CHAPTER SIX
Fireworks blasted the sky, the sound reverberating on the buildings bordering the lagoon. His violin once again secure in its case, Kristof looked over his shoulder for Quinn, the stocky Irishman with wide-set eyes, quick fists, and a penchant for strong cigars.
“Ready to go?” Kristof asked his brother.
“Are you kidding me? There’s nothing waiting for me back at the apartment that trumps a fireworks show. Relax.”
Relax. With a nose that might have been broken by that gambling goon a few hours ago, this was the best advice Gregor had. Did he really fail to understand they were likely under surveillance even now?
“Find me if you change your mind. I need to stretch my legs.” Kristof also needed to see if he could draw Quinn out—if, in fact, he truly was spying. Kristof couldn’t imagine the motive, unless they suspected the Bartoks had more cash and were hiding it.
Smoke drifted down from the explosions in the sky. It was easy to weave through the crowd, since they were almost all standing still or sitting on folding wooden chairs that had been set out for the show.
When fireworks boomed, he watched for anyone who appeared uninterested, and wondered what he would do if he did confront Quinn again. If it came to a fight, Kristof would lose. He had no delusions about that. But perhaps, surrounded by so many witnesses, he could simply question Quinn without coming to blows. He’d assure the skittish bully that he hid nothing and would pay in due course, just as he’d said he would.
Another boom from above shed eerie green light over all the upturned faces.
And there he was, at the other end of a smoking cigar. It was almost as though he wanted to be found, the way he stood staring at Kristof. A small orange glow flared and faded, marking his presence.
Right, then. No use pretending they hadn’t seen each other. Setting his jaw, Kristof headed toward him, crunching caramel-coated popcorn beneath his shoes. Quinn made no sign of slinking away.
Before Kristof could reach him, however, a woman to his right gasped quietly. He looked again.
Sylvie Townsend looked back. “Oh! Kristof. I wondered if that was you and Gregor playing.” She nodded to the violin case he held, but she was visibly shaken.
“Sylvie? Are you unwell?” He offered his arm should she need steadying.
She took it. “I thought I saw someone. Someone who didn’t want to be seen. I may be mistaken.” She was ghostly pale.
Kristof peered into the shadows but no longer spied Quinn anywhere. Just as well. “Are you . . . is there anything I can do for you?”
She said there wasn’t. Still, he guided her to an alcove made of climbing roses, which he hoped would make her feel more secure, less exposed.
“Please tell me you’re not alone.” He wished he could read her face. All he could see was a pair of fine eyes shining like obsidian and the contours of her cheekbones and chin.
“My entire family is here. You can see Rose, just over there. She’s standing between my two nieces. You remember Olive and Hazel?”
Of course he did. Rose’s blond hair and light-colored dress made her stand out in the crowd. She bent like a willow branch to hear Olive, then straightened, spoke to Hazel, and laughed with her. “They’re having a wonderful time, I’d say.” He paused. “And you’re not with them.”
“I should be. I just—like I said, thought I saw someone. But I was mistaken, so it doesn’t matter.”
Her voice had always affected him like music. The more he heard of it, the more he wanted to hear.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said. “I heard that Theodore Thomas resigned from directing the Exposition Orchestra. Is that true?”
“That and more.” An explosion of blue and orange fireworks lit the sky.
Sylvie beckoned him to join her beneath the rose-laden arbor. He sat on the bench beside her and briefly explained what had happened while assuring her she could expect to receive her rent as usual. If Quinn was still listening, he’d learn only the truth about their financial situation. He had nothing to hide.
“I’m not worried about the rent, Kristof,” she replied. “And I’m not surprised about this development, given that the Fair still hasn’t earned back what it has spent. But did you know about this on Thursday, when you treated me, Rose, and Mr. Janik to your concert after lunch?” When he hesitated, she pulled on his arm. “You did! Oh, why didn’t you tell me?”
“And spoil the afternoon?” He clapped a hand over hers. “Honestly, I wasn’t keeping secrets from you. I just didn’t want to ruin the joyous mood.”
