Ch 159
"How shall we pass the next couple of hours?" Phelan asked as we rolled up the rug and carried it back inside.
The two of us had spent the better part of an hour taking turns to thoroughly beat the dirt from the fibers, a task that proved far more satisfying than I would have ever imagined.
I had no idea who was tasked with cleaning the dozen or so rugs and runners throughout my own home, but the moment I returned, I fully intended to volunteer my services the next time a cleaning was due and imagined Alex would ask if he could take a turn as well.
"What are the choices for how we spend our time?" I asked.
"Stare at wheatfields, observe cows, watch mud dry, or–and I do not suggest this last one–be chased by a rooster."
"I've already done the last one."
"Cows, then?"
I shrugged in response, feeling the tightness return to my left shoulder after more exertion than I was accustomed to doing. "I suppose we could see what messages we have from Paris."
"I assumed we could check after supper. I feel as though responding to Alex alone has already cost me a month's salary and I cannot justify sending a telegram that says 'Your father and I beat a rug'."
"I am perfectly capable of compensating you for the telegrams."
"Unnecessary. Are you hungry?"
"No. Are you?"
"After everything we consumed for breakfast, I am surprised my guts haven't burst from being stretched to their limits."
I wrinkled my nose. "How lovely. Since we have a few hours, shall we walk to Onkerat?" I suggested as we unrolled the rug in the parlor and moved the chairs and tables back to their rightful spots.
The cat whom I had only seen on the back of Toke's chair circled around my legs, purring and rubbing herself against me as I nearly tripped over her. At her insistence, I bent and picked her up, running my hand down her spine.
"Travel to Onkerat looking like two hogs that rolled in the mud? Absolutely not." Phelan shook his head at me as I continued stroking the cat. "And you are a pig covered in cat hair."
"What is in Onkerat?" Hilda yelled from the kitchen.
Lan and I exchanged looks, both of us surprised that a woman who was in her eighties and hard of hearing could clearly make out every word in our exchange.
"Are you familiar with anyone who lives in that town?" I asked as we both walked into the kitchen. The cat followed me in, rubbing up against me until she noticed her bowl of fresh milk, at which time she abandoned affection for a meal.
"I am familiar with everyone in Onkerat," Hilda answered.
"Everyone?" Phelan asked. "Are you the town mayor?"
Our grandmother looked down her nose at my brother. "There are only four families," Hilda answered. "Borg, Frederikson, Dahl, and Bergerson."
"That's it?" I asked.
"Hardly a town," Lan muttered.
"They've been the only four families to live there for years. There used to be an Iversen, but the last one died a while ago and the Bergerson family bought the land when it went for auction, splitting it between their children."
"Are you familiar with a woman named Bodil?" I asked.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Phelan issue me a pointed look.
Hilda thought for a moment. "Perhaps a Dahl?" she suggested. "Malthe Dahl had a lot of daughters. Fourteen, to be exact. But then Bergerson's son married a woman who had been divorced. Oh, and the Borg's had two sons who stopped speaking to one another. Perhaps one of them? I don't speak to them."
"No other families by any other surname?" Phelan asked.
Hilda shook her head. "Not that I've heard. Who is this woman you seek?" She looked Phelan over, smiling. "Oh, does my big grandson have something important to say to his grandmother?"
"No," my brother said firmly. "I know what you're thinking, and no."
"What are my boys up to?" Hilda questioned.
"Nothing," I insisted.
Our grandmother still appeared quite suspicious. "You stay out of trouble."
Phelan kissed her on the forehead. "Always."
"Erik," Hilda said before we walked out of the kitchen. "Do you know how to tune a piano?"
I furrowed my brow. "Of course."
Phelan groaned, "Of course," he said, apparently imitating me by deepening his voice and puffing out his chest. "Monsieur Musician knows everything."
Hilda made a face directed at my brother, who immediately apologized. "You are being a bad brother," she said with a shake of her finger. "You be still, Phelan. Understand? Shame on you."
"Yes, Hilda."
"Why do you ask about a piano in need of tuning?" I questioned.
"Would you take a look at ours this afternoon?" she asked.
"Of course. Where is it?"
"I will show you when you return." She waddled over to me and squeezed my shoulder. "You are a good grandson. And if your brother is being unkind, you will tell your grandmother when you return from town." She tapped her chest. "I will make him behave."
