Chapter 5
I could not fall asleep that night. The room at the Claridge’s Hotel was nice and the bed was as soft as whipped cream, but there were too many things that were upsetting me. I kept seeing, again and again, the dark, deep eyes of the homeless man — or, rather, Sherlock Holmes — in Dover.
Thinking again about what had happened, I felt both angered and amused by what Sherlock had done. The gesture was original and brave, I’ll give him that.
When I wasn’t thinking about Sherlock, some other faces came to mind. Lupin’s, of course, since I had not even hoped I would see him again this soon, and then Ophelia Merridew’s face, like I had seen it in the paper. Soon I would admire her face in real life, and enjoy the privilege of listening to her enchanting voice. Then I imagined my mother’s face, severe and stubborn like when we said goodbye in Paris.
When I finally saw some light coming in from the curtains, I decided to get up. I went down to the lobby and immediately ran into my father.
“I sent a letter to your mother,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Everything is set so she can come here without any risk. You probably wondered why I didn’t force her to come with us,” he continued as we walked arm in arm toward the breakfast tables. “The truth is, I know your mother quite well. And I know that, from time to time, she needs to have her way. Insisting only makes things worse. This way, she usually comes to her senses in a matter of hours!”
We sat at a table and ordered a big English breakfast of eggs benedict, sausages, and a tasty mixture of rice, cod, and spices. We ate while Papa told me his plan for the day. We would make our way around London in a comfortable carriage until dinner, at which point we would return to the hotel for a light meal.
“It’s the only way not to tire ourselves out before tonight. Don’t you agree, Irene?” he continued, biting into a slice of bread. “Your body will need to be rested, and your spirit awake. The art of the divine Ophelia Merridew deserves no less than that!”
I nodded, enjoying my father’s enthusiasm.
Then came an unusual noise . . . something like the sound of soup boiling. I turned and realized that it was the peculiar laugh of a peculiar character sitting at the table beside us. He was a big man, with a round face and a thick beard, and he wore a bright-blue tailcoat. He was looking at Papa and me.
When our eyes met, he said in shaky English, “The gentleman is right!”
“I’m happy to hear you say that, sir,” said my father, lifting his cup of tea in a toast.
The man laughed again, in his most unique way, and introduced himself. He was Sergej Trudoljubov, a Russian baron. He traveled all the way from Saint Petersburg to London to see Miss Merridew’s show.
The man and my father began discussing opera. “I don’t know if he’s the greatest composer of all time, but he is my favorite!” declared my father, when the topic had moved on to Giuseppe Barzini.
“We agree again, my friend!” the baron said. “To think that just a few years back, I was among those who thought that the Maestro was done! I was wrong, wasn’t I, my friend?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, sir,” my father answered kindly. “At a certain point it did seem like Barzini’s inspiration got weaker. But then —”
“Then he fooled everyone like me who had that thought!” the baron finished for him.
That time, the three of us laughed pretty hard.
“His last two works are great once again — so vigorous!” my father commented.
“Certainly,” approved Trudoljubov. “I tell you, that genius is living a second youth, my dear friend!”
The baron then bowed and went back to the big plate of sausages that sat in front of him.
* * *
After our long carriage outing, we returned to the hotel for a quick dinner of soup and meat, then went to get ready in our rooms. Since that night was a special occasion, I wanted to be dressed accordingly. I spent a good hour in front of the mirror, preparing every detail of my outfit. I was taming one last lock of hair when I heard someone knocking on my door.
“Irene, it’s time to go!” said my father. “The carriage is waiting for us!”
I still remember the radiant look Papa gave me when I opened the door in my periwinkle evening gown. “Irene! You’re a sight for sore eyes!” he said, taking my arm and leading me out to our carriage.
Just a few minutes later, we arrived at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Papa and I climbed the entrance stairs, moving through the crowd of people. I felt as if a pair of wings had just sprouted from my shoulders, and my heart was beating fast.
At the top of the staircase, my father met a distinguished-looking man, who had two thick, white tufts of hair on his cheeks. His name was Mr. Jabkins. He was a very rich wood merchant who had offered to host us in his box that night.
The entrance was filled with people from all over Europe. I glanced at the people milling between the big white marble columns. I saw old men in diplomatic uniforms, ladies wearing tons of jewels, cadets and young men from the nobility, businessmen sporting black ties . . . it was clear that being here was a privilege very few people had!
Papa and I had just said hello to Baron Trudoljubov when I noticed that several people were staring at three men nearby. I soon realized that one of those men was Maestro Giuseppe Barzini. The other two, much younger than him, I did not recognize. A lady, perhaps noticing my confusion, whispered in my ear, “The tall man with the black mustache is Alfred Santi, Barzini’s assistant! A very talented young man, they say. The blond man is a new discovery of the Maestro. Henri Duvel, a Frenchman!”
I thanked her for the information and paused to look at the two young men. I watched as another man introduced himself to Barzini. The two assistants also moved forward to introduce themselves, but they bowed at the same time and their heads collided.
I quickly covered my mouth to hide my amusement at the scene. The two young men, however, did not laugh at all. Santi spoke angrily to the Frenchman who, his face turning red, argued right back. Barzini had to step in to calm them down, and when he did, they immediately shut up. They continued glaring at each other, however.
Soon Mr. Jabkins found my father and me and led us to his box. It was in an excellent spot. I looked through my binoculars. Below us, lines of people moved like waves in a stormy sea. The musicians in the orchestra pit tuning their instruments reflected the anticipation of the crowd. I gazed at the rows of seats, full like flower boxes in spring.
It was then that I met the eyes of a young lady, on the other side of the theater, who looked toward me. She was a very elegant woman, and her face was delicate and pale. As soon as I saw her it was like a switch suddenly flipped in my mind.
Without knowing why, I found myself thinking about the summer that had just passed. I imagined the town of Saint-Malo and I pictured a carriage moving away from me quickly.
I flinched. I had seen that woman before!
But at that moment, the lights dimmed, and the whole theater went dark. Soon the curtains opened, and I forgot the strange feeling I had just a few moments before when I locked eyes with that woman across the theater.
Ophelia Merridew had taken the stage.