“Nom de Dieu!” said Félix as a momentary hush filled the salon. “At least it seems under control.” Félix guided Lucien toward the long white-linen-covered table. “Taste the foie gras and let’s catch up in the study.”
“Merci,” Lucien said, conscious of Félix’s practiced finesse as he was marshaled, with a well-loaded Limoges plate, to the study.
A fire crackled, illuminating minimalist furniture at odds with the ornate ceiling, wood-paneled walls, and curved windows. Old world meets avant-garde.
A man came out of the door of an adjoining bathroom, toweling his wet hair.
“Had to splash myself awake,” he said, smiling.
“You’re still working?” Félix pulled Lucien toward the man, who looked to be in his thirties. He wore a rumpled black suit and scuffed Adidas sneakers. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Meet Yann, an associate. He does the brain work, I am just the brawn,” Conari joked.
Yann grinned. ”Not always.” He shook Lucien’s hand. “A pleasure.”
Lucien felt a moist but strong grip. Then Yann shut down a laptop sitting on the desk. “I promised Félix to mingle and try to improve my social skills. Excuse me.”
Lucien practiced his smile again. “You’re so kind to invite me, Monsieur Conari.”
“Call me Félix.”
Lucien had sent Conari several tapes of his music. But Félix’s invitation to come to his home to discuss them had surprised him. Lucien had no rent money in his pockets. A sleeping bag in the pantry of Anna’s Corsican Communist resto, where he worked for food, was his bedroom now. He prayed this meeting would lead somewhere.
Lucien’s cousin’s great-aunt had married a distant relation of Félix Conari’s. Félix wasn’t even Corsican, but in Corsica family meant everything. Clan ties and family connections from the thirteenth century still governed the island. The code was strong. The basics still operated in Paris.
“Have your drink while you listen to my proposal.” Félix gestured Lucien to a curved blond wood sculptural chair. “I’d like you to let me represent you and to introduce your work to the head of SOUNDWERX.”
SOUNDWERX. The European recording giant! Lucien blinked in surprise.
“You have a unique sound, haute cool,” Félix told him. “I want to help you.”
It was an offer Lucien hadn’t even dreamed of. He was almost afraid to believe it was real.
“You possess the gift, hard to define. As though you concoct words from the air and the stars sing. I’m saying it badly.” A brief sadness crossed the face of this man in a designer suit. “My sister had it, too. She was so gifted, but she passed away.” He looked down, rearranged some papers on his desk. “I couldn’t help her, but I hope you will give me the chance to advance your career.”
Lucien nodded, excited. So Félix understood his music and admired it, even if he wasn’t Corsican. He explained, “My grandfather, father, and uncle sang polyphony, the seconda, bass, and terza, ninth-century poems in a cappella. At home, our saying is ‘Three singers in harmony make an angel’s voice.’” His heart raced; it always did when he spoke about his music. “Music filled our house. I build on the traditional foundation; I use it as a base and I go on to explore. I want to open our culture to the world.”
The door opened, letting in the snare drum of a bossa nova and the murmurs of the crowd. Lucien turned. The woman he’d seen in the doorway entered the room. She’d thrown her head back, laughing. That long neck, curved, so familiar. Could it be? She wore a clinging coppery red dress; her straight black hair hit the middle of her bare back. She turned, her face caught in the light, and he recognized Marie-Dominique, his first woman. She still wore the scent of roses.
He froze. Four years . . .
“Aah, Lucien, meet my wife,” Félix said. “Forgive me for not introducing you.
Marie-Dominique, Félix’s wife?
He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Marie-Dominique’s gaze caught his as she inhaled briefly.
“Lucien,” she breathed out. “I’m happy to meet you.”
The world stopped. In Lucien’s mind the cicadas were buzzing, their loud cacophony a wall of sound in the dry heat.
The leaning pines sheltered by granite formations, the parched oleander, and withered, browning myrtle were all around them on the hill where he’d last seen her.
“Hasn’t Félix shown you around? You look lost,” she said.
Lost in the past, he thought. And pining for a future they’d never had.
“How long have you lived in Paris?” What he meant was how long had she been this sophisticated Parisienne, married to a wealthy man.
She looked down, curling a black strand of her hair around her finger. Just as he remembered her doing when she was thinking.
“Long enough,” she said.
“Marie-Dominique,” Félix said putting his arm around her, “find Lucien a seat at the table next to us. Persuade him to play something after dinner.”
Lucien knew he should thank Félix for his hospitality and leave before he made the biggest mistake of his life. But Marie-Dominique’s scent and his memories paralyzed him.
Amusement glimmered in Félix’s eyes as he said, “Lucien, you’ll let me help you?”
Lucien nodded, tongue-tied.
“As long as you’re not involved in Corsican political causes or these Separatist groups. Are you?” Félix asked.
Should he reveal his past? But how could he tell the truth? He was an unknown; he played in Corsican restaurants to eat. SOUNDWERX would make him.
“Félix, I’m just a musician!”
“Good. Monsieur Kouros of SOUNDWERX wants to meet you. He’s a personal friend, Lucien,” Félix said. “Connections are what count in this world. Forgive me if I assumed too much, but I’ve already given him my word that you’d sign an exclusive contract.”
Lucien’s mouth felt dry. Should he ask to read the contract, he wondered. Seeing Marie-Dominique while listening to Félix’s proposal had his mind reeling.
Félix rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You look unsure. After you meet Kouros you’ll understand.”
Out in the salon, Lucien’s collar felt damp. He’d been perspiring. All about him, couples chatted, and everyone seemed to know one another. His awkwardness increased as he observed the well-dressed strangers surrounding him.
A waiter in a white coat stared at him. He had black eyes and an olive complexion that were at odds with his bleached-blond curly hair. A Corse, like himself, Lucien figured, trying to get by.
Lucien summoned a smile. “What village do you come from?” he asked, the question Corsicans always put to a fellow countryman. It was a way to pinpoint their place on the social map, to discover who their friends were, what power they had access to, or even if they were by chance related. Or, worst scenario, if they were involved in a complex vendetta against his clan, one that might have arisen from the defense of the honor of a twice-removed murdered cousin from the last century. These things had to be explored.
“Monsieur?” The waiter addressed him as if Lucien hadn’t spoken. “Monsieur Conari said to tell you that dinner’s served in the other salon.” Then he edged closer and responded, “I’m from Bastia.”
An Italian, as people from his rock-perched village would say. To them, all coastal people were descended from Italian fisherman. Even if their ancestors had reached Corsica five centuries earlier.
“And you?”
“Vescovatis,” Lucien said.
A look of recognition flashed in the waiter’s eye. Already Lucien was one up, hailing from a mountainous inland valley. A more pure Corsican.
Félix came up behind him, clapping him on the back, and flashed a big smile. “Listen, we’ll sign the contract after dinner. You’re going places, young man, I’ll see to it.”