CHAPTER VI
(11 years ago)
Leave at Scribe Street, near the lattice at the Opera House
Erik,
My days come to the end. I feel the life force is leaving me rapidly, and by the time you receive this letter I will be dead.
You may ask why you need to know that. You were my only friend, even though our relationship could hardly be called friendship. That is why I appeal to you with a request, which can be entrusted only to a friend.
It is not so easy, but I hope for your mercy.
After me my son, the only reminder of my beloved wife, will be left alone.He is nineteen years old, but I cannot leave himlike this.
My wife's brother had suffered an unknown but frightening disease, some strange mental illness that no doctor could identify. And my son has inherited it - apparently, it is transmitted only through the male line. He is not crazy, no, it's something else.
He is always in his thoughts, he almost does not react to anyone's voice - he referred to his mother's, but after her death his condition became even more frightening.
He is almost always harmless, but only if he isn't frightened. Please, take him with you. He cannot survive without supervision. I have no one except you, no friends. Save my son.
P.S. He is active only when he sees a musical instrument. And - this is not a father's blindness, - my son is a really good composer. Not as great as you are, of course, but his music is beautiful. Please ... teach him to remember her.
Saying good-bye forever,
Nadir
Erik thoughtfully put down the letter on a glass table next to a deep leather chair in which he sat.
He loved the luxury throughout, even if this luxury shared borders with bad taste. Perce's Paris apartment, in which Erik stopped for a few days, was already gorgeous, but he told Earl to furnish it in the most expensive way. The least did it, gritting his teeth – his British soul, accustomed to the compactness, ached from such a crime against the beauty and grace.
Earl was standing at the window, holding the curtain, intently watching the entrance of the house. Then came the carriage, two men in emphasized oriental clothes came out of it - those who did not wish to change their traditions even in the center of the civilized world still existed. They armed a slouching figure wrapped in a cloak.
"They are here," Earl notified.
He stood behind Erik's chair and stared at the door. His figure was barely seen in the twilight of the room, but it was clear that he wore a mask.
The door was knocked at.
"Come in," Erik said.
The door of the room opened, and a young man appeared on the threshold – all alone, already unaccompanied. He did not seem to notice either Erik or his minions. It was like he was looking through them.
"Hello, Ram," Erik said, starting a conversation, but the young man did not answer. "I'm a friend of your father, Nadir," Erik continued, but with no result. Ram did not answer him.
There was something strange in his eyes. They were both wild and soft, like an animal's, but at the same time like a human's...
He was handsome, without any external blemish. He did not befit Erik. But he was Perce's son.
"This is all your idea, you talked me into this charity," he said in a low voice, referring to Earl. "Please, take charge."
Earl stepped forward into the light.
"I'll be your guardian, Ram."
Ram did not reply. His wandering eyes suddenly stopped on the piano that stood in the room, and he went to the instrument. The fingers of his right hand were constantly moving, as if he went through invisible rosary. Ram sat down at the piano and moved his hand over the keyboard, as if he was cold, and the keys were a welcoming warming flame.
Erik rolled his eyes. He was sure that from under the hand of this strange, crazy boy nothing but a cacophony could appear. He was thinking hard to bring Ram to the hospital, when suddenly...
The music, that swept the strong chords in the room and reflected from the far wall, was beautiful. As Ram played, Erik's astonishment grew stronger. His music was not something familiar - it sounded surreal, fantastic. Like Phantom's music should sound.
"Perhaps, we should give this boy a chance," Erik said quietly, so that only Earl could hear him. "But you're going to watch him. It is obvious that he is not in his right mind."
.
In March that year Erik went to America. He was already bored by two of his charges, none of which was close to him in spirit. Erik no longer cared about what happened to Ram - he left him for Earl to take care. Well, Earl ... Earl was too highly moral to Erik's point of view, too ... humane. Throughout his life he, as Erik knew, did not kill a single person, in contrast to Gary, on the hands of which blood almost never dried, until the election into a personal retinue of "The Phantom of the Opera".
Erik had his own channels through which he was reported about potentially suitable new recruits. He sometimes marveled how many unappreciated geniuses were there in the world. For example, he was just going to take a Welshman into his retinue, when he got this letter from Nadir. Then Erik was no longer interested in the Welshman, and he went overseas, as he vaguely heard of an American Psycho, who was at hospital in New York, like Bedlam in London, and wrote marvelous music.
Of course, he was disfigured. As a result of some crazy chemical experiment he damaged his face quite badly with acid. The Psychopath was called Hugo.
Erik explained almost nothing to his "sons" before he left. He just told them not to come to the surface and in any case not to go to the territory of his lair. The restrictions were simple and clear for Earl.
Erik returned a month later. Earl did not even notice his return until he called them to introduce a new member of the Phantom family to them.
