A/N—Prologue can be read as set before my short novels Red Rose and A Second Chance, and to most extent, the ALW stage play Phantom of the Opera, but not the 2004 movie. The characters are of course from The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, Phantom, by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery and timeline are my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the origins of the underground home and other parts of that story having their roots in various scenes. I intend four chapters to this mini-series.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.
Please read and review.
Prologue
2017 by Riene
Chapter 1-Returning
Paris had its own gods. The city had no idea a new one had arrived.
Mist softened and diluted the golden lamplight, lending a gentle ambiance to the silver and green streets. Paris, the city of lights. Wearily he stretched, easing the burning of muscles used too long without rest. Another corner, another street, a side alley, and then yes, there it was.
He stood alone in the shadowed side of the alley observing the people bustling in and out of the stately building opposite. The copper sheathing had finally been completed, and the gilded statues were less hideous than he would have expected. Skirting the building, he followed men in the back entrance, pausing occasionally to get his bearings. Little had changed.
He had not intended to return.
The trapdoor led to a crawlspace just low enough to be uncomfortable. Judging from the cobwebs and dust, no one had accessed this service tunnel in many years. That was just as well with him. The crawlspace led to another, and then to another hinged wooden door concealing an iron ladder. Tunnels now, some barely wide enough to slip through if a very thin person were to turn sideways. The dry musty air grew more chill and gave way to a smell of damp stone, of mud and moss and things long hidden began to permeate the stale air. Another turn, and yes, stone corridors now, the supporting pillars and arches of the very foundations of the Opera House. Past the cistern, in one of these vaults, lay what he sought.
Immensely pleased with his own foresight, he inspected this old retreat. He had had the gas and water lines extended here and they appeared to be intact, though still sealed off. He would need to test them and the sewerage drains as well. Heating had always been an issue, but with luck the ventilation shafts too remained unblocked, and a coal fire or two could be lit. Even the furnishings appeared to have survived the years of storage in the cool, dry air of the caverns.
Arriving as they did amidst the pieces intended for offices, dressing rooms, practice rooms, and alike, no one had noticed his own bits on the docks, and he had simply spirited them away into storage rooms and moved each chair or chest at his leisure. The grandest coup had been the enormous piano, a ridiculous risk and luxury, but he had not been able to stop himself. Disassembling it had been tricky, and transporting the parts worse, but somehow he had carried it off and now it sat, hideously out of tune and discordant, but his. Thin lips twisted into a sneer, remembering the unholy uproar as to how an entire piano could be misplaced.
He raised a candle, burning the cobwebs overhead. The rooms needed a thorough cleaning but would easily be habitable again. The walls were well insulated with sandbags, both to prevent moisture from entering and for added warmth, and then paneled with smooth golden-brown wood. Only two rooms had been completed, the entryway of sorts, and the room with the bookshelves and piano. The kitchen was rudimentary at best, with a gas ring for cooking, a Welsh dresser containing a few dishes and utensils, and a worktable. He had forgotten how much space there was in these dark and hidden chambers…room for two bedrooms, a dining room, a workroom for his projects, washrooms, seven rooms in all.
He stood on the Opera roof, impassively surveying his new demesne. That he was even here at all was a surprise; Paris was a retreat, not a destination. He had built the underground lair almost on a whim, never intending to return to the country of his origins. But Ankara was becoming unstable and was far too close to Persia. Novgorod and Konigsberg were increasingly unpleasantly cold on his damaged bones. Central Europe held no interest, the Balkans old memories; the Mediterranean world was too humid. London was a possibility, should Paris not prove feasible, and perhaps even the New World from there. He had read that the American West was a place where men did not ask many questions. But he liked amenities, and the West as of yet lacked most of them. The ship journey also did not bear thinking about—weeks of concealment in claustrophobic spaces.
But Paris was only temporary. There was nothing to keep him here.
