CH 31
Bernard Montlaur sneered at me upon arrival to the gymnasium, which I fully expected given the circumstances for our meeting.
"Civil," Jean reminded the pugilist. "You have to be civil, Monsieur Montlaur."
I wished to ask how one could be civil while punching another man in the face, but kept my thoughts to myself and approached with my hand extended to my reluctant instructor.
"Good evening, Jean," I said. "Monsieur Montlaur, a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce you gentleman to–"
I turned, finding the space beside me vacant. I looked from Jean to Bernard and excused myself, returning outside of the gymnasium where the girl stood frozen in place several paces from the door.
"Have you reconsidered?" I asked as the door closed behind me.
She hesitated. "Are you going to have to fight both of them?"
"I have no intention of fighting either. Jean is my friend and mediator and the other man is the instructor."
Celeste shifted her weight. "Will I have to fight both of them?"
"Observation only for the first lesson, no sparring," I replied. "You are free to leave whenever you like if the instruction doesn't suit you."
She gave a solemn nod and followed me inside, much to the surprise of Jean and Bernard. Jean silently questioned me with his eyes wide and mouth held in a grimace while Bernard eyed the girl with contempt.
"You brought your daughter?" Bernard asked.
Beside me, Celeste gasped. I couldn't tell if it was in horror or surprise.
"Phelan has no children. Is this your…niece?" Jean questioned, staring at the girl who followed behind me.
Celeste looked nothing like Elizabeth, but I smiled tightly back at Jean. "Flattering as your words may be, the young lady is of no relation to me," I said. "Mademoiselle Celeste is here to learn self-protection. Mademoiselle, my dear friend Jean Moreau and prize fighter Bernard Montlaur."
"No girls allowed," Bernard grumbled. "The boxing ring ain't a place for females."
Celeste flinched at his booming voice and ducked behind me, her hand gripping the back of my coat.
"You've no need to frighten my guest," I snapped.
"There was no mention of a guest," Bernard replied, his tone matching mine.
"Regardless, she stays."
"She leaves, or else–"
"Or else we call upon the gendarmes to settle the matter," I said before he finished speaking. "I will leave the decision up to you."
Bernard eyed me, his pale eyebrows shooting up while I crossed my arms and awaited his response. Quite frankly I had no desire to contact the gendarmes as I was certain it would involve Boucher, but I doubted Bernard was aware of how the officer disliked me.
The boxer looked at Jean, who shrugged, before he scowled back at me, same as he had looked when I walked into the gymnasium.
"She sits quietly. One word uttered and the lessons will come to an end." He shook his finger at me. "Do you understand?"
"I understand," I replied.
"I am asking the girl, not you."
I stepped aside, revealing Celeste despite her best attempt at hiding behind me. "You may answer him directly."
"Not a word, do you hear me?" Bernard growled before she could nod in response. He stalked forward, his mouth twisted with rage.
I stepped in front of the girl, shielding her from his unnecessary display. "Monsieur, do speak like a gentleman rather than a brute when addressing my guest and your youngest prodigy."
"Prodigy?" Montlaur groused.
"Is the word unfamiliar to you? It means someone endowed with exceptional abilities."
"I know what it means."
"Wonders never cease to exist," I said under my breath.
"Phelan, that is enough." Jean stepped forward and took me by the arm. "Why don't you stretch something other than your tongue?" he suggested, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.
While Celeste retrieved a folding chair from against the wall, Jean led me away toward the furthest corner of the ring.
"Who is the girl?" he whispered as I removed my coat and handed it to him.
"My new maid for the university," I answered, using the base of the ring for balance as I began by stretching my quadriceps.
"You have a maid for your studio?"
"I do."
"Since when?"
"Starting tomorrow, actually."
"Does this poor girl know how specific you are on your cleaning regimen?"
"I'm not that specific."
"Really?"
"Really."
"For God's sake, you've cleaned my home after my maids have gone through wiping down the sconces and polishing the silverware. They thought you were some sort of spy waiting to sack them."
"It will be fine," I muttered under my breath, stretching my other leg.
"So that we are clear, you have brought your university maid along for a boxing lesson given by a man who would probably like to put his fist through the back of your skull?"
