ATTENTION: From November 17th to December 1st, "City of Wonders" is going on Thanksgiving Break, to give me time to finish the long put-off last chapter of "Freaks Never Die". I have no time otherwise, and it really needs to be done. Updates will resume again on December 1st.
ALSO! This chapter is pretty long. Longest yet, probably. It almost (ALMOST, mind you) kicked my ass and took twice as long to write. We're entering the "heavy psychological phase" of this story. Have fun, little psychologists. :)
Chapter Ten
Illusions
"Ah!" exclaimed Gangle the next time Mr. Whittington and Rodger saw him. "I cannot tell you how healthy Ariel looks. So pink and happy, and when she puts her head down you can see a cute little double-chin. She has not looked like that in years. Just like Lillian Gish. I was so happy I cried."
The Lillian Gish reference made Rodger laugh. "Haven't seen her lately, myself," he admitted pleasantly. "But if she's lookin' anything like Gish, I'll have to make a visit. Jay here is a stand-up guy."
"Er, what means stand-up guy?" asked Gangle, never having been any good at English idioms.
"A nice guy."
"Ah. I see. True, true. Now update me, please, and I will tell you more."
They did, and so he began.
(Gangle picks up the story.)
Alf decided to take the week off, at Mr. Y and Dr. Lawrence's urging, and so the Trio became a Duo that week. It felt strange without him, like breaking the third leg from a three-legged stool. Accordingly, our operations were awkward and clunky and filled with voids, but we never breathed a hint of it to Alf, fearing that he would be grieved and insist on returning early. Every time Ariel and me popped in to visit him, we were nothing but freakish grins and giggles. Everything was just swell, and dandy, and peachy, and whatever other adjectives Ariel pulled from her feathered hat, and apart from the frequent intrusions of Mrs. Beardsley and her food and other concerned friends, Alf was content to lie quiet and do "Alf-things".
Which was all very well, and actually a good thing, for an incident in the Ayrie later that week would have sent him on the next train to Seizure-ville.
When Ariel and me entered the Ayrie, ready to begin another day of Phantasma, Mr. Y was leaning against the piano, uncorking a bottle of wine, nearly beside himself with joy. He tossed aside the cork and sent a stream of wine swirling into a glass, and then he took a long, luxurious drink that nearly drained it. Ariel and I watched him in disbelief. We had never seen him like this before in our whole lives.
Suddenly his bleary eyes were upon us. When he turned, we realized that he was not wearing his mask, which was bizarre for him, and the sunken, rotted-looking deformity was exposed.
"Fleck n' Gangle!" he crowed, staggering over like a monster. "G' morning! Having a good day? Here, have a little wine!"
Before either of us could protest, Mr. Y furnished us with two glasses of wine and guided us over to a couch, where we sat and obediently sipped, afraid to disobey. This was completely unlike him! Was he mad?
"What's the merry occasion, Mr. Y?" I asked cautiously. "Why all the wine?"
Mr. Y was perfectly congenial as he swept to the piano and held up a telegram. "Because, Dr. Gangle, I won! I won the bidding! Christine Daae is coming for certain! It's official!"
He swiftly produced a stack of flyers, on which was the singer's lovely visage and the date she would be performing.
"Got to make more copies of these!" he sang, his eyes glittering. "And now I can begin making preparations!"
"Wonderful, Mr. Y!" I replied as pleasantly as I could, rising and slapping him on the back, although my mind was doing acrobatics."You must be excited! This is a great honor."
Ariel finished her wine in one large gulp and set the glass down, silently, as I managed to aquire our schedules and supplies from Mr. Y. She remained seated until it was time to leave. After handshaking and enthusiastic goodbyes, she and I bowed out of the Ayrie and headed back down the dark stairs, feeling a bit numb. Hopefully Mr. Y would be calmer when we returned. If Alf had been with us, he'd already have started a frantic discussion on the wickedness of liquor and Mr. Y's shocking unreasonableness.
At my side, Ariel looked ready to spit nails. No sooner did I gently suggest that we keep Mr. Y's little wine-tasting to ourselves, than she burst forth indignantly:
"Well! Of all the performances! And for what, mind you? I'll bet that woman wasn't half as excited to accept as he was celebrating her acceptance!" She turned to me, and then all around, as though wanting to declare it to the world. "Well, I don't care!"
I started to say something.
"I really don't care!" she interrupted. "Why should I care? I've got real issues to care about, and this isn't one of them! Rotten wine! Rotten world!"
But jealousy burned in her eyes the entire rest of the walk down. If it were possible for the feathers on her dress to fluff up in rage, it would have happened, and I would have been presented with a female version of Charles the peacock.
I tried to change the subject. "How is your Dad feeling this morning?"
She didn't seem to hear. "It isn't as though she's ever done anything for him!" she started up again. "For the past ten years, it's us who have been helping Mr. Y. Even if she is pretty and talented, and they knew each other once...there are other people who could be just as...just as..."
The base door was just ahead, but Ariel didn't go to open it. She stopped suddenly, as though lost in thought, and sat down on the bottom step. She took off her little hat and placed it at her side.
