Ch 76
Rather than return home for a handful of hours and complete dreaded school assignments for the week, I decided to stay at Joshua's house and attend an hour of game night.
Carmen returned upstairs before anyone arrived and Joshua informed the rest of their guests that his wife had a terrible migraine headache and would not be able to come down for the evening.
With Joshua in charge and only two couples attending, I partnered with Elizabeth, who could not have been more thrilled to be included.
Most of the evening was situated around eating copious amounts of bread and cheese, which I very much enjoyed, as well as three quick games, two of which didn't necessarily need a partnership, but I didn't tell Elizabeth in order to spare her fragile feelings.
Joshua, was once again in his element as the host for the night, announced the first game of the evening was 'Balance the Egg', which was self-explanatory. Using one hand each as a team, we passed around a tray that contained a boiled egg. The tray was rotated as it was sent from couple to couple, the egg spinning faster and faster around the tray until it at last fell from one unlucky participant and broke.
The second game was continuing to speak in rhyming sentences as we went around the room, which Elizabeth mastered and won on our behalf as I struggled to form sentences that made any sense.
The last game was attempting to blow out a candle as it was passed around in a circle, which proved much more difficult than I had expected, but was quite amusing and eventually won by a couple who acted as though they'd won valuable prize instead of mere bragging rights for the weekend.
"Where is Madame Soward this evening?" Joshua asked me as both couples donned their coats and headed toward the door.
"Not at home, unfortunately," I answered.
It was the truth, but still felt untruthful.
Joshua eyed me. "Ah, that is too bad. I hope she is able to attend next weekend. I would certainly like to know her better if the two of you are…?"
I nodded, giving no indication of agreeing or disagreeing on the matter in hopes that my cousin and I could make it through an entire evening without a disagreement becoming an argument.
"If Abigail is not available, poor Elizabeth is stuck with me yet again."
"I don't mind!" Elizabeth said as she returned the candlestick used for the final game to the dining room.
"Do you need help putting anything away?" I asked my cousin before I grabbed my coat. The parlor wasn't in complete disarray, but there were chairs that needed to be returned back where they belonged. "Food back to the kitchen?"
"Food back into the kitchen or into your stomach?" he said lightly. "My word, Phelan, you put enough food away for a week," Joshua teased, patting his belly. "Where in the world does it all go?"
"Sustenance for the gymnasium tomorrow morning," I replied. I flexed my right arm and Joshua shook his head.
"I certainly wish I could eat half as much as you."
"Come to the gymnasium at five and you'll be eating two suppers."
Joshua made a face. "I'd rather remain in my warm, cozy bed, thank you very much."
"Suit yourself."
I said goodnight to Joshua and Elizabeth, donned my coat, and trotted down the front steps, feeling as though the gallery show during the day and the night of games at my cousin's house had been an unexpected success. Of course there had been a few bumps along the way, but overall it had gone quite well.
A smile crept onto my face. The crocuses and hyacinths had started to peek through the soil in the garden while the trees were filled with more green than mere dead branches.
Despite the misery of itchy eyes and a draining nose, I still thought spring was the most magical time in Paris. It amazed me how the winter seemed endless and dreary and then suddenly spring appeared, often with daffodils poking out of the last glaze of melting snow. I would walk to the campus and see the green stems shivering in the breeze and return home in the afternoon to see the blooms had opened, stretching out to the sun.
I took pleasure in the change of season and promise of longer, warmer days. I enjoyed walking the city with my sketchbook in my satchel, observing other Parisians strolling through the parks and sipping drinks at outdoor cafes.
Elvira became a celebrity of sorts each summer, cawing loudly when I weaved through the crowded streets, often screaming, "Pardon me!" It was impressive how swiftly a crowd of people could part at the suggestion of a very loud bird flapping her wings.
"I'll see you Wednesday night?" Joshua asked as he stepped onto his porch before I reached the end of the front garden.
"Yes, of course," I said as I closed the gate behind me.
"Good night, Phelan. I am glad you stayed."
"Good night, Joshua. I look forward to next weekend."
As I turned from the house, I found my mood was considerably lighter than it had been since Friday, possibly for far longer if I was honest with myself.
The sky to the west burned with oranges and deep shades of pink as the sun descended over the trees and buildings, the colors so vivid I found myself jealous of the sky's artistry compared to my own palette.
Once I was several streets away, I remembered all of my groceries for the week were still by the ice box and sighed. I cursed under my breath and hoped I had enough food at home to at least make it through the morning as I had no desire to walk back.