"I have indeed and he probably would," I said, stretching my arms above my head.
Jean issued a pointed look. "Why, may I ask, is she here?"
"Because she wishes to learn self-defense."
"Is that the only reason she is with you?"
Jean immediately garnered my full attention. "What are you implying, my friend?"
His cheeks flushed, gaze dropping. "No implication whatsoever, merely a question. Why didn't you tell me yesterday that you were bringing someone with you?"
"This was decided…" I glanced at my pocket watch before handing it to Jean for safekeeping. "Seven hours ago."
"I'm glad you said absolutely nothing," he grumbled. "Bernard Monlaur is definitely the person you want to upset with a change of plans."
I glanced across the ring at Bernard, who continued to sneer at me, and assumed he had been struck in the face so many times that he was incapable of any other expression.
"How many lessons did he agree to give?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"One."
I turned to Jean. "One? Attempted murder is worth one lesson?"
Jean clapped me hard on the back. "We shall see if you give him reason enough to desire murdering you a second time."
"Come now, Jean, I am the embodiment of rainbows and sunlight, am I not?"
"Indeed."
oOo
I spent thirty minutes working on the position of my feet and elbows before becoming quite winded by the constant movement in the ring as I bounced back and forth, hands up and elbows down, switching my lead foot while throwing a punch at the air for good measure.
As an individual who preferred lifting heavy objects and tossing them back down, I found no pleasure in the nature of exertion and retreated to my corner, lungs barely able to provide adequate oxygen.
"Her turn," I said, nodding at Celeste, who sat at the edge of her seat looking quite mesmerized.
"I will not teach a girl," Bernard argued.
"You don't have to teach her. She's had thirty minutes of watching me dance around in front of you like a trained monkey. Now she may do the same."
I pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket and wiped my sweat-drenched face with my trembling hand.
"Celeste," I said, motioning for her to walk up the wooden stairs. "If you would be so kind as to offer a moment of relief to someone whose heart is about to burst from this torment."
"You are weak," Montlaur complained.
"How encouraging," I huffed between labored breaths. "World's greatest instructor."
With Jean's assistance, Celeste walked up the stairs and I held the bottom rope down with my foot so that she was able to duck into the ring.
She turned in a full circle and gazed about, first at the gymnasium rafters with its banners and then at the display of ribbons from various sport victories by athletes who attended the university adorning the walls.
In a moment of pure wonder, she did remind me of Elizabeth. Not because they looked similar, but because I could imagine my niece also gazing around the interior, eyes wide and lips parted as if she'd never seen anything so miraculous in her life.
Given that I wasn't certain how much physical activity would be required on the first day, I'd instructed the girl to wear a dress that allowed her to swing her arms about freely. The sleeves were a bit snug-fitting, the lilac dress itself snug around her middle as she started to outgrow it, but in decent repair.
"Have at it," I said, collapsing into the corner with my back to the turnbuckle.
Lips pursed, she held onto her skirt and slowly bounced back and forth from one foot to the other, more or less jogging in place.
"No," Montlaur said.
Celeste paused.
"Bend your knees," he said. Lips still twisted in a scowl, he eyed me briefly.
She nodded and started again, bouncing a bit higher with her knees bent, the base of the ring rattling beneath her.
"Wider stance, feet diagonal," Montlaur growled as he sat opposite me. He pulled a cigarette out of his bag and struck a match on the bottom of his shoe. "There, like that."
From opposite sides of the ring we watched the girl hop around, pausing every so often to sweep her hair back from her face or flail around as she nearly lost her balance. Each time she paused, she would smile to herself, regroup, and start again, looking first to me for approval, then Montlaur, who feigned disinterest despite offering suggestions here and there while he smoked.
"What are you doing with your arms, girl?" Bernard snapped.
Celeste raised them higher in the air.
"Drop them elbows!" the pugilist ordered.
"Bend your knees," I added. "You're standing too straight again."
She whirled in a circle, listening to our instructions and implemented them into her stance, elbows down, knees bent at such an angle she practically squatted onto the mat.
"Are you spent?" Montlaur grumbled after she had been hopping around for fifteen minutes.
The girl shook her head despite clearly being winded.
