Ch 142
We passed through a train car filled with passengers seated in rows with three seats on either side of the aisle. Some of the people aboard appeared quite exhausted from their travels and sat with their heads tilted back and eyes closed, oblivious to the line of people boarding.
Several people who were awake, however, blatantly stared at me, and a woman who appeared to be in her sixties clutched her belongings to her chest and turned away as I approached, muttering a prayer in German.
Her face was deeply wrinkled, her brows thin and her graying hair covered with a cloth that matched her drab clothing. With her face twisted in malice, she looked utterly miserable.
I stared straight ahead as I drew nearer to her, waiting impatiently for the passengers ahead of us to claim their seats or find their way to their own private quarters.
"God protect me, God shield me, God keep me from evil," she chanted, her words unnerving.
Phelan was a few steps ahead of me, more focused on a stout man attempting to stuff a package into the overhead rack than the woman to our left.
"If you have any chance on that parcel fitting on the rack, you need to stand on the seat and push it into place. Sir? Sir, are you listening? Oh, for God's sake," my brother muttered to the shorter man ahead of us. "Seat yourself and allow someone taller than you to stow your belongings."
The woman moved a seat over as I took another step forward, pressing herself to the window. Her dark eyes were wide with alarm, her complexion sallow. She stared at me as if I stood poised to harm her when all I wished for was to return to the sanctity of my own secluded space.
"God protect me, God shield me, God keep me from evil," she said louder. The man behind her reading the newspaper glanced up at her, his brow furrowed.
It had been many years since someone's reaction to my appearance had been so outwardly alarming. No matter how I attempted to ignore cruel words or uncouth questions, they stirred within my mind, repeated a thousand times over in my thoughts for hours and sometimes days after the initial encounter.
"Felix, don't stare at that man," a woman said through her teeth.
I risked a glance at the opposite side of the aisle where a woman and a teenage boy sat together. I expected to see the boy blatantly staring at me, but his gaze was fixed on my brother, who was exerting all of his effort into stuffing the shorter gentleman's bag onto the rack.
"What on earth is in here?" Phelan groused. "A sack of potatoes?"
The man gestured wildly at Phelan, who finally managed to cram the lop-sided parcel into place. Once the package was secured, my brother looked over his shoulder at me. "Do keep up, Kire, or I'll toss you up here next."
I lowered my head and continued toward the woman praying for me to leave her alone and heard her release a shuddering breath as I passed.
As I reached the end of the car, I looked back and found her glaring at me, her lips drawn back in a sneer as she mouthed either a prayer or a curse.
The desire to stalk toward this vile woman crossed my mind. Would she shriek in fear if I approached? Faint dead in her seat if our eyes met, perhaps? I played out our conversation in my mind, imagining what she would say to me and I to her.
Do you have any idea who I am, Madame?
You are him! You are the Phantom of the Paris Opera House! The vile fiend of nightmares, a villain of unmatched horrors.
No, I am not.
Yes you are! You are supposed to be dead, eaten by worms.
I am a composer. I am E.M. Kire. Surely you have heard my music? I have a wife and two children at home, plus another on the way. I have a dog that was nearly drowned for being a runt and a cat with only one eye, whom I mercifully saved. I have grandparents in Denmark, to whom I am traveling to meet for the first time.
You are a blight on this train.
On the contrary, Madame, I am benign, gentle as a lamb.
With one glance she had decided I was wicked, a monster bearing some hideous visage that had to be concealed. Such ignorance and apathy never became easier to endure. In fact, the intolerance of strangers seemed more difficult to comprehend as I grew older and more aware of the true nature of those who were wicked in their intentions and heavy with their hands.
Overwhelmingly I had been met with more severe reactions than warm greetings. The malice from strangers stole my peace and made me second-guess myself any time I dared to step foot from my home. Laughter down the street late at night raised the hairs on my arms and quickened my pace.
I turned from the old woman, feeling more numbed than outright indignation by her reaction, and silently followed my brother. We were halfway to our destination, but I felt quite resolved to remain within our own train carriage for the remainder of our journey.
oOo
"My God, it's hot in here," Phelan muttered once we returned to our private train carriage. "Like an oven on wheels."
Once the door was locked behind me, I removed my mask and fanned myself with it, noting that the car's interior was quite stuffy from being stationary in the sun for over an hour.