With nothing to carry, I took a different route home, still hopeful I would spot Erik, but with no real idea of where he would be if he remained in the city.
For his sake, I hoped he had fled Paris and possibly France altogether where fewer people would be on the lookout for him. It seemed like his only opportunity for survival was as a fugitive until he could find refuge. He would have to leave the country, I suspected, and quite possibly the entire continent, before the newspaper arrived.
What if he was on the same ship as Abigail, I mused? As outrageous as the scenario seemed, I found comfort in imagining the two of them crossing paths on a ship bound for North America.
I imagined the two of them engaging in conversation on the deck, sipping tea as they marveled at the vastness of the ocean and how they missed dry land. Erik would mention that he missed his brother, who took him to the seashore when he was a toddler, and Abigail would ask for his brother's name.
"And then somehow they would both find their way back to Paris," I whispered. Back to Paris and back to me.
Even if it were not so and he remained in some corner of Europe, I wanted Erik to be able to start his life over, reinventing himself in a different country far removed from his mistakes. If I never saw my brother again, I could find satisfaction in imagining him living out the rest of his days as a composer. Perhaps eventually I would hear his music and recognize the melody as something my own brother had written.
My pace slowed as I walked down the street, and I realized I'd never looked at the program to see who was credited with writing Don Juan Triumphant.
I was certain the program did not list Erik Kimmer as the composer as I would have recognized his name immediately. Even if he had simply gone by 'Erik' my interest would have been piqued. Given all that had transpired Friday night, taking a program with me had been the last thing on my mind, and unfortunately I doubted anyone from the Opera Populaire would honor my request if I asked for a new one.
Inhaling, I frowned, wondering what details the evening post would say about my brother. My skin began to prickle as I imagined the inquiries I would receive the following day if the composite sketch was accompanied by his full name.
Without thinking I pressed two fingers near the crook of my left elbow and inhaled sharply. The scar tissue was not as thick or sensitive as it was further down, but the pressure still hurt and I regretted the need for physical pain.
Swallowing, I balled my hands into fists and bunched my shoulders, feeling my heart rate increase as the burning sensation slowly eased.
I glanced at my left arm as I walked despite the bruise covered in layers consisting of a bandage, my shirt, and coat. In the back of my eye I could still see it; the deep purple ringed in sickly yellow as well as the small wound that scabbed over before it began to weep again.
The need for pain to dull the other aches was becoming tiresome. I had hurt enough for a lifetime. I no longer wished to continue searching for more physical discomfort. There had to be better means of coping, kinder ways of subduing the anger and myriad emotions that had made me search for a way to suppress what I felt inside.
I passed Salon Vive, which was empty on a Sunday night. Despite not attending meetings for months, I still felt a tinge of grief that the group I had gotten to know over the years was disbanding. In more ways than I could count, Hugo saving a place for me at the table had saved my life.
Out of all the dingy corners of the city I could have ended up in, I'd been most comfortable at a small table with a bunch of men twice my age who bickered amongst themselves, smoked their cigars until the air was so thick it was impossible to breathe, and offered both praise and critiques that proved invaluable to someone such as myself who wanted to be an artist, but had no means to obtain the education to improve.
They were my surly, surrogate caretakers for years. It saddened me to think of the table no longer filled with their art and cups of tea. At least I still had Hugo, I reminded myself, who was the very best of the salon.
Further down the street from Salon Vive was another place called The Muse with the double doors wide open and billows of smoke wafting out the door accompanied by the sound of music and laughter.
Rather than pass by, I found myself lured into the shadowy confines by the music. The first thing I noticed as I slipped through the doorway and past the sheer curtains was the dozens of onion-shaped glass lamps in every shade imaginable hung from the ceiling on thin chains. All of the lamps were lit, but provided very little light to see my surroundings.
I squinted at the lamps, attempting to make out the patterns painted on the sides, which at first I thought were quite male at first until I realize it was yellow pears as well as other various fruits and flowers.
I lingered near the door for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust before I stepped fully inside the unfamiliar interior. Once I was able to see the salon itself, I was surprised to find it was far larger than Salon Vive. The room was round with pillars that were painted with ivy leaves. Along the outer walls, sheer drapes created a soft wall between the inner and outer circle.
In the center was a stage that was slightly elevated and contained a host of musicians who were surrounded by a surprisingly large crowd in attendance to listen.
Some people lingered along the walls, their silhouettes visible through the sheer curtains. They smoked their cigarettes and clutched drinks clutched in their hands, granted anonymity through the muslin curtains.