Montlaur rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. "Well, you look spent to me. Stop trouncing about like a show pony and relax."
She immediately stopped, stood straight up, and took on the posture of a soldier at attention before a general.
Bernard appeared amused by her enthusiasm and looked her over, his light eyes narrowed beneath his pale brows.
"What happened to you face?" he growled.
Celeste made no reply. The mark to her cheek that had been red in the morning had turned more purple in color, the small bruise above her eye the size of a quail's egg protruding from her brow.
"What happened to your face?" Bernard asked again.
"I fell," she meekly answered.
"Nonsense," he snapped. "Don't lie to me, girl. What happened to your face?"
"I was pushed," she confessed.
Bernard squinted and took a step closer. "Mmm. You want to learn to box or defend yourself?" he questioned.
Celeste started to look toward me.
"Don't ask him," Bernard snarled. "It ain't his choice. You answer to me, do you understand?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Then which is it? Boxing or self-defense?"
"Both," Celeste answered, her gaze pinned to the mat. "I would like to learn both."
Bernard grunted and finished his cigarette. "Put your arms out," he ordered.
Once she did as instructed, he manipulated her right hand, heel forward and fingers bent.
"Like that," he said, gently hitting his fist to her palm. "Keep your hand like that."
She was still breathing quite heavily, but nodded.
"Now draw your arm back," he told her. "And when I come at you, step forward with your right foot and strike me in the nose with the heel of your hand."
Celeste dropped her arms to her sides. "You want me to hit you?"
Bernard scratched his eyebrow with his fingernail. "With a bit of force. Can you do that?"
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You're a girl. You ain't strong enough to hurt me, are you?"
Celeste turned toward me for confirmation, and the moment her attention was no longer on Bernard, he stomped his foot and advanced swiftly onto her.
"You answer for yourself!" he bellowed.
Immediately she crumpled to the ground before him, knees giving way as she fell to the mat and covered her face and head with her hands.
I reached for the ropes in order to stand while Bernard towered over her, his look of annoyance replaced by bewilderment. He stood frozen above her, his lips slowly parting. His eyes met mine and I started to pull myself up, preparing to rescue the girl from the situation I had unintentionally put her into out of my own ignorance.
"On your feet," he said, holding out his hand to the girl. He looked sharply at me, silently requesting that I remain where I sat. "You are at a severe disadvantage on the ground."
"I'm sorry," she said under her breath.
"Stand," he said, gripping her hand in his. "There is no time for apologies."
Bernard hauled Celeste to her feet with such force that she momentarily left the ground entirely and landed firmly on both feet, shaking the ring beneath me.
"Take a breath," Bernard said. "Clear your mind."
Celeste gasped for her next breath, her complexion sallow.
"Ready?" he asked.
It was obvious that she was not prepared in the least for him to play the part of an attacker, but still she nodded and the pugilist reminded her to strike him with the heel of her hand.
"You stay on your feet, hear me?"
She swiftly nodded, her breaths ragged from trepidation.
He darted toward her and she took a step back, but raised her arm in defense.
"Step forward, not backward," he said. "You will be off balance if you retreat. Is that clear?"
Her body vibrated with fear, her eyes wide and blank. I doubted she was present enough in her mind to listen.
"Give her a moment," I said under my breath. "Can you not see with your eyes how she–"
"An attacker will not spare her a second thought," Bernard said as he turned away and took a deep breath. "Are you prepared, child?"
Celeste didn't answer. Her bottom lip wobbled, her stance like a limp noodle. She looked at me with uncertainty.
"Are you prepared?" Bernard asked again, snarling at her. "Tell me."
"She's done," I said, saving her the embarrassment of retreating for a third time. The girl was terrified and I would not stand for another moment of her humiliation at his hands.
"Be quiet," Bernard ordered. He turned and nodded to the girl. "Are you ready or not? Answer me, girl!"
Visibly she swallowed and I lowered my gaze, thinking of the many times my own father had knocked me to the ground and ordered me to stand. He took pleasure in shoving me onto my back with such force that I stumbled across the length of the room and landed on my back. Each blow rattled and shamed me, the rush of adrenaline temporarily holding a place for the pain that would follow.