Hugo's wry smile, more similar to a grin, made Earl shiver even before he said a word. He didn't have a mask, and the red, charred scars on his face remained uncovered, ready to scare anyone. But not those who were just the same. He was tall and very thin, which made him a bit similar to Erik. His hair was matted and stood upright, forming a ridge. In general, the impression would be repulsive even with a mask. Unlike Earl, who looked like a gentleman in his elegant mask.
"So, this is Hugo," Erik spoke, interrupting tense silence with his quiet lazy voice. "He takes the western cave."
Earl didn't like this perspective: the western cave was very close to his, the North, and he didn't want to live near such a person.
"Hugo," Erik continued, "these are Earl and Ram. Now they are your family."
Hugo bowed with the same disgusting smile. Earl just tilted his head.
"Earl," Erik said, "tomorrow you'll make a mold for Hugo's mask. But save the clay, it is valuable. But first, show him in the dungeon. You're neighbors anyway."
Earl nodded and gestured Hugo to follow him. And so their first meeting ended, during which no one even heard the voice of the new Phantom. Carefully taking Ram's hand, Earl took him out of the room, not even looking back at Hugo.
They walked through the corridors in silence, until suddenly Hugo spoke up:
"Why are you holding his hand? Let it go. You behave as if he is blind."
Earl stopped and slowly turned to Hugo. The least raised his eyebrow skeptically and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for an answer.
"He has a bad sense of direction," Earl said quietly.
"Why is he even here? He is not like us. Who is he? Erik's bastard?
"It's none of your business," Earl answered through clenched teeth. "Your dungeon is right down the hall and to the right."
Hugo shrugged his shoulders and walked forward.
"I have already guessed, I'm not an idiot. This guy is crazy," he added on the run.
.
A few weeks had passed since Hugo settled at the Opera. He already wore a snow-white mask and a black cloak. He brought all his chemicals and devices with him, and of course, his poisons.
Earl still could not forget how Hugo called Ram crazy. He could not forgive. He felt inexplicable warmth for this young man and did not consider him a madman. Seriously ill - maybe. Not similar to others - definitely yes.
Ram wasn't a Phantom, and he did not have his own dungeon. He lived in one of the rooms in Earl's den. There he had an organ. And he needed nothing more.
On that day, Earl worked on composing the ballet. He was not too fond of operas. He cared about nothing except music, and he did not notice Ram, who slipped out, and recovered only when he heard a loud, bloodcurdling scream.
Earl jumped up and rushed to the incessant howling sounds from a nearby cave. When Earl pushed the heavy door leading to Hugo's private laboratory, he saw a disaster: Ram was lying near the tank with thick, poisonous yellow liquid, pressing his hands to his face. His whole body was shaking, he moaned and cried out in pain. Hugo stood over his hunched figure. His eyes looked glassy, and a faint smile played on his lips, that made Earl shudder.
The Englishman dropped to his knees in front of his brother, still not fully understanding what had happened. Was he dying? What did this man do to him? When Earl was able to take away Ram's palms from his face, he saw that the young man's perfect skin reddened terribly on some areas, and on others was even black.
The liquid from the tank burned it almost to the bone, leaving nothing from the previous appearance. From that moment Ram met all Erik's requirements. He was no different from the Phantom of the Opera.
.
Time went on. Gradually, the new occupant of the dungeon got used to it and did not explore the endless corridors anymore. He was bored - music and chemical experiments caused nausea, and he could come up with nothing new. Not without grief in his voice Earl offered Hugo to walk with him on the Opera's roof, but he hesitated. It was possible that Earl was still pissed because of Ram and could simply thrust him over the ledge.
In fact, Hugo almost immediately decided that it was better to remain in the dungeons near his laboratory, than plod on slippery stairs, hide in the shadows and watch the people, as he his "brother" did. At least, conducting several entertaining experiments was a noble idea. So he thought.
However, after an hour, he still went up, concluding that he was too lazy in all his intentions, and he saw - or rather, heard - an interesting scene.
Young ballet dancers rarely came on the lower floors of the Opera. But then they were sitting in a circle, listening to Joseph Buquet, pulling their sharp noses. They seemed to be fully involved. Hugo stood in front of the place where the ballet dancers were sitting and tried to make invisible - he knew how.
The young man became especially interested when he realized that Bouquet was drunk and was again scaring ladies by telling stories about them, about the Phantoms of the Opera. Or about one Phantom, who lived under the Opera House a long time ago, and left a mark in history.
"Fear him, rats," Joseph muttered vaguely, shaking his thick arms. "For he is as horrible as death. No, he is Death himself! A terrible fire lights in his eye sockets, and he wears the face of a dead man risen from the grave. You must beware the Phantom, because he always hunts for young girls like you. Once you hear his voice, do not look for salvation!"
