CH 82
"God damn it," I said through my teeth.
The good week I wished to have slipped through my fingers as I sat on the street with my back to the wall, feeling very much like I would either vomit or pass out. In the altercation I'd managed to rip the new canvas in half, the wooden backing cracked, rendering it completely unusable. Unsurprisingly, I had also dropped my satchel. Neither inconvenience truly concerned me, but I greatly desired something else to focus on rather than the burning sensation that seemed to travel all the way up to my shoulder and down to the tips of my fingers.
It felt like an eternity passed as I remained incapacitated on the ground with dozens of people walking past, barely sparing me a glance. I assumed I looked like a beggar napping on the street, groaning to myself as I waited for the pain to lessen from an explosion through the nerves to a dull and tolerable ache.
At last I swallowed and cursed under my breath, furious with how the interaction had ended as I had no doubt Madame Giry knew my brother. Given how she had stepped onto the stage and attempted to speak with him Friday evening, I felt quite confident that he was more than a ghost to her.
Rather than question her on the street, I realized that in hindsight I should have merely followed her to her residence and knocked on her door at a different time. That certainly would have been a more suitable option than following her down the street.
And then, when I continued to question her and she refused to answer, she would have produced a pistol and shot me dead on her doorstep.
I took a deep breath, heart aching with yet another lead that had not come to fruition in bringing me closer to Erik. Twice in a matter of days I had someone managed to squander the opportunity presented right before my eyes.
Given that the opera house no longer stood, I had no idea how I could possibly locate Madame Giry and ask if I could speak to her in private. For all I knew, the bottles of ink were meant for Erik and if I'd kept my mouth shut, perhaps she would have led me straight to him.
"Christ," I muttered, the swell of emotion in my throat.
My mouth felt incredibly dry, my head pounding and arm still throbbing, which I expected would not end for quite some time given that she had struck me hard twice where I had managed to leave a deep bruise seven days earlier.
Unable to sit a moment longer feeling sorry for myself, I forced myself to stand and considered walking home, forgoing the very first salon meeting. To hell with art, artists, the opera house and the damned former ballet mistress. To hell with everyone and everything in the whole damned city.
My temper threatened to get the best of me, but I was aware that if I didn't show up to the meeting, there was a chance no one would attend the second meeting and then the entire group would disband before it started.
I stared across the street at the salon and swallowed, rolling my sleeve up to my elbow to make sure the wound hadn't suddenly formed again, which would be reason enough to return home as I could not risk the chance of infection.
There were two long red marks across my arm, about the width of my thumb, which came as no surprise. The bruise didn't look any worse than it had before, but I assumed the red marks turning to purple would take a while to set in.
I would survive an hour or two at the salon so long as no one touched my arm, which I would keep protected against my body to prevent anything further from happening.
There were six people in the salon when I walked in, one of whom was laid out on the table while another individual stood over him, smacking him repeatedly with open hand blows to his face, neck and chest. The other four stood around shouting at one another.
Boiling with frustration, I slammed the door behind me and cursed quite loudly, causing everyone to jump.
"What in the hell is this?" I questioned through my teeth, feeling very much like an exhausted father returning from work only to find his brood of children battling one another in the parlor.
Rather than speak, they wordlessly gawked at me.
"You have five seconds to explain what is going on before I leave and find artists worth meeting at a salon."
The man who had been doing the pummeling stepped away from the individual on the table.
"Vincent?" I questioned.
My broker's older brother looked sheepishly at me, red face matching his red hair. He shook out his hands, which I assumed stung from striking the other fellow, who was still sprawled out on the table, groaning to himself.
"Get off the table," I ordered. "And state your name."
"Sebastian Lotti," the other man answered as he sat up and rolled from the table onto the floor.
"Ivo's brother?" I asked. Ivo was nowhere in sight, which I found disappointing as he had been first to approach me and seemed level-headed enough.
"Yes, that's correct."
"Aren't you a musician?" I asked, my eyes narrowed.
"I am–"
"Go back to The Muse. This is for artists, not musicians."
Sebastian momentarily gaped at me. "I'm–I'm both," he said.
"What are you better at?" I snapped.
"Neither," Vincent answered on his behalf.
"I wasn't speaking to you," I said through my teeth, shooting a significant look in Vincent's direction.
Sebastian and Vincent both immediately looked away.
"Why are you fighting?" I asked, placing my satchel over the back of the nearest chair. I stood with my hands on my hips, jaw set.
