Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and in particular to deadtom for her help with this one! It was hard to write so all comments and suggestions are welcome.
Gerard sank into his chair and breathed a sigh of relief that the long, stressful day was over. Thankfully that vain, horrible woman was dismissed at last. It had been a long struggle though, with himself and the musical director trying to persuade her that her voice was simply "not appropriate" for opera and that the operas performed here did not suit her voice… Anything but the truth; the truth being that she never bothered turning up for rehearsals most of the time, that she did not have one scrap of talent or even potential talent, that she constantly demanded changes to her costume, hairstyle, even the scenery…
Of course, it had all started with one of Erik's infamous notes:
My dear lady,
For many years now, La Traviata has been one of my favourite operas; indeed the current production is something of a treat for me. However in my humble opinion it would be a much better opera if you were not playing the main part. In fact, having considered all the roles, both major and minor, (in my professional capacity, you understand) I cannot find any suitable role for you and therefore out of the kindness of my heart I would suggest that you resign with immediate effect.
With regards to an alternative career, you may be able to find employment as a street vendor where your loud, discordant voice would be most useful.
Your friend,
The Phantom of the Opera
On reading this note, which was thrust under his nose by the lady in question, Gerard almost burst from trying to suppress his laughter. He could not get rid of the mental image of Madame Moreno working as a street vendor and shouting about her wares, dressed in an outlandish wig and all her finery. The lady herself was shocked and insulted of course, but regardless of this development she needed to go, and go she did, muttering under her breath about "jumped up stage hands" who had "ideas above their station". But after all these years, such disparaging remarks were nothing to Gerard.
Now he was in his office, finishing off his paperwork, tidying up and getting ready to go home for the day.
"You did well today," came a voice from within the wall and Gerard knew exactly who it was.
"Erik! Were you listening earlier?"
"Of course. I like to keep an eye, or sometimes an ear, on events in our Opera House."
"I'm glad she's gone. Where on earth did she get the idea she could sing, or act for that matter? Nobody else liked her and it's not surprising. Horrible piece of work."
"Pity you didn't tell her that earlier".
"I wanted to, believe me, and more besides. But I can't, you know that, Erik. I can't be like you, not here in a place like this."
"You called her a "horrible piece of work". That's what I was thinking earlier. Those very words."
"Really?"
"Indeed. And I have a feeling you enjoyed my little note too."
"I do believe it was... something along the lines of what I would have written. If I wasn't the manager, that is. Erik, I envy you sometimes, being able to express yourself so freely. Perhaps we do have some similarities-"
Gerard stopped abruptly, mid-sentence. What on earth am I thinking of, saying that? I might as well just tell him the truth about us and be done with it…
But instead, he rose quickly from his desk, which was still untidy, before putting on his coat with awkward, fumbling fingers and locking his office door, only to turn around and see Erik standing there in the flesh.
"I was getting bored, talking to you through the wall," he stated simply, after Gerard had gotten over the fright.
"How on earth do you move around so quickly?"
"I can't understand how you people move around so slowly," he replied with a shrug, "Allow me to walk you to the door, at least."
As they parted at the entrance, Erik did something unexpected. He extended his hand for Gerard to shake, which he did willingly, but there was something in those eyes, something sad and indefinable that longed for more. But Erik would have been about five when he'd last hugged him, he couldn't start now, they were both adults, a hug would tear down the barrier that Gerard fought so hard to maintain… The manager who hated hearing weak excuses from his employees for their lateness or bad workmanship was certainly adept at creating a few of his own at moments like this.
It was strange, Gerard thought as he walked home alone. Sometimes he thought about inviting Erik home for a cup of tea, or for dinner, or even to sleep on his sofa, just to let him experience being in a house above ground. Erik... this eccentric character who barely knew what a father was and yet still longed for one, deep down. It was easier to believe that they were different people; it helped Gerard to sometimes pretend there was no blood tie between them at all. But maybe they weren't that different after all? They had the same sense of humour and usually liked the same music too. Most of all, Erik would often say the very things that he would have said himself if his job didn't forbid it.
Yes, they both wore masks, but his mask was invisible…
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
That year before Christine arrived, and before Gerard's successor, and all the events that happened afterwards… they were good days, all in all. Looking back, Gerard would imagine that year as a time when everything seemed to be building towards something, but that may have been with the benefit of hindsight. At the time, everyone was just living in the moment, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.
