An Uncommon Witness ch7

[mangaka-chan.livejournal.com]

This chapter came out a lot faster than the last one. XD;; Mucho thanks to haleysings  for beta-ing!


Ch 7

The New York Public Library was like a second home for Autor. He had spent countless hours there reading and researching, gathering the knowledge he had amassed like a tree builds rings around its trunk, growing stronger and more confident with each passing day. But the soft pulpy wood of a young tree is fragile and Autor knew his research would not stand up to the media storm that would surely follow if he unveiled his findings now. He needed stronger evidence, more physical proof that the common sordid thread tying his collection of newspaper clippings together was in fact, the truth.

He had gone to Fakir, a detective—an undeserving title, Autor's mind interjected bitterly—in the hopes of joining forces. Instead he had been humiliated and belittled, his work dubbed as "correlative at best" when Autor knew it was so much more significant than that. However, his anger did not change his present dilemma, that of the lack of more supportive evidence. It did not help that, short of showing up at the police captain's door steps, Fakir was the only police officer with enough knowledge of the Corvo case to be of any help to him without attracting too much attention to Autor himself. But that bridge had now been burned, and after parting on less than friendly terms Autor was not keen on speaking to Fakir ever again.

Sitting in one of the large reading rooms, nearly empty at such a late hour, Autor tapped his pen against the hard wood of the table. Normally such repetitive noise would distract him from his work, but now he sat staring blankly at the sheets of clippings. He'd spent the day thinking of other options but had come up dry. The bespectacled journalist turned his thoughts to Fakir again and to the conversation he had overheard after recognizing the voice of the woman who had tried to hail him in the hallway.

Autor was certain had he been any more incensed, he would have never recognized her voice at all. Autor had been raised in a family of music lovers and although his current passion was for journalism, he would still attend the occasional symphony or opera when his schedule allowed. The voice of up-and-coming prima donna Rachel Strauss was therefore not unfamiliar to him, but never did he imagine he would hear that voice in the hallway of a rundown tenant apartment building! Only when he heard her speak again, this time to Fakir's neighbor, did he do a double-take. Curious as to what brought the talented soprano to this part of the Bronx, Autor was surprised to hear her seeking the whereabouts of the man whose apartment he had just stormed out of. However, other than demonstrating her closeness to Fakir, her conversation failed to illuminate the reason for her visit. It was only after Autor paid a visit to the public records where he uncovered the singer's maiden name and checked the last programme he had retained from the Met did the mystery unravel.

But so what if the singer had invited her cousin to her imminent performance? It was an ordinary enough thing to do, and other than a curious coincidence the knowledge was useless to Autor. Breathing a deep sigh and absently pushing up his glasses, Autor decided there was no use sitting here, nursing his frustration. He picked up his pen and tucked it away in his suit pocket before putting the stack of material back into its envelope. Perhaps he was tired, since it was quite late, but as he moved to put the envelope away the packet slipped from his hand and the contents spilled out across the floor with a dull, fluttering, "Flop".

Autor quickly bent down to pick up the documents, and exasperated as he was, he made sure to check each and every page to make sure nothing was wrinkled or torn from the fall. As he rearranged his collection back in order, Autor's gaze fell on a yellowed piece of news clipping and a familiar word caught his eye. The clipping was a small square of slightly smudged newsprint, and did not differ much from the others on the paper it was affixed to. But Autor examined it closely, reading and rereading the short article once, then twice, and for good measure, thrice.

At last he stood and looked at the title, which read in faded ink, "Victims of Double Homicide Identified".

A cold breeze was blowing, kicking up little whirls of snow that had fallen the night before. Duck rubbed her mittened hands together, her breath turning into a gray fog each time she exhaled into the frigid air as she walked up to an apartment building dusted with a coating of snow.

Rachel was already waiting for her, and as Duck bound up the steps the tall brunette opened the building door for Duck.

"Hello Duck," Rachel smiled and closed the door—and the cold—behind the smaller woman. "How have you been?"

"Good! How about yourself? Were you busy with rehearsals?"

"Fine, but busy as you said," Rachel chuckled as she lead Duck up to the second floor apartment she shared with her husband. "We had a bit of a scare last week when Thomas, our baritone, caught a cold. Luckily his doctor prescribed some tonic and now he's right as rain again."

