Ch 60
The heaviness I carried was not completely lifted, but I felt more at ease than I could remember ever felt before. I returned to my apartment still thinking of not only the kiss, but the embrace I had shared with Abigail Soward.
Out of all of our shared physical interactions over the years, a simple embrace should have ranked rather low in terms of satisfaction. We had been tangled in each other's arms frequently, not a shred of clothing between us, and yet somehow the most innocent of exchanges felt far deeper and more meaningful than tossing her skirts and my trousers aside for the afternoon.
Sexual gratification was not difficult to achieve. It had become almost automatic: meeting someone, an exchange of words, piqued interest, and then back to her home or mine if mutually desired. I had no need to know their birthdays, favorite flower, whether they had siblings or parents that loved them, or what they ate for breakfast. I didn't want to know anything more than whether or not they were married or betrothed. As long as they were unattached, the evening could proceed.
We parted ways with sensual kisses that often led to one last moment of shared intimacy, another physically stimulating but emotionally starved interaction. There was no connection, no wondering if I would see them again, no hope of anything more between us.
But now, for the first time in my life, I wanted to feel like I was with someone for more than intercourse. I wanted Abigail's fingers entwined with mine as we chatted, I wanted to watch her cut fabric while she told me about her day and the customers walking into the shop. I wanted to wander the museum with her on a Tuesday evening when the Louvre was open late and show her my drawing on display for the summer, followed by a stroll through the park and a kiss goodnight when I saw her safely home.
I wanted to feel her arms wrapped around me, to feel her hands against my spine while I placed my cheek atop her head and did nothing more than hold her for a long, blissful moment. I wanted to feel the closeness without anything more needing to transpire, to be with someone and allow my emotions to flow freely.
There was wholeness in that quiet moment we had shared, acceptance despite my faults.
Be with me.
Yes, I wanted to tell her, yes, I understand. What a fool I have been to dismiss your request, to not put aside my plans or invite you out to the gallery so that we can spend time together outside of your bedroom or shop. I want to be with you. I want you to be with me.
But…
"But I should refrain from kissing you for the time being," I said under my breath as I hung the new suit up in my wardrobe and admired the details. "Or limit myself to a kiss on your forehead because I don't think I could give up kissing you completely. You are quite frankly too difficult to resist." I smiled to myself. "Abi," I whispered, wondering how she would feel if I called her by her apparent nickname. "My little cheese-loving mouse."
My heart fluttered as I looked at the clock and smiled to myself, counting down the minutes until I would see Abigail again. I looked forward to her company, to the sound of her voice and feel of her brushing up against me. I wanted to look into her moss green eyes as she spoke, watch the flutter of her lashes and the way a smile easily spread across her lips during our conversation.
This would be our first dinner together, the first of many, I hoped. I wasn't concerned about her attending the opera as there were plenty of performances throughout the theater district to attend in the future and I wanted our first time out together to be perfect.
I untethered Elvira from her stand, filled her bowl with fresh food, and cleaned up the feathers and seeds she had spilled while I was away. With her content and able to move around as she pleased, I sat in my chair, pulled out my sketchbook, and turned to the blank pages in the middle.
Bernard stared back at me, his burly likeness bringing a smile to my face. I drew him again, this time in the ring with Celeste where she held him over her head and prepared to deposit him over the ropes, which I found quite comical. I imagined Bernard would find it very amusing and Celeste would ask if she could attempt lifting her instructor once I presented it to the two of them in June.
On the next page, I drew them seated together on a park bench sharing candy with both of their lips ringed in chocolate. They would have reached Wissant by the middle of the morning, I assumed, and had probably already indulged in the biscuits Bernard had mentioned. I hoped Celeste was prepared to start her new life in the care of someone who would stop at nothing to see her content.
They were quick sketches of dear friends, nothing masterful, but I found the process relaxing as the pages went from blank to filled and the individuals depicted sprang to life.
Next I sharpened my colored pencils and drew Abigail, taking care to get the gentle curve of her nose and the shape of her eyes correct.
Aside from Florine, I avoided drawing women that I had intimate encounters with over the years, preferring to draw students, strangers, or my niece, who was always willing to sit for me.
There had been a span of about six months where Elizabeth insisted that I draw her portrait every time I saw her, which resulted in hundreds of depictions of my niece in the margins of newspapers, the backs of receipts, and dozens of pages in my sketchbook. Sometimes she was little more than an outline with a few scribbles here and there to give her notable features, other times I spared no details or added embellishments I thought she would appreciate.
