by Mel Bossa
“I opened the door to shake the broom, and that—that dog was there. I thought it would attack me! It had a bloody furry thing in its mouth. A kitten. I left it there, on the porch. That poor thing.” She tucks a loose strand of her hair into her bonnet. “That dog is a demon. I just know it. Your uncle brought it here. Can’t you see?”
“No, Maggie. No. Those are just stories.” He says the words like he believes them. “Now don’t get upset. I’ll get Bernard to…clean it away. You don’t have to concern yourself with it.”
“You’re so kind,” she says, sniffling. “People are wrong about you.”
Those words hurt him a little. So people do talk. Why are they malicious?
“I gave up my child,” she cries, hiding her face inside her small hands. “I’m a monster. Why did you hire me?”
He checks the clock face again. He’d like to comfort her or give her the attention she seems to crave, but now isn’t the time. “You’re welcome in this house, Maggie. And I don’t condemn you…Please. I promise you. I—I don’t judge you. I simply can’t.” He guides her down the hallway. “Now, my father will want his tea. Could you be a good girl and bring it up to him?” Something about that silent room and his father’s stillness always helps her moods. He’s seen her in there, confiding to George. “You could read to him a little. He’d like that. Maybe Victor Hugo. Or even some Musset, if you like. Remember your French lesson is tomorrow.” Slowly, he’s managed to get her to the staircase. “I’m expecting a guest.”
She pauses. “Oh?” She sniffles again. Her upturned nose is a little red. “But—”
“I’ll ring for you later. Don’t disturb us until I do.”
“But Bernard and Monsieur Latendresse left the house for the afternoon and made you promise that you wouldn’t—”
“Yes, yes.” She must have heard him swear to Bernard he wouldn’t leave the house or invite anyone today. “But it’ll be our little secret, Maggie.” He tries to be as charming as he can. He suspects she may fancy him a little. “Please,” he says, touching her arm lightly and smiling. “My dear?”
“Of course, Monsieur Latendresse,” she sputters. As she’s climbing up the stairs, there’s a strong knock on the door. The lights turn on. She peeks at the hall over Honoré’s shoulder. “The guest.”
“The gentleman is here for a piano lesson,” he lies easily. “As a favor for work he’s done on our villa in Cacouna. He’s a—a carpenter. David Nelligan, our new neighbor, the post inspector, referred him to us.”
“Oh…” Maggie hesitates, clearly curious about the visitor, but then finally mounts the stairs.
Looking down the brightly lit hallway, Honoré tips his head back and steadies his nerves. Already, he feels McGauran’s pull on him, calling him forth, to the door. Beckoning him…
But he must resist the weakness in his own faulted nature. McGauran expects a gentleman, and that’s what he will be.
Chapter 7: Communion
When Honoré’s beautiful face appears in the open door, McGauran loses his bearings for a moment. “Good afternoon,” he stammers, slipping his hat off. “I came. Because, well, you invited me.” Does he have to sound so dense? He clears his throat and grips his hat harder. “Hello. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. And how are you?” Honoré peeks at the crowded square over McGauran’s shoulder and then quickly stands aside. “Please, please, come in.” He shuts the door behind them and leans back on it, his face draining of color.
“Is something wrong?” McGauran doesn’t know what to do with his hat. His hands are numb. He too, feels a little sick. Maybe Honoré is worried about what his neighbors will think?
“No, no, everything is fine.” Honoré laughs shakily. “I suppose…I’m a bit nervous.” He steps away from the door. “Let me take your hat, please. And maybe your coat?”
“Thank you.” McGauran slips his slack coat off. He’s wearing his best tan shirt under a brown tweed waistcoat, but he’s really gained in muscle mass this year and the shirt feels stretched tight across his shoulders and around his arms. “And don’t be nervous,” he says, straightening his Four-in-Hand black necktie. “I’m the one who should be nervous.”
“Why would you be?” Honoré gives him a wide-eyed look.
“Uh, well, look at this house. I’m not usually invited into these kinds of mansions.”