"That's good." Duck smiled politely and walked into the older woman's sitting room. It was immediately apparent that Rachel's apartment was infinitely nicer than her own, as the building itself looked several decades newer and the interior was spacious and warm despite the bleak weather.

While Duck admired the décor her hands moved to remove the double layer of coats she wore. Rachel stepped into the hallway and turned to her guest, "I'll go make us some hot drinks. What would you like, dear? Coffee, hot cocoa, or tea?"

Duck looked up sharply and waved her hands. "Oh, I don't want to take up your time since you're busy!"

"There's no rehearsal today, and I practice in the afternoon so we have plenty of time." Rachel winked at her.

"Ah, I'll have the cocoa then, if you don't mind." Duck smiled at her hostess, a little embarrassed.

"No problem at all! Sit down; I'll be back in a moment." Rachel laughed in a light, lovely tone and Duck thought to herself how much she looked forward to hearing that beautiful voice sing at the opera.

Minutes later Duck was seated beside Rachel in the plush sofa, sipping hot cocoa and nibbling on the fresh pastel de nata Rachel had prepared beforehand. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Rachel touched the corner of her mouth with her napkin and said, "I know you must be excited to see the dress. I'll go get it now so you can try it on."

"Mm!" Duck swallowed the pastry in her mouth and hurriedly dusted her hands on her skirt. "Sure!"

With her hostess in the lead, Duck walked into an unused guest room. On the bed was a dress box and Duck's breath caught when Rachel removed the lid and lifted the dress from its bedding of tissue paper.

The gown was made of chiffon the color of ripe apricot. On the left breast was a peony, sewn from the same sheer material, with strings of crystal beading hanging from below the blossom. The bottom of the dress was ruffled and a narrow band of delicate bead work circled above the swooshing folds. Duck had never seen something so beautiful before, and the thought that this was the dress she was going to put on felt surreal.

Rachel laid the dress on the mattress and turned to her guest. "Would you like me to help you put it on, or do you think you can manage by yourself?"

"Oh!" Blinking out of her trance, Duck squawked, "Ah-I'll be okay!"

"Alright, call me if you need help with anything," Rachel nodded before she retreated from the room.

"I will! Thank you!" Duck shouted back. Once the door was closed she reached out, carefully lifted up the dress to examine it more closely. The tiny crystal beads felt cool against her fingers and Duck marveled at the weight and shine of the fabric. A grin bloomed over Duck's face as she set down the gown and went about shedding her tweed skirt and worn blouse before pulling the dress over her head, fumbling for a few minutes with the buttons. Turning to inspect herself in the oval mirror, twirling around and watching the dress swirl with her movement, Duck let out a laugh of unbridled delight.

A brief knock came from the door as Rachel let herself back into the room. Seeing Duck's expression, she smiled. "You like it?"

"Oh I love it!" Duck beamed. "This is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. Thank you so much Rachel!"

"Haha, you're welcome. I was a little worried the beading might be a little too much and whether the tailor could adjust the hemline despite the ruffles, but in the end I think it all worked out quite well. In fact," Rachel stepped back, tipping her head to one side and studied the effect of the dress on Duck, "...if you really like the dress, you can keep it if you would like."

Flabbergasted and speechless Duck had to make a conscious effort to close her jaws together before she gasped, "What-but-ah, are you sure?"

"It suits you, and Fakir mentioned you didn't have a gown. With this one you won't have to worry about what to wear for future formal events."

Duck doubted she'd ever attend another event where formal wear was required, but to actually own this dress was more than she could ever ask for. Duck's mouth drew into a broad grin. She turned to Rachel, the gown flowing with her as she moved, and in a voice of unabashed delight, hugged Rachel, "Oh thank you so, so much Rachel! I'll cherish it, I promise!"

Rachel laughed along with Duck. "You're welcome! Ah, we should also try to do something with your hair while you're here." She touched Duck's long braid which had come to rest over the girl's shoulder. "Girls now a day prefer their hairs short but I myself find long hair to be far more elegant."

