Chapter 18
~Erik~
The violins sang masterfully with one another in the crisp mid-October air. Knowing we only had time for one last piece for the evening, I had selected a wonderful piece from Beethoven, the regal Namensfeier Overture. Of course we weren’t playing the piece outright. It had taken a little bit of creative maneuvering through the horn sections. It was when we reached the marvelous surge in the violin parts towards the end, that Blanjini and I were left enraptured by the full splendor of the piece. Our bows were both in constant motion as the two different parts circled one another in a chase.
Opening my eyes on the last chord, I gave him a full bow. “Once more, it has been an honor, Blanjini.”
He smiled up at me, tugging the thick wool scarf tighter against the cold. “Likewise, Nightingale. It was a dream imagining myself in a great concert hall once more. I should tell you, I find that piece rather amusing because of the name.”
Stooping down I began to idly divide the coins between us, placing his share directly into his open palm. “You mean the fact that Beethoven’s intention for it to be used for the emperor’s name day, the very reason for the title? Yet because he was such a perfectionist, he did not feel it was ready on time. Thus it was over a full year later before it premiered at an entirely unrelated event.”
“As usual you are privy to my train of thought.” He nodded his head. “Perfectionism held him back from the most apropos presentation of his piece.”
I scoffed, dropping a handful of nickels into his hand and an equal share into my own. “Perfectionism is an ideal trait for a musician. I find it admirable that Beethoven did not bow to a royal whim and present something he did not feel was ready. Even if it does make the name of his overture a little awkward. It is far better than the silly French title bestowed upon it, La Chasse.”
His eyebrows raised in amusement as he tucked the coins into a small pouch on his belt. “This, coming from a Frenchman.”
I shrugged, rising to my feet with the coins jingling in my hand. “I may have been born in France, but that does not restrict me to any childish notion of loyalty.”
He laughed. The laughter triggered a coughing fit that stole his breath, leaving him gasping for air as I laid a hand on his back. The muscle spasms racked him. A strange wet crackle accompanied each paroxysm. I grew more alarmed as his complexion flushed under the strain. When he laid his head back, I stared in horror at the spattering of blood on the hand he had used to cover his mouth.
“No.” It was little more than a shocked whisper. “No! How long?”
Too breathless to immediately respond, he shook his head. “Long enough to know … I won’t get better. Long enough to … embrace the fate. It get’s worse when it is colder.”
Consumption. It had to be consumption and somehow all this time, these many weeks comprising nearly two months, I had failed to notice. Or, he had managed to conceal it from me. There were treatments, clean air out in the countryside. Smoke tendrils hung in the air, proof of the polluted inner city. There was no chance of him affording an escape out of here. A blind man suffering from consumption could hardly begin to farm his own land. However, I knew of herbal concoctions capable of easing the inflammation and proven to clear the airways in time. It would only take a bit of tinkering in the lab … the lab in the home I had left back in Paris under the Opera House. My heart sank. If I had all the equipment and access to the plants, I could save his life.
But I didn’t have it. Staring at the meager coins in my hand I could only purchase a fraction of what plants I would need.
A muscle spasm of my own rippled through me, the forewarning that the opium was steadily washing out of my system and would need to replaced soon … and I knew my box was empty. The coins in my hand clinked together rapidly, I could not look away from them. If I only had the means. But I was powerless.
His hand embraced mine, forcing my fingers to close around the coins. He had come to his knees, holding my hand now with both of his. “Listen to me, Nightingale. Not all of us have the ability to make it against the odds. Don’t squander what you need to survive on a lost cause.”
“You are not a lost cause, Blanjini!” The trembling in my arms quickened, the burning itch for the opium intensified by the emotions coursing through me. “You are a great artist who deserves to be on a stage before all the world! There must to be a way to save you!”
A tear gleamed in his milky eyes. “Noble words. But those coins have an urgent purpose for you, the need for the dragon’s breath.”
Ashamed he had deduced my addiction, my head bowed as I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
Tugging at his features, a sad smile accompanied his words. “I could always tell when you approached me. The scent of opium carried my way. Listen to me now! Stop tensing your arm … there. Now, are you listening to me?”
I took a deep breath, trying to focus on him, trying to quiet my thoughts from their frantic search to dredge up some scheme that would save his life.
“Good. There is nothing you can do that you have not already done.” It was his turn to bow his head. “Just to have been honored with your gifts these last weeks, to let my lady sing with yours in all their glory … you let me make-believe that I was someone again. For so long I have been locked in the darkness.” One hand rose from grasping mine to gesture to his eyes before resuming the firm grip. “Your music illuminated the veil with memories I had feared I would never permit myself to experience again. I have been greedy, occupying your time and talent. I fear I cannot repay you for that service. I am truly sorry.”