"Signorina?" I ventured, watching her face, feigning ignorance. She was not taking this blow to her ego very well. "Everything okay?"
"No," came her voice, broken and defeated. "Everything is not okay. I think I'm sick. I want to go to bed."
"Sick? You're really feeling sick? Nauseous? Just now?"
"Not nauseous," she almost whispered. "Just sick."
Looking at her face in the darkness, I felt a sudden jolt of fear. She really seemed as though she had no desire to move from that step. I knew that her secret love was starting to eat away at her. Would it be best to coax it out?
I sat down next to her. "You're upset because that lady is coming," I said. "That Christine lady. Why? I mean, what is the real reason why?"
Her lips tightened.
"Go on, Signorina, tell me the truth," I pried as gently as I could, moving her hat aside and scooting close to her. "I've proven myself trustworthy to you, have I not?"
There was a long, pained silence from Ariel that was nearly tangible in the intensity of its expression, and then she put her face in my jacket. "You can't...tell...anyone," she said in a tortured whisper, clutching my lapel as though the sky were falling.
"You have my word."
It was as though she were pronouncing her own death sentence, so frail and frightened was her voice as she quietly said, "I...love Mr. Y."
Those words were hard for me to hear, even though I had anticipated them. "So that's it," I said, and I felt her chest begin to sob. "You're in love, Signorina? There, there, don't cry. How long?"
"I'm not s-sure," she mewed. "For a w-while I guess. It's really s-stupid of me, but I can't h-help it, and it h-hurts when he looks right through me... like I'm a n-nothing!"
"I'm sure it does," I said, knowing exactly how that felt. The irony of it all. "So this is why you want to learn all about him? You want to get to know him?"
I felt her nod. "M-More than that. I want Mr. Y to look at me like h-he...like he looks at her! Whenever he looks at me I feel..." She sat up a little and felt her cheeks, which had suddenly reddened. "I don't know what I feel, but I know that it's all wrong to feel it."
"Wrong?"
She shook her head and let out a long, quavering sigh. "I'm going insane. I want Mr. Y, but at the same time I know I mustn't want him."
Now I was genuinely confused. "Why not, Signorina?"
Her eyes, framed by her wet, black-smeared eyelashes, looked earnestly up into mine. "Because Daddy needs me. Now more than ever! I can't ever get attached to somebody and leave him all alone. I just can't! It would be terrible of me. Poor Daddy is so sick and lonely." Her eyes dropped. "But I still can't shake this desire of mine. I really am going insane..."
"Wait, I don't understand you. Do you mean you don't ever want to be married? On account of your Dad?"
She seemed struck by this wording at first, and then she nodded, very seriously.
"What? But you have needs too, Signorina," I protested. "You're a healthy young lady. It isn't bad to want to love someone and have your own family. Most everybody does."
"But, but Daddy..." she began to counter-protest, but then her head went down. "Well, it isn't as though my dream is attainable anyway, so I guess I needn't worry one way or the other."
She looked as vulnerable as a sad little bird. A wave of tenderness swept over me, and in an unmeditated burst of feeling, I leaned over and kissed her, right where her hair waved across her forehead.
She was surprised, but not unpleasantly.
"W-Why did you do that, Gangle dear?" she asked.
"Because..." Did I dare to say it? No, I couldn't! "Because I like you and feel sad for you. I want to help you. Do you still want to do this investigation, Miss Sherlock?"
That brightened her up. "I do, Signor Watson. It gives me something to think about."
"Very good!" I checked my watch. It was time to get going with the day. I took up her little hat, fluffed the feather, and put it back on her head. "In that case, we need to get to our places. Later on we'll visit your Dad. As for your secret, I won't tell a soul."
"Thank you," she replied, and rose from the step. Then, suddenly, I felt her little warm lips kiss my cheek in what I determined to be a friendly follow-up, and the two of us headed out into Phantasma to begin our day.
"I'll always have Charles," she mused with a tragic sigh.
And me, I wanted to say.
)
(
)
Alf had a fine vacation that week, which he spent reading a battered old copy of Treasure Island and writing in a journal. I was glad to see him get a break. Under the watchful eye of Doctor Lawrence and Ariel, and with the frequent intrusion of Mrs. Beardsley and her godawful casseroles, a healthful glow was restored to the man's old tattooed face. Where the skin was not blackened by ink, a pink, dewy color bloomed forth, a sign of heartiness. He had not had a large seizure since that day at lunch, only a few small ones.
"This has all been very nice," he said cheerfully on Friday afternoon, "But I think it is reasonable to say that too much leisure is bad medicine. I've had just enough. I'll be pleased to go back to work on Monday."
This he said while lounging on the parlor couch, wrapped in a rather ugly plaid throw that clashed horribly with his face, Ariel sitting at his side like a little matron, blowing on his tea to cool it.
"Nevertheless," she said gently, "You must do everything that Doctor Lawrence says, or you shall be banished to bed, and I couldn't be held responsible for what Mrs. Beardsley would insist on feeding you."
We all laughed, although Alf's laugh had an audible note of dread. I had heard tales of what Edna Beardsley shoved down the poor tattooed invalid's throat.