No matter how detailed or simple, Elizabeth reacted the same every time: complete astonishment, which was the most sincere form of praise. Drawing her had become my greatest joy and challenge as I wanted no two portraits to be the same.
Elvira hopped onto the arm of my chair and leaned toward the sketchbook. I wasn't sure if it was the movement or the sound of the lead against the paper that garnered her curiosity, but she seemed to enjoy being as close as possible to the sketchbook, her light yellow eyes curiously examining my every move.
"You're in the way, my love," I said, gently nudging her with the back of my right hand.
I swore she purposely attempted to stand on my wrist, impeding the process like a spoiled toddler vying for my attention.
"Elvira," I said, shaking my head at her. "Move back to the armrest. I can't see what I'm doing."
She looked at me as if deciding how much of a menace she wished to be, evaluating my mood to see what she could get away with before I put her back onto her stand.
"You have until I count to three," I warned. "One, two…"
It was a phrase she most certainly understood as she swiftly returned to the armrest, scaled the back of the chair, and perched on my left shoulder where she turned and hit me in the back of the head with her tail.
"You did that on purpose and I know it," I said. "Fortunately for you I am off to dinner shortly and you are saved from the cooking pot once again."
She was not in a talkative mood and chose to observe rather than interact.
"This," I said to her, blowing bits of pencil dust from the page, "is Abigail. Isn't she lovely? I think she's quite lovely, both inside and out."
Elvira pressed her face to my cheek as she leaned forward and watched me draw.
"I am quite fond of her," I said. "You would probably dislike her, at least at first, but you are not fond of most people aside from me, so that is understandable."
She made a cooing sound and I lifted my hand, stroking her throat with the tips of my fingers.
"If things progress, I would like for her to meet you," I told her. "I suppose you would be the deciding factor on whether or not…"
I paused, rolling the pencil between my thumb and forefinger, finding my thoughts quite absurd.
"My God, am I truly thinking you are the one dictating who I am allowed to befriend? Or court? Do you truly wield such power, my darling Elvira?"
She continued to coo in my ear, nibbling my hair in the process, which I found quite soothing.
"You are very fortunate that I think so highly of you," I said. "A lesser bird would not be dictating my life as you do."
I finished the rest of the sketch with Elvira content on my shoulder, grooming me as she typically did as a show of her affection. Once she was satisfied with combing my hair and pulling out a hair or two from my beard, she stepped onto the back of the chair and waited for me to hand her a piece of paper to tear apart.
"It's unfortunate Val hasn't slid a note beneath my door," I said, still feeling quite displeased with my cousin. "I'd allow you to destroy it without opening the envelope."
I disliked wasting blank paper and thumbed through the book for something she could happily tear and found an old preliminary drawing of Hugo that was so hastily done it was embarrassing. Hugo definitely would have struck me in the knee with his crutch if he'd seen the sketch, reprimanding me for making him look terrible.
"Here," I said, handing her the paper. "Please get rid of this for me."
She happily obliged while I began drawing Erik, imaging him at the Opera Populaire seated rows from me. I imagined seeing him purely by accident as he made his way to his seat with his wife on his arm, fretting that they were almost late despite having fifteen minutes before curtain.
I imagined my breath hitching as I watched him sit three rows ahead of me, orchestra right. His wife would use her program as a fan, chatting away as he attempted to look through the pages while still listening to her every word. Every few seconds he would pause, turn to nod at her in agreement or look at whatever she pointed toward–some friend or fellow musician seated in the box seats. Perhaps Raoul de Chagny, whose home they had been to many times for social gatherings and games, would wave back from his seat.
All the while, I would sit frozen in place, waiting for him to see the ad in the program, the ones I had placed in order to find my missing brother.
I imagined him drawing the program nearer to his face, reading the words again and again before he showed his wife. The two of them would exchange looks of astonishment. They would whisper to one another, confirming that the advertisement was indeed from me looking for him.
And then he would twist in his seat and look around the audience, perhaps certain that I was in attendance. I would stand, my heart in my throat, my body vibrating with anticipation of him seeing me. I would smile and nod. His lips would part, then his mouth would drop open once he recognized me, his older brother, his adoring brother that he never expected to see again.
He would leave his seat, program in hand, and I would rush from mine and we would meet in the aisle, both of us grinning and momentarily speechless.
Phelan? Phelan can this really be you?
