Ch 39
"Tell me everything," Hugo said once we were both in his carriage and heading toward the university.
"There is nothing to tell," I insisted.
He blew air past his lips. "Nonsense. You were gone for fifteen minutes. That's fifteen minutes I would like to hear about."
"Everything went well," I answered. "There is nothing further to say."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, you must tell me more than that!"
I sighed. "Fine. I invited Abigail to Val's home for cards tomorrow evening."
Hugo dramatically gasped. "And what was her reply?"
"She will consider it."
"Oh! That is wonderful!"
"She could very well say she isn't interested."
Hugo frowned at me. "Your pessimism rears its ugly head yet again."
"I'm being realistic."
Hugo shrugged. "I suppose I will consider myself fortunate that you have divulged anything at all, despite your insistence on thinking the worst. And I will add that I am very glad to hear you are spending the evening with your cousin and that the conversation between the two of you went well overall considering how you left looking a bit out of sorts."
I sighed. "I apologize for leaving you alone at the table. That was rude of me."
Hugo shook his head. "You needn't apologize."
"I still feel like I owe you an explanation."
"I am aware of the reason and it doesn't need to be discussed further. Now, on to the second part of our evening."
The carriage pulled up in front of the gymnasium where a substantial number of men stood outside. Some were dressed quite well for the event while others donned apparel more suitable for a day of labor.
"Cecil, that bastard," Hugo sneered. "I had rather hoped he would not be in attendance, but of course vermin prefer the shadows to the light of day."
I regarded Hugo for a moment, amused by his less than flattering words. "You are in a mood this evening."
"I never liked him, not from the moment I met him," Hugo said. "Sitting in his barren office behind his desk like he is some sort of prestigious ruler when I doubt he's ever seen half of the campus with his own eyes. He's a fool appointed via nepotism and he knows it."
"A fool that you charmed with what I am assuming is a substantial donation to the university on behalf of Marco," I replied.
Hugo didn't appear surprised that I was aware that Marco had been admitted for the fall semester. He did, however, huff at my statement. "I shall do whatever I please with my own money, thank you very much, Phelan Kimmer."
"You are generous, my friend," I said. "And I am indebted to you for what you have done on Marco's behalf. He would not have been accepted otherwise."
"Friendship has no debts needing to be paid," Hugo said. "And besides, you should know by now that I do precisely what I want."
The carriage came to a stop not far from the door and I exited first, prepared to assist Hugo as I had done at the tavern. A step stool made it much easier for him to navigate the substantial distance between the floor of his carriage and the ground below, and after a moment of assessing the distance, he was out and we made our way toward the open doors where a table was set up to sell tickets to the event.
The crowd compared to the previous week was quite impressive, the rows of seats around the ring nearly filled.
An older man with silver hair sold us two tickets for the front row, which were double the price of the tickets toward the rear of the ring, but Hugo insisted he wanted the best view.
"I want a soda water," Hugo insisted once we were seated. "A root beer if they have it, a Schweppes if they do not. And popped corn. Oh, and place my bet on Montlaur."
"May I do anything else for you, my sweet?" I dryly questioned.
"No, my dear, I think that's quite enough," he said, handing me twenty francs for his bet and refreshments, which earned me several peculiar looks from the men seated behind us.
The line to place wagers was fifteen men deep. I was handed a wooden tile with the word 'STOP' indicating I was the last bet accepted for the final match of the night.
I added five francs of my own and submitted our written wagers with moments to spare before the matches started.
I returned to my seat with two lemonades and popcorn as the concessions had only ginger ale in bottles. Like a delighted child, Hugo plucked the bag of popcorn from my hand.
"They have cake as well, to celebrate if Montlaur wins," I told him.
"When he wins," Hugo said. "And he will, I have no doubt."
A bell rang in the furthest corner of the ring, sending everyone scrambling to their seats. A moment later a man appeared and announced the final bout of the night: Irish James, the current champion, versus Bernard Montlaur.
Irish James entered the ring first. He was tall and sturdy, with neatly trimmed dark hair parted in the middle and a thick mustache. He walked with grace and confidence, addressing the crowd with a crooked smile that undoubtedly would have left women swooning if it was not a gymnasium crowd of only men.
The announcer listed James' last ten victories across various cities in Europe, including his defeat of Montlaur two years earlier. Once his accolades had been thoroughly detailed, the bell rang again, and Montlaur entered the ring.
