Chapter Text
The calendar said it was spring, but as far as Fili could tell, Mother Nature hadn’t gotten the message. He hunched his shoulders and shivered as the sharp teeth of the north wind bit through the threadbare spots in his trousers. Almost home, he thought, not that it was much consolation—his tiny flat with its leaking skylight wasn’t a great deal warmer than the street. And the landlord would be waiting to take the little money he had for the next month’s rent. But it was a roof over his head, and that was more than a lot of folks could say.
He sighed, doing his best to ignore the low-blood-sugar headache forming behind his eyes. No matter how careful he was, or how hard he tried, there just was not enough money to go around. He knew he was in the same boat as millions of others in New York and the rest of the country, but the thought didn’t cheer him. Despite the WPA, PWA, TVA, CCC, and the rest of Roosevelt’s alphabet soup programs, jobs were still scarce, and he had to stretch every dollar till it screamed in agony.
He thought of the supplies he needed—he was nearly out of several paint colors, and some new canvas would be wonderful. But then, so would a lot of things he couldn’t afford. There were a couple of paintings he wasn’t happy with anyway, so those would be painted over and the canvas reused, and he’d just have to make do with the colors he had…again. Maybe he could talk the owners of the GalleRi into buying a sketch or two—the youngest brother-owner liked watercolors, and those were cheap to work with. He knew he could get a few meals in exchange for mopping and dish washing at Bombur’s café, though he tried not to take unfair advantage of their friendship. The rotund ginger cook had bills to pay, too. He squared his shoulders and walked on, pulling his too-thin coat tighter around him. He’d get by, like he always did, one more time.
The crocuses in the park tried valiantly to raise his spirits, bright yellow and white and purple luminous against the grays and browns. They fought up through the frozen ground every year, reaching for whatever warmth they could find, thriving and creating spots of beauty. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the sight. Damned if he was going to let a flower do what he couldn’t.
The wind died down and the sun poked out from behind a cloud, creating a spot of warmth on a nearby bench. Fili headed for it, pulling a sketchpad and pencil out of his pocket. He doodled idly for a while, putting off getting to his feet and trudging the rest of the way home. Swift sure strokes brought the crocuses to life, and the just-budding trees created a backdrop. Life found a way, and so would he.
The tip of the pencil wore down, and he couldn’t find his pocket knife to sharpen it—probably back at his flat. He hoped he hadn’t lost it; it was a good knife and he couldn’t afford to replace it right now. Poking through his pockets one more time, he glanced down at the bench. Someone had left an old-style cigar box there, fancifully illustrated with a scene of a tobacco plantation and a buxom olive skinned maiden wearing a bright off the shoulder blouse. Her ample charms made him smile and the hot tropical sun shining down on the scene seemed to make the chill New York air feel warmer.
Out of curiosity or boredom, he couldn't really say which, he set the sketchbook on the bench and flipped the lid on the box. Inside was a treasure trove, the detritus that collected on the shores of childhood as time washed along its banks. Fili smiled, remembering his own hoard, long since left behind in a bedroom in Ohio. There were small stones with bits of quartz glittering in the scant sun; marbles of every color of the rainbow, even a steelie (illegal in the games he had played with his friends, but of course everyone had one); a small clasp knife with a pearlized handle; a dried cocoon from which a butterfly had emerged to greet the world; a penny that had been placed on a railroad track and flattened to near-paper thinness; and somewhat incongruously, a short length of spangled blue ribbon, that might have graced a lady's curls.
At the very bottom were a couple of press clippings with no date on them, praise for the talents of a husband and wife acting team on a Shakespearean tour. The grainy photo in one clipping showed a woman not unlike the cigar girl on the box's cover, all dark hair and generous curves. The costume could have been from any of a number of the Bard's works, but the man with her, looking regal in feudal armor, wore a circlet on his fair hair, while the lady looked down demurely. The caption confirmed his guess--it was the proposal scene from Henry V. Vali Vivirson and Dis Durin, so the article proclaimed, were performing in an evening of soliloquies and duets including the ever-popular balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, Marc Antony's eulogy for Julius Caesar, Portia's 'quality of mercy' speech, and bantering from Beatrice and Benedick.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to snoop into other people's stuff?" A boy of about ten stood before him, indignation firing in the mutable brown eyes. Dark curls brushed the collar of his coat, and Fili could see the outline of bunched fists rammed into the pockets.