"I wasn't fighting," Sebastian argued. "I was on my back being unfairly dominated by this brute."
"You started it," Vincent said, his voice shaking with rage. "I should have poked your eyes out."
"You want to try again?" Sebastian said through his teeth, slapping Vincent across the face. They were standing too far apart to do any real damage, but one blow led to another and they both swatted at each other like disgruntled alley cats fighting over a female in heat.
"Enough!" I shouted, kicking the nearest chair halfway across the room.
At least two people gasped, all six of them stepping away from me as the chair spun and clattered to the ground.
"What in the hell is wrong with the two of you? For pity's sake, get away from each other and stop acting like fools."
The entire salon went silent and I evaluated the two men. Vincent was far from a brute, standing several inches shorter than me and of average weight. Sebastian, on the other hand, was slightly taller, but lanky with the body of a prepubescent boy and the pale facial hair to match. His blond hair was tangled and unkempt from the altercation with Vincent, but he was a decent looking young man with a sullen and combative disposition that certain women seemed to favor. It was little wonder he'd taken three ladies upstairs at The Muse Sunday night. They probably all took turns trying to fix him.
"What is wrong with you in particular?" I asked, my question directed at Sebastian.
"Who in the hell are you walking in here to question me?" Sebastian asked, puffing out his chest.
He was unconvincing, to say the least. His light eyes were filled with terror and he stood at a distance from me, most likely so that he could run if I stepped toward him.
"Phelan Kimmer. Now answer the question or leave."
"You cannot order me around," Sebastian protested. "Just because you're older than the rest of us. And a professor. You can't come in here and tell us what to do."
"You don't have to stay," I reminded him. I stepped toward him and as expected, he flinched and drew back. "If you continue this nonsense, I will put you right back on the table and trust me, I will strike you far harder than Vincent. Understood?"
Sebastian wisely recoiled from me, looking quite bewildered by my threat. He eyed some of the others, but no one looked directly at him, leaving him to fend for himself.
"I haven't done anything," he said under his breath, sounding like a little boy who had been scolded.
"Where is Ivo?" I asked impatiently. The pain from my arm seemed to be throbbing through my teeth, which proved quite intolerable.
"Running late," another person assured me.
With a heavy sigh, I gestured wildly at the table. "Sit," I ordered.
No one moved.
"You are going to come in here and order us about like children?" Sebastian said under his breath.
I was somewhat surprised he continued to speak, but had no qualms of answering him.
"Quite frankly I see no adults in attendance, therefore I shall treat you the way you deserve."
No one protested my words. I glared at each of them, my arm radiating with heat, which did nothing to quell my mood. I was well aware that next week there was a good chance either none of them would show up or I'd have to find a new group as thus far we were not on good terms.
"Who wants to go first?" I asked, grabbing the chair I had kicked and putting it back by the table.
They all continued to stare at me.
"I said–"
"We heard," Pierre said, crossing his arms as he turned his head to the side.
"Then why is no one volunteering?"
"Because we don't know what you are asking. Go first for what?" he asked.
"Did you all bring artwork for critiquing?"
They all exchanged looks.
"Did none of you bring artwork?" I asked, feeling both deflated and frustrated with all of them.
"We usually draw here," Vincent said at last. "Expect Sebastian. He can barely draw a stick figure."
Sebastian stomped his foot. "You little no good bastard, I'll–"
"Stop it," I snapped.
"He cannot talk to me like that," Sebastian argued. "I will not tolerate his constant berating. Yours either."
"You should not even be here with artists," Vincent said through his teeth. "You shouldn't be allowed to hold a paintbrush. It should be illegal, in fact, considering the atrocities you commit in the name of art."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Is this a drawing group, a critique group, or a meeting of simpletons who wish to argue?" I asked under my breath.
Again no one spoke. The look in their collective eyes was one of defeat.
"May I ask what happened to you?" the young lady beside me questioned, tapping the back of my right hand. I was fairly certain she was Pierre's sister, but I couldn't recall her name.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your forehead," she said. "What scratched you?"
I had absolutely no idea what she meant until I reached up and felt the raised mark that started above my left eye and reached my hairline. There was no blood and it didn't hurt, at least not compared to my arm, but I assumed it was noticeable.
"An incident on the way here," I said dismissively.
"That must hurt," she said.
"My apologies, but who are you again?"
"Calista," she replied brightly. "Is that from a tree branch?"