“Oh.” Honoré tips his head and a tender smile forms on his lips. His shirt collar is fastened with a diamond stud that sparkles like his eyes. “I understand,” he says, his voice sounding calmer. “But I’m not this house.”
He never thought of it that way. He cracks a smile. “Right.”
As Honoré hangs his coat on the stand, McGauran secretly enjoys the shape of Honoré’s lithe body clearly defined by the fitted pants he wears, but then Honoré catches him staring, and quickly, they both avert their eyes.
McGauran’s face feels hot. “I thought the old man, your valet, would be here and I’d have to explain what I was doing here again.”
“Bernard visits his sister on Sundays.”
“Oh, and your uncle?” McGauran tries not to stare at Honoré’s supple mouth. What would it feel like pressed against his own?
“My uncle had business at the billiard room.”
Then they’re alone in the house? No, he hears commotion in the kitchen. Pots clanking. Rich folk are never really alone, he supposes. Same as poor people.
“I don’t have the car this afternoon. But we could go for a walk if you like. Or maybe a bicycle ride? I have a spare one. Oh, or we could see a concert in the park.”
“No, that’s all right.” What he wants is to be in this house with Honoré. A chance at showing Honoré he could be worthy of his friendship, in spite of where he’s from. Of how poor he is. “I’d like to hear you play the piano again. If you don’t mind.”
“Truly?” Honoré’s eyes light up and the hallway darkens behind him. “I was being a bit of a jester in my telegram.”
“Yes,” McGauran says, watching the globes turn on again along the wall. It seems he’s going to have to get used to these strange happenings. “I really want to hear you play. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
“Oh…” Honoré runs a hand through his hair and grins. “Well then, follow me.”
Silently, they file down the hallway, but this time McGauran doesn’t take notice of anything in the luxurious house. His stare doesn’t leave Honoré’s shoulders. He longs to slip his fingers into that thick black hair. To draw Honoré into his arms. To press his lips to his. To breathe in his breath. Why can’t he chase these desires away? Why can’t he be honorable?
Together, they enter the music room where an ebony wall-to-wall glass-fronted bookcase calls his attention. McGauran walks up to the books and reads a few titles. Montesquieu. Hume. Descartes. Rousseau. Voltaire.
“My uncle insists we keep the philosophy section in the music room.” Honoré is at the window, opening it wider, letting a breeze in. “That shelf you’re looking at is the Lumières collection, if I’m not mistaken.”
McGauran recalls reading something about that period, the last century. It was an article in the Montreal Daily Star on Catherine the Great. He’d been impressed with her ideas about educating the masses. “That’s the Age of Enlightenment,” he says, hoping he’s correct.
“Yes, exactly!” Honoré bows a little. “Bravo.” He peers out at the square. “A great time for mankind, my uncle believes, but I prefer the romantics myself. Especially the French ones.” He turns to look at him. “I’m very fond of Alfred de Musset, his Confession d’un enfant du siècle, had my mind racing with new ideas, and I think Gautier is a genius. I’m reading his scandalous little novel called—” He stops. “I’m so sorry. I’m rambling. I rarely get to share my ideas with anyone.”
“Oh, no, no, you’re not rambling at all.” Enraptured, McGauran leans back on the heels of his boots. He could listen to Honoré talk all day. “What are you reading? What�
�s the story?”
Honoré hasn’t come near him yet. He stays by the window, looking a little frazzled. “It’s, well, the story of a man who seeks a mistress, but then when he does find the woman he wants, the two of them secretly begin to court the same person.” He hesitates. “And…this person they both love, is in fact a woman living as a man.”
“Wait, so the man—the man falls in love with another man?”
“Yes, well, he thinks, he suspects, that the man is a woman.”
McGauran has never heard of such a situation. It awakens his curiosity. There are people out there writing about things he has yet to discover. Somehow, he knows Honoré could open new doors for him. Could elevate his mind. “And they allowed this book to be printed?”
“Yes, but it’s caused quite a controversy.”
“Right…I’m sure.” He clears his throat, at a loss of words.
