Sorry for the delay. To make up for it, this is a super longer chapter.
CH 26
It was dark by the time I helped Hugo back inside of his home. He changed into his bed clothes in the lavatory and emptied his bladder while I waited outside of the door until he was ready to return to his bedroom.
Once he was settled, I adjusted his pillows and placed an extra blanket on the mattress beside him as the windows were still open and the night air was the typical damp and cold expected for the month of March.
"I cannot tell you the last time I attended a gallery opening," he said, arranging the blankets to his liking. "This one was more enjoyable than I remember them being in years in the past."
"Probably due to the amount of punch you consumed," I said lightly.
"Nonsense. It was definitely the company." He eyed me, frowning. "I do hope you are not offended by my observation in the carriage. That was not my intention."
I shook my head. "No, I'm not offended."
"You're certain?"
"Positive."
Hugo inhaled and gave me a skeptical look. "Phelan, I don't want to lecture you like I'm your father. I know that I'm not your–"
"As I've told you previously, Bjorn would never have lectured me," I said without looking at him. "Nor did my uncle. One was heavy-handed and the other indifferent. They were…they were not individuals with whom I had a relationship."
Eventually a day would come when thinking of Bjorn and Alak would not elicit a heavy, dreadful sensation that lasted for hours, sometimes days. Their rejection should not have held any sway over my life, and yet still, well into my thirties, I wished I had been raised by someone like Hugo.
Hugo cleared his throat and waited until I looked up before he continued speaking. "They were oblivious to a damned fine young man standing before them," he said. "Shame on them both for being so blind."
My heart fluttered at his unexpected words, the freely given praise I knew for certain neither Bjorn or Alak would have bestowed upon me, no matter what I did. After a while, Alak no longer admonished me for my less than desirable behavior, and regardless of what I did or didn't do, it felt as though I were invisible while living in his home. I would have given anything to be noticed, and long after he was gone, I wasn't sure he ever realized how much his indifference hurt.
"I'm proud of you, Phelan," Hugo said. "And I have no doubt this show will be a success, one of many."
"You are too kind."
"It's the truth," he said to me. "And one day you'll believe me when I say you are an extraordinary man and one hell of a painter."
I didn't know what Hugo wanted me to say in return. His affection caught me by surprise despite how greatly I appreciated the recognition from my mentor. "I'll pay a visit next week?" I offered in an attempt to change the subject.
"Whatever day you are free. You know I look forward to your visits. Perhaps supper at Cortez soon? My treat for ruining our first attempt."
"Hopefully the next time I see you, I'll have opera tickets in hand."
Hugo tilted his chin down and looked at me, sighing.
"What is that look for?" I asked.
"As much as I would love to attend with you, my friend, I hope you are able to find a nice young lady to cling to your arm and laugh at your occasionally amusing jests."
"Occasionally?" I said, feigning insult.
"Yes. And, mind you, when I say a lady, I mean a lady, not a woman you met hours earlier and wish to take to bed at the end of the night. Someone with more permanence in your life."
"Hugo–"
"Do you know why I want you to settle down and be married?" he asked, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I took a deep breath and practically collapsed into the chair at his bedside like a student called into the dean's office expecting to be reprimanded verbally. "Because that's what men my age do," I answered glumly.
He looked me over, his eyebrows like two wild, silver bushes over his stern eyes. "To hell with everyone else. I am talking about you, not other men your age."
"Why are we talking about me?"
"Because you are Phelan Kimmer, and I want to see someone take care of you the way you deserve."
My lips parted. "You are asking a lot of some poor, unsuspecting woman."
"I'm asking a lot of you as well, aren't I?" he questioned. "I am asking you to open yourself up to being loved by someone for the rest of your life, not satisfied physically for an evening here and there."
"Well, unfortunately for you, I doubt I'll be married off before opening night," I said under my breath. "Therefore I still expect you to attend with me."
He sighed. "Whether it's in ten months or ten years, I will continue to hold out hope that you find someone who will give you a lifetime of happiness."
I suspected he was going to be disappointed no matter how long he waited, but I merely nodded and hoped my agreement would satisfy him.
"You have plenty to offer," Hugo continued. "Surely you must realize–"
"I don't have nearly as much to offer as you think," I said before he finished.
"How can you say that?"
"Because I'm not…" I paused, knowing what I wanted to say was different than how I felt.
I'm not interested in a relationship. I'm not ready. I don't have the time to commit to anyone, not with my schedule at the university.
So many untruths, and all of them would have been perfectly acceptable if I had held a conversation with anyone else in the world. But Hugo was different; he knew me too well, better than anyone else. Somehow, despite all of the ways I kept people at a distance, the man seated beside me had become both a friend and a father to me.
"You're not what?" Hugo prompted.
"I'm not capable of loving someone the way they deserve," I blurted out. I swallowed, feeling my hands begin to shake. Ignorantly I wanted to believe it was the lack of caffeine I had consumed as the gallery had only punch available and not the thrum of emotion.