Though his exit had been made with some alacrity, it had not been entirely unplanned. For weeks he'd been aware of the Shah's increasing displeasure, instigated mainly by the man's virago of a chief wife. Each trip to visit the new palace gave him opportunity to stop by a certain inauspicious rock outcropping and secrete away a few items. Soon his beloved violin, compositions, a change of clothing, dried food and skins of water, two knives, and all of his money lay hidden. When the time came, he would take the swiftest horse in the stables, what jewels he could lay hands upon, and flee.
It would be irksome to leave behind the unfinished palace and he would regret never seeing its completion, but the last year had become unpleasant. He was an architect and engineer, not a court magician or even a musician, hired to entertain the guests of the Shah, though he had often played both roles as needed. He had not minded fulfilling the role of political assassin and executioner, for at first the men selected had truly deserved a hideous death at his hands. But he had discovered the Shah's wife took a sadistic pleasure from watching those men die, and she had begun to request his services as entertainment. He'd been rewarded well, first with jewels and a large suite of rooms, then with an offer to choose from the harem. He had refused, wishing neither the debt or to be seen. Rumors had circled about him, that he was either a lover of men, punishable by death, or not a whole man. Taking a malicious delight in tormenting him, the chief wife had arrived in his chambers one night with a young girl.
She was stunning, an houri out of legends. The queen had parted the young girl's silken robes, revealing golden skin, painted hands, supple limbs, rounded breasts like ripe pears, and a shadowy triangle between her legs. The girl was an odalisque, trained in pleasuring a man in many ways, untouched and his for the taking. Desire had slammed his body, hot and hard, his mouth dry and head reeling, the overwhelming lust nearly causing him to double over in pain. Gleefully amused at his reaction, the Shah's chief wife had suddenly reached out and clasped his hardened manhood, stroking his burning flesh through the black robes. He had jerked back, knowing he was seconds from humiliating public shame. But the girl, realizing for whom she was meant, began to cry, quaking in fright at the sight of the cloaked assassin. She had begged for her life, then finally for her death, rather than touch the man behind the black porcelain mask, the man whose glowing golden eyes proclaimed him a demon. He had refused the girl, furious and constricted with pain.
One night she'd gone so far as to have touched him in her own lust, wanting to experience a European for herself, a man whom she suspected to be so much more potent than her own husband who spent himself among the younger women of the harem. To touch the queen was punishable by a swift and ugly death, to refuse was worse. He'd had no choice and departed the palace on wings of utmost haste.
She had summoned him in to her chambers immediately upon his return from the construction site one afternoon. Nearly naked, the queen had reclined on her silken pillows and pulled him down next to her, sliding her hands under his loose trousers, cupping him. It was the first time he had felt another's hands upon his body, and so deprived of human touch, he'd hardened instantly. "So you do want me," she'd purred, stroking his arousal. Disgusted, he'd pulled her hands from his body, grateful for the mask that hid his features. Kissing her fingers, he murmured words of endearment and passion, while his mind frantically spun. After a moment he rose, deliberately shaking a cloud of dust and grit from his clothing.
"My lady, I am filthy," he murmured. "Would you grant me the privilege of a quick bath, so that I may return to you as you deserve?"
She agreed, but sent him under escort to his quarters, and it was then he knew he was to die, no doubt after satisfying her curiosity. The men entered his outer chambers, waiting, and he locked himself inside the inner rooms. Removing a bag from a hidden niche behind the ornate paneling, he had added the food laid out for his evening meal and any valuables at hand. Strapping a knife to his leg, he changed rapidly into the garb of a groom then exchanged the porcelain mask for a new one of thin chamois skin leather. Seconds later, he began to fill the bathing tub, breaking the pipes deliberately, and shimmied his thin, agile body through the impossibly small appearing back window. By the time they realized he was gone, he would have stolen a horse and would be on the outskirts of town.
Several days' riding had brought him across the plains and through the mountains to the border of Anatolia. He'd sold the horse in Ankara and had hidden there a month, living among the alleys and backstreets, making plans to return to Europe. His wanderings had taken him to the far north, but as summer ended and winter approached, he'd instead returned to France, away from the driving winds and snow. And now, here he was in Paris, driven underground like an animal.
Be awesome and leave a review. Please?
~R