over how the crowd as well as any critics would receive my artwork. Quite frankly, it was far too much time to spend alone.
An hour of my time was spent running with Elvira perched on my shoulder. I sprinted to the park and back so she could beat her wings and sit forward on my shoulder as if she took flight.
"You are supposed to be easier than a dog," I said to her as we passed a man with two Briards trotting along at a much more casual pace.
Elvira made no vocalizations during our time out together. She focused on the street ahead, body tilting left and right as she pretended to soar through the streets. I imagined we looked ridiculous, a grown man with a parrot, but I failed to notice anyone around us, my focus purely on her enjoyment.
Once we reached the park, I stopped to rest on a bench, needing to catch my breath and keep my legs from cramping
"Flan!" a chorus of voices called out.
It was rare that I saw any of my students out of the studio as most of them lived on the other side of the city, but as luck would have it, the six Bohemians that were always together had naturally congregated in the park nearest my apartment.
"Was that you we saw running with a bird on your shoulder?" they questioned as they approached like some twelve-legged insect sharing the same brain.
Given that Elvira was still very much on my shoulder, I didn't know what to make of their question. "Honestly, how many people do you think run through this city with a macaw?"
"You are so amusing, Professor Kimmer."
They giggled at their own ridiculous question, their arms swinging, skirts swirling, and expressions beaming as if their joy in seeing me was uncontainable.
"What sort of trouble are the six of you causing?"
"Trouble?" They feigned collective insult before everyone began speaking at once as if I had enough ears to hear six separate conversations.
"When is the art show?" they asked, followed by inquiries on what time it started and ended, if there was a fee for admittance, and if there was a fee, would food be included.
"I'll add you to the guest list if you're interested in attending."
Their eyes widened and they gaped at me. "You can do that?"
I furrowed my brow and tsked them. "Do you know who I am? I can do whatever I want."
"Bye, Flan! We will see you this afternoon!"
Once they skipped and twirled their way out of the park, I stood and jogged back to my building, lungs burning and legs feeling the full effects of lifting iron weights followed by a long run on the unforgiving cobblestone street. Feeling quite spent, I paused to lean against the exterior wall before I walked up two agonizing flights of stairs.
Two gendarmes strolled down the opposite side of the street. At first I thought one of the men was Boucher, but despite his seniority in terms of keeping the peace, he only worked the evening shift, when the degenerates of Paris roamed the streets and were ripe for the picking.
Gingerly I touched my lower back, feeling the tender spots on either side of my spine where he had struck me with his club the previous night. Physically pressing my fingers to the bruise made me aware of how much it truly hurt, and I pulled my hand away.
I pushed off the wall and managed to groan and grumble my way up the stairs and into my apartment, legs trembling once I reached the top.
With Elvira content from her pretend flight, I undressed and washed up in preparation for the art show opening. As much as I desired for my art to be on display, I imagined at least a handful of people would approach me and I wanted to look like a dignified artist.
There was one blue suit that I'd had recently tailored–by Abigail–and it was quite possibly the nicest piece of clothing I'd ever owned. She had turned the plain blue waistcoat into a lovely embroidered pattern of silver constellations and moons in various stages.
The plain blue fabric buttons were replaced with shiny abalone. She tapered the trouser waist in a most flattering cut, fitted the overcoat and shirt sleeves, and added a cravat made of silk dyed in blue and green, like a peacock's feather. Every detail was artistic in its own right, as though she had created a tapestry for me to wear.
I pulled the suit from my wardrobe and admired the fine craftsmanship, recalling how she thought the silver moon and constellations would compliment the color of my eyes without being overpowering in nature.
As if you could possibly be more handsome, she had said to me, fussing over the lay of the collar. But I really think it brings out you, not just your looks.
I have no idea what that means, but I do like the way it sounds.
She had looked up and smiled at me in the most radiant fashion, one that had always left me captivated. When I think of deep blue, I think of when I crossed the ocean at night after leaving my home to settle here. The unknown, the possibilities, the world just out of reach…the moon glinting off the waves…it was mysterious and inviting, and I daresay those words describe you perfectly.