"Yes," I said, my voice far more sardonic than I intended. "I walked into a tree branch."
"Bloody idiot," Sebastian said under his breath.
Calista pursed her lips. "I'll get a rag and some water," she said, popping out of her seat.
"That isn't necessary," I said.
"I'll return in a moment," she said over her shoulder. Several paces away, she paused and turned on her heel, skirts whirling as she walked back and motioned for me to stand. "Actually, why don't you come with me? It will be quicker."
"I said this isn't necessary," I grumbled.
"Up you go," she said, motioning for me to follow her. "Come now, straight away."
"She will do this all night, Monsieur Kimmer," Pierre said. "You may as well follow my sister."
Aggravated, I rose to my feet and stalked after her, scowling while she returned a pleasant smile that indicated she was not phased in the least by my mood.
I glanced back at the table and saw all of the remaining artists sitting forward in their seats, most likely discussing if they should stay for the rest of the meeting or flee before I returned.
"Do you know what?" Calista said.
"No, I do not."
Calista remained undeterred by my tone. "Mona said you were her favorite Professor," she said once we reached the back of the empty salon. She poked her head through the back door and asked for a damp rag and soap, but I never heard anyone agree or acknowledge her words. "Mona was from your first year of teaching?"
"Second," I said. Even after I'd made amends with all of my students the first year as an art professor, I doubted any one of them would have said I was their favorite teacher. Thankfully the second year of teaching had a much improved version of the university art professor I had been.
"Your first year was a bit difficult, from what I understand," Calista said.
I had been the difficult one, not necessarily the students, who in general were quite good. But I had gone into the studio feeling the need to prove my worth as I wasn't nearly as experienced as Hugo and didn't have the credentials Monsieur Raitt possessed.
Hours before the class entered my studio for the first time, I felt like a fraud who had weaseled my way into a prestigious position, one that should have gone to someone else with more experience and an impressive resume.
From the very first moment I stood in front of the class, I had most likely given them the impression that I was not only worthless to them when it came to art, but impatient and rude.
"Who told you that?" I asked.
Calista shrugged. "People," she answered.
"Former students?" I asked.
"Possibly."
Her words made me immediately regret how I had walked into the salon and approached this young group of hopeful artists. My reputation, unfortunately, had followed me despite being able to salvage the first year and having no issues in the ones that followed. As long as I remained in Paris, I assumed my first few weeks as an art professor would be discussed by students for the rest of my career.
A man appeared a moment later, looked at me, then handed Calista a dripping wet rag, which she wrung out on the floor, splattering sudsy water onto my shoes.
"Oops," Calista said, moving to the side of the puddle.
Her unexpected response made me chuckle to myself and I stepped to the side with her.
"You are an excellent dancer, Professor Kimmer, I can tell by how light you are on your feet. Now, stand still and I will have this cleaned off in no time."
From the corner of my eye I glanced at the round table, surprised all five artists had not yet bolted out the door. The only reason I could imagine is that they had no desire to abandon poor Calista with the uncouth beast of a man issuing orders and insults, a dictator overthrowing their chaotic reign with a bit too much heavy-handedness.
"You have more experience and knowledge than the rest of us," Calista said to me, keeping her voice low.
She looked similar to her brother Pierre, so similar that I wondered if they were twins. She was thankfully prettier than him, her face a little fuller and eyes more almond-shaped, but it was evident they were related.
"But your temper is no different, I'm afraid," she added.
I took offense to her words, but didn't reply as she insisted on dabbing the corner of the rag against my forehead. Fifteen years ago I had a much worse temper and a glaring mean streak. I had been arrogant and feckless, searching for the slightest argument or fistfight.
That was not the person I was or desired to be now that I was in my mid-thirties. I couldn't afford to be that reckless youth, not financially, physically, or emotionally.
"Why were Sebastian and Vincent fighting?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"Because they're idiots," she answered.
I waited for her to elaborate.
"Vincent is sensitive and Sebastian knows exactly where to poke to make him angry. And Sebastian is not nearly as good as Vincent and he's jealous of him."
"Jealous?"
"Sebastian is only here because of Ivo," she said. "Ivo is very good at landscapes. Sebastian wants to be like him, but…he's not a good artist. Yet, I should say. Perhaps he never will be because he gets upset at every little comment. He knows he is his own worst enemy and so does everyone else. Vincent is not normally so harsh, but in recent months he's done nothing but agitate Sebastian and Sebastian takes the bait every time."