"You think so?" Duck knew her hair style—and her wardrobe in general—was outdated, but Rachel's earlier compliments made Duck wonder if maybe she could do this gown justice and dress, if not as a movie star or a princess, at least like a proper lady when she walked into the opera house on opening night.

Rachel nodded. "It's quite easy actually, once you learn how to do it properly. I do it all the time with my own hair. Would you like me to show you?"

Duck nodded enthusiastically and sat in front of the small guest vanity as Rachel gathered combs and hair pins. Rachel untied the braid and with deft strokes of the silver comb began to straighten Duck's long locks.

Watching Rachel work and thinking about everything the woman had done for her Duck couldn't express how thankful she was. Here was a stranger who had not only invited her to a gala, but had given her a beautiful dress to wear, arranged a car to pick her up, even helped to do her hair. Duck was reminded of the fairy godmother in a story her granddad had told her, one who had turned a cinder maid into a princess for an evening. Duck blushed and mentally shook her head at her flight of fancy. Looking back at Rachel's reflection in the glass, Duck thought to herself, Rachel has only just met me and yet she's done so much for me. I should do something to repay her. At the very least I should pay for the dress…

With that in mind, Duck craned to look over her shoulder to look more directly at Rachel. "Rachel, how much does the dress cost?"

"Why do you ask?" Rachel raised her brows; her hands paused briefly from their task.

"Well," Duck twiddled her thumbs, "you've done so much for me, and I really want to repay you somehow for all your help. So let me pay you back for the dress…!" Duck stopped. On second thought, considering the material, the details, and the workmanship of the gown, the dress would probably cost two months worth of her meager shop girl salary. Short of living on bread and water for that amount of time, there was no way Duck could pay the full amount up-front, so she amended, "…Well, maybe not all at once, but at least let me pay you for the tailoring today!"

Rachel waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. "No, no. It's no trouble at all! This is a gift, and gifts do not require reimbursements."

"But you went to so much trouble for me; I should at least pay you back for the adjustments!"

"It's fine, Duck. Please." The deep sigh that escaped Rachel's lips surprised Duck. She turned around fully to face the brunette and saw an expression crossed between relief and sadness on the singer's face. "Think of it as my way of thanking you," Rachel continued, "for being Fakir's friend, and for keeping him company."

Confused and taken aback, Duck had no clue what Rachel meant, but by the tone of her voice Duck knew there was no arguing the woman into accepting a single penny. Feeling awkward and a little culpable, Duck turned around to face the mirror, "I-I don't really talk to Fakir per say…it's more like he comes and bothers me all the time, so I wouldn't really call us friends or anything…"

Rachel chuckled. "Oh, I know. Fakir isn't the easiest person to get along with; even when we were growing up he was reserved but stubborn," Rachel spoke as she continued to work on Duck's hair. "But if you get to know him you'll see that he's like a hedgehog: prickly on the outside but sweet and cute on the inside."

Imagining a hedgehog in her mind, Duck was unable to equate the funny little animal with the grumpy, pain-in-the-neck Fakir she knew; or rather, she simply had trouble associating him with the word "cute". But Rachel's comment about his childhood prompted Duck to inquire, "So you grew up together with Fakir?"

"Yes. We spent a lot of time together when we were young. But after I went to study music and Fakir went to university we hardly saw each other except during the holidays."

"Where did you go to study music?"

"Let's see, I studied at a conservatory in Prague before the war. After that I studied with an instructor in Philadelphia, where I gave my first public performance. Have you ever been to Prague before?"

"Eh, no. I was born in Ireland, but I moved here when I was really little and don't remember much about my time in Europe. Other than that I haven't been outside of New York."

"You should visit someday when you have the chance. And Philly is beautiful as well, particularly during the spring." Rachel stepped back and examined the result of her work. "It's finished. What do you think?"

Distracted by their conversation, Duck focused on her reflection and was amazed by what she saw. The previously unruly mop of copper hair had been coiled into a flat bun pined to the base of her neck, giving the illusion of a bobbed hairdo. Thoroughly impressed, Duck met the reflection of Rachel's eyes, and said, "You're really good at this, Rachel! Where did you learn to dress hair?"