“Um, well, I’d rather not ring for the help,” Honoré says, changing the topic, “but if you’re thirsty or hungry, I could go into the kitchen myself and try to put together a plate of something. Bread and cheese or—”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” At the piano, McGauran presses down on a black key, and the sound startles him. “Sorry,” he says, feeling ignorant again.
“Oh, don’t be sorry! That’s an A sharp.” Honoré takes a few steps closer to him. “Do you play?”
“The piano? No. I don’t—I can’t read the music.”
Honoré stares at the keys and then presses down on the same note McGauran played. “You could learn.” Finally, he looks into his eyes. “I could teach you, if you like.”
McGauran can only nod and grunt, too affected by Honoré’s beauty to speak. Yes, he wants to be Honoré’s student, but could he teach him things, too?
Honoré breaks the spell. “Would you like to sit?” he asks, motioning to the couch.
“Sure, sure.” McGauran goes to sit on the elegant couch. He glances down at his worn trousers, their tough fabric contrasting sharply against the fancy silk under him. He checks his nails. Clean.
After a moment, Honoré sits by him, his weight barely disturbing the springs. They’re both quiet, and softly the sounds of the street—horse hooves clanking, a woman laughing, church bells ringing somewhere—reach them through the open window. McGauran can’t stop glancing down at Honoré’s lovely hands.
“I didn’t know if you’d accept my invitation,” Honoré whispers. They’re sitting so close, almost touching now.
Something in Honoré’s voice compels him to look up and their eyes meet. “I didn’t believe you’d ever send me one.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He watches Honoré for a moment, trying to read his face, to guess his intentions. “You do know that most rich people don’t invite my kind to their houses, right?”
“Your kind?”
He tenses a little. “Did you think I was arrogant that day?”
“Absolutely not.” Honoré smiles shyly, looking at his hands.
For a moment, he has the impulse to grab Honoré, sit him on his lap, ruffle his perfectly combed hair, unfasten the buttons of his fancy satin waistcoat, and make a mess of him. A beautiful mess.
With a strained expression, Honoré glances over at the Steinway upright piano and his shoulders rise a little. “Would you like me to play?”
Wait, is Honoré afraid of him? Is that why he’s acting so uneasy?
“Yes, that would be nice,” McGauran answers, as gently as he can.
Quickly, Honoré stands and settles himself at the piano. His back is straight. His ears are red. He tips his head. There’s a small oval mirror standing on the piano’s polished top, and for a brief, thrilling instant, their eyes meet in it. “What would you like to hear?” Honoré asks, looking away from the reflection.
“Why do you have a mirror on the piano?”
“I—I like to see behind my shoulder, sometimes, when I play.”
McGauran stands and slowly walks to the piano. He doesn’t want to frighten Honoré. He’d never trespass his boundaries, physical or other. Never. “Why?”
Again, Honoré’s pale eyes catch his stare in the mirror. “Because…I tend to lose myself in the music.”
“Isn’t that good?” He aches to put his hand on Honoré’s shoulder, so he presses his palm against the piano top to control his urge.
“Yes, I suppose it is, but I like to know what or who is around me.”
A long silence stretches between them. So this is what Bernard meant. This nervousness Honoré displays at times. He wishes he could turn the mirror over and tell Honoré that he’ll be his eyes and ears. Will guard him from whatever it is that seems to trouble him.
“Uh, well, what would you like me to play?” Honoré asks, after a while.
“Whatever feels right to you.”
“In that case, I think this will do.” For a moment, Honoré’s fine hands hover over the keys and then he begins to play.
At first, McGauran has trouble hearing the music. He’s too focused on Honoré’s fingers, the way they move so agilely from note to note, to take in the melody, but slowly, like slipping into a dream, the music makes its way through the fog in his mind and he begins to hear it. Honoré is running his hands across the ivory keys, and every time he bangs the lower notes, the sound sends a shock through McGauran’s chest and the chandelier flickers. Then Honoré plays the higher notes again, his fingers chasing each other up the scales, and the song becomes a question. A plea. Why? Why can’t I?
