Lionel and the others followed Daudet to the entertainment room located on the upper deck of the cruise ship.
The room was about a hundred square meters, with several card tables scattered around, and some passengers were playing whist.
In a corner, there was also an unassuming small stage, with a piano placed on one side, and a pianist was playing a gentle Schubert melody.
The air was filled with the faint haze of cigars, the rich aroma of coffee, and the scent of ladies' perfume.
Émile Zola and Edmond de Goncourt were already seated in a quiet corner, surrounded by several reporters and some curious passengers.
Lionel and the others walked over and took their seats in the empty spots.
Before Lionel could even ask, Zola eagerly revealed his idea:
"Gentlemen, this long voyage has just begun, and it will be a full five days before we reach New York.
It's been so bumpy these past two days, it's probably hard to write in peace. To pass this boring time, I have a proposal—"
He looked around, his gaze sweeping over each writer:
"Why don't we, like last summer in Médan, take turns telling stories? The theme isn't limited, but it must be related to the ship and the voyage.
This will not only enrich our dull life on board but can also be compiled into a collection later. I've already thought of a name for it: Nights on the Pererel!'"
This proposal was immediately approved by the other writers, and the reporters were even more excited, because finally there was more material to write about in the news, and it was the kind that would attract the most attention!
Last year's The Médan Evenings could be said to be the most popular collection of short stories, and the book signings by the Seven of Médan in Paris and Vienna were sensational.
To think we can witness these great authors' creations firsthand today?
It's an incredible dream come true!
Next was to decide the order of storytelling.
To avoid excessive politeness and deferral, Zola suggested drawing lots.
He took out several slips of paper, quickly wrote numbers on them, crumpled them into small balls, and placed them in his hat.
Everyone reached in and drew one.
Lionel unfolded the paper ball in his hand, on which a clear "1" was written.
Zola let out a laugh:
"It seems fate has bestowed the honor of telling the first story upon our Mr. Sorel!
Lionel, you can go back and prepare for a bit. After dinner, we'll gather here again to listen to your story.
If you can't think of anything right away, tomorrow is fine too!'"
Everyone found this reasonable, as improvising a story that met the requirements and was engaging was no easy task.
However, Lionel simply waved his hand and said with a relaxed expression:
"No need to wait until after dinner, and certainly no need to wait until tomorrow, Émile.
I can tell it to everyone right now!'"
This statement made Zola, Daudet, Goncourt, and the others present, as well as the nearby reporters and passengers, all show astonished expressions.
Only Maupassant stroked his carefully trimmed mustache, a "I knew it" smile on his face.
He said to the astonished crowd:
"See? Gentlemen, ladies, this is Lionel's usual operation.
I was there when he spontaneously created My Uncle Jules on the 'Saint-Michel'.
I told you he was a monster, and you didn't believe me then!'"
Under the gaze of everyone, Lionel calmly stood up.
He didn't immediately begin his story, but instead walked towards the piano.
Lionel leaned slightly towards the pianist and politely asked:
"Sir, may I ask your name?"
The pianist, somewhat surprised, stopped playing:
"My name is Jean Durand, sir."
Lionel nodded, took out a five-franc silver coin, and placed it on the music stand.
"Very well, Mr. Durand. From now until the end of my story, your name is 'Eighty-Years'."
Jean Durand froze, looking at the silver coin, then at Lionel.
Although puzzled, he finally nodded:
"As you wish, sir. I am now 'Eighty-Years'."
Lionel straightened up with satisfaction and instructed:
"Then, Mr. Eighty-Years, please begin playing Liszt's Sonata in B minor.
Continue playing until my story ends, if you please?'"
"Of course, sir."
The pianist pocketed the silver coin, his fingers returning to the black and white keys.
After a brief silence, notes flowed anew from the keys, beginning to echo in this maritime entertainment room.
Amidst the music, Lionel returned to his seat, leaning back languidly, as if what was about to begin was not a tense improvisation but a pleasant chat.
His gaze swept over the breathless audience:
"The story I'm going to tell today is about a pianist who never once set foot off a cruise ship in his entire life. His name was 'Eighty-Years'."
His opening remark immediately captured everyone's attention.
A pianist who never left the ship?
This instantly distinguished the character from other pianists.
The reporters quickly took out their notebooks and pencils, beginning to record Lionel's narrative.
Lionel's voice intertwined with the piano music as he began his story:
"The story begins on the first day of 1880, right here on this 'Pererel' beneath our feet.
That morning, in the first-class entertainment room, the all-night New Year's party had just ended, leaving behind a mess of cups and plates.
A stoker named Armand found an abandoned newborn on that piano.
Armand was a rough man, covered in coal dust, but kind-hearted. He picked up the weakly crying infant, ignoring the ridicule and dissuasion of other workers—
'You can't even support yourself!'
'Who knows what trouble some noble lord left behind'
—but he still decided to raise the child.