Bernard was not as tall as his opponent, but he was thick around the middle with a short, wide neck, egg-shaped head, and burly arms. He looked every bit a villainous troll challenging the gallant knight, particularly when he limped around the ring, favoring his right leg.
Bernard did not acknowledge the audience. He scowled at his opponent, eyes narrowed and lips drawn back in a snarl like a beast.
"He isn't favored to win," Hugo said quietly while the announcer went over the rules.
"No?" I questioned.
Hugo shook his head. "But he will."
"What makes you so certain?"
"He's never favored to win. Everyone enjoys cheering against him."
Bernard's gaze flickered toward where Hugo and I sat, but he made no indication he truly recognized me. I could see why he wasn't favored; he had no quality about him that would make someone want him to win. Troll, beast, dog…he was not physically appealing, especially compared to Irish James, who was younger and far more charming.
How would others describe Erik? I wondered as the two men in the ring shook hands and the bell rang to start the match.
It had always been my greatest concern for my sensitive brother, a worry that plagued me without a solution. People would undoubtedly see his face and draw back in fear. They would recoil from him rather than greet him with the affection and gentle attention he had come to expect each day when he woke. I knew that if we had ever been allowed to venture into town, Erik would be treated differently than me when we were out together, perceived as a monster, taunted like some sort of oddity that was blind to the hatred directed at him.
I often wondered what his reaction would have been the first time someone spoke to him in an unkind manner or commented on his appearance. I imagined him ignoring the cruel words, chin up and eyes staring straight ahead, pretending to be oblivious to the remarks.
They'd have their nose broken with my fist. They'll learn to keep their ignorant mouths shut, I had vowed at the age of seven.
But of course the most damaging words and actions had been from our own father, who had made certain he left Erik emotionally and physically tormented.
"Put him down, James!" someone behind us shouted, startling me from my thoughts. "That ugly son of a bitch!"
The very notion of what Erik had to have experienced was more than I could bear, the long years separating us digging into me as I watched the two men stalk around the ring. Erik did not deserve whatever hardships he faced any more than Bernard deserved to be labeled a dog.
"Rip him in half, Montlaur!" I encouraged the pugilist.
Hugo nudged me in the side. "Quite the spirited words, Phelan."
James took the first swing and struck Montlaur in the side, below his ribs and Montlaur answered with a blow to the jaw that sent James reeling backwards. Once he regained his footing, James sprang forward and the two men exchanged multiple punches, back and forth, knuckles to cheeks, jaws and shoulders until both of them stepped away, chests heaving and faces reddened and swelling from the impact.
I briefly looked away from the ring and considered what Val must have thought every time I returned late in the night; bloodied, bruised, and with my clothing tattered and covered in filth. James and Montlaur were only in the first round of the boxing match and both men had taken considerable damage from the blows. I would be gone for hours and return after multiple altercations, barely able to recognize myself in the mirror.
The raised voice and harsh words were Val's way of expressing his concern while I slammed the door to my room, closing myself off further from him. He wanted me to conform to his rules, I wanted the compassion lacking from my life. Over and over we pushed each other away.
The bell rang and I blinked, focusing on the ring where Montlaur struggled to stand while Irish James walked around the ring, taunting his opponent.
Multiple times I had wobbled to my feet and collapsed halfway across the city, my vision doubled and muscles in my legs cramped. In those terrible moments, I had no idea if I possessed the strength to wander home to the flat where Val would be up waiting for me no matter the hour. Part of me had not cared to return, certain my cousin would give a sigh of relief when he identified my remains and no longer had to wonder where I was or what I was doing.
The thought made me shiver. I had been reckless in my youth, heedless of my own actions and mortality.
Hugo nudged me in the side. "He will win the first round," he said to me. "Just wait."
Nothing Val said or did persuaded me to calm my temper. I left our flat knowing precisely where to venture to find trouble, from the darkest alleys to the unpatrolled streets.
With a blow to the jaw, Montlaur sent James across the ring and flat on his back, much to the dismay of the majority of onlookers. Hugo pounded the end of his crutch on the gymnasium flooring and bellowed out his praise.
"Atta boy, Bernard! Teach that whelp a lesson!" Hugo shouted.
"One he will never forget!" I added.