Yes, Erik, it's me. It's your brother.
My God, but how?
I never stopped searching for you, not ever. I went to the beach every single day no matter if it was freezing cold or raining. I've been running ads in the newspaper ever since I was sixteen. I've spent my last cent attempting to find you.
All of these years and you never stopped looking?
Of course I never stopped looking. I couldn't stop. I needed to find you.
A sense of relief washed over me as I imagined seeing Erik in a matter of hours. In my darkest, most hopeless days, when the weight of the world was at its heaviest and I could not imagine waking to face another sunrise, I clung to the possibility of seeing my little brother again. I had to survive another day to find him. I had to crawl out of bed and dress because my brother was still out there. I lived to find Erik again, to be reunited, to ask for his forgiveness, to clap him on the back and tell him that I loved him.
The moments when life seemed unbearable were infrequent, but those days seemed nearly impossible to weather alone. It fueled my desire to fight complete strangers, to walk into apartments with women whose names I didn't know. It made me terribly angry and careless.
But the moments when I focused on the physical pain or pleasure allowed me no time to dwell on the guilt, on the sense of disappointment, and the shame of being a child who had not been loved by the adults who were supposed to care for me.
I would sit alone and think of what Alak had done to me the night Erik went missing, how he placed his full weight atop me and pressed so hard into my damaged arm that I was blinded by the agonizing pain. That was the moment my soul detached from my body, when love had drained from me.
I thought of how powerless I had been, how I begged for Alak to stop and he had violated not only my physical being, but my trust.
From that moment forward, I had placed no value on myself in a physical sense. I could be left bloodied and it meant nothing to me. I could button up my trousers and leave a stranger's home and whatever we had done behind closed doors was meaningless.
I had shut out everything and everyone for so long, filled with only guilt and grief and regret.
"Papa loves Elvira," Elvira said, imitating my voice.
Absently I reached up and stroked her head. Her presence had kept me out of trouble. I had steady employment and a creature who relied upon me to come home at the end of the day, a life completely dependent on me and my actions.
The hope of finding my brother and the task of keeping Elvira from plucking her feathers out had forced me to live through the worst of days. Once Erik saw my ad, once I had my brother back, Abigail's companionship, and Elvira's steady presence, the darkest of days would be behind me for good.
"He's close," I said, smiling to myself. "I know he has to be close. When you meet Erik, you must be on your best behavior, do you understand? You cannot terrorize or bite my brother."
"Erik," Elvira said.
Out of all the phrases Elvira had learned, all of the names she randomly screeched, she had never repeated my brother's name. I'd always found it surprising as she copied my words verbatim, calling Val an ignorant bastard in front of him on two separate occasions and Elizabeth a darling girl, which my niece found enchanting.
"Erik is my brother," I said. I tapped the sketchbook. "See? That's Erik."
Elvira took my actions as an invitation, and before I could stop her, she ripped the page from the book, tearing it in half.
"Elvira!" I scolded, horrified as the top half of my brother landed on the rug in front of me. "What was that for?"
"See? That's Erik," she said, repeating my words.
I leaned forward and retrieved the top half of the page and felt along the paper where her beak had pierced through his chest, directly into his heart.
"What have you done?" I whispered, dark thoughts flitting through my mind.
oOo
I was not one for superstition, however, the drawing of Erik ripped in half was quite unsettling and I couldn't shake the feeling of something quite foreboding at work in the universe.
Originally I wanted to crumple the whole damned drawing and feed it into the fire, but I feared my actions would somehow set disaster further into motion throughout the precarious balance of the world.
A bit of wax on the back of the paper would secure it in place, but it would not be the same and I didn't have the time to spend to see it done correctly.
I stared at the two halves of the page, heart in my throat, becoming more troubled by the moment. The clock struck five and I hastily put my supplies away, realizing I was running out of time to prepare for dinner with Abigail.
Elvira remained on the back of the chair while I cleaned my teeth, washed my face, and changed into the green suit. My hands were unsteady as I buttoned the shirt and waistcoat. Twice I started to go back to the sketchbook as if there was something I could do to reverse or repair the damage, but anything I did would only make it worse.
"You have to be there, Erik," I said as I combed my hair and pulled it back from my face. "You have to be there, three rows ahead, with your wife. I am not asking you to make an appearance this evening, I am begging you to please be there for me."
A silver strand of hair that I was certain had not been there in the morning stood out against the rest of my darker hair. Frustrated, I yanked it from my temple, then felt foolish for my vanity.