I eyed Phelan. "You had better be nice," I teased.
"You had better be quiet," he said under his breath, nudging me in the side.
I chuckled to myself as we walked out the front door and toward the road, which was thankfully much drier than when we arrived.
"What is there to do in the town of Skyderhelm?" I asked.
"I believe we've already seen everything this part of Denmark has to offer," Lan said. "This certainly isn't Paris, Kire."
I had not experienced most of Paris despite having lived within a major city for most of my life. Most of the time the shops and cafes were closed when I wandered through the city, flesh-colored mask in place and hat low over my eyes to keep my features obscured.
Taverns and brothels were typically the only 'establishments' open and bustling while the city's upstanding citizens slept, and while I was far from receiving a key to the city, I had no interest in places that catered to those who roamed the night in search of seedy entertainment.
Absently I drew my hand to my face and touched my mask with my fingers. It had taken me thirty years, a wife and two children to step foot outside of my home in daylight without being shrouded by a large-brimmed hat and cloak.
Since Julia had become my wife a mere months earlier, I had visited the park near our home on multiple occasions, the bakery, opera house, and the most unexpected of all: the Exhibition grounds with its hundreds of exhibits and thousands of visitors.
I thought of the day I had gone to see Christine perform on opening day, how my stomach had been in knots as I trudged through the city, the exposed half of my face numb from the cold and wind flooding my eyes with tears. I forced myself to stand in the very back of the crowd, at such a distance that I knew for certain Christine would not spot me as I could barely see her.
That had been my existence for as long as I could recall; lingering in the distance, carefully choosing each step so that I stayed out of sight, aware that one glimpse from a stranger would set off the series of dominos until the world fell around me.
The ordinary that had been out of my reach was suddenly tangible, the possibilities no longer limited. A number of people had reacted to my mask, but their stares were benign compared to what I had always expected. Accompanied by my brother, I was growing more confident that I could walk through Skyderhelm without the risk of being tormented by strangers.
"What is it?" my brother questioned.
"I would like to wander," I said, the thought filling me with giddy excitement.
"Aimless exploration?"
"If you'd rather return to our hotel, I'm perfectly capable of–"
"No, I'll wander alongside you."
"Are you agreeing because you want to look around or because you so thoroughly enjoy my company?"
"Neither. I question your sense of direction."
I huffed at his comment. "My internal compass is impeccable."
"You became lost in a cow pasture," he reminded me.
"I wasn't lost, I was walking in the wrong direction."
My brother came to an abrupt stop. "Frankly, I don't see a difference. Which way are we currently heading?" Lan asked.
I squinted up at the sun. "West," I answered.
He lifted a brow. "You're certain?"
I was suddenly not certain at all, but still nodded.
"We're walking south."
"That cannot be–"
"We are walking south," he firmly answered, shaking his head at me. "I cannot believe I am saying this to someone with absolutely no sense of direction, but by all means, Kire, lead the way. And try not to get us lost in the jungles of Denmark."
"There are no jungles in…" I frowned. "You are quoting Alex."
Lan nodded. "I may tell him that you got us so turned around we stumbled upon an entire herd of tigers."
"Tigers are solitary," I pointed out. "Alex would see the error in your fanciful tale."
"Not if I feed you to a tiger," Lan said under his breath.
"I will tell Hilda what you said," I playfully threatened.
My brother attempted to scowl in return, but the two of us shook our heads at one another and chuckled at our own juvenile remarks as we continued walking south. I watched him select two more rocks, one of which he handed to me, and we both hurled them at the road ahead where they landed at almost the same distance.
I waited for a playfully snide remark of how I was still not nearly as good as him when it came to throwing a rock, to which I would tell him I had no interest, despite wanting to throw the stone further than my older brother.
"That was a good one," he admitted.
I smiled to myself, finding his praise was something I desired, affection from an older sibling to the younger that could never be duplicated by any other relationship. I relished my brother's company and the lightness that came in the simple moments between us.
"Lan, are you traveling all the way back to Paris with me or are you returning straight home to Brussels?" I asked, realizing we had not discussed the plans for our departure.
"I have to retrieve both Elvira and Cristophe, so I will be in town for at least a day," he answered. "Ideally two or three with the Exposition and paying a visit to a friend I have neglected to see the last two times I've been in town."