Hugo clapped me on the back, grinning like a mad fool. He dropped his crutch onto the ground in front of us and shook his fist. "Yes! Tell him, Phelan!"
Our cheers were silenced during the second and third round as Irish James won both bouts. He also left Bernard with a cut above his right eye that bled profusely, leaving a splatter of blood all across the ring.
Montlaur won the fourth round, but not before he twisted his knee and had difficulty maintaining his balance. His complexion was already ruddy from exertion, but the amount of blood from the cut created a red mask like war paint smeared across the lines in his face.
Once the fifth round started, James approached and quite easily downed Montlaur with two swift punches to his left side.
"He's hurting," Hugo said to me.
"I know," I said under my breath.
It took a moment for Bernard to recover, and once he was on his feet, he retreated to the corner of the ring and asked for a towel.
There was a look of weariness about him as he balanced his full weight on his left leg and leaned back, one arm draped over the top rope. His breaths were hard and ragged, but once he wiped his face, his eyes were hardened and filled with determination.
The bell rang, signaling the next round had started, and Bernard pushed himself forward. Both men met in the center of the ring with James grabbing Montlaur around the middle with one arm and patted Bernard's shoulder where he had his daughter's name tattooed. It looked as though James intended to bite his opponent in the cheek or ear before the two swiftly separated.
Montlaur's expression turned savage and he took a wild swing at James, sending the taller, more lean pugilist flat on his back within seconds of the round starting. Half the crowd cringed and groaned, disappointed by the result while Hugo and I applauded loudly.
"Get on your feet!" Bernard ordered as Irish James crawled away on his hands and knees.
James returned to the corner to regroup, and the moment the next round started, Bernard came forward swinging. He stuck James in the jaw, then in the temple and sent his opponent down for a second time.
The crowd turned silent. Hugo and I exchanged looks while a physician came out to check on Bernard, whose cut had continued to bleed quite freely.
"Stitch me up after so I can kill him now," Bernard said through his teeth.
Reluctantly the physician returned to his seat and the bell rang again. Bernard slammed his gloved fists together and ordered James to fight him.
With a malicious grin, James stepped forward and mouthed something to Bernard, who growled like an animal and advanced swiftly across the ring. At the last moment, James lowered his chin and head-butted Bernard in the nose, sending him reeling backwards.
"For Beatrix!" James yelled.
I gasped at the sound of bone breaking and the sudden gush of blood as if Bernard's nose became a spigot. Despite the blow, Bernard came at James and managed three connecting punches to his torso before he started to lose his balance.
The bell rang, the referee stepping between both men as James was immediately disqualified.
Bernard hit the mat hard, landing on his knees at first, then crumpling onto his side with both hands to his face. His body went limp, his eyes wide open as he inhaled sharply, then stilled.
"My God," Hugo murmured. "Irish James is one dirty son of a…"
The physician returned to the ring along with two other men who sat Bernard upright and placed a towel to his face, which violently revived him. I turned to Hugo, stunned by what we had witnessed, and swallowed.
"He could have been killed," I replied.
Hugo met my eye and frowned. "Praise God he was not."
"Bern!" I heard a quivering voice shout from the back of the gymnasium.
My heart stuttered while Bernard pushed the physician aside and turned his head, finding Celeste at the rear of the gymnasium. The murderous look in his eyes softened before he was once again swarmed by the doctor and his two assistants.
I stood, turning on my heel to see Celeste with her back to the wall and both hands covering her face. She collapsed in a heap before I reached her, body quaking with sobs.
"You shouldn't be here," I scolded.
She flinched at the sound of my voice. "I didn't know someone would try to hurt him," she said between bouts of hyperventilating.
"What did you think a boxing match entailed?" I impatiently questioned.
She peered at me through her fingers, body jerking with each unsteady breath. The look in her eyes made me immediately regret my harsh words.
"He will be fine," I said.
Celeste climbed to her feet, hands still pressed to her face. "How do you know?"
"Because Bernard is a prizefighter," I answered. "This is how he makes his living."
She took another shuddering breath. "But why? Why would he do this for a living?"
I shook my head, unable to answer her question. Some men boxed in the evening after their daytime jobs in factories or fields. Many lost their lives quite young, succumbing to infections or injuries. Others languished in jails for other violent crimes. I wasn't aware of a secondary occupation where Bernard Montlaur made a more honest living. Perhaps he planned to fight other men until his last breath. Perhaps he fought because it was the only thing he knew.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
"Since the match started," she answered.
