To my Dearest Friend

pretense, masks and silence

I pick up the papers he has given me. My father will be content, mister Fournir will be a major asset to our business empire. Or at least that would be what my father would say. We bid eachother goodbye, I shake his hand, and he walks away. Such a straigth-forward way of living, only caring about business

I sit down, I hate these kinds of restaurants, so pretentious. I take a sip from the wine and feel my mouth judging me for even drinking it. It's not a good wine, fournir chose it, it's far too tart for me. Sometimes I would like a drink like this but at a normal day I definetely would not. This is a wine that people who do not know wine would choose in order to seem like they do know wine. It is new money wine. This restaurant has a radiant culture of the sushine of wealth still trying to break through old habits of the less rich that seem to die hard. And I sound like my father. I take another sip of the wine, maybe it is not that bad at all.

 I hate all of the conversations billowing around me like fog in the morning. Eyeryone wants to show how wealthy they are, everyone must display their intelect. (Which result in made up facts and notions that are the complete opposite from the truth.) How sickening is it that I am a part of this. I am a perfect example of the people who belong in places like this, I have been raised in this. I have barely seen anything else. I am one of the bricks in this tower of pretentiousness that is holding it up, but god how hard it is to step out of it, because that weight will keep you in place, perhaps forever. The people I have spent time with would call this wine exquisite just for the sake of belonging. And than people like my father would look down on them while he would have said the same when he was younger, desperate for the approval of his peers. High society is something very strange I think as I take another sip.

I am lost in thought when I hear something behind me. 'Mathieu?" I don't respond. 'Sir montague?' I turn around, a man with White-blonde hair and a scar through his eye approaches me. 'That isn't you is it?' He asks. I smile poletily, curious why he said my father's name. 'I am sorry, My name is Yves, Yves Montague, not Mathieu.' His face changes from an expression of light and hope to something more alike to numbness, something I understand. I feel bad so I says: 'I am sorry to disappoint you sir.' He sighs,  'I'm sorry to mistake you like that, but you are wearing a blouse that belonged to him.' I nod, how would he know such a ffutile detail of my father's wardrobe? 'You are mistaking me for my father.' I say, partly surprised partly disappointed that it is so easy to mistake me for my father. He smiles. 'I am so sorry Yves, I guess I just haven't seen him for so long, I must've forgot he has aged too'  'Sit down sir, I am sorry to have distraught you. Can I interest you in a drink.' He nods, he moves very elegantly, almost feminine, I think it's beautiful. I see that his hand is trembling, on that hand he's wearing a braclet of pearls. he chuckles, 'The last time I saw you you were about ten. How old are you now?' He sighs. 'May I ask for your name?' I ask, confused who he is and why he has seen me when I was ten. He nods. 'Michel de Polignac.' I bite my lip, it's Emile's fatner. What a strange coincedence. 'Perhaps our families should see eachother again.' I say curious how my father would react.' You could come to England if you please.' I go on, he laughs and light a cigarette. 'Your mother would not stand for that dear.' I frown. 'Why?-' 'She has her reasons, complicated woman...' I look at my pocketwatch. 'I must go, I'm afraid' I say while looking at the time. 'But it was nice seeing you again sir, in my opinion you and your charming son would be always welcome.' I don't know if I mean that but what DO I know?

The more I think about it the more it confuses me. I find it puzzling, that man, that light in his eyes when he saw me. When he thought I was my father. That broken light, where have I see that berore? Where have I seen that.... Why is my mother not fond or him. How did he recognise the blouse so easily. What is it between my family and the Polignacs that I don't know. I am too afraid to ask my father. My mother would lie and I do not dare to speak to aunt. All these questions and I believe most of them will go unanswered. These mysteries around my father are something I will never find out except if he would have the nerve to tell me. And it seems that he does not....

I change my suit for white tie. I grab my opera glasses from my suitcase. We are going to Rigoletto, the one of the masterpieces from Verdi. I dont want to see Cyril to be completly honest. It's like I will be able to live with the large gaping whole inside my chest but I won't survive it if that same hole would be used to store someone's heart at their will only for it to be removed again and again and again ripping the hole a bit further every time.

I arrive at the Palais Garnier, I step out of the carriage and search for the three gentlemen. I find them, Akiva looks a bit lost standing next to Cyril and Emile, It's like a raven surrounded by parrots. It makes me laugh a little. He's like a sliver of sanity among these peacocks of lunacy. Akiva seems utterly relieved when he sees me.

'Good evening gentle gentlemen.' I say as I approach them with a confident stride. Hiding the fact I feel absolutely broken down, like a horse who was supposed to walk over the alps but has given up. 'How did it go? Émile asks, probably inquiring about the business venture. 'Great, and I met your father.' Cyril frowns, I am not exactely ssure why or what he is thinking right now.. 'What a strange coincidence' He says. 'He thought I was my father.' I say while laughing. 'But enough about me, How did you spend the day?' 'Spending money mostly.' Emile says with a smile. Émile is the epitome of this strange society. 'Well shall we?' I ask and we enter the building.

Such a magnificent building, a reflection of the grandiose beauty of Opera and ballet. The craftsmanship reflecting the precision these artforms require. The beauty relfecting the utter grandiosity of the minds that created these beautiful performances. I am looking at all of it when my stream of thoughts gets disturbed by Cyril and Emile who are whispering, altough it is rather loud. It makes me feel strangely left out while I do not wish to take part in the conversation but still I wonder what they are talking about. Frankly, whispering in these kind of settings is also not polite.

I look at my libretto, I have a libretto for most opera's and I take it with me whenever I go to see them. 'Do you want to buy a libretto Akiva?' I ask him as he's eyeing the one's they're selling in the foyer. He smiles, he would be far too modest to ever ask. 'I don't see why not.' He says, trying to contain his excitement. I smile, he seems more fascinated by opera than Cyril ever was. Akiva feels like family to me, somebody who truly takes the time to understand me. Not that Cyril didn't but Akiva seems so much less complicated, simply because I do not feel this burning in my heart throat and eyes when I see him. simply because I do not feel like my father is judging me everytime I dare look into his eyes, simply because when akiva is there with me the storm seems to calm down. I turn around, I see Cyril and Émile, so close to eachother, too close to eachother, he would never dare if that would be me. I feel tears in my eyes. Take a breath Yves, suck it up and be civil.

We venture to our box. The auditorium is slowly being flooded by people, part of whom are really interested in the opera and part of whom are talking about things that no one in this whole world really cared about. but silence is lonely, and talking makes you feel better, it make us feel whole, makes us feel important. When somebody listens to to you arrogance is created, however humble you may be. That's why most of the times I think we should choose silence. However difficult it may be, however lonely, however heartbreaking. Say a word and you bring yourself closer to the edge, silence is safe, lonely but safer than love.

The lights dim and we hear the first notes, my mind knows every note by heart and my heart knows every song deep in my soul. And just for a moment, everything seems alright.