Quite clearly I was on the verge of complete madness and forced myself to take a step back. Breathe, I reminded myself. I swallowed and thought of Bernard instructing me as I was far more willing to listen to him than myself.
Breathe, Professor. Ain't no use in worrying about something you can't control.
"Little do you know, I worry about everything that is out of my control," I muttered.
My tolerance for myself waned. Dressed and rattling with anxiety, I placed a towel over my sleeve, coaxed Elvira onto my arm, and guided her onto her stand. I assumed she sensed my frustration and made no fuss about being alone for the evening.
"I'll be back in six hours," I said as if she could read the clock. "Behave."
Taking a deep breath, I shrugged into my coat, scurried down the stairs, and hailed a cab with miraculous speed. Once the driver had the address and I was comfortably seated inside, I went through several rounds of breathing until I felt as though I were no longer suffocating from my own self-induced trepidation.
The torn sketch was a mistake and nothing more. It was silly to think of it as a foreboding sign. It was a rough sketch of Erik, one of hundreds I'd done over the years. There were plenty of sketches of my brother that I had accidentally spilled coffee or candle wax onto the paper or melted butter from a meal and I'd thought nothing of it. There was no reason to think that a rip in the page was any different.
But…He was ripped in half.
Erik is fine. It's a drawing. It isn't him, it's his likeness.
Perhaps I should have drawn myself and allowed Elvira to shred it, thus proving there was no harm to be done.
The carriage came to a stop and I sighed in relief, grateful to be at my destination and start the evening. Abigail would undoubtedly help to clear my irrational thoughts. She had a full conversation with her deceased husband; clearly she would not think less of me for feeling as though a torn portrait was a bad sign. Perhaps she would help me see the situation as less foreboding and more amusing.
I stepped out of the carriage, asked the driver to wait five minutes, and strolled across the street to her shop. The sign on the door read 'closed', the interior dark. I knocked, assuming she was in the finishing stages of dressing or fixing her hair.
I knocked a second time, waited, and tried the service bell that I'd never noticed before. Seconds passed and there was no sign of her or her children or even her brother. I checked my watch and realized I was almost twenty minutes early thanks to the swift carriage horses.
"I believe I will catch a different cab," I said, walking across the street to pay the driver. "I'm a bit earlier than I first thought and I'm afraid the person I am waiting on isn't expecting me yet."
The man shrugged and I turned, glancing at the apartment windows, hoping to steal a glimpse of her silhouette through the curtains.
The windows upstairs, however, were dark. I took several steps back as though somehow this would afford me a better view, but there was nothing to see.
Again I crossed the street and tried the bell again, ringing it several times, but to no avail.
Perhaps her youngest son was ill and she was at the physician's office, I reasoned. It was a bit late to call upon a doctor, but some illnesses could not wait until morning. I walked around to the side of the building and into the alley and tried the back door, which was also locked.
With no pen and paper to leave a note and no other means to contact her, I crossed my arms and stood outside of the door, attempting to evaluate the situation. I was still early, we still had plenty of time for dinner, and the opera didn't start for over two hours.
"It's fine," I said under my breath. "It's fine. I have twenty minutes to spare. There is no reason to worry."
Rather than take my own whispered advice, I watched every second tick by on my pocket watch. My nose was numb from the night air, my fingers stiff from the cold. By six-fifteen I paced to the end of the street and back, searching every cab for a glimpse of her. At six-thirty, I put my watch into my pocket and pursed my lips, uncertain of what to do now that we were a half hour behind schedule.
Without thinking I pressed my fingers into my left forearm and inhaled sharply, startled by the immense pain.
For safekeeping, Abigail had promised me. She was supposed to take my right hand when I was overwhelmed and overstimulated, holding me back from self-harm.
I pried my fingers away and stood with my back to the building, breathing in slowly. I forced myself to hold it and exhale slowly, but felt that it did nothing to quell the buzz in my head.
With nothing else to do, I waited until seven outside of her door, my growing anxiety becoming unbearable as I imagined every possible reason for the store and apartment to be empty. Gooseflesh rose along my arms, my heart beating so wildly that my chest ached.
I second-guessed myself, wondering if we had agreed upon seven and I had mistakenly thought of dinner as being at six. No, I was certain we had said I would arrive at six and then dinner at Olive Leaf. I distinctly recalled confirming with her, dinner two hours before the show.