The admission made me shudder. Every time I met someone, I imagined the ending of a relationship long before the possibility of a beginning. I considered the good-bye without first saying hello. Distance was the greatest weapon to loss and grief, to being wounded by the disappearance or rejection I anticipated. If I kept everyone at a distance, I couldn't lose them the way I lost Erik–or the way I had nearly lost Hugo to infection.
"Why do you feel you are incapable of loving someone?" Hugo asked.
"You know why," I snapped.
Hugo remained undeterred by my tone. "Because of what happened with Erik?"
My jaw clamped, the familiarity of numbness replaced by sorrow. I knew that my silence revealed far more than words. Every decision, every misstep, was because of losing my brother.
Hugo was quite familiar with the story of how Erik had disappeared. At the end of the salon sessions, when everyone else returned home after an evening of drinking, arguing, and critiquing, Hugo would linger behind and ask me to stay a moment longer. Often he would order a meal and ask me to share his supper, and despite my desire to roam the streets in search of trouble, the rumble of an empty belly overruled my contemptuous impulses.
It was the end of December. I had been eighteen or nineteen at the time, and I ached in ways I had no idea were physically possible. My chest hurt in part because of the bruising from far too many brawls and the endless sorrow that always seemed to sew itself into me when Erik's birthday drew near.
My entire torso was painted sickly yellow and deep blue, a combination of new bruises and healing ones. As I ate a baked potato, the soft insides clinging to the tines of my fork, Hugo nodded at my hands.
You must be in pain, he said to me.
I'd merely shrugged and peeled off another portion of the potato, tasting the butter and salt of the darker skin on my tongue. Pain was endless, a constant companion that never left my side. I wasn't certain how I would function without the presence of anguish.
It will heal, I murmured, glancing down at my bruised hands. My knuckles had split open, palms scraped from hitting the ground. I had grown so accustomed to being black and blue that I barely noticed the wounds.
I didn't mean physically, Hugo commented.
Worse than the turmoil I'd always carried was the sense of shame Hugo's observation suddenly made me feel. I'd sat frozen beside him, wishing I had left the salon like everyone else, disappearing into the night in search of an argument with a stranger and the cold, barren cell that would be my home until Val paid my bail and I returned to the flat we shared. Most certainly physical pain was preferred to the shame of his observance.
What's on your mind, Phelan?
I didn't want to tell him a damned thing. I didn't want anyone to know that the aching had a name and a face–and a birthday that would not be celebrated yet again.
Instinctually I started to stand, to run from the only person who had ever taken a genuine interest in me, who had been kind with his suggestions on my art work and gentle when I deserved someone to slap the hell out of me.
Hugo grabbed me by the shoulder before I was on my feet. I could have easily shaken him off. Or swatted him away. Worse yet, I could have shoved him or drove my fist into his jaw and made certain he never spoke to me again.
Sit, Phelan. What's wrong?
The question had been presented to me many times by Val, but not quite in the same way. Val preferred asking, "What's wrong with you?" It was an inquiry out of contempt rather than concern.
My brother's birthday is tomorrow, and I haven't seen him since he was three and a half years old. I…I miss him, I told Hugo before my throat tightened and I was forced to look away, the anguish consuming me worse than I could have ever imagined.
Hugo pushed the plate toward me and sat back. Do you want to tell me about him?
His question came as a relief. I nodded and took another bite of food, stalling until I could speak without my voice trembling with sorrow that I feared would turn into outright sobbing.
What's your brother's name?
Erik.
A tear escaped, then another, but Hugo made no mention of it. I held my breath before a dreaded sob rattled through me and I further embarrassed myself, crying like a child in front of another man.
Eventually I cleared my throat, stared at the half-eaten food in front of me, and told Hugo everything about Erik that I'd wanted to share with someone since the day my brother had disappeared. He listened to every word, nodding and asking questions about Erik, laughing at our antics, and telling me that he understood.
From that moment on, he had become more than the leader of the salon group. He had become the friend I desperately needed, one who could admonish me without my anger flaring.
"Phelan," Hugo said gently as we sat in his bedroom.
The wind howled through the open window and I started to stand, but he grabbed me by the shoulder, same as he had done many years earlier, and I remained seated beside him.
"There is no more room inside of me for additional loss and grief," I said.
"Is that all you think you are capable of holding?" Hugo asked. "Are you nothing more than a vessel for sadness and longing?"
My lips parted and I lifted my gaze, but found I had no reply.
"If you had known the day your brother was born that you would only have three years with him, would you have still taken him inside?"
"Of course," I said without a moment of hesitation.
"Why?"
"Because I loved him," I answered.
Hugo gently smiled back at me. "I know," he said. "And Erik was worth the loss because of how much you cared for him."
I shivered at his words. No matter how much I longed for my brother and the endless grief that followed, I would have made the same decision.
"You have plenty of space inside of you for more than grief, Phelan. Remember that."
"It doesn't feel like there is room for anything else."
"Because you keep telling yourself that you don't want more."
"I don't," I quickly said. "I…I can't."
"You are so attentive to the people around you," Hugo said. "Your students came to see your work and what did you do tonight? You told them to eat something, didn't you? You were the center of their attention and yet you still doted on them. That's the type of person that you have always been. It's what was expected of you-demanded, even."