“But what will you do? You were counting on that income until the symphony season begins, weren’t you?”
“There are a few more concerts scheduled that must go on as planned, most of them accompaniments to the Festival Choir. I also managed to secure some odd jobs around the Fair and Midway for Gregor and myself. Please don’t worry, Sylvie. If things are tight for my brother and me, that’s our problem. I won’t let it be yours.” She discounted their rent in exchange for Rose’s lessons. Kristof wouldn’t repay that with unpaid debt.
“I know.” A smile flickered. She reached up and tugged his bow tie askew, and he straightened it back into place, fully aware she was teasing him. Fully charmed that her little game, which she had started a year ago, still amused her.
“Speaking of things we meant to say,” she went on, “I’m sorry for Rose’s tardiness at last week’s lesson, and for the scene we treated you to. I wish I could promise it won’t happen again, but—” She stopped herself, shoulders sloping slightly. “I wish a lot of things. I wish I was better at this. Parenting, that is.”
“You’re better at parenting than you think you are,” he told her. “Don’t—how do you say it? Don’t call yourself short.”
The corner of her lips lifted. “You mean, don’t sell yourself short.”
Mild embarrassment flared beneath his collar, but he’d long ago asked her to correct his speech when necessary. His mother had been English, and he’d studied languages at the university—a requirement for any musician aspiring to international success—but American idioms had never been part of the curriculum. “Yes. Don’t sell yourself short. Your love for her is evident, and that’s more than countless children experience.” It was more than he had growing up, by far.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Kristof rose, and so did she. He saw in her a longing for family and belonging he recognized in himself. It was an ache so deep he habitually denied it was there at all, just so he could survive it. He glanced toward Meg’s family and Rose. Not one of them looked around for Sylvie. He wished, for her sake, one would.
They emerged from the perfumed alcove together, and he scanned for Quinn. Though he could no longer smell his cigar, Kristof remained wary. Had he said anything he’d regret Quinn overhearing? For a few moments with Sylvie, he’d forgotten about Gregor and the gambling debt and the Irishmen they owed. Now it came rushing back to him.
“Sylvie.” He touched her back to make sure she heard him amid the applause. “Unless you’re going somewhere after this, Gregor and I will accompany you and Rose home. Naturally,” he added.
She returned his smile. “Naturally.”
By the time Kristof finally retired to bed two hours later, he was exhausted to the bone. He turned out the light and closed his eyes, only to see pieces of the day dance across his eyelids. To the tune of a Slavonic national folk song, images of Antonín Dvořák mingled with visions of the White City by day and night, Gregor and his bloody nose, gondolas on the lagoons, flowers and fireflies. He saw Sylvie and Rose. And three Irish thugs.
Not exactly the images he preferred as he fell asleep. Rolling onto his side, he swept his mind clean and tried to focus instead on the heavy-laden breeze wafting through the open window.
No good.
Kristof sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into the mattress. As he replayed
the events of the evening, he grew even warmer than the summer air on his skin.
Cicadas thrummed. Rising, he moved to the window and looked for the glowing orange tip of a cigar. Didn’t see it. But maybe Quinn just wasn’t smoking right now, or O’Bannon had taken a shift. Kristof exhaled slowly and ran his hand through his hair. Once followed, always suspicious, he supposed. With reason.
He’d been as careful as he knew how to be when he and Gregor escorted the ladies home. They’d changed course a couple of times, Kristof blaming the crowd for the redirection. He’d made use of passing streetcars and omnibuses to obscure their path. They’d even stopped at a diner for a late-night snack until he and Gregor could be sure they weren’t being followed.
But what if he had still inadvertently put everyone in this building in danger by leading Quinn here? He might have put Sylviein danger as soon as he paused and spoke to her. There’d been no choice about it, for ignoring her was impossible. Ignoring his true feelings for her, however—that, he’d learned, could be done.
Had he led a wolf to her door tonight?
Until the Irishmen had been paid off, Kristof ought to sleep with one eye and one ear open.
