Page 35 of One Last Regret

He’s leaping from subject to subject. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask. “Or some tea?”

“You’re English, right? Let’s try tea. I’m sure you can make it better than us poor Americans can.” He laughs at his joke, then says, “Will you join me? I’ve been going insane keeping all of my thoughts to myself, and since you’re the last composed person in this house, maybe it will help to talk to you.”

I am far from composed, but I would appreciate his perspective on the situation. “Of course. Do you take your tea with cream or sugar?”

"I defer to the expert," he replies. "However, you think I should drink it."

I make breakfast tea and serve it with cream and sugar on the side. Etienne waits for me in the dining room, and when I arrive with the tea, I find him tapping his finger rapidly on the desk, staring once more at the parlor. From where he sits, the piano is visible, the cursed sheet music on the stand above the keys.

I hand him his tea and lift mine to my lips. Just before I sip, he asks, “Do you believe in curses, Mary?”

I have no idea anymore. “Not in the spiritual sense, no. But I believe that actions have consequences, and those consequences affect people long after the memory of the action fades. If those effects are sufficiently strong and sufficiently negative, and if they affect enough people, then it can seem to be almost supernatural and could properly be called a curse.”

He nods. “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s just Dad’s insanity spreading until it consumes us all.” He taps the table again, then looks at me. “Dad was famous in the world of jazz.”

“Yes. I’ve heard he was very well respected.”

“He was revered. The general public never knew who he was, but a lot of people the general publicwouldknow owe a lot of their success to him. He was a brilliant composer. Too brilliant. He was… Shall we say, tortured by success.”

“All too common a story with creative people,” I reply.

“Yes, but he wasn’t… Well… How should I put this?” He cocks his head, and a moment later, he says, “Dad was a perfectionist.”

“Another common failing,” I say with a wry smile.

“Yes, but perfection wasn’t even good enough for him. He wanted to create a melody that was beyond anything anyone hadever composed before, something that could tap into the fabric of nature itself.”

He meets my eyes and says, “Do you believe in the supernatural, Mary?”

“I believe that some things are difficult to understand and describe,” I say carefully.

He nods. “Well, my father’s skill was supernatural. I can think of no other way to describe the power his talent held over people. Itcompelledthem. He knew this, too. But he wanted more. He wanted to be able to shape their lives, to shape theworld.It drove him mad in the end. You’ve heard that his death was a heart attack, yes?”

I nod. “Yes. During a performance at the Midnight Melody.”

“Well, I don’t believe it was a heart attack.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No. I think he succeeded.”

“At creating a melody that could shape the world?”

“Yes. I think this piece, thisVie Apres a la Mort, broke through the barrier that separates the physical and spiritual world. I know you’ll think me insane for talking like this, but for people here, the spiritual world is an integral part of who we are.”

“I won’t pretend that I believe everything you’re saying,” I reply.Although I’m starting to seriously consider it.“But I do understand how important spirituality is to the people of New Orleans, and there’s no doubt that this piece is a very powerful piece.”

“It is,” Etienne insists. “But it’s come at a terrible cost.” He shivers and sips his tea. “I think my father opened a door he wasn’t prepared to open. I think that he viewed his talent as being able to manipulate the spiritual realm or even create a separate realm for his own spirituality. But all he did was open a door. And I think something came through that door.”

He hesitates a moment. The look in his eyes reminds me uncomfortably of Amelia’s expression earlier when she tells me almost the same story he’s telling me. “The night he died, I was managing the theater. Claude had the night off due to some family emergency, so I was overseeing things. I’ll never forget that night. He collapsed on the stage, Mother and I rushed to his side, and…” He shivers again. “And I swear on the life of my children, Mary, when I reached him, he was still alive. And he was laughing. I looked into his eyes while he chuckled with glee, but it wasn’t my father looking back at me. I think…” He looks toward the parlor again. “I think something came through that door and took him back where it came from. I think that piece opens the door, and each time it does, something comes through. It tried to take my son last night. And it won’t be the last night.”

“Why don’t you destroy the composition?” I ask. “Burn it or tear it up?”

He smiles thinly. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

I look back at the piece and recall that a moment ago, I was prepared to destroy it myself. I could do it now. I could stand, walk to the parlor and tear the sheets to pages.

I could do that, but I don’t. I sit right where I am, looking stupidly at it like some sort of Neanderthal.

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