His observation was painful and I stared at the back of my hands. There had been no other option; I took care of my brother or he perished.
"But there is one person you tend to neglect."
"I would rather not have this conversation."
"I know you would, and that is why I will continue speaking. You are unfair to yourself." Hugo inhaled sharply and attempted to mask a yawn. "Consider my words. That is all I ask."
"You need to rest," I said, thankful for a reason to finally leave without offending him.
"So do you. Take my carriage back home," Hugo offered. "It's too far of a walk this late at night."
I was certain the horses had already been returned to the stable for the night, but promised I would ask Dorothea to call the driver back merely to keep Hugo from worrying about my walk home.
"Thank you, Phelan, for a lovely night."
"The pleasure was mine, Hugo. I appreciate you being my guest."
He offered a devilish smile.
"What is it?"
"You're not going to kiss your temporary wife goodnight?"
I rolled my eyes at him. "One kiss leads to another and soon enough, you know what happens." I wagged my eyebrows, much to his amusement. "Besides, my darling, I have a headache."
Hugo grinned at me. "That's what they all say. Stay out of trouble, Phelan."
I left the lamps turned up and closed the door on the way out.
"Goodnight, Monsieur. Thank you for taking good care of Monsieur Duarte," Dorothea said from the kitchen as I walked out of the house and down the street, rounding the corner to return home.
It was a quarter past seven in the evening, which was close enough to the hour where I was finding it difficult to keep my eyes open, but once I rounded the corner from Hugo's residential street onto the much busier one with its shops and cafes, galleries and small playhouses, my body began to vibrate with excitement from the show.
I hadn't engaged in conversation with many people, but the entire experience, in hindsight, was both overwhelming and exhilarating, and I found myself both looking forward to and dreading the next evening when my presence was requested.
To have my work on display alongside Edgar De Gas was an honor beyond comprehension. Although Edgar wasn't the most agreeable fellow, his paintings were well-received and desired by collectors. Despite the way he scowled and grumbled at gallery patrons, his name was a draw and provided exposure to my own art that I would not have enjoyed otherwise.
Slowly the adrenaline began to wear off and my eyes started to grow heavy, and before I knew it, my building thankfully came into sight.
And unfortunately, so did Gerard Boucher.
Boucher rarely patrolled the part of the city where I resided as there wasn't much open for business past six in the evening given that it was mostly bakeries, tailors, hat shops and perfumeries, which gave citizens few reasons to roam about that part of the city.
I started to reach for my keys in my trouser pocket, but paused, my pace slowing and gaze fixed on the back of Boucher's head.
While I doubted he looked specifically for me, I assumed that if the situation arose where he spotted me, he would at the very least have questions and at the most, take me in for resisting if I failed to answer as he desired.
Despite the number of times I had spent a night behind bars, I didn't think of myself as a criminal and didn't believe I deserved to be treated as such. Crime, to me, was stealing or causing harm to others without defense. Every single time I had been arrested for disturbing the peace, I had not physically instigated a fight, nor had I ever struck someone who could not defend themselves.
Once Boucher turned down the street, I quickened my pace and swiftly returned home to my apartment where Elvira greeted me with her nightly phrase: Time for bed!
"You don't want to hear about the gallery?" I asked as she flew to my outstretched arm before I closed the door.
"Time for bed!" she insisted.
I fed her a few pieces of dried fruit, opened her cage door, and watched her hop onto her perch. A few whistles and a bob of her head indicated she was more than ready for the security of her cage.
"Sleep well, my love," I said.
"My love," she sang as I covered her up.
With Elvira settled in for the night, I built up a fire, changed clothes, and washed my face. Despite cleaning my teeth, I still made myself a cup of tea, and sank into my favorite chair. A deep, ragged sigh escaped past my lips, one that took away much more stress than I realized I'd held onto since I'd left for the gallery show.
As thankful as I was for my art being on display, I found myself ill-prepared for myself being on exhibit as well. With the gallery opening behind me and no distractions, doubt crept in that my paintings and drawings didn't truly deserve a place on the walls.
I stared into the fireplace and adjusted the heavy woolen blanket over my torso. The weight of the fabric was comforting, like being engulfed in a warm, tight embrace. Physically I was content, but mentally I feared unraveling.
All at once I began questioning myself. Did I look like an artist in the gallery, I wondered? Did I dress like one? How did others perceive me? Could I have said more? Less? Did I say anything of interest or did I sound like a bumbling fool? Was I polite? Rude? Standoffish? Did that man speaking to his wife say something about me? They'd both looked at me, but neither came over, which left me wondering if I appeared unapproachable. Perhaps they didn't know I was one of the artists…or perhaps they did and found my paintings of little interest.
It was for the best that they had not introduced themselves and asked me questions about myself or my paintings. I would not have had anything of interest to tell them.
I took a sip of tea and several long, deep breaths. Living alone had many advantages, but in that moment, I greatly desired company and distraction from the vicious self-doubts crowding my thoughts.
Unbidden, I found myself thinking of the time I'd attended a party with Val back when I was sixteen and he was nineteen. There were far too many people stuffed inside a small parlor, and I wandered out of the overcrowded confines, certain there was not enough air in the room to keep everyone from suffocating.