Fili felt a flush creep up his cheeks as he carefully placed the article back in the box and reclosed the lid. "You're right, it was very rude of me." He held the box out to the boy, who snatched it from his hands and opened it to make sure everything was still there, glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't take anything, I promise."
The boy didn't reply, just checked and counted. After a moment, apparently satisfied that his treasures were safe, he closed the box, and the glare faded a bit. In an attempt to placate him and apologize further, Fili commented, "You have some really neat stuff in there; I can see why you'd be worried that someone would take it."
Just like that, the storm was over, and a huge smile replaced the glower. The boy plopped onto the bench beside Fili, feet swinging. “My papa brought me this box back when he and Mama went on tour. They were in Florida someplace and he got some fancy Cuban cigars. He said he gave them away, but Mama said he smoked a couple. He doesn’t want me to smoke when I grow up. You know Cuba’s only about a hundred miles away from Florida? I stay with my Auntie Bella sometimes when they go far away like that. She’s not really my auntie, but I call her that—she and Mama are like sisters, they’ve been friends forever.” He pulled the press clipping with the picture out of the box, treating it with utmost care. “See, that’s my mama and papa. They’re here in New York now, doing a play at the Erebor Theatre. They’re booked until summer, they said, then they’re gonna take me on tour with them out West, because I’ve never been. D’you think I’ll see cowboys there?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Fili said seriously, enjoying the enthusiasm and sheer life of the child. “I suppose since I snooped into your box I should really introduce myself. Philip Oakes—most people call me Fili.”
“Kilian Durin Vivirson, at your service. You can call me Kili,” the boy said, holding out a hand. Fili shook it gravely, slightly surprised by the old-fashioned greeting and the use of his full name. Come to think of it, nearly everything about this boy belonged to a different time—his clothes were well-made but out of date by at least a decade or two (not that Fili knew that much about fashion, but he’d worn similar clothing as a boy), his hair was longer than the current trend, and there was something niggling in the back of his mind about the name of the theatre where his parents were appearing. He’d wrestle with that mystery later.
“Did you do these?” Kili asked, picking up the sketchpad which was still flipped open to the flowers. Fili nodded, and the boy smiled. “You’re really good. Are you an artist?”
“I keep trying to be,” Fili said, “but it’s not easy. People have more important things to spend their money on these days.”
“That’s what Mama and Papa say. They told me they’re lucky because they have a rep…repu…”
“Reputation?”
“Yeah, reputation. It means people know them, and know how good they are, so there is always work for them. Maybe you need a reputation, too.”
Fili’s blue eyes met the guileless brown eyes squarely. “I expect I do. Do you have any ideas how I can get one?”
“I think you just need the right thing to draw. Papa said he and Mama stopped playing vaudeville and started doing real plays, and that was what it took. Keep looking; I bet you find it soon.” Kili grinned as he handed the pad back to Fili. “Maybe you can draw me sometime! I could be your reputation.”
“Could be. Would you like me to draw you?”
“Uh-huh…but not today. I have to go home now. It’s Mama and Papa’s day off, and we’re going out for supper tonight. Some fancy place where I’ll have to wear a tie and everything.” The lower lip came out, and Fili bit his own to keep from laughing.
“Being a proper gentleman is hard sometimes. But you’ll have a good time. You should hurry home so they don’t worry about you.”
“Oh, it’s not far, over that way,” Kili said, pointing vaguely north. “Do you come to the park a lot?”
“Most days, I guess.” Anything to get out of his dingy flat. “Especially now that the snow is pretty much gone.”
“I’ll see you again, most likely.” Kili slipped off the bench, gathered up his box, and stood with his hand out. “It was very nice to meet you, Philip Oakes.”