Because he was found on the first day of the New Year, Armand named him 'Eighty-Years'."
This dramatic opening made several ladies in the audience let out low gasps.
Zola nodded, seemingly approving of the kindness of these common folk.
Lionel paid no attention, continuing to tell the story of "Eighty-Years"—
"So, 'Eighty-Years' was born at sea, growing up amidst the roar of machinery and the rocking of waves. The ocean was his cradle, and the cruise ship was his entire world.
To the land, he was a person who never existed, with no family, no household registration, no nationality.
He traveled back and forth on the 'Pererel' between Le Havre and New York, docking at various ports, yet never once stepping ashore.
His childhood was spent watching red-hot coal in the boiler room, chasing seagulls on the deck, and secretly peeking at the first-class dances...
However, fate is fickle. When 'Eighty-Years' was eight, during an accident in bad weather, a loose hatch cover struck his adoptive father, Armand.
Armand died in 'Eighty-Years'' arms, leaving him only a worn-out hat.
'Eighty-Years' became an orphan once again..."
Lionel's pace was steady, his descriptions concise, yet they painted a picture of a lonely and unique childhood.
The Sonata in B minor flowing from the pianist's fingertips entered a passage full of conflict and passion, as if reflecting the sudden change in the character's destiny.
The audience fell silent at this maritime orphan's second loss, and one mother even let out a soft sigh.
Only Zola couldn't help but whisper to Goncourt beside him:
"A brilliant premise! An individual detached from conventional society, a pure product of his environment."
"As 'Eighty-Years' huddled in a corner of the entertainment room late at night, a melodious piano sound attracted him.
It was an old folk song casually played by a night watchman. The beautiful melody, like moonlight, illuminated his dark world.
After the night watchman left, 'Eighty-Years', as if possessed, walked to the piano, extended his small hand, and pressed it onto the keys—
—a miracle occurred!'"
Lionel's voice began to rise:
"He had never learned music, but his fingers seemed to instinctively know how to converse with those black and white keys.
A sorrowful melody flowed from his fingertips. That music belonged to no known score; it came from the ocean, from loneliness, from his strange origins.
From then on, 'Eighty-Years' found his way to communicate with the world, and he began to play the piano at sea.'"
As Lionel described "Eighty-Years" spontaneously playing a moving melody, accompanied by the notes flowing from the pianist Durand's hands, incredulous expressions appeared on the faces of the audience.
Some exchanged skeptical glances, but more were captivated by this "divine revelation" moment, immersing themselves in the magic created by both music and narrative.
"...Initially, he only played in the dead of night when no one was around, but later it spread among the crew; gradually, passengers on voyages came specifically to hear him, gathering outside the entertainment room to listen to the beautiful music drifting out from under the door.
His fame spread far and wide...'"
Lionel paused briefly, letting the piano music fill the space for a moment.
The audience was completely drawn into the world he had created, and tears even glimmered in one lady's eyes.
"...As 'Eighty-Years' grew up, his piano skills became more exquisite, and his reputation spread even further.
Finally, a true challenger was attracted.'"
Lionel's gaze seemed to drift into the distance, as if recalling a true past event:
"'Our genius musician and pianist, Achille-Claude Debussy, also boarded the 'Pererel'.'"
Hearing Debussy's name, reporters and passengers let out low gasps, clearly having heard of him.
Maupassant, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow, showing an envious expression—this young man he found at the "Rose House", ever since being introduced to Lionel, his life had been like winning the lottery.
His music for The Chorus brought him fame, and now he was about to be written into Lionel's novel...
Next, Lionel narrated how "Eighty-Years" and Debussy "battled with pianos" under the gaze of the audience, including the scene where a cigarette was lit on the piano strings.
Everyone present could not imagine that pianos could also be used for "dueling".
This scene, comparable to a real duel, was not only original but also full of twists and turns, incredibly thrilling.
All the passengers in the entertainment room were drawn in, and even "Eighty-Years", who was playing the piano, craned his neck, hoping to hear more details, disturbing his rhythm several times because of it.
"When the last note faded into the air, the entertainment room fell silent.
Debussy was silent for a long time, then stood up, walked over to 'Eighty-Years', and said with respect: 'Sir, your music does not belong to the land; it belongs here.'
Debussy pointed to the vast ocean outside the porthole...'"
The story was halfway through here, and Liszt's sonata also entered a gentle passage.
Lionel's voice also deepened accordingly, beginning to narrate how the famous "Eighty-Years" was encouraged by many to disembark and showcase his talent to the world.
"Did he get off the ship?' a young lady couldn't help but blurt out, immediately realizing her impropriety and blushing as she covered her mouth with a handkerchief."
Just then, the ship's dinner bell rang.
Lionel stopped his narration, smiling slightly:
"Who knows? It's dinner time, please allow me a moment to think about the rest of the story...'"
A chorus of groans rose from the cabin:
"He's stopping here?"
(End of chapter)