I came across a woman seated on the dining room table, drinking wine straight from the bottle, legs spread far apart in the most unladylike fashion. The moment I saw her, I excused myself and apologized, but she asked me to stay.
It was obvious she was inebriated with her crimson cheeks and glassy eyes, but she spoke softly and invited me closer.
What's your name?
Phelan.
Phelan? You have the most beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that? She asked me.
Not really, I answered, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
She stroked the back of her fingers against my cheek, her thumb dragging against my lips. She was far older than me, twice my age, I guessed, and although I was certain she mistook me for someone older, I didn't dare tell her my age. I liked the physical attention, the way my stomach tightened at her touch.
Tell me about yourself, Phelan.
I stood speechless in front of her, my eyes cast down, my heart in my throat. How in the world did people describe themselves to others?
In Conforeit, when I lived in the same house as Val and Alak, neither one of them asked me much of anything at all. I kept to myself, carving images in trees and drawing on whatever I could find, struggling to find a shred of worth in a home where I felt I was not needed much less wanted.
At the time when I met the woman drinking straight from the bottle, I'd lived in Paris for a few years, and despite the change in location, I had no recollection of a single person taking interest in me prior to her inquiry, and I realized I had no suitable answer.
I…um…I don't know what to say.
You're quite dull, aren't you? She said, grinning at me, her eyes heavy-lidded. Thank God for your good looks or you'd have nothing going for you at all.
I doubted she was aware of how wounding her words had been that night, how much I had always felt that I lacked what people desired. I hated the silence forced upon me, the long years of being alone in my bedroom, staring at the empty bed across from mine, then traveling to an unfamiliar city where I felt more alienated by the sheer amount of people, none of whom I wished to meet, fearing they would cast me aside, same as my cousin and uncle.
But she was correct: at least I was physically attractive, and without the appeal of my appearance, I had nothing at all.
Despite feeling no attraction to her, the next night I had followed her into her bedroom and discovered how easily I could be with someone physically while mentally and emotionally leaving myself elsewhere. It was the first time I'd felt as if I were cut in half, part of me put to use while the other part was left on a shelf.
"Damn it, Hugo," I muttered. He had given me far more to think about than I desired.
Absently I reached for my sketchbook and turned to the first blank page in the middle where I began drawing lines, hoping something would take shape and crowd out the doubts threatening to ruin my night.
When I lacked inspiration, I turned the page and found the sketch of Erik staring back at me. I smiled to myself as I studied the image.
"I wish you were here with me tonight," I said to the drawing. "Every night, really, but tonight especially. I wish I could see your reaction to the gallery opening. To know that you still…"
Know me. Care for me. Forgive me.
I blinked away the sting of unexpected tears and swallowed back the lump in my tightening throat. The years had been long and unforgiving since my brother had disappeared, and in recent weeks, the loss felt heavier, the wound inside of me more prominent, as if for decades it had simply existed and now infection had burrowed inside and made the gaping hole impossible to ignore.
Would Erik have attended the gallery show as my guest? Surely, I thought, we would have still been close and he would have been delighted to see my work. Perhaps he would have surprised me and brought his violin and played his music, much to the delight of Stefan and the crowd in attendance, before he had to dash back to the opera for an evening performance.
I wondered what he would have thought of Triumphant Juan. Utter rubbish, I suspected, something we would both agree on and laugh about in secret, deciding that the love-obsessed composer was probably a virgin who had not so much as kissed a woman. Clearly he was overcompensating for something with his suggestive material.
I started to draw Erik again, the way I imagined he would look in his thirties. Bright eyes, a smile that hinted at a smirk, and high cheekbones. His face was angular as an adult, no hint of boyish roundness from his youth. We had always resembled one another, despite the obvious differences due to the scars.
His hair, however, was a mystery to me. I wondered if he would wear it to his shoulders like mine or cropped short. The last time I'd seen him, his hair was in his blackened eyes, thin wisps of dark blonde locks that barely covered his scalp as there were clumps missing. What remained was long and greasy, hanging listlessly.
Thirty years later and the thought still sickened me as I knew why my brother's eyes were ringed in bruises and his hair missing in patches. I hated myself for the ways in which he had suffered.
In the image I created of my brother, however, there were no more bald patches. I made his hair thicker and kept it short, as I imagined Erik would have preferred. It suited him, I thought, short and combed to the side. He looked professional, I told myself, like a respectable musician sitting in the first chair.
And the right side of his face? What to do about the face I adored, but the rest of the world would have found offensive? I tapped the end of the pencil against my chin and considered the details of where our similarities ended.
His right eyebrow had never formed fully, the bottom part of his lip larger than it should have been, as if it were permanently fattened by a blow to the face.
The flesh on the right side of his face sometimes appeared blue in direct sunlight, the veins beneath noticeable as his skin was thinner than it should have been. If we remained in full sun for more than a half-hour, his skin would burn and blisters would form, the blue veins swiftly disappearing beneath the bright red patches and pockets of fluid.
