Legend had it that Albert Irving—a very elderly citizen of Montreal—adopted Pierrot after hearing through a window of an orphanage the sound of a child playing the piano. He was a thin man who walked with a slight stoop and he was, that day, wearing a black suit and a top hat and an imported white silk scarf. Unlike his neighbors, he knew nothing of the talented pair who resided in the orphanage. He would occasionally contribute money to the orphanage, among other public institutions, in order that he might be called a philanthropist, but he rarely ventured inside it. It made him far too depressed to think of the terrible little unfortunate children who lived there. He quite liked to honk his horn and have a Sister come out; he’d hand over a sizable check and be on his way. The driver of his great black car had already opened the back passenger’s door for him to climb in when the tune began to play slowly, each note like a bird alighting on the window ledge.
The playing so charmed him that he went right up all the stairs, despite his arthritis, and banged on the door. He was escorted to the Mother Superior’s office. The Mother Superior was seated at her large desk, piles of books and papers on it. Behind her was a shelf covered in statuettes of different saints, who all looked up toward the ceiling. The lovely playing filled the corridors, bewitching the old man. He felt things that he hadn’t in years. He almost felt like dropping his cane and skipping down the hallway. It was a great medicine. He was so wealthy that he was able to acquire whatever he wanted. He immediately set his sights on having the pianist for himself.
He asked to be introduced to whoever had been playing the piano, and a pale and slender blond-haired boy was brought to him. Pierrot stood in the doorway and smiled brightly.
“Were you playing the piano, my boy?”
“You could say that, or perhaps you could say that the piano was playing me. Or at least that we were having a conversation.”
“Do you mean to tell me that the piano keys were making conversation with you? What a delightful idea, my boy. Now, I don’t suppose you could give me an example of something the piano has said to you?”
“The piano was just now telling me how it feels so odd when it rains. The rain can cause you to suddenly feel guilty for all the tiny crimes you have committed, like not telling your friend that you love her.”
“I do know that feeling. I’ve felt it quite a few times. And up until this moment, I really thought I was the only person who did. Well done and bravo, my boy. Because you have made me feel less alone in the world and less like a madman.”
“You’re exceedingly welcome, oh distinguished guest. And thank you for letting me know that I have been able to bring delight to someone as obviously esteemed as yourself.”
The Mother Superior rolled her eyes, but Mr. Irving could not stop smiling.
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THE MOTHER SUPERIOR SHRUGGED when Mr. Irving returned to inquire about Pierrot a week later. She leaned back in her green leather chair and put both hands up as though she didn’t have anything to hide from the old man. “It’s always been a debate among us Sisters whether that boy is bright or completely idiotic,” she said.
“Do you know that is quite often a feature of an artistic mind?” asked Mr. Irving, who was seated on a smaller chair in front of the desk, leaning forward.
“If you want to see it in a positive light. But I’m going to tell you something that is true about all these orphans. They are wicked. They are thieves. They aren’t quite human. A child needs a mother and a father in his life for him to have any sense of morality. Pierrot is the laziest boy I ever saw. He’s distracted as easy as you please. If a bird flies by, he drops what he is doing and just stares straight up at it.”
“Perhaps he is so affected by beauty that he will risk a beating just to gaze upon it.”
“Do you really want a boy this old? They can be quite set in some terrible ways.”
“Yes, I think he is the right age for me. I am much, much too old to look after a young child. And my other children never spoke to me when they were that age. I find young men very interesting. They are right at the beginning of their ideas. Their personalities can be so ferocious or so weak. I think that boy has an extraordinary character. And to think that he was able to develop it while living in an orphanage. Do you know anything about his mother?”
The Mother Superior shrugged again. She was just overwhelmed with disgust at all the stupid girls who had been such fools to get themselves pregnant. She vaguely remembered some story about a particularly naughty girl who went by the name of Ignorance at the H?pital de la Miséricorde. But it hardly seemed worth scouring her memory for such a girl.
“They all seem to be the same girl to me.”
The Mother Superior seemed rather concerned that Pierrot wasn’t going to be forced to work all day long. Mr. Irving promised that he intended to use Pierrot as a servant—as his personal valet. Actually, he changed his mind about what he was going to use Pierrot for right in midsentence. But it was some sort of job.
“I will make a sizable donation to the orphanage.”
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PIERROT WAS GIVEN a cardboard suitcase to put his things in. It had belonged to a mother who had died in childbirth. The lining was printed with dark purple plums. Pierrot sat on the edge of his bed and put the suitcase on his lap, using it as a desk. He had a piece of paper and a pencil he’d borrowed from another boy. He quickly wrote Rose a letter.
Dear Sweetheart,