"That you wouldn't," he said. "Well, Baby Fleck, that's motivation enough to keep me in obedience. Are you and Gangle going to the library Sunday?"
"Are you, Daddy? Or rather, do you want to?" Ariel was careful to ask pointedly.
"No," he replied. "Doctor Lawrence would rather that I stay here. But you can fetch some books for me, and of course I trust Gangle here anywhere."
While all this discourse was going on, I was looking lazily around Fleck Manor. All the windows and doors were open, to let the place air out, and I could see into the main bedroom. I saw Alf's bed. Something about it was interesting. It had all the bedclothes on it, arranged nicely, but on one side the blankets were different. There was also a second, rather feminine-looking pillow. Near that side of the bed was a little table with a lamp, books, and what was clearly Ariel's rose-pin.
I looked over towards the other room, Ariel's bedroom. From what little I could see of the bed, there weren't any sheets on it. As a matter of fact, the place exuded a sense of neglect and disuse: the bed was bare, the vanity was more or less clean, and the curtains were folded on a desk. I blinked. Ariel and her father were sharing a room and a bed? Why would they do that?
I lifted my eyes just in time to see Ariel dab a stray drop of tea from Alf's mouth and tuck his throw more firmly about him, her lips spread in a doting smile. Alf, in turn, reclined into his pillow. The look of tenderness that passed between the Flecks seemed to convey a deeper, hithero unknown dimension of relationship.
)
(
)
Mr. Y's delight in securing the performance of Christine Daae lasted for quite a while. I don't think it ever really wore off, actually, for he immediately plunged into the details of her arrival. He didn't tell us freaks much of anything, but I saw blueprints for a glass carriage hanging on the Ayrie wall, along with a map and a sketch of a music box, on which sat a little automaton Mozart at a piano.
Madame Giry was her usual grim old self, but Meg was beginning to act a bit strange. On more than one occasion I saw her smoking, her old pep replaced by a hunted, hopeless pallor, and she no longer seemed to take much pride in her dancing. She got better and better every time I saw her, but it seemed as though she had gained the ability to stand outside herself and observe, and she did not like what she saw.
"Does Mr. Y ever come down from the Ayrie, Dr. Gangle?" she asked me one afternoon, a spotted bathing suit tossed over her shoulder. "I never see him."
"Not that I know of," I said honestly. "And certainly not to watch anything. He's always very busy."
She ran a desultory hand through her head of golden hair, let out a deep sigh, and commented, as if it really didn't matter, "Well, tell him that Meg and the girls are beginning rehearsals for Bathing Beauty, right on schedule. Good day."
And off she went, a note of resignation in the way her steps dragged heavily. It was almost as though it hurt her to walk.
)
(
)
On Sunday, it was off to the library for Miss Sherlock and Signor Watson, but not before some intervention from Alf and Genevieve.
"You'll bring me Vanity Fair and The Old Curiosity Shop, won't you, Ariel?" came Alf's humble request.
And also to my Signorina came this suggestion from Genevieve: "See if they've got The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Not for me, but for you. Kind of sad, but I declare I've never read a heroine who is so real!"
Once at the library, we quickly located the aforementioned titles, tossed them indifferently to one side of a table, and delved straight into our Mr. Y mystery research. I won't deny that Ariel's recently-confessed love for the object of our study introduced an element of bitter sadness into my investigations, but I was beginning to feel a genuine excitement. It almost felt rebellious, adventurous, analyzing every little word and gesture of Mr. Y, and comparing it with what Ariel and me were able to glean from shelves of dusty old tomes. I felt like a professor.
Ariel radiated a similar feeling of adventure, aided by a smart, exotic-looking hat topped with black plumes and a smart purple suit. She looked ready to dominate the earth.
"Alright, Gangle!" she declared. "We know enough about Christine Daae. What we're here to find is information about the Phantom of the Opera affair, and the Opera Populaire. Let's get sniffing!"
While the query "Phantom of the Opera" yielded no results, there were a great many goodly volumes about the Opera Populaire, many of which were lavishly illustrated, the supremely helpful one being The Complete History of the Opera Populaire. It was so large that it had to be shelved sideways rather than up. Ariel carefully pulled it from the other clinging books and received it into her arms with the air of a midwife helping with the birth of a particularly beautiful child.
"I do believe this will tell us anything we'd need to know," she breathed, casting an approving eye at the stoutness of the spine, for with Ariel, size matters if you're a book. "Let's have a look."
The book was filled with wonderful illustrations. Before we even thought of consulting the index or scanning for keywords, we just spent some time being amazed by the Opera Populaire's beauty. We saw a watercolor sketch of the main staircase, a splendid walkway of gold and inlaid stones and panels of marble, illuminated bulbs of glass, painted ceilings, a stage surrounded by golden angels in varying states of adoration, a large auditorium of red velvet seats, and a gigantic chandelier of crystal. In many ways, it reminded me of the Ayrie, and it occured to me that Mr. Y had likely drawn on this place as inspiration for Phantasma.
"I wouldn't be the faintest bit surprised," said Ariel when I presented her with my theory. "After all, he had to have seen this place at least once. How marvelous!"