Phelan placed the box of figurines onto his chair and opened the windows, which didn't do much for lowering the temperature until the train at last lurched forward several minutes later.
"There," he said, pointing at the ceiling as the horn blared and the train gained momentum. "Open the vent to help draw out this inconsiderate air."
I stood on the tips of my toes and pushed open the vent as he instructed, feeling the flow of air increase and the temperature drop considerably until it felt almost chilly with the breeze against my face and neck damp with perspiration.
Once lunch was delivered and we ate our fill, Phelan pulled out his sketchbook while I sat back and watched Germany from our seats in front of the long window. The breeze smelled of rain, the clouds heavy and dark. After a while, drizzle splattered onto the interior of the car's blue carpet, and once thunder rumbled in the distance, I closed the window all but an inch or two and sat back, inhaling the scent of a storm.
The region we passed through was mountainous, the long ranges ominous and covered with lush spruce that blanketed the terrain for as far the eye could see.
I spotted a castle in the distance, the white dome stark against the verdant landscape and gray sky like the cap of a giant seated in the wood.
For a while the train tracks followed alongside a stream that narrowed in parts and stretched wider in others. The water was nearly to the top of the banks and several trees with their roots exposed leaned toward the rushing current.
Indescribably uneasiness crept over me. It was a peculiar sensation, one with seemingly no particular origin. I took a pause in my breathing and counted to three, then slowly released the air in my lungs, hopeful that by controlling my breaths I could find calm.
My mouth felt dry, however, my fingertips numb. I stared at the edge of the window and willed myself to cease the dread that attempted to come over me, fearing panic would take relentless hold.
Phelan dropped his pencil and I flinched as it hit the ground, the sound startling me. My brother leaned forward, retrieving the object, all the while watching me from the corner of his eye.
He made no remark, which almost felt worse than if he had outright questioned me. I knew I sat rigid, by breaths coming unusually fast despite how still I sat.
"What are you drawing?" I asked. My voice sounded hoarse to my own ears.
He turned the book in his hands so that I could see the sketch of Marco on one side and the start of what appeared to be Julia and Lisette on the other.
"Are those for our grandmother?" I asked, attempting to make my voice as even as possible.
"I haven't decided yet," Phelan answered. "But I usually give at least one drawing to Hilda when I visit so that she has something to look at and remember between our visits."
"What do you typically draw for her?"
Phelan smiled to himself without looking me in the eye. "For the longest time, she had a collection of portraits of none other than her favorite grandson," he said under his breath as he continued shading in his work.
"A collection of your self-portraits?"
His lips twitched into a devious smile. "Indeed. She has an entire wall in her kitchen of me staring back at her. I imagine it's a bit unsettling to cook with two dozen eyes scrutinizing the use of herbs and spices, particularly the one of my head on the body of a donkey."
"You gave her a portrait from one of your students?"
"From Cristophe," he said affectionately. "He painted a beast of burden bearing my uncanny likeness, donning a striped sweater and seated before a roaring fire. Most of the drawings I've collected over the years are simple doodles, but Cristophe put quite a lot of work into this particular piece. He gave it to me a few days after his expulsion when my attempts to reverse the decision by the university were rejected."
"What did our grandmother think of the portrait?"
"I believe she was ready to remove the hatchet from the tree stump in the back of their house and go to battle with whomever disrespected her grandson."
The image of an elderly woman fiercely protective of her beloved grandson momentarily extinguished the feeling of trepidation, yet I still insisted on tormenting myself. I entertained thoughts of her refusing to speak to me, with the notion of the warmth and affection she bestowed upon my brother not extended to me for the same reason the older woman in the train car had prayed for God's protection from me.
We were less than twenty hours from our destination, less than a day's journey from either compassion or rejection. Perhaps the hatchet my grandmother would gladly take up to defend my brother she would arm herself with to drive me away. The idea made my stomach churn. I replaced the woman praying in the train car with the portrait of my maternal grandmother cursing my existence.
"Erik," Phelan said suddenly.
I realized I had been staring wordlessly at a distant point, my vision unfocused, oblivious to the world around me. My mask rested on my knee, the rain still coming in through the window dampening both my trouser leg and the false face staring back at me.
"Are you unwell?" Phelan asked, his voice filled with concern.