Most of the time, if Erik wanted to visit the beach, I made him wear my hat so that his face was shielded from the sun and from the view of anyone who might happen upon the two of us. He hated wearing a hat–or clothes, for that matter, but when I reminded him of the blisters, he would inhale sharply, his face crumpling as though he would cry as he recalled how much it hurt when he became sunburned.
I made the scars less prevalent in my sketch, as I hoped that over time his features would change and the wounds would not be as prominent. I shaded his eyes lighter green and hair dark as mine, almost black. Most importantly, I made him appear happy. He was smiling back at me, grinning at some foolish remark I had made, probably about the mysterious virgin composer.
He roams the darkness, I heard the old gypsy woman say. We both roamed dark places, I should have told her, bumbling through life without one another, blindingly reaching, but never grasping hold of anything of substance. My dark place was in my mind, cavernous and inescapable.
"Answer the damned ad when it runs, Erik," I said before I closed the notebook, placed it back onto the table, and crawled into bed.
oOo
The gymnasium was not only unlocked when I arrived Sunday evening, but occupied with more people than I'd ever seen within the building.
I had never been on the university campus on a Sunday night and found the activity quite peculiar, especially since I had assumed the barbells and various equipment would be mine alone to enjoy.
Perhaps there will be a nice young lady in attendance. Hugo's words remained in the forefront of my thoughts, despite every effort to think of something else.
My entire day had been spent cleaning and organizing with Elvira doing her absolute best to knock down my canisters of brushes, paints, and rags. She removed books from the shelf one by one, cackling as they fell to the floor, and became a feathered menace who randomly yelled when I picked up whatever she tossed around or attempted to consume.
I found a total of twenty completed portraits in my home studio ranging from Val, Elizabeth and several students from over the years. I'd painted the woman at the coffee shop across the street from my apartment and Florine, whose portrait I decided not to bring with me for Theo Van Gogh to consider as I suspected she would have been furious by my audacity to earn an income off her likeness.
After an entire day of being indoors, I felt like an animal confined to a zoo exhibit. And Elvira–who had been a salon animal confined to a cage for years, reached out with her foot and wings extended, repeating, "Go away!"
"Me? I live here."
"I'm off to work," she said, imitating my voice. "Be good. Papa loves you."
"I do not sound like that," I protested.
"Papa loves Elvira. Say it. Say it!"
"If you were a younger bird I'd eat you," I said to her before I walked out the door and headed to the university gymnasium.
There was a square ring erected in the middle of the building, complete with turnbuckles and ropes, and the entire contraption was surrounded by folding chairs I'd previously seen stacked against the walls.
The seats around the ring were occupied with at least fifty people, most of them men dressed in casual attire, fanning themselves with programs that I had seen beside the door.
"Six francs, Monsieur," a boy who appeared in his early teens said as I walked past him.
"No thank you," I said as I strolled into the gymnasium and looked around.
On opposite sides of the square, two men dressed in white trousers and sleeveless white shirts stretched, both of them using the ropes to loosen their muscles as they tugged this way and that before bouncing around, occasionally taking swings at the air.
Above the ring was a banner hung by two ropes that advertised an evening of boxing matches.
I inhaled, noting the odd combination of roasted peanuts and perspiration, which somehow made the gymnasium smell more putrid than usual.
Holding my breath, I folded my towel and placed it over my shoulder as I walked past the elevated ring and toward the barbells that had been moved from their typical spot in the middle to the furthest corner.
"You there!" a man bellowed.
When I continued toward the iron equipment, the same man called again and I turned, seeing him rush toward me.
"What are you doing?" he asked me, sounding quite exasperated.
His complexion was pale, his eyebrows, stubble, and the hair on his head strawberry blond. He looked to be a few years younger than me, with massive biceps and bulging pectorals and a midsection that could only be described as barrel-shaped.
"Weight lifting," I answered.
"There is a match taking place in five minutes."
"Then I shall refrain from interrupting."
"You cannot be in here."
I shifted my weight. "As a professor of the university, I beg to differ."
"Show me your identification."
I narrowed my eyes. "My apologies, but I must ask for your name first, Monsieur."
"Bernard Montlaur," he stated as if I would be highly impressed.
"And what, may I ask, puts you in a position of authority, Bernard Montlaur?"
"I'm a champion pugilist," he said, pulling at his waxed mustache. He nodded toward the banner erected above the ring which bore his name in large black lettering.
"Phelan Kimmer," I answered. "Professor of art."
"What is an art professor doing in the gymnasium?" he snidely questioned.
I widened my eyes and blinked at him. "On most days I do whatever the hell I please."
Montlaur blanched at my words. "You'll have to come back at a different time, once the matches are over."
"Or, I could stay."
He sighed. "With all due respect, Monsieur–"
"Thus far, I have not heard a single word of respect, pugilist."
"The gymnasium is reserved," he said through his teeth. "The admission is six francs."
"If I pay six francs, may I continue toward the barbells?" I asked.
"No. You would sit in the audience with everyone else."
"Fine," I said, turning away from him. "Then I shall use the university gymnasium as I do every weekend, Monsieur Montlaur, no fees involved. No one shall even notice me, I assure you."
The pugilist had the audacity to grab me by the shoulder. When I spun around to face him, he had his arm drawn back, hand in a closed fist, inches from my face.
