Chapter 3- A Strange Reaction
Erik's POV
The first time I walked back into the Opéra Populaire, my heart nearly stilled and broke on the spot. It was devastating what the fire had reduced my beautiful theater to, and the worst part of all that I saw, was that I knew that all of this had been caused by the work of my own hands. The remorse and shame that coursed through me was insufferable, but I deserved every bit of it. I sat and just blankly stared out from the stage, for what felt like hours, until resolve took over my spirit again.
'Pitying yourself and stewing in your own self-loathing, is not going to get this place mended.' I chastised myself as I stood up and brushed the dust from my pants, surprisingly, there was very little there. I looked around the stage perplexedly, surely there would at least be more dust, let alone ash clinging to the stage, but it looked clean. That is when my eyes settled upon a small set up towards the front of the stage. There was a small chair, a music stand, and several folders of music stacked nearby.
Shocking even myself, I was not angered by this unknown trespasser's presence in my opera. It must have been the manner in which everything was arranged. It demonstrated that whoever this person was, they showed great care and respect for the music, for the scores were arranged quite carefully. It brought a genuine smile to my face. Something I have not brought myself to do, in an extremely long time.
'Because the person is mostly likely a musician.' Reason piped up in my head. It made me quite curious, for now I wanted to know more about this person's musical history, their talents and strengths; yes, the long quiet musician was being awoken once more.
There was still a booklet of music resting upon the metal stand. I picked it up and studied the page it was left open on; it was the flute part of the finale for the William Tell Overture. Guillaume Tell was not one of my personal favorite operas, but it did show that this mysterious player had either great skill or high aspirations, which it was I could not be certain of. However, I had a knowing feeling that I would be finding out soon.
During the day I had managed to sweep up most of the shattered glass and ash from the floor and cleared most of the rubble away from the charred orchestra pit. Currently I was polishing and re-oiling the footlights, when I heard the front doors open and light footsteps click across the foyer. As the footsteps neared, I quickly melted into the shadows and disappeared up to box five. All the while thinking, 'It seems my mysterious musician has arrived.' As I sat there waiting, a light melody met my ears:
"Little golden blackbird, sees through the shadows at night, little golden blackbird, help my soul to take flight. There was a song I used to know, and it started an A above G, oh little golden blackbird, please help my soul to see. See all the riches, see all the good in the night, call to me little innocent blackbird, to help my soul take flight." The voice was coming from the small-framed girl in her late teens that had just entered the theater, carrying a small black case.
I couldn't help myself from thinking, that she has a nice voice, but not nearly as beautiful as Christine's. My smile quickly faded. 'Stop thinking such things, they will only lead you back to those sorrows again.' Right. But it was true, the girl did have a nice voice, raw and untrained, I could tell, but with a little help, she- 'No! I will not place myself in that position again. Have I learned nothing from-' I cut off my rantings as the girl began to tune and warm up with a basic B scale.
She then began playing on the page that she had left open on the stage; her skill captivated me immediately as her agile fingers fluttered across the keys. This young flutist's skills were flawless, she was clearly well taught. At such a young age, she was well on the way to becoming a virtuosa.
Geneve's POV
I finished the last bar and laid my flute across my lap. This piece has taken me several days to learn, but I felt that my last playing was sufficient mastery of it. As I was trying to rack my memory for any dynamics errors that I could have overlooked, light clapping snapped me from my thoughts. It was soft and eerie as it echoed throughout the empty auditorium.
"Brava mademoiselle! Bravissima!" A male voice practically sang from out of the shadows. It was undeniably a beautiful voice, none by which the likes I've ever heard.
"Who's there?" I called out uncertainly.
"Do not fret child, I have no wish to harm you." The musical voice spoke back strongly, yet gently. "I only wish to praise your extraordinary playing."
"Oh. Merci, monsieur." I smiled as I looked down, playing shyly with my hands. No one has praised my playing since my grandfather's death.
"You are quite a talent. You must have begun instruction at a young age. Am I correct?" The voice spoke back, seeming almost awestruck. 'No. You silly girl, now you are being full of yourself. Pride leads to ruin.' I quickly berated myself for my arrogance.
However, it was true, the Phantom was in awe of the young woman's talents.
"Yes, monsieur. I began instruction at six." I answered quietly, unsure how to handle this unaccustomed amount of attention to my music.
"Your teacher must be tremendously pleased with you." The kind voice replied warmly.
"I would hope that he is." My voice dropped to just above a whisper as I looked up towards the ceiling of the stage. I quickly reached up to brush away a stray tear, before my company could see, but my hopes were in vain.
"My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not mean to upset you." The voice said softly as if trying to console me.
"It is fine." I took a breath to recompose myself. "It's never easy to lose your mentor and closest family member. I'm sure you can understand."
Erik's POV
To be honest, I didn't understand; I had never had any family to be close to. I was always just shoved away in disgust and hatred. 'This face, which earned a mother's fear and loathing.' I though scathingly as fury bubbled up inside me, but I quickly pushed it aside. The poor girl was distraught and hurt, it showed in every movement she made. She had truly loved this person and with them gone, she was lost. She tries so hard to hide it, but the loneliness still seeps through.
"I can imagine it would be a difficult experience. I understand the pain of loss well enough." I replied softly, trying to keep the brewing sorrow out of my voice.
She was silent for a moment, before she quietly began to speak again. "Monsieur, forgive me for asking, but are you the one that people always talk about; the one that lives in the opera?"
She had asked the one question, that I truly was not ready to answer. If I told her the truth, how would she react? Would she run for the police and alert them, for surely they must assume me to be dead after the fire? Or would she shriek and run away like people have all my life? Should I even tell her, or should I just melt back into the shadows and return to my lair without another word? She must have taken my silence as the answer to her question and turned to grab another booklet of music.
