CH 29
"Phelan! What a pleasant surprise."
"Hugo, I have terrible news," I said.
Rather than intrude upon Hugo's home Monday afternoon, I waited until Tuesday to pay him a visit.
Given that I didn't have an official class until Thursday, I had far too much time on my hands and not enough errands to run or people I wished to see, especially since I didn't want anyone to know I was suspended from the university.
Over and over I evaluated the possible scenarios, imagining how Hugo would react. By Tuesday morning, while drinking my coffee in the pre-dawn light, I was fairly certain he would express his displeasure and say he expected better of me.
On the walk to his home, however, I replaced every conversation Hugo and I had ever had with Val's stern, disapproving tone and perpetual look of disappointment.
Hugo was not in bed when I arrived, but seated out front, allegedly 'shooed out of his own damned house' by his maid, who had determined that he 'needed more fresh air rather than the stagnant air in his disgracefully messy room'.
I took offense to the messy part as I'd personally removed half of the refuse that had piled up. Regardless, I was glad to see him outside in the sun and with his sketchbook and pencil in hand no less.
"Terrible news, you say?" Hugo dramatically closed his eyes and took a breath.
"What are you doing?" I asked, already dreading the conversation.
One eye slit open. "I am bracing myself for devastating news."
I shook my head at him. "Do you want me to tell you or leave?" I grumbled, my stomach tied in knots.
Hugo chuckled to himself. "Fine, fine, go on with it, then. You are certainly in a mood today."
"There are no tickets to the opera," I said, deciding to lead with the less personal of the bad news.
"How ungrateful! After all you've done for the theater, the months of work!"
"It was six days," I reminded him.
"But it felt like months," he said, shaking his finger at me.
"Regardless, it was still only six days and ninety minutes at a time."
"I'm still disappointed," he replied.
"As am I," I said under my breath.
"Was that it?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
"No," I replied.
Hugo turned his head to the side. "I should have had a more potent drink before you arrived. What else is wrong?"
"I've been placed on leave from the university. Involuntarily," I blurted out.
The humor in Hugo's expression immediately vanished, and his eyes hardened in a way I hadn't seen since I was in my late teens. Every muscle tightened in anticipation.
"Oh for heaven's sake!" Hugo exclaimed.
I clenched my jaw, preparing for whatever wrath he found fitting. Perhaps he would turn into Val before my eyes, his gentle demeanor turned into sheer annoyance.
"Cecil, that bastard," he grumbled. "I'll invite him over and bludgeon him with my crutch. How dare he…what did he call it? Leave of absence?"
"A suspension."
"A suspension!" Hugo bellowed, lifting his crutch to shake it in the air. "I'll suspend him by the neck and beat him with this, do you hear me? The audacity of that lily-livered twit."
His response was far more spirited than I had expected, and I found myself gaping at him.
"I suppose I should ask if it was justified," Hugo said, clearing his throat. "Before I go about bludgeoning people."
"No, it wasn't justified," I answered.
Hugo lifted a brow. "And what else?"
I sighed. "And on top of that, he is denying Marco entrance for next year."
Hugo blinked at me, the humor fully vanquished from his expression.
"No, he will absolutely not deny my recommendation," he said firmly. "I will make Cecil's life a living hell if he has the audacity to deny Marco. Clearly he's forgotten who I am."
I took a seat beside Hugo and scrubbed my face with my hand, glad that the weight I'd carried since Monday morning was finally lifted. "I'm not certain Marco knows he has an application submitted, so he won't be affected, but his mother will be furious."
"Of course Marco knows about the application," Hugo said. "We talked about it yesterday. He thanked me for my recommendation and brought his portfolio."
It was my turn to blink at Hugo. "You…what? When? Where?"
"Here. For lunch. He showed me some of his artwork over tea and sandwiches."
"He came here for lunch?"
"Yes, I invited him when we were introduced at the art gallery. I gave him my card before he left and told him to stop by Monday if he had a free moment."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it was a matter between me and Marco, not you."
"I see." Hugo's answer hurt my feelings more than I wanted to admit. "How were his drawings?" I asked without looking at him, grappling with the notion that my mentor had seen my son's drawings before I had viewed any of his work.
