Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

“I was checking out google maps on my phone.”

He smiled. “I saw that.”

“I just wanted to get a feel of where we were in France. We’re pretty close to Italy.”

“Yeah. When you explore the city, you’ll notice it more. A lot of people speak Italian here too. Lots of Italian restaurants.” He walked me up to a white limo parked several feet from his jet. “I’m going to have fun showing you everything.”

“I’m excited.”

I spent that week learning about Jean-Pierre’s hometown. His father had moved here long ago, selling cocaine to rich tourists. His mother had been an intern at an art gallery. She’d been cultured and loved classical music. His father had cleaned himself up and somehow won her.

They’d had Jean-Pierre a year later.

Our field trip to Nice started lovely. Jean-Pierre and I had a small dinner with around ten cousins—all various ages of men and women. They were from his mother’s side and had no part in his criminal world. That was more on his father’s side. His cousins spent an exorbitant amount of time asking questions and telling me funny things about Jean-Pierre. I’d barely gotten a chance to eat, before Jean-Pierre dragged me away, whispering that he didn’t want to share me anymore.

Jean-Pierre wasn’t playing. He was going to make sure I learned as much about him and his hometown as I could. Nice had an insanely affluent tourist scene. The menu prices made me lose my breath a few times. Some places had charged three figures for a salad. I couldn’t wrap my head around the presence of wealth. I spotted lots of expensive designer cars and diamond studded women shopping.

We passed a few celebrities, singers, and models during Jean-Pierre’s tour of Nice. Many nodded his way or came up to speak. I stood baffled most of the time, trying to appear nonchalant as an actress or actor I’d seen in the movies talked to Jean-Pierre in pure awe. He’d told me later that other celebrities had holiday homes here—Elton John, Tina Turner, Keith Richards, and Bono.

I was out of my element but finding my footing each day. Jean-Pierre always held my hand giving me the feeling of pure comfort. And so, I didn’t get nervous about not fitting into his high-end lifestyle.

Breathe.

I simply enjoyed everything and stayed in the moment. In Nice, the weather was lovely, the sandy beaches golden, and every inch of the city dripped in glamour and luxury. People drank loads of Rosé here. They guzzled it anytime and anywhere.

Nice was also a city of small dogs and their owners. I spotted them everywhere—cafés, galleries, restaurants, and beach.

My favorite part of Jean-Pierre’s hometown was that it had the highest number of museums in all of France. I’d checked out several, marveling in the French contemporary art scene.

In the art galleries that Jean-Pierre rented out for our dates, we played our painting game like we’d done in Belladonna. Hand-in-hand, we sipped wine and savored the art. In each room we entered, we both chose a piece of art that reminds us of each other. Again, he transformed from serious gangster to competitive boy, running through the polished marbles halls and beating me to rooms. So silly, he found ways to cheat, claiming all the paintings as one that reminded him of me.

On the most breathtaking days, we went to the beach. These beaches were rockier than I was used to. Because of this, Jean-Pierre’s staff provided us with special thick mats and beach footwear.

So far, this trip was a good distraction to the anxiety I had in my chest. It was hard to not worry about my Aunt and Shalimar, but we stayed busy and the days passed.

Maybe everything will work out on its own.

One rainy day, he showed me the small home where he was raised. The windows were boarded up.

“Who owns this now?” I asked as we stopped in front of the door.

“I own it.” He pulled out a key and unlocked the door. It creaked open. Cobwebs covered the corners. Dust rose in the air as we entered. I doubted anyone has been in his house for decades. It was completely empty. No paintings or furniture. Only dust and spider webs.

He pointed to the center of the main room. “On Sunday mornings, I would stand right here and practice Strauss’s Sonata.”

I smiled imagining a small Jean-Pierre struggling with such a complex song.

“My mother would make me hot chocolate afterwards, so I always made sure to do my best.” He scanned the dusty floor. “My father thought the playing was a waste of time. He only knew one sort of life.”

Jean-Pierre had told me the story about how he’d become interested in the violin in the first place. He’d been helping his father traffic drugs in the violin case. People would see a cute little boy with a case all the time on the train going from Nice to Paris. After a while, they’d ask him to take out the violin and play. Of course, he couldn’t since it was only full of cocaine.