Reflections
The face on the coin thrust Erik back in time, dissolving the almost thirty years since he rode along the banks of the Caspian sea, escaping Persia, the palace, the brutality and terror to himself and that which he inflicted upon others.
"Shah?"
"My sister is bored, Ereek. What can you do to entertain her?"
"What indeed, he wondered – they were fascinated with mirrors. The little sultana loved to watch others, but preferred, primarily, to watch herself indulging in the acts of violence her own imagination created. Binding her maids, legs open, genitals exposed – small eggs would be inserted into their vaginas then snakes allowed to feed. The maids screaming in both terror and what the khanum believed to be sexual ecstasy was a pastime she never tired of. The multiple images titillated her as nothing else could.
"Have you ever thought of experiencing the sensation yourself?" Erik asked, his eyebrow quirked in challenge.
"I should much prefer your snake" was her retort.
"Ah, but we have already had that discussion – I fear you are no temptation to me."
"A room of mirrors, perhaps, where insolent servants and citizens can be tricked into believing fire is water and in their final agonies hang themselves from a noose."
"Indeed, let it be so, I suspect I should enjoy that entertainment myself."
"As you wish."
Erik and Nadir sit across one another at their partners' desk reviewing the newest installations Phantom Security has taken on – Christine sitting on the sofa closest to Erik as she knits a pale blue sweater for the expected baby, when there is a knock on the door.
"Enter," Erik says, smiling when the rumpled figure of Inspector Marquand enters.
"Edouard," Nadir says, "Thank you for coming here."
"There are questions that must be asked of your personnel, so I would have been here regardless. Fremed has already begun, I shall join him shortly."
"Tea?" Christine asks.
"No, thank you, Madame," Marquand says. "A blue sweater? Your child will be both warm and well dressed – unlike my own poor self."
"I would be happy to knit you a sweater, Inspector," Christine says. "That is, if your wife would be amenable."
"She is a blessed woman, putting up with me, but has no skills with sewing or knitting," he responds. "However, you offer excellent advice."
"Please at least have a seat," Erik says.
Marquand shakes his head. "I came to bring you the coins – since you have traveled the world, you might be able to tell us where they originated." Handing the gold coin to Erik, he waits for his impression.
Erik drops the qajar on the desk, as if his own fingers are burned by the memory. "Naser al-Din Shah Qajar – this is one of the foreign coins you found in Vicomte de Chagny's cloak?"
Nadir picks up the coin, rubbing the embossed head with his thumb. "There are others?"
"Several of these gold pieces along with silver coins," Inspector Marquand answers, taking another coin from his pocket, placing it on the desk next to the qajar."
"Dinar," Nadir says. "A nice take, if this was a gambling win."
"The problem with this, as the daroga will confirm, is that those who follow Mohammed do not gamble."
"May I see the coin – the gold one with the image of the Shah?" Christine asks, rising from the settee, holding out her hand.
"Of course." Nadir lays it on her palm.
Holding the disc between her thumb and middle finger, she examines the image.
Erik watches her face harden and her eyes darken from aqua to jade, her upper lip curls into a sneer.
Returning the qajar to Nadir, she says, "Thank you." When she faces Erik, her eyes are filled with tears, some breaking free to run slowly down her cheeks. "Would it be odd to say his is the most repulsive face I have ever seen? Yet you are the one who was scorned."
"I created evil as well – I have told you – Nadir knows," Erik replies.
"You were not born with beauty, wealth and power – this…person had no excuse for his base actions," she says, going to him, touching his exposed cheek with her hand.
Marquand clears his throat. "May I assume that you were acquainted with the man whose image is embossed on this coin?"
"Yes," Erik says, standing up, taking Christine's hand, to lead her back to the settee, sitting down next to her.
"He is the Shah of Persia – Erik designed and built his palace. I was a sheriff…daroga under his rulership," Nadir explains.
"Not a benevolent monarch, I take it," Marquand says, pocketing the coins. "So we are interested in someone, or a group of Persians?"
"The evidence seems to suggest as much," Erik says.
"A knowledge of the language and culture would be helpful," the Inspector says.
"We shall provide whatever assistance we can," Nadir rises from the desk, leading Marquand to the door. "Let us find Darius, the Persian community here is made up mostly of young students – he would be better able to make inquiries than I."
