The prince of darkness is a gentleman. -William Shakespeare, King Lear
* * *
I found a man standing in Box Five.
He had seen me, caught me off guard, and looked at me squarely in the eye while the corners of his lips curled up in invitation.
He was about twenty-three, with a flawed handsomeness that perfected his green eyes and the crescent moons tied to the edges of his lips. His hair was slicked back like mine, smooth as the contours of his face. All of his features stood out to me in a vampiric, shadowy sort of allure. He wore a teal black coloured suit, embroidered at the neckline by small velvet ivy vines, tailored to compliment his tall frame precisely to the very last detail of his small silver cufflinks. It was the costume of a wealth, but not gaudily impersonal. His eyes fixated on me before his lips parted for the outpour of his greeting.
"Pleasure to meet you, my Lord."
I'd prepared to kill him but stopped immediately.
"No, The pleasure is all mine."
I stared at the child, so boldly beautiful and arrogant in his nerve that I could not help but stop myself from hurting him. I knew I had broken my no visitors rule—but I was taken aback from his charismatic smile the same way that I was enraptured by Christine's voice. I stared at him as if I was looking into the face of beauty for a second time.
His name was Luke. He said he'd traveled far and wide in search of the music teacher who can teach him to play the violin, but he did not waste his time with others because he came directly to me. It was his first time in the Garnier d'Opera, though he had heard many stories of le Fantome de l'Opera before. He told me that in a dream he was guided to a man in a mask, and all roads led him to Paris, and away from his home in London. He said that he'd read every article of the mysteries of the Opera Ghost, but nothing touched him but my music—he knew of Christine Daaé and her unimpeded success; he knew her voice was mine. He said he did not come to see for himself, but that he came to learn. He said,
"You may reject me, but I demand one lesson."
"What makes you think I will give them to you?" I asked.
"Because you've said 'them' and not 'it', already."
In truth, I could have rejected him. But I did not. He had the arrogance and impudence in his face that I once had only admired in myself.
He followed me down to my dungeon of darkness quietly but his excitement was louder than his beating heart. It was as if he'd waited his whole life to walk slowly and breathlessly behind me. He seemed like a child of quite sane stature, but something in his eyes glistened of an insanity that only I had witnessed once in a lifetime before. The fiery lust for adventure. Had he not known of Christine's success, he would never learned of me. But once his very verbal gasp rang through the undergrounds when he reached my chambers, he knew he had Christine to thank.
"It's your private Kingdom, down here," He whispered quietly. His eyes caressed every corner of the labyrinthe: the smooth wax gliding down the burning candles, the glassy, cold and mirror-like lake, and ivory well-felt keys of the invasively spread pipe organ…all in it's own gallantry. I knew at once, that unlike Christine, he had an appetite for true beauty.
He turned to me, holding up his violin, the only instrument he brought with him other than a large sum of money to support his journey. He stroked the strings gently with his sword and slowly began to play with a tune so soft that it swayed the flames of the candelabras…but then it stirred a bit louder and the tune leaped into a faster rhythm, one that I recognized immediately to be Amadeus…
He played and his head swayed with his body, his fingers moving at lightning's speed but I followed them precisely to each movement and heart-felt tip. His talent was only natural borne. He had no confinements of the typical techniques of an instructor—he had no awkward generic movements of the forced need to feel music. He was playing truth in his wand…and I knew at once he came for nothing.
When he finished playing, I took the violin from his hands and plucked a few of its strings with my fingers, humming in thirds to the notes I was playing. Then I repeated the same song to him, but this time the way I had learned it, trained but bearing its own originality. I played until the flames were dancing with the notes in my blurred vision, and I saw him staring at my, what seemed like, trembling hands, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Then I suddenly stopped, and thrust the violin into the fireplace where it burst into splendid flames and a thousand red wood pieces.
"You don't need violin lessons." I was breathing heavily.
He stared into the flames as if I had just broken his heart.
"Why did you do it?" His hands were shaking. As were his body.
"Because you already know how to handle such small things…Tell me, have you ever tried to play the organ?"
His eyes lifted, but he was uninterested.
"Beauty comes in many shapes and forms, you see," I sat at my organ and struck a chord. "If you only know one, that would be like seeing one color. Now how interesting would the world be if everything was blue?"
"Well, there are many shades of blue."
"Then red does not appeal to you, I suppose?" I began playing Amadeus on the organ as I said this. Then I felt his hand fall lightly on the keys in a clashing manner.
Smiling, he said, "I'll try red. If you teach me."
How could I resist?