“And you, Kilian Vivirson,” Fili nodded, shaking the small hand.
Kili started to walk away, then turned back with a shy smile. “Would you do something for me, Fili?” he asked. There was a haunting quality in the boy’s gaze, old and young at the same time, as if the man he would become was superimposed for an instant on the boy he was.
“If I can, sure.”
“Would…would you wait for me to grow up? I’ll go as fast as I can, I promise.” Without waiting for an answer the boy ran off, leaving Fili slack jawed with shock. Only the wind picking up again snapped him out of it. He closed his pad, shoved it in the capacious pocket of his coat, and wended his way home, a frown between his eyes. I’ll go as fast as I can…
Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice Mr. Masters standing by his front door until the harsh voice rasped out, “The rent, Oakes. Due today.” Fili didn’t answer, just unlocked his door and shut it quickly, ignoring the pounding behind him. Crossing to his hiding place under a loose floorboard, he pulled out his tiny pile of cash, counting it carefully. There was enough, with a couple dollars extra. He could manage food for a few days if he didn’t eat much. He stuck the extra in his pocket, opened the door and thrust the wad into the hand that was raised for another whack. “Is it all here?” the big man asked, pawing through the worn bills.
“Count it and see, or have you forgotten how?” Fili snapped. “How do you fill up that stomach of yours, anyway? I didn’t think there was that much food in the whole city. Or is it all hot air?” Normally he just paid his rent and didn’t antagonize the man, but right now he was too tired to care. “You got my receipt?”
Masters grubbed in his pocket, pulling out a slip of paper and tossing it on the floor between them. “Don’t get smart with me, ya bum. I could rent this place five times over for more than you pay. Remember that,” the man spat, hauling his bulk down the narrow stairs. Fili watched him leave, then stooped to pick the receipt up from the floor. The bastard might try to toss him into the street the next month, but for right now, he was legal and could prove it.
He relocked the door, tucked the receipt safely away, and pulled out some bread and cheese that weren’t too stale. Tomorrow he’d sell something, he knew it. Get a wash on those flowers tonight, touch up that other flower piece, and go to the GalleRi first thing.
He worked furiously for a couple of hours, careful to keep crumbs off his paper, and laid the pieces out to dry, weighting the corners so they didn’t crinkle too much. He leaned back in his chair and closed dry eyes for a moment. An image sprang behind them of a small face with huge eyes and a riot of curls, and the shy voice asking, “Would you wait for me to grow up?”
His eyes popped open, and almost without thought he picked up his drawing pencil again. He found a blank page in his larger sketchpad and lines began to appear, each one confidently placed, though he would have sworn later that his brain was not guiding the hand that drew them. Kili’s face emerged from the sheet, with the young/old expression caught and distilled for all time. It was very late by the time he finished, and he marveled at his own handiwork. This…this was something he’d never done before. The likeness wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the soul that reached out from the paper and spoke to his own.
His personal tastes had been considered odd at best and damnable at worst back home (another reason he’d left Ohio and headed for the anonymity of New York), but they had never run to children. There was nothing inappropriate in his admiration of Kili. It might have been the way the boy seemed to be part of a simpler time; or it might just have been the innocence of youth that he felt had abandoned him long ago. Whatever it was, this portrait was something special; he could feel it. Maybe Kili had been right--perhaps he would be Fili’s reputation.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and stood, every joint creaking. He needed some sleep if he was going to present himself at the gallery tomorrow. He stripped down to his underwear and shut off the light, huddling under the patchwork quilt that was the one quality item he owned. He’d found it in a second hand shop when he’d actually had some extra cash, and its bright colors and solid construction had gone with him from one lodging place to another, carefully mended and tended. It, like Kili, was a throwback to another time and place, security in an ever-shifting world. He fluffed the lumpy pillow the best he could, and dropped into a dreamless sleep. Morning would come soon enough, and with it another chance. As long as there was another chance waiting, he’d keep chasing it.