"Lot 666 then, a chandelier in pieces..." The auctioneer announced to the few attendants in the dimly lit room. "Some of you may recall the strange affair, of the Phantom of the Opera..." He began, as every piece in the auction had stories, and this chandelier was no different. He went on to explain its tale in brief. The tale is anything, anything at all, vile, heart warming, mysterious, enthralling, sensual, anything at all but brief. I should know, I was there: the sewer rat gliding through the streets and gutters of Paris and into the lakes beneath the opera house.
"A mystery never fully explained..." The man continues, but I know differently. The beginning, the spark, the parts of the story I wasn't present for, have all been told to me in the greatest of detail. "We are told ladies and gentleman, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster." On this count he is absolutely correct. Despite being stripped of its former grandeur, I know the remaining crystals, crystals that once shone like thousands of luminous stars, to be the very same. I know this disaster, as it is appropriately titled, better than I know myself.
The blaze began with a spark, and I know this to be true, because he never once lied to me. It was the first time he saw her. Christine was but a child at the time, but he sensed the potential in her. She was a pretty child with the voice of a crow, he told me. He felt it his duty, his obligation, to turn her into a beautiful woman with the voice of an angel. He began his work swiftly, while she was still a child, still open to the idea that he could possibly be an ethereal being. Being so young she retained every piece of information he passed on to her, and became his triumph, his glory; his obsession. She was his window into a world he was desperate to know. She could be his mask, he, her voice.
The flame erupted at her debut. Her voice, all his hard work, had been unveiled in sweet notes, caressing the air as she formed his words in her throat. It had sent shivers down his spine, but it was nothing compared to the moment to come, when he had offered his hand to her, and she had gently placed her fingers into his palm. His nerves were on fire, and nothing, so he tells me, could have torn her from him in that moment.
And then the boy came, the young pale boy, the slave of fashion, the brave young suitor. Neither approved of the other, this was evident from the moment of my own arrival, which came but a day or two after Christine had been returned safely to the arms of Madame Giry. From the moment I met him, I could never understand why Christine had chosen anyone else.
His eyes had wandered over me, me, the humble gutter rat no different than the smaller ones that inhabited his domain. Filthy, disease-ridden, my hair matted, my clothes soaked and stained. I had been asleep, but even in my dreaming state I could feel his presence. I opened my eyes to find his filled with warring emotions. Should he kill me? Should he just leave and pretend as though he never saw me? He averted his eyes from mine, which I took as a sign that he found me repulsive. I didn't blame him, the ladies who usually came to the opera had dogs who were more civilised than me.
He had been wondering, he told me, if he could live with himself should he decide to leave or dispatch me. He thought avoiding my eyes might have helped. He's hung people, hurt people before. I've watched him do it. I couldn't tell you what was so special about me, he never told me, though I asked many times. His response was always the same; he would look me in the eye for a moment, as though he was searching both our souls for the answer, then he would say with a tone of great worry, "Je ne sais pas, chère Chacal."*
Whatever his reasons, we gained each other. In Christine, he had gained a voice. In me, he had gained a second set of eyes, ears, and hands. Madame Giry couldn't be everywhere at once, and neither could he, although he gave the illusion as such. In him, I gained a home. A place that was free to retreat to, permanently. His heart was my home, and although he has never stated as such, I liked to think I was able to return that luxury.
I helped him, working tirelessly until finally the product of all my hard work became a piece known as Don Juan. I helped him set up the performance, helped from behind the scenes, entrapping Raoul, not killing him but slowing him down; I could never take another human's life. The true blaze came when I realised I was just another log on the fire which burned within him for Christine. To say it didn't hurt would be a lie, but I loved him. I wanted him to be happy, even if he was happy with someone else. The pain hasn't left to this day, and I don't think it will. My chest is always tight, as though I can't breathe. I think the fact that a support beam fell on me while we were trying to escape the collapsing opera house has something to do with it, though I can't be sure which is the cause.
"Our work shops have repaired it, and wired parts of it for the new electric light," The auctioneer announces proudly. It's been many years since I have seen the chandelier, or the people around me for that matter. They are recognisable, all of them, from the chandelier, to Raoul, to Mme. Giry. They have gotten older, greyer, become more adapted to the life they now lead. I have not changed, and I think I am the only one who will remain the way I was; small, young, with a burning in my chest, remains of a fire which should have been put out long ago. Erik's fire, the passion for Christine, is still burning in his own breast. He is alive, and well. My own flames are much more... angry...
"Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago, with a little illumination," the auctioneer calls cheerfully. Does he truly think he can scare me away so easily?
Translation Note from Grizzly
Je ne sais pas, chère Chacal – I don't know, dear (female) Chacal.
Chacal, the character's name, translates to Jackal.