In the midst of changing clothes and thinking of Abigail, I turned while standing in front of the floor length mirror and noticed the bruises to my lower back. I sucked in a ragged breath, alarmed by the unexpected coloring.
The contusions were much darker than I had expected, almost black in appearance and wider than my hand. I was somewhat surprised my kidneys hadn't been damaged with how hard Boucher had struck me–and while I was standing with my hands bound no less.
It had been years since I'd been in any type of scuffle. Out of fear of losing my lucrative employment at the bank, I'd steered clear of late night gatherings, knowing my mouth and temper were not a good combination when it came to those who'd spent their evening consuming copious amounts of liquor.
Once I had been offered to teach at the university, I knew that Hugo would have murdered me with his own hands if I managed to be dismissed from the position that had been his for thirty-five years.
I felt along the edges of the bruise and the previous evening flashed before my eyes. I didn't regret confronting the man preying upon a child, but Jean's words ran through my head: I could have very well killed the man. In doing so, I would have jeopardized everything in my life from losing my job at the university, my contract with a new broker, and even Elvira if I was incarcerated for more than a night or two. I always left extra food and water within her reach, but not enough for more than two days, and if I didn't return at night to place the cover over her cage, I wasn't sure what she would do.
What if the ad in the opera house playbill was answered? I silently wondered. What if Erik saw it opening night and couldn't find you because you were tried and hanged for murder?
My skin prickled at the sight of the bruises and the reminder of what I had put at risk. Before anxiety and sickness consumed me, I swiftly turned away from the mirror until I was fully dressed.
I wasn't entirely certain what had come over me, but as I buttoned my shirt, I thought of the first time my path had crossed with Gerard Boucher. It had been the night before I had originally spotted Florine in the park, and I had been involved in two separate brawls that evening, the first of which I'd managed to elude capture by scaling a fence and dashing into the night. By midnight, my luck had run out and Boucher had me facing a brick wall, my hands bound behind my back.
Despite being unable to fight him, he had still rammed my forehead into the wall, splitting my head open in the process as punishment for evading him.
My vision wavered upon impact, the blow stunning me to the point of my knees giving out, and as I collapsed onto the street, I recalled thinking I was going to die in a pool of my own blood for punching someone in the face after a heated argument.
His brutality was inexcusable, but I heard he'd done worse to others, knocking out teeth and breaking bones while blaming the injuries on brawls that took place before he intervened.
His colleagues, on the other hand, simply placed everyone responsible for disturbing the peace into the back of a wagon and hauled us off to the station for the night, typically with a few grumbles of You're back again? For Christ sake, you must enjoy all of the amenities a jail cell has to offer.
Boucher, however, apparently felt that sparing the rod spoiled the delinquents, and no matter the situation, he seemed to enjoy adding a few more bruises to whoever was bound before him. I swiftly memorized which parts of town he frequented and avoided them, and in time I found myself content at home by six most nights, avoiding every possible opportunity for trouble.
My nerves were quite frayed by the time I combed my hair and dabbed cologne onto my neck. The clock chimed noon, and I gave Elvira a snail I'd found in the park as a special treat, then made kissing sounds at her, which she returned, before I walked to Hugo's home, no longer able to tolerate being alone in my apartment.
oOo
Since Hugo lived up the street from the gallery and my thoughts leaned toward the worst case scenario of what would happen during the show–including all of my paintings being damaged and Stefan deciding he no longer wanted my art in his gallery, it seemed like the most logical place to spend my time.
If anyone could draw me out of my cynicism, it was Hugo–and since his maid ushered me in before I had a chance to knock on the door, it appeared my visit was a good choice.
"Monsieur Kimmer, how lovely to see you. He's been waiting for you," Dorothea said, keeping her voice barely above a whisper.
"Has he now?"
"Of course."
"I have not!" Hugo yelled from his bedroom.
I rolled my eyes. "Clearly."
My legs still ached, but I made my way up to his bedroom, amazed to see the chest of drawers had been cleared off and fresh sheets on his bed, which was a welcomed change.
