Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

The Singing Butt

‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Dooooooooo…’

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Monette.’ I waved, wincing. ‘Thank you for the, um…memorable performance. Your application will be considered.’

I waited for Claudette to translate and, once the girl had disappeared, leant over towards her. ‘What do you think?’

‘Zut!’Sticking one finger in her ear, Claudette wiggled it experimentally. ‘I sink I need to invest in earplugs.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ I took a deep breath. ‘I thought it was just me.’

‘It’s not.’ Claudette patted my hand. ‘Trust me, Monsieur Linton, for every good singer out sere, sere are a ‘undred people who cannot wait to drive metaphorical nails into your ears.’

Another figure stepped from the door that led backstage, dressed in a white gown and a brilliant smile that widened at the sight of me.

‘Speaking of nails,’ I groaned. ‘Here comes one to my coffin.’

Claudette raised one eyebrow. ‘What is se matter? She is pretty girl, non? And she appears to be quite fond of you.’

‘That is the problem.’

‘Ah.’ Claudette’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding. ‘You are…how they say it in English…queer, oui?’[28]

My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

‘What? No!’

‘It is all right.’ She gently patted my shoulder. ‘I’m not the same as all the stuffy English people. I no judge.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but Miss Harse had already reached us, and I shut it again. Clearing my throat, I bowed to her.

‘Welcome, Miss Harse.’

‘Good morning, Mr Linton. It’s so wonderful to see you again!’

‘You, too,’ I said with my fingers crossed behind my back. ‘This is Claudette Chantagnier, the prima donna here at the opera house, who is going to advise me…’

‘A pleasure, Madame.’ Miss Harse bowed to the prima donna, while Claudette scrutinized her intently. Poor girl. In a way I pitied her. Even though I wanted nothing so much as to get as far away from her as I could, I knew that singing in the opera was her dream, and I also knew that there was no way she was going to get a job here in France. Not after the introductions were over.

‘…and this,’ I continued, gesturing at the man on my other side, ‘is Monsieur Louis Joyal, the music director. Monsieur Joyal, meet Miss Emilia Harse.’

Emilia did another shy curtsy. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Joyal.’

It was coming. The end of the poor girl’s music career in France. Any second now. Any second…

‘Good evening,’ the music director said in heavily accented English. ‘Welcome to Paris, Miss ‘arse.’

I nearly choked myself trying to stifle the sound of my laughter. My knees trembled, trying not to collapse.

‘Yes,’ Claudette agreed, inclining her head. ‘Welcome, Miss ‘arse. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Paris. For a lovely young thing like you, sere are so many fascinating opportunities in sis great city.’

Wheezing, I had to support myself against a nearby column. Claudette glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised.

‘Is something se matter, Mr Linton?’

‘N-nothing! Nothing at all!’

I’m just thinking about all the fascinating opportunities that Paris could offer to a young ‘arse!

Grabbing on tightly to my column, I just about managed not to collapse from laughter. I wasn’t quite sure the opera audience, on the first night when Miss ‘arse would make her debut, would be so lucky.

‘Well, mademoiselle.’ Waving a well-manicured hand, Claudette gave the girl a tiny little smile. ‘Go on and show us what a ‘arse can do.’

I lost my hold and slid down the column.

‘Thank you, Madame! And…’ Emilia’s gaze flitted over to where I lay wheezing on the floor. ‘And thank you, Mr Linton, for giving me this opportunity. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Whether you accept me or not, this is a dream come true.’ Blushing, she sank into another curtsy, and hurried onto the stage. I pulled myself back up onto my seat and raised my fingers to my ears, ready to stuff. A moment later, she opened her mouth…

And sang.

And it did not sound like the harpy’s screech I’d been expecting.

Maybe she’d had a sore throat that morning I had first heard her. Maybe I had just been annoyed as hell she’d kept me awake. It didn’t matter. What did matter was: the girl could actually sing!

Which meant I couldn’t toss her out on her apostrophised English ‘arse. Damn!

Conspiratorially, I leant over towards Claudette.

