Chapter 5: Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville
1840
Erik's room was plunged into darkness even during the day now, thanks to the wooden boards his mother had mounted in front of his window. But that was just as well, his last excursion had robbed him of all desire for further explorations. He had well and truly seen now what the world outside had to offer and all that ugliness had taken from him whatever zest for life he might have once had.
Often, he lay alone in the dark, discovering more of that magic only he, himself possessed. And there was the case of the little scorpion, of course, that he had found still wrapped up in its box outside in the grass shortly before the wooden boards had appeared in front of his window. He had not wanted to go outside again, but the thought of the scorpion had so consumed him, he hadn't been able to resist. Because in the end, that little object was the only thing worth remembering about that night and he could not bear the thought of another small creature being trapped within four walls. At night, when his mother slept and he couldn't find a way to occupy his mind sufficiently, he played around with the little metal insect or tried to discover how its mechanism worked.
Life moved slowly now, sluggishly even, one month bleeding lethargically into the next. There was no little dog anymore, no furry companion to offer comfort. The truth about her death was too terrible to ignore, even for him. As for his mother? Well, she had altered too, entirely, and although related by blood, Erik could feel that their bond was otherwise permanently severed. He could not forgive her the lies she had told him and the information, regarding Doctor Barye that she had kept from him.
But despite his hatred for her, he felt a roaring, angry jealousy at their relationship. It was as if she had withered away stuck in the house with him and now that the young doctor had appeared, she had once again blossomed into the woman he had seen in all the paintings. Truthfully, Erik did not know how to feel about him. On the night of the attack, when he had been called to tend to him, Erik had felt something like a grudging respect towards the skills as well as the strong stomach the doctor clearly possessed. He had peeled off the remnants of his bloodied mask without wincing or showing any other signs of discomfort. Then he had regarded his disfigured face neutrally, coolly even and swiftly gone about stitching up whatever could be fixed like that.
"Now he must sleep, Madeleine," he had firmly decided after he had studied his handiwork, "I will give him a draught to assist him with that and then his body will do the rest."
Erik hadn't struggled or protested, had accepted the vial lifted to his lips wordlessly and stared into the light blue eyes until the world had started to fade.
Doctor Barye had started stopping by regularly since that night, an unwanted intruder in a house that already felt like a prison. Erik didn't like the way he made his mother laugh: that shrill, girly laugh that really did not suit her. He did not like the way he could make her disappear even when he was not around, as if even the fantasy of him was more favourable to the reality of a life with Erik. But most of all, he had started to hate the things they talked about when they thought he wasn't listening. The plans he had for the future, expanding his practice, possibly moving to the city, all of these plans that did not include him.
At times his mother would allow Doctor Barye to talk, as if it was an actual, feasible option; at other times she would remind him of his presence.
"We can't possibly move, Etienne," she would say, "Erik would cause such a scandal, we'd never be safe."
To which the young doctor would always promptly ask: "And you feel safe here now, Madeleine?"
They had gone back and forth like this for quite some time, filling Erik with a strange mixture of guilt and pride. After all, he still possessed some power if he could stop his mother from making important decisions. But he really should have known that the young gentleman would let nothing stand in the way of his ambitious future.
"We could send him to England, Madeleine!" he had one day started to argue. "They can help him there. And he is rather big now, wouldn't you say?"
"He's nine years old, Etienne," she had sighed.
"At nine, I already knew perfectly well what I wanted, and I doubt Erik is any different. You have said yourself that he can conduct himself like a mature gentleman when he wishes."
Erik hadn't cared very much for the idea of being sent away. It wasn't that he possessed particularly warm feelings towards his home, but at least life was somewhat predictable there. Whatever mild curiosity he harboured towards England, he kept to himself.