Then the nature of our investigation came nagging to the forefront of our minds, and we got back down to business. Off we went to the index, where the query "Phantom of the Opera" was not only there, but it had a great many page numbers where information could be found.
"Page four-hundred and two!" ordered Ariel, and once there we were presented with the printed legend:
The Phantom of the Opera: The Controversy.
Unique to the legacy of the Opera Populaire is the controversy of the "Phantom of the Opera", a mystery that has never been satisfactorily explained, as reports are greatly varied, and to what degree they are true or apocryphal are highly debatable. It is said that the aforementioned Phantom figured prominently, if not directly, in the disaster and decline of the Opera Populaire in January 1897, but the author wishes to merely present the story as objectively as possible.
The first verifiable instance of the "Phantom of the Opera" being used in general conversation among the inhabitants of the Opera comes from a brief aside in a review of "The Magic Flute", written by Jacques L'Enfant in 1895:
"...and after I had thus complimented the wondrous stage design, I heard
a ballet dancer morbidly comment that it was all 'no thanks to the Opera
Ghost.' Intrigued, I asked her what she meant, and the little lady merrily
informed me that the Opera Ghost caused several mishaps during the
rehearsals, going so far as to knock props over, cause backdrops to fall
periliously close to Ms. Guidicelli [the leading soprano], and making the
dressing room floors to flow with blood. I shook my head at the fertile
imagination of children and advised bed rest."
Such activity of such an Opera Ghost would had happened under the management of Mssr. Lefavre, who mentioned nothing of the sort at any time, neither in writing nor in speech, although it was noted by his cousin, Emilie, that he seemed to make a point to avoid the subject altogether.
The Opera House came under the management of Richard Firmin and Giles Andre in the summer of 1896, the very night of the Gala in which Christine Daae would assume the role of Elissa in "Hannibal" (Carlotta Guidicelli having suddenly become indisposed), a move that would propel her into stardom. Why Mssr. Lefavre chose to leave so abruptly-going to Australia, as a matter of fact-was unknown at the time, but it soon became clear to the new managers of the Opera Populaire that the 'Opera Ghost' was more than mere legend.
Almost immediately after assuming their duties, the new managers were given a note from the alleged Opera Ghost, welcoming them to the Opera House and demanding a regular salary-mentioning that Mssr. Lefavre usually gave him 20,000 francs a month. Firmin and Andre dismissed the note as a joke and turned their attentions to that evening's gala. Carlotta Guidicelli was suddenly unable (though some say unwilling) to go on, and Christine Daae was hastily produced as an understudy. Her legendary first performance followed shortly after.
Over the next six months, the Opera Ghost became increasingly meddlesome, having developed a grudge against Ms. Guidicelli and demanding that Christine Daae take leading roles. When his will was defied, disasters occured, including the destruction of the auditorium's chandelier and the hanging of stagehand Joseph Buquet during a performance of Il Muto. After these highly publiized incidents occured, the management was obliged to take serious action.
At a performance of "Don Juan Triumphant", an opera penned and cast (with Daae in the lead role) by the Opera Ghost himself, security was heightened: doors locked, policemen armed, and a close watch kept on the proceedings. Unbeknownst to anyone, the Opera Ghost himself arrived during the performance, quickly garotted Ubaldo Piangi (the lead tenor), and assumed his role. Daae seemed to see through the deception, and at a pivotal moment in the music she tore off his hood and mask, revealing the Opera Ghost and his horrifying deformities-an apparent rotting of the flesh on one half of the face- to the crowd.
At this point Ariel drew in her breath sharply.
"Why...that's what Mr. Y looks like!" she gasped. "And see! The Opera Ghost was wearing a mask! Mr. Y does too!"
For a long moment we stared at each other, hearts pounding at the magnitude of our discovery, and then a thought, like a sharp dart, deflated it.
"But, but Signorina," I said, remembering the other book. "Didn't that one book we read tell us that the Opera Ghost died?"
And the enthusiasm drained out of her face, but not without a sigh of frustration. "But this describes him perfectly! Mr. Y...couldn't be related to him, could he?"
That seemed like a bit of a stretch to me, but Ariel would not let it go.
"And he composed a whole opera! And..." Here her eyes grew troubled-"He murdered people."
"He would have had to flee at precisely the same time I came to America. 1897."
She frowned. "Let's keep reading."
The Opera Ghost fled the stage, taking Daae forcibly along, and vanished. The murder and deception thus uncovered, a search party of police was formed. At long last, after much prying, a secret passage was found that led into the very bowels of the Opera Populaire, where a surprisingly hospitable underground lair was discovered, ostensibly the Opera Ghost's dwelling place. Daae, already having been rescued and snuck out via way of the underground cellar systen by her fiance, the Viscount de Chagny, was not present when the mob arrived. The Opera Ghost himself had escaped as well, leaving behind only a mask, obviously dropped in haste. A further search of Paris was fruitless, although garments comparably similar to the Ghost's, along with a shoe, were found in the nearby river, and when a thorough search of the city resulted in no sighting of any such distinctive person as the Ghost, he was presumed drowned. Nothing since then has given the Parisian authorities any reason to suspect that he is possibly living yet, although no body or remains have admittedly been produced.