"Bernard!" another person shouted. "Get back to the ring immediately!"
Like a dog called off, Montlaur froze. He glared at me, but still turned and walked away.
"Good boy," I said under my breath.
I had started to put my bag and towel on the ground when a blow to the back of the head stunned me and I pitched to one side, barely grabbing hold of an iron rack holding barbell plates before I collapsed.
"What did you call me?" Montlaur asked as he stood over me, chest heaving and hands balled into fists.
My brain was sufficiently rattled, but I was not one to offer apologies or beg for mercy. I stared up at him, propped up on my elbows, mind swimming and vision dotted with bright pinpricks of light.
"I said 'good boy'," I answered.
I wasn't certain if the ringing I heard was in my own mind or within the gymnasium. It was certainly loud and followed by more shouting, which in turn was followed by two men grabbing Montlaur and dragging him away. My vision blurred, but I was fairly certain one of the two men was Boucher.
I laid back and closed my eyes, feeling my pulse in my teeth and pain radiating through my skull from the back of my head.
"My God, is he still alive?"
Silently I assumed the inquiry was regarding me in my prone and seemingly lifeless state. The thought amused me, and I smiled to myself, finding the situation ridiculous.
"Yes, he's alive," someone answered. "The lucky bastard always is."
I popped my eyes open, but couldn't make out who stood over me, hands on their hips, shaking their head. Once the person crouched down, I realized it was Jean.
"Are you taking up boxing now?" he asked.
"I'm clearly not very good if I am." I groaned and sat upright, noting the way the gymnasium had the sheer audacity to tilt. At once I returned to lying on my back. "I need five minutes."
"You need a physician," Jean insisted.
"No, I'm fine," I insisted. "Or I will be in five minutes."
"Move that man into the athletic changing area," someone suggested. "We can't have him in the middle of the floor like this."
A moment later, I felt as though I were floating, and in another moment, I was placed atop a cool slab of wood in a dark room that made me feel as though I was being prepared for my own funeral.
"Jean?" I whispered when I heard footsteps and a door close.
There was no answer. The room was lightless and cold, like what I imagined a morgue would feel like, and as much as I wanted to sit up, I was more concerned about losing consciousness.
The ringing in my ears turned to a deafening and unending woosh like a waterfall, making it impossible to hear anything else. I felt my heart rate increase and my palms become damp as I started to feel increasingly anxious.
"Is anyone there?"
I swallowed, unable to think of anything aside from receiving a blow to the back of the head was a stupid way to die–and alone at that.
I'd never been to the changing area of the gymnasium and had no idea what the layout of the room looked like or where the door was located, making it impossible to leave even if I desired to get up and return to the main portion of the building.
My chest heaved as I stared into nothingness. The fear of dying alone threatened to send me well past the threshold of panic and I called out again, my words unanswered.
As a child I'd had several nightmares of perishing in the rotted out tree stump where I had crawled the night Erik disappeared. I imagined the insects burrowing beneath my flesh, eating away at me before I took my final breath.
The first time I'd had the nightmare, I stumbled out of my bedroom, crawling on my hands and knees with tears in my eyes until I reached the hall where my uncle and cousin slept. I sat on the dirty wooden floor and stared at Alak's bedroom door, conflicted between asking for reassurance and knowing if I tapped on the door I would disturb him and he would tell me to return to my own room. The longer I sat in the hall, the more certain I felt he would tell me it was merely a dream and I needed to return to my own bed.
In a different life, one where my brother had not gone missing, I imagined a kinder version of my uncle, one who would have invited me to sit with him or crawl into bed beside him until I felt more secure. But that was not the life I had been given.
The time of needing others had long since passed, and I closed my eyes against the dark, cold confines, imagining I was anywhere else but a room that was beginning to feel more and more like I was set within a crypt alone, mistaken for the dead when I was still very much alive.
I took long, deep breaths through my mouth and thought about what Hugo had said, how he wanted me to find someone who would take care of me.
Would specific details be written into marriage vows? I shall marry you and provide financially as long as you agree to take care of me for the remainder of my life. However, I will not allow you to launder my clothing as I like everything washed, stretched, and ironed a certain way. And the dishes must be cleaned cups first and silverware last. The pillow cases must all face in the same direction with the opening to the left. The spices are organized alphabetically as are the staples in the pantry. Sugar before flour? Have you gone mad? Give me that!
I could barely tolerate my own demands. There was no doubt in my mind I would make some lovely woman miserable with my idiosyncrasies, and she would either ask for a divorce before the ink on our marriage certificate dried or she would murder me on our honeymoon.
"He's in there," I heard Jean say. "Should we leave him a while longer?"
No, I wanted to shout. For the love of God, don't leave me here alone for a moment longer.
A door opened, bringing with it a stream of warmer, more humid air and footsteps that sounded as if an entire army entered. My eyes popped open and the lamps were lit, bathing the small room in golden, flickering light.
Someone demanded to know what happened, and I was fairly certain it was Boucher's voice. I attempted to form the words, but my mouth was dry and I bit my tongue when I spoke.