I refused to believe she was injured or incapacitated somewhere as I couldn't bear the thought of her being harmed.
My heart felt as though it were being squeezed in my chest as I stood like a wayward creature, unable to process her absence. Abigail was not at home, and I was running out of time to make it to the theater before the start of the performance.
oOo
I had managed to reach a point in worry and self-deprecation where I no longer felt my own body. Numbness had always been a part of me, but I felt I no longer existed, trapped like an insect within a web. Over and over I replayed our conversations, searching for somewhere that I had misstepped or misspoke that would have led to her sudden rejection.
I walked up the opera house steps, stood in the will call line, and gave my name.
"Two?" the young lady asked.
"Yes," I said, unable to admit I was attending alone.
The attendant handed me an envelope and I entered the crowded lobby filled with far too many people who had bathed in cologne and perfume. Head down, I shuffled forward with the masses, my mind still reeling.
We wanted two different things, I told myself. Her lightly spoken words of wanting me to stay and come upstairs with her were the truth thinly veiled as a jest. Despite saying we could not continue as we had in the past, she wanted something physical and I wanted her companionship.
As I inched forward in the line, it became clearer that she realized I was far too broken for anything more than sexual pleasure. It was obvious that I was not capable of providing her with more than physical satisfaction. I had told her as much, stating that I could not give her what I didn't have.
I sank lower into my mood, embarrassed that I had waited outside of her shop as though she would magically appear and wounded deeply by her decision to leave for the night rather than tell me she was no longer interested.
"May I help you find your seats?" an older man with a bright smile asked as he handed me the program for the performance.
"No, I am familiar with the seating," I said, walking past him, trudging deeper into my self-inflicted misery.
The effort I had put into forming a relationship with substance was in vain, the truth of my words, the truth of my past, had done nothing to aid me in being less alone. I felt more solitary than ever before, possibly more alone now that she had made her decision. I was embarrassed by my request for her company, for the vulnerability I had shown.
Aside of course from the night Erik disappeared, I could not recall feeling a more acute sense of despair. That painful evening treacherously bore down on me, winding its way through my insides to make another layer of regret.
I found my row and looked at the seat number, realizing I was on the wrong side of the aisle. Apologizing to the people on the end of the row who had stood to let me pass through, I turned, walked toward the back, and cut across to the correct side.
The moments following Erik's disappearance crowded around me. I thought of Alak sitting on me, of the door being locked when I finally ceased bawling and attempted to return inside. I remembered the distinct terror of being in the woods alone at night, how I dreaded not only being by myself in the dark, but never being invited inside again.
I remembered how ice cold the stream had been to my bare feet as I blindly trudged through the water, feeling my way through the cool, damp forest until I found a rotted tree stump where I had hoped to bed down for the night.
I hadn't crawled into the stump; I'd collapsed into the hollowed out insides, the guts of a mighty tree that had been brought down by a storm probably before I was born. There were spiderwebs in my hair and unseen grime beneath my fingernails. Unseen insects crawled onto my flesh, biting my arms and legs.
And there I had wailed in the night, howling with anguish and fear, racking my brain for some indication of how long Erik had been gone. I died again and again with each sharp inhale, with each hot tear rolling down my cheeks. It was the first instance, at the age of seven and a half, that I recalled not wanting to live any more. I was certain I no longer deserved to breathe, to exist, and no one would tell me otherwise.
Why, I wondered. Why did he leave? Why would he go without me after dark?
I found my seat and pressed my palm to my forehead, barely able to breathe or focus on the world around me. Why, I wondered. Why did Abigail leave before I arrived? Why couldn't she tell me that she was not interested in friendship?
I flipped the program open and thumbed through the pages, unable to process a single word or image. Aggravated, I closed it and scanned the rest of the theater seat by seat, searching for my brother in the audience. I needed something to take my mind off of Abigail, some other task to iron out my jumbled thoughts and pull me from my despair.
First I spotted Jean and a woman I was not familiar with seated in the front left section. A few rows back from them and in the center, Florine and Marco.
"Phelan," a male voice addressed.
I glanced up at Val sternly looking down at me. He nodded toward the middle of the row and I stood, allowing him to pass by me to his seat.
Carmen was behind him and paused, meeting my eye with a smile. "It appears we're in the same row."
"It appears so," I agreed.
"Is it just you tonight?" she asked.
I nodded, having no desire for an exchange of words.