Buquet made a sudden movement towards the ladies and they shudder, like a flock of birds. There was a fuss and screams and curses, for which brave Madame Giry would definitely kicked her pupils.
Old Buquet laughed since it was a small victory. Soon noises subsided.
Hugo saw the dancers' faces, flushed with anger, through a slit of the secret passage. They certainly could not beat Buquet for his actions, but failed to keep their tongues.
"You are monstrous!"
"Let the Phantom catch you first!"
"Ugly old man."
"The Phantom never touches a person," Joseph grumbled offended, "Who is not afraid of him. Moreover, I know that you should always keep your hand at eye level. And also be careful. You somehow just do not know, right?"
The dancers looked at each other. The old man put the bottle of whiskey on the table and beckoned them to come closer, wanting to continue his terrible story. The dancers' features softened, and the curiosity was seen in their eyes again - but they did not want to get caught on the same hook twice.
"No, thank you," Jamme spoke.
"Count me out," Adele echoed.
Soon all the girls left the room. Hugo heard them whisper about the Phantom and cross with shiver: "If only the dead did not touch me!"
At first pissed by such behavior, Hugo suddenly chuckled. Fears might give him another reason to have fun, and maybe return former authority over human minds to the Phantoms.
After all, even when Erik went out to the surface, all the Paris public wondered what kind of a Phantom he was. Many saw him, some newspapermen wrote articles confirming or dispelling the myth about the Phantom of the Opera.
But did they know what happened to him now, after all these years?
Hugo's eyes flashed with anger and mischief, he himself began to tremble from the thought in his mind: to cause terror for all these little sillies, make them bow their curly heads! Bring order to this chaotic zoo in the end.
Hugo's behavior was a kind of grim amusement, giving him a greater joy, than, for example, music (it was too much of it at the Opera!) or beauty (he had seen enough of lovely faces, too).
He then had no idea what all these portend big plans for the return of the Phantom of the Opera would cause. In fact, he did not quite know how to begin such an important and, above all, nasty business.
"We need to start with small things!" Hugo thought, not inclined to doubt for too long. "Something unusual. Let's look, what all these people will do..."
He began to smile again – and, in fact, the last time Hugo smiled was before the incident, that spoiled half of his face - but it was a smile full of cunning, strength and darkness. He was ready to break into the dungeon and strangle his brothers with kisses, and at the same time wished to remain silent - let it be only his triumph!
Running down the stairs, he held his head with both his hands. Nervous laugh and enthusiastic exclamations were heard from him:
"I'm here! The mysterious Phantom of the Opera! I am here, I am here! I am here again!.."
.
Simon was sitting on the stairs with a peevish expression. He looked very funny: an eleven-year-old boy in a suit, plump, blue-eyed, he sat on the steps of the golden stairs covered with a red carpet. All this did not suit him, and he seemed even smaller against the background of the luxurious foyer of the Opera.
He glumly watched as his cousin Caroline and her cousin Marguerite played downstairs. Caroline and Marguerite's uncle, M. Firmin, the director of the Opera, was sitting far away from them, on a banquette. His once brown, but faded with years eyes shone with happiness at the sight of the two girls. He loved them, especially the young daughter of his younger brother, Marguerite. Then she was four.
Her father died a year before, leaving the family almost nothing. His wife and daughter were in Paris, at his home, but they coped with great difficulty, and Firmin helped them as best he could.
His sister, when she married about fifteen years ago, moved to Marseille. She didn't have sons, but had a daughter, Caroline, playful and very loud. Caroline was two years older than Marguerite and much more adapted to life than her cousin. She knew how to steal food from the kitchen, how to make a slingshot and how to catch a caterpillar.
Simon did not get along with any of the girls. Caroline was his cousin patrilineally, and Marguerite was not his blood relative at all, but adults made him call her sister.
She bothered him. She was too mannered, too urban, too white - in fact, everything about her was too much. He eagerly counted the days before his departure back to Marseille, but always strayed from the account.
That morning uncle Firmin - who also was not his relative - led them to the Opera, to arrange a celebration for his nieces. Then they are laughing and circling the foyer, their bright, lightly dresses fluttered and the girls presented themselves important ladies invited there to the ball like the ones that were held at the Opera for Christmas or another premier.
Simon felt like a stranger. Neither his father nor his uncle get along with Firmin, Simon came to Paris because his mother had persuaded Caroline's mother to take the boy with them to show him the capital and at the same time get rid of the boy for a couple of months.
Simon's mother was from a noble family, and his father - from a family of wealthy people, wealthy Marseilles confectioners. His family was richer than de Blois and younger Firmin families together, but the aristocrat Firmin Sr. was irritated by it. And so Simon was sitting on the stairs all alone.
He was so fed up with Caroline and Marguerite, than he turned away and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, his idyll was interrupted by frightened cries, followed by a deathly silence. Simon opened his eyes and… saw nothing: darkness reigned in the lobby. All of the chandeliers and lamps were extinguished, although burned a minute ago.
