9: Coming to Terms
Madeleine drifted slowly up from a deep sleep. Memory stirred… Monsieur had been sleeping quietly, so finally she had made up the second bed for herself. It felt as though she had slept for a long time. What had woken her…? A smell…? Coffee! She roused herself.
"Awake at last?" Monsieur's voice asked her. "You must have been exhausted, sleeping like the dead. You did not even wake at the noise when I raked out the stove. Sit up now, and have your coffee."
She pushed herself upright, then suddenly pulled the blanket up, remembering how lightly-clad she was.
"Do not be uneasy," Monsieur said. "Your shift is quite decent. If we are to share these close quarters for a while, we must learn to be less formal." He took her hand and guided it to a coffee cup. She drank gratefully, while Monsieur went on – was that a smile in his voice? – "After all, you did strip me naked yesterday, and dressed me afresh."
She smiled tentatively in reply. "But I promise, I did not look at you!"
"Ha! True. And I shall not look at you, if you wish to change your clothes. But feel free to use the washroom, if it makes you more comfortable. Indeed, you must want to go there now, after your long sleep." As Madeleine made to rise, Monsieur guided her feet into soft slippers, and wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders. "There are clothes in the wardrobe. You should use them."
"They are not mine… You did not bring them here for me, but for…"
The catch in his breath was soft, but she heard it, and stopped. After a moment, he continued in the same light tone as before. "There have been times when I have dressed as a woman, but these are not my size! They will fit you well enough."
Some time later, Madeleine emerged from the washroom, wearing the plain woollen dress from the cupboard.
"Not the velvet?" he asked in a carefully bland tone.
Madeleine had examined both dresses the first time she found the refuge. The velvet was beautiful, expensive, a dress a man might buy for the woman he loved, a dress which he would not wish to see on another. But she gave no hint of these thoughts.
"Velvet is more difficult to wear. It is heavy, and is easily marked. This is more comfortable and practical. But if you would rather I changed – "
"No, no. I'm sure you are right."
She could tell that he was trying not to think of Christine and all that he had lost. Instead, he was attentive to Madeleine, seating her and giving her breakfast. She had, after all, saved his life. The question remained unanswered, of whether he had wanted to be saved.
When Madeleine rose to take her plates to the sink, he remarked, "You are not moving comfortably. I thought at first that you were stiff from long sleep, but it gets worse, not better."
"My back hurts a little," she confessed. "It is nothing."
"It is strain, from all that you did yesterday. Hardly surprising. Stand up straight…" He moved behind her, running his hands down her back, then over her shoulders and neck. She flinched a little. "I can help you with massage, if you permit me. An arcane skill I acquired during my Eastern travels."
"Yes… thank you…" She was in more pain than she would admit.
Monsieur went to the cupboard, then returned and put a shawl into her hands. "I need to be able to touch your back directly. Rearrange your clothes, then lie face down on your bed with blankets to your waist, and the shawl over your shoulders."
Madeleine retreated to the washroom, removed some of her clothes, and emerged with her dress folded down to her waist and the shawl wrapped round her upper body. Then she arranged herself on the bed as he had told her. There was a moment of silence, and she realised that, true to his word, he had not been watching. "I'm ready," she said softly. He came to the bedside and gently placed his hands flat on her back. She gave a small exclamation.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No… it is just that… your hands are warm…"
He chuckled. "I warmed them at the stove. Cold is your enemy now." He began stroking down the line of the big back muscles. "Most people are surprised by the natural cold touch of my skin. It shows how familiar you are with my hands, that the lack of cold surprised you. But in truth, guiding and teaching you, I must have touched you more than anyone in my life…" His voice trailed off into sadness, and Madeleine sought quickly for a way to distract him.
"Monsieur… Monsieur Erik… I am sorry, I do not know your other name."
"My name?" He sounded surprised that she had spoken of it, but not displeased. "My name, as you have learned, is Erik. I need no other name, and no title. You may call me Erik, if you wish." He had found the strained muscles, and moved his fingers now in small, soft circles, releasing the tension. Madeleine felt the pain drain away, but she also felt her heart beat faster. If he was aware of that, he gave no sign. His hands slid up, under the shawl, to her shoulders. Strong fingers pressed more deeply here, loosening the tight tendons of her neck. "So tell me, Madeleine, how is it that you can waft through my hidden doors which have defeated all comers for years?"
"Perhaps… you designed them to deceive prying eyes. Did you even think about prying fingers? I must touch to find my way. I notice a touch that feels wrong, a brick not properly anchored to its fellows, a breath of air coming through a seemingly solid wall." She talked of tricks she had learned in childhood, to count her steps, to memorise turns, to note textures of floor and walls, to make little rhymes in her head to help her remember a route.
Eventually, to Madeleine's regret, Erik ceased massaging her back. He tucked the shawl about her, and pulled the blankets up to cover her. "That will do for now. Rest for a few minutes, then get up. The pain will return, but it should be less, and it is better that you move a little."
Madeleine lay still, her face turned towards the wall, thinking about how he had touched her. She had known for a long time that she loved him, but only now did she realise how much desire was part of that love. Those hands… strong or gentle, demanding or coaxing… it was as well that he had kept her talking, or else she could surely never have hidden her feelings. His touch was healing, but she had wished his detachment could change to passion, wished his hands had roamed further… She suppressed a sigh. He knew desire, but not for her. She must control herself, with him so near. But… next time she was alone, whenever that would be… she promised herself that she would give her imagination free rein. Though it could never happen in reality, within the privacy of her own mind she would recall his touch, know his embrace, hear that marvellous voice whisper words of love…
Madeleine clenched her hands, digging nails into her palms. Time to wake from foolish dreams. He had gone to a chair on the other side of the room, and she heard him turning pages of a book. Confident now that he would not watch her, she rose and put her clothing to rights. Disciplining her mind took a little longer.