Within the salon's less intimate center area were several areas to sit, both tufted silk pillows on the floor and velvet settees and lounges in bright colors set further back. Most of the settees were occupied by couples who were tangled in each other's arms, passionately kissing and touching one another. The different colored pillows were arranged near the musicians and claimed by about a dozen Bohemians in their rainbow of skirts and trousers. They passed around a hookah pipe and swayed to the music, oblivious to the rest of the room.
There were eight male musicians entertaining the crowd with various instruments. Behind them were several other musicians, both male and female, with cases in hand or at their feet, apparently waiting their turn.
A woman came up through the haze of smoke toward me, drink in one hand while the other lightly caressed from my shoulder down to my abdomen. She brushed up against me like a cat, her gaze and smile alluring.
"Come," she said seductively, looking me up and down. She faced away from me and swayed back and forth to the music, moving against me like a snake through sand. "Come inside and tell me about yourself, stranger."
Another woman came up from behind and pressed herself to me. "What do you fancy?" she asked, fingers splayed against my chest.
I inhaled and glanced over my shoulder, prying her hand away. "I'm looking for someone," I said.
She came around in front of me and linked arms with the other woman, the two of them smiling back at me. "Male or female?"
"I beg your pardon?"
The women exchanged looks, grinning at one another. "What do you prefer? Do you fancy men or women? Or both?"
"Forgive me, but I am searching for someone in particular."
They didn't appear disappointed. "When you find who you are looking for, join us upstairs," they said, glancing toward the balcony where I noticed more figures barely discernible from the shadows.
On any other night, it would have been quite the tempting carnal offer, but I merely smiled and walked further into the salon, toward the group of musicians. It was impossible to navigate closer than twenty feet due to the number of people on the silk pillows, who had begun to crawl toward one another like nymphs until it was impossible to tell where one person began and another ended.
Hands in my pockets, I took a breath of smoke-filled air, furrowed my brow, and carefully stepped around and over arms and legs, studying the performers and crowd.
The hedonistic lifestyle of multiple partners all engaged in physical pleasure had never appealed to me as there were too many unknowns and far too many risks involved for my liking. Even at my most reckless, I had avoided such situations, concerned about diseases that were rampant in uninhibited encounters where names were not shared but bodies were joined.
I doubted Erik was somewhere in the shadows with some woman pressed up against the wall, but could not completely rule out him playing or appreciating the music. Eyes narrowed, I searched along the stage first and then the musicians waiting to play, unable to see all of them clearly enough to say for certain that none of them were Erik.
A man who appeared a few years younger than me came and stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and tongue poking along the inside of his cheek. He was well-dressed with short, black hair that didn't compliment his deep-set eyes or broad nose. He appeared a bit annoyed by either the tangle of bodies around us or the moans of pleasure from behind one of the curtains.
Our eyes met and I forced a smile. He did the same, then swiftly looked away. Before I managed to do the same, he turned toward me again and took a step closer.
"Forgive me, Monsieur, but you look completely out of place here," the man said over the music.
Immediately I felt as though I should have taken offense to his words. Other than being a few years older than most of the people I had seen, I couldn't have been that different.
"Do I?"
"Yes, you look how I feel. Or perhaps I look similarly out of my element in this…den of hedonistic pleasure disguised as a gathering of musicians." His right eye twitched as he spoke, and I found myself horrified by how I blatantly stared.
"I suppose I do feel a bit like a fish inside a birdcage," I admitted.
"Artist, writer, or musician?" he asked me. "Or a spectator? I suppose there are a few of those lurking in the shadows." He looked utterly repulsed, right eye twitching again.
"Artist," I answered.
"Then you are at the wrong salon."
"Am I?"
He nodded. "Salon Vive or Carlyle Club are more suitable, although I have heard that Salon Vive is quite the elderly bunch set to retire."
As the youngest member of Salon Vive, I was well aware that the man was correct, but chose to keep that information to myself.
"Are you an artist?" I asked.
"I am. And the brother of a musician who has been upstairs with at least three women for the last twenty minutes, leaving me here alone to...perform my own mating dance." Again his eye twitched with his growing annoyance.
"I see."
The man looked at me and held both of his hands out toward me. "Monsieur, accept my most sincere apologies, I am not implying that I'm looking for someone to take upstairs."
I offered an appreciative smile. "Nor did I take it as such."
"Good. I feel as though I have already been propositioned by at least a dozen women and twice as many men." The man extended his hand. "Forgive my lack of manners. My name is Ivo Lotti," he said, "probably better known as Sebastian Lotti's brother."