"She's done," I said sharply, annoyed that the pugilist insisted on forcing her into compliance when she was clearly not ready to face such harsh treatment.
Celeste bent her knees. "I'm ready, Monsieur," she said firmly, brushing away unshed tears.
Montlaur gave no warning. He came upon her swiftly, chest puffed out and arms rigid. Celeste barely had time to react, but somehow managed to lean forward while she held her right arm out, the heel of her hand striking him in the upper lip instead of the nose.
Bernard's teeth clamped together, the sound much louder and more alarming than I would have imagined. Swiftly he turned from her and worked his jaw in silence, chuckling to himself as he pulled his handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed at his bloodied lip.
"Did I hurt you?" Celeste fretted.
"Of course not. I fight for a living, girl," he said over his shoulder. "But your blow would have damn well stunned an attacker and allowed you ample time to run. Excellent work, Mademoiselle. You are a quick study."
Celeste exhaled in relief and pushed her hair back from her face. She smiled inwardly while I climbed to my feet and met Montlaur in the center of the ring.
"Girl," Bernard said before she ducked between the ropes. Celeste paused and met his eye. "Don't you ever let anyone push you down again, do you hear me?"
She swiftly nodded and smiled at his words.
"Use your voice," he demanded.
Immediately she straightened. "Yes, Monsieur."
"Good, get out of my ring.":
Celeste scurried off, the bounce in her step indicating her delight as she returned to the floor and grabbed the chair.
"You dismissed her far too quickly," Bernard said through his teeth when he acknowledged me again.
"You were a bit…brutish."
"What do you think will happen if she needs to stop someone, hmm? She will ask for mercy and they will show it?"
"It's her first lesson," I reasoned.
Montlaur grunted. "First and last. As I said, no girls."
"And as I said, she's a prodigy," I said to the prizefighter.
He grunted and shook his head. "Perhaps you don't truly understand the meaning of the word."
"Perhaps I shall bring my guest and a dictionary the next time."
At last he grinned. "I shall enjoy punching you in the face the next time we meet, Kimmer."
I chuckled to myself. "Hardly the first time I've been told as much."
OoO
Thursday morning classes were not what I expected when I officially returned to the university. The studio was not as welcoming as I had hoped compared to the park, but nonetheless, my Bohemians were already inside when I arrived, seated on the floor in their circle of gossip.
"Flan! What time should we meet you tonight?" they asked the moment I walked in the door.
"Forgive me, but I must have forgotten what you have roped me into for this evening."
"Dress rehearsals!"
"I thought that was next week, before the opera opens?"
"This is a private dress rehearsal."
"Are you positive we're invited?"
"Yes! The very handsome–"
"And very generous!"
"The very handsome and generous vicomte has invited us to dress rehearsals for this evening."
I placed my satchel onto my desk. "How many dress rehearsals are needed for this travesty?"
No one knew and no one cared. They were finally going to be seated in the theater with their sets in front of them and actors in costume on the stage. That was all that mattered.
"What time do we need to be there?" they asked.
"Six."
"Six?" they questioned.
One of the ladies pulled out a piece of paper from her bag and unfolded it. "Performance to begin promptly at seven."
"Where did you get that?" I questioned.
"It was tacked to the door before you arrived."
I rolled my eyes. "Do not remove messages from my door. And despite what the note says, you should all be in front of the theater at six-thirty."
"A half hour early? Why?"
"Most of you will not saunter up until five before the hour, having forgotten keys, shoes, your wallets and your heads."
They giggled in obnoxious fashion.
"Six-thirty," I said, turning from them. I glanced at my blackboard and saw someone had used my chalk for writing a message: Welcome Back, Professor Kimmer. We missed you, Flan!
When I turned to face them again, they were grinning madly, undoubtedly awaiting my reaction.
"My children," I said fondly. "I've seen you daily, for a half an hour longer than usual. How could you possibly miss me?"
They shrugged. "We missed the studio."
Ink was of course the last one to show up for class, accompanied by Celeste, who had combed her hair and donned a white dress with blue flowers. I was fairly certain one of my female students had offered the garment to her previously in the park as the rest of the girl's clothing was ill-fitting and stained beyond proper cleaning.