"No, I'm–"
He searched my face as he waited for me to continue speaking.
"I'm not unwell," I said.
Unwell implied illness and I was not, despite the chronic nature of my erratic thoughts, plagued by any disease.
Phelan chose not to pursue the conversation, preferring instead to open the small box with the figurine and set them out on the table.
The lighting made them no less crude, but something about their larger heads, egg-shaped bodies and mismatched limbs made them endearingly fantastical, like beasts that were from a land of fantasy or constructed merely by the notations of a child with a wandering imagination.
I picked up the cat with its long face and giant ears and imagined Lisette's reaction when she saw her gift, hazel eyes wide and lips parted before she squealed with delight.
"I believe I understand why you purchase so many of these," I said as I put the cat back onto the table and picked up the bird, fairly certain it was meant to be a dove, but with the wings fitting of a hawk. "There is something fanciful about them."
Phelan nodded in agreement. "Some travelers have bought her figurines to laugh about the craftsmanship and insult her work, unaware that the young lady at the counter is the one who spends hours carving them. Despite the mockery, she still creates her art and I find that admirable."
"Have you offered advice on her work?"
Phelan shook his head. "I enjoy her style and would not ask her to change anything about these lovely creatures. They are uniquely hers and should be valued as such."
I started to return the bird and cat to the box when there was a knock on the door, followed closely by Tadhg's unmistakable voice. "Kimmer brothers? Are you accepting visitors?"
"If you have chocolate, yes," Phelan answered.
"Yes! Yes I have plenty of chocolate!"
Phelan chuckled to himself while I carefully fit my mask into place, rose from my seat, and opened the door.
Tadhg held out the same paper bag I'd seen him carry aboard the train, which he presented to me, his crooked teeth and corners of his lips stained with chocolate.
"For you, Brothers Erik and Phelan," he said, proudly handing me the bag.
The contents were much heavier than I expected, and once I peered inside, I glanced up at Tadhg and shook my head. "You cannot possibly be offering us all of this."
"Yes, yes, for my new friends," he said.
"We should have sent you into a jewelry store for gold and silver instead of sweets," Phelan said.
Tadhg merely blinked at him. "I beg your pardon? You wanted jewelry?"
"No, that's not what I…" Phelan exhaled. "Forgive me, it was merely a jest, Mr. Bruno."
"Oh, I see." He forced an insincere smile, his ruddy cheeks turning a deeper shade of red with embarrassment.
"You should take half the chocolate," I suggested. "This is far too much for us to accept."
"No, no, Mr. Kimmer." Tadhg pulled out a handful of little crumpled foil balls from his overcoat pocket. "I've had plenty. One more piece and I will be sick."
"What about your wife and daughter?"
"No, no." He proceeded to walk into the train carriage and seat himself by the window.
"By all means, Mr. Bruno, make yourself comfortable," Phelan dryly said as he proceeded to grab the folding chair.
"Why did you purchase so much chocolate?" I asked as I reached into the bag.
"I couldn't decide what to buy. There were too many choices."
Phelan selected a triangular piece of chocolate wrapped in red foil.
"Ah, the cinnamon ones. Those are my favorite," Tadhg said.
"Mr. Bruno, considering everything I've learned about you in the last fourteen hours, I would expect nothing less than this particular flavor being your favorite," Phelan answered.
Tadhg gasped when he noticed my brother's sketchbook. "Your drawings, Mr. Phelan?"
"Rough sketches," my brother answered.
"May I take a look?"
Phelan narrowed his steely gray eyes. "As long as you have no intention of stealing my work."
Tadhg looked quite taken aback by my brother's attempt at humor. "No, no of course not, Mr. Phelan," he said. "I am not an artist or a thief."
"I was being facetious." My brother picked up the leatherbound book and handed it to the Irishman, who pursued the sketches, taking great care as he flipped through the book to examine each drawing.
"What is your occupation, Mr. Bruno?" Phelan asked.
"Typesetter," Tadhg answered. "My Big Father and Great Uncle started a printing company in Dublin, which they passed on to my father and uncles when they retired. I have worked there since I was a wee lad."
"Do you print music?" I asked.
"Yes, but we print many different items from newspapers and books to catalogs. The music is my favorite because I can read the new operas before anyone else." He smiled to himself while he continued to look through the sketches. "And sometimes there are changes to previously published works and I can learn to play specific pieces before the orchestra."