I had never heard of either of them, but nodded. "Phelan Kimmer," I replied.
"Phelan Kimmer?" he said, sounding quite surprised. "The art director from the university?" he asked.
"Director? No, I am definitely not the director of anything at the university. I'm the art professor with the least seniority. My official title should be 'caretaker of adult children who manage to lose everything'."
"You need to learn how to make yourself sound far more important," Ivo replied, grinning back at me.
"Fortunately, I rely on a broker to do that for me."
Ivo gasped. "Oh, yes, that's right. Vincent's brother represents you, correct?"
I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Theo is your broker, isn't he?"
I was taken aback by his words, feeling as though Ivo may have known a bit too much about me.
"How do you know Theo Van Gogh?" I warily asked.
"His brother," Ivo answered quite cheerfully, nodding across the room. "The gentleman who looks like he definitely doesn't want to be here, perhaps more so than you or I."
I assumed he meant the wild-eyed gentleman with a shock of reddish hair standing with his back to the wall and a bottle in hand. The expression on his angular face made it appear as if he awaited someone to jump out and carry him off, never to be seen again.
"He's a painter, correct?" I asked.
Ivo nodded. "A bit odd of an individual, but a good painter."
"I suppose 'a bit odd' describes most of us creative types," I replied.
"Yes, that is true, but Vincent is different compared to most anyone else I've met." He took a small step forward.
"I've not been introduced to him," I said, unsure if Ivo implied Theo's brother was different in a good or bad way.
Ivo shrugged. "Vincent and I were just talking about some of the new work at Goupil & Cie, including yours. I had the pleasure of delivering your drawing to the woodworker for framing."
"Do you have artwork on display there?"
Ivo shook his head. "No, I am employed there two days a week, but one day I hope to have something that will catch their eye."
"Have you considered applying to the university?" I asked.
"I have," he answered.
Immediately I felt my expression sober as I wasn't certain if he meant that he had applied or had considered the option. Given that he seemed familiar with who I was, I felt growing concern that I had been approached by a bitterly angry artist who assumed I had scorned his artwork submitted to the university.
"You've applied?" I asked.
"No, I have yet to work up the courage to actually submit my application," Ivo explained. "I have everything in a folder, look it over, and then talk myself out of applying."
"May I ask why?"
Ivo made a face, his right eye twitching to the point where he could no longer keep it open. "Well, I cannot bear the thought of rejection," he said. "My work is like my precious child, one that I have lovingly developed in my mind rather than a womb. If my child is rejected, how will I ever survive? It is a masterpiece that I have birthed, so to speak."
"Create more children," I said. "Perhaps the next one will be better."
Ivo's eyes turned wide with horror. "What an awful thing to say about one's first born."
My lips parted. "It's a metaphor," I said.
"Oh," he said. "Yes, of course. I suppose we have both spoken metaphorically."
I looked away from him, noticing Theo's brother staring at the glass lamps overhead. He appeared mesmerized by the glow of the orbs through the swirls of thick smoke.
"Do you attend the artist's salon at…Carlyle, did you say?"
Ivo nodded eagerly. "When there is a meeting, yes."
"When are meetings held?" I asked.
"Well, that's the thing. Currently it's whenever artists bother to show up, which is not consistent."
"How many people are officially in the group?"
"Officially? I don't think there is an official count, but if I had to guess, there are probably about fifteen people involved."
That was only slightly fewer than the number of students I had per class, which I found impressive for a salon group that wasn't consistently meeting.
"Unfortunately, only two or three people show up at a time. The two most consistent members are here tonight."
"Assuming you are one of them?"
Ivo nodded. "The last two times I've been at the salon it has been me and Pierre. Unfortunately, Pierre does self-portraits and they are almost always nudes."
I attempted to remain impassive, but assumed by the look on Ivo's face that I failed.
"What are the hours you meet?" I inquired.
"Anywhere from six until ten and that's really any given day of the week."
"Fifteen people, meeting on various nights of the week in a four hour period?" I asked.
Ivo gave a sheepish grin. "Yes, that's correct."
That sounded terribly unorganized. I couldn't imagine the added stress of walking to the salon on a Wednesday in hopes of someone else showing up to critique each other's work and the possibility of sitting there for three hours only to discover I'd wasted my entire evening. My time was far too valuable for such inconsistencies.