Ariel jumped upon the mention of the Viscount De Chagny with excitement, but was nearly beside herself when the article admitted that the Opera Ghost's body had never been found, thus leaving open to debate even the slimmest possibly that he could still be alive and well, sitting back at Phantasma. As a matter of fact, so much of the Opera Ghost's description fit Mr. Y that I felt fairly convinced we'd solved the puzzle.
"Mr. Y," marveled Ariel. "The Phantom of the Opera. Why, Gangle, it seems that everything points to this conclusion. The mask, the deformity, the ability to compose, the time-frame...I don't see how he could be anything else."
I couldn't either.
"And yet, it's all too simple," she said, looking at the book before her in disbelief. "If two plain freaks such as ourselves could piece this together, why hasn't the media caught on? How is it that we, two casual detectives, figured it out?"
I felt the same, but I was still convinced we'd done it. "Still, it makes sense," I said. "And it would explain the bad things Mr. Y said that he did. Two murders, especially random and cold-blooded murders, are certainly something to flee from."
The words were strange on my lips. I thought of Mr. Y. I imagined him actually taking a rope and very calmly choking someone to death. I thought of his pleasant smile at Christmas. The two images were unreal side-by-side, but when I remembered his gun in the Ayrie and the crazed look in his eye at our first meeting, it slowly became plausible, and then real, and then I wondered how I never saw anything but this terrible conclusion.
Ariel seemed to feel it too. She looked from the book, then blindly in front of her, her lips parting, eyes widening, as though she beheld the two murdered corpses at her feet, saw their swollen, stinking flesh, and she rose from her chair, bringing her hands to her face as though about to faint in horror. But then the fear subsided, as swiftly as cold water extinguishes a fire. Her eyes calmed. Her lips shut firmly. She sat down.
"It seems to me," came her voice, calm and decided, "That we have made a mistake somewhere. Mr. Y cannot be the Phantom of the Opera."
I was dumbfounded. Wasn't she the one who had proposed it in the first place?
"But Signorina," I protested. "All the evidence points to this conclusion."
"It does not," she denied, shaking her head, a strange, blank look on her face. "It only seems that way."
"How?"
Her eyes darted about for a moment. "Because it does. Mr. Y would not murder people."
Based on the Mr. Y I'd seen on the way over to America, he was a man who certainly would and could murder people, but of course she did not see that. But didn't she remember the Ayrie? Didn't she remember the gun? She had to!
And all at once it became clear to me. She remembered, but was choosing to forget, for she loved the Mr. Y she had created in her mind, the benevolent, stern, brilliant creator who loved beautiful things, made beautiful things, and perhaps only committed a theft or murdered to protect someone. She would not accept the idea of a mad Mr. Y, a Mr. Y who manipulated and killed impulsively when angered, for then her romantic fantasies would be destroyed. Even if all the evidence on earth were to point to this conclusion, she would never believe it. She refused.
Her face was like a brick wall when she stated, once more, in a bizarre monotone,"We've made a mistake. We'll just...try again another time. We'll come back to the library another day, or perhaps...research somewhere else."
)
(
)
We checked out our books and left. We did not talk as we walked. I was too stunned at her willingness to shut her eyes for the sake of illusion, and she was white with determination and mingled horror that was screaming behind her eyes. I felt that if I touched her, she would scream, or laugh, and collapse in a heap, and so we walked down the street together like strangers. I looked around, trying to make sense of it all.
Just then, I met eyes with a decently-attired man who was passing by with a lady. They were brown eyes, familiar eyes, and they narrowed first in greeting, then in contemplation...my heart jumped. The two of us stopped dead in the street, looking at each other. My previous agitation over phantoms and operas vanished.
His skin was tan, his mouth had a cocksure lilt, his general countenance told of a man who was confident, used to getting his way, just like...? No, it was impossible! But there he was, staring at me just as excitedly! His eyes darted to my throat. He stepped back, giving the lady a helpless, silent glance, and then he said, falteringly, in a strong Italian accent, "What is your name?"
That voice! It was his voice!
"Gregory De Rossi!" I cried into my voice trumpet, and he stumbled back, eyes widening, into the arms of the lady, who was similarly affected.
"And I am..." he cried back, "Giovanni De Rossi! Gregory! Gregory!"
It was him! It was my brother! We pulled each other into a rough embrace and wept as only two long-separated Italian brothers can, making a fine spectacle of ourselves to the people on the street, who looked over wonderingly. I couldn't believe it! Ten years, and we just happened to meet each other on the street!
After the two of us managed to pull ourselves together and blow our noses, I fumbled stupidly for my voice trumpet and asked, "Giovanni! What are you doing here?"
"Vacationing," came my brother's voice, throaty and full of tears. He wiped his eyes. "Thought I'd treat Maria here...you remember Maria Pescatelli, don't you, Greg?"
Maria Pescatelli! I turned my astonished eyes from my brother to Maria just in time to see a tear ooze from one of her eyes and mingle against her lips. Maria! For a moment I could do nothing but take in the sight of her glistening eyes, the frizzy hair under her hat, the memories of the past assailing me, and then she was in my arms. I closed my eyes and breathed in her smell. The last time we'd done this, it was a hot and sultry night in Milan, and we were wearing substantially less clothing. Well, actually, none at all, unless you count undershirts.