I inhaled. "Does this happen weekly? The fighting, I mean?"
"Well, no, but that's because we are not very consistent." She chuckled to herself. "If we were here weekly, someone would most definitely be punched in the face. Probably Sebastian."
"There is no reason for anyone to be striking someone else," I muttered.
"Quite frankly, Professor Kimmer, they have no reason to be civil to one another. They argue and no one intervenes. Until now."
The five artists had started to gather their belongings and I knew they would all be at the door, awaiting Calista's return.
"I suppose this is my fault," I grumbled.
"No, it's mostly Sebastian's fault. We won't blame you yet. You're new."
"I suppose I shall take full blame next week. If there is a 'next week'."
"Surely the outstanding Professor Kimmer would not give up so easily?"
I smiled tightly. "Flattery doesn't work on me," I assured her.
"Nonsense. Flattery works on everyone, especially artists. We're all craving the praise we've never received. Lord knows we are a gathering of misfits with something to prove."
That absolutely seemed to fit how I felt, but I was not about to admit how I had felt from as far back as I could recall.
"That doesn't work on me either."
"What doesn't work on you?"
"Attempting to make me feel like I am at home among misfits."
"Aren't you?" Calista grinned while she continued to dab at my forehead, which I assumed was unnecessary as the injury wasn't bad enough to need attention in the first place. It was, however, an excuse to pull me away from the others.
"Do you know what?" Calista asked again.
"The answer is still 'no'."
"Mona speaks quite highly of you," Calista mentioned. "You were her favorite professor ever. That has to count for something."
"In less than five minutes, I believe I've proved her wrong," I said under my breath.
"Well, good thing you have another hour and forty-five minutes to prove her correct." Calista gave the brightest smile as she looked up at me and tossed the rag aside, leaving it where it fell on the floor. "Come on, Professor Kimmer. You have to be Mona's favorite teacher for a good reason. Don't you?"
Reluctantly I followed her back to the table, resisting the urge to cross my arms and stand over the other six artists like an imposing and intolerable father to unruly children.
They stared back at me with hardened eyes and their sketchbooks and bags clutched to their chests like armor. I supposed I deserved it for the way I had walked into the salon.
I took a seat and cleared my throat. "Sebastian," I said.
He flinched at the sound of his name and glanced at me, then the door. "What?" he grumbled.
"Have you brought anything to have critiqued today?" I asked.
"For you to take one look at and destroy? No."
"Thank God," Vincent said under his breath.
My gaze shot to Vincent. "You needn't comment as I wasn't addressing you yet," I said. When he didn't look at me, I added, "Monsieur Van Gogh. Did you hear me?"
Vincent's blue eyes widened and he gawked at me. "Sebastian is a terrible artist."
"That is not for you to decide," I said. "Nor is that the point of forming a critique group."
Pierre, Vincent, and Sebastian all crossed their arms.
"Is this how you normally speak to each other when you bring your work?" I asked.
There was a bob of heads and mumbled indications that they did indeed spend their time berating one another around the table.
"Why?" I asked. "Why would you treat each other like that? Aren't you friends?"
No one bothered to answer. Calista, who was once again seated beside me, shrugged.
"We don't know what we are doing, Professor Kimmer," she answered at last. "Clearly."
"Does he?" Sebastian asked, crossing his arms as he slumped in his chair.
"Not entirely," I replied, "which I'm sure was quite evident the moment I walked in." I turned my attention to the other members of the group. "Does anyone have artwork that is in progress or finished that they'd like to have critiqued?"
As I expected, no one readily volunteered. Beside me, Calista dug into her bag beneath her chair, nibbling on her bottom lip until at least she produced a small canvas.
"I have something!" she proudly exclaimed.
I sighed in relief, grateful that at least someone was willing to show their work.
"Feast your eyes on this, gentlemen!"
As she held out the canvas, the rest of the artists groaned. Calista, however, seemed unphased by their response.
"May I see your painting?" I asked.
Calista turned the canvas toward me and I was pleasantly surprised given the way the others had reacted. Her painting was a still life of two red apples and a pear on a table with a runner beneath the fruit.
"This is very good," I said. "The shadows from the two apples are particularly well-done. And the knots in the wood, the snag of fabric…"
"Thank you, Professor Kimmer," she said, her smile bright as the sun.
Again, the group collectively groaned, making it known that I should not encourage her.