"Good," I said.
Lan eyed me. "Is it?"
"Of course. I prefer seeing you in person to writing letters."
"You have yet to write me a single letter."
"You've been in town frequently where I didn't need to write to you."
"Perhaps. You know, I never thought I would miss Paris," he said, bending over to pick up a rock, which he hurled at the road ahead.
"Do you miss living there?"
He shrugged. "Living there? No, not really. I miss an old friend of mine who is of an advanced age, the salon artists from Thursday evenings, a friend or two…being able to communicate with Marco, which I should have done years ago…" he turned his head and smirked. "Being able to annoy you on a daily basis is certainly an unexpected pleasure."
"What about Joshua?"
His expression immediately hardened. "What about him?"
"The two of you aren't…?" I wasn't certain how to phrase my inquiry.
Lan raised a brow. "Continue."
"On good terms," I said at last.
His expression darkened. "We never have been."
"Never?"
"Shall I repeat myself in your good ear?"
"May I ask why?"
He shot me a look of pure annoyance. "No, you may not."
We walked down the main road toward the town and our hotel in silence for a while, me attempting to think of something worthwhile to say while my brother picked up rocks and hurled them side-arm down the road.
There had always been noticeable tension between my brother and our cousin, all of which I assumed was Phelan's doing as he came across as someone easily perturbed while Joshua had been cordial toward me from our first encounter.
However, now that I had gotten to know Phelan better, I wasn't so sure what had caused the two of them to grow apart, other than as Joshua said they were different people.
Still, it saddened me that the times the three of us had been together, the tension between the two of them was palpable.
I started to speak when the rumble of a buggy and a surprisingly large cloud of dust came into view up the road, the wheels bumbling over the uneven terrain. The single chestnut horse cantered at a decent speed toward us, hooves beating the dirt hard enough to make the ground beneath our feet tremble.
Due to the horse's pace, my brother and I hurried to the side of the road in order to avoid being trampled by the beast or flattened by the wheels.
"Apologies!" the female driver bellowed in Danish as she brought the horse to a walk and nodded toward us. "Didn't see you on the road."
"How could you miss us?" Phelan snapped, speaking in French.
"I wasn't looking," she said, surprisingly changing to French once she heard my brother speak. She waved her arms about as if she could clear the rising cloud of dust with her hands.
"Weren't looking indeed," my brother snarled. "Utterly irresponsible. Perhaps the Danish government should issue a permit of some sort to ladies driving a horse and buggy if they cannot pay attention to their surroundings."
"We're fine and she apologized," I pointed out to Lan.
"You shouldn't be walking in the middle of the road," the woman reprimanded us like a mother speaking to her insolent children. "Perhaps the Danish government should utilize a test to see if men are smart enough to walk on the side of the road. And if they aren't, gather them all up and put them in a pen like swine."
I briefly closed my eyes, fully expecting Lan to take offense to her words.
"You shouldn't be traveling so fast," my brother countered.
"I always travel at this speed," she replied, removing her hat to swat at the dust, which had thankfully started to settle. "It gets me to my destination in a timely manner."
"Well, you should probably leave a few minutes earlier than you do if you're concerned about being late. You're liable to kill someone," Phelan groused.
"Haven't killed anyone yet," she said. "Although it's tempting."
"I do beg your pardon, Madame?" Phelan said through his teeth.
With her hat in her hand, she looked at my brother first, her slate gray eyes hardened, then at me. The conversation abruptly paused, and she examined me for a long moment, then turned to stare at my brother while the two of us gaped at her.
"Phelan," I said under my breath, placing my hand on his shoulder. "She looks like–"
"Myrna," Phelan whispered.
oOo
"I suggest you two fools get out of the way," the woman said as she gave the horse a tap with the reins.
"A moment, Madame," I said.
But the horse had no intention of waiting once he was given the order to proceed, and I found myself leaping back to avoid a collision.
"Are you from Onkerat?" I shouted.
The horse and buggy came to an abrupt stop, and the woman twisted in her seat to acknowledge me.
"Who is inquiring?"
"My name is Erik Kire," I said. "This is my brother, Phelan–"
"Phelan?" Her eyes widened on her dust-covered visage before I finished speaking, and she tied the reins to the buggy and jumped down from the seat.
