BOX FIVE
by Athena Lyso
Prologue
A black and terrible beauty lived inside him.
Those deaths were not his fault.
I was to blame.
He killed to find me,
to protect me-
-Mademoiselle
Headlines
November- Paris 1893
OPERA HOUSE RETIREMENT GALA FOR EXITING MANAGERS MARRED BY HANGING DEATH
page one headline Revue Theatrale
...two weeks later page six
INQUEST RULES OPERA DEATH IS A SUICIDE
Erik...
Joseph Buquet is dead.
I have destroyed this last.
He shall no longer plague you,
Live in you nightmares
He shall no more keep you away from me.
My sweet friend
Return to me before the madness does.
Grant your servant absolution,
Return to me my Sweet...
My love...
...My heart leapt when first I heard her sing.
Now it leaps again at the angelic voice of a little seamstress.
It is as if she has come back to me as she was before,
Beautiful and unspoiled by men like that monster Buquet
When first I saw my angel I thought it was she.
And when I heard her I knew there could be no doubt,
This innocent girl is my reward
By some miracle she has come back to me...
My sweet
My angel
My first love-
I shall not fail you a second time.
Headlines
December 1893
OPERA GHOST HAS RETURNED AND NEW MANAGEMENT MANAGE HAS TROUBLE WITH SOPRANOS
...Page 2 Theatrale Revue,
La Carlotta has shut down the production of Faust when she has refused to perform following an incident of 500 dead rats found in her dressing room. Managers claim it was a mistake made by one of the dozens of rat catchers they employ in the lower cellars. The boy believed Madame's dressing room to be the repository used for the carcasses until the rats are taken to the incinerator. La Carlotta has issued a statement saying that the event has her in a state of complete shock...
Erik...
I am so pleases that La Carlotta appreciates my gift.
The longer she refuses to return
The more apparent it will be how greatly superior my Christine is.
They cannot afford to stop production forever.
A little note left on her doorstep
Followed up with a bouquet of rat tales is just the thing.
She vows never to return.
Now they will hear the true Margarita
Now at last my angel will get to sing.
And perhaps a retainer for my services as musical director...
Personals
December 1893
Theatrale Revue, back page in the personals...
O.G.-There is no excuse for them. We left your Memorandum book in their care-Kind Regards former management.
Chapter 1
Mademoiselle
I put the paper down with trembling hands. They know not who or what they are dealing with. He will not be defied: opera ghost, phantom, or as I know him, Erik. However they choose to call him, he is not about to be categorized by any of their sciences. He will not be bound by their morality nor can he be purchased by their economy. His will be done or they shall meet the consequences.
Just when I had come to believe all was finished, allowed myself to believe he is at peace. What I fear most is the return of the madness. I can make allowances for the death of Joseph Buquet only to accept that it is the end of everything. I was naive to believe it could ever be so. But ever a fool I have been.
The gentle rocking of the train to Dover lulls my senses. London is behind me. I must return to him as I always do. We shall face this together, whatever it may be. I unleashed him upon this world, freeing him from his prison just as he freed me of mine.
There was never going to be a future for us. I abandoned him. I know now he would have never done that to me. Now we have paid the price of my neglect in the form of his sanity. It was not his face that condemned him but the blackness of his soul. He has never been whole. There was a time when it was easier just to let him believe that I was dead so I could escape. I needed time. I was young.
There were so many things he did not understand. Grieving my loss ravaged what remained of his humanity. The body count began to grow. He took his revenge upon the Opera. I felt no pity for his victims. I did not begrudge him their deaths. It was my revenge much more than his. I let five men hang before I let him know the truth. I waited until there was a sea between us before I let him know I lived. Even then I could not tell him the whole truth. I have yet to find the words to explain.
It wasn't until a year after the killings had stopped that I returned to him. I remained under his guidance and became the toast of Paris. In the end it was too painful for me to stay. Every day having to endure the leers of Joseph Buquet, the only man I did not name, the only man Erik had let live. He knew too many things about Erik and held that threat of that over my head. He knew other things about me too, things even Erik did not know.
Wherever Buquet was I could not bear to be. So I left. Leaving Erik alone once more. I promised to return every winter and I was as good as my word but it was not enough. My voice took me from city to city. I never remained more than a season in any one city. I became the toast of London, Dublin and Vienna. Then I traversed the Atlantic to headline in New York.
Erik gave that gift to me. My triumphs were his. I sent him the clippings, every rave review or advertisement. No matter where I was I followed the Parisian papers. Nothing was written of his antics for long stretches at a time, no violence or pranks. I took it for happiness. I took it for contentment with our arrangement. But if ever I was later than I promised, even by just a day, mischief marked my tardiness. So I learned to be punctual and he learned to wait.
In those days we used the personals to exchange messages. It was just the same when we first arrived in Paris. I was a faceless member of the chorus. No one ever suspected I had anything to do with the opera ghost. They never stumbled upon us in our meeting places like the roses near the Palais de Louvre or any of the countless music rooms within the opera house. In those days it was our time, our secret, our game. It was a simple. No one was paying attention us or so we believed. We had been playing at it for so long we forgot to pay attention to the world around and be cautious.
Paris was our new beginning. My pretty knees had me first cast as a dancer before a gypsy lullaby gained me a position on the chorus. I was set up with a dorm room like all the other girls. The luxury of my own bed was heaven and every thing was covered in clean linen white as snow. There was no need to beg or steal my bread.
I was not like the other girls, giggling at the gifts from their admirers or sitting in parlors powdered and cinched after a day of practice. They were there to catch the eye of a rich patron. I kept upstairs and trained for something more. I was better than those simpering ballerinas. I had a voice and an angel of music to guide me.
Erik was hired on as a mason for the final phase of construction of Garnier's temple to music. He wore a false beard and fake nose to replace the one the Sultan had lopped off. He did not seem to mind working for the man who stole his life's work. I was angry for the both of us. Knowing what I do, it will always be Erik's temple.
I remembered his drawings from the early days of our captivity among the gypsies. When they took his paper as punishment he scratched out every detail in the dirt. He spoke of little else that first year inside the camp unless it was to comfort me. From the very beginning he took me under his wing from inside his iron cage. I was only six years old when we met. His face never frightened me.
Perhaps it was the hypnotic quality of his voice. It is the breath of heaven and the seduction of the devil all in one. I have found it to be a living thing all its own. How else am I to explain how his words can whisper so intimately in my ear when he is nowhere to be seen? Or when his shadow teases me from across the garden, though the warmth of his breath is on my neck. His voice is alive, a separate soul. How else can I reconcile the two halves? One is a monster, dark and hideous, and the other an angel, gentle and beautiful.
The blast of the train's whistle recalls me to the present as the wheels screeches to a halt against the rails. I take several deep breaths to calm the uneasiness I feel at the prospect of boarding the boat. The warm hand of Mary, my maid, pats my forearm reassuringly. The damp air bites through every layer as we descend the platform, sending a mutual shiver up our spines. The steam from the train hardly makes a dent in the winter fog.
"Don't worry Mademoiselle. It is a fine day even if it is winter. The crossing to Calais cannot be too terrible."
I smile knowing she has never made the crossing in winter. "Thank you, Mary." We step on to the gangway and she is as green as I feel. I applaud her English stiff upper lip. I have lived among her countrymen for five years now and never quite mastered it.