Where did Erik learn harmony and composition? This is the story of a young man...and his teacher. This story is registered with the WGAw.

Le Cadeau

Chapter 1

Paris, January 1862

The morning light is weak and grey, although it is three hours past dawn. Workmen hustle into a stately home in the 16th Arondissment; painters, mortarers and carpenters have all converged under the direction of a master builder to renovate this fading mansion and restore it to au courant comfort.

The main salon looks out upon the fashionable street below. The room has an eerie appearance, for all the furniture is draped with heavy canvas cloth to protect it from the repairs going on. A young stonemason, not yet twenty years of age, enters with his tools.

He has been given the task of rebuilding the fireplace-it's a shambles. He's thin, terribly thin, but all wiry muscle and huge spidery hands. The young stonemason knows what he's doing. The master builder can trust him to work unsupervised. He is the sort of worker the master builder likes best--show him something once and he can do it perfectly. He prefers working alone. His solitary focus unnerves the other laborers. The stonemason ducks inside the hearth. A tall pile of limestone tiles waits for his expert application.

The young stonemason works steadily to re-line the flue. He sings as he works. It's a hauntingly beautiful sound that travels up the flue and is amplified by the acoustics of the splendid house. Unaware, the tall young man continues to sing as he places the limestone tiles within the flue's cavity.

He breaks from his work to look around the salon. The chamber is simple, elegant in its restraint. It is a beautiful room, and it meets the young mason's practiced eye with approval. The stonemason is drawn to a large piece of furniture in the center of the room. He pulls back the heavy protective cloth to reveal an ebony piano.

He opens the piano's cover and worshipfully runs his hands over the keyboard. Silently, he gently fingers the keys, pressing them so softly that they do not resonate. With greater confidence, he moves over the keyboard, remembering a melody clearly within his mind, and connecting with the piano before him. His concentration deepens and the chords begin to sound—

"What are you doing?"

The question rifles through the air. The stonemason jumps away from the piano and casts his eyes downward as a young woman strides into the room. The stonemason removes his cap in a gesture of respect.

"I meant no harm, Mademoiselle. I only wished to--"

"You're holding your hands all wrong. That's a piano, not a pipe organ."

"I'll return to my job now, Mademoiselle." The young stonemason backs away from the piano and kneels again inside the massive hearth. The young woman grabs the sheets from two chairs and tosses them to the floor. She begins to drag one chair toward the piano, and then stops.

"Well, aren't you going to help me?" she snaps with an air of exasperation.

The stonemason peers out from beneath the mantelpiece. With alacrity, he takes the chair from the lady and tucks it under his arm. The woman points to the piano. The stonemason places the chair at the keyboard, then takes the other chair and places it next to the first. The young woman motions for the stonemason to sit at the keyboard. She gathers her hoop skirt with care as she alights beside him.

As her eyes become accustomed to the dim light in the salon, the young woman notices that the stonemason wears a mask over his face.

"Is that to protect you from the masonry dust?" she softly inquires.

"No, Mademoiselle. It is to protect people like you." The young man's fingers caress the ivory keys almost involuntarily.

"Protect me from what?"

"The burden of my ugliness."

The young woman looks directly at the stonemason for a long interval. He bears her gaze patiently, keeping his eyes on the keyboard as she observes him. She is not a conventional beauty, but her hair has lovely chestnut waves, and her high cheekbones and slightly up-tilted eyes hint at a heritage that is more than the usual French bourgeois. Satisfied, she puts a hand on the piano.

"What do you know about music?" she asks. The corners of the stonemason's mouth curl up in a gentle smile.

"I know that I love it, Mademoiselle. I hear music inside my head all day long."

The young woman begins to play a simple melody with one hand. She nods to the stonemason.

"Sing that back to me," she instructs. The stonemason sings the melody to her in perfect tune and rhythm.

"Can you play it on the keyboard for me?" she requests. The young man places his long fingers on the keys and tinkles the little song with complete accuracy. He even manages to supply a harmony for the concluding phrases.

"You have a good memory. Better than mine," she comments. She pauses for a moment and regards the stonemason in silence. The young mason becomes uncomfortable and looks back at the fireplace.

"Mademoiselle, I should return to my task. The master of this house will be displeased with me if I do not--"

"The master of the house is my husband. I think he will be quite pleased that I have made a friend who loves music. Do you know how to read?"

"Yes, I do." The stonemason is now completely confused.

The young woman gets up from her chair and goes to another draped piece of furniture. She pulls up the canvas and opens a cabinet, rummages inside and pulls out two battered portfolios. Opening one of the binders, the woman places a piece of sheet music on the piano.

"Can you read music too?" she gently asks. The stonemason looks at the pattern of lines, dots and squiggles covering the paper.

"No, Madame. I can see that it is titled 'Canzone,' which means 'song' in Italian, and I can read the word 'dolce'—'sweet.' But the rest is unknown to me."

"You are intelligent. How old are you, anyway?" The young woman's eyes narrow a little as she tries to estimate the young stonemason's age.

"I believe I am nineteen years old, Madame." He draws himself up. Nineteen is after all, a man's age. A young man, true, but still a man.

"Would you like to learn how to read music?"

"Why would you bother to teach a poor laborer?"

The young woman turns away from the piano. "Do you want to, or not?"

"Yes, Madame. But I still do not understand."

The young woman paces around the salon. She pauses by the immense bay window that looks out over the Tuileries Palace and gardens. "Perhaps it pleases me to have a challenge. Perhaps I heard your singing and it was so beautiful, it went straight into my heart," she whispers.

"Perhaps it is because I cannot stand being the only person in this house who loves music!" She gives a little cry and clasps her hand over her mouth as she turns away from the stonemason. Her shoulders shake a little, and she lets out a deep sigh. When she turns back, there are unshed tears glittering in her eyes.

"Do you live with your family?" An unspoken plea for communion beams from her eyes.

"No, Madame. I have no family."

"Where do you stay?"

The stonemason does not answer. He is ashamed to admit that he has been taking refuge from the winter cold in churches, under bridges, and even in the tunnels beneath Paris. Most landlords do not take kindly to renting rooms to masked men, even those with ready money. The woman discerns his discomfort and completes her thought.

"We have rooms over the stables. I will introduce you to Monsieur Guerin and he will assign you one. You can perform your work during the day, but you shall meet with me for an hour after my breakfast and an hour before dinner. After dinner, you shall practice for an hour unless we have company. Is this satisfactory to you?"

The young man is completely dumfounded. He has just been offered more than he could ever dream of, and he honestly has no idea why. Surely there will be some quid pro quo, but he decides that he will face it when the time comes.

The young woman picks up a watch that dangles from the chatelaine around her waist. She snorts a little, and then motions for the stonemason to follow her.

"It's time for me to meet with Madame Portager to confirm tonight's menu. Stay on her good side or you'll starve to death. What are you called, Monsieur Mason?"

"Erik, Madame."

"Erik what?"

"Just Erik. That is all the name I have." The shame begins to wash over the young man as it has so many times before.

"That's fixable. It took a lot of money for me to get my name. In our lessons, you may call me Blandine, but the rest of the time I am Mme. Ollivier."

Blandine opens the salon door and waves at Erik impatiently. In a daze, the young masked man follows her, his mind a tangle of melodies, keyboards, sheet music and hope. Blessed, unfamiliar hope.