Chapter Four
The years past, Christian and Corrine moved out of
the flat and into a small cottage near the school, so Corrine didn’t have to
walk so far every day. Christian became the local handyman, fixing everything
from broken stairs to replacing entire roofs. He was able to provide an
adequate living for him and Corrine.
Corrine had grown into a beautiful young woman, now
15 years old. She looked more like Satine everyday. She had friends; she went
to church on Sunday’s, lived the life of a normal young adult. Even going
dancing on Friday or Saturday nights, when Christian would let her. He was very
protective, but also very loving to her.
She had wondered for ages why he never married, why he didn’t even see women.
She asked him once, but never really got an answer, just a change of subject.
She wondered about his relationship with her mother. He never spoke of her, but
when Corrine asked about her, or mentioned her name, he treated it with
reverence. She knew he loved her, but she didn’t know if she loved him back, or
even if she knew who he was. She learned years ago not to bring her up anymore, Papa would get very distraught, and since he didn’t
drink anymore, would have to find other ways to channel his frustrations, like
chopping down all the trees in the grove in the yard, or painting the white
fence outside an even brighter shade of white. Every once in a while, when he
didn’t think she was looking, she would catch Christian writing something.
Poetry, or thoughts, she didn’t know what, but she knew it was meaningful and
full of life. Maybe one day, she thought, she would get to see it.
Corrine was sitting on the stairs of her friend’s house, talking and waiting
for her papa to finish putting in their new pipes. Seems everyone was getting
indoor plumbing these days, and Christian had become the local installer. He
did the job well and quicker than most, so he was often putting lead pipes in
houses.
An unfamiliar man walked up to the two girls, sitting on the steps.
“Hello, young ladies, I’m wondering if you could tell me where Monsieur Johan Barty lives?”
The girls pointed three houses down on the other side of the street. That’s
when Corrine noticed he had a sticker on his briefcase that said, “Tollinheign Publishing.”
“Are you a publisher, Monsieur?” She asked.
“Yes, I am. I work downtown in the Freeman building. I am looking for new
writers. We have been slowing down recently, and I understand Monsieur Barty writes for the local news post. I would like to see
if he has anything he would like us to publish.”
Corrine suddenly became excited. She knew Christian had that story he had
written, but never dared to show her. She ran inside as the stranger walked
down the street.
“Papa, Papa,” she found him under a sink in the room that will soon be a water
closet.
He looked up, “What is it?”
“Papa, there is a publisher in town looking for new writers,
you should give him your story.”
Christian stopped what he was doing. “That story isn’t for being published. I
should have burned it years ago.”
“No, Papa, don’t you see…”
“Corrine, I’m not interested.” He continued installing the pipes as she turned
and walked down the hall.
She turned and went back outside to continue her conversation with her friend,
but her feeling hurt that he wouldn’t even discuss it with her.
That night Christian sat alone in his bed,
contemplating the events of his life over the past five years. He thought of
Corrine, how sweet she was when he met her, yet how troubled and tragic her
life seemed. He couldn’t imagine where he would be without her. If he had kept
going down the road he was on before she came, he probably would be dead now,
or at best a homeless drunken man. She saved him, this little person who had so
much hurt and sorrow, saved him, and changed his life forever. He knew it was
time. It was time for her to learn about Satine, at least the Satine he knew.
He walked to the closet where he pulled out a large stack of papers. He dusted
them off, held the papers, tied together by string, and sighed. This was going
to be the greatest thing he could give her, after all she’d given to him, he finally could give this back.
He walked to the telephone and told the operator he wanted the local publisher.
Christian sat over a big wooden box, weeks later,
when Corrine got home from school. She put her things on the table and walked
over to him.
“Hello, Papa. What is this?” She asked looking into
the crate full of books.
“It is my story. It’s about your mother and me. I
want you to read it fist.”
He handed her a book. She could tell this was an important story to him, she
knew it held his soul. It was a part of his life she never knew about, he
refused to talk about. She cradled the book, knowing what it meant to him.
That night, after dinner and her homework was done, Corrine sat next to her lantern and opened the book.
There was a handwritten note on the first page.
Corrine,
This is the story
of you mother, told through my eyes in the time I knew her. I loved her,
Corrine. I loved her in a way I hope you can love too, someday.
Papa.
She picked up the book and held it gently in her hands, opening it as if it
were the most delicate thing she had ever touched. She sat quietly in her room
and read the story of her mother and this man, who she met only five years
earlier, but had came to be her father.