"Good," Hugo answered. "Marco needs a bit of guidance as far as his technique goes, but he was excited to have someone take him seriously."
"Take him seriously? What does that mean?"
Hugo folded his hands. "Phelan, you must give me your word that this stays between you and me."
"Of course."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Not a word to anyone. I swear on my brother's life."
At last Hugo appeared satisfied. "Well, I was under the impression that his desire to become an artist wasn't well-received. He mentioned that he wished to take classes, but his mother said it was a waste of his time."
"Florine would never want her son to be a worthless artist, at least not full time," I muttered. We had been romantically involved when I was at the earliest stages of pursuing art, destitute but determined. I was certain she would never want her beloved child to be anything like me. "Quite frankly I'm surprised she asked for a recommendation if I'm being honest. He must have begged her to attend the university."
"He needs to improve if he's going to survive his first semester," Hugo commented. "And because he has struggled by himself thus far, I invited Marco to return whenever he likes for private sessions," Hugo said.
"That–that is kind of you to mentor him."
"It gives me a good reason to put on a pair of trousers," he said lightly.
"Is he returning today?" I asked.
Hugo inhaled. "For the time being, I would like to keep our sessions between me and Marco."
"You are saying I'm not invited," I said under my breath.
"I'm saying for the time being, I would like to keep these meetings between me and Marco so as not to overwhelm him. He's a bit, well, like you used to be. I suppose I should say like you still are."
"Disagreeable? Combative? Unpleasant?" I guessed.
Hugo frowned at me. "Uncertain. He would benefit from one-on-one instruction." He cleared his throat. "Now, tell me what in the hell happened that we have been banned from the Opera Populair."
"We haven't been banned," I said.
"Well, that's a relief."
I gave him a sideways look. "A note from the theater stated they were unable to accommodate my request for tickets on opening night."
"Then tell them we will attend on the second night."
"The second night?"
"Yes, after they've worked out all of the finer details and perfected their performance. The virgin voyage is always a bit rocky."
"I suppose it doesn't hurt to ask."
Hugo shook his head at me. "Must I do all of the thinking?"
"Obviously I would not have made you my wife based on your looks alone."
He laughed harder than I anticipated, snorting like a hog while swatting at me, which made me laugh as well. Once he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cleared his throat and grinned at me.
"How long is your suspension?"
"I can return Thursday," I said.
"I'll speak to Cecil if you'd like."
I shook my head. "I'd rather be done with it on Thursday and put it behind me. Any intervention is likely to result in another meeting in his office."
"It's a damnable dungeon, isn't it?"
"As cheerful as his demeanor."
"What are you doing in the meantime?"
"Meeting my students in the park," I said. "Unofficially."
Hugo nodded. "Good. You need to get out of the house."
"I am."
"Are you?"
"I am meeting with someone tomorrow morning," I blurted out. "Her name is Abigail."
Hugo made a valiant attempt at appearing casual. He stroked his beard and sat back. "I see."
Inwardly I cringed, having no idea why I mentioned the meeting with Abigail Soward.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Hugo tapped the side of his nose. "You needn't say another word."
I was certain Hugo remained silent on purpose in an attempt to make me do the opposite of what he said.
Once several moments passed and neither of us said a word, I found myself tapping my foot against the porch.
"If I tell you–and it is a very unlikely if, you are absolutely required to not make a face, wag your eyebrows, or insinuate that this meeting leads to marriage."
"In other words, lend my ear and swallow my tongue."
"Precisely." I took a breath and debated on what I should say and what I should keep to myself.
"I've seen her multiple times," I said, deciding to speak what was on my mind rather than filter my words. "Nothing…well, nothing serious. I suppose it never is when it comes to me."
Hugo made no remark, preferring instead to simply nod and allow me to continue.
"I saw her recently, and after we had…visited…she asked me to supper. I had prior engagements, and she asked me to come by the following day, which also wasn't possible, and then I again declined, at which time she asked–"
"For Christ's sake," Hugo said under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know I said I would swallow my tongue, but damn it, Phelan, I've regurgitated it on account of your utter stupidity."
I pursed my lips and looked away, surprised by his blunt but deserved remark.