"That's how you knew about the changes to The Fox Pursues?" I questioned.
He readily nodded without looking at me. "I am the only typesetter in Dublin who is familiar enough with musical compositions, so when we receive new works for publication, I take the hand-written notes and transform them into sheets and books meant to be sold," he proudly answered. "I have been typesetting for sixteen years and in that time there have been only two mistakes on my part. I am very thorough even though sometimes the composers' penmanship is truly lacking. It is like attempting to decipher chicken scratches in sand."
I'd never considered who read through the scribbles and notations I hastily made before mailing out my music to be arranged for publication.
"Only two mistakes in sixteen years? That is a remarkable record," Phelan commented.
"How long does it typically take you to have everything set for printing?" I asked.
Tadhg thought for a moment. "A few weeks to a few months depending on the length of the piece. An opera with four acts, for instance, would take me three to four months."
"If it's terribly dull, I assume it would take longer," Phelan said.
"Music is never dull to me, Mr. Phelan. It is a special privilege to be able to commit these hand-written notes to print on behalf of the composers. In fact, I am hoping when I return home there will be a new opera from Kire."
"What brings you to Hamburg?" I asked.
Tadhg made no attempt to hide his frown. "I am traveling to one of our other printers to teach their typesetters how to use their new equipment."
"Why don't you take half of the chocolate with you for the typesetters in Hamburg?" Phelan suggested.
"I would end up eating it all before I arrive as I will not share with them." He paused on a page and held it up to show me and my brother. "This one is my favorite drawing."
"My niece Lisette and her mother Julia," Lan said.
"Mother and daughter," Tadhg murmured to himself. He pursed his lips and tapped the empty space on the page. "They are lovely."
"Why wouldn't you share the candy with the other typesetters?" Phelan asked.
"Why? Because they are rude, nasty people," Tadhg said without looking up from the book. He turned his head to the side and studied the drawing of Marco.
"My son," Phelan said. "Marco."
"I can tell he is your son. He favors you." Tadhg nodded. He remained quiet for a long moment and flipped through the pages of trees, flowers, and houses while Phelan reached for another piece of candy and handed it to me.
"The printers think I do not hear them whisper when I walk into the print rooms. They imitate me, waving their arms around while they laugh, saying I am an exuberant and witless fool with no sense of humor. I am too loud and too animated and I do not understand their attempts at speaking lightly." He exhaled. "Every time I receive the notice that the presses are in need of attention in Hamburg, I dread traveling there, Brothers Kimmer. I have never enjoyed the journey by train until last night when I heard the music." He inhaled sharply. "It makes me think of my sweetheart."
"Perhaps what they consider as a sense of humor is not truly amusing," I said.
"Perhaps not," he absently agreed, pausing on another drawing. "Is this Marco as a boy?" he asked, turning the book so that Phelan could see.
"No, that's my nephew," Phelan explained. "Alexandre."
Tadhg nodded and smiled. He ran his finger along the bottom of the page. "Ah, yes, my mistake, it says 'Aged Eight Years, a Portrait of Alexandre Jean…Kire'?" Immediately he looked up at the two of us, his mouth agape. "Kire? But how could this be?"
Phelan glanced at me and Tadhg turned his full attention to me, his jaw working in silence.
"Alex is my son," I said.
Tadhg snapped the book shut with such force that he made himself jump. He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable other than a look of sheer astonishment.
"You are…?"
"I should have said something last night," I said when he didn't finish his inquiry.
He pressed his hand to his forehead, swallowed, and proceeded to stand. His breaths were shaky, his gaze darting around the train carriage until it settled back on me.
"You are…you are the composer?" he skeptically asked.
"I am."
His grin slowly faded as he looked from me to Phelan and slowly shook his head. "No, this cannot be."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Is this a jest?" Tadhg questioned. His eyes narrowed with concern, his expression more wary than filled with wonder. "Are you…are you making fun of me, Mr. Kimmer?"
He took a small step back, his hand firmly grasping the back of the chair.
"No, of course not," Phelan said.
Tadhg remained unconvinced. He stared at me for one last moment, his gaze filled with remorse. "I must go," he muttered under his breath as he turned away. "I will not bother you a moment longer, Brothers Kimmer."