As I had instructed the previous day, Celeste was to take her seat at my desk, which I never used anyhow, and wait until I had a moment to walk her through cleaning procedures. She proudly marched past the easels and stools to my desk, turned on her heel, and sat back in my chair, hands folded in her lap.
Once the class was situated and a model chosen, I nodded to my new maid and she sprang to her feet, her eagerness unexpected and amusing as my regular students disliked being placed in charge of cleaning the brushes, bottles, and palettes.
There was a sink in both my studio and the pottery studio Monsieur Raitt occupied down the hall. His was notoriously splattered with dried clay and frequently needed to be seen by the janitor as the amount of material his students managed to spill down the drain caused considerable plumbing issues.
I prided myself on the condition of my studio and the tidiness of the workspace my students enjoyed, as well as the system for cleaning shared supplies.
"This," I said, holding up a bar of soap. "Is my most prized possession."
The girl looked at me as if I'd gone mad, but was polite enough to nod.
"It's only been available for a few months, and it is the absolute best product I've ever used."
"'Ivory'," she said, reading the imprint on the new bar of soap. "What does that mean?"
"I have no idea, but it doesn't matter. Highest purity rating of any soap I've ever seen," I said, having fallen victim to the company's advertising. A case of bar soap had been sent directly to my apartment straight from the United States, which was the only place the product was manufactured. "And I am the only person in France who has this particular brand."
"How wonderful," Celeste responded, forcing a smile.
There was no telling how long I would have continued educating her on a new bar of soap if not for a knock on the studio door. The poor girl looked relieved when I set the soap down.
Smiling brighter than the sun, Raoul de Chagny stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably, his golden hair combed back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck, blue eyes bright and kind.
The entire classroom paused and turned to look at the young vicomte, both male and female students murmuring at the sight of him gracing our humble doorway.
"Forgive the interruption," Raoul said.
"No apologies necessary."
"You've received my invitation for the performance tonight, yes?"
"The dress rehearsal?"
"A private concert," he answered.
To my surprise, the entire classroom merely sat in silence, grinning at one another rather than their typical whoops and carrying on.
"If you are able to keep these walls so hushed, I'd invite you four days a week," I said as I wiped my hands and hung the damp towel over the edge of the sink. "Do I need to provide a head count?"
"No, not necessary."
"The offer is quite generous, vicomte."
Raoul offered a polite, appreciative smile in return. He was not simply a man who had inherited a great deal of fortune and success from his father, but who had also managed to receive his father's strong jaw and height as well as his mother's eyes and smile.
Good breeding combined with his superior education, Raoul de Chagny was more than a handsome face; he was commanding while still maintaining a sense of humbleness. I doubted he realized how truly captivating he was when he walked into a room. Chances were if he did, he would have been engaged to someone with greater social status than a chorus girl turned newly lead soprano.
"There is more," he said.
"You have our rapt attention."
"I have another invitation for everyone in this room," he stated, gazing around the room with an air of confidence that reminded me of his father. "To the Purple Whale."
There was truly an alarming amount of restaurants, supper clubs, public houses, gentleman's clubs, and taverns with ridiculous names in Paris, the Glass Frog and Purple Whale being amongst my least favorite. The sign outside of the Purple Whale was more pink than purple in color and every time I had the displeasure of walking beneath it, I considered bringing a step ladder and painting supplies from my apartment to correct the damnable mistake in the middle of the night when no one was looking.
"What, may I ask, is taking place at the Purple Whale?" I inquired.
"A private gathering," Raoul stated. "Hosted by myself and the lady of the hour, Christine Daae. Dinner and drinks."
The murmur turned into a roar of anticipation and glee.
"Tonight," Raoul continued. "After the performance, we shall convene promptly at ten. Meals and drinks compliments of the de Chagny estate in gratitude for your service, to which the performing arts are indebted."
He spoke with a great deal of solemnity, like a general to a crowd of veterans and widows who had made a sacrifice to their country. I pursued my lips to prevent myself from chuckling inappropriately at his remarks.
"Your generosity knows no bounds," I said. And how extraordinarily late for a Thursday, I thought to myself.
"I hope to see all of you tonight," Raoul said before he excused himself and exited the studio, closing the door behind him.