"Did she slap you after the third time?" he asked.
"No, she did not."
"Well, I would consider slapping you right now on this woman's behalf."
"I had plans," I said. "It wasn't a matter of making excuses, I was being honest."
"This is most certainly an instant where honesty is the worst policy." He frowned at me. "And I hope I was not one of those plans you couldn't possibly break for an evening spent with this nice young lady. And I will also say you better not have rejected her request because you were seeing another woman."
"There was no one else. And besides that, I wasn't expecting an invitation," I said defensively. "We meet, we enjoy one another's company, I leave and…and that's the end of it."
Saying the words out loud made it seem far more impersonal than I would have liked. Perhaps I was nothing more than a scoundrel, the type of individual I would have threatened if he dared look at someone like Elizabeth or even the girl from the opera house steps.
Hugo turned his head to the side and studied me. "But she's different, isn't she?"
Yes, I wanted to say. And no. I was different when I was near Abigail, less weighted down by my own thoughts and concerns. The way that she smiled when I walked into her shop or humored me by laughing at my jests made me feel like I had mastered the art of conversation.
And when it was just the two of us upstairs, when there was nothing between us and her hands were in mine, when her laughter indicated I had pleased her and she eased into my arms, the world was still and complete. There was wholeness with her that didn't exist with anyone else.
Just be with me, she had whispered. Such a simple request and I had denied her.
"Of course she's different. They're all different," I said. "To say all women are the same would be shameful."
"You are being obstinate," Hugo said. "I suppose that's easier than admitting you have made a mistake."
"I fully admit I've made a mistake."
"And what are you going to do about it? Now that is the question."
"I asked if she would meet me for coffee and she agreed. But now…now I'm not sure if that was advisable."
Hugo narrowed his eyes.
I scratched my cheek with my fingernail. "I suppose I have this evening to consider what I will say."
"Do not squander this second chance by over-thinking and preparing a script."
"I'm concerned with under-thinking and blankly staring at her like a witless fool."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not interesting," I answered.
Hugo's lips parted and his expression darkened. "Now who in the hell told you that?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters! Is it someone whose opinion you value?"
I shook my head and Hugo sighed heavily.
"Phelan," he said sharply. "We will discuss this later on, but for now, if this woman you fancy asks you to come to supper again, what are you going to tell her?" Hugo asked.
I hesitated to answer and Hugo huffed.
"I don't know that she will," I answered. "For all I know, this could very well be the last time she speaks to me."
"Your pessimistic nature is truly impressive," Hugo said. "Annoying as a horsefly, but impressive. Do you see a future with this woman?"
"Will you be angry if I'm honest?" I asked.
Hugo searched my face. "No, I will not be angry with you."
"I see myself alone," I answered.
The thought made me shiver. In every version of myself I saw as an old man, I had no one–at least in the sense of companionship with a wife. Depending on my mood, I sometimes imagined myself sitting in the front row of a theater listening to Erik play with the orchestra or the two of us together in a much larger, beautifully furnished apartment that I always imagined belonged to him.
In my dreams, it was always just the two of us, whether I was behind him in the theater or beside him in his apartment. I assumed it was the only version of life where I would be happy, knowing he was still alive and well.
"Are you content with being alone?" Hugo asked.
Yes. It was such an easy, automatic answer. Yes, of course I see myself content years from now when I grow old by myself, no wife seated beside me or grandchildren at my feet. Solitude is all I've ever known. It's safer than sharing a space with people who ignore me. It's better than being locked out and forced to sleep in a rotting tree stump. I preferred my own company to companionship that could be lost. I cannot bear losing someone again, especially if it's my doing.
Being by myself belonged to me, and I would be damned if anyone took it from me. That is, until I was caged in my own wicked thoughts, second-guessing the art show and how I was received by the audience. In those moments of doubt, I wanted to look up from my sketchbook and find someone looking back at me, offering a reassuring smile. Fingers touching mine. Come to bed, my dear, and just hold me. No expectations of further intimacy. Not even the need for words or explanation. Just to be with someone, to feel that I could be with someone, to stop the buzz inside of me that opened the door to numbness and instead allowed a sense of vulnerability.
