CH 34
Much to my displeasure, the university gymnasium was still occupied by a boxing ring. The ring, however, was not in use, and as I locked the door behind me, I found myself drawn to the stairs leading to the platform.
My fists had found their way to numerous faces, breaking a nose here and there, leaving lips and eyebrows busted open. I had been pummeled as well, bruised and bleeding, violently shaking once I ducked into the safety of a doorway or down an alley, fortunate to elude death at the hands of a stranger.
I recalled the horror the first time I'd washed the blood from my knuckles, unsure of whether the stains on my flesh were from my own veins or the individual who had come swinging at me, making certain I knew he would have me begging for mercy or bleeding out in the middle of the street.
Quite honestly I was not a particularly good fighter when it came to hand-to-hand combat. I wasn't the quickest on my feet nor the person who struck the hardest.
But I had been able to take a punch, whether it was to the face or the abdomen, and push past what would have left others doubled over on the ground in agony. I could withstand more pain than anyone else. Whether it was a saving grace or curse I wasn't certain, but I had become quite proficient at withstanding the worst beating.
"What in the hell are you doing in here?"
Bernard Montlaur's rough tone nearly sent my soul leaping from my flesh and bones. I turned on my heel, finding him in the corner with the barbells and stacks of iron plates.
"Me? I am employed here. What are you doing in a locked building?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snarled.
He was truly a hideous looking man with his wide, crooked nose and oversized ears. The sneer on his face merely added to his already unpleasant features.
"You look like you'd enjoy punching someone in the face," I answered.
"Are you volunteering?"
I turned my head to the side. "Only if I am allowed to strike you back."
Montlaur was immediately on his feet, stalking toward me with his limping gait.
"You're injured," I observed, noticing the way he favored his right leg. I couldn't tell if it was his knee or hip that wrenched his body with each step, but it was prominent.
"I've been injured for a long time. It ain't stopped me yet."
"I suppose I should take whatever advantage I can get."
He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside before he made his way up the three stairs to the ring, his right knee buckling beneath his weight.
I followed behind him, noticing the way his right foot turned outward with each step. I had no medical experience outside of tending to my own injuries after brawls, but I was certain Montlaur had not been limping during our boxing lesson. A fresh injury would be tender. He would compensate for the weakened side of his lower body. I would not best him, but there was hope of holding my own.
"Take your shirt off," he grumbled over his shoulder. "Unless you want to dye your shirt in your own blood."
"My, my, aren't we confident today," I said under my breath, taking my time to unbutton my shirt and set it aside.
He continued to stretch with his back to me, and I noticed a tattoo on his right shoulder: Beatrix, written in cursive, surrounded by a heart that was a bit lopsided. On the bottom it looked like numbers had been scrawled into his flesh, but the digits were far too small for me to read at a distance.
Montlaur's attention was immediately focused on my left arm. He unabashedly examined the scar tissue, his face still twisted in a scowl.
"A closer look, Monsieur," I said, stepping forward with my arm out and fingers splayed, allowing him full view of the gnarled tissue that had burned day and night for over thirty years. There was a small scab toward my wrist, an annoying wound that appeared out of nowhere, wept for a few days, and then crusted over. It was unsightly, I knew–as was the entirety of my forearm–but the ulcer caused worse pain than the rest of my arm. The slightest brush of fabric over the wound jolted me from sleep and grit my teeth during the day.
"A burn," I said before he asked. "Caused by my father when I was three and a half."
Montlaur's expression gave no indication that he spared a shred of sympathy or had any feelings whatsoever concerning my statement. He turned away from me and swung at the air, bouncing back and forth, his weight mostly on his left leg.
I took a deep breath and widened my stance, hands balled into fists. Before I was fully prepared, the puglist turned on his left foot and swung at my head.
His fist narrowly missed my temple and I stumbled backward until I was against the ropes and able to regroup.
"That was a warning," Montlaur said through his teeth.
"I don't need a warning," I said, stepping toward him.