"Thank you for your assistance – I am sorry that this meeting awakened old, less than pleasant memories," the Inspector says. "Madame, I shall inquire how my wife feels about my accepting a custom-made sweater from another woman."
"Are you all right?" Christine asks Eric, taking his long thin hands in hers, running her fingers over the scars that run like small white rivers from wrists to fingertips.
"These scars are from another time and place, my dear. I cannot put the blame for them on the Shah or little Sultana."
"When?"
The sight of his mother adjusting her hat in front of the glass fascinated him. The door to her boudoir was open a fraction, the latch not catching properly. She would be furious if she saw him there watching – but she was so beautiful and he could see two of her. How was that possible?
It was his birthday – or so she told him, and she would be bringing him a special treat upon her return from the village. His wish was only to be with her – well, with her and a touch – a kiss, but that was unlikely. He would accept the gift – likely a book or, perhaps a new violin. His music she allowed – welcomed, even.
Her movements alerted him to the completion of her toilette, sending him scampering silently down the hall to his own room, closing the door softly behind him, to wait.
At the sound of the front door being locked, he returned to her room – curious about the piece of glass that reflected his mother's image.
What was this? A boy with a cloth mask on his face looked back at him. Could it be me?
Taking his own mask in hand, he lifted it from his face – curious to see what the glass would reveal. Amber eyes grew large in terror at what he saw before him. Distorted lips, red, too red and thick – one side of the head looking as though someone poured hot wax causing an eye, an ear, a cheek to meld together in random ridges – leaving a chasm in the skull where bone and skin should be. Screams pierced his ears, forcing him to cover them, block the noise coming from his own mouth.
"Monster!"
Repeatedly thrusting both fists against the glass, it shattered, cutting his hands, blood splattered over the dressing table and all of Madeleine's perfume bottles – her combs and brushes. His own clothing was covered in red and shards of the hiding place of the demon.
Relieved, he sank to the floor, his racing heart calm, breathing back to normal.
"I killed the monster. It cannot hurt her. Thank you, God. Thank you."
"The first time I saw my face - the first person I killed was myself. For all her coldness, she protected me from my own face. The only mirror in the house was locked in her room."
Gently removing his mask, she kisses the edge of his mouth, distorted and over-sized, but soft and so comforting when pressed against her own lips and the other parts of her body he has explored. "I wish she could have known you – your love for her."
"Alas, she did not, but you have helped diminish a great level of the pain – and for that I am so grateful," he says, reversing the hand-holding, taking hers – primarily soft and smooth, but with her own share of calluses from her knitting and sewing and other labors she partakes in. No privileged person, she, not his Christine.
"The Shah?"
"You have seen the results of his handiwork on the rest of my body."
"You would not bend to him…"
"No – the torture was a sort of game – to keep me aware of his power."
"Do you suppose he is behind this in some way – or, the little sultana, as you call her?"
"We are the same age – he has been to Europe – I cannot think that he is still interested in me so long as he still believes I am dead – and there is no reason for him to think otherwise."
"What of her?"
"Thirty years - her memory would be long, longer than his, no doubt. Again, though, any interest would arise if I was believed to have escaped."
"But this Persian community?"
"Opposed to his rule from what I understand."
"Still…"
"There is always that...still…"
The rehearsal room is empty with the exception of Alex and Monique sitting with their heads together, hands entwined, giggling. From a distance, it is almost impossible to tell them apart – with Monique's hair cropped short – by choice, now, rather than being part of the aftermath of her abduction. Long-legged and finely boned in matching blue leotards, Monique eschewing the dancing dress worn by the other ballet rats. The only apparent distinctive piece of apparel – their shoes. Alex in fine black leather with metal pieces attached to sole and heel. Monique in her newest slippers – Erik's gift.
"The loving siblings," Raoul says, dressed in a morning suit of a conservative gray tweed, with a pale blue waistcoat offering a touch of color carrying a black duffle bag. "May I join you?
Monique jumps to her feet, skipping to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. "Of course, my darling," she says. "It is about time you and Alex got to know one another better."
Alex leans forward, pressing himself to his feet to do a light tap shuffle. "I am not convinced that your beau wishes to know me better."
"Nor you, I," Raoul responds. "However, I happen to be in love with your sister – I have to believe that you share similar qualities beyond a passion for dance that might induce me to find some affection for you as well."
"So you do recognize it as a passion – not just something she enjoys?" Alex asks. "She gave up quite a lot to pursue her dream."