Gerard was a popular manager; firm but fair, and considered to be a true gentleman. Privately, many of his employees felt rather sorry for him being at the beck and call of a mysterious "ghost" or at least, that was how it seemed to them. He had several genuine friends among the patrons, including Philippe, the amiable, fun-loving Comte de Chagny who, strangely enough, reminded him of himself at that age. A wealthier, more handsome version of himself of course. He'd started coming to the Opera with his parents when he was fourteen or fifteen and was now a regular visitor. Gerard did not approve of the his friend's succession of lady friends, or the way he gave them false hope of a singing career but nonetheless he was a fairly likeable young man, if a little superficial. Now that the older Comte was dead, he used to tease the manager about being his second father.
They would often sit together for performances or attend functions in the nearby bistro, where most of the company liked to spend their free evenings. Philippe would tell him news about Comte-de-this or Vicomte-de-that, meaningless names for the most part but always delivered in that easy going manner that endeared him to everyone he met. Sometimes Gerard would think of his son, alone in his lair and feel guilty for cultivating this friendship. But why shouldn't he befriend someone who could walk above ground, in broad daylight? It wasn't as if Erik could accompany him anywhere in public – was it?
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"I see your friend was here again last night," Erik remarked curtly. He was not very fond of the Comte, who seemed to demand so much of his only friend's time.
"He is very nice when you get to know him," Gerard replied.
"Well, I don't think that's possible for me, is it?" Erik sneered, and not for the first time, there was a note of accusation in his voice. The older man looked at the ground.
"I'm sorry," his son conceded at last, and Gerard breathed a sigh of relief. They were walking through the "forest", a place which still unnerved him a little and when he stopped to lean against a tree, he jumped when he felt something furry under his hand. Furry and lifeless, like all the other "animals".
"That's just a squirrel, he won't hurt you," Erik assured him.
"Indeed not…"
"I wanted to talk to you about, well, about your workload and how it's affecting you. You know, I'm not that little boy any more; the one you used to read fairy tales to. I have no doubt that you will continue to keep people away from here but you have a busy job and you don't have to keep visiting me in addition to your regular duties. I cannot keep you to an arrangement that is tiring you out."
There it was, laid out on the table for him.
"I do need to keep coming down, you see... I used to…" I used to know your mother. That "explanation" is no longer enough. But what else can I say, after all these years?
"Gerard, I cannot keep expecting you to make that journey down here. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself and am very grateful for everything you've done. But you are not as young as you once were-"
"Nonsense, I'm not that old!"
"Oh, come on my friend!" he chuckled, "we both know you're old enough to be my father!"
Gerard's heart lurched in his chest. His heart thumped so loudly he was almost sure that Erik could hear it as the word hung between them, like a dagger. There was a brief, fleeting moment where their eyes met; those eyes that were so alike, if only Gerard could accept it.
He knows…
But he couldn't know, it was ridiculous, they'd never spoken of such things… I have to keep going, as if nothing has happened…
Tapping his fingers against a branch in a pointless rhythm, he cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the grass at his feet, if it actually was grass, that is... His whole body felt like lead.
"N-no, I'm happy to come here, from time to time, whenever it suits you," he blurted out, trying to avoid those eyes that seemed to read his mind. But that idea is ridiculous too, no-one can do that, can they?
""If you wish to keep visiting then, I can only thank you and look forward to seeing you here again soon," Erik announced, in a tone that sounded like a head waiter bidding farewell to an occasional customer. Which was ironic, considering he'd never even set foot in a restaurant.
Gerard couldn't remember what he said next or how he managed to get away, or even his long trek back to the surface. He was distracted and distant that day, which garnered sympathetic enquiries from everyone, all of which were met with vague replies about feeling a bit tired.
It wasn't just Erik. It was everything. Perhaps he was getting old, after all? He hardly noticed the mysterious Italian couple that began frequenting the Opera House, looking around at everything in fascination, or the way they were questioning the employees and regular visitors and making notes in elegant notebooks. He tried to ignore Comte Philippe's ever-changing female companions or the ladies he sent to Paris for singing lessons that never materialised.
Much later, when it was all over, he wondered if his complacency and cowardice had contributed to it all. Sometimes things just happen for no apparent reason, sometimes there is no way of preventing them from happening but even then, there is still that very human tendency to wonder... "what if?"