Lately, he had taken to tiptoeing downstairs whenever his mother had gone outside. She did not lock his door during the daytime, trusted him to have learned his lesson. Today was no exception. He slowly walked down the old staircase and settled at the piano, his spindly fingers dangling over the keys. After the incident, he hadn't been able to play for the longest time. His fingers had ached at even the lightest of contact and most of the songs he had learned to play were the hymns that Father Mansart had taught him. He refused to play them now, shunned them like he shunned the priest himself. The struggle had been terrible as his need clashed with his resolution. Until one day, a strange music of its own had been born out of it. He never titled these compositions, nor committed them to paper, as some of their beauty lay in their freedom.
Today, a small, melancholy tune flowed forth as his fingers explored the keys. It never reached the heights some of his other compositions had, but it sparked a series of little melodies that intertwined with the main theme, creating a masterpiece of its own. Outside, he could hear his mother talking, could hear the laughter that indicated the arrival of Doctor Barye. But he did not stop, not even when the front door opened and both of them joined him in the sitting room.
"Erik, Doctor Barye is here."
He did not lift his head or interrupt the flow of music. Though it was amusing to think that the man could be Doctor Barye for him and Etienne for her, as if two people resided within the same body. Sometimes he wondered what his father would think about the doctor.
"Erik, where are your manners?"
"Hello, Doctor Barye," he drawled out slowly, "how nice that you could join us."
The chuckle that followed insulted his ears and broke the music with its falseness.
"You know I am always happy to join you and your mother, Erik."
He turned around slowly on his chair and fixed the doctor with a dark look that challenged him to meet his eyes. He doubted that he would have dared repeat the lie under such circumstances.
"My mother enjoys your company also, Monsieur," he remarked coolly. "I shall go to my room and give you some privacy."
He had just risen to his feet when his mother suddenly asked him to stay, an invitation that made his stomach turn.
"Doctor Barye would like to talk to you about something."
"I see," he remarked, each word clipped as he sank back down on the little chair.
He reached for the edge of the piano, gripped on to it for support and inhaled the familiar scent of wood and varnish.
"We all know that life has been exceptionally difficult for you because of your extraordinary face."
Erik did not like that word, extraordinary, as if it was something remarkable the rest of the world just did not understand, as if he thought he could deal better with a construct of lies than the ugliness of reality.
"But in my line of work, I am in the position to observe the changes and developments that are occurring, even in countries outside of France. Now England has been revolutionised lately, that is to say that some very clever people have found ways of mechanising labour and harnessing the power of those machines for all kinds of purposes."
Erik did not like the way the doctor talked to him either, as if he was ignorant as well as hideous, as if he had been deaf to Father Mansart's lectures about the power of steam. He could not claim to have the kind of expert insight Doctor Barye clearly possessed, but he knew that change was beginning to take place. At the very least, his scorpion was a testament to that.
"Yes?" He dragged up his shoulders and let his eyes wander across the room.
Warm, orange light of the setting sun filtered in through the window. His mother and Doctor Barye were sitting so close to each other it was surprising that they did not touch. How strange that it seemed as if they did.
"Etienne has a few friends there," Madeleine proceeded. The brave, little smile struggled to remain on her lips.
"Acquaintances, really. They are running a successful clinic."
"Specialising in what?" Erik questioned.
The conversation was beginning to bore him and he turned away from the light and the couple, his feet tirelessly beating a rhythm against the pedals of the piano.
"Helping people, of course, special people like yourself."
His eyebrows furrowed into a frown beneath the mask and his right foot hit the pedal harder, destroying the perfect rhythm he had previously created.
"I'm sorry to inform you, Monsieur, that I am quite beyond help," he remarked, his voice monotonous and empty.
"Nonsense," Barye chuckled, "these men know what they are doing. Their metal will seamlessly integrate into your face, it will hold up your bones better, build you a nose."
Erik's feet stopped in mid-air. The pedals of the piano jumped up and hit his soles.
"I have quite enough bone, Monsieur, it is skin that I am lacking. I don't suppose they could help me with that."