"They let you in?"
"No one saw me," she meekly confessed.
I raised a brow. "Well, I suppose they will see you now," I said, motioning her toward the ring where Hugo sat twisted in his chair to watch me.
Celeste kept her eyes cast down as she walked down the aisle toward the front row. Hugo studied her in silence as she approached, his expression filled with a dozen questions I knew he would eventually ask.
"Take a seat," I said, motioning to the vacated chair beside mine.
Hugo's eyes narrowed. He finished the rest of his popcorn and looked Celeste over. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but you cannot be a university student and I am certain you are not Phelan's niece."
Celeste folded her hands. "I am The Professor's cleaning assistant," she proudly replied.
Hugo turned in his chair to better face her and I leaned back so the two of them could speak. "Cleaning assistant?"
"At the university. I clean the brushes and perform other important tasks," Celeste proudly answered.
"You don't say? Why, that's very impressive. If Phelan trusts you with cleaning his studio, you must be a fine young lady indeed."
Celeste beamed with pride.
"You know, that studio used to belong to me," Hugo continued. "I taught at the university for thirty years. Can you believe it?"
I turned my attention toward the ring where Bernard's swollen eyes were fixed on me. He gave the slightest nod and I stood, making my way toward the ring.
"Did you invite the girl?" he snarled, voice muffled through the towel still held to his face.
"She walked in on her own unseen."
"Get her out of here," Bernard demanded.
I sighed and turned, bumping into Celeste, who stood with her hands on the apron. "Bern?" she whispered, her voice quivering once more.
Bernard lifted the towel further up, covering his eyes. "Get out of here, kid," he demanded.
"You're hurt," she meekly replied.
"I'm fine," he said through his teeth.
"But you're bleeding."
"I said I'm fine. Now get out of here."
Celeste took a shuddering breath and took a step away. I had every intention of escorting her from the building. Once outside, I hoped to reassure her that in a day or two Bernard would be no worse for wear, but instead of making her way toward the seats or the exit, she unexpectedly darted toward the stairs and scurried up. My lips parted as she ducked between the ropes and paused, standing several feet away from where Bernard was seated.
"Celeste–" I warned. "Come here."
At the sound of my voice, Montlaur uncovered his face and looked around the gymnasium. He followed my gaze and found Celeste studying him, eyes brimming with tears.
"This ain't no place for girls," he growled. "I ain't telling you again, kid, now get–"
Celeste flung herself toward Bernard, both of her thin arms wrapped around his burly, sweat-sheened right arm, face pressed to the tattoo on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, hugging his arm as tight as she could, her eyes squeezed shut.
"This ain't no place for girls," he said, his tone softer than before. He tossed the bloodied towel aside and gently placed his hand over hers, patting her with great care. "Now why are you crying like this?"
"Because he hurt you."
"That's boxing, kid. Men hurting each other for money."
"Then don't fight anymore."
Bernard grunted. "You ain't old enough to tell me what to do. Now, get up so I can stand."
Celeste released her tightly held grip on his arm and stood, waiting for Bernard to do the same. I sighed to myself, imagining Montlaur would be furious with me for not slinging the girl over my shoulder and depositing her outside of the gymnasium.
She sniffled as he stood and limped toward the stairs, his right leg trembling with each step. The physician had his assistants aid the boxer down the stairs where Bernard shook his head and glared at me.
"Come to the back room," he said. "And make sure the girl stays put."
Celeste made her way out of the ring and pursed her lips as she approached me.
"Stay here," I said firmly.
I followed behind Bernard and locked the door of the back room, which was much more brightly lit than when I had occupied it for the blow to the back of my head. Bernard took a seat on the same slab where I had been laid out. He coughed twice, spitting blood and saliva onto the floor.
"I need a towel," he said, pinching his nose. "Damned thing is bleeding again."
I was surprised Montlaur had not passed out from the blood loss. Between his nose and the cut above his eye, he'd lost a substantial amount in a short amount of time.
"What are you staring at?" Bernard grumbled when he caught me studying him.
"That was quite the contest," I answered.
He grunted. A trail of blood ran down his right hand where it dripped from his wrist to the floor.
"You ever been in a fight before?"