Between them, they attended to the few housekeeping tasks in the refuge, then both sat and rested. Erik asked Madeleine about her early life, people she had known, things she had done and learned. Again she felt that he wanted to avoid thinking about his own life, and about the drastic change that had come to him. After several hours, though, she could not help asking, "What will happen to your home now? For I think the mob must have found it, shortly after we had gone."
"They will have taken out their anger on my belongings. What they don't steal, they may smash. It is inconvenient, no more. Nothing there was irreplaceable. We can stay here for a few days, until the fuss has died down, then I will go back and see what is left."
"You don't think they will find us here?"
"I doubt if they have anyone as subtle as you to help them. You said we left a wet trail to here, but that will have dried long before they finished ransacking the house. There are no footprints, because there is no dust in the passages. I have always kept them clean."
"Might they use dogs… bloodhounds? A scent trail…"
"Damn!" he exclaimed. "Now I really hope they have no one like you helping them. I did not think of dogs. It's a salutary lesson that those of us who see, pay too little attention to the other senses." He paced back and forth across the room. "I had better go back and see what is happening." He hesitated. "I cannot take you with me. I move faster alone. But I am not sure it is wise to leave you here. If I am delayed… if searchers should come this way… you might be in danger."
"I could not find any other way out of this room. Is there one?"
"There is, and I am pleased that some of my tricks outwitted your nimble fingers. But the back door was designed to defeat any searcher clever enough to get this far. It opens on a vertical shaft, needing ropes and pulleys to negotiate it. I can climb it, and if necessary I could take… take another person that way. But you could not do it alone."
"Then perhaps… Is it day or night? I have lost track."
"Evening."
"Then let us go to that room where you first found me. It's very close. In the dark, no one will see me from outside. Show me how the grating works, and if there is danger from within, I can escape to the street."
"A poor place to leave you, but… very well. I should not be gone more than an hour or two."
Madeleine demonstrated to Erik that she could quickly unlock and re-lock the refuge door. Across the passage, at the other door, he showed her the catches which held it, and how to release the grating which led to the street. As she had suspected, he had improved the fastening since the time she fell through it accidentally, but iron rungs set in the wall made it easy to reach and, once taught, she could manage it. He had brought some blankets and pillows, that her wait might not be too uncomfortable. Then he set off to see what had happened.
O-O-O
Erik, wearing black, with a hood and gloves, carried a dark-lantern at his waist, but it was unlit. He could move through these passages in pitch darkness, as confidently as Madeleine in a familiar room. But it was not quite the same, for he had first used these hidden ways with his eyes, with lanterns, and indeed he had built many of them himself. He took an indirect route back to his house, crawling through air vents and void spaces, until he could look through a grill, down into his living room. As he had expected, the place had been ransacked, but there seemed to be no systematic hunt for him. A lamp was lit, and one man was in the room, but if he was a guard he was a poor one, snoring in an armchair with empty wine bottles scattered about him on the floor.
Erik checked a few other spy-holes, to be sure that the sleeping man was alone, then he slipped through a secret trapdoor and into his bedroom. His first target was the cupboard where he kept masks, wigs, stage make-up and other tools of disguise. It had been opened and the contents scattered, but they were mostly undamaged, and he quickly scooped them into a pillowcase as a convenient carry-sack. Then to the living room, where his silent tread did not disturb the man in the chair. The bookcase with his music manuscripts had been overturned, papers strewn on the floor, but he trod over these unheeding, passing behind the guard and touching a spring in the wall panelling. This secret had not been discovered. Behind the panel was a cache of some money and a few small, valuable items. These he took, leaving the living room by the back door, as silently as he had come.
As an afterthought, he went into Madeleine's bedroom and picked up her knitting bag. He had books in the refuge, but she might find time hanging heavy without some occupation. He recalled how she had submitted herself to the massage. An old doctor had taught him the techniques years ago, when he lived in a palace, respected and feared. There, he had practised on hapless slaves who had no choice but to obey him, but who could not conceal their repugnance. Madeleine had been tense when he first touched her, but soon she had relaxed, yielding herself to his hands. It was an expression of trust, strangely pleasing. Long ago, in another place, there had been a cat which would sit on his lap as he stroked it, purring itself to sleep. Yes, to be trusted by a living creature was a pleasure, one rarely granted to him.
Making his way back, he began planning the future. As soon as he could arrange matters, it would be better to get away from the Opera House for a while, until the excitement had been forgotten. He had other hideaways, and this place had too many memories… memories which his mind shied away from. Madeleine… he would have to arrange something for her. There were charitable institutions which looked after the blind and gave them useful employment. He thought for a moment about a woman who could pull a drowning man from the bottom of a lake, and drag him to safety with a baying mob snapping at her heels. Tried to picture her spending her days at a table in a circle of blind people, weaving baskets or hemming pen wipes. Well, she would have to live with it, as he had had to live with the outcast life forced on him.
He looked a little further ahead, to his next moves when Madeleine had gone, but into the empty space she left, his treacherous memory conjured another shape, a beautiful vision which would not be banished. Struggling to regain control of his own mind, Erik again summoned up the image of Madeleine. What she needed from him, what she could do for him… these were practical thoughts, carrying no emotional burden. It was better to think about Madeleine. Perhaps he should not dismiss her too soon.
O-O-O O-O-O