He lifted both of his fists toward his face and jabbed at me twice, grinning when I barely evaded him.
"You're quick," he said.
"Or you're slow."
"Strike me first," he said with a nod, lowering his arms slightly to give me an advantage. "Go ahead, do your worst."
"I will not accept your pity."
Montlaur chuckled to himself. "Pity? I ain't got a bit of pity for you. I am indifferent."
I advanced toward him while he was speaking, striking at him wildly with my right hand, which he easily averted. I turned, both arms flailing as I managed to strike him in the shoulder with my left hand.
What should have been a satisfying first hit immediately turned into excruciating pain as he pressed his fingers into my forearm, his thumb picking off the scab in the process.
My vision immediately blurred and I wrenched away from him, barely able to register my surroundings as fire flooded through the nerve damage from my wrist to my elbow.
"What happened to your back?" he asked. "You've got matching bruises over your kidneys."
I returned to the ropes, breaths ragged and beads of sweat on my brow. "Don't worry about my back," I said through my teeth.
Montlaur turned his head to the side. "Hurts, don't it?" he asked, nodding to my left arm.
Few saw the full extent of the wound and had no idea the crippling effect of gripping my arm. Montlaur, however, lusted for my pain. His eyes brightened with the realization that he could drive me to my knees and turn my face to pulp if he grabbed hold of my arm.
"I've experienced worse pain," I assured him.
"You ain't got to lie to me, boy."
"Boy?" I snorted out a laugh.
"Would you rather I call you a girl?"
I straightened my spine. "Is that your preferred target? A helpless girl? One who stands no chance against a grown man."
All at once his expression changed from unpleasant to livid. His eyes turned to ice, his mouth twisting with malice.
"You think I'd hurt a girl?" he growled, advancing toward me.
I swung at him, hitting his jaw and his nose, but with no effect. He barely flinched as I drew up my knee and struck him in the belly, hard as I could manage.
With both hands he grabbed me by the shoulders and lifted me into the air, slamming me onto my back and into the mat. I swore he increased in size; an already muscular man becoming an enormous, incensed bear.
The air exploded from my lungs and I fought to gasp, vision dotted with bright white diamonds of light from the blow to the back of my throbbing head.
With his knee on my chest, he drew his fist back, and I knew without a doubt he would shatter my nose. I wasn't sure if he would stop there or continue until I drowned in my own hot blood.
I braced myself, holding what little air I could in my aching lungs, the back of my head feeling as though it had split in two while my left arm was on fire, the result of him digging his thumb into the precise spot where the scab had been.
In an instant I was seven and a half years old, flat on my back with Alak pinning me to the dirt and dry pine needles, rocks stabbing me in the spine while he sat on my chest and suffocated me.
Is this what you wanted? Alak had snarled, words slurred and saliva on his lips.
"Answer me, you pathetic little bastard!" Montlaur roared, spitting on my face. "Do you think I would harm a girl?"
I met his eye, noting the same hidden emotion I had seen in myself when I looked into the mirror and took inventory of my wounds after senseless brawls. Behind the cuts and bruises, beneath the rage fading with every pulse of blood through the veins that had been opened, there was a sense of remorse and a feeling of emptiness. The sudden rush of the fight itself, the detachment from myself, never lasted long enough.
"I think you would show restraint," I managed to wheeze.
Montlaur smacked the side of my head with his open hand and pulled hard on my hair, wrenching my neck side to side.
. "Get up, you fool," he said as he stood and stormed toward the corner of the ring. "Before I change my mind and shatter your nose."
It took me longer than I would have liked to draw air into my aching lungs and for the burning sensation on my arm to settle beneath my flesh. The scab ripped off prematurely left the small, unhealed wound bleeding and I grit my teeth, finding myself annoyed by the sight of it.
"Who is Beatrix?"
Montlaur spun on his heel and towered over me. "How did you…?" His eyes narrowed and he turned his head as if he could see the tattoo on his shoulder. Nostrils flared, he exhaled. "I cannot tolerate another second of you. Get out," he said, pointing at the double doors.