"My mother was a hair dresser and she taught me how to do my hair when I was a little girl. My father on the other hand, was a music teacher. Though my mother insisted I would make a good living dressing hair my father was adamant about my studies. Guess who won that debate," Rachel said with a laugh.

At the topic of Rachel's parents, Duck remembered something Fakir had said the night of the apartment blackout but didn't have a chance to ask him. "What about Fakir's parents? Fakir said his mother was Moorish, or Arabic, or both, but...I'm not sure what he meant."

A look of surprise appeared on Rachel's face. "He told you this?"

Duck nodded and Rachel seemed to absorb this for a moment before her lips curled into a fond smile. Sitting down at the edge of the guest bed, she put the comb in her hand down on the bed cover and faced Duck.

"Amira, that was her name."

"Huh?" Duck blinked.

"Her name; Fakir's mother's," the singer explained. "She was a smart, lovely woman and was the daughter of a well-to-do merchant in the town where our family was from. However she was a Moor, which is the name for Arabs in Portugal. Auntie Amira converted when she fell in love with my uncle, Antonio. But there was a lot of opposition to the marriage within the family given her background. Initially my father too, was against the match. He's a quiet, conservative man and doesn't like to stand out, which is why he changed my name from 'Raquel' to 'Rachel' when we moved here, so I'd blend in better."

Duck nodded. That was a common enough practice amongst immigrants. Employers were less likely to hire someone with an unfamiliar foreign name than someone whose name they recognize and felt comfortable addressing. Still, Duck felt a little sad at the knowledge that Rachel had to give up her original name.

"My uncle on the other hand," Rachel recounted, "was far more outgoing and strong minded. He didn't care about the protest from within the family and married my auntie. They decided to come to the states so they could live in peace. At that time the economy was also doing poorly so my father and my uncle decided to move both our families and have a fresh start."

"So both your parents and Fakir's parents came to New York? What happened then?"

"From what I was told, my grandfather had left us a good sized inheritance when he passed away and my father and my uncle wanted to use the money to start a business here. However they couldn't agree on what kind of business since my father prefers the small town setting he grew up in and wanted to open a music school in Pennsylvania where land was cheaper, and he eventually did. My uncle on the other hand, had read a lot about New York before coming here and had fallen in love with the city, and with literature being one of his primary passions, he had decided to stay in the city and open a bookstore. Our families parted ways at Ellis Island and I didn't see them again for many years."

Rachel stopped when she saw the distressed look on Duck's face and comforted the girl by saying, "Oh, it wasn't because we disliked each other. After my uncle married, Father warmed up to auntie and came to appreciate her for her wit. It was settling down and getting established that took a great deal of time for both our families. It was several years before Father had engaged enough students and established a reputation for the school to secure a steady income. My mother's hair dressing work helped, but I imagine it was just as difficult, if not perhaps more so, for Fakir's parents in the city. In any case, the first time I visited my aunt and uncle in New York was for Christmas, in 1908 I think, yes, that was it. My parents had visited them a few times before, briefly, but that year was the first time I met my cousin. He was reading by the window when I first caught sight of him, completely absorbed in his book."

Recalling the box of detective novels in Fakir's room, Duck wondered aloud, "Was he reading a detective novel?"

"Why yes, he was." Rachel answered, surprised. "Fakir loved mystery and detective adventures when he was a boy. In fact, for Christmases and birthdays that was all he would ask for from his parents. How did you guess?"

"I…" Duck paused. She couldn't very well tell Rachel she'd snuck into her cousin's bedroom and found the books. Instead, she answered weakly, "He-he's a detective, so I thought he might like detective stories."

Trying to steer the topic away from her curious insight into Fakir's reading habits, Duck asked, "You mentioned Fakir's father opened a bookstore in New York but Fakir never said anything about that. Where's his store, or has he retired already?"

The soprano's lips drew thin in hesitation. At last she sighed deeply and said softly, "Uncle and auntie passed away not long after I visited them for the first time, when Fakir was still young. He came to live with my family after their death and...that's why we spent so much time together as children."

