Erik

The Impertinent Persian


If you had been present at the Palais Garnier that winter morning, just after the sun kissed Apollo's golden Lyre atop the opera house, setting it aglow before stretching its embrace to the rest of the snow covered rooftops of Paris, you would have been witness to a most peculiar sight. A dark figure stood in contrast to the smooth sheet of white the great city had acquired overnight. The black shape was situated several paces back from the monstrous structure where it kept a silent post watching the progress of the dawn as it painted the building's edifice and poured down onto the boulevard. As the light grew the shape could be clearly identified as a gentleman dressed in his evening clothes and carrying a respectable walking stick, yet for what reason the figure had for his vigil, an observer could only presume.

But we may, dear reader, upon closer observation discover the identity of this mysterious gentlemen. For at the first sounds of a hansom making its way down the road, our subject broke from his observations and turned, rounding the building at an astounding pace. Despite the low angle of his black fedora, the white expanse of a mask was startling enough to make any Christian cross themselves in suspicion - for what honest man would cover his face?

On reaching the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house, our intriguing person withdrew a ring of keys from the depths his cloak and with deft motions unlocked the gates before disappearing into the shadowed belly of Garnier's beast. Needing no lamp to navigate, the man skirted an upended cart and passed under a flimsy pasteboard arch, feeling along the wall for a spring only he knew the existence of. When his long fingers touched upon the correct spot, a section of the stone wall slid silently aside accompanied by a blast of dry hot air radiating from the waking furnaces just overhead.

With the bitter snow fall outside, any other might have lingered to enjoy the incalescent air, but he pressed on, his destination far from the eternally hungering monsters above. If he had cared to look up, he would have seen their glowing mouths opening and shutting with primal roars as devout shadows attended to them. But, with no interest in the above happenings, the masked figure descended the thousands of steps to the bowels of the Opera, his foot making no sound on any tread in the narrow tunnels which continued with seeming endlessness.

Around the depth of the forth cellar, the air became most frigid and the softest whisper of a current could be discerned from below. Soon the stone steps gave way to gravel, and once the man left the confines of the passage, he produced the queerest lantern from some secret place in his cloak. Needing no match, he brought it to a blaze. The green glow from the contraption, made of coloured misshapen glass and covered with all sorts of odd mechanisms, illuminated a rocky shore of a vast lake situated quite inconceivably. It was right under the opera house itself!

In fact, the foundations of the Palais Garnier could just be made out from the lantern's light. Downwards they plunged into the dark waters of the lake like a spider's long legs supporting its engorged body. Docked by the near-most one was a small boat, finely carved, and most likely appropriated from one of the prop cellars above - if the Egyptian faces and large sphinx that served as a figurehead were anything to go by. Taking up a nearby pole, the man launched to the boat and guided the vessel forward with practiced ease. On the far shore, he disembarked and seemingly vanished through a wall only to emerge in what had once been a fine set of apartments. Now the rooms were only shadows of what they had been.

Covered in a layer of dust and illy lit by a sputtering lamp, they were a most depressing sight. The uncommonly tall well-dressed man cut a very odd figure amid the decay as he sat down at the table. He casually unbuttoned his jacket before picking up a pen which lay among several empty syringes and overturned sherry glasses. Inking his pen from a bottle, finally discovered under a lady's fan, he began to compose the following note:

Dear Mr. Managers-

Regrettably, I have recently developed interests elsewhere and will be leaving you in peace. That is, I mean to say gentleman, that I will be vacating this Opera house with no plans of returning. I therefore relinquish my hold on box five starting next fortnight and no longer require salary. Pray, do not be too upset over my departure.

Yours Gentleman,

O.G

Just as he set down his writing instrument, he plucked it up again and added a postscript in a careless scarlet scrawl.

It would be my last request that Meg Giry be allowed to dance the lead tonight in La Slyphide.

Finished, he threw down the pen, unheading of the splatter it made as it struck the table top. And before the thing stilled itself, the seated man heard a footstep behind him.

"Erik."

The masked gentleman did not turn around for he knew very well who was addressing him. "Daroga." The word was hissed with as much venom in the tone as he could muster. Which, considering the perfect instrument that was Erik's voice, was sufficient enough to raise alarm in the other.

Only recently had he been in better spirits, eager to wash his hands of the Opera. The excitement of travel and the novelty of the unknown had roused him from his morphine, his drink, and his laudanum, but the presence of the Persian was enough for him to sink just a little back into the black mood which had been his dominant state of temper for the past two months. With the other came the sour association with the entire affair of Christine Daaé and the cursed Viscount.