It all came back to me, holding her like that.
"Greg," she exclaimed, and the sound of her voice thrilled me. "I thought I'd never see you again."
"Me neither," I heard Giovanni say behind me.
There we were, a little family, reunited in a warm little huddle.
"We must take you out to eat, Greg," insisted Giovanni. "You must come. There is so much to talk about, about us, about you. Come, Greg, come."
"Unless this is a bad time to eat," interjected Maria in English (for we had been speaking in Italian), looking over my shoulder. "Ah, Giovanni, we are mystifying this young lady here."
She was of course referring to Ariel, whom we'd all forgotten and who was standing, astonished, the bag of books hanging limply in her hand.
"I...I've heard about you, Mr. Giovanni!" Ariel cried, making him grin widely. "Oh, isn't this grand? Together again! What a chance! Of course you must go to eat with them right away, Gregory dear! It's your family, for crying out loud! Never mind me! Land sakes! Of what account am I?"
Still, Ariel had to be escorted home. We walked and talked, dropped her off at Coney's main gate, and went tripping off to a nearby restaurant. Out came cigars, wine, and plates of veal parmesan. I completely forgot about everything except the fact that I was Gregory De Rossi, and this man was my brother, and this lady was an old flame.
"Greg!" cried Giovanni. "I knew from the note you left that they got you and cut your throat, but...how are you talking now? Where are you living?"
"Give him a chance to speak, Vanni," reproved Maria as she topped off my wine glass.
I took a sip and told him that I was working at Coney Island now, in Phantasma. I told him about Mr. Y and his inventions, how I'd met him on the ship to America, and how everything had come together, up until this point.
"Coney Island!" Giovanni cried, slapping his hand to his brow. "We were there yesterday! Not at Phan-tassa-ma, but we were planning to see it tomorrow! To think, if we had not passed each other, my brother would have been over at Coney, and we would have returned to Italy never knowing how close we were to him!"
The thought of that made my head spin.
"Who was that young lady, Greg?" asked Maria. "The one we dropped off at Coney? I don't believe you've told us yet."
"Ah, no, you haven't!" Giovanni added. "Who is she? I like her. She is very beautiful. A little too skinny, but still very beautiful. You going to marry her?"
I hated to disappoint the two eager, shining faces, but I was obliged to shake my head.
"No, no. She is the daughter of Mr. Fleck, that friend of mine. I was only taking her to the library in his place. He's not feeling well."
"What's her name?"
"Ariel."
Giovanni's accent mangled it, but he said it with affection. "Ah-ree-ella. That is very nice. Nice name for a nice lady. You should marry her, Greg."
I shrugged, smiling at the hopelessness of such a prospect. There was still much that he did not know.
"Ahhh," he said. He seemed to have remembered something. "You can't marry her because she does not know..."
Maria slapped him lightly on the arm. "Vanni!"
"No, no, Maria," I interjected. "I'll have you know that Ariel knows...ah...some of what happened to me in Italy. It does not seem to bother her."
The waitress brought more bread and wine, but once the new food was duly rationed, I caught a glimmer of "I'm-the-clever-big-brother" in Giovanni's eyes, and all at once we were young boys again, eating the leftover lasagna after our restaurant was closed.
"You must not have told much then," he said, his tone authoritative. "She looks like too much of a lady to really take it that well, unless you only told a little."
"I couldn't very well incriminate myself entirely, Giovanni."
"Ah! When did I say, Gregory, een-crimmy-nate yourself, eh? You jump to conclusions! I'm stating facts. Always, you are too hasty." He took a long sip of his wine, as if the oracle had spoken.
This was starting to get me grumpy. "Always, you are blaming me for something!"
He finished his sip with an indignant twitch of his eyes. "I have not blamed you once. I should blame you, though." He put down his glass and fixed me with a bitter stare."There is much I could blame about. You have any idea how the last ten years has been for me? Hmm?"
All at once, the initial joy of our reunion faded, and in its place came all the bitterness and pain of the past, all the unresolved conflict between Giovanni and me. It seemed my brother had been only waiting for an excuse to vent his unhappiness.
"You know how it felt to find your letter under my door?" Giovanni moralized, waving a breadstick like a pointer. "And how afraid I was of the Mafia getting me too, even if I had done nothing against them? All alone! Running out of money! You gone! Everybody afraid to see me, do business with me, because I was related to you. Bearing the brunt of your bad reputation while you play at Coney! And now you are mad when I do a little blaming? Ah, fuck you."
"Ay, ay!" cried Maria in distress, patting Giovanni's back and looking desperately at me. "Fighting already? Calm down, Vanni. No swearing!"
"You have no respect," concluded my brother, and his mouth was firm with unhappiness. "If Mama were alive, she would die to see this."
I looked down at my sauce-speckled plate, ashamed and furious. I was ashamed of causing Giovanni such trouble, but furious that even now, ten years later, he still sought to control me with the "Mama" emotional blackmail.
"Giovanni..." I choked, tears suddenly crowding into my eyes.
