“Someone has gone to great lengths to have the best of hand-blown French glass imported. Mr. Brown, Mrs. Brown, these glasses are some of the most exquisite I have ever seen.”
Mama smiled politely. “They were a present on our twenty-fifth anniversary from my husband. One of his clients,” she began as Rosa served her and she watched with pride as Peter Jenkins looked over every inch of the beautiful glass, “was going to Europe and my dear husband asked him to bring these back. Along with some of the finest and loveliest China I have every laid eyes on.”
The Blacksmith interceded examining his own glass. “I’m sure you have seen better in Paris. Even in New York.”
“ Not since the war.” The Piano Man took a seat on the sofa next to Minnelsa.
“ You were in the war?” she asked as John Wood’s ghost filled the room. Willie turned to Papa and read nothing on his face.
“ No, Miss Minnelsa, not in the war. In France at the time you were part of the war whether you liked it or not. I don’t want to dwell on such things.”
“ But,” Jewel asked sitting on the other side of the sofa near him, “what did you do in the war? If you weren’t a soldier.”
The Piano Man’s face turned cold. So he really didn’t want to talk about it, Willie thought. He was beginning to think the man was a deserter or that he had sympathized with the wrong side. Perhaps he had been a servant of some rich white man who left him there to fend for himself.
Softly he uttered: “I took care of some orphans.”
The room was filled with a silence that Willie could not abide. He had been all set to hate Peter Jenkins.
“ Before the war, Mrs. Brown, there were so many homes with glasses and china like this as I am sure you have. Before the war I would play in the great saloons and houses of Paris after a dinner of the most exquisite food on the loveliest plates this side of heaven. Tables set with silver bowls and trays and goblets. Each table was like a painting. The wealthy French certainly knew how to entertain.” He raised the crystal goblet high to Willie’s parents. “As do you.”
Papa shyly raised his. Mama did not move.
The Piano Man sipped the lemonade. Minnelsa sat quietly holding her glass fingering each crevice. “The war took the china from the tables. It was blown up in the air. I used to walk by the homes of some of my acquaintances and find them gone. Many of them took just what they could carry and the looters got the rest. Sometimes you’d see a piece of a broken plate smashed on the sidewalk and you’d wonder what happened to the rest of the set of dishes.”
“ What of the orphans?” asked Jewel. “Were they the children of your white benefactors?”
The Piano Man’s face became a blur of anger. It was obvious that she had said something wrong. He allowed it to soften before he spoke. “Miss Jewel, I had no benefactors in France. I was a musician equal to the whites there.” She blushed. He turned to the rest of the room to explain. “It is different there. An artist is appreciated for his talent, not the color of his skin. My colleagues were some of the finest in all Europe. I toured, I played, I even wrote music from time to time although that was not my forte. I went where I pleased without question. No, Miss Jewel, the orphans and I found each other.”
The Piano Man brushed his hand over his curly black hair and Willie noticed dampness at his forehead. It wasn’t hot in the room, it was a cool evening. Even he was not sweating from his rush to get into the house. Was this was the kind of sweat you get from lying?
“ I was on my way to a party at Monsieur Reuon, a very dear friend, with a few friends. As I exited my coach a little man that I had seen at many of these gatherings came running up to the Reuon household and forced himself inside. The Germans were coming he exclaimed and told us we needed to leave. We all laughed it off since we had heard this so many times before.
Mama smiled politely. “They were a present on our twenty-fifth anniversary from my husband. One of his clients,” she began as Rosa served her and she watched with pride as Peter Jenkins looked over every inch of the beautiful glass, “was going to Europe and my dear husband asked him to bring these back. Along with some of the finest and loveliest China I have every laid eyes on.”
The Blacksmith interceded examining his own glass. “I’m sure you have seen better in Paris. Even in New York.”
“ Not since the war.” The Piano Man took a seat on the sofa next to Minnelsa.
“ You were in the war?” she asked as John Wood’s ghost filled the room. Willie turned to Papa and read nothing on his face.
“ No, Miss Minnelsa, not in the war. In France at the time you were part of the war whether you liked it or not. I don’t want to dwell on such things.”
“ But,” Jewel asked sitting on the other side of the sofa near him, “what did you do in the war? If you weren’t a soldier.”
The Piano Man’s face turned cold. So he really didn’t want to talk about it, Willie thought. He was beginning to think the man was a deserter or that he had sympathized with the wrong side. Perhaps he had been a servant of some rich white man who left him there to fend for himself.
Softly he uttered: “I took care of some orphans.”
The room was filled with a silence that Willie could not abide. He had been all set to hate Peter Jenkins.
“ Before the war, Mrs. Brown, there were so many homes with glasses and china like this as I am sure you have. Before the war I would play in the great saloons and houses of Paris after a dinner of the most exquisite food on the loveliest plates this side of heaven. Tables set with silver bowls and trays and goblets. Each table was like a painting. The wealthy French certainly knew how to entertain.” He raised the crystal goblet high to Willie’s parents. “As do you.”
Papa shyly raised his. Mama did not move.
The Piano Man sipped the lemonade. Minnelsa sat quietly holding her glass fingering each crevice. “The war took the china from the tables. It was blown up in the air. I used to walk by the homes of some of my acquaintances and find them gone. Many of them took just what they could carry and the looters got the rest. Sometimes you’d see a piece of a broken plate smashed on the sidewalk and you’d wonder what happened to the rest of the set of dishes.”
“ What of the orphans?” asked Jewel. “Were they the children of your white benefactors?”
The Piano Man’s face became a blur of anger. It was obvious that she had said something wrong. He allowed it to soften before he spoke. “Miss Jewel, I had no benefactors in France. I was a musician equal to the whites there.” She blushed. He turned to the rest of the room to explain. “It is different there. An artist is appreciated for his talent, not the color of his skin. My colleagues were some of the finest in all Europe. I toured, I played, I even wrote music from time to time although that was not my forte. I went where I pleased without question. No, Miss Jewel, the orphans and I found each other.”
The Piano Man brushed his hand over his curly black hair and Willie noticed dampness at his forehead. It wasn’t hot in the room, it was a cool evening. Even he was not sweating from his rush to get into the house. Was this was the kind of sweat you get from lying?
“ I was on my way to a party at Monsieur Reuon, a very dear friend, with a few friends. As I exited my coach a little man that I had seen at many of these gatherings came running up to the Reuon household and forced himself inside. The Germans were coming he exclaimed and told us we needed to leave. We all laughed it off since we had heard this so many times before.
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