A Light in the Dark

Chapter 16

Chapter 16 Erik's POV

I listened to Gustave's playing. He played like me. He did not just hear, he saw, felt, and breathed the music. I listened to my own son finish his story through music. It ended sweetly. The piece had gone through what I would imagine the hurt of the Vicomte's habits, the love his mother gave, the pain of her loss, the unfamiliarity of me, all we had been through, and it now had an ending that was soft and mild. All of the emotions that he conveyed were truly remarkable.

He came through the door toting a leather bound book full of sheet music that he had scribbled and marked on. I stood and went to the piano. I gestured for Gustave to take a seat next to me. I had been giving him lessons to improve his playing and writing. I had taught him all that I knew. He caught on quickly. He reluctantly took a seat next to me.

"Would you help me with something, Gustave?"

My boy nodded as he looked at me with a confused expression.

"I have some unfinished pieces. I want you to finish them."

"Papa, I couldn't do that."

I put my arm around him, "Why ever could you not?"

"Your pieces are so beautiful. I just couldn't finish them like you could."

"Nonsense, my boy! You play beautifully. After all, Gustave, you are my son. You play as I do. How about we make a deal then?"

"What kind of deal?"

"If you finish some of my older pieces that I never finished, then I'll finish my newer pieces before I'm dead. I promise."

I could tell that he thought I was joking. He looked up at me and smiled his innocent smile. "Very well, then," I said, "We have a deal." I offered my hand, and Gustave shook it just like a perfect gentleman.

I went to the small kitchen area and burned a pot of coffee. Something told me that Gustave was going to need it. I watched him shuffle through all of my music composition books. He took out one in the very top corner of the bookshelf. It was dusty and old. I had not touched it in years. On its outer spine read its label – Don Juan Triumphant. Gustave took it to the piano and started playing.

"This is the most bizarre piece that I've ever played," he muttered to himself.

He got through several bars of the next song when he stopped suddenly. He flipped through the next few pages and read the lyrics. I could not read his expression. He slapped the book shut.

He looked at me. "This is the piece isn't it?"

"What piece?"

He shook the book at me, "You know what piece. The piece that is played in my music box, the piece you told me about when I was younger. This is the piece you wrote for my mother. It was the only one you ever performed with her."

I poured some scotch in my coffee and braced myself for this conversation. I would never be a drunkard like Raoul, but it did soothe the aching bones in my joints. "Yes, Gustave," I said, "That's the piece."

"The words don't say what I always imagined them saying."

I chuckled at his innocence. "I was a young man then, Gustave. Things change. People change."

Gustave placed the book back on the shelf and pulled out another. He found a piece and tampered with it for a few moments until he then put that one back too. Several pieces later, he suddenly became entranced. He played through it several times in several different fashions. By this time, I was on my third cup of coffee. It turns out that I needed it more than Gustave did. I was remembering where and when I started the piece. I suddenly went back to the Opera Populaire. I remembered what Christine looked like as she laid there in my bed. She was sound asleep. The curls of her hair fell around her face like the perfect frame for the perfect picture.

Suddenly Gustave snapped me out of my trance. "Papa?" he asked.

"Yes, my boy?"

"Why do you say that this one is unfinished? The sheet music says that it is."

"Ah, I remember that piece. I had always intended on writing lyrics to the song, but I never really got around to it."

Gustave nodded. "Did you write this for mother?"

I felt the unfortunately too familiar feeling of the stabbing sensation in my heart. "Yes, Gustave, I did."

"Papa? May I make a rather strange request?"

"Yes, I suppose you may."

"Could I possibly show this piece to a friend?"

I thought about it for a moment. No one had really heard my music besides Christine and Gustave. Sure, there were a couple of pieces that had made a public appearance, but not many. I was no longer sure if I really wanted others to hear them, but I told Gustave to finish them. I was not going to make it my decision. I walked over to him. I closed his book, and I placed it in his hands. I put my hands on top of his. I remembered the promise that I had made so long ago.

"I give you this piece whole heartedly, Gustave. I trust you with it. Go do what you like with it."

Gustave looked up at me beaming. I kissed him on top of the head. Gustave would never truly understand just how much I loved him. I sent him off to bed. It was now two-thirty in the morning, and he had a concert tomorrow night. Perhaps it was the father in me, but I knew that he needed his rest. I too was growing older. I needed mine as well, and I retired to my chambers. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders that night. Although it sort of irked me to know that I would not be finishing my pieces, I knew that they were in good hands, and it was all too big of a job for just me. I had written too much music. They were Gustave's now, and I knew that he would make the most of them. He would make them heard.