"I don't know," I said aloud.
Hugo leaned forward and placed his hand on my knee, smiling. "Good," he said. "If you don't know what you want, you have plenty of options."
"It doesn't feel like it," I muttered.
Hugo searched my face. "I'm proud of you, Phelan."
"Why?" I asked, perplexed by his comment.
"Because for as long as I've known you, you've kept yourself like this," he said, tightening his fist. "After all these years, you've finally decided to allow yourself a little bit of space for possibilities."
Slowly he loosened his hand and I swallowed.
"That's growth, Phelan."
oOo
Raoul de Chagny was walking down the street toward me when I left Hugo's home. He looked directly at me, lowered his head and pretended that our eyes had not met, and proceeded to walk past me, at which time I paused and shook my head.
"Monsieur Kimmer," he said when we were several paces away.
I despised forced pleasantries. I wasn't good at pretending I was fond of an acquaintance or pleased to see someone I wished to avoid, and unfortunately for Raoul de Chagny, I was not in the mood for games.
"Monsieur de Chagny," I said. "I fully expected you would pretend you didn't know me from a hole in the dirt and continue on your way."
"Vicomte de Chagny," he said, clearly annoyed.
"They distribute titles to anyone these days," I said under my breath.
"Pardon me?"
I cleared my throat. "How are you, Vicomte?"
The young aristocrat eyed me as if he considered simply walking away as he'd originally intended. "Monsieur Kimmer, I heard that tickets were not available to you on opening night."
"Correct. I suppose I shall ask about the second performance."
His blue eyes widened, his lips parting. "The second performance?" he slowly said. "Oh, yes, I suppose that's a consideration."
"I beg your pardon?"
He avoided my gaze, preferring to stare across the street. "I don't know the ticket status for the second evening, I should say."
"Is there no matinee for Saturday?" I asked.
"There…there should be…" he stammered. "But I've been so preoccupied with the opening that the other performances have not crossed my mind."
I narrowed my eyes. He was a terrible liar, which was strange for someone of his station. Most of the people I'd met who had far more money than good sense were masters of saying one thing and doing another, but it appeared the young Vicomte had not yet obtained that particular skill.
"Is the show expected to close after one night?" I lightly asked.
Raoul immediately met my eye, his expression filled with alarm. I found myself annoyed that six days of painting sets would go to waste if the show opened and closed in the same evening. My knees were still bruised from kneeling on the stage for ninety minutes–and I had not received a single franc in compensation for my troubles.
Still, it would have been uncouth to inquire about the show's status, particularly since the Vicomte's beloved fiance was the star of the production.
"Is the Opera Populaire closing?" I questioned, deciding that since I didn't have tickets to the performance and would never paint another set, there was nothing to lose on my end.
"Would you keep your voice down?" Raoul snapped, taking a step closer so that we nearly stood toe-to-toe.
"You're a supporter of the arts, are you not? I cannot fathom the amount your family has donated to the theater for the managers to have back-to-back failures," I commented.
"It isn't a failure," he insisted.
"What would you call a single performance of a production that has cost thousands of francs?"
Raoul straightened his overcoat and glanced around. "Necessity," he said under his breath. "I have attended every rehearsal since the script was handed out, Monsieur. I am invested in this production far more than my family's financial backing. My heart and soul will be on that stage, vulnerable to…" He looked me up and down, swallowing. "To something that I cannot speak of."
"The opera ghost?" I guessed, lifting a brow.
Raoul's keen blue eyes widened yet again. Given his inability to control his expressions, I assumed he was terrible at playing poker. "The ghost is a rumor," he said dismissively.
"If we are speaking in terms of walking through walls and vanishing in thin air, I would agree."
"You'd be surprised at what this so-called ghost is capable of doing," Raoul muttered.
"But he's a man, not a spirit," I said, recalling I had seen him with my own eyes. "Flesh and blood and nothing more."
"Is that what you think? A mere man? No, Monsieur Kimmer, this is a creature who has taken the form of a man, but is capable of tricks and deception the likes no one has bore witness to in the past." Nostrils flared, he glared at me. "He may not be the devil himself, but he is the closest being to pure evil I've ever encountered."