“No.” I shook my head, the words left me in a tone that sounded so hollow. “You have nothing to be sorry about. The honor was mine.”
Squeezing my hand tighter against the coins, he raised his useless eyes to mine. “Save yourself Nightingale. Don’t lose heart and die in this shit hole. Get out of here how ever you can and prove to the world the worth I see in you! This is not where you belong. You have to save yourself!”
“Blanjini, please—”
“Promise me.” His desperate plea cut off my own. “Promise me you will rise above this!”
I was shaking so violently now that despite how tightly our fingers wrapped around the coins, I could hear them clattering within.
Another coughing fit stole his hands from around mine as he doubled over. All I could do was rub his back, watching wordlessly as he fought for air. At long last he was able to breathe again. Using his stick, he pulled himself up taking his violin in the other hand. He was turning to leave when he cocked an ear my direction. “You never answered me.”
Miserably, I cast my eyes on the ground. “I do not wish to make a promise I may prove unable to keep … ”
I heard the tapping of his stick as he walked away into the growing night, leaving me standing there battling the rising storm of my addiction.
If I only had the means …
* * * * *
~Erik~
The next morning was cold enough that frost glittered on the windowpane, dirty frost infused with soot. I wrapped my heaviest cloak around my shoulders, trying to banish the cold as my breath drifted up in frozen clouds. To protect her from the chill my Stradivarius rested in her case, slung over my shoulder as I trudged across the wide street with my head bowed. The autumn sun was rising later in the morning, the crowds less concentrated as people rushed from one place to another. It had even taken me longer to leave the apartment after a restless night. My thoughts were weighed down, unsure of what I would say to Blanjini today. If I could even say anything at all.
A horse drawn cart passed in front of me, forcing me to halt in the middle of the street. Jacques … it wasn’t him, but it had been months since he had relocated the majority of his horses to the farm land near my quarry. I hadn’t bothered to go up there since there was little to be done without a contract. On a few occasions I had seen him with his cart hauling supplies from the docks, but had not taken time to speak with him. Of course, it was because I had been playing my violin with Blanjini …
I froze in mid-step. My mind unwilling to believe my eyes. A strangled cry from my throat startled two men who instantly fled. One tripped and fell onto an object shattering beneath his knee as he scrambled around the corner. Breaking into a run I dashed to Blanjini’s side. Below the iron column of the elevated train he was doubled over, his face resting on the frost covered cobblestones. A long stream of bright red blood trailed from his open mouth. There was evidence of a fan of sprayed flecks before him. Laying a hand on his back, I instantly recoiled, the cold already chilling his lifeless body. I should have known by that pattern alone … Blanjini must have come here as he did every morning. The cruel disease drowning him must have produced a cough so hard his lungs ruptured. There was nothing peaceful about how he lay, his arms wrapped about his chest in pained desperation.
Kneeling beside him, I struggled to catch my breath. Glancing around me I noted in dismay that no one even looked. There was no gathering crowd waiting for the music so commonplace on this corner. Oblivious to the nightmare just an arm’s length away they just hurried on by in the cold morning. His violin … following the footsteps in the frost with my eyes I found the abandoned fragments of the shattered masterwork lying on the corner where the man had tripped and fallen.
The sight of the crumpled man and his shattered violin twisted a thorn in my side. How could this be happening? Just a few nights ago Blanjini had been the honorary conductor of the Saturday night festivities, lauded by the crowd … this morning he had succumbed to a violent death—alone.
Numb with sorrow, I climbed to my feet and collected the splintered violin. If I had in some corner of my mind hoped to restore the instrument, that hope was dashed the moment I picked up the largest piece, the neck of the violin. I collected every sliver I could find, reuniting them beside his body. Once I was certain I had them all, I reached a hand under his chest and gently pried his cooling body back to lay it out on the street corner. Those sightless eyes stared heavenward, frozen in a desperate plea. A plea that rent my heart in two.
I pressed his scarred eyelids closed, taking a moment to collect myself as I felt a shuddering rack my limbs. Piece by piece, I placed the violin on his chest making sure everything would remain in place. With an arm beneath his neck and the other in the crook of his knees, I cradled Blanjini’s body to me letting his head roll against my shoulder. He did not deserve to lie here. I could not abandon him like the rest of the world had.
Driven with purpose, I locked my eyes ahead of me to be certain I would not falter on the slick ground. No one seemed to look my way as I carried out my grim procession. Street after street the only recognition was in the wide berth my progress was given. Southward. South into a less frequented area I stole into an old forgotten catacomb, the very same one where I had hidden the crates containing the rest of our things shortly after we arrived in America.