The notes are little black and white shards slicing into his heart, and McGauran’s eyes fill with tears. The melody becomes dissonant, as Honoré’s fingers move further down the lower scales, and then the music ends. The room is silent, and around them, the lights have all switched off. But the notes linger in the air like Honoré’s perfume.
Honoré’s pale eyes are haunted with something. Grief? The concerto seems to have stolen a secret from him.
“That was…beautiful. And so sad.” McGauran’s voice is strange to his own ears. “What was it?”
“Tchaikovsky.” Honoré looks up at him. The lights turn on. “Piano concerto number one. The first movement.” He raises an eyebrow. “You liked it then? I’ve been playing it for a year.”
Tchaikovsky. He’ll remember the name forever. “How do you do that? I mean—make it sound so tragic?”
Honoré hesitates. “I suppose I understand him.”
“The composer?”
“Yes. He speaks to me.” Honoré touches the music book. “He’s Russian, but still, I hear his words, his melancholic moods, his longing, in his notes.”
McGauran searches for something to say, but his tongue is tied, and though he barely knows Honoré, the idea of walking out of this house today and leaving Honoré alone with his piano and these damn flickering lights makes his blood boil.
Already, he wants to protect him. But from what?
“Do you want to see my books?” Honoré stands brusquely, knocking the bench down. “Oh, I’m so clumsy!”
Eye to eye, they laugh.
McGauran feels so unhinged inside, his heart could take flight. “Yes…I’d like to see your books,” he says, straightening the bench for Honoré. “I’d like to see everything in this house.”
“Then we could go into the study and have a glass of cognac or perhaps some champagne?”
He’s never had champagne. Champagne. “That would be very, very nice, thank you.”
“Yes?” Honoré’s face beams with joy. “And I could read to you. From Walt Whitman. Have you ever read Song of Myself?”
McGauran doesn’t care what Honoré reads, plays, says. It’s all enticing.
“Whitman is an American poet. Some kind of gentle giant. He writes of nature, man, and lovers in a way I’ve never read before. He writes of…Greek love.”
Greek love? McGauran doesn’t know what that means, but the expression on Honoré’s face excites his imagination.
* * * *
In the main parlor, Honoré watches McGauran’s serious expression as he studies the book open across their laps. “This is the Congo River,” Honoré explains, leaning in closer, but not too close, and pointing to the picture of the African continent. They sit together on a divan, with a bottle of his uncle’s finest Moët et Chandon champagne at their feet. They’ve nearly finished it and he feels a bit giddy. Almost tension free. The sensation is exquisite. “The river runs across the Congo Free State.”
McGauran’s intense dark stare follows the lines on the map. “An English explorer went there.” His voice is smooth and low as a melody on the bass clef chord. “Livingstone, right?”
For the last hour, they’ve been flipping through the pages of the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica and Honoré is impressed with McGauran’s knowledge of the world. “Yes, right again.” He looks over at McGauran, and their gazes lock. But he tries to concentrate on the book. “The Europeans have divided up Africa and now King Leopold of Belgium is helping the people there. Bringing religion and freedom to them.” But then he thinks of Fredeline, and suddenly wonders if what he believes is true. “Or perhaps he’s exploiting them. Perhaps that king couldn’t care less about those people. I—I don’t know. I’m not sure I like the idea of colonization anymore.” He catches McGauran staring at him with curiosity. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know enough to have an opinion on Africa.” McGauran brushes his hand across the map. “But I do know that the world is getting pretty complicated. Machines are taking over man’s work. Soon, the CP is gonna have a train that goes all the way to Vancouver. They say we’re gonna be a real country then. Yeah, well, I bet just a handful of rich men will benefit from all that land. So maybe it’s the same everywhere.”
Honoré isn’t sure how safe it is to express himself freely. McGauran speaks English, but that doesn’t make him a loyalist or a federalist. It doesn’t make him a nationalist either. He’s an Irishman after all. They usually go their own way. Yet, the Irish have sided with the French Canadians on many issues. He’ll take the risk. “Those new train tracks were the cause of much trouble,” he says, after a while, watching for McGauran’s reaction.