"As soon as I have finished with the barbells."
He grunted like a troll from a storybook and turned away from me, marched down the stairs, and stormed toward the exit where he thrust his full weight into the door…
…And bounced back as if he were made of rubber. He tried the door again as if it would magically open and I paused, watching as he punched the barrier in anger.
"It's locked," I said.
"I see that!" he growled over his shoulder.
"Turn the lock," I suggested. "Before you break your hand, you idiot."
He turned toward me, his complexion deep red and a vein in his neck protruding. "Break my hand? I'll do worse to you for locking me in here."
He meant it, I knew. Nothing would bring him greater satisfaction than turning my face into ground meat.
"I secured the door when I entered, assuming I would be alone," I explained. "It had nothing to do with you."
He released a breath, hands on his hips, and turned away from me. The moment he twisted his right knee, his leg gave out and he failed to recover, landing on all fours.
The string of words that left his lips was quite impressive, some of them so unique that I wasn't certain what part of the anatomy was referenced.
From the ring I crossed my arms and shook my head. "My, my, what would Beatrix think if she heard that?" I said rather lightly.
Montlaur climbed to his feet, beat his fists upon the door, and released a scream that was so loud and deep it was as if the sound came from his soul. He turned to look at me one last time, his chest heaving and eyes bloodshot and glassy with unshed tears.
"Do not ever speak my daughter's name," he seethed. "Or I will have no qualms about beating you to death."
OoO
I was well aware that I struck a chord with Bernard Montlaur that should not have been touched. He exited the gymnasium before I could offer an apology, and he slammed the door behind him with such force that I was amazed it stayed on the hinges.
For a long moment I remained in the ring, pinned in place by a sense of shame that I had brought up in conversation a person whom I was certain should have remained untouched.
Several moments after Montlaur exited the gym, I walked out as well, leaving the door unlocked should he return. I ventured to Hugo's home, needing the clarity of a long, brisk walk and his wise counsel.
My mentor was outside again, easel on the front porch and a large canvas propped up.
"You're painting," I said as I jogged up the steps and took a seat across from him.
He shrugged. "So I am."
"May I see?"
Hugo shot me a look. "Patience, my dear."
I sat back in the wicker chair and folded my hands, well aware that it could be five minutes or an hour before he allowed me a glimpse of his work.
"I see there was a bit of a disturbance at the theater last night," Hugo commented without looking away from the canvas.
"A bit."
"The ghost again?"
"Who else?"
Hugo sat back and grunted as he looked over his work, his graying brows furrowed. Whenever I observed him painting, his expression stern, I wondered how I looked in the midst of applying paint to the canvas. "Did you see the spector with your own eyes?" Hugo asked.
"Honestly, there isn't much to see."
"Oh?"
"He is robed and masked."
"Hmmm," Hugo said. "A mysterious phantom haunting the opera."
"An immature man masquerading as a ghost," I corrected.
"Well, I certainly hope the ghost doesn't hear you boldly slandering him."
"Or what will he do?" I snorted.
"Have you swinging from the rafters," Hugo said rather loudly. "And I must say, you have a fine neck, Phelan. Probably your best quality."
"My neck?" I questioned, touching my throat.
"Indeed. It's holding up that handsome face of yours."
I rolled my eyes. "You flatter your husband."
"Indeed. Flattery aside, I wonder who the phantom could be?" Hugo said as he lifted his brush from the paint and began working again. "Perhaps some aristocrat is so bored with his mundane life that he's causing a bit of mischief."
"If the rumors are correct, extortion, murder and abduction are a bit more than 'mischief', wouldn't you say?"
"I put nothing past those with obscene wealth. They could murder their own mothers and get away with it."
"How charming." I leaned to the side, attempting to view Hugo's work, which earned me an exaggerated gasp.
"Not yet!" he exclaimed, tapping my foot with his crutch.
