The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [47]
“Fine, get the movers.” John gave in, and the following week, the Warrens’ old piano was installed in the living room upstairs while, in a carefully negotiated compromise, the big television and couch were moved downstairs into the room next to the garage, so John could invite his buddies over to watch the game without having to worry about spilling pretzel crumbs on the carpet.
15
A Kind of History of My Life
PARIS, 1860. Lucien stepped in front of a mirror in his bedroom but after a moment of consideration shook his head and began to unbutton the white shirt he had chosen, with a thought to replace it with one that was black. The evening ahead promised to be exciting in many respects: Codruta had invited him to a reading she was hosting for Richard Wagner, after which he planned to go directly to the Pérégrine, a new music hall in Montmartre to meet his friend Gérard Beyle, a fellow stagehand at the St.-Germain. Now twenty-three, Lucien had finished his studies at the conservatory and—still on track for the operatic stage—was appearing in recitals around the city, including the recent Soirée d’Avril, where in addition to his impressing tout le monde with his voice, a young Russian countess was overheard to remark that he resembled less a typical Gaul than a young Greek champion of the javelin. His impressive physique—he was as tall as his father but wider in the chest—could in part be attributed to his job at the theater, where he had worked as a carpenter and stagehand since negotiating the compromise with Guillaume.
Though he was now used to the work, during his first season he sometimes feared he had made a mistake. He had started in August, and spending twelve or more hours each day in the sweltering heat, hauling around heavy pieces of wood, iron, and whatever else—not to mention breathing sawdust and paint fumes—left him exhausted. But with no desire to return to school, he persevered, and in October, the demands of the job diminished considerably and he was frequently needed for only a few hours, most often during the actual performance. Each subsequent year had followed a similar pattern, which had given him plenty of time to focus on his musical training, even after he started at the conservatory.
There had been other benefits to the job as well, particularly in the early years, when he was so much less experienced in the ways of the world. Hardly a night passed that a crew of his coworkers—often joined by some of the singers—didn’t go out to a nearby bistro to faire la fête, and it didn’t take him long to learn to drink too much and vomit ferociously in the alley behind the bar, an experience he had found oddly joyful—at least until the next morning—as he stumbled home between the arms of two other men, with the lamplights of the new boulevards spinning through his vision.
Nor would he ever forget one evening that first April when—a few minutes after he had arrived at the theater for his shift—a soubrette named Cathérine Deville appeared in the hall and beckoned with a small curl of her index finger. “Bonsoir,” she said with a wink. “Do you think you could assist me with une petite quelque chose?”
“Bien sûr, madame.” Because Lucien had heard rumors about her, he was not completely surprised by the invitation, and in fact had already admired her small-waisted figure and ample breasts, which featured prominently in her stage costumes, and most of all her voice, which at its fluttery best managed to land squarely on every note with deceptive