"You have no respect," he repeated, folding his arms, but his chin wobbled.
I rose to embrace him, pushing aside my chair and abandoning my dinner.
"No touch me," he grunted, trying to wriggle away from my hug, but a tear snuck down into his collar. "You have no respect. Ay, ay! No touch me!"
"Giovanni," I wept, for I still loved him. "I am sorry, brother. I don't have any respect. Don't you see how sorry I am?"
"No respect!" His voice was squeaky now.
"Giovanni! Brother! Forgive me. I have no respect. I have never had respect. But brother, I still love you."
He shut his eyes.
"I still love you," I insisted.
That did it. "Ahhh," Giovanni finally groaned, giving in to his sadness. "Greg! Little brother!"
"Giovanni! Big brother!" I wept, taking his wet face to my breast.
He said something that I couldn't understand, and so it was that the two of us reconciled, screaming, as only two Italian brothers can, as Maria (and the restaurant) sat awkwardly nearby. What can I say? It was an emotional moment, and when we were quite through (a few people applauding us as we sat) we exchanged contact information.
"We must see each other again very soon," said Giovanni, blowing his nose. "As often as we can, before Maria and me go back to Roma."
I blinked. "Roma? You are not in Milano anymore?"
Giovanni shook his head. "How could I stay in Milano with a last name like De Rossi?"
I bowed my head in shame.
"And so Maria and me, we go down to Roma. Nice city. We try to put a restaurant there, but that is not working so good. So I am thinking perhaps we could just come back here, to Brooklyn, where we were born. We'll see."
"You and Maria?" I asked curiously, looking over at her. "Together? You two married?"
There was an intense little moment where we all looked at each other. Maria swallowed and looked from me to Giovanni, and Giovanni gave me a significant nod.
"Well," he replied, grinning, "If we are not married, she sure has been following me around for a long time. I don't know, Greg. When you took off, we sort of gra-vee-tated to each other, like magnets."
"We thought you'd never come back," Maria quickly added, looking at me sadly, almost as though she were apologizing. "So..."
"So that is that," concluded Giovanni. He settled back in his chair and took more wine, smiling like a big Mafia boss. "Now it all works out. Maria and me, we very close friends. And you, Greg, have a close lady friend too, that pretty Ah-ree-ella. We make out very good for ourselves."
"Yes," I agreed, knowing it wasn't that simple. But it was never good to contradict Giovanni when he looked confident like that.
While he ordered us some spumoni, I watched Maria's lowered eyes. She had not changed much in ten years. Her face was still lovely; a little plumper, but that didn't take away the loveliness. I remembered how we made broken cobblestone castles as children. She seemed to still have that sensible strength in her hands, the same spirit for life, but it was choked, suppressed. Giovanni patted her back, and she did not respond. It seemed that my sudden intrusion back into her life was turning her world around, causing her to face things as they were, and not as they seemed to be. Things that seemed clear before were now illusions.
That's how I felt, at least. I still loved Maria. I thought I had forgotten. When Ariel entered the picture, it had the effect of throwing a pile of dirt on top of a treasure chest, but now...
"I will be back," announced Giovanni, apparently going to the toliet, and the two of us were alone.
"Greg," she murmured, coming over and hugging me. The buttons and ruffles on her dress poked my chest. "Greg, it has been such a long time since..."
I remembered. "It has, Maria, but yet not so long."
It was incredible how, despite the decade, everything between us seemed to resume, as though nothing had happened. Before we ultimately parted at the gates of Coney, after the meal was through, she told me, "We should come see you tomorrow, Greg. We still have much to talk about."
"Yes, yes!" seconded Giovanni. "We will come to Phan-tassa-ma tomorrow, to see you."
She kissed me goodnight very politely; just a kiss on the cheek. But her eyes said more. Long after she and Giovanni had disappeared into the Brooklyn hubbub, I stood at the gates, wondering at myself.
)
(
)
"So!" said Alf when I stopped by Fleck Manor a few minutes later. "Ariel tells me you ran into your brother in Brooklyn today! Have a seat, Ee-talian! Do tell me about it!"
Alf was still on the parlor lounge, wrapped in that atrocious throw, a bookmark in Vanity Fair. I didn't see Ariel anywhere. She must have been in her room. Or, rather, the room she and her father apparently shared. That bothered me. A lot of things about her were beginning to bother me. Maybe I'd ask her about that sometime.
Anyway, I gave the man a heavily edited narrative of my evening with Giovanni and Maria, which made it sound a bit impersonal and cool, but it touched him nevertheless. He sat, listening intently, tears in his eyes.
"It must have been terrible, being separated from them for so long," Alf said with unusually strong emotion. "It's a hard thing, being cut off from people you love, having a whole ocean between you."
"Well, it's alright now, Alf," I assured him. "We had a great time. In fact, we're going to see each other tomorrow."
But he seemed fixated on the last thing he'd said. "A very hard thing..." he murmured.
I decided I'd better brighten the atmosphere fast and looked desperately around for a conversation-starter. My eyes fell upon one of the Flecks' eight billion photographs. It was an old, faded looking picture of a little tattooed boy, seated on a stool.
"Say, Alf!" I inquired, pointing to it. "Is that you as a little boy there?"
