The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [98]
28
The Fighting Téméraire Tugged to Her Last Berth to Be Broken
MUNICH, 1865. Three days before the Tristan premiere, Lucien went to meet Eduard at the train station, where he was scheduled to arrive from Vienna. They had not seen each other in several months, a period during which Lucien’s rehearsals had reached their highest peaks of despair and intensity, when his hours away from the theater had left him rarely inclined to do much but sleep. It had taken all of his energy just to write the most perfunctory letters, and though he knew Eduard had problems of his own—something about a new oversight committee for the opera house—he had felt too overwhelmed and incapacitated to bring himself to digest the details fully.
It was only when Eduard got off the train and scanned the platform that Lucien recognized in his haggard expression—the sleepless eyes and wan cheeks—a degree of suffering that mirrored or possibly exceeded his own and that he had not been able to appreciate before now; even more alarming, it occurred to him that the rift he had attributed to his own ennui was actually the result of two sides pulling apart. For a moment he struggled to breathe, but when Eduard began to walk toward him with his efficient gait, Lucien felt a renewed tenderness and dedication; his affection, he realized, had only been hidden behind a thin veneer. Giddy with love and resolve, he shouted and waved—not caring if he made a scene—as he pushed through the crowd and caught Eduard’s attention.
“You’re finally here,” he said with genuine relief, as a porter loaded Eduard’s luggage onto a wagon, taking care to avoid the puddles that had not quite dried up after an earlier rainstorm. “I missed you.”
“Me, too,” Eduard replied as he discreetly brought Lucien’s finger to his lips and then noted his appreciation of the blue skies, slices of which could be seen through the arched canopy of the station. “It’s been raining for a week in Vienna.”
“Is everything all right—with the theater?” Lucien asked somewhat guiltily as they made their way through toward the carriage he had hired to take them back to the hotel.
“We’re making progress—or at least that’s what August keeps telling me,” Eduard responded, and if his tone was wry, he did not in any way seem to have detected—much less resented—Lucien’s failure to grasp the details.
“Well, I hope you’re not yelling at him,” Lucien chided. “Or at least not too much.”
“No—no, nothing like that.” Eduard laughed. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Vienna. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” They were now in the carriage, which pulled ahead with a jerk. Eduard reached out to brace himself but then let his hand fall on Lucien’s thigh, where it rested with an enticing weight and familiarity. “So tell me”—he smiled—“are you ready to make history?”
THE NEXT DAY Lucien was back at the train station, this time to meet his father, arriving from Paris. As he waited on the platform, he thought about Eduard. Their night together had been perfect, a succession of desultory, dreamlike touches before a fathomless sleep. He had awoken sore and depleted but infinitely calmer as he focused on his impending performance, as if by giving every part of himself to an audience of one, he had expunged any lingering doubt about his ability to perform for thousands. Then at breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, while drinking his coffee, Eduard had most uncharacteristically dropped his cup, so that it shattered on the table. While the shards were quickly swept up by the staff and a new service put in place, Eduard had not eaten anything the rest of the meal, which he attributed to a lack of hunger but which Lucien suspected was a result of continued trembling in his hands.
“Do you want to bring something upstairs?” Lucien asked.
“No—why?”
“You’re really not hungry? You didn’t eat very much last night at dinner,