I sighed heavily, having mixed feelings about what I was about to do. "Yes. I am the one people call the Phantom of the Opera."
Her head shot up in shock, making my heart sink. However instead of rushing from the room, she simply stared up near to where I was hidden and smiled. "You are real, wow." She whispered under her breath. "I've heard about your brilliant music. It is an honor to be in your presence monsieur. Please do not be angry at me for being in your opera house."
It was most certainly not the reaction I was expecting, to put it mildly. The reverence in her tone made me smile as I placed a gloved hand over my heart. The warmth I felt there, felt alien and strange, but it felt nice. "Nonsense, any true musician is always welcome in my home."
She smiled brightly. "Thank you, monsieur ph- what would you prefer me to address you as?" She finished sheepishly as a light blush crept onto her cheeks.
Yet another surprise. No one has ever asked me what name I prefer, then again, only one person has ever asked me for my name; Antoinette Giry, the only friend I have ever known. A smile grew on my lips. This woman has shown me kindness and for that I will share with her my true name.
"You may call me Erik, mademoiselle."
It is strange, how trusting I am toward this complete stranger, I cannot tell if it is from a realization of the loneliness that I have felt burning for all these years, or if it was simply her genuine kindness that just touched my heart. But either way, it was blindingly extraordinary, and I could only pray that these rash irregular actions, that discarded everything that I have ever learned about self-preservation, would not be the same to send me to my demise.
"Erik." She repeated softly back to herself.
The emotions that surged with the sound of hearing her say my name, were warm, yet unexpected. I did not anticipate how nice it would sound to hear someone speak my name in a gentle soothing voice, instead of in fear.
"Monsieur Erik, may I formerly ask if I may use the opera as a place to practice? I do not want to impose." The young woman asked with apprehension.
This woman continues to baffle me more and more. Why would she think I would mind if she played her sweet melodies here?
"Of course, mademoiselle. You are always welcome to come as often as you desire. Although I must confess that you will make me feel guilty, to be the sole ears to be graced by your music." I replied finding a smile and slight chuckle in my voice. It was all so strange, to feel such happiness, but dare I say that- that I enjoy it.
"Thank you Monsieur Erik!" She exclaimed before she fell oddly silent. "It truly means so much to me that you are letting me return. I have no where else to play." She whispered, sadness teeming in her words.
"Surely your family must enjoy your musical abilities?" I replied perplexedly. I truly did not understand what she was telling me. Why if I had a child that was as talented as she is, I would be overjoyed and assure that she had everything she could possibly require to nurture her musical genius.
"No monsieur, in truth, they hate it. They find my passion for music improper and have forbade me from playing in the house."
This made my heart drop. Forbid music? To stifle such a talent? I felt my fist tighten as anger coursed through my veins. A feeling I was far more familiar with.
"They dislike my playing, my singing, everything that gives me joy. Since my grandfather passed, I've had no sure place to go, but across the city, far from where they could find me. Once I had heard of the fire, I felt that I would be safe in these halls. But surely you must understand, Monsieur Erik, that it is the very lifeblood that fills my soul! They will never understand that to rob me of my music, is to banish me to hell! They are killing me, and they don't even know it!" She finished as she crumpled into sobs. All that pain and hurt that she had just released to me, how many years has she been hiding it away, telling no one of her deepest torment? Before I had truly realized my actions, I was slipping through the quickest passage from box five to the stage.
The poor girl was still sobbing in anguish as I laid a consoling arm around her shoulder, covering her back with my cape, like a blanket of darkness; soft and comforting.
"Shh little angel come rest your wings, you have come home now, where music freely sings. Dry your tears little angel, here in the darkness, no one can harm you. You are welcome in the kingdom of the night." I sang soothingly in her ear.
Her tears slowly began to cease as she leaned into my chest, another affection I was unaccustomed to.
"Thank you for your comforts, Monsieur Erik, you sing beautifully." She smiled, as she looked up at my face, but then quickly blushed and looked down when she realized how close we were. Shy little thing, isn't she. Yet so trusting… "Forgive me, monsieur. I should not trouble you with my emotional issues."
"Fret not, young miss. It is best to expose ones emotions, than to suppress them within. They are instigators and inspiration of our craft." I replied with understanding, as I wiped a remaining tear from her cheek. I leaned back and for a moment we simply just stared out into the auditorium.
Then my cheeks began to burn from embarrassment- Wait, embarrassment? I never feel embarrassed- but I've been a most uncourteous host, I never asked her for her name. It seems I really am none to good with social interaction. Turning to her, I spoke trying to hide my self-consciousness, "Mademoiselle, my sincerest apologies, but it just dawned on me, that I never asked you for your name."
"It's Geneve, monsieur. Do not be troubled, I take no offense." She smiled, placing a small hand over mine, which rested on the back of her chair. I was taken aback by her unexpected touch.
"Cher le ciel! Monsieur what time is it?" She suddenly started as she grabbed her case and hastily placed the three pieces of her instrument in it.
"I wish I could tell you, Mademoiselle Geneve." I sighed, feeling helplessly useless.
"Oh, I hope my parents do not catch me." She fretted as she stood to leave.
"Will I see you again, Monsieur Erik?" She turned back and looked me straight in the eyes with her bright emerald ones.
"I am always here, ma chère." I reached out and gave her hand a small kiss.
A light blush spread to her cheeks as she smiled.
"I'm glad. Good night, Monsieur Erik." She waved as she hustled out of the theater.
"Good night, Mademoiselle Geneve. Be safe." I called after her, never convincing the smile to fall from my face.