Nothing had changed in this timeless chamber of darkness. My eyes quickly adjusted as I pressed deeper into the recess of the earth, past the shrouded bodies of the long deceased reclining in eternal rest. A vacant stone shelf cut into the wall drew me across the chamber. Laying his body out, I brushed the cobwebs off the shelf, casting them to drift to the floor. With great care I pried his stiffening hands from his chest, re-positioning his body to conceal the tortured manner of his death.
Through all this no tears dared to fall from my eyes. Eerily, I had been in complete control of my breathing, defying the rage building inside me.
Then the bitter realization dawned on me—I didn’t know his name.
Two months I had bared my soul in music with this man. How could I say a eulogy for a man without knowing his name? Now the tears threatened to fall, welling in the corner of my eyes with a stinging heat.
“Truly there is no place for us here.” My haunted words echoed back in the chamber. “For we are the richest paupers upon this earth. Inhabiting kingdoms of lavish visions crafted from our fertile minds while society demands ever more pour from our spirits in return for less than can sustain our bodies. The boundless value of our worth is reduced to the vagrant fringe of society as our tongues are sliced from our mouths, silencing our voices that would but decry of the savagery we have born witness to in this world. Unable to speak, as Philomel, we are forced to weave out the truth in tapestry, our flesh bearing tribute to the sins wrought upon us. Fingers twisted, backs torn, our bodies broken by the demands of those who look scathingly down on us, keeping us bound and destitute. And to what lengths, for what end do we strive? To stand ever at the crossroads of fortune and death holding out a beggar’s bowl to the Fates? Who are we but the visionaries of the world driven mad by the essence of beauty always slipping through our hands, ever out of reach. Yet we dare, ever onwards we strive to make known the experiences of life, all of life! Not simply the joy and the ecstasy placed upon the exalted pedestal by those of leisure, but the degradation and pain known to us as inescapable. We who have experienced the fall from the pinnacle, have been teased by the heights of the gods only to feel the wind ripping the feathers from our wings in the inevitable plummet. Grounded, reeling, pining for the unattainable, we are but prisoners of a body broken by the hands of those who cast us down … our minds caged and tormented by that we can never more bring to bear. Do they know where the heart of what they call culture was born? Do they know of the blood sacrificed that they might recline and nod a passive acceptance, a polite clap at the end of a performance, that in their mind, is more than enough payment. Were they to walk the savage roads of the endless mirrored forest, the polished surfaces reflecting the hollow truth of every heart beating beneath the fine satins and silks, how they would tremble! How they would fall at the sight of their true nature! Breaking like fine crystal under a millstone for lack of fortitude against the elements of existence. There is a resilience essential to withstand the pressure of the chrysalis, the chamber that embodies all the power that creativity demands. But not every soul survives forced dormancy, some never emerge from the cell the world locks us in … then all is lost, a vision stolen from this world forever more. This eternal night, the nightingale weeps for thee. He who saw beauty beyond compare through blinded eyes. How society had robbed you and in so doing cheapened existence through petulant ignorance.”
My bow floated upon the strings of my Stradivarius, though I had no comprehension of how it managed to be in my hands from the case, fully tuned. With my tear-filled eyes fixed on his body, now laid to eternal rest, I played not with him, but for him. To honor him. It was a piece never before played in full … the requiem mass I had written countless years ago when I still believed in a benevolent God. I could not restrict myself to one portion, but remained within that chamber playing the whole of it despite the chill seeping into my bones. Heedless of how far the haunting melody drifted from the abandoned kingdom of the dead.
In the silence that followed, I felt the numbness wash over me as I gazed upon him for one last time. Offering a full bow, I shut my eyes and whispered out, “May you find the peace my soul shall never know, my brother in spirit.”
* * * * *
~Nadir~
The moment I opened the door I knew something was wrong. It was early afternoon and Erik was home. Stiffly seated at the desk with his cloak draped about his shoulders, his eyes stared out the closed window, broiling with some indiscernible emotion. His arms were crossed over his chest. I spied with dismay the wink of the blade grasped in his left hand.
Murder! That was what burned in his distant gaze.
Oh Allah help me to navigate this treacherous hazard! Help me to still that hand before he commits a crime he will regret! Oh Allah, please don’t tell me he has already.
Erik’s steely gaze edged over, fixing on me as I lingered too long. I swallowed under the tension, searching for something to say.
The moment he spoke my heart froze, the tone was so completely devoid of emotion. “He is dead.”
Who is dead? I was unaware of anyone who had taunted a death wish from Erik. Surely he hadn’t abandoned his senses and committed a wanton murder. That was hardly the most chilling aspect of this. I knew how to read the nuances of Erik’s normally well-concealed emotions. For his voice to reveal nothing was a feat of absolute iron-willed control. Erik was on edge, one wrong word and years of friendship would mean nothing. Once more I only found the ability to swallow, unable to take even a single step further into the room.