Given that the Carlyle Club sounded as if it were in complete disarray, that alone solidified my thoughts that it was of no interest to me. Quite frankly I couldn't understand how it would be of interest to anyone at all.
"If you would wait here one moment, Monsieur, I shall return shortly," Ivo said.
I nodded and turned my attention back to the musicians. The violinist was definitely not Erik, which was disappointing, but not unexpected. Every single musician looked to be in their early to mid-twenties, making me feel like I was practically a grandfather minding a room full of children.
I couldn't help but think that with better lighting, less smoke, and fewer people squirming about on the floor, the salon would have been quite enjoyable.
My God, I thought to myself, perhaps I am the grandfather.
Somewhere between seventeen and thirty-four I had matured into an unrecognizable version of myself that was undoubtedly sensible and perhaps a bit of curmudgeon. I wasn't sure if I should be alarmed by the changes or pleased that I had found traction and a bit of success at last.
Perhaps my days of salon meetings would come to a close with the disbandment of Salon Vive. I could, after all, meet with Hugo at his home.
Inwardly I winced, realizing that I accused the Carlyle Club of being inconsistent when I had failed to show up the previous morning to paint with Hugo and Marco. My own consistency was quite lacking, and I wasn't sure if Hugo would extend an invitation again.
Lost in my muddled thoughts, I watched the musicians pack up their instruments and still smiled to myself, feeling a sense of pride for how far I had come overall.
I had work that I enjoyed and the means to pay for a summer spent in Italy. I had a bird that kept me entertained and provided the biggest reason for staying out of trouble. I had my own apartment, art supplies, a few close friends, a niece I adored, and the start of what I hoped was a better relationship with my cousin. Once I considered the positives, I found myself quite pleased by what I had accomplished.
Of course I could not remain satisfied. There was another list, one that was only three items long, but it was a profound list of desires: Erik, Abigail, and my son Marco. I wasn't sure which of the three was even attainable as far as forming a relationship was concerned.
Before despair got the best of me, Ivo thankfully returned with Vincent and two other people weaving behind him through the crowd.
"Oh good, you're still here," Ivo said, sounding relieved.
"Did you think I would leave the moment your back was turned?" I asked.
"Honestly, yes, I expected you to run off," he answered. "I have not yet made a good impression, have I?"
"Not the best, not the worst," I replied.
"Thank goodness it wasn't the worst. Now, may I officially introduce you to some of our Carlyle Club members," he said. "This is Vincent, of course, and Pierre, and his sister Calista," Ivo said.
Pierre, the nude self-portrait artist, stepped forward first, thankfully in full garb. He had a full head of wild waves of dark hair that looked as though he hadn't bothered to comb or wash it in weeks. Chest hair peaked through the unbuttoned top of his shirt, and I thought he looked a bit like a primate in a suit.
"Phelan Kimmer?" Pierre narrowed his eyes. "The art director at the university?"
"That's what I thought as well, but he says he's not the director," Ivo said.
"We actually don't have a director for the art department," I replied.
"Why not?" Pierre asked.
"It isn't big enough to warrant titles beyond painting and drawing and basket weaving and pottery."
Pierre shrugged. "Well, you could call yourself the art director and see if anyone disagrees with you."
I found his suggestion most amusing. "I will have to consult the other professor."
Vincent stared blankly at me as if I were no different than a pillar along the outer walls. There was something disquieting about the distance in his gaze, a type of vacancy that seemed would never be filled.
"Vincent, this is Phelan Kimmer," Ivo said, gently guiding the red-haired man forward. "He is represented by Theo. Remember? We spoke of that a moment ago."
Vincent's blue eyes turned from blank to engaged, his distant expression softening. "You know Theo?" he asked. The slightest start of a smile tipped the edges of his mouth. "My younger brother?"
The way Vincent transformed at the mention of his brother was most endearing. It was evident from my brief conversations with Theo that he adored his older brother and the feeling was clearly mutual.
"I do," I answered. "He speaks quite highly of you."
Vincent offered a genuine smile in return. "He is more than my brother," he said. "He is my best friend and biggest supporter. If not for Theo…" He shook his head. "Life would be unbearable. He is vital to my survival, I think."
The aching that I had barely managed to keep at bay clawed at my insides like a beast wanting freedom from its cage.
I was well aware of that unbearable sensation he described as I had spent decades existing within that deep and impenetrable darkness, surrounded by the regrets constantly threatening to pin me down.
"You are one of the Carlyle Club members?" I asked.
Vincent nodded. "Are you joining us?" he asked.
Against my better judgement, I nodded. "I am considering it."