The moment he departed, my students shrieked with glee, hands clapping as half of them leapt from their stools and bounced around.
Celeste walked up beside me. "Professor, is that man a prince?"
I shook my head. "I believe the consensus would say he's more of a god."
oOo
I walked past Abigail's shop three times before I heard the bell on the door jingle and turned to see her step onto the street, one hand on her hip and head cocked to the side.
"Are you the royal guard?" she impatiently inquired.
"I–"
She sighed heavily. "What are you doing?"
Stalling, I should have said, like a lovesick boy with a bouquet of flowers that has wilted because I waited too long to knock on the door and profess my undying affection.
Only I had no flowers in hand and I wasn't lovesick nor a boy. I was simply stalling because I didn't know how to approach her.
Abigail rolled her eyes and held the door open, allowing me inside.
"I wanted to pay for the coat you repaired," I said.
"Once I am through with Madame Joie, I would be pleased to settle your debt."
I had failed to notice the young woman who didn't appear old enough for the honorific of 'Madame' seated behind the desk, but I politely nodded and looked around for a place to sit while I waited.
There was, of course, no seating available as every chair was occupied with fabric or sewing supplies, and while Abigail and Madame Joie pursued a magazine of hats and dresses, I took it upon myself to return the wayward bolts of fabric to their rightful places in the wooden racks and shelves.
"Have you heard about the diva?" Madame Joie asked Abigail, making no attempt to lower her voice.
"Which one?" Abigail asked.
"The ousted one of course," Madame Joie answered. "Carlotta Giudicelli."
"I've heard she is no longer the lead," Abigail responded.
Joie snorted. "Carlotta is threatening to leave Paris if she is not reinstated. I've heard opera houses in Rome, Barcelona, and even New York are offering to pay her double to sing for them."
I paused from my sorting, interest piqued in the same unfortunate manner as my Bohemians. Carlotta had a worthy voice, but she had no stage presence whatsoever. The sets my students had painted had more personality than she possessed. I highly doubted anyone was willing to pay her a single franc more than the Opera Populaire.
"I am surprised the new managers replaced her so swiftly," Abigail said. She paused, pointing at an image in the catalog, which Madame Joie dismissed, leaving Abigail frowning.
"Oh, darling, it was not the new managers who demoted her," Madame Joie replied. "It was the true owner of the theater."
"The owner?" Abigail question, which was the same response I would have had if involved in the conversation without my extensive knowledge on the matter. "I am not familiar with the theater's owner."
"Surely you've heard of the phantom," Madame Joie said. "He is bound to the building quite literally. I've heard his bones are encased within the columns in front due to a very unfortunate accident."
"Oh my, what a strange tail," Abigail said. She gave a nervous chuckle. "But he isn't real, is he? Surely these are rumors meant to frighten people."
Madame Joie slapped her hand onto the desk and Abigail jumped. "I saw him with my own eyes."
I blatantly stared over my shoulder at the two women, fully invested in their conversation.
Before Abigail could ask, Madame Joie took a breath and whispered, "My husband and I both saw him."
I immediately turned back to the table and unrolled the bolt of fabric in front of me, smoothing the silk to keep it from wrinkling. Two smaller pieces of fabric, neither of which matched, fell from the inside and onto the floor.
"What did he look like?" Abigail asked.
Madame Joie dramatically paused. "He had eyes yellow, burning bright as the sun, and tears made of blood weeping from the sockets."
Abigail inhaled sharply.
"He does not have a face," Madame Joie continued. "Not a true face, at least."
I held my breath, head turning to the side as if somehow I would be able to eavesdrop with greater clarity with one ear pointed in their direction.
"No face?" Abigail whispered.
"No face," Madame Joie whispered. "What should be a nose and mouth is festering flesh and decay, the bones of his skull visible between the rotting muscles and tendons. He is hideous. He is evil."
Every muscle in my body tensed. I thought of Erik and how others would have described the scars on the right side of his face. While our uncle and cousin refrained from treating him differently or making him feel like a less of a person because of the marks, I knew others would not be as kind. It pained me to think anyone would ever look at my brother and paint him with the same broad strokes, his appearance synonymous with evil.
"Where did you see him?" Abigail asked.