"I am aware of that – yes, I spend a great deal of time watching her."
"It has been noticed."
"That does not bother me – despite my seeming ignorance, I am aware of what most people think of me – I am reminded of it often enough by my brother among others. I have my reasons, not all of which have to do with obsession – although there is that." The barest smile crosses his face as he looks down on her upturned face.
"Raoul, you do not have to say these things – Alex is being protective of me, he does not know…"
"Know what?"
"That is for Monique to tell you – let us just say, I am concerned for her safety – even at times when she herself is not concerned," he says, tousling her curls.
Monique frowns, her eyes narrow and lips purse.
Alex looks back and forth between them – observing the silent dialogue. "Monique?"
"Not now," she says, her eyes flash at him.
Why did he have to cut her hair? Oh, yes, his mother had beautiful hair. But why could she not have beautiful hair as well?
She was grateful he was leaving her alone now – she felt her body starting to heal – the pain between her legs and the bruising slowly becoming just a memory. Her dreams were still filled with the bulk of the man ramming his member into her over and over, day after day, for weeks – then stopped. Stopped even looking at her. Forgetting her for days at a time. Making her grateful for the times he remembered – for only then would she have food and clean water. Could empty her chamber pot and wash herself.
She was different in other ways – her courses had stopped and, as a dancer, she felt a difference in the way her body responded to her efforts to dance – her balance, ability to bend and turn required adjustment.
When she told him of her condition – he beat her and threw her away. Free again.
"In due time, Alex," she says. "I will tell you of all my…adventures in due time."
"Someone hurt you – I understand that."
"You understand nothing, but you will, I promise. For now, I just want to dance with you."
"As you wish, I have no desire to pry."
Taking the bag from Raoul, she places it on the floor, then wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. "Raoul takes care of me now."
They both glance at the duffle, before looking at one another.
Alex' eyes narrow – again, the silent dialogue between the woman he no longer knows and the man she seems to both love and hate. "I shall respect your wishes, my sister. You deserve nothing but love and understanding. My intention is not to offend either you or the vicomte."
Her face brightens and she gives Raoul another kiss on the cheek, then rejoins Alex – rewarding him in kind. "Shall we begin working on our routine?"
"Routine?" Raoul asks.
"Madame Giry has asked us to create a dance for the show – she felt it would be a novelty and would encourage a new audience for the Garnier."
"Indeed," Raoul says. "I can see that." He manages a small smile. "May I observe, or do you prefer to work in private."
"Please stay," Monique says. "That is all right, Alex, is it not?"
"If that is what makes you comfortable – I love an audience."
"An honest man," Raoul chuckles, picking up the bag and taking a seat along the wall.
"You do have a sense of humor."
"I did once, but lost it somewhere along the way – if it has somehow reappeared, I am as surprised as you are."
"I am most grateful for this opportunity," Nicole says, lingering at the door. Always thin, lithe now seeming brittle – her hair, never a glowing blonde like Meg's, is now streaked with grey, belying her still young age.
"You are a gifted and dedicated dancer – and the girls like and trust you," Adele says. "Take a seat. Please. Tea?"
"That would be lovely." Sitting on the chaise, her eyes take in the calm greens and creams of Adele's office. "Your office has always seemed such a haven."
"Much needed, as you are aware," Adele says, holding a tray in front of her with an almost translucent cup and saucer on it.
"Help yourself to sugar and cream – and a cookie or two."
"Thank you." Taking the cup, she places it on the coffee table, adding two macarons."
"How is your mother?"
"Dr. Berber-Perdue has been most kind. She has accommodations in his home – with a caregiver."
"I am sorry."
"Yes, she could not deal with what she had done."
"And you?"
"I have my rooms – again thanks to Dr. Berber-Perdue, but my funds are limited."
"Have you worked at all?"
"There is not much available – however, I do run errands to pick up extra money."
"Errands?" Adele quirks an eyebrow.
Nicole turns her head away.
"What sort of errands?"
"I cannot talk about it, Madame. Please do not ask."
"Gambling – delivering payoffs?"
The absence of a reply is the reply.
"Maman, I heard Nicole was here," Meg says rushing through the door. "Oh, it is true." Not bothering to close the door, she continues to her friend's side wrapping her in a hug.
Nicole laughs at Meg, trying to retain her balance. Failure leads to both girls landing on the floor – giggling.