Hugo's coloring was much improved, but his face was thinner, which I supposed was actually good as he tended to overindulge in food and drink.
"I need your help," Hugo said as I entered the bedroom. "But do close the door first!"
I gave him a strange look, but closed the door behind me. "What are you up to, Hugo?"
He waited until I was seated beside him to answer. "I wish to attend the art show today," he said.
I raised a brow. The gallery wasn't particularly far for someone with two working legs, but for a man on crutches who hadn't left his home as far as I was aware, it would be a challenge to travel.
Immediately I stood and began rifling through boxes of old drawings, desiring a distraction from an uncomfortable conversation.
"Would you sit down! Quit organizing."
"The gallery is a bit far, don't you think?" I said over my shoulder.
Hugo had been more of a father to me than anyone else in my life, and I found it difficult to tell him in a straightforward manner that the gallery was not within his ability to walk. The last thing I wanted was to insult someone whose friendship I greatly valued.
"I own a carriage," he said in a way that came across as almost arrogant.
I wasn't certain how many people it would take to get him in and out of a carriage, but didn't argue since he appeared agitated as it was.
"Good," I said. "I'll ride with you."
Hugo took a deep breath. "I can't go looking like this," he said, whispering quite loudly.
He was his typical disheveled self, looking like some sort of wildman living off of berries and mushrooms deep within an enchanted forest.
When I made no reply, he scrunched up his face. "My beard needs to be trimmed," he said as if it were obvious. "And I am no good at these types of tasks."
I glanced at the clock. "Do you want me to fetch a barber?"
Hugo furrowed his brow. "No. I want you to do it for me."
I sat further back and placed my hand against my chest, eyebrows shooting into my hairline. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Your beard always looks so well maintained. You trim it yourself, don't you?"
"Yes." I wasn't about to pay for someone to do what I was perfectly capable of performing myself.
"Then do mine, you fool."
"What makes you think I'm qualified?"
"Because you're you, Phelan Kimmer."
"I have no idea why you think saying my full name somehow makes me able to perform a hygienic task on you."
He sat forward, exacerbated by our conversation. "Because I trust you. I trust you with scissors near my face. Hell, if you need to use a straight razor and cut the whole damned thing off, so be it. Just don't slice my throat."
I attempted to withhold my amusement. "That's very comforting and I am glad you reminded me not to slit your throat open in the process, lest I forget not to outright murder you."
"Will you do it or not?" he impatiently asked.
I sighed. "Do I have a choice?"
"No." He turned from me and rummaged through his bedside table drawer until he retrieved scissors, which he handed to me. "There's a razor around here somewhere."
"Why on earth do you have razors lying around your bedroom? My God, you could slice off a finger."
"Everything is in my bedroom," he answered.
"Clearly," I said under my breath. "Do you have a towel?"
Of course he did, bunched up beneath one of his pillows. He managed to spread out the towel beneath his chin and drape it over his chest.
I sat on the edge of my chair and looked him over, uncertain of where to start. His beard was halfway down his chest and providing a home to dozens of crumbs.
"You can comb it out yourself, yes?" I asked.
"Yes," he agreed.
I handed him a comb that was on the floor and sat back, opening and closing the blades of the scissors while I waited for him to remove the debris and tangles.
"How is Marco?" he asked.
"I have no idea," I answered.
The raw admission made me shiver. I was certain I never would know my own son. The thought was suddenly more devastating now that he was almost an adult and I considered all of the years I'd wasted not putting forth more effort.
"Did you give his mother the letter of recommendation?"
"Yes. I handed it to her yesterday morning," I replied.
"And?"
"She accepted it."
"Weren't you supposed to give it to her as long as she agreed to a meeting with your son?"
"That was your idea, not mine."
"Why didn't you ask to see him?"
I averted my gaze, feeling cowardly with my reasoning. "I decided I'm not going to bargain with Florine over her son," I said.
"You know, Phelan, Marco is your son as well."