"What on earth is so secret? Is it a self-portrait? A nude, perhaps?"
"Indeed," Hugo grumbled to himself.
"You've never been secretive about your art."
"Fine, if you absolutely insist on pestering me until I give in, you may see what I've been working on."
I issued a significant look in his direction before I moved my chair and leaned toward the canvas.
"It's…it's Marco," I said, more taken aback than I should have been by the unfinished portrait.
Marco was depicted in conversation, his eyes creased at the edges, waves of dark hair framing his face. He appeared amused, his eyes bright and full of life.
"Why is he dressed like a pirate?" I asked, noting the ruffled collar.
"Because Marco has a most delightful sense of humor."
I turned my attention to Hugo. "I don't understand."
Hugo sighed and began adding color to the coat, a deep blue against gold braids on the shoulders and medals made of skulls. "We have been posing for each other," Hugo explained. "But he decided to make me into an army general and I made him into a pirate."
"How long have you been working on this?"
"This morning was our third day of painting together."
I regretted the spike of bitter jealousy that pinched my insides. "Marco has already stopped by this morning?"
Hugo looked at me from the corner of his eye. "Private lessons, Phelan, similar to the ones we enjoyed when you were around his age."
His comment made me feel no better despite my fond memories of lingering behind the rest of our critique group where Hugo not only fed me, but offered advice and asked me to sketch or paint with him until the salon employee began sweeping around our feet, not so subtly encouraging us to be on our way.
Being that I was not gainfully employed at the time and quite combative, it had taken quite a lot of effort on Hugo's part to convince me to stay at first. Trouble in the night wa far more inviting than a man twice my age talking about color theory and technique.
"Is Marco doing well?"
"Quite." Hugo paused with the brush in hand and squinted. "Do you want to see his painting?"
The automatic answer was a resounding and enthusiastic Yes. Yes, of course I would, I want to see his work and compare his style to mine.
"Dorothea!" Hugo shouted, banging the end of his cane against the front door before I could reply.
I nearly jumped out of my seat at the unexpected thumping sound and scowled at him. "I could have walked in and found her for you. No need to be rude."
"I'm right here," Dorothea said, appearing in the doorway.
"I have a visitor," Hugo proudly said. "Second one of the day and it's only ten in the morning. I must say, I've become quite popular."
Dorothea didn't appear to share Hugo's enthusiasm. "You are quite the talk of the neighborhood," she replied. "May I bring you something for you and your guest, Monsieur Duarte?"
"The canvas in the parlor," Hugo answered. "With great care, Madame. It is still drying."
Dorothea turned on her heel and returned inside, appearing again not thirty seconds later with the canvas, which she handed to me.
"Careful," Hugo reminded me.
The painting was far from being finished with only a fourth of the canvas bearing paint, all of which was toward the top left corner.
"He's impatient, that is for certain," Hugo said while I studied the lines drawn for reference on the canvas, the notations of colors carefully scrawled on sleeves and buttons. "He wants to be the next master by this coming Tuesday."
"Impatient like me," I mumbled.
"You were never impatient," Hugo said.
"I wasn't?"
"You were more intolerable in general."
"How kind of you to notice," I grumbled.
"You are actually quite a patient individual," Hugo replied. "It's one of your best qualities, second only to your neck, of course."
"I don't consider myself patient in the least."
"Of course not. Nor would you be able to compose a list of your best qualities, now would you? You're far too critical of yourself for lists of admirable traits."
I handed the canvas to Hugo, who nodded in approval. "Marco wants to be taken seriously," he said. "Just like you."
"He is fortunate to have you as his mentor," I said. "Another quality we share."
Hugo started to lift his cane, but Dorothea stepped outside, took the canvas from him, and returned it to the parlor while I continued to study the painting of Marco.
"My holiday cannot come soon enough," I heard Dorothea say quite loudly.
