Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 5

"What are you trying to do, Mr. Moreau, make me join some sort of a secret society?"

Moreau laughed. "No...well, maybe," he said. "You'll see."

Of course, this did not ease my worries at all. As I waited on the sidewalk, Moreau stepped closer to the door. He knocked and then began to whistle a familiar tune.

"That's the opening theme to Brucker 7, isn't it?" I said.

"It's the theme song of the Order of the Nightingales."

"Moreau, you've got to explain what this 'Order of the Nightingales' is exactly. I have work tomorrow, and I could be spending this time resting instead of listening to you blather on about nightingales..."

All of a sudden, a large man, well over six feet tall, with light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a full mustache, answered the door. "Mr. Moreau, nice to see you again," he said. "And who's the lovely lady you've brought with you?"

"This is Matilda Brackenborough. She's my neighbor and an excellent composer," Moreau said. "Miss Brackenborough, this is Pierre Lajoie. He plays tuba with the Paris Opera."

As soon as he said that, I realized that he must have been playing in the orchestra during The Lost Shadow. He was in the pit when the crowd began to riot, screaming and throwing whatever they had in his direction. He was there on the night Johann Bergmann died.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Brackenborough, and welcome to the Order of the Nightingales," Lajoie said.

He told us to come inside, and once we were in the parlor room, which was crowded with people, I asked Lajoie, "So what is the Order of the Nightingales exactly? Moreau never bothered to explain it to me."

"It's a secret society of musicians," Lajoie explained.

"You almost guessed it, Miss Brackenborough," Moreau added.

"We meet once per week, and as the Chief Nightingale, it is my duty to host the meetings," Lajoie said. "Usually, we just gossip and share the music and art we've been working on. We're all about supporting each other, and as a composer, I think you'll fit right in."

I looked around at all of the members of the Order, picking up snippets of their conversations here and there. There were all sorts of people here: singers, songwriters, instrumentalists, students, teachers, professionals, amateurs, people who just loved music. I heard people discussing how to properly maintain a clarinet, arguing over whether Brahms ripped off Beethoven, speculating over whether music halls were more than just a passing fad.

Already, I felt at home.

I heard the opening theme from Bruckner 7, and Lajoie headed toward the door a second time. Meanwhile, I looked out across the room again, and I spotted a familiar face. The soprano from The Lost Shadow was here, and she was in the midst of a conversation with a red-haired woman that I didn't recognize.

"Actually, I heard from de Villiers that ticket sales have been excellent lately," the soprano said. "You'd think that someone dying at the opera house would keep people from coming to see the show, but they all want to know what could have started that riot. Opera-goers like to think they're better than the rest of us, but they have the same morbid curiosity as everyone else."

The woman said something I couldn't quite make out, and the soprano responded, "Well, nobody knows for sure. I saw the body, and...let's just say that most of Bergmann's head was the consistency of tomato stew." The woman made a face, but the soprano continued on. "Anyways, the police seem to know what they're doing, unlike that time last year..."

"Miss Brackenborough," Moreau said, diverting my attention away from the soprano. "What are you doing?"

"People-watching, I suppose," I said. I briefly looked back at the soprano, but her bright blue eyes were fixated on the redhead.

"Mr. Lajoie should be back in a moment," Moreau said. "He might be able to introduce you to some of the other members of the Opera pit orchestra."

"That would be lovely."

As if on cue, Lajoie walked up to Moreau and I and asked, "How are you two enjoying the party?"

"It's wonderful as always, Mr. Lajoie," Moreau said.

"You two don't happen to know anything more about Johann Bergmann, do you?" Lajoie asked. "It's all most people seem to be talking about today."

"I was practicing my violin at home when it happened, so I don't know anything more than what's been published in the newspapers," Moreau said. "Miss Brackenborough was in the audience during the premiere though."

"I don't know much either," I said. "It all happened very suddenly - one minute, it seemed like everything would be fine, and the next, someone was saying that Johann Bergmann was dead."

"I mostly remember trying to play while dodging everything that was being thrown at us," Lajoie said with a chuckle. "Who do you think did it, by the way?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea," I said.

"Me neither," Moreau said.

"Miss Frossard seems to think that Bertrand Sylvestre pushed him off of the grand staircase," Lajoie said.

My jaw dropped. "You can't be serious," I said.

"I don't know if it's true or not, but I do know that those two have never liked each other," Lajoie said. He sighed and then added, "Regardless, Bergmann's death is a huge loss for all of us. I'm thinking of having us play some of his work as a tribute later."

"That sounds like a great idea," I said.

"I'm glad you think so," Lajoie said.

An older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard walked up to us, and Lajoie quickly introduced him as Georges de Villiers, the music director of the Opera. Lajoie then proceeded to introduce me to what felt like everyone in the entire city - I could hardly remember their names, much less anything about them, and after a while, I was more exhausted than anything else.

My mind kept wandering back to what Lajoie had said about Sylvestre. It couldn't be true, or so I kept telling myself. Sylvestre certainly disliked Bergmann, but that didn't mean that he had murdered him.

Later in the evening, a few of the Nightingales played some of Bergmann's music on Lajoie's old piano. Lajoie and his wife played an excellent rendition of the piano four hands arrangement of the finale of Bergmann's third symphony, a trumpeter beautifully performed one of his concertos, and a solo pianist played a few of his best sonatas. The music was lovely, and I was content to simply listen until Moreau said to me, "Why don't we play something?"

"Like what?" I said.

"What about Variations for Piano Four Hands?" Moreau suggested.

I was reluctant, but in the end, I said yes, and before I knew it, Moreau and I were seated side by side on the piano bench, ready to play. He carefully placed his fingers on the keys and pressed down, letting a low-pitched chord ring throughout the room. I then began to play, my high, soaring melodies perfectly complementing his bass notes. Moreau's piano playing was mediocre at best, far removed from the exquisite performance I'd heard on the day I'd met him, but we made it through the piece, and when we finished, the entire room applauded.

Shortly afterwards, Moreau and I decided to head back to the boarding house. We said our goodbyes to Lajoie and his family, and as we started walking home, I said, "Thanks for taking me to this, Mr. Moreau. It was a lot of fun."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Brackenborough," Moreau said. "You're welcome to come with me any time."

All of a sudden, I saw a group of boys running through the street, and as they came closer, I immediately recognized one of them. As soon as he saw me, he froze, and the two boys that were with him did the same.

"Jean-Luc?" I said. "What are you doing out so late?"