"Montlaur struck him twice in the back of the head," Jean said on my behalf. "Cowardly bastard."
"What did he do to provoke a prizefighter?" Boucher asked.
"Gerard, please, this is not the time," Jean insisted.
Boucher scoffed. "Jean, you know well enough how your friend provokes people."
"Why don't you enjoy the show, Sergeant Boucher, and I will take it from here?" a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, offered. "Could you repeat what you said, Monsieur Moreau? What happened during the incident?"
"He was struck twice. I saw it with my own eyes."
Twice? No, Jean, it was once. I distinctly recall one blow. I couldn't tell if I spoke aloud.
"Both blows to the back of the head?" the same man asked.
"Yes, left fist and right fist, I believe."
There was a scratching sound near my head. My mind insisted it was a rat and I swatted it away.
"Stay still, Monsieur…?"
"His name is Phelan Kimmer," Jean answered. "He's a friend of mine."
Boucher scoffed.
"Ah," a man said. "We've met previously, I believe."
My eyes widened, which did nothing to clear my blurred vision. For the life of me, I could not place the sound of his voice.
"How do you know me?" I mumbled.
"Know you? I don't know you, Monsieur, just as you don't know me. But we spoke briefly."
I didn't have the clarity or patience for riddles and attempted to tell him as much, but I felt like I was drifting, aimless as a ship without an anchor.
"Sergeant Boucher, you have been so warm and welcoming to a stranger," the man said. "Please, I must insist that you enjoy the boxing matches and allow me to continue with our good friend Monsieur Kimmer."
"He's a criminal," Boucher insisted. "An individual I would never claim as a friend."
"I've known my fair share of criminals who were also friends, I dare say," the stranger continued. "But please, allow me to continue the investigation. Truly, it would be an honor."
"You report back to me," Boucher said. "Is that understood?"
"Of course, I am at your service," the stranger replied cordially. "Monsieur Moreau, your friend is in good hands."
"I'll return shortly," Jean replied.
The door opened and closed again and I struggled to make out the face of the man remaining in the room.
"What do you want?" I asked impatiently.
The man sniffed. "I would like to know how you feel."
"Why?"
"Why? Did you just ask me why?"
"I did."
"Because the physician is not currently available due to the matches and it is best if you are awake and continue talking after taking two blows to the back of your skull. At least that is what my nephew believes.?
"Your nephew?"
"Yes, he's a physician."
"Is he here as well?"
"No, he is not, but he would be pleased that I remember how to care for a concussed patient. And so, since I am doing my best to keep you awake, Monsieur, I shall ask you again: How do you feel?"
"I feel like my head is about to split into two and my eyes will disengage from the sockets."
"That sounds awful." He leaned over me, eyes narrowed behind round glasses. I couldn't quite make out his features, but I thought his voice sounded familiar.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm a detective," he answered. "And I'm also an admirer of the performing arts, a fancier of tea, and easily enamored by cats."
"What is your name?" I impatiently asked.
"Oh, I suppose that is also pertinent information," he said with a chuckle. "Nadir Khan. In my country, I was known as 'Daroga'."
I blinked, hoping to somehow clear my vision and keep the excruciating headache pulsing spreading from the back of my head down my neck to my shoulders.
"Was known?" I questioned. "How are you known now?"
"How very observant of you, Phelan Kimmer," he said. "I no longer reside in the country of my birth, therefore I no longer have the title I earned."
"I see. What does 'Daroga' mean?"
"I was the chief of the police. Tell me, Monsieur Kimmer, were you born in France?"
"I was," I said, hesitating.
Nadir chuckled. "This is not an interrogation, Monsieur, simply conversation."
"I was not thinking it was an interrogation until you said that."
Nadir chuckled again as he leaned over me and smiled. "I don't look familiar to you?"
"Your voice is familiar, but you still look like a blur," I answered.
"Oh, goodness," he said, leaning in closer. "That is not good at all."
"If you are meant to provide comfort, you are failing miserably."
Nadir lightly coughed to mask his amusement. "My apologies."
"You were the man crawling on the floor at the Opera Populaire, correct?"
"Yes I was," he answered proudly. "I knew you would remember."
"I never forget someone who tells me to be quiet."
Nadir scoffed. "Well, I had to ask you several times, didn't I?"
"And you were quite rude each time."
"Because you failed to follow my directions." He muttered something under his breath that was not spoken in French. "Tell me, Monsieur Kimmer, what brings you to the boxing matches this evening? "
"I am not here for a boxing match. I am here to use the gymnasium equipment."
"Ah, very good. Sound of mind, sound of body."
I attempted a shrug, but my neck and shoulders were coiled too tightly, my muscles refusing to work as I desired. "And you, Daroga? What brings you here?"
"Well, I am normally in bed with my tea and a book at this hour, but I felt as though I needed a moment away from the Opera Populaire and into the streets of this lovely city, which I haven't had much time to explore."
"What better example of Paris than two men bloodying one another with their fists?" I dryly said.
The Daroga grunted. "I'll have you know I spent a few hours after sunrise strolling through the tree-lined boulevards with a croissant in hand. I must say, they are quite delectable, as is the scenery. The trees are in bloom, as I assume your allergies can attest."