"Indeed, Madame!" Hugo replied. He turned his attention back to me and cleared his throat. "You do understand that I am not excluding you from these sessions because I don't want you to interact with your son?"
"I do."
"But you don't like it."
"I don't."
Hugo patted my knee. "A few weeks more and perhaps there will be an opportunity for our private lessons to turn into a group study."
I inhaled, but didn't agree or disagree, uncertain of where I would fit into their established meetings. For all I knew, Marco had no desire to be in my company, for which I could hardly blame him as I'd not been part of his life in any capacity for the first seventeen years.
"My God," Hugo said, gasping.
I immediately stared at him, my eye wide. "What is the matter?"
"You," he said, looking me over. "You look horrendous."
I pursed my lips briefly. "How wonderful of you to notice."
"What's wrong?" Hugo asked, his brow furrowed.
"Nothing."
Hugo leaned forward, nudging me with the tip of his cane. "Phelan," he warned. "Tell me."
I sighed quite heavily, disliking how well he seemed to know me. "I believe I was a bit of a bastard to someone."
Hugo lowered his chin and looked down his nose at me. "Explain."
"There is a prizefighter," I told him. "Bernard Montlaur."
Hugo exhaled. "I am familiar with him."
"How familiar?"
"He was undefeated for a number of years," Hugo replied. "Six, to be exact. He lost two matches in a row, disappeared for about a year, and returned to boxing better than ever. I've heard he's in the best condition of his life. Like a God. Now why on earth would you be a bit of a bastard to a prizefighter? Are you looking to get yourself killed?"
"It wasn't intentional."
"Does he know that?"
"Probably not." I frowned at him. "You've seen him fight previously?"
Hugo furrowed his brow and inhaled. "I saw him once, but I've followed his career via the newspapers. I'm certain you considered many of my valuable articles refuse, but I had his matches cataloged in my bedroom. A pity you went and threw out every single one of my treasures."
Treasures? In that nest fit for rats? I wanted to say.
"I didn't throw out any of the boxes," I said defensively. "I forced you into departing with a number of books that you had multiple additions of scattered about, removed everything that was broken or beyond repair, but your boxes are neatly stacked against the wall and in alphabetical order."
Hugo sighed in relief. "Good. Then I can relive some of his best matches yet." Unexpectedly he tapped my shin with the end of his cane, a habit I didn't care for in the least. "Bring down the box marked 'M'. I would like to read about his victories from last year."
"Right now?"
"Yes, before you forget."
I gave Hugo a significant look before I walked into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom, which was in greater disarray than it had been the last time I'd seen him tucked into bed. Teeth gritted, I resisted the urge to sort through every last article of clothing tossed around and the numerous objects that had been haphazardly left scattered in the room.
The boxes were thankfully in order, alphabetized and stacked neatly against the wall instead of scattered haphazardly, dangerously close to toppling over.
I pulled out the box labeled 'M' in blue paint and removed the lid, surprised that the contents inside were quite neatly arranged in files. With the box on the bed, I flipped through the clippings under Montlaur. There were dozens upon dozens of scraps of newspaper, some of them yellow and faded, some folded in half, some poking out of the folders.
It didn't appear that Hugo had taken interest in the puglist at the start of his career, preferring instead to collect the articles once he had reached a bit of popularity.
Bernard Montlaur, age 26, wins again Yuli Urt
Montlaur defeats Reglio Neoni
Montlaur takes down Irish Jameson
Montlaur unstoppable; Neil Grant begs for mercy
Curtis Scott upsets Montlaur
I paused on the first defeat Bernard Montlaur had suffered two years earlier, at the start of eighteen seventy-eight on New Years Day.
New Year, Lost Record. Montlaur Disgraced.
I pulled the article from the file and skimmed the contents of the match, noting that he had lost in two rounds and that the author of the article described Bernard as lackluster and slow-moving, a shadow of the fighter he had previously been in his last match, which had taken place on Christmas Eve in Germany.