Adele smiles, shaking her head. "Marguerite, just when I think you are becoming a woman, you remind me once again of your youth."
"I am me, Maman – would you have me different? You are smiling, after all," Meg says, grinning. Jumping to her feet, she pulls Nicole up – both of them flopping onto the chaise.
"I suppose not," Adele admits. "Nicole and I were just discussing how she has been these past months."
"You look tired, Nicole – and worn – are you well?
"Yes, I am fine in that regard – I just miss dancing and my friends here."
"Maman – can you bring Nicole back? I am certain no one would object."
"Are you now?"
"Please do not argue over me – I would be most grateful to be here in any capacity."
"Maman, please…"
"Meg, I must ask Nicole some important questions. You can stay here and be quiet or I must ask you to leave."
Meg bows her head and nods. Taking Nicole's hand, she squeezes it, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
"Regarding these errands you run – it must stop."
"You are running errands," Meg blurts out.
"Meg!"
Nicole pats Meg's hand. "Yes, Meg, I have been making deliveries of bets and winnings." Biting her lips, she straightens her back and breathes deeply before responding, "Thank you, Madame, but I do not know if I can quit."
Adele tilts her head. "Why not?"
"They killed Gregor."
"He was the intended victim?"
"Oh, yes. After he got the job here, his wife insisted he only do honest work. The word was he asked to quit but they would not let him."
"Why," Meg asks. "It seems to me anyone can pick something up and deliver it."
"The delivery points were known to him – he was a dispatcher."
"Do you know who killed him?"
"No – no. I am just a runner. I get a note on where to pick up the pouches and where to deliver them – always someplace neutral – an alleyway usually. Gregor set them up."
"We need to speak with Nadir and Erik," Adele says.
"Please, no, Madame," Nicole says. "Just let me work."
"She is afraid, Maman," Meg says.
"Someone was killed already. I have no intention of allowing that to happen to anyone else – most particularly my dance mistress."
"Really – dance mistress?" Nicole says, her face brightens – the young ballerina back again.
"Yes, but all of this must be discussed with Nadir and Erik – you may be able to help."
Nicole's brow furrows – she looks to Meg, whose own concern shows in her blue eyes. "Nadir is my father now and Uncle Erik would never let harm come to you."
Without waiting for a response to her knock, Adele enters the Security office with Nicole and Meg on her heels. The three women are surprised to find Christine and Erik seated on the settee, holding one another, heads together – silent, except for a gentle humming in harmony – a song none of them could identify.
Adele clears her throat.
Their eyes open, surprised at the appearance of the trio, but comfortable enough to relax their embrace to a holding of hands.
"To what do we owe this honor, Madame?" Erik smirks. His eyes drifting immediately to the young woman he last saw months ago – the young woman who led him on a chase through the Paris streets in quest of a murderer.
"I am in need of a dance mistress and Nicole is suitably trained for the position," Adele responds – prepared to argue if necessary, if her stance, cane planted as if in stone in front of her is any indication - there is no softness on her aging, but still attractive face. The only concession to concern is a look toward Christine, whose own eyes are locked with Nicole's.
"How is your mother?" Christine asks.
"She is in care." Nicole drops her eyes, unable to hold Christine's gaze. "Perhaps this is not the best idea, Madame," she says. "I am sorry to have bothered you – I was not thinking…" Turning to leave, Meg grabs her arm.
"Christine, you would not refuse Nicole – would you?" Meg asks, holding Nicole in her arms so she cannot leave.
"Please. Why?"
"It does not matter. You are not going to give birth to this child – you should be thanking me. Monster father – monster baby. I shall make it so you will not have to worry about that in the future."
"You do not know – it does not matter – I love her. Please."
"Let me use the chloroform – that will make it easier."
Christine shakes her head – returning to the present.
"Are you all right," Erik asks, pulling her close, holding her head to his chest. "Perhaps you should go – all of you." His eyes burn into Adele. "What could you have been thinking?"
"She is needed," Adele insists. "She also knows about the gambling..."
Christine pulls away from Erik's enough to face Nicole again. "You know the killer?"
Taking a deep breath, Nicole turns around, shaking her head. "No, I am but a messenger, however, I am willing to help in whatever way I can."
Looking up at Erik, Christine says, "I should like to speak with Nicole in private. Perhaps you," waving her arms toward Adele and Meg, "can find Nadir and Inspector Marquand."