"On the Seine."
"On the Seine? In a boat?"
"He was floating across the water," Madame Joie answered. "We saw him, a blight against the ripple of moonlight. One moment he was there, the next he vanished."
"Floating?" Abigail said incredulously.
"Well, he is a ghost and ghosts tend to do as they wish."
"How did the ghost get outside of the theater?" I blurted out over my shoulder.
Both women immediately snapped their heads up and gaped at me, apparently forgetting I was within the shop entirely while they entertained themselves with ghostly gossip.
"I beg your pardon?" Madame Joie said.
"If the ghost is bound to the theater by the unfortunate placement of his bones, as you have stated, how was he able to enjoy an excursion on the river? Did he chisel his femurs out of the columns and take them along? Stuffed them into a cello case, perhaps?"
Madame Joie looked less than pleased that I had entered their conversation. Her cheeks flushed as she glared at me.
"Well…that is to say…I suppose…why don't you ask him yourself?" she huffed as she stood, grabbed her bag from behind the counter, and briskly walked to the door.
"Madame–" Abigail said.
"The blue and white gown will do nicely," Madame Joie said. She glared at me one last time for good measure.
"Of course, Madame Joie," Abigail replied. "It will be ready by next Friday."
Once Madame Joie stormed out of the shop, I continued sorting through the fabric, aware that my interruption was most likely not appreciated.
Abigail consulted her catalog, pulled open a filing cabinet, and rummaged through two drawers, rifling through several folders until she consulted the catalog again.
I half-watched her while gathering spools of ribbon, which I placed into smaller wooden bins by color, growing ever more anxious as she struggled to find the correct pattern. Simply returning the envelopes to the corresponding envelopes would have saved her a great deal of time, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
At last she found the pattern she had been searching for and pinned a receipt to the envelope.
"Phelan," she said sharply once she placed the envelope onto the counter atop a pile of a dozen other patterns.
With the table mostly cleared, I turned to face her, surprised to see she greeted me with a warm smile.
"Thank you," she said.
"I should be thanking you for allowing me to organize this corner," I replied.
Abigail closed her eyes and shook her head. "I meant for shooing Madame Joie out the door," she said. "That woman has been in here for the last two hours, declining every color and style I've shown her through six catalogs. I was at my wit's end."
"My absolute pleasure," I said, taking a bow.
Abigail looked around the small interior of the shop and chewed on her lower lip. "You must think I'm terribly disorganized," she murmured.
I thought she was astoundingly disorganized for someone running a successful business,especially since her apartment was far more tidy.
"You're very busy," I commented in the most polite way possible.
"This was never mine," she said as she sorted through the pile of envelopes and receipts. "And I never wanted it."
One envelope fell to the floor, followed by another, and I crossed the room in order to retrieve them. I placed them back onto the desk rather than handing them directly to Abigail, aware that if our hands brushed together it would most likely not be the end of something physical between us.
"The shop was never yours?" I asked.
Abigail nodded. "Sowards Sewing and Tailoring," she said. "It used to say Sowards Sewing, Tailoring and Cobbler, but I had the last one removed from the sign after Clarence was killed. I knew how to sew and I suppose the tailoring was easy enough, but a cobbler I am not. Clarence wasn't very good at it either," she said, chuckling to herself. "But no matter what he was working on, he could find anything in this rat's nest."
I gazed around the shop again, attempting to make sense of the way supplies were stored.
"Every time I would attempt to sort out the place, Clarence would grumble that I ruined his system. Days after the funeral, when I was sitting here with the children, I wanted to tear everything down and put it all back together, warm colors, cool colors, light fabric and heavy fabric all in their respectful places. But I didn't want to take that away from Clarence."
I started to pull out the stool from beneath the counter and paused. "Have I offended you by organizing your shop? That was never my intention."
