The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [49]
“What is your name again?” she asked, as she dismounted in an efficient motion that made him feel like an actual horse and dispensed a quick peck to his forehead.
He felt a new and dispiriting ambivalence. “Lucien,” he answered petulantly and did not take pains to disguise the shattered pieces of his heart.
“Lucien, are you upset, mon chère?”
Her tone, he noted, held not a trace of earnestness, but that she had recognized and mocked his hurt made it seem ridiculous. He laughed at the child who had entered this room however long ago, who could not understand that what would occur could barely be considered more than the shake of a hand, and that to attach love or hate to such a little thing was preposterous. But then he felt deflated, as though he had opened a gift wrapped in gilded paper, only to find a book written in a language he did not understand. He looked at Cathérine, who in turn glanced at her makeup table—a show was scheduled, after all, and she needed to get dressed—and he understood that there was no need to explain any of this to her. “Why would I be upset?” he replied brightly.
She placed one hand on her chest and the other to the side as she performed a short arpeggio. “Good-bye, Lucien,” she sang and then remarked, “Thanks to you, I shall be in very good voice tonight.”
Lucien had barely a second to consider this as he backed into the hallway and there literally bumped into one of his fellow carpenters, a short, compact man with mischievous eyes and a mustache that looked like a push broom. He was new, but Lucien liked him, if for no other reason than that he had seen him laughing at the antics of some of the other members of the crew Lucien also found amusing. Lucien froze as he wondered if and how he should acknowledge the moment, and he was greatly relieved when Gérard—that was his name, Lucien remembered—simply stepped to the side and looked back at the blushing Lucien, tipped an imaginary hat, and said, “Bonsoir, monsieur” in a low voice accompanied by a sly smile that told Lucien—well, of course, what else would he be doing in the soprano’s dressing room an hour before curtain?—he knew.
Over the next few days, when he saw Gérard, they continued to nod at each other, as if they shared a secret understanding, though about exactly what remained unclear. As luck would have it, the next week they were assigned to work together on a new production. They barely had time to talk while the show was going up but after the opening spent an hour each night in proximity waiting for the end of the first act, when they were responsible for rotating a giant turntable, the gears for which were located on a secluded platform directly beneath center stage. It wasn’t long before Gérard alluded to having seen Lucien leave Cathérine Deville’s room, and Lucien saw no point in denying it; he even expressed some of the doubts the experience had raised for him, thinking it might be helpful to get the insight of a married man.
“You’re not in love with her,” Gérard responded, confirming Lucien’s suspicions. “Which is not surprising, even if most men here would line up for the chance to serve Madame Deville. So what’s different about you?”
Lucien did not appreciate the aggressive tone. “Is it wrong to want to combine the emotion of love with the act?”
“No, but is it wrong not to want the emotion? Just to take a few moments of pleasure and leave it at that? To forget about life and all its problems for a minute?”
Lucien felt disarmed. “No—of course it’s not wrong, but—”
“Then what’s the problem with Madame Deville?”
Under siege, Lucien responded with a question of his own. “Would you line up to service her?”
Gérard shook his head and placed one of his hands just above Lucien’s knee, where it rested heavily. “No, because she offers me neither the possibility of love nor pleasure, so I would respectfully decline.”
Lucien considered this as a stampede of feet pounded overhead. “Have you ever been in love?”
“I have.”
“And did you know it from the start?”
“It’s not something that can be easily hidden.