‘Tell me she’s bad!’ I whisper-pleaded. ‘Please? Please tell me that in your professional opinion, she’s horrendous, and my philistine ears are deceiving me!’

‘Hm…’ The prima donna tapped her chin with a long, manicured fingernail. ‘Sorry to disappoint. She’s a little rough, per’aps, but with a little training…’

‘Don’t say it! Don’t say it!’

‘…she could become quite the famous singer. I think we should consider ‘er, mon ami.’

I buried my face in my hands. Peeking out from between my fingers, I glanced at the music director. He had an expression on his face as if he’d just seen one of the three muses walk on stage and start giving him a private performance. I was doomed. Doomed to eternal misery.

Emilia sang three entire songs for her captive audience. Finally, the echoes of the last note subsided. She ran down from the stage and rushed towards us. Or at least I think that was what she did. I wasn’t too sure, because I was still hiding behind my fingers.

‘Mr Linton! Oh, Mr Linton, I can hardly express what it means to me,’ she whispered. ‘To see that my performance moved you to tears…!’

‘Oh. Um…yes. Tears. Of course.’

Quickly, I lowered my hands, wiped my dry eyes and tried to look as moved as possible for a person sitting perfectly still.

Shyly, Emilia turned towards Claudette and Monsieur Joyal. ‘What did you think?’

The prima donna gifted the young girl with a rare smile. ‘In my personal opinion, you did very well, child. But of course I am not se one who will make se final decision.’

‘I agree.’ Monsieur Joyal nodded enthusiastically. He looked as if both his ears had fallen irrevocably in love. ‘But I’m not se one with se power to decide, either, Mademoiselle.’

They both looked at me.

I cleared my throat. ‘Um…well…I’d have to say that…well…’

Claudette stepped on my foot.

‘Ouchesss!’

‘Pardon?’

‘Yes! I mean yes. You are hired.’

‘Oh, Mr Linton!’

Rushing towards me, Emilia threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. Her lips dived towards me.

Hell no! No, no, nonono!

I dived to the side just in time. Her mouth hit only empty air.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re so wonderful! Oh, Mr Linton, if there’s ever anything I can do for you, if ever you need something, I’ll do anything, I promise, I’ll—’

‘No!’ I squeaked, somehow managing to slither out of her stranglehold. ‘No need! It was a pleasure! The platonic kind of pleasure! And there won’t be a need for you to do anything whatsoever, not ever! Except sing, occasionally. But that’s none of my business. If you would excuse me…’

I fled. As I ran for my life through the corridors of the opera house on the search for a safe hideout, I swore to myself: Mr Ambrose was going to pay for this!

Dashing around a corner, I started towards his office. I didn’t knock. The moment I reached the door, I kicked it open and marched inside.

‘Now listen here, you—’

That’s about how far I came.

Not because Mr Ambrose interrupted me.

Not even because I chickened out.

No, I fell silent because of the man with the matchbox in his hand, about to set fire to the oil-soaked floor.

*~*~**~*~*

‘You?’

The doorman whirled to face me, and his eyes went wide at the side of me.

Quick as a flash, before even thinking about it, I pulled my revolver and pointed it at his head.

‘Drop it!’ I growled.

‘Err…’ The doorman lifted an already burning match, which I hadn’t noticed so far. ‘Really?’

My eyes flicked down to the oil-soaked floor. ‘On second thought, don’t drop it.’

His shoulders sagged with relief.

‘It’s you,’ I whispered, gazing around the room. It was a complete chaos. Papers were strewn everywhere. Big packages of music sheets that had arrived just earlier today for new performances were lying close to a particularly large puddle of oil. So was a heavy box that was probably full of cash. It was a good job I had found the fellow first. If Mr Ambrose had gotten his hands on a cash-burner, he’d probably have shot him on sight. I lifted my gaze to the doorman again. ‘You’re the saboteur.’

‘Please don’t kill me! I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t kill me.’

‘Put out the match. Go on! Now!’

Instantly, he did as I said.

‘Face the wall! Put your hands against it! Legs apart!’