His eyes fell onto a piece of sheet music that was dangling over the edge of the instrument. He studied the notes exposed to him, hummed them in his head.
"They have experimented with skin also." He heard his mother's sharp intake of breath. "I am certain they would find a way to fix you, make you look normal."
The tune intensified in his head, as if the hammers of the piano keys were beating against his temple. Panic, not dissimilar to the kind he had felt on the night of the mob attack, was rising in his chest. The threads of his mask were cutting into his skin, the mask itself was too tight. The familiar rough fabric had become slick and soft and fleshy. He was being suffocated. The notes in front of him dissolved into a black stream. His head was pounding still as if it was being drilled open.
They wanted him to become a machine, remote controlled by an artificial brain. Would he be allowed to keep his eyes, he wondered? Would they remove them altogether or inject them with paint to make them appear more normal? His heart was beating faster and faster, something irritating was tingling in his wrists. Would he only be normal when he wasn't himself? When he had lost everything that made him human?
His hands came crashing down on the keys time and time again and the piano screamed in agony. He furled his fingers and used his fists until the sheet music came tumbling down. Someone else was yelling also. Incoherent words, a ruthless, angry melody. But he was louder and although his throat was sore and hurting he continued until the other voice was drowned out.
A couple of strong arms wrapped around his chest, lifted him from the chair and away from the piano. No more restrictions! He was sick and tired of them. His own arms and legs thrashed around wildly, clawing at hair and skin, kicking at bone. When he was still not released, he sank his teeth into the hands that were holding him until the taste of iron tainted his saliva. His breathing was low and ragged and he did not stop fighting until he was carried off into his room, flung onto his bed and locked up. Then, for the longest time, everything around him grew dark.
The creaking of floorboards awoke him again, alongside the sound of hushed voices. Still, he struggled upright as if a gunshot had rung through the air. The incident in the sitting room was hazy, but he knew what had been proposed and he knew that he did not like it. Carefully, he sneaked to the door and listened.
"He'll forgive you when he's older, Madeleine."
"What if he doesn't? What if this operation makes him worse?"
His mother sounded hesitant and scared.
"We've talked about this. You agreed! It won't make him worse. Don't you trust me?" He heard a faint sigh and then another creak closer by. "They know what they're doing."
"To have him carted off like that in the middle of the night. It just isn't right, Etienne!"
She was yelling now, then there was a long hush.
"He cannot possibly stay with you anymore. He's unpredictable and out of control. He bit me earlier, you saw it with your own eyes! He behaves like an animal and he'd be a danger to you, too. Even if we hadn't arranged this before, after the incident surely even you must see sense."
It sounded as if she was crying. Erik would be surprised if she was.
"The carriage will arrive any moment now. You have packed his belongings, you have given him food. You have cared for him as best as you could. You are giving him this opportunity. Now it's time that he goes his own way, like a man."
Panic flared up once more, had him staggering away from the door. How much time had passed? How much time did he still have left?
He crawled under his bed to retrieve the screwdriver, used it to pull open a panel in the wall. He collected his scorpion and the little coin purse in which he stored all the treasures he had found in the past and hurriedly shoved them down his trouser pockets. Then he used his screwdriver to try and pry away the boards in front of his window but in his fear he could not find the angle that would create the leverage he needed. And so he sank back down on his bed and awaited his fate.
When the doctor came to collect him, he rose to his feet calmly. He did not speak or make eye contact. His hand caressed the wooden banister a last time as he descended the stairs, committing every groove, every splinter to memory. His mother was standing by the front door, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. He did not like the sound of her arrhythmic exhalations, the wet snorts she produced when trying to inhale again. He avoided her too, looked instead at the piano that appeared serene and normal, except for a few indentations his rage had created.
"One way trip to Manchester!" a stranger announced. His teeth were brown and his breath smelled of alcohol and decay. A soft wind was blowing outside, ruffling his hair.