"Phelan?" she questioned. "Is something the matter?"
"No," I assured her. "Nothing at all."
Still, she made no attempt to pass by me and take her seat in the center.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Positive," I answered.
At last she slipped past me, glancing back before Val practically pulled her into her seat and loudly told her to leave me alone.
Again I opened the program and stared blankly at the inside cover, contemplating whether or not I should stay for the opera as I was in no mood to sit in the theater for three and a half hours.
"Professor!" someone whispered loudly.
I looked up, finding Ink and a female student, Jovina, grinning back at me.
"I just wanted to say hello," Jovina said, waving in my face. "I'll see you at intermission, Professor Flan."
She turned on her heel and scurried up the aisle before I could respond, leaving Ink standing in the middle of the aisle, being bumped by patrons attempting to maneuver past him.
"Sit," I said impatiently, gesturing toward the empty seat beside me. "You're preventing everyone else from getting to their seats."
"You don't mind?"
"I detest people standing over me," I grumbled.
Ink blinked at me. "Perhaps I should return to my seat in the balcony," he said. "My apologies for taking up your time, Professor Kimmer. Enjoy the performance."
I briefly closed my eyes and exhaled, realizing my tone was off putting. "Wait," I said before he walked away. "Please, Daniel, take a seat. There are still seventeen minutes before curtain." The curtain was not actually down and I grunted. "Until show time, I should say."
Ink appeared delighted by the invitation and sat next to me, hands folded in his lap, and a smile on his closed lips as he gazed around.
"It's a beautiful theater," he said. "What an honor to be back here after the time spent finishing the backdrops."
"Yes," I agreed. "Quite possibly my favorite theater in the district."
Ink glanced down at his hands, then at the stage. He made a face and looked at me. "Professor," he said, appearing uncomfortable.
I raised a brow, hoping he would not ask if something was wrong. "Monsieur Lincoln?"
Ink hesitated, then leaned toward me and whispered, "That is the backdrop we worked on as a group, correct?"
"Yes," I said. "It looks very good."
Ink pursed his lips and exhaled. "It does," he said slowly, "but…there's something…unexpected, I should say."
I followed his gaze and realized what he meant. When I turned to face him again, his cheeks were bright red.
"That was not me," he said quickly. "The…shapes in the flowers."
"The stems?" I asked.
Ink swallowed. "The stems and the other things," he nervously whispered. "They look like…I dare not be uncouth."
"I know what they look like and I am aware that was not you," I replied.
Ink seemed relieved. "Good, I didn't want you to think I was being a delinquent off of university property."
His response amused me. "I drew that portion," I said.
Ink gasped and blinked at me. "You did that, Professor Kimmer?"
It was quite possibly the only conversation that would have made me smile in my most dismal moment.
"When one asks artists to provide their skills without proper compensation, artists take appropriate liberties. Or, I should say, inappropriate liberties."
Ink snorted with laughter. "You are…" He grinned back at me. "You are my most favorite teacher I've ever had in any of my schooling, Professor Kimmer. I will miss you terribly when I leave next month."
"Will you return next year?" I asked.
Ink bowed his head. "I have not yet decided," he said. "I would like to attend your second year art class, but…" He shrugged. "I still have a sour taste in my mouth from the incident."
I nodded. "Boucher should be behind a desk, not on patrol," I replied. "And you should return next year because you're an excellent artist and I've enjoyed seeing your work in the studio."
Ink smiled to himself. "I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me."
"I appreciate that you are finishing the year. Losing you as part of the class would have been a significant loss."
"Thank you, Professor. I should return to my seat," he said. "Before the rightful owner of his one returns."
"It's you, Jovina and Mateo?" I asked. Ink nodded. "I'll see the three of you in the lobby during the first intermission."
"Enjoy, Professor. I do hope I am able to watch the actors rather than gawk at your artwork."
I chuckled to myself. "I'm flattered, Monsieur Lincoln."
Ink returned to his seat and I sat back, flipping the program open again where I saw my ad. I cringed at the mistakes, but knew that if Erik was in the audience–whether it was the first night or a subsequent performance–he would know it was me looking for him.
Please be here, I thought to myself. Please, Erik, I need to salvage this night.
The lights dimmed. I saw Florine look over her shoulder at me and felt Carmen to my right staring in my direction. Ignoring both of them, I took a breath and focused on the swell of music as the orchestra began to play and two male actors appeared on the stage, and Don Juan Triumphant made its debut.