The last paragraph explained, almost as an afterthought, that the puglist's wife and daughter were still missing, perhaps giving reason for the fighter's defeat as his mind was elsewhere.
I flipped through the box to the next article detailing Montlaur's second defeat. The match lasted all but ninety-three seconds, with Montlaur seemingly wishing to be knocked out by his opponent, a rematch with Irish Jameson.
Again I scanned the article, but there were only three paragraphs, and I moved to the next scrap of paper dated May of seventy-eight.
Body of Bernard Montlaur's daughter Beatrix, age twelve, found in S. France. Wife Helena is still missing.
My heart stuttered. I held my breath and read the single paragraph detailing that the girl had been murdered, her throat cut and bloodied clothing discarded some distance from her naked body.
It was the conjuring of nightmares for any parent, the unthinkable fate of a young child. Swiftly I returned the articles to the box and returned the lid to the top, sick to my stomach.
"Did you find it?" Hugo asked when I returned outside.
I nodded once and handed him the box. "I did."
oOo
The last thing on my mind was the gallery private event with the wealthiest people in all of France mingling together, delighted that they were summoned to an exclusive showing of the newest talent the entire country had to offer—or at least that was what the invitation from Stefan boasted.
I had no one to accompany me for the evening as Hugo was not in the mood to attend and I hadn't thought to invite anyone else. With hours before the opening, I wandered through the city, walking past the university for a second time. The door to the gymnasium I'd left open was locked, and I had no idea if Montlaur had returned or stayed away, preferring our paths to not cross again.
Rather than return home, I made my way into my studio, passing Monsieur Raitt in the hall.
"Where were you?" he asked in his raspy tone.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your studio was empty for two days. Where were you?"
"I was unwell."
Monsieur Raitt shrugged. "Suspension will do that to you," he said as he turned and waddled off, leaning heavily on his cart of pottery destined for the kiln.
"Where did you hear that?" I asked before he was out of earshot–which for a man hard of hearing wasn't terribly far.
"I hear everything," he answered, pausing to smooth the chaotic wisps of thinning white hair. He looked like a dandelion walking the halls. "Your students are fortunate to have you, Kimmer. To hell with Cecil."
I thanked him and continued down the hall to my studio, the door of which was unlocked as my students were accustomed to walking in when they desired to borrow whatever was in the back room for their use.
The moment I walked in, I sniffed the air, noting that it smelled less like paint and more fragranced than usual. Clean, I thought, like ivory soap.
There was a small puddle of water in front of the sink, partially hidden beneath the table lined with towels and freshly cleaned brushes.
"At last something good," I said under my breath.
My voice stirred one of my students curled up on the couch and I pardoned myself for the interruption.
"Professor?"
Celeste sat up, wild mess of hair in her eyes, voice still very much groggy.
"Mademoiselle," I greeted. "You did not need to come in today as there is no class held on Fridays."
"I know, but I cleaned the brushes for you," she said quite proudly.
"I see that." I looked from her to the standing water beneath the table. "And the floor seems to be next."
She gasped and sprang to her feet where she proceeded to crawl beneath the table and mop up the water with a leftover towel.
"I didn't mean to make a mess!" she said, voice on the verge of tears. "It won't happen again."
It was impossible to be angry with someone trying her hardest to please an individual such as myself who was quite particular about the way tasks were performed.
"How long have you been in here?" I asked.
Celeste stood and took the towel to the sink, wringing it out. "Since…since last night."
I furrowed my brow. "How did you get into the building last night?"
The girl refused to turn and meet my eye.
"Celeste," I warned. "How did you get into the building?"
"There was a window left open on the first floor," she said, her voice trembling. "I…I climbed in through there."
The windows were quite high. I wondered how long such a task had taken her to achieve successfully.
"You spent the night here?"
Her posture stiffened. "I…I saw someone last night whose company I didn't desire," she said with her back to me. "I struck him, just as the prizefighter showed me, but…but I didn't strike him hard enough. I couldn't go back to the hotel. He would find me and I–"
"Did he harm you?"