He did not turn around to look at the cottage again, did not run back to cling to his mother and beg her to change her mind but took mechanical steps up into the back of the carriage instead. Everything was still happening in a daze.
The space was crammed, filled with barrels and goods, boxes and bottles. He nestled himself into a corner and stared at his feet. When the vehicle cranked into motion his mother screamed something, she sounded frantic and unhinged. Erik hoped Father Mansart would drive her away, he hoped she would burn in hell. She was neglecting her duties, abandoning him to be picked apart and turned inside out. She was weak, seduced by a man who worked hand in hand with the devil. Erik hoped she would suffer.
The passage was slow and strenuous. He tried to sleep, to flee into his own fantasy world but seemed to have outgrown it in the span of a few hours. The carriage bumped and his body hurt. The longer the journey took, the more frightening the images in his head grew. At times he'd wake up screaming, pushing his fingers into his sockets to see if his eyeballs were still there.
Then, one day, a strange calm settled over him. He had been cast aside and left to his own devices, it was time he would become a man, that's what Doctor Barye had said. Perhaps he was right, from now on he'd have to fight his own battles. He had no desire to go to England and so he first needed to figure out how to escape. The carriage wasn't moving at high speeds and yet he did not wish to risk jumping out and being caught and dragged back again. The merchant who had agreed to take him along, did not exactly strike him as the most amiable of characters. No, he'd need a distraction. Something that would draw the attention away long enough for him to escape.
Carefully, he turned around until he was lying flat on his stomach in the crammed, little space. Once more, he eyed the assortment of objects in front of him. Erik slipped the screwdriver out of his trouser pocket and inched forward until he was hidden within the shadow of the barrels. He positioned his screwdriver and waited. Predictably, the carriage bumped, making his stomach ache when it got shoved into the floor of the vehicle. He counted silently, trying to ascertain a rhythm. Then he stabbed the barrel, right in the small gap between the wood. The bumping and swaying of the carriage masked the sound his actions created.
At first, nothing happened. He repeated the motion time and time again until his hand ached. When the sticky liquid at last oozed out of the barrel, he began to cry. He did not try to contain his tears, let them run freely as relief surged through him and the slick liquid drew a small trail down to the bottom of the carriage.
Next, he slipped the screwdriver back into his trouser pocket and retrieved his scorpion. His one last friend, his one companion. So many hours spent with it in the dark, picking it apart, assembling it again, trying to make sense. And oh, how it did now! How perfectly it fit into his scheme.
He held it in the palm of his hand, turned it onto its back so he could study its belly one last time. His curious fingers had chipped off all the colour, had exposed its mechanical body of little saw-teethed blades that hooked effortlessly into one another. And they had altered it, exchanged part of its innards with sharp, smooth stone and other materials he had found on his excursions until the metaphorical source of light had been transformed into a practical one.
His hands trembled when he gently tugged out the little dial that had once started the mechanism that lifted the tail of the scorpion. This time, it would create something far greater. Swiftly, he began rolling the dial between his fingers, patiently but nervously until the first spark jumped forth as metal ground against stone. His breath came out in shaky puffs while he repeated the motion, lowering the scorpion carefully with every successful spark. And that's all it took, a series of sparks that ignited the oil that had seeped out of the barrel. But the fire still spread faster than he had expected. It devoured all the wooden containers, licked at his arm that had been drenched by the oil also until he yelped in pain.
"What are you doing back there?!"
The carriage gradually decreased in speed but he couldn't wait any longer or he would be burned alive. He flung himself out, landed roughly on the ground below. His flesh was angry and alive, the pain far worse than he had expected, but he needed to keep moving. Dragging himself upwards, he tore off in the direction of the forest. The driver's angry screams, the horses' neighs and the crackling of fire still reverberated in his ears. He ran as far as his feet would carry him, until even his vision appeared to become singed. Then he collapsed onto the leafy ground, cradling his arm against his chest. Now he was truly alone.