"You will have to explain your protests to her artwork," I said to the group, confused by how they could possibly disapprove when they had nothing to show.
"My sister is quite fond of painting fruit," Pierre said.
"It's all she ever brings," Vincent said, throwing his head back as if viewing apples was painful.
"It's something sexually perverse," Sebastian added. "She has a fruit fetish. Probably screams out 'apple' when she's about to–"
"We understand the message you are trying to convey," I said before he finished speaking.
Calista turned her head to the side. "Sebastian, please. You know I only scream your name, my dearest."
The rest of the salon showed their amusement, aside from Sebastian, who sank lower in his seat and glowered.
"Does anyone have any feedback for Calista, other than she paints too much fruit?" I asked once the group settled down.
"Such as?" Pierre asked.
Everyone turned to me and I asked Calista if she would mind me going over the basics to showcase her strong suits.
"The stem is bent and the leaf on the pear is starting to turn brown. There's also a little speckle here and what looks like bruising on the side," I said, "which is a very nice little detail that indicates they've been on the table for a while. The shine reflected on the fruit shows it's a nice day, perhaps late autumn."
One of the gentlemen who hadn't spoken at all raised his hand. "All well and true, but the balance is a bit off," he said.
I nodded in agreement and the group sat forward, squinting as the gentleman pointed out what he meant.
"What is your name?" I asked him.
"Henri."
"Excellent observation."
"But it's good," Henri said. "Like you said, the snag in the fabric is a very nice detail. Plus, the fabric looks a little faded from the sunlight. Everything is aging."
"And there's dust," Vincent added. "Around the edge of the bowl. Aging and ignored."
"Balance off, but otherwise a very interesting and well-done still life. Excellent work, Calista," I said, handing her back the canvas.
Ivo unexpectedly walked into the salon, his arms full of several paper bags. He came to an abrupt stop just inside of the door and rolled his eyes.
"Calista!" he admonished. "More apples? Truly?"
oOo
Overall, it wasn't a terrible first meeting for the Carlyle Club. Ivo was late as they apparently took up a collection and put him in charge of bringing back food and drinks, which he set out on the table for greedy hands to devour. The bottles of liquor, however, I insisted that he save for later as it wasn't the place for the six of them to become drunk. As it was, they were already rowdy enough.
Henri and Pierre had sketches to show and Ivo brought a canvas, same as Calista, while Sebastian continued to sulk and Vincent half-listened as he sketched on a pad of paper in his lap.
They mostly stuck to constructive comments, but couldn't help the occasional barbed insult or sexual reference, which mostly seemed to come from Sebastian and always aimed at Calista, who was one of two females, the other of which said nothing until she left early.
With minutes left to spare, Ivo insisted that Sebastian share the sketch he'd done, which his brother adamantly refused to do.
"But you've worked so hard on it," Ivo pleaded.
"I've worked too hard to have him tear it apart," he said, glaring at me.
"That's rude of you to say, Sebastian," Ivo admonished. "Monsieur Kimmer is our guest."
"I didn't ask for him to be here."
"I did. And I will not have you acting so disrespectful."
Sebastian didn't argue with his brother. He appeared defeated, which I supposed was natural after two hours of being berated by the rest of the group, even if he had a tendency to run his mouth and bring it upon himself.
"He isn't exclusively at fault," I said.
Sebastian's head snapped up first, a look of skepticism in his pale green eyes.
The look on his face reminded me of Erik's expression Friday night, seconds after his mask had been removed. My brother had appeared both betrayed and defeated, same as the young man seated on the opposite side of the table.
At least in part, that was my doing.
"My apologies for my previous behavior," I said. "I walked in here in a sour mood, which had nothing to do with you or anyone else, and I'm afraid I may have been particularly harsh toward you."
Sebastian's expression didn't soften and he acknowledged my words with little more than a shrug.
"I'm leaving," he announced as he climbed to his feet and stormed toward the door. Before he walked out, he turned around, stalked back toward the table, and grabbed an apple. "This isn't art, Calista. It's a damned apple."
The room went quiet momentarily, before Vincent yawned rather loudly and turned his sketch pad around to show everyone else.
"See?" he said, giving us barely enough time to view the image.
"May I?" I asked, extending my hand toward him. From the brief glance we had been allowed, it looked very detailed, nearly every part of the paper shaded with graphite pencil.
Vincent shook his head. "Later."
With that, my first meeting at the Carlyle Club officially came to a close. I was fairly certain it may have also been the last.