"I've had my share of altercations," I answered.
"School boy tussles."
"Street brawls into my early twenties," I replied. "Some a little more intense than others."
Bernard grunted. "You ain't never had your nose broke, have you? Don't look like it to me."
I shook my head and focused my attention on his scuffed left boot rather than the profuse amount of blood still dripping from his face.
"Bloodied, yes. Broken, no."
The conversation abruptly ended as the physician used a damp rag to clean Bernard's face.
"Professor, did you enjoy the match?" Bernard asked suddenly.
"When you were winning, yes."
"I never lost," he said. "Not for the first sixteen years of my career."
"You've been prize fighting for sixteen years?"
"Eighteen now," he answered. "I used to be better. Faster."
I noted the sadness in his voice.
"You were still good," I replied.
"I'm a hell of a lot better than James," he said. "He's a dirty son of a bitch, that's for sure. I'd rip his damn head off if they didn't disqualify him."
"I'm not certain the audience would have appreciated a beheading."
"It's France. Of course they would have."
We both chuckled at his statement before the physician instructed that it was time to straighten out Bernard's broken nose.
I swallowed and averted my gaze, stomach tightening in preparation for what I assumed would be a nauseating experience from a spectator's perspective.
The physician asked if Bernard was prepared, and before a verbal reply was issued, the doctor wrenched his nose down and to the right.
To my surprise, Bernard didn't utter a sound of protest or give any indication that he was in pain. Tears flooded his eyes, but he did nothing more than grimace as the physician cleaned his patient's face and asked for cotton, which he stuffed into Bernard's nostrils.
Once the task was complete, the physician and his two assistants removed the bloodied towels and walked out of the room, leaving the two of us alone.
"Lock the door," Bernard grumbled.
I stared at him briefly, noting how both of his eyes were already turning black from the impact to his nose. My thoughts were immediately drawn to Erik and the last time I had seen him alive with my own eyes, standing beside Bjorn with his arm wrenched over his head and his eyes so bruised and swollen I barely recognized him. That one moment had haunted me frequently over the years, particularly when I looked at my own reflection after a brawl with my own eyes blackened.
I locked the door and returned to my place across from Bernard where I sat on a wooden chair and attempted to avert my gaze.
"That bad, eh? Can't even look me in the eye?" Bernard asked, his tone mocking.
"I prefer not staring at you directly," I replied.
"You're more sensitive than the girl."
I met his eye, my hands balled into fists and my body rigid.
"My apologies for offending you," Bernard said, turning away from me.
"I'm not offended," I insisted.
"Then I retract my apology." He scooted further back on the table and sighed. "How is the girl, anyhow?"
"A bit shaken, but otherwise fine."
Bernard gingerly wiped his watering eyes. "I never let Bea see me after a fight," he said. "Not for a week. Hardest damn thing I ever did was go a week without seeing my little girl."
"You didn't want to frighten her," I said.
"I didn't want her to think of me as nothing else but her Da," he answered. "Not some ruthless fighter. Not some dog being beaten to a pulp." He wrinkled his cotton-stuffed nose. "Just her Da."
"Did she know you were a boxer?" I asked.
"She found out eventually," he said with a shrug. "When she was nine she saw a drawing of me on a poster advertising an upcoming fight. She thought I was famous and wanted to see me in the ring, but I told her no."
"The boxing ring is no place for girls," I said, quoting him.
"It ain't a place for women or girls," Bernard answered. He sighed heavily. "That poor kid shouldn't have been here tonight."
"I didn't know she was here," I insisted.
"I ain't blaming you," Bernard said. "I thought I saw her walk in while the announcer was speaking." He adjusted the cotton in his nostrils. "She's going to have nightmares after this."
"Perhaps spare a word for her before you leave tonight so that she can see for herself you have been tended to and are healing."
Bernard frowned. "About the girl," he said, lowering his voice. "Klaus and Goldie Frane's daughter."
"You know her parents?"
Bernard hesitated. "I met them a handful of times. Both of them were dancers in the Belgium National Ballet."
"I had no idea."
"The ballet was in town at a few places where I was performing," he continued. "Sometimes the children from the ballet would get together and play. Since Bea wasn't allowed to see me when I was fighting, she made friends with some of the boys and girls traveling with the dancers."
"Including Celeste."