She risked a glance over her shoulder at me and I saw the answer for myself, between tangled strands of hair, her left eye had been blackened.
"Not badly," she answered.
"No woman or child should ever endure a blackened eye at the hands of any individual who considered himself a gentleman."
Celeste looked away from me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You do not owe me an apology."
Her gaze wandered toward the door, either because she wished to leave or expected to be dismissed.
"Take a seat," I said, gesturing toward my desk.
Without a moment of hesitation, she scurried toward the desk and took a seat in the smaller of the two chairs where she folded her hands in her lap and sat up as straight as a board.
Once I had gathered all of the supplies I needed, I seated myself behind the desk and laid out a dozen colored pencils.
"Favorite color?"
Celeste stared wide-eyed at the choices. "My favorite color?"
"Indeed."
She chewed on her bottom lip, right hand hovering over the pencils. Her knuckles were scraped, either from the encounter with the man or her attempt to gain entry through the university window.
"This one?" she said, looking to me for confirmation.
"It's your choice, not mine."
I watched as she inhaled and quickly plucked the red pencil, held it up, and put it back down, selecting the brown one.
"Your favorite color is brown?"
The brown pencil was returned to the desk.
"You don't have purple," she said. "Red and brown were the closest I could find."
"Purple," I said, rising to my feet. "I probably have twenty different shades of purple ranging from grape to lilac."
In a large cabinet behind my desk there was at least two thousand pencils, all of which had belonged to Hugo, none of which had ever been used. His collection of supplies ranged from pencils that were mere stumps too small for my hands to thousands of pencils, brushes, and paints that were unused–probably because he couldn't find them buried beneath an alarming amount of refuse.
"Here," I said, motioning for Celeste to approach the cabinet. "More shades of purple than you could imagine."
Her eyes widened, lips parting. "It's like a rainbow hidden in the dark."
I chuckled at her description. "Select whatever colors you desire."
While she pursued the pencils, I returned to my desk and began creating an outline on the heavy stock paper I'd chosen for the particular project I had in mind.
"Celeste," I said.
She jumped when I said her name and started to close the cabinet door.
"Take your time," I insisted. "I am in need of your favorite animal."
She eyed me curiously. "Cat?"
"And what do you like about cats?"
She turned back to the cabinet and pulled out one of the bins above her head. "I don't know. They're small?"
"You are not very convincing. Give it some thought," I said.
Several moments later she returned to my desk with two dozen pencils clutched in both hands.
"Giraffe," she said.
"Giraffe it is," I replied.
I was quite accustomed to Elizabeth blabbering about whatever topic came to mind while we drew together. Her thoughts were often nonsensical, a string of ideas knit together in the mind of a child who had learned she could speak freely in her uncle's company and that no matter what, he would reply honestly and with great interest in the topic at hand.
Celeste, however, sat in perfect and quite unnerving silence.
"You have to say something," I commented, glancing up at her.
"But you're working."
"And you are staring."
Immediately she looked toward the window and swallowed.
"What is it about giraffes that you find appealing?" I asked.
"They're tall," she answered.
The conversation could not have been more painful. Elizabeth would have undoubtedly listed a dozen traits that she adored about giraffes from their tiny horns to their long necks to their eyelashes. No detail would have been spared and more than likely she would have made up other attributes that would have been false, such as they had wings like a butterfly or furry feet similar to a Clydesdale and I would have been at her mercy, drawing some mythical creature devised on the whims of a child.
"They make deep, rumbling sounds," Celeste said.
"Do they?" I questioned. I'd never seen one up close much less heard the sounds a giraffe made.
"Yes." She nodded readily. "And they have long, black tongues for eating tree leaves and twigs."
"Hmm," I said. "I was not aware."
"They eat acadia. That is a tree," she said, excitement trickling into her voice. "And when they fight, they use their necks."
"How are you so familiar with these creatures? You've surely seen one in person."
"Many," she answered. "On the Savannah in East Africa."