Once she was standing on the road, I noticed how tall she was for a woman, with long legs beneath a swirl of dark blue skirts and a waist that seemed impossibly narrow. Lanky, I thought, built like me and my brother.
"Why did you ask if I was from Onkerat?" she impatiently questioned once she stood in front of me.
"We were looking for someone from your town," I answered.
"It isn't a town," she insisted. "It's four farms. It's crops and livestock, not a town."
"Well, it has the name of a town, regardless of the number of people," Phelan said.
"Are you an expert?" she asked.
The impatient look in her eye and manner of speaking were remarkably similar to my brother, who rolled his eyes.
"What are you rolling your eyes for?" she snapped.
My brother nodded toward me. "He's looking for someone from one of those four farms," Lan replied. "And I would bet twenty thousand francs that the person in question is you."
Her posture turned more rigid, her chin held high. "And who are you two dust-covered dolts searching for in Onkerat? Hmm? Speak up."
"Dust covered dolts?" Lan grouse. "Listen here–"
"Bodil Kimmer," I answered before my brother could finish his words.
Immediately her expression sobered. "Why?" she asked, her attention turned exclusively to me. "Why are you looking for…her?"
"Why is my brother looking for you?" Phelan asked.
The woman ignored him. "What do you want?" she asked me, taking a step back and balling her hands into fists.
"Well, he doesn't want to fight you," Phelan said, shaking his head. "Clearly you'd have him on the ground begging for mercy and he'd have to leave Skyderhelm in disgrace being bested by a woman."
Despite my brother's attempt at humor, she still held up her fists as if she expected a brawl to take place in the middle of the street.
"What do you want?" she asked, dropping her stance. "You have one last chance to answer me."
"Or what?" Phelan asked, scoffing.
"Are you Bodil Kimmer?" I asked.
"Look at her. Of course she is," Phelan said.
When she didn't readily answer, my brother took a step forward and she swung her fist toward his face, narrowly missing his jaw. "Are you related to Alak or Bjorn?" Phelan asked before I could start out with a more diplomatic and delicate question. "Based on your desire to fight, I would guess Bjorn."
Her gray eyes searched my brother's face. "Who are you to question me?"
Lan placed both hands on his hips and looked her up and down. They were both standing in the same manner, knees slightly bent, gray eyes hardened, expressions indicating annoyance. If she didn't appear a few years younger than the two of us, I would have thought they were fraternal twins.
"How do you think we know him?" my brother asked, sweeping his hand down his body.
The woman took a step back. "Phelan," she said, looking him up and down in the same manner he had done to her. "I've heard that name before."
Lan raised a brow. "Of course you have. I'm a painter of great renown."
"No, you're his son." Her eyes settled on me. "You're both his sons, aren't you?"
Lan nodded. "And you're his daughter. Bodil Kimmer?"
"He spoke of me?"
Lan shook his head.
"Then how did you know?"
"We were told there was another Kimmer in Onkerat. My brother wanted to see if you were of any relation to our uncle, Alak, or our father, Bjorn."
Her expression turned from confident and combative to filled with remorse. "I was told my father's name is Bjorn Kimmer," she said quietly. "I never met him, but…" She looked at my brother, searching his face. "My Gram said there is a strong resemblance. I don't know if that's good or bad."
At last Phelan's expression softened. "Are you…are you related to a woman named Myrna by chance?" he asked, eyeing the horse.
"How did you know Myrna?" Bodil asked.
My brother swallowed. "Know her? I suppose I didn't, at least not well," he said. "I recall the name, however."
Bodil nodded. "Myrna is my Gran," she replied. "She raised me from the time I was little when my mum wasn't old enough and my father..." She inhaled. "Was with his wife and children, I suppose."
"She is your–our–paternal grandmother?" I questioned.
Bodil shifted her weight and lowered her hat over her eyes to block the sun. "I lived with her my whole life."
Lan exhaled. "Myrna's not…?"
"Not what?" Bodil asked impatiently.
Lan's jaw worked in silence. "Is she deceased?"
"No, she's not deceased. Gran Myrna lives across the street from the train station."
Phelan's eyes widened with surprise. "She lives across from the train station?"
Bodil gave a single nod. "She works twice a week at the train station serving lemonade with my sister. If you ask the two of them, Skyderhelm may as well be New York City."
My brother froze. "Three booths to the right of the telegram station?"