"Why are you skulking about down here Daroga? I would entreat you to depart, as I find myself suddenly in a black mood." The Persian had removed his Astrakhan cap and wrung it in his hands as Erick spoke letting an uncomfortable silence fall between them before he worked up the courage to speak. Suddenly, he spotted the open trunks that sat among the disorder of the room and whatever speech had been at the tip of his tongue was lost in his surprise.

"You're leaving."

"Yes."

"Where will you go?"

"Where ever I wish to."

The Persian fell silent again and moved to stand by the mantel. There he fiddled with several odds and ends that had once been artfully arranged with great care. Eventually, his hand came upon a ribbon. Picking it up, he idly ran his fingers over it's satin texture. "Do not touch that!"

Instantly the ribbon slithered from surprised fingers landing atop several withered blossoms. Muttering apologies, the rebuked turned to find the the masked man had never turned around.

"Allah, you really do have eyes in the back of your head trapdoor lover."

The Daroga was relieved when Erik laughed, or as relieved as one could be at the maniacal sounds the genius made to express his amusement. It was a sound of the most disturbing quality. His great laugh started out softly at first, then crescendoed louder and louder until it filled every corner of the room and was felt in one's bones in a most uncomfortable and intrusive manner .

The masked man finally replied, his voice filled with sneer. "No, nothing so supernatural. I only have need of the well polished silver coffee pot in front of me, and I am quiet capable of seeing your meddling actions Monsieur." That being said, he picked up the object in question and went to set it upon the stove.

Erik returned from the small kitchen and gestured impatiently to the chair across from him before sitting down himself. "Sit and tell me your reasons for your intrusion into my house Daroga."

It never ceased to amaze the Persian how queer Erik's manners were. They were such that they walked a fine line between civility and outright rudeness. You never knew if he was joking with you in the manner of a cordial friend or was only moments away from bringing about your untimely death. Filled with uncertainty, the Eastern man took a moment to observe the other, seeing if he could discern any clue to his mood. With the mask covering all of his face save for his eyes, it was a difficult task for any man, even one as skilled in interrogation as the Daroga was, but, by all accounts, Erik seemed relaxed. His long form was stretched out in the dining chair, golden eyes half closed, his long fingers playing languidly with something in his lap.

Then realization struck the Persian, and he nearly recoiled in horror. The object sliding between his companion's fingers was none other than the infamous Punjab Lasso.

"I say Daroga, your manners are appalling today, you have not even inquired after my health!"

The Persian, now completely ignorant of how he stood and at a loss for anything else to say, responded, "How is your health my friend?" Erik threw up his hands, causing the other man to start in surprise.

"Poor Erik's health is dreadful!"

"Ah, well, that is most... unfortunate." The Persian looked about, eying the syringes, used glasses, and finally took in the several empty bottles of absinthe that lined the sideboard. "You have been chasing the dragon my friend."

Seeing no need for acknowledgment, Erik had stood and moved to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee and a cup for his guest. He continued to speak as he moved away, yet his voice remained in the chair across from the Persian. An awesome display of the talent he possessed as a ventriloquist. "You still have not told me the reasons for your visit."

"I just wanted to check in on you my friend." He murmured, quite put on the spot.

"You wished to see if I had finally passed on Daroga." The other said, his tone suddenly serious as he appeared again, and as he came into sight, the voice returned to its owner. "I promised her, you know, the death of the old Opera Ghost will happen before I leave and she will be plagued by that hideous monster no longer." He punctuated his words by slamming a bitter cup of coffee in front of his companion with such force that the Persian was surprised it did not shatter.

"I-Is there anything I can do to aid you in you, in your preparations I mean?" He looked over at the other who had resumed his seat and resting the tips of his fingers together, inspecting him over them in a most bored fashion.

"Perhaps... actually, yes." The masked man suddenly straightened and hastily moved to scribble something on a spare bit of paper. "Join me tonight for La Slyphide, in my usual box." He handed the fresh note to the Persian who waited for it to dry before carefully pocketing it. "Present that to Madame Giry, she will insure your entrance into my box."

As suddenly as his energy had come, it left him. He let out a terrible sigh and fixed his burning eyes on the other. "My tolerance for company seems to be waning quickly Daroga..."

That was all the warning the Persian needed, he bid the other good morning and departed, leaving his coffee untouched on the table. With a surreptitious glance at the other's retreating form, Erik pulled it to himself and tilted his mask just enough so he could savor the bitter drink, then stood throwing his cloak about his to the mantelpiece, he carefully attended to the disarray the impertinent Persian had caused. There he hesitated for several moments, his gloved hand hovering in indecision before he plucked the black ribbon from it's place and pocketed it. When his task was done, Erik turned on his heel and donned his fedora once again; he had a letter to deliver, and he'd be damned if he wouldn't give those two managers one last satisfying fright.