Duck didn't know what to say in the face of that revelation. In hindsight, she hadn't realized until now that when speaking about her uncle and aunt Rachel had always used the past tense, which only made Duck feel all the more guilty for her insensitive questions. But another thought fleeted into the young woman's mind, the image of Fakir's scarred back. She had wondered what inflicted the wound that created the scar and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, though she could not explain why.

The touch of Rachel's hand on hers jolted Duck out of her dark thoughts as the brunette smiled sadly at her.

"I—! I'm so sorry! That was thoughtless of me, asking you so many questions," Duck whispered, unable to meet Rachel's eyes.

"You didn't know, so there is nothing to apologize for," Rachel said gently and patted the girl's hands.

She then stood up and with a motion of dusting off her wrinkle-less skirt, said in a more cheerful tone, "Let's finish putting together your outfit. Do you have any accessories, like a necklace or a bracelet? I could lend you something if you'd like." Rachel moved to get her jewelry box but Duck called out to her.

"Oh, you don't have to do that! I do have something to wear, sort of. I have a garnet pendent, but it's my mother's." Duck lowered her head, "Actually...she also passed away many years ago, but I don't think she would mind. It'll just be a little weird for me to wear it because…well, it was an engagement present from my Pa before they got married," Duck looked up at Rachel and, scratching her chin, managed a giggle as her cheeks blushed involuntarily.

Rachel leaned her shoulder against the frame of the door. Gently, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, what was your mother like?"

Duck's mood brightened at the question and she answered animatedly, "Sure! Let's see, well, first of all Ma was a very beautiful and nice person. Everyone who met her liked her a lot. She was also really talented in ballet and used to be a prima ballerina in Europe. After we moved she taught ballet here in New York."

"What a coincidence! Did you know Fakir also has a friend who is a ballet dancer?"

"He's never told me about any friends of his." Although Duck had to admit, she didn't think he would have very many, given his personality.

Rachel seemed to pick up on this and gave a knowing nod. "Fakir did not have many friends growing up, but he did have one constant companion: a boy from the local orphanage who aspired to be a dancer. Fakir would join his friend to peek in on the dance classes given by a retired dance instructor in our town and would later sit and watch as his friend practiced what they saw. Though he himself never danced he was always content to watch."

That explained why the records Fakir was listening to reminded Duck of her mother, she realized: because they were the type of piano music used during ballet practice. Duck wondered if Fakir remembered his friend when he played those records and an ominous thought loomed in Duck's mind and she asked hesitantly, "What happened to that boy? Is he still alright?"

To Duck's relief, Rachel said, "He had gone off to study dance professionally some years ago. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from him since."

"In that case, I hope he's doing well, and that Fakir will see him again one day soon," Duck said optimistically. "Maybe when they meet again he will be famous and the two of them will have lots of things to catch up on!"

"Perhaps," Rachel smiled. "If they're destined to meet again then I am sure they will."

~*~*~*~*~*

Fakir walked away from the window when he saw the Essex sedan Rachel had arranged for them pull up to the curbside. Grabbing his coat from the back of the desk chair, he closed his apartment door and in one step was knocking on Duck's door.

"I'm coming!" Duck's voice was muffled by the sound of a loud bang and a thud and Fakir wondered not for the first time how this clumsy girl managed to get by all these years living by herself.

As he stood contemplating that thought, Duck opened her door, babbling an apology as she tried to find her key in her purse. "I'm sorry! One of my earrings rolled under the bed but I couldn't reach it so I tried to use a rolling pin to get it out but it wasn't long enough so I..."

Fakir rolled his eyes at her unpunctuated stream of words. He was about to make a sardonic remark but the words died on the tip of his tongue when his vision focused on Duck's person. Her hair neatly done in the style Rachel had taught her and the warm apricot-colored gown peaking out from beneath the unbuttoned long gray coat, for a second Fakir did not recognize the person in front of him as the klutzy, plain Duck he'd known for the past weeks. So distracted by her appearance, Fakir almost didn't hear Duck speaking to him.

"Is something wrong Fakir?" She peered at him questioningly.

"Ah—nothing," Fakir cleared his throat. "Isn't this dress is a bit too flashy? You'll stand out at the party this way."

"You think so?" Duck examined herself and chewed on her lower lip. "Rachel said it looked nice on me so I thought it would be alright."