"Yes, that's the one." Bodil narrowed her eyes. "You act like you know her. How is that?"
Phelan furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure how to explain it. I remember she had a cart and a horse, but this would not have been here in Onkerat or Skyderhelm. It wasn't even in Denmark."
"Conforeit?" Bodil queried.
Lan and I both exchanged looks.
"How did you know?" I asked.
"That's where my father lives, isn't it? He lived with the two of you?"
"Not exactly," Phelan answered.
Bodil stared at the two of us, her arms crossed over her chest. "Is Father still living?" she asked.
I shook my head. "He's been gone for a number of years now."
"I see." She took a step back and looked us over, brow furrowed. "My God, you're both so old," she said.
My brother made a face. "You're not exactly a young lady yourself."
Bodil snorted. "No, I suppose not. My apologies, I wasn't expecting to meet my older half-brothers today."
"I wasn't expecting to meet my uncouth younger half-sister, either. At our advanced ages you're fortunate we both didn't keel over before noon."
"Praise God," she dryly said. "Phelan, Erik, I must be on my way. I have to return home and water the horse," she said. "You're staying at the Swan, yes?"
We both nodded.
"Would you care to speak tonight?"
"Are you making a list of insults in the meantime?" Lan asked.
"Lan," I said under my breath.
"No insults," she promised.
"Five?" my brother suggested.
She nodded. "Five."
With that, Bodil returned to her buggy and continued down the road, leaving me and my brother in her dusty wake. We watched until the cart and horse were out of view before we continued down the road.
"Lan," I said, shaking him by the arm.
"Kire?"
"We have a younger sister."
"And she's so charming," Lan dryly replied.
oOo
The lemonade stand was closed for the day, however, Phelan humored me and we spent an hour wandering through Skyderhelm, which consisted of a dozen small shops surrounding the train station, a dentist, barber, and a general store called Leach Goods–which naturally sold products manufactured by the Leach Family of England– many bottles and other various packages of which bore Archie's smiling image, along with the familiar phrase I had come to associate with him: Leach Goods, We're Everywhere!
"My God, he truly is everywhere," I said under my breath as I returned a glass jar of molasses to the shelf.
My brother and I took our time perusing the small shops selling clothing and fabric, hats and shoes, and a boutique filled with various combs, ribbons, and jewelry for ladies as well as leather wallets and hand-made knives with bone handles and leather sheaths for men. The interior smelled like leather, tobacco and lilacs, a welcoming combination.
Once we left the shop with an abundance of gifts, we continued to the end of the street where we paused in front of the theater to read the advertisements for upcoming performances.
"The Good Life: A Comedy," I read.
The production appeared to be a play that had received favorable reviews from the Skyerhelm Trumpet, the one and apparently only source of news for the county. The production was in its third and final week according to the window card at the ticket booth, and boasted singing, tap-dancing, and a fifteen person chorus.
The building was a single story wooden structure painted bright red with gold trimmed windows, pillars and double doors bearing the familiar masks of tragedy and comedy.
"Given the size of the town, I'm surprised they have a theater."
Phelan shrugged. "The seats are usually all filled."
I lifted a brow, impressed by Skyderhelm's affinity for the arts.
"Friday and Saturday nights they have shows here and sometimes music outside of the train station at the tavern after the performances. It's actually quite lively on the weekends given the majority of the population is far younger than Toke and Hilda." He grunted to himself. "And then Sunday morning everyone who has had far too much enjoyment attends church on the other side of the street. It's quite the sight to behold."
"Have you ever considered moving here?" I asked.
"And doing what, precisely? Inheriting a dairy farm an breaking my back daily?"
"Teaching."
"There's a single school house with a spinster for a teacher two streets away that educates children to teenagers. Skyderhelm isn't exactly the center of art and culture, Kire."
"Given your growing popularity, you could paint from anywhere," I pointed out.
"But I couldn't teach art, at least not to aspiring artists. I'd be surrounded by drooling children that can barely scrawl their names."
"What if you opened your own studio?"
"I suppose I'll sell my home, give my resignation to the university, learn Danish, and open a private facility here per your suggestion."
"You could teach here in the summer," I suggested.
"If I'm in Brussels nine months of the year and Skyderhelm the other three, how on earth will I be able to annoy you in Rouen when you're on holiday with your wife and children for the summer?"
