Time Management
It was at first not difficult to think the man a lunatic.
The Opera Ghost saw and heard everything above the trapdoors. He was aware of the Persian Daroga snooping around, of Philippe de Chagny's liaisons with La Sorelli, of La Carlotta's half-whispered curses in Spanish. He could not fail to notice the strange man who arrived in bottle-green velvet instead of evening dress to numerous performances of Faust. Soon the man was everywhere—meeting with Richard and Moncharmin in their office, chatting with Mame Giry in the foyer, giving Christine Daaé a standing ovation as long and as fervent as young de Chagny's—that alone was cause for concern. Erik must know his identity.
Was the stranger credulous? He would soon find out.
"Ah, you must be the exalted Opera Ghost. How do you do?"
Had Erik made a sound? No—he had come out of a trapdoor in the foyer which, as it was a Thursday afternoon, was empty—aside from this impertinent stranger. "Very well. I'm afraid I've not yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
The stranger had anachronistically long brown hair, to his collar, in fact, and wore an expression of amusement—hardly the normal response to a ghost. Erik used his ventriloquism to the fullest. "Monsieur, you've been speaking to our good Mame Giry. She has told you of the ghost of Box Five."
"I presume that you are he?"
"None other."
"I don't believe in ghosts, as rule." Erik smiled; he'd heard these words before. "And I'm not waylaid by ventriloquism or legerdemain." The stranger became positively prim. "And I can't say I approve of blackmailing the management—or murder, for that matter." He'd been speaking to the Daroga! "However, your patronage of Miss Daaé could hardly be more appropriate. She's a good singer." Erik was startled. The man was impudent and knew too much.
"A musician, Monsieur? Who are you?"
"I'm a traveler."
Erik sneered. "What is your purpose in Paris?"
"Just visiting. I say, do you think you could come out of the shadows or the paneling or wherever you're hiding?"
The man's accent, which, at first, had been unrecognizable, now struck Erik as British. To a fault. "You are foreign."
"Yes, very. You might even call me alien."
Erik distrusted the way the man chuckled. "How alien?"
"You would not believe me if I told you."
Erik recognized and approved of the man's reticence. However, he was determined to discover his identity. He made an unprecedented offer. "Monsieur, I should very much like to hear your tale, credible or no. I shall indulge you by appearing to you, and you shall have the rare opportunity to say you have seen the Opera Ghost and lived."
The stranger sighed. "As you wish."
Erik climbed up from the trapdoor. He was wearing the mask that made his face look almost normal. He bowed.
"You won't believe me."
"You're speaking to a ghost. Go ahead."
"I'm a traveler in time. I've come to this time in a vessel that moves through space and time. I'm from another world."
There was a long silence. Erik laughed. "Oh, they say I'm mad!"
The madman shrugged. "No use, then, telling you about the tower of metal that will go up near the Trocadero in eight years, or the invention of the Marconi radio . . ."
Erik stopped. Perhaps he was mad—but it was certain his foreignness was of a different kind than Erik had experienced before. It intrigued him. "Bien. If you speak the truth, show me this vessel. This time vessel."
The stranger looked uncomfortable.
"I can only suspect that you are lying, by your—"
"All right, my ghostly interloper, you can see the ship. I've parked her in a cupboard just outside the foyer de la danse."
"Should not a time-ship be larger than one that can fit inside a cupboard?"
"Should not a ghost evince less interest in a nobleman who happens to be fond of a young ingénue?" Erik was struck dumb at the audacity of the observation, and meekly followed the madman to the foyer de la danse. They went quickly and cautiously; though ballet practice was conducted in the morning, there might still be a petit rat practicing her pliés.
As he had said, there was an odd blue rectangular block inside a cupboard. Erik hid his astonishment. "This belongs to the police, to the English police," Erik observed. "It says so. Did you perhaps abscond with it?"
"Don't be absurd. It would take too long to explain why it looks like this." The stranger clapped his hands together, rather nervously. "Are you convinced, Monsieur le Fantôme?"
Erik shook his head. "There is nothing that indicates to me that this object can travel anywhere."
The stranger bit his lip. He began to pace. "Oh, all right. You may come in, but only for a moment. I, trust, of course, that you'll be as silent as the grave?" Erik winced. He watched in silent fascination, however, as the man slipped a key into the door, opened it, and beckoned him through.
Erik strove for several minutes to attempt some rational explanation for what he was seeing—he was a master of illusion!—but he had never produced an illusion like this. He was standing in a cathedral-like space, with high, vaulted ceilings, rich carpeted furnishings, and an enormous glowing column in the center. He blinked. There was a good chance, however absurd, that the man was telling the truth.
"Well, self-described Opera Ghost, have you anything to say?"
Erik turned. He fingered his mask. "You have shown me something extraordinary. Let me now accord you a reciprocal privilege."
Before the stranger could utter a word, Erik spun around with his mask removed. The stranger stared a fraction longer than was necessary—he did not gawp or scream like others had. Still, it was enough that he did not see the savage blow Erik delivered with the handle of an umbrella he had picked up from the doorway.
Erik had not intended to seriously harm the stranger, but it happened that his head struck a chair and then a table as he fell. Erik heard the sickening crunch he knew all too well from the rosy hours of Mazenderan. He turned away from the body to examine the glowing column.
Once he had learned how to operate the time machine, he knew where he would take it. Christine would not remove his mask; she would not see Erik's face! But then—perhaps that would not stop her. Perhaps she would only try again! He must go—go back to when that wretched boy first heard her—he must prevent that, somehow!
No—and it struck Erik with awful clarity. He would go back to Rouen, to the mason's house where the abomination was about to be born. And he would put a stop to it. Somehow, this life of suffering must not be.
"You know, you can't get rid of me that easily." Erik was more perturbed than he would have liked to have admitted. He stiffened his shoulders, refused to turn around. He had administered enough crushing blows with the Punjab lasso to know that no one could have survived such a twisting of vertebrae. Yet, as he slowly swiveled to face the man in the bottle-green velvet, he began to wonder. Erik had read Poe's "Ligeia." He did not believe in reanimated corpses. But this corpse, however, seemed determined to convince him.