From the Hoffmans’ apartment above him, he heard shuffling feet and water running through pipes in the wall. Nothing out of the ordinary there, since neither Karl nor Anna slept straight through the night. From Sylvie’s apartment below, he could hear stirring. It was probably the cat playing while she stayed up reading A Tale of Two Cities.
Not a bad idea. He slid his own copy from the small table beside his bed and reached for the lamp. But when a snore sounded from the other side of the wall, Kristof decided to pay a visit.
In Gregor’s room, Kristof turned on the lamp in the corner and cast a disgusted gaze on the dirty laundry strewn about the room. An apple core on the windowsill would be covered in fruit flies by morning. But he hadn’t come here to clean.
He shook his brother’s shoulder and sat on a wooden trunk opposite the bed. “Out of all the people in this building, why should you be the only one enjoying an untroubled sleep? Especially after what happened tonight.”
Gregor groaned. “You call this untroubled?” He put a pillow over his head. “Go away.”
“We need to talk about Johnny Friendly and his henchmen.”
“Lovely people once you get to know them” came the muffled reply.
It was almost funny. In two strides, Kristof was at the bed. He pulled the pillow off Gregor and used it as a cushion on the trunk. “Much better.”
“Not from here.” But Gregor sat up and squinted at Kristof. “So talk, if there’s anything else to say. We paid what we could, they know we’ll pay more by the deadline. End of story.”
“Not end of story. End of chapter. Now turn the page. What happens when we meet again to pay the rest of our debt, and Johnny says we owe more?”
“What makes you think we won’t be in the clear by next week?”
Typical Gregor. All his life, his attitude toward the law of cause and effect was nonchalant at best. He’d been scolded before, slapped on the wrist, but never suffered lasting consequences. This was different.
Kristof flexed the hands Tiny O’Bannon had nearly crushed. “A man who shreds receipts is not concerned with an accurate reckoning. Didn’t you hear what he said to me? He said our debt would be paid when he called it paid.”
“Sorry, I must have been too busy trying not to drip blood on my tuxedo.”
“Another red flag, perhaps?”
Gregor wiggled his nose. “Good as new. You thought he busted it, didn’t you? Guess I’m stronger than you think. Or luckier.”
Luck again. There was no such thing. “You’re a fool, Gregor.”
His brother chuckled. “But I’m your fool. Good night.” Grinning, he slipped back under his sheet and faced the wall. In a moment, he was snoring again.
Beneath Gregor’s carefree façade, a more thoughtful, selfless version of the man resided. If only he didn’t make that side of himself so hard to find.
A framed photo on the bedside table showed the two brothers when they were seven and sixteen years old, both holding violins sized to match the scale of their arms. One of them was smiling.
It wasn’t Kristof.
He still remembered why.
That morning, the two brothers had played their recital pieces for their parents in the parlor. The recital was still several weeks away, and Kristof had been struggling to master a piece Gregor played with his eyes closed and only half trying. Humiliated by his mistakes, Kristof had stumbled through the piece beneath the cold weight of his father’s disapproval.
When Gregor got up to play, he astonished everyone by making mistakes, as well. It was likely as difficult for Gregor to play the wrong notes as it had been for Kristof to find the right ones. At the age of seven, Gregor had adored his older brother. This was his way of trying to protect him from their father. He had sabotaged his own piece in order not to outshine Kristof, who had been playing for years longer.
Even so, Gregor’s performance was better. Anyone could tell the misplaced fingers had been deliberate. At the end of it, Father had berated Gregor for not playing to his potential, striking the boy’s palm so hard, so repeatedly, that Kristof’s hands had stung in sympathy. “When he was your age, Mozart played for Marie-Antoinette. Who do you think you could play for with these sloppy hands?” he had railed.
By the time Father stopped, Mother was weeping, but Gregor hadn’t made a sound, though his face was mottled pink. “He’ll need to hide his hand behind his back for the photograph now,” she’d told Father. “We don’t want a bandage in the image.”