I exhaled. "He doesn't carry my name and I've never spoken to him. He's not mine. He is, but…he's not."
Hugo grunted. "That must be difficult to admit."
I shrugged. Yet another hole that would never close. I wasn't sure what I would do with myself if I had managed to heal a single emotional wound.
"It's the same as it's been since he was an infant. No more or less difficult, I suppose."
"You never wanted to claim him?" Hugo asked.
I wasn't entirely sure how to answer. The moment Florine had revealed her condition, I'd been overjoyed, filled with more love and exhilaration than I could have possibly described.
But she was engaged to another man–a man who was older than the two of us, who was wealthy and had a good family name. Baptiste would be able to provide for Florine in every way possible, giving her a home where she had servants to cater to her every need, sprawling gardens to stroll, dresses and skirts in every shade of yellow, and whatever else she could imagine. Her life would be content. She would travel the world on his arm, with the child raised as his son and more children to follow, and together they would be comfortable.
In time, perhaps Florine would love Bapiste and their lives would be filled with satisfaction.
I could give her nothing, save for a single bed in a shared apartment with my cousin. There would be bare cupboards, meager firewood supplies in winter, and the promise of a wedding ring someday as I couldn't afford to provide for myself, much less a wife and child.
"Wanting to claim my own son has nothing to do with it. Being able to claim him without ruining his life and his mother's reputation...it would have been selfish."
"You were still selfish," Hugo said as he handed me the razor he found beneath a book on his nightstand.
I looked from the razor in my hand to him. "You insult me and hand me a blade? That's bold of you, my friend."
"Is the truth insulting?" he asked.
"It certainly isn't flattering." I stood, intending to ask Dorothea to bring me hot water and more towels so that I could clean up Hugo's beard properly. The door opened before I reached it and Dorothea handed me a small tray with a bowl of steaming water, several towels, and soap for shaving. She smiled at me in a knowing way before closing the door.
"How is the house coming along?" Hugo asked once I turned and placed the tray on the bed in the empty space where his leg should have been. "The house in Northern France."
"In Conforeit?" I mumbled. "I haven't been there since October."
"Did you see your mother when you were there?"
I paused, annoyed by Hugo's inability to remember events and dates. "My mother died three years ago," I said. "Almost four, actually."
There was no funeral for Gyda as far as I was aware, given that she and Bjorn were both destitute, and people without money didn't have much worth when it came to their last rites.
The church sent me a telegram to notify me of her passing and requested fifty francs for her burial, but never said where they had dug a hole to place her into the earth.
There was a graveyard on the church property, which was where she had most likely been laid to rest, but I'd never walked through to see if they had provided her a marker.
Given that I knew so little of her while she was alive, it seemed unsurprising that I still knew little of her after her death, not even the exact date or cause. In a way it was like she had never truly existed, passing without family by her side–not that she would have known me if I had seen her in her last days.
Hugo frowned at me. "I don't believe we discussed her passing, Phelan. I apologize if I've upset you."
"You haven't upset me," I said, dipping one of the towels into the water.
I could feel him still studying me in silence. Bjorn and Gyda had come up in conversation on several occasions, the first of which was when Hugo commented that my parents must have been very proud of my artistic talent.
No one had ever mentioned them previously and it was rare that I thought of them at all. I doubted Bjorn spared a moment considering me over the years and the handful of times I'd seen Gyda when I was an adult, it had rattled me for days.
I handed the towel to Hugo to drape over his beard in order to soften the hair and his skin.
"You're not yourself today," Hugo said as he sat back and closed his eyes.
He was correct. I didn't feel like myself and I wasn't sure if it was good or bad.
"What am I typically like?" I asked, still feeling quite annoyed.
"You remind me of the boy I met twenty years ago," he said. "The one constantly searching."
A shiver rattled through me. I had been looking for something, for someone, for as long as I could recall. For purpose. For fulfillment. For acceptance. For a love that was unconditional, for the proof that I was more than a mistake I had made at the age of seven.
Some were ideals I wanted from others, some ideals I sought from myself. The search felt endless and draining, and while it still hadn't come to an end, I was certain I'd become better at hiding my fruitless quest from others.