The fingers flexed on the hilt of the knife. “This morning, alone and in misery, Blanjini died of consumption and the residents of the Bowery did not even notice.”
I could not breathe at his statement. The poor man. To have suffered such a horrid death … a fresh chill ripped through me as I looked into Erik’s emotionless eyes. His stiff posture was all that held him back from Allah only knew what he was intending. “Erik … that is tragic.” My eyes flicked to the blade. I had to somehow get it from him, the blade that never left him, not even when he slept.
“Tragic?” The same rigidly controlled tone continued. “Tragic does not even begin to encompass the magnitude of the loss. You fail to understand who he was.”
“He was a great man.” I floundered taking a cautious step towards him.
The blink was painfully slow, reminiscent of a cat deceiving his prey into a false sense of security. This time when he spoke, each word punched the air, increasing with volume as he rose to his feet. “No—one—knew—his—name!”
The ground I had gained I rapidly surrendered, grasping the wall behind me as Erik’s now enraged voice continued.
“No one knew who he was! Just a stranger! There on the street he died! Those shallow men tried to run off with his violin and smashed it! His beloved violin! Made by his own hands!” The knife appeared out from beneath his cloak, fully unveiled before Erik’s blazing eyes. “If I find them, I will kill them!” He was shaking with fury as he lunged toward me. “Do you understand? I will be forced to kill them for their disrespect!”
The wall took all my weight as I suddenly gravely wished that it was the door behind me instead of a solid structure. All I could do was nod, my throat tightening.
Taking another step toward me, Erik fell to his knees, his voice dropping to a desperate plea. “Take it! Hide it! Nadir! Hide it so I can not do it!” His fingers uncoiled, gravity tore the hilt from his hand dumping the blade on the floor between my feet.
In a blind panic, I stooped down and snatched it away lest his lethal instincts reign over him once more. Erik grasped my shirt, clawing halfway to his feet. This close, I could see how bloodshot his eyes were, the dilated pupils spasmed. Holding the blade behind me, I held out my other hand trying to prevent his white-knuckled grasp from tearing my shirt. As calmly as possible I stated. “Erik, get a hold of yourself.”
“You do not understand!” He shouted. “No one understands what he wanted, what he dreamed! They watched him die, Nadir!”
Lingering in his crazed eyes, I saw the hunger burning. The shaking of his limbs was not purely from this revelation, tragic as it was. Erik was in desperate need of opium. Last night he had come home with a fresh supply but I had not remembered him smoking anything. From his normal routine he was long overdue.
Wordlessly, I extracted myself from the trap between him and the wall. Heaving like a bellow, Erik crumpled there. On the desk I deposited the knife that I would conceal later. Right now there was something far more urgent. In a short time I held out the lit pipe for him.
Erik drew back in a series of repulsed jerks, his eyes darting away from the vice.
“Erik, you need this.” I insisted quietly. “Please. You know it will calm things down, help you to think clearly again.”
“No, the dragon betrays.” His words did not match the flick of his fingers, his body knew the need even though he was in a desperate denial.
“Look at me.” I pushed the pipe a little closer to him. The moment his deprived gaze met mine, I snatched his hand and forced the pipe into it. “Do you have any idea what withdrawal will be like? Erik, after months in this tenement you are far too malnourished to stand a chance of surviving long enough to quit! You—will—die! You have to have this and that time is right now!”
His eyes stared hollowly at the drifting smoke. The moment he surrendered his eyes shut, letting tears roll down beneath his mask. I had to reach forward and stabilize his hand, holding it steady as he inhaled deeply. After he exhaled, I guided him back to the chair where he sat down and dismally stared at the pipe.
A rapping on the door divided my attention. At least he was falling under the influence, the opium steadily blunting his edge. Prying the door open I was startled to find Chastity looking rather worried. She tried to glance around me. “I heard yelling. Is everything alright?”
Bowing my head, I took a slow breath trying to decide how to convey in my strangled grasp of English what was going on. “Erik found Blanjini dead this morning. He is … upset.” Opening the door a little wider, I gazed back to where he slumped staring past the drifting tendrils of smoke.
“Oh no! This is terrible!” She took a slow step into the room beside me, her hand coming up over her mouth as she took in Erik’s condition. “I should have guessed that was the scent from up here … I should have known he was an addict.”
My shoulders fell as I bowed my head. “There is little choice for him now, I’m afraid. Especially now.”
“Will he be alright?” She asked me in a whisper that would not possibly penetrate Erik’s hazed world.
The worst to me was the truth. “I don’t know.”
Nightingale's Odyssey 