Father remained unmoved. “Maybe we do. May it serve as a reminder of what happens when he does not perform his best.”
Kristof picked up the photo and peered at the image of his little brother smiling despite the pain. Perhaps he had even smiled because of it, in defiance. This image had captured far more than Father had intended. “Why did you do it?” Kristof asked him later.
“I thought it might help Father love you,” Gregor had replied, “if he wasn’t so busy loving me.”
It was a warm memory of Gregor’s selfless act, and a terrible memory of his own deficiencies. His little brother was already better than him, loved more than him. And Gregor knew it. They both did.
Quietly, Kristof set the frame back on the table, watched Gregor roll onto his back, and wondered if his nose might be broken after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MONDAY, AUGUST 14, 1893
Sylvie couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed this hard.
It had started as a giggle behind her gloved hand, Meg smiling beside her as they watched their girls climb onto a kneeling camel in Cairo Street on the Midway Plaisance. If ever there were a time to wear the bloomers the dress reformers were pushing, this would have been it. As it was, Olive and Rose sat sideways on the blanketed beast, in a saddle that offered little security.
“Come on, Mama,” Olive called to Meg. “There’s another camel for you and Aunt Sylvie!” Smoke billowed out from under an awning, carrying the aroma of strong, exotic spices.
Rose laughed. “I’m not sure Aunt Sylvie is quite adventurous enough for this.”
“No matter,” Meg replied as she sketched. “We much prefer the view from right here.”
Dancers in bright flowing robes threaded through the crowded street, clicking castanets as they went. Musicians strolled behind them, playing some kind of horn, stringed instruments, and a drum so loud the rhythm reverberated through Sylvie’s chest.
Wearing a long white gown with a dirty, threadbare hem, the camel driver prodded the animal with a stick to stand. It repaid him with a warbling shriek the likes of which Sylvie had never heard. It was so loud that it drowned out all but raised voices, and it didn’t let up. After the initial shock of the sound faded from Rose’s and Olive’s faces, they shook with laughter. Even Meg had paused her drawing to wonder at
the camel’s screech.
At last the beast made to stand, but it started with its back legs first, pitching the girls forward, Rose leaning on Olive, and Olive nearly leaning on the camel’s neck while gripping the metal ring on the saddle with all her might. They yelped in surprise, then with unbridled hilarity as the camel delayed the rest of his job. If the girls were to let go, they would dive headfirst into the street, or at least somersault off the camel’s curving neck.
Once Sylvie was confident they wouldn’t let go, she laughed so hard her sides hurt, and tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Meg!” she gasped. “Please, please paint this scene, I beg of you.”
Laughter broke free from Meg, too, her shoulders bouncing while their daughters and the camel shrieked.
“Up up up!” The camel driver tugged on the crimson tasseled rope tied around the animal’s muzzle, and it finally complied. The girls tipped toward the rear this time before settling back in place.
Wiping her eyes, Sylvie followed them over the rough pavement, Meg trailing behind, scribbling along the way. Her notebook was filling up with studies of the narrow roadway, a turbaned snake charmer with his serpent coiled in a basket, and balconied houses.
Sylvie slowed her pace so as to walk nearer to Meg, sharing the shade of her parasol. “This is the most authentic concession on the Midway,” she told her. “Do you see the lattice-like woodwork that makes up the balconies on the houses? It’s called mashrabiya, and those aren’t reproductions. They were purchased from homeowners in Cairo whose houses were slated for demolition, then shipped here, along with three hundred and fifty Cairo residents, their camels, donkeys, monkeys, and a variety of other materials.”
“That’s fascinating.” Meg’s gaze darted to the camel carrying Olive and Rose, then up to the laundry flapping on a clothesline strung between the upper stories of two houses. Behind that, obelisks soared heavenward, marking the entrance to the recreated Luxor Temple. Chanting filled the air as a procession of costumed Isis priests of ancient Egypt paraded by. “It’s all fascinating. I’ll need to come back a few more times to get it right.”
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