Bernard made a face. "I ain't certain if they ever spoke to one another, but I met Klaus and Goldie a few times and I saw the girl when she was much younger. She wouldn't remember me, but I remember seein' her. Looks just like her ma."
"Do you know where they are now? Still traveling with the ballet?" I asked, pleased by the unexpected lead.
Surely it would be simple to contact the national ballet, and even if the Franes had retired or joined a different troupe, I was certain that there would be an address to forward a letter and let them know their daughter was alive in Paris.
The boxer reached for a clean towel and unfolded it. "They're dead," Bernard replied, his voice still low.
My lips parted. "When? How?" I asked.
"Both contracted a fever a couple months after leaving South Africa. Goldie passed first, then Klaus and their two sons shortly after. I thought they'd lost their daughter as well."
"Her whole family is gone," I said under my breath.
"Poor thing. She don't know, does she?"
I shook my head.
"You ain't going to tell her then."
I met Bernard's eye. "I beg your pardon? Why would I keep this from her?"
"She don't need to know nothing about their deaths."
I scoffed. "If she isn't aware that her parents are deceased, she's going to spend the rest of her life thinking they aren't searching for her."
Bernard spit into the towel. "Tell her you'll look for them."
"Fruitlessly? For years?" I asked incredulously. "That's madness."
"She don't need to know they're gone. It's too much for a child to handle."
"She doesn't need to spend the rest of her life wondering where the people she loves are at," I insisted. "If they…if they stopped caring for her, if they merely decided they didn't want to waste another moment of their time searching, if they…if they gave up on finding her. That is more than any child should ever have to bear."
I took a shuddering breath. Celeste deserved what I had not received after a lifetime of looking for my brother: closure.
"So you're going to tell the girl that her parents are dead? That is your intention?" Bernard asked. "To hurt that little girl?"
"I have no intention of doing her harm."
"What do you think will happen, then? She's going to thank you for telling her she ain't got parents no more?"
"I would rather be truthful than lead her into believing a lie," I answered.
Bernard worked his jaw in silence and nodded. "Fine. If you will not spare her the heartache of loss, I'm done speaking with you."
oOo
I unlocked the door and let myself out without another word spoken to Bernard. Once I was down the short hall and in the main part of the gymnasium, I found Hugo and Celeste amongst the few people remaining in the seats, both of them eating slices of cake from Bernard's victory via disqualification.
"May I see Bern now?" Celeste asked the moment I approached. She had frosting smeared across her upper lip and another spot on her chin, which Hugo made her aware of by pointing to his own face.
"I'm not certain he's taking visitors at this time," I answered.
"I hope he will reconsider," Celeste said before she took another bite of cake.
"As do I," Hugo agreed. "I've been an admirer of his for a number of years."
I consulted the clock above the exit and inhaled, feeling more weary once I realized it was past ten. "How long are we staying?"
Hugo followed my gaze and gasped. "Phelan, my apologies, I didn't realize the hour. Hopefully my driver is across the street waiting for us and I can see you home at once."
I stifled a yawn. "I suppose I shall find out while the two of you finish your cake."
"Did you want a slice? I will give you half of mine," Hugo offered.
I waved off his words and stepped outside where Hugo's carriage was parked in front of a trough to water the horses. I told the driver we would be out momentarily and he nodded.
When I returned inside, Bernard had left the back room and made his way through the gymnasium dressed in his street clothes with two clean pieces of cotton plugging his nose and the cut above his swollen eye stitched closed.
"Bern!" Celeste called out.
The pugilist reluctantly limped toward the ringside seats where Celeste had set her cake aside in order to stand and greet him.
"Why are you still here?" he grumbled.
"To see you," she answered.
"And why would you want to see me?"
"Because you're my instructor," she answered. "And I think you're very nice."
"Nice?" His stony expression softened. "That's the most foolish reason I ever heard."
"Are you still hurt?" she asked.
Bernard shrugged. "A few days and I'll be fine."
Her hopeful expression turned into a frown. "A few days? But that's so long."
"You don't got to worry about me none," Bernard replied, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets.
"It's a shame Irish James got himself disqualified," Hugo said. "I would have preferred seeing the whole nine rounds."
"Who the hell are you?" Bernard growled.
Hugo reached for his crutch and stood, then offered his hand. "Hugo Duarte," he answered. "A long-time admirer of your career, Monsieur Montlaur."