‘Err…why?’

‘So I can do this,’ I told him, and kicked him in the bollocks.

‘Rrrrrrgh!’

‘That was for poor Claudette, you bastard son of a bachelor! Do you have any idea what you put her through with that bloody snake?’

‘I’m s-sorryaarrrnnng!’

‘And that,’ I said, lowering my knee for the second time, ‘was for getting that damn singer to quit and my having to hire a replacement. Do you have any idea what I’ll have to endure from Miss Emilia ‘arse in the coming days and weeks?’

‘Gnrgldrgl…’

‘No, of course you don’t. Let’s see how you like singing soprano!’

‘Slfnnk!’

‘Now, down to business.’ Quickly and efficiently, I searched the man for any more weapons or combustible objects. ‘No weapon. No nothing.’ Shaking my head, I slapped my hand onto the man’s shoulder, pushing him into the wall. ‘How stupid are you, exactly? You just thought you could come in here and ruin this place without anybody noticing?’

‘H-he said nobody would notice,’ the doorman groaned. ‘He said nobody would be here but musicians with their heads in the clouds. He never said nothing about maniacs with guns! And the money he paid was just so—’

‘He who?’ I interrupted.

The doorman’s mouth snapped shut as if I’d threatened to force-feed him acid.

‘Never mind.’ My grip on his shoulder tightened, and I pulled him away and whirled him to face the door, pressing my revolver into his back. ‘I can guess. Let’s go.’

‘W-where?’

‘I’ll be the one asking the questions here, if you don’t mind. Move!’

Just before we left the room, I pulled the bell pull. As we stepped outside, a messenger boy was already rushing down the corridor. Mr Ambrose had apparently trained his minions well. The little fellow’s eyes widened when he caught sight of the revolver in my hand.

I thought for a moment. I didn’t know French, but surely I could get one single point across?

‘Monsieur Ambrose!’ I snapped at the boy. ‘Dépêche-toilette!’

He blinked—then his eyes flickered to my gun again. Without a word, he turned and ran. Hopefully to get the right person. I would have kept my fingers crossed, if I hadn’t needed them for the handle and the trigger.

I hardly had to wait a minute before the sounds of rapid footsteps met my ears. An instant later, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rounded the corner, thunder and lightning in his eyes. If my dear friend the saboteur had looked scared of my gun before, it was nothing compared to what he looked like in the face of Rikkard Ambrose’s wrath. Sweat was running down his face, and his knees trembled. Although that might also have been a side effect of my triple bollocks blaster.

‘Monsieur Lamarque,’ Mr Ambrose said, coming to a stop only a few yards away. ‘As I recall, you were begging for this job a few years ago, when you had nothing but the rags on your back. Interesting how you chose to repay me.’

‘Please, Monsieur Ambrose, Let me explain—’

‘You don’t need to explain things to me.’

The saboteur blinked, taken aback. ‘I…I don’t?’

‘No. You need to explain things to him.’

Mr Ambrose snapped his fingers—and from around the corner emerged a giant figure armed with beard, sabre and turban, striding towards us with determination. Or maybe I should say towards me?

‘Six days!’ Karim’s voice was like the rumble of a volcano. The saboteur jerked back and cowered behind me, not realizing that he wasn’t the object of the bearded mountain’s wrath. ‘Six whole days I had to rot in that Rōṭa dē mōrī[29] of a prison cell before they let me out!’

In prison? That was the first I’d heard of it. But then…it did explain why he had taken so long to appear.

‘You were thrown in chokey?[30] What did you do?’ I asked, curious. ‘Kiss a statue of the queen? Decapitate someone important?’

‘I was observed,’ the big bodyguard ground out between clenched teeth, ‘running after a young man, shouting and apparently armed too heavily for the liking of the English police. They put me in a cell to, as they put it, “cool off”.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Do you have any idea what indignities I’ve had to face? What kind of dregs of society I was forced to tolerate, and—’

He was cut off abruptly when I threw my arms around him and squeezed.

‘I missed you, too.’