I furrowed my brow.
"H-how did you know I have allergies?"
"Your sinuses are swollen, of course."
Gingerly I touched my face on either side of my nose and massaged the tender flesh with my fingers.
"You are not on holiday in Paris, I assume?"
Nadir fell silent for a moment. "No, I am not on holiday," he said somewhat remorsefully. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I have been working tirelessly for the managers of the famed opera house since I arrived."
I saw him walk away and return with a chair, which he placed beside the cold slab where I was quite uncomfortably laid out.
"The opera is in need of a Persian's services?" I asked.
"What a rude question," he said. "Is that all you think I am? A man of Persian descent? Are you, Monsieur Kimmer, nothing more than a Frenchman?"
I attempted blinking again, hopeful to regain my vision without the room spinning or images fuzzy. "I suppose not," I answered. "My apologies if I offended you, Monsieur Khan. What brings you to Paris?"
"A convict," he answered.
I turned my head to the side and found his face came into better focus at last, round glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
"A convict?" I questioned.
Nadir nodded once and pushed his glasses back up. "Wanted by the Shah of Shah's."
"For what crimes?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss the details."
"Well, the Opera Populair certainly has an interesting cast of characters on and off the stage."
"Oh?"
"Perhaps the opera ghost will give the convict refuge in his theater."
"The opera ghost?" Nadir questioned.
"You've not heard the rumors?"
"Of course I have, don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "The better question is how familiar are you with our phantom friend?"
"I've heard rumors and that is the extent of my knowledge."
"Interesting."
I turned my head and eyed him. "Is it?"
"It could be."
"I think I would prefer losing consciousness to this conversation," I said.
The Daroga laughed. "You remind me of the convict," he said. "Quite a bit, actually."
"Am I supposed to be insulted?"
"No, no," he quickly said. "Quite the opposite, Monsieur. The convict is someone I considered a friend even though I doubt he
would feel the same toward me these days. A pity, really. He was quite fascinating."
"I can't imagine the chief of police befriending convicts."
"Not all men are guilty, now are they?"
"I suppose not," I agreed.
"And even if they are, all men have a story to tell."
"What was this particular convict's story?" I asked.
Nadir adjusted his trouser legs and sat back in his chair, inhaling deeply. "A sad one, as most are," he answered. "One of a man who could have been quite remarkable if not for the hand he was dealt. The potential," he said, shaking his head, "my God, the potential."
I focused my attention on the ceiling. His words described what I had felt about myself as well as Erik. My brother should have been known the world over, celebrated for his gift of music. Erik Kimmer: composer and musician–and brother of artist Phelan Kimmer. The thought made me smile to myself.
"I most certainly wish I could have been the friend he deserved," Nadir said with an air of sadness to his words. "I regret the circumstances that led to our falling out."
"Do you intend to arrest this convict if you find him?"
"When I find him, not if," he said firmly. "As a matter of fact, I do not."
"You'll sit down to tea, then?" I dryly questioned.
"Even your remarks are similar to his," Nadir said. "It's uncanny."
"Perhaps all of us with a police record are the same."
"Or perhaps it is simply the sense of humor you Frenchmen enjoy."
I stared at him for a long moment. "The man you seek is not Persian like you? He's French?" I asked.
Nadir nodded again. "An architect, inventor, magician, and composer."
"Composer?"
Nadir turned his head to the side. "Yet another similarity," he said under his breath as he began scribbling notes into his booklet. "You write music as well?"
"No, I'm not a composer."
"No? Then why does the last one interest you?"
I inhaled and stared at the ceiling. The headache had burrowed its way behind my eyes, the sensation pulsing through my skull in a way that made me nauseous.
"My brother was musically gifted," I answered. And most certainly not a convict, I considered adding. Erik was the most gentle and benign soul I'd ever known. Of course, at the age of seven, I would never have dreamed of spending a single night behind bars.
"Hmmm," Nadir said. "If this man had siblings, I would fully suspect you were brothers."
My breath hitched. "Why would you think that?"
Nadir shrugged. "Your height, your build, the sound of your voice, sense of humor…" He glanced at my left hand, eyes narrowed. "I meant to ask you when our paths first crossed how you acquired that injury."
"It's a burn from childhood."
I couldn't help but note the disappointment in The Daroga's gaze. He nodded. "Ah. I see."
"Why do you ask?"
"The convict had a scar, one that he claimed he had prior to birth."
"Where?" I asked. My heart stuttered. It wasn't Erik. It could not possibly be Erik. But still… "Where is the scar?"
The door opened and closed again, and with it, Jean and another man entered the room, their voices muffling my words.
"Daroga," I growled. "Where is the convict's scar?"
"Here he is, Dr. Corin," Jean said. "Phelan, how are you?"
I forced myself to sit upright. "Monsieur Khan," I said.
The Persian took a step forward. Bright specks of light danced before my vision, and the roar of sound returned.
"What…" I swallowed, cold sweat beaded on my brow. I felt myself begin to fall to the side. "The…the scar…"
I had no idea if I finished my inquiry. When I next awoke, I was in Jean's home.