I don't know if anyone else there knew what the hell I was playing, but it didn't matter. My eyes were on the image of Felix as I poured everything I could into the playing. When the last note drifted away, my cheeks were wet with tears, the chin rest of the violin also wet. I took the instrument and laid it on the memorial, touching Felix's picture. "I love you, Felix."
Syeira spoke next in just Romani, her grief coming through clear even in the unknown language. She couldn't speak long, just a minute before the emotions overtook her, and she stepped back, unable to continue without making a scene. Despite the image of Romani women being fiery and passionate, Syeira conducted herself with the restraint of a born aristocrat. She stepped back, letting her sister lay a comforting arm around her shoulders.
The words concluded and Francois knelt at his brother's memorial, taking from his pocket the lighter he had within. A few moments later, the smoke started to climb from the base of the memorial as it became a pyre, everything burning in the hungry flames. We waited through it all, silence reigning.
As we walked back to the house, Francois took my hand. "I need you," he whispered, his voice thick with want and sadness-tinged desire. I stopped, letting the rest of the group continue on, and looked up at him. His throat worked, and he looked up at the sky before continuing. "I know it’s wrong to want you so badly after what we just did. But the best memories I have of Felix are with you. There was no other time when we've been closer."
I nodded. Maybe nobody in the world would understand. Maybe his mother and aunt would think we were committing sacrilege, but in my heart, I knew the truth. We would make our own memorial to Felix, in our own way.
"Meet me in the barn in ten minutes."
Chapter 31
Felix
After dinner, I cleared the dishes for Mistress. "Very good, my pet," she praised me, stroking her fingers down my arm. Her silken touch caused my skin to break out in gooseflesh, and I shivered in joy. "And you ate with such restraint. I would’ve thought after so much exercise, you'd have taken the lamb and gnawed it like a hungry beast.”
"Not at all," I said. “It was amazing, and I wanted to savor it.”
She gave me a smile. "Now, go wash up the dishes, and if you’re back within fifteen minutes, I’ll reward you.”
I couldn't help but rush through the house, carrying the few plates in my hands. One of the house staff guided me, leading me to the kitchen. Inside, there were a few of the staffers sitting down at the staff table, a large banquet-style arrangement that let the staff eat in a relaxed atmosphere. I'd seen similar arrangements in other buildings, long ago somewhere, but I didn't remember where. It didn't seem important anymore.
I found the sink and ran steaming hot water through the tap, soaping the washing cloth as the water splashed down on the plates, rinsing them. Picking up the silverware, I rubbed them carefully, making sure to get every trace of food off of them. As I washed, my ears picked up the conversation amongst the staff. While I didn't speak Ukrainian, I could understand some of it.
"Ah, I see that Svetlana already has him doing the dishes."
"Don't give him a hard time. With the amount of drugs they've pumped through him over the past week, I'm surprised the man doesn't think he's Michael Jordan."
"Karl, what’s with you and Jordan? You’re always talking about him.”
“Well why not, he’s the greatest basketball player of all time . . .”
"You sound like you’re in love with this Jordan. Enough of your crushes for one night, Karl. Get your guitar, we’ll entertain ourselves that way."
Their words pierced through the fog in my brain. Jordan . . . guitar . . . Jordan . . .
Her image came to me suddenly, the cherrywood hair, the smile, the little dimple in her left cheek when she smiled that matched the one on her back from a childhood accident. The way she'd looked on stage in Germany, playing her heart out on the borrowed electric guitar. The look in her eyes when we were in bed together, and the way her hands had covered herself so shyly the first time we'd made love. But most of all, I remembered that first time she ever played guitar for me, not an electric, but the custom guitar that Francois had in the cabin. The quietly confident notes, the rich voice that wasn't quite professional but still good, the way she'd looked as her tunes shifted from casual to love songs, and the look in her eyes when she met my gaze. In that instant, we both knew something had changed between us. My hands shook, and I quickly wiped the plates clean, leaving them in the drying rack. Seeing that the staff was ignoring me, my guide having joined her comrades around the table to enjoy some refreshments, I left the kitchen the same way I'd come in, hoping to keep up my charade.