"I ain't never seen you at a match before," Bernard groused.
Hugo was undeterred by the prize fighter's tone. "This is the first boxing match I've had the pleasure of attending and with my good friend Phelan Kimmer at that."
"You are both friends with The Professor," Celeste pointed out. "They are both artists and you attended the art show, so you have that in common."
Bernard appeared more amused than annoyed by Celeste's interjection. "Dear old friends indeed." He inhaled through his open mouth and nodded at the girl. "Get yourself some sleep, kid."
"Is there a lesson tomorrow morning?"
"Are you fu…" Bernard cleared his throat. "No lesson tomorrow. I ain't up to it, kid."
"Meditation?" she questioned.
Bernard made a face. "Yeah, if you want to sit on the floor, I'll sit with you, but in a chair. The knee can't take no climbing up and down from the ground."
Celeste readily nodded. "Six?" she asked.
"Make it ten," he answered. "I'm sleeping in. Eating a big breakfast too."
Hugo leaned on his crutch. "Monsieur Montlaur, a pleasure meeting you at last. If there is an open spot for meditation, I would gladly take a seat beside you in the nearest chair."
Bernard looked him over. "What happened to your leg?"
"Misplaced," Hugo answered, snorting out a laugh.
Hugo clearly didn't find Hugo nearly as amusing as Hugo found his own humor. He merely stared at Hugo, his eyes narrowed and expression in a scowl.
"A pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Duarte," Celeste chimed in, offering an awkward curtsy. Her lack of grace was truly astonishing, particularly as the daughter of two dancers.
"And you as well, Mademoiselle…?"
"Frane," Celeste answered. "Celeste Frane."
Hugo turned his head to the side. "Related to Klaus Frane?"
Celeste's light eyes widened. "He is my father. You know him?"
Hugo shook his head. "Our paths never crossed, but I have an article about him performing with your mother, I believe, at the Empress Royale across town a few years back."
Celeste readily nodded. "The ballet was in Paris for two weeks," she answered. "I got to sit in the wings for my birthday and watch them perform."
Her face lit up with the mention of a bygone birthday, a memory that she thought of quite fondly judging by her bright smile.
"My condolences, Mademoiselle," Hugo said. "A real shame to hear about them."
Bernard's hardened expression threatened to burn a hole in Hugo's forehead. My lips parted, but I had nothing remotely suitable to interject.
"I beg your pardon?" Celeste said. "Condolences for what, Monsieur?"
"For the loss of your parents," Hugo said.
The girl inhaled sharply and took a step back. Her gaze darted back and forth at the three men standing before her, first on Hugo, then on me and lastly Bernard.
"My parents?" she whispered as she continued to back away. "My parents are gone? How? When?"
None of us spoke.
"Do you know what happened?"
"You didn't know?" Hugo questioned.
Celeste shook her head.
Hugo solemnly nodded. "My God, I had no idea you were not aware of their passing. Fever, from what I understand."
"And my brothers?"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Hugo said. "They're gone as well."
Celeste trembled, her breaths unsteady and complexion ashen.
"Celeste," I said gently.
"Take a breath, kid," Bernard said.
I doubted she heard either of us speak. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned, bolting toward the gymnasium door. As the only able-bodied of the three of us capable of giving chase, I ran after her and out the door where she swiftly dashed around the corner and down the paved trail leading toward the main building.
She sprinted a distance ahead of me, never once looking over her shoulder as she ran, grunting with each step, her hands in fists.
At last she approached the main building and slowed, racing left and then to the right and finally collapsing into a heap on the pathway, arms folded on the moss-covered square pavers and head buried in her sleeve.
I wasn't certain if she knew I had followed her or if she would have found my presence comforting. Sobs rattled through her, silent at first and then turning into a long, deep moan of despair.
There was no telling how many times I had wept in a similar fashion as a young boy struggling with loss. Most often I went out into the woods alone, wandering for hours at the first light of dawn while I searched for Erik, hopeful that somehow I would stumble upon my little brother and be able to take him home.
Alak would have been so relieved, I knew. Relieved to have Erik back at home and proud of me for being my brother's hero rather than the villain in his truncated story. There was nothing I desired more than having my brother back and earning the praise of our uncle.