"I am glad to hear being obnoxious is high on your list of priorities."
My brother chuckled to himself. "I write it into my journal every morning: 'Ways to annoy Erik, day two hundred and fifty-three of the year.'"
"You're ridiculous," I said with a shake of my head.
"Proudly ridiculous, little brother. Shall we retrieve our telegrams?" Lan asked as we turned to cross the street and walk back to the train station.
"I suppose we have time to read them before we return to the–"
I paused in the middle of speaking, my words cut short once I spotted a handful of people lingering behind us.
Phelan turned to see what I was staring at, then at me. "I suppose our aimless wandering has come to an end."
oOo
After the Opera House disaster, the news of a ghost terrorizing innocent people plagued my every waking moment.
"It will pass," Madeline insisted. She wagered within two weeks the newspapers would find a different tragedy and my unwanted spotlight would be snuffed out.
For the first week, however, my treacherous actions were the only headline, with quotes from the managers to patrons and even Maeline, who swore she had not spoken to the press. There were descriptions of my skeletal hands, how the tendons along my jaw protruded from my flesh, and the sound of my voice could persuade the most innocent of souls to commit heinous crimes.
'Imagine your worst nightmare come to life. That is what his face resembles' – Mme Giry, ballet mistress
'He does not possess a face; his head is one of death, no teeth or eyes and a cavernous hole for a nose filled with maggots and decay' – Vicomte de Chagny
'I would faint before I speak of that devil' – Carlotta
'Unspeakable horrors' – Nadir Khan
The second week the newspapers were fixated on alleged crimes that I had committed following the Opera Populaire fire. A woman was found dead in the Seine, a child buried in a shallow grave, arson leaving twenty people dead, and a man hanged beneath a bridge were considered my doing. The dreaded Phantom was a madman set to destroy anyone and anything in his path, a monster the likes of which Paris had never seen.
My love for Christine had been twisted, my desire to be loved in return misconstrued as hatred and malice, the loneliness that had been woven into my life from my earliest memories mistaken for bloodlust.
Leaving the upstairs bedroom I had claimed as my own was not an option as stories continued to circulate, and for months, I remained caged within four walls, curtain drawn and a collection of my ongoing misdeeds spread out on my bed, desk, and trunk, clipped from the newspapers before Madeline stopped delivery.
I knew if I were spotted on the streets, the mob would tear me apart, despite my attempt at telling the public I was no longer a threat in three words: ERIK IS DEAD.
How I had wished for those words to be true, to be rid of the life that had become unbearable.
Far from the streets of Paris, with a small crowd walking toward Phelan and I, all I could think about was the weeks following the theater's demise.
Phelan put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Aimless wandering indeed," he said under his breath, taking a step forward while I remained nailed to the theater steps. "This is all your doing, Kire."
The crowd advanced, and as I remained where I stood, I realized they had come to see my brother, not me. A dozen men began talking at once, all of them gesturing as they spoke in a mix of Danish and German.
"Artist! Artist! Portrait," they said. "Will you draw portraits?"
"One at a time, please, gentleman," my brother insisted, but his words did little to appease the crowd.
"They want you to paint?" I questioned Lan in French.
He looked at me from the corner of his eye. "People the world over purchase my work for thousands of francs. In Skyderhelm, they offer me five krone for a sketch."
Within minutes they had Phelan surrounded, all of them smiling and patting him on the back while they held out folded pieces of paper, which he collected one by one.
"What is happening?" I asked.
"I draw five names every time I am here," he said. "It's the only fair way I've found to meet their demands. Did I not mention this to you on the train?"
"You most definitely did not."
"You!" one man bellowed, pointing at me. "Do you draw?"
"Music," Phelan said. "He's a…Erik, how do you say musician, composer, and the very fortunate little brother of a renowned painter?"
"I write music," I said in Danish.
My words were met with a murmur from the crowd gathered around Phelan.
"The Opera Man," one of the people toward the back said. "Riddo said you are famous for your music. Is that true?"
My heart stuttered. "I've written a few operas," I replied quite modestly.
"You are the famous Opera Man!" the gentleman declared, clapping his hands. "Play for us! Play for us, Opera Man."
"Opera Man?" Phelan said. He grinned at me, clearly amused by the title. "I believe that is how I shall refer to you going forward."