I looked across the desk at her. "The Savannah?"
Celeste shook her head. "In the grasslands," she said. "Where they are native."
"You've been to Africa?" I questioned.
Her eyes searched mine, a look of frustration about her. "You think I am not speaking the truth?"
"Quite the contrary. I am fascinated by hearing of a place I've not yet had the pleasure of seeing with my own eyes. By all means, continue with as much detail as possible."
Celeste was quiet for a long moment, her gaze focused on some distant point behind me.
"Did you live there?" I asked, fearing she would remain silent. "In Africa?"
"For six months," she finally replied. "When I was eleven."
"Did you enjoy it?"
She gave the barest of shrugs while I continued drawing the giraffe she fancied. "I didn't like food much," she answered. "Goat is not to my preference. We were served as lot of goat."
"An acquired taste," I agreed. "One that I am not fond of either."
"You can hear the animals all night long," she said, her voice low, but leaning toward excitement. "The wild dogs, the birds, the lions in the distance. The large herds of prey shake the ground when they move. Even if you cannot see them, you can feel them."
"That must be quite extraordinary."
She frowned. "It could be frightful, especially the first time when the ground rumbles and your teacup falls from the edge of the tray."
"What did you enjoy?" I asked.
"The peace," she answered without a moment of hesitation, smiling to herself. "The whistle of the tea kettle and the songbirds waking me at dawn to a magnificent morning. I would crawl out of my cot, step out of the tent and watch the stars disappear with the sunrise. We were all together then. Me...with my family."
She inhaled sharply, her eyes glassy and bottom lip trembling.
I furrowed my brow. "Is your family still there? In Africa?"
For a long moment she didn't reply. In truth I hadn't expected her to have a family at all–most certainly not one that had traveled for six months in Africa.
"I don't know where they are," she said at last.
"When was the last time you saw your family?"
Celeste wiped her nose with her index finger. "A year ago?" she guessed.
"Do they reside in Paris?"
She shook her head.
"Where, then?"
"Brussels."
I stared at her for a long moment. "Your family is in Belgium?"
"They used to be," she answered. "I am not certain if they are still living there."
"Why are you no longer with them?"
Celeste stared at her hands. "I didn't want to be with them any more," she mumbled.
"They must be worried sick about you."
"They wouldn't care."
"Of course they would care. You're their daughter."
Celeste sniffled and used her sleeve to dry her eyes. "Not everyone would be concerned like you are about your brother," she said under her breath. "Erik? That is his name?"
"How did you…the program from last night," I said, answering my own question.
She nodded. "You must love him dearly."
"I do," I said. "And I would assume that you have a mother and father who would say the same about you."
She shook her head. "They have probably forgotten me."
"If they are looking, do you want them to find you?"
For a long moment she considered my words, her gaze fixed upon her scraped knuckles.
"They would not want me back."
"Do not say that–"
"It's true."
I sighed. There was nothing that could have made me cease my attempts at finding Erik. He could have been the most ruthless murderer, he could have betrayed his country or been commanded by the Devil himself and he would have still been my brother.
"Never mind what you think they would or would not want back. If they are looking for their daughter, would you want them to find you?" I asked again, my tone firmer than it had been previously.
At last she solemnly nodded.
"You have my word that if it is within my power to do so, I will be of the utmost assistance in finding your family."
Celeste offered a quivering smile. "Why are you so kind to me?" she asked.
I turned the piece of paper toward her where I had stenciled her name and drawn a giraffe with his neck extended across the bottom of the lettering.
"Because you're my cleaning assistant," I said. "And you've been quite helpful preparing the studio for Monday."
At last she grinned at the name card. "How did you draw this so swiftly?"
"Because I'm an extraordinary artist," I answered.
A snort of a laugh escaped her lips, the most unladylike sound I'd ever heard in my life.
"Write your last name below your first," I said. "Do you know your address in Brussels?"
She nodded.
"I will need that as well."