"From what I've witnessed and heard, he seems more like a nuisance than downright evil."
Raoul took a breath. "Perhaps I have allowed my emotions to get the best of me."
"Does this evil have a name?"
Raoul shook his head. "If he does, no one seems to know it."
"He's responsible for the opera, isn't he?"
"If you asked him yourself, he would say that he's responsible for the entire building and cast. He feels as though the theater belongs to him, down to the nails in the floorboards."
"What an arrogant bastard," I commented.
Raoul grunted. "He's been given a bit too much liberty to do as he pleases, if you ask me. Someone needs to put him in check."
"Are you familiar with the Daroga?" I asked.
Raoul furrowed his brow and shook his head. "I cannot say that I am. What is that exactly?"
"He is a man from Persia. The former head of the Persian Police, I believe."
If the Daroga were looking for the Opera Ghost, he would not be looking for the convict, and if the convict was Erik, that gave me an opportunity to find my brother first.
Realization flickered through Raoul's gaze. "Ah, yes, I've seen him walking down the halls and up and down the stairs, but we haven't been introduced."
"He's a detective. Perhaps he could be of assistance," I suggested.
Raoul slowly nodded. "You seem like a sensible fellow, not one to fall for parlor tricks or succumb to hysteria."
"I have to be sensible in order to keep my students from floating away with their heads in the clouds."
He shifted his weight. "You know, I remember you," he said, keeping his voice low.
I eyed him curiously.
"Not from the theater, but from the bank," he clarified.
I wasn't sure his exact age, but I assumed that he had to have been somewhere between the ages of seven and ten when he had first started accompanying his father into the bank to speak with the prominent board members and wealth advisors. I often saw his father walk in first, followed by his eldest son, and then the youngest male heir at their heels, marching in with his red cheeks and perfectly shined shoes, smiling at everyone who looked in his direction and greeting them with enthusiasm.
Prior to the de Chagny appointments, all employees were reminded to treat the elder son as an adult and the younger like 'a beloved nephew'. Quite frankly the reminder was unnecessary as the older boy walked in as though he owned the bank while Raoul was so jovial and polite that it was impossible to be unkind. Seeing the young de Chagny boy always made me wonder what my own brother would have been like at that age. Raoul was younger than Erik, but I still imagined the two of them as fast friends, snickering as they lifted candy from the receptionist's desk and hid in the storage room, swapping stories while evading the watchful eyes of their guardians.
"If I recall correctly, you were bored to death every time you were forced to attend."
"I wasn't bored," he said defensively.
"Of course you were. Five minutes into the meeting as a casual observer, and I was lulled to sleep by the numbers, of which there were many, discussed for the better part of an hour."
At last he smiled. "I recall you at the far end of the table hunched over a ledger deep in contemplation."
I grunted. "Early into my career as an insignificant employee of the bank, I learned that if I furrowed my brow, stuck my nose into the ledger binding, and moved my lips in silence, it appeared I was in deep concentration and should not be bothered. It liberated me from countless meetings and conversations over the years."
"Banking didn't suit you," he observed.
"My soul shriveled every time I had to walk into that cold, drab building," I admitted. "I prefer colors to numbers."
"Speaking of numbers, I have five tickets to the opening performance," he said. "Two in the rear orchestra, three in my private box. I will leave them for you at Will Call if you wish to put them to use. Compliments of the de Chagny family."
"That is beyond generous," I said.
"I certainly wish I was able to accommodate all of the students who donated their time, effort, and skills into the sets."
"The university hosts an art show in mid-April. Every student will have three pieces on display. Perhaps you have a buyer for your personal collection who would like to attend?" I suggested.
Raoul inhaled. "That is a matter I would prefer attending personally," he said. "Send me the dates. If I am not available, I will make a donation that can be split evenly between your students." He took a step back and nodded. "A pleasure as always, Monsieur Kimmer."
He turned to walk away and I stepped forward, "Vicomte," I said before he continued to whatever important meeting expected his presence. "Your father would be very proud of you continuing his legacy."
I wasn't sure why I said it, but the young aristocrat beamed with pride. "Your words are deeply appreciated, far more than you know," he said before he turned and briskly walked away.