Grudgingly, Fakir had to admit he was being unfair in his assessment. The beading, while adding a highlight to the gown, was far from the loud, gaudy dresses some women were want to wear nowadays, and other than the red, glassy pendent at Duck's throat she wore no other accessory beside the small pearl earrings that were mostly hidden by her hair. If anything, she would be considered under dressed for the event they were attending. Yet Fakir couldn't ignore how the light rouge on her cheeks made the sparkling blue of her eyes stand out, or how the weight of the fabric accentuated her flat chest, pronouncing her unintentionally fashionable figure.

This last thought made Fakir turn his head away sharply, but he couldn't suppress the blush flooding across his own cheeks.

"Uh, never mind." Turning away abruptly, Fakir made wide strides towards the stairwell.

Duck made haste to follow him, shouting, "H-hey, wait for me!" while trying not to trip over her shoes.

~*~*~*~*~*

The ride to the theater was conducted in silence, with Fakir sitting beside but looking away from Duck. Duck hardly noticed however, as she felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach the whole time she was in the car. Twisting a button on her woolen coat until it nearly popped off, a bright yellow glow from outside the car window stopped her hands and Duck caught sight of the opera house. Cars and taxis pulled up to the curb next to the theater entrance and Duck marveled at the sight before her as their vehicle pulled into the queue.

The lamps along the street bathed everything in a warm yellow glow, and when reflected off the building's sandy facade gave the structure the illusion that it was glowing. Below the blue canopy, men decked out in black and white suits and women in rich gowns waltzed leisurely towards the entrance, guided by the lush red carpet under their feet. When it was their turn to disembark, Duck gingerly stepped out of the car, her hands clutching the matching beaded purse to her chest. She would have stood there rooted to the ground had she not felt Fakir's hand on her elbow.

"Don't worry; I'll be there with you the whole time," he said, gazing intently at the entrance before meeting Duck's eyes.

Seeing Fakir's steady gaze, the butterflies that had been flying wildly inside of her settled, and taking a deep breath, Duck stepped forward to join the ranks of the other guests with Fakir at her side.

As Fakir and Duck walked into the lobby, a familiar Gray Ghost pulled up beside the curb. Mytho, dressed in an impeccable white suit and black bow tie, waited patiently for the valet to open the door for them while an equally dolled up Rue shifted nervously in her seat beside him.

"You look wonderful tonight Rue," Mytho smiled at the dark haired actress.

"Thank you," Rue responded noncommittally, her mind obviously distracted.

"This shade of red suits you very well, especially at night," her beau continued, "The color reminds me of the ruby on Father's ring."

Trying to distract herself, Rue picked up the last part of Mytho's sentence. "Where is Daddy anyway? He said he would be coming."

"Perhaps something came up. Maybe it's something about that witness."

Rue shuddered and Mytho chuckled at her response. "Oh Rue, you are so easy to tease sometimes."

The door of the car opened and Mytho stepped out. Reaching back inside the car, he offered his hand to Rue. Impulsively, Rue wondered what would happen if she stayed in the car and told the driver to go home and leave Mytho to his own devices. But as soon as the thought formed it was banished and looking at Mytho's expectant hand Rue knew there was only one thing she could do.

~*~*~*~*~*

A/N I originally wrote a lot more for this chapter, but I ended up cutting it off where I did so I won't have a 30 page chapter. XD;; I also wanted to explore a little bit of the immigrant experience in this chapter while at the same time flesh out Rachel and Fakir's AU family background. Now for a few more notes:

Pastel de nata, also known as egg tart, is a Portuguese pastry. They're very common in places with heavy Portuguese influence, and based on personal experience, are very popular in Asia.

Beside the familiar "Tin Lizzie" Ford Model T and swanky Chryslers and Buicks, there were many more types of cars on the road back in the 1920s. The Essex was a car produced from 1918 to 1932, first by the Essex Motor Company then by the Hudson Motor Company, and was considered an affordable, small car. At this time in American history there were hundreds of automobile companies, but many of them were eventually bought by bigger companies or went defunct as the market became oversaturated.

And yes, believe it or not, it was fashionable once to have a flat chest. So don't blame Fakir for staring; blame the fashion. ;D