The only answer I got from Karim was a kind of gurgling noise you’d expect from a suffocating porcupine. Somewhere in the background, Mr Ambrose cleared his throat. That seemed to rouse Karim from his shock-induced paralysis, and made him realize he was in the arms of his Sahib’s intended, in front of the aforementioned Sahib, and at least one other witness.

‘What are you doing, woman? Release me!’

I smirked up at him. ‘I thought you had already been released six days ago? Or are you only out on probation?’

‘I…you…that’s not what I…!’

‘Don’t worry.’ I patted his beard. ‘I’ve been on the inside, too. We’re fellow jail birds now. Isn’t that sweet?’

In response, he only uttered an incomprehensible Punjabi curse.

Taking pity on the poor man, I squeezed him one last time, patted his furry cheek, and stepped back. Instantly, Karim grabbed the saboteur, and gave him a if-you-ever-repeat-what-you-saw-I’ll-kill-you look.

‘You! You dare to go against the Sahib and injure those in his service?’

The doorman fainted.

Turning towards Mr Ambrose, Karim stood as straight as a drill sergeant who had swallowed a ruler. ‘Fear not, Sahib. I shall squeeze every last bit of information out of him. When I’m done with him, we shall know every detail of Dalgliesh’s plans, and we will be able to move against him.’

Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Indeed.’

A moment later, Karim had disappeared, and we were left alone in the room, scrutinizing each other.

‘I do not appreciate,’ Mr Ambrose told me coolly, ‘your throwing yourself at other men.’

‘Oh, come on.’ I couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. ‘You have to admit it was worth it, just to see the look on his face.’

Mr Ambrose was not in the habit of admitting anything, just in case a tax collector happened to be nearby. But the non-expression on his face told me everything. He took a step towards me. I took a step towards him.

‘We did it,’ I whispered. ‘The saboteur is caught. Out of pure dumb luck, true, but what the heck? We did it.’

‘Indeed.’

Another step.

‘I never thought it would be over this quickly.’

‘Neither did I.’

And another. We were almost close enough to touch.

‘Now all we have to do is wait for the King to accept your gracious invitation, and we’ve won.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Reaching up, I caressed his cheek with the back of my hand. ‘The expense will be worth it.’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

‘Well…’ Smiling cheekily up at him, I sidled closer until our lips were nearly touching. ‘How about if I make it worth it?’

‘Ahem?’

At the sound of another voice, we jerked apart. Whirling around, I saw Claudette standing at the end of the corridor, her eyes twinkling.

‘I…we…errr…were just…’

‘Not worry.’ Winking, she hustled over towards us. ‘Your secret is safe wis me, mon ami.’

Under my hand, I felt Mr Ambrose stiffened. He stared at me intently and mouthed, ‘She knows?’

I simply nodded and prayed to God he never found out what it was she knew, or thought she knew, about me, and now, by extension, about him. Oh dear. If he ever found out…

Best not think about it.

At all.

Never.

‘’ere.’ Claudette handed me a folded piece of paper she’d been carrying. ‘A messenger boy arrived at se front door with sis for you when I was passing by. It sounded urgent.’

I reached for the paper, but—surprise, surprise—Mr Ambrose snatched it out of her hand before I could get there. Flipping the paper open, he started to read…

And he froze.

Not stiffened. Froze. Under my fingers, he became a statue of ice, burning with cold fire. Fear surged inside me.

‘What is it?’ I demanded. ‘What does it say?’

He said nothing. He just handed me the note which, thank heavens, was written in English!

A moment later, when I saw what it said, I wanted to take that back. I wish the note had been in French, or better yet, Bellarussian or Cechua, so I would never ever understand it.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

His most August Majesty, Louis Philippe, King of the French, regrets that he cannot accept your generous invitation. We have already received a similar offer from Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh, and have accepted in the hope of fostering better relations between our two great nations. His Majesty extends his invitation for you to join us in his permanent box at Lord Dalgliesh’s opera house, where he will be happy to receive you into his royal presence.

Yours Truly

M. Blanchard

Royal Secretary