Days turned to weeks, weeks became months, and my hope of locating Erik dwindled. The leaves fell, blanketing the ground, the autumn rain and smell of decay turning to crisp winter air and a carpet of pristine snow. Alak barely looked in my direction and never said my name. I became a ghost haunting the house, lingering silently in the distance, trapped in my own unacknowledged anguish.
It was there in the woods that I found the deepest caverns of my sadness and the loss of hope. The snow muted the sound, the chirp of birds going silent while I looked over the creek with its rush of water reduced to a trickle over ice and frozen, dead trees.
I will never see Erik again, I told myself as I shivered in the cold, lost to the vast, silent woods. At least not alive. And Alak will never love me again because I killed my brother.
The void of winter was how I imagined death would look and feel. It was a strange thing to ponder at the age of seven and a half, a finality that had so much weight to it that I could think of nothing else but loss and grief.
The release in the form of tears came as a shameful surprise. I recalled whimpering at first, the hot tears stinging my eyes before they fell down my cheeks, one after another until it was a stream. My chest felt tight, my throat closing until I could barely breathe and then, without warning, the despair rattled out in a deep, painful moan like some creature felled by a hunter.
That was what Celeste looked like curled up on the ground, like a helpless little fawn caught in the crossfire. She opened her eyes and stared at me while she took a deep, unsteady breath and forced herself to sit upright.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why would this happen, Professor?"
"I don't know, Celeste."
"It isn't fair."
"No, it is not," I agreed, offering my hand to help her to her feet.
"They aren't looking for me, then," she said under her breath.
"I'm certain they did," I said as her hand reached out to mine, ice cold and limp. I grasped her by the wrist and pulled her upright.
"How could you be sure?"
"Because when you love someone beyond measure, you never stop looking for them."
Celeste hugged her arms around her body. "I wanted to have tea with my mother one last time," she said. "And to hug my papa. He always made me feel like I was being suffocated, but in a nice way, if that makes sense."
"My brother had a tendency of crushing my windpipe in the most affectionate way possible when he would hug me from behind."
"I hope he is able to hug you like that again someday," Celeste remorsefully whispered.
"Somehow I suspect he is a little too big to dangle off my back these days," I answered.
At last she smiled. "Professor, would you…?" She paused and took a deep breath. "I shouldn't ask."
"The worst I can say is 'no'," I replied.
Celeste pursed her lips. "Would you walk with me for a little while? Until I am less sad?"
Sadness did not watch the clock in my experience, but I nodded all the same. "I would be honored to walk with you for whatever length of time you desire."
"Thank you."
"My friend Hugo has his carriage brought around. You are more than welcome to ride with us and I am certain he would be happy to see you to your destination."
Celeste hesitated, but at last nodded, and in silence she walked beside me, her arms still wrapped around her frame.
Hugo and Bernard were outside of the gymnasium when we approached, Hugo seated in his carriage and Bernard resting on the step in front of the open carriage door.
"Kid," Bernard said roughly. I swore his face appeared more swollen and grotesque than it had twenty minutes earlier, but Celeste didn't seem to notice or mind. "I'm sorry to hear about your folks."
Celeste's lip immediately began to quiver as she nodded.
"Ah, hell, I didn't mean to make you cry again," Bernard said, his tone a growl that didn't seem fitting for his words.
Without warning, Bernard lurched forward and grabbed Celeste around the shoulders, swallowing her into his burly embrace.
At first I thought she would pull away or protest, but she instead sank into the bear-like hug, struggling to lift her arms in order to return the gesture.
Despite the bruises, swelling, plugged nostrils, and stitches, Bernard's expression softened into a look of serenity. With his eyes closed, I imagined he thought of Beatrix, the little girl he would never hug in that manner again while Celeste found comfort in being suffocated in a nice way by her boxing instructor.
"You ain't got to hold it," Bernard reminded her. "Let it go, let it sit beside you."
Celeste released a long, high-pitched moan of despair and buried her face against his chest. She stood motionless in his embrace for several minutes, clinging to the bear of a man offering her comfort.
"There you go," Bernard said, patting her back. "Let it all out, kid, let all of it out."
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, able to breathe at last. "I think it's all gone now."
Bernard started to loosen his grip, but Celeste grabbed hold of his shirt. "Not yet," she pleaded. "Don't let go yet."
The pugilist smiled to himself, chin resting on the top of her head. "You tell me when, kid."