"I put an ad in the theater program," I blurted out. It felt like a strange confession, like part of myself that was raw and should have been kept concealed. "To search for my brother. Again. If this doesn't work, then…" I swallowed, feeling as though I were about to panic at the sheer thought of ceasing my search. "Then I have promised Jean I am done looking."
I held my breath and waited for Hugo's sage advice on the matter.
"Why would you make a promise like that to Jean?" Hugo asked.
My jaw tightened and I started to stand, but forced myself to remain seated and answer him without distraction. "Because he's correct."
"What makes you say that?"
Both of my hands clenched. I swallowed against the pain in my left hand that shot up to my elbow.
"Because he is reasonable and I am not."
"I'm not sure I understand, Phelan."
"I nearly killed someone last night," I said quietly.
Hugo didn't speak immediately. He laid back with the towel covering most of his face, making it impossible to see his expression. I braced myself, expecting him to be furious with me, for falling into not simply a bad habit of being combative, but an encounter that could have been deadly the night before my next gallery show.
I knew Hugo would be livid as I had disappointed him yet again, perhaps so incensed that he would decide that expending so much effort to attend the gallery show was not worth his time.
"You aren't going to elaborate on what happened last night?" he asked at last.
I continued to slice the air with the scissors while my gaze flitted through the bedroom. "There's a girl who sings in front of the Opera Populaire," I said, opening and closing the blades faster. "I've seen her previously, and last night there was a man older than me who clearly had every intention of taking her back home. He must be at least fifty and she's thirteen."
Hugo's eyes slit open. "The age of consent is eleven, isn't it?"
"Thirteen."
Hugo blew air past his lips. "Not illegal, I suppose, but…"
"Repulsive," I said. "I don't care whether it's legal or not, it's grotesque for any man to entertain the thought of lying with a child and a girl of thirteen is still very much a child, regardless of the law."
"I don't disagree with you." Hugo pulled the towel down and sat upright. He nodded for me to begin trimming his beard and I leaned forward.
"You have always had a soft spot for others," he continued quietly, his mouth barely opening as he attempted to remain still. "That dog in the alley comes to mind."
He didn't have to elaborate. I still remembered someone who worked at the salon had a stray mongrel cornered in the alley between buildings. The man–a cook or a waiter–jabbed the dog in the ribs with a broomstick continuously and the creature yelped. After several cries from the dog, I stormed out of our meeting, witnessed for myself how the rail thin mongrel could not escape the beating, and took the broom from the man. I struck him in the head, breaking the broom in half, and the dog ran off.
"You were fortunate Edme was fond of dogs or you would have been in a great deal of trouble over that one," Hugo continued.
"That idiot had the animal cornered and I'm certain there were scraps out on the step meant for strays," I explained as I began cutting into his facial hair. "He could have easily shooed the dog away with the other end of the broom if he was that concerned and that should have been the end of it."
"You could have told him to stop," Hugo pointed out.
"I could have," I agreed.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I wanted him to know what it felt like," I answered. My insides went cold and I suppressed a shiver. "That makes me no better than him, doesn't it?"
Hugo sniffed. "No better or worse," he replied. "You react out of instinct, not necessarily with the foresight to think through your actions."
I frowned at him, agitated by his words while still appreciating his honesty.
"Then I should have let the man beat the dog to death and watched a thirteen year old girl be led away by a man some thirty-seven years her senior?"
"Is that what I said?" Hugo eyed me and I paused, scissors in hand, a large clump of thick, wiry gray hair pinched between my fingers.
"No, it is not," I admitted.
He looked at me with unexpected fondness, his demeanor calm and gentle. I had no idea how he managed to remain civil, but I admired and appreciated his ability to maintain his level-headedness.
"Your ability to intervene where you see the need to help others is an admirable trait," he said to me. "Most would look the other way, including me, I'm afraid, but your cogs and wheels were assembled differently than mine. Why is that, do you think?"