"You are certain?" Mask notwithstanding, his concern is telegraphed in his golden eyes and the tone of his voice.
"Yes." Patting his hands, she releases them. "Go."
"Adele, Meg?" Nadir frowns as he watches the women approach. "What now?"
"Nicole came for an interview for dance mistress and she told us that she is one of the delivery people and knew Gregor and Christine wanted to talk to her about her mother, so we came to find you and Inspector Marquand to tell you and to bring you back to the office to meet with her," Meg rattles off only stopping to take a breath.
"I swear, there are days when I cannot differentiate between you and Andre," Adele says.
Darius exchange a glance with Marquand, explaining, "Meg tends to speak her mind without counsel at times, but her words are generally the truth."
"So the daughter of the woman who attacked Mme. Saint-Rien is a member of what appears to be some sort of gang?" Marquand asks.
"That is what she told Meg and me," Adele responds. "I was hoping to give her employment again. When asked about her current occupation, she said she was a messenger."
"And she is with Mme. Saint-Rien now – alone?"
"Not exactly."
"Bring Nadir and Marquand back here – Darius if he is with them as well."
"Where are you going?"
"You know very well where I shall be. Nicole may not be a threat. My concern is for both of them. If Nicole is involved in this – it is possible she is being watched."
"What about revealing the door to her – or Marquand?"
"When you return to the office, I will find my way back in the fashion of normal people. Now go, quickly. I want to hear what they are saying."
Indicating the sofa opposite hers, Christine says, "Please sit down, Nicole." Folding her hands over her growing belly, she strokes the child developing within her, hoping to soothe nerves. How much of this affects the baby?
The gesture is not lost on Nicole. "Madame Christine, I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am for what happened to you."
"What of the others?"
"I did not know about anyone else – except for Marie-Corrinne – but only after…"
"How could you not?"
"My mother…"
"Your mother tried to kill my baby – and possibly, likely me." The aqua-colored eyes are hard as the stone they resemble. "She killed three other women and took their babies."
"She said they died by accident, that Dr. Perdue used too much anesthesia – I did not know it was she doing the surgeries." Her strength completely drained – her shoulders slump and the fine posture fades. "I could not allow myself to see." Tears flood her eyes. "She was my mother."
"You helped the other girls…"
"That was all I wanted – I thought I was – then she went mad – she sees and hears nothing – mumbles gibberish."
The ballerina's pain is palpable.
The unusual rigidity harnessing Christine's normal compassion softens along with her eyes and voice. "So you became a delivery person?"
"To earn a living – Dr. Berber-Perdue helps, but he is already taking full responsibility for my mother."
"You need this job?"
Nicole nods. "Very much – not just for the money, but because I love the dance. I have been as if dead myself."
Studying the young woman, the dress tattered at the hem and edges of the sleeves – the drawn face – lines of suffering etched around her eyes and mouth. Christine sighs. "I understand," she says. "I shall not object."
Nicole jumps up and rushes to Christine, kneeling on the floor in front of her.
Christine gasps, drawing back, raising an arm in front of her. "Please, please, get up."
The sound of the mirror latch distracts her.
I am here.
Recovering, but breathing heavily, she says, "I become anxious when people come too close."
Nicole rises, backing away until she reaches the sofa. "I am so deeply sorry – I only wished to thank you." Her tears fall in earnest as she lowers herself back onto the settee.
The latch sounds again.
"Do a good job for Adele and for the Inspector," Christine says, this time turning her attention toward the door to the hallway. "Here they are now."
The dim quiet of her dressing room – alone with Erik - finally allows Christine to return to her earlier calm. Sitting on his lap, Erik showers her face with gentle kisses - smoothing the curls away from her face, still damp from the perspiration born of her earlier fear. "I heard you…"
"Good – and that helped?"
She nods, throwing her arms around his neck. "I knew she was not her mother – but I could see her – she became that evil woman. Nicole would not hurt me, but I was confused and afraid when she approached so quickly."
"Shhhh, you behaved as anyone would. You are more than brave, my dearest one."
"She is a good dancer – she only wants to dance. I could not take that from her."
"No, you could not."
Relaxing her hug, her eyes search his. "Will the fear ever go away?"
"When the baby is born – you will still have the bitter memory…"
"But it will lessen?"
"Yes."
Seeing no deception in his eyes, she lays her head on his shoulder, smiling as he rests his lips on her forehead.