Then a bright flame cut the darkness, then another, the third, the fourth - the candles on the perimeter of the room lit by themselves.
No one shouted, there was not a breath - everyone were frozen with fear.
In a huge hall a cold, chilling laugh echoed, which froze the blood.
The candles were extinguished.
In the corridor near the lobby he heard the tramp of ten feet and there was a frightened women's cry:
"He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!"
.
Another New Year was celebrated in the Opera - the fifteenth since Erik had last seen Christine in a domino mask. Then she was sitting trembling, clutching the hands of her well-be seen fiance and hysterically describing what horrors she had endured in the lair of the mysterious man in the mask. When Raul asked what frightened her so much, she could not think of the answer, and breathed out the very words that sounded in Erik's head even now: "Poor, miserable Erik!"
She was slender, young, with a delicate blush on her cheeks and big blue eyes. Her skin seemed so thin that the veins shone on the temples. Fearful, silent Christine - she shuddered and took a look around at any unexpected sound. Always with fear looking for His face in gloomy shadows.
Yet this stupid girl loved Erik. Though not enough to remain in his dark world, forever forgetting about the light.
Being in good mood, Erik always forgave her fear and weakness. In the end, she thought of him as a father, a mentor, an Angel, but not the man she loved, and her love was not strong enough for obvious reasons. But in his worst days Erik cursed her, he called her the empty-headed little demoness and regretted that he gave Christine any choice at all. Always trembling in genuine horror, she could not take weighty decisions - so how could he know that in that fateful day she didn't just make a mistake?..
His compassion, his good half - that's what killed their love. Erik thought that he saved these qualities for nothing. Crazy fury appeared in his eyes when he thought he could choose another way. Giving her no choice from the beginning. Turn the scorpion! And increasingly, he wanted to leave Paris, not to remain in the power of those thoughts.
But he held back. Firstly, because he was old. Secondly, because bad memories found him everywhere, not only in France but abroad as well.
"What is that?" A familiar voice broke into his memories and distracted Erik from gloomy thoughts.
Earl waved a heavy dusty folder. Erik gave his so called son a hard look - and Earl immediately hoisted the folder back. Only then did the "father" remarked:
"It's "Don Juan Triumphant." The opera worthy of the angels in heaven and the demons in hell. The only time when my music lit a special fire. I was looking for this fire for a long time, Earl. No doubt, you would have appreciated the "Don Juan", but I do not allow anyone to listen to it."
"Why?"
"The music is a product of a fantasy too desperate."
"Is it so dangerous?"
"Oh yes," Erik said reluctantly. "Don Juan" is destined to remain in this folder forever, and when I die, you will burn it, Earl. I cannot trust such a serious matter to anyone else."
Earl shrugged. It was not the first time when he did not understand the Erik's reasons, but that day he felt the gulf between them especially sharply. He paused for a moment, and then left. He slipped through the door, like a real ghost.
From somewhere in the corridor Erik heard:
"I am here, I am the mysterious Phantom of the Opera!"
"Honestly!" Earl exclaimed angrily in response. "What the hell are you yelling here, Hugo?"
But the "loudmouth" shook with laughter. No longer listening to their squabbles, Erik opened the folder and began to read the ideal lines, perfect marks. At the end of earthly existence Don Juan could not damage his intellect, and he was with some pleasure - and pain - immersing in the memories of the time when his hand and handwriting were hard, when there was music and a female voice in his ears, so similar to the voice of an Angel...
.
The clock almost struck ten, and Marguerite was sitting in the director's office. Morning sun shone through the windows - still cold, as if shimmering through the fog. Margo took care of breakfast without the help of Madame Giry, although the least was already at work.
Munching bread and cheese, the owner listened to the muffled voices of the dancers, waking up, washing and preparing for practice. The Opera gradually came to life, and Marguerite remembered the events which took place four days ago.
The memories stuck her head like shards, and did not want to leave the girl's thoughts, even though enough time had already passed. Maybe she had dreamed it all?..
"Oh, Marguerite," she muttered helplessly, feeling that things would change now.
When Caroline returned from dungeons, she wished to erase what she had seen from her memory for good. But Margo didn't forget anything. She returned again and again to those corridors, those bare walls. But most of all she was thinking about a young man who called her an angel, and his eyes full of pain. She had never seen such eyes before.
After breakfast Margo, sliding the plate, noticed a small envelope. It was strange, but it seemed that the letter was not on the table before she came. On a magnificent stamp paper her name and surname were written by neat, orderly, and obviously masculine handwriting. She recognized the handwriting - the letter which she and Caroline received after the masked ball was written the same way.
Of course, who else could write it?
Taking the knife for paper, Margo carefully opened the envelope.