I began cutting through untamed facial hair again, a bit shorter than I thought Hugo would prefer, but it was at least even.
"You know why," I said under my breath.
"I would dare not assume," he replied.
"Because I know what it's like," I said quietly.
Turmoil thrummed through me, an ache so unbearable that not even the numbness could drown out the feelings of being weighed down by hopelessness.
"I know what it is like to be on the receiving end of someone's wrath, aware that no one would come to my aid, not unless I could repay them or grovel at their feet for forgiveness and even then…there was no guarantee."
I spoke without a bit of attachment to myself, as though the words came from someone else's mouth or the reference was to a stranger and not my own past.
"Do you still feel that way?"
"I'm too old to feel that way."
Hugo was silent for a moment. He watched the clipped hair fall onto the towel and kept his gaze trained on my left hand.
"The grief you carry, the regret, the anger…these are not emotions that simply go away with age," Hugo said.
"I'm aware. I've done all three for too long," I mumbled.
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
I blinked at him. "Continue to be angry, regret my temper, and grieve for things I cannot change," I muttered.
Hugo's shoulders dropped. "Phelan," he said quietly. "Why are you so hard on yourself?"
I met his eye, feeling unprepared for the gentleness in his gaze, the acceptance he had for me that I couldn't find for myself.
"I don't know what other way to be," I answered. "I've been on my own since…" I shook my head. "I don't know if there was ever a time when I wasn't fending for myself."
I averted my gaze, realizing how much of his beard I had unintentionally cut off while words were exchanged. For a long moment I paused, staring at the amount of trimmings that covered the towel.
"Hugo, I–" I started to say.
He reached for a small, round mirror that I hadn't seen previously on his nightstand and held it out in front of him. Brow furrowed, he turned his head in different directions, examining how I had butchered him.
"I think you should shave it off completely," he said.
My lips parted. "I beg your pardon?"
He returned the mirror to the table and laid back, exposing his neck. "Shave the whole damned thing. I haven't seen my face in decades."
"I'll go shorter, but I'm not using a razor," I said.
"Why not?"
"My hands aren't steady enough."
"You and your damned coffee."
"I've had one cup."
"Well, then maybe you should have had more. Your veins aren't accustomed to pumping so little caffeine through your body."
I grunted. "I am going to remind you that you are encouraging my habit."
"I am going to encourage another habit as well," he said.
"What would that be?"
"Don't give up looking for Erik."
I met his eye, surprised that he said my brother's name. It was strange hearing it said aloud, but welcome nonetheless as no one spoke of him. Same as Gyda, I feared my brother would fade into nothingness, his life no longer existing.
"Why do you think I should continue looking for him?"
"Because when you find Erik I'm certain you'll find a bit of yourself as well. That's what you've been looking for, isn't it?"
My breath hitched. I shook my head dismissively. "What if I don't find him?"
"You will."
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because one of us has to be an optimist."
I sat back, holding the scissors loosely in my right hand. His beard was cut short, exposing his neck for the first time in ages. He looked completely different, and I wasn't certain he would appreciate the vast changes.
"You look–"
"Don't say a damned thing if it isn't flattering," Hugo warned.
"You look good," I said. "Truly."
Hugo grabbed the mirror, issued a skeptical look in my direction, and examined himself. It took an agonizingly long moment before he smiled at his reflection.
"I do, don't I? Perhaps I should have had you trim my beard years ago." He stroked the shorter version of his beard and nodded. "I suppose you're taking full credit for my exceedingly handsome appearance?"
"I wouldn't say exceeding," I said dryly.
"Give me my razor back."
I smiled at him and placed the razor into the nightstand drawer. "You know…" I started to say, then thought better of the words in my head.
Hugo looked me over. "I dare not assume what you think I might know."
"I am grateful for your friendship," I said, feeling terribly vulnerable in my admission. "I mean that very sincerely. Without you, I quite frankly don't know what I would do."
Hugo nodded. "Let us pray that God has uses for me yet." He leaned forward and patted the back of my hand. "Have lunch with me before the show. I'm tired of eating alone."