"No, I'm not offended. A little embarrassed that you always feel the need to sort through the chaos, perhaps, but not offended." She looked past me at the shelves and cabinets overflowing with supplies. "There are over thirty pairs of scissors in this cramped little shop," she told me. "I just purchased two more because for the life of me I couldn't find the others. Or perhaps I don't want to look for them because I detest the way it makes me feel inside." She sighed to herself and absently opened one of the catalogs on the table. "Sometimes it seems like I've forgotten who I was before Clarence was killed. I lose myself in the patterns, in the act of creating, and I wonder who I was before the gendarmes came pounding on the door. Was that former version of myself happier before my husband was murdered? There were certainly traits that I disliked about him, such as his inability to put anything back where he found it. Jars of buttons, my favorite needles, and some lace I received when we were married would disappear from my workspace. Hours, sometimes days later, Clarence would return them and I wouldn't want to speak to him for hours because I was furious with him slowing down my progress.
"And then he would come down here in the middle of the night while I slept and finish the sleeves or add an embellishment for me to a dress I was behind on completing, and I would feel terrible for my temper. But then he would do it all over again, and I'd want to strangle that man."
She laughed again and turned the page in the catalog.
"You loved him," I commented.
"Sometimes I'm not sure if that's true or not," Abigail replied.
I furrowed my brow.
"I cared for Clarence and he cared for me, but there are times when I think about the moments that were unhappy."
I took a seat and rested my heels on the lower rungs of the stool. Hands folded, I looked around the shop, imagining Abigail rummaging through the piles she had not made like a curious bird dropped into a mole's labyrinth.
He roams the darkness.
The old gypsy woman's words crept unbidden into my thoughts. Sometimes I wondered if I had intentionally ignored Erik's pleas to take him down to the water, if I had allowed him to leave unattended with some malicious intent on my part.
Did you really love him? I would ask myself as I laid awake in bed, tossing and turning while my mind refused to quiet. Of course I loved him. How could I not love my own brother?
He was a burden, in more ways than I wished to consider. From the moment I took him from the back step and brought him inside, we were never apart from one another because he would not allow it. I couldn't sleep for more than a handful of hours here and there as he screamed for his bottle and to be held. He was insatiable. He urinated, defecated and vomited on me, screamed in my ear, cried in my arms, and his inconsolable nature had gotten me beaten in the middle of the night by our father more than once when I couldn't keep him quiet.
But I continued to care for Erik, and eventually he was more tolerable as he grew older. He would smile and laugh at me, the babbles becoming words, the words full sentences, full sentences into more complex ideas.
I wasn't sure if I continued to care for Erik because I loved him or because it had become second-nature.
Lan, write my name.
Lan, look at the squirrel.
Lan, I found a baby mouse. Look at it!
Lan I'm tired. Lan, are you awake? Lan, I am hungry.
Lan, Lan, Lan…
Perhaps it wasn't love at all, but necessity. When I focused on Erik, I had no time to think of myself, and once he was gone, I had nothing but my own misery and shortcomings.
"Surely there are good memories as well," I said. "Things that you miss about your husband."
Abigail thought for a moment. "I miss the conversations," she replied. "The moments over dinner when the children were far too preoccupied with their meal to interrupt, or after when they were in bed and it was the two of us chatting over wine."
Inwardly I cringed at Abigail's words and considered how much I had denied not only her by declining her invitation, but myself with the lack of time spent in a meaningful way.
"I should move on and clear out every bolt of fabric. Perhaps sell the shop, too," Abigail said under her breath, the sound of her voice jolting me from my thoughts. "I've been mourning the loss of Clarence for three years now. My brother is visiting from Toronto soon and I'm certain he will tell me it's time to live again rather than simply existing. And I'm certain he will have plenty to say about this disaster," she added, gesturing around the shop.
"Three years is far more acceptable than thirty," I said more to myself than to her.
Abigail frowned at me. "Erik, correct?"
I smiled back at her. "Yes, Erik."
Saying his name felt more like love and less like duty.
"You miss him," Abigail observed.
Like a severed limb, like a chamber of my heart that didn't work properly, like part of my soul that had died.
"Every day," I answered.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
My lips parted, but my heart felt like it was gripped in a vice. "An explanation for another time?" I questioned, rising to my feet. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. "What do I owe you for the coat?"
Abigail appeared somewhat disappointed by my words, but she didn't argue or attempt to persuade me to stay.
"Sixty francs."
I raised a brow. "That's it?"
"You'll owe another twenty if you don't meet me for tea tomorrow and tell me about your brother."
"Sixty francs and a story then."