He squinted at the picture for a moment, and then he dabbed his eyes miserably with the throw, his tattoos seeming to droop. "No. It looks like me, but no. That's my brother, John. He's been dead for forty years, but...sometimes...I still hear him...bouncing his ball around."
"Hey, Alf, what's wrong today?" I asked, slapping his back. "Feeling alright?"
"Oh, I don't know," he moaned. "Ever since I heard that Christine Daae singing, I've been feeling so unreasonably sentimental. Forgive me."
The name startled me. "Christine Daae singing? When did you hear that?"
"An hour or so ago," he replied. "That Edison cylinder arrived today, the one you ordered, I think. Ariel and I listened to it. The woman's voice is just beautiful. I think it's scarcely any wonder Mr. Y would want to book her for a performance."
Knowing what I knew about Mr. Y and Christine Daae, I immediately wanted to hear the cylinder. Alf said that Ariel was in the bedroom, likely listening to it or perhaps reading her book, and I could go see her. He resumed reading Vanity Fair, tears of sentiment in his eyes.
Ariel was on "her half" of the Fleck bed when I entered, her porcelain face tense as she read "The Awakening". On the bedside table, space had been cleared for the trumpeted phonograph machine, and the remnants of the cylinder packaging sat crumpled at her feet. The scene was so tell-tale and peaceful that I felt reluctant to break it, and I ultimately didn't have to; she noticed me and gave a little smile of welcome, stuffing a piece of paper into her book. The strange aloofness at the library was a thing of the past.
She wanted to know all about Giovanni and Maria, naturally, and so I told her of our dinner together, editing quite a bit just as I had done for Alf, but just like her father she became sentimental and took my big hand into her little warm one. Her throat bobbed.
"That's so wonderful," she said. "And so lucky. I'm so glad this happiness has come to you, dear."
And all at once my insides squirmed with guilt. I remembered that I loved Ariel, and just a short time ago I had been burning with rekindled lust for Maria. It felt adulterous, even though it wasn't, and I certainly owed no allegiance to someone to whom I was not engaged and who didn't see me as any more than a friend. But, to assuage my conscience, I leaned forward and gave Ariel another kiss right where the last one had been, right where the hair waved over her forehead.
In response to her pleasantly confused expression, I replied, "Because you are so sweet. Now, about this cylinder..."
"Ohhh, yes," she said, turning to the phonograph machine. "Yes. I'll let you hear it." But before she turned it on, she looked at me, her eyes full of sad seriousness. "The woman's voice," she assured me, as though diagnosing me with tuberculosis, "Is gorgeous."
A few seconds of ghostly scratching sounds, and then a man's voice declared, "Think of Me, from Hannibal, sung by Christine Daae. Edison Records."
And then, after a brief orchestral introduction, a voice as hard as lightening and soft as candlelight issued forth from the trumpet, with an arresting sense of timelessness:
Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me, once in a while
Please promise me you'll try.
When you find, that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment
Spare a thought for me.
More orchestra, and it was during this interlude that I turned to look at Ariel, who had just turned to look at me.
I was so impressed that I forgot to speak English. "Perfetto!" I whispered, feeling as though I couldn't even break the music with my voice.
She nodded soberly, almost ashamedly, and looked at her pale, clenched hands as Daae's voice sang out again:
We never said, our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember
Stop and think of me
Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the way things might have been
Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned
Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind
Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day when I won't think of you!
More orchestra, only this time we didn't talk, and Ariel had no comments to make.
At last the song reached its end, but not before Daae reprised the general theme with a thrilling sequence of vocal acrobatics that reminded me of Ariel on her hoop, and whose purpose seemed to be a confident, deliberate reiteration of her talent. Fearless, fanciful, carefully-controlled grace, and then the final crash of the orchestra. Then there was a few scratches, then silence.
"Wow!" I breathed with true enthusiasm, but the effect it had on my Signorina made me refrain from any further praise.
Ariel removed the cylinder and put it back in its case with the defeated air of a woman who has been put firmly in her place by her superior.
"It was excellent, wasn't it?" she mumbled. "Almost like a dream. Scarcely any wonder why Mr. Y fancies her. What in the world could Ariel Fleck be compared to Christine Daae? Put a fork in me, Gangle, for I am thoroughly and entirely done."
"Done? With all of this, Signorina? The research?"
There was a long pause, at the end of which I expected an affirmative, but she shook her head in resignation.
"No. Not done with the research. It's a doneness of the spirit, like the shutting of a door, but as for the research..." She looked out the window, and the moonlight cast tired shadows under her eyes..."I feel bound to keep on. I'd like to say it's because I never leave a thing undone, but I respect you too much to lie. It feels to me as though this mystery is the only realm in which Mr. Y and I can ever be close to each other. Even if I never do solve it...it is like one of those Shakespeare plays in which everyone dies, but it is so long that you forget there will ever be an end...but the end can't ever be happy, can it?"
She was completely ignoring the fact that we basically had solved the mystery, so perfectly that her voice was not even slightly affected. In that moment she was like a thin, white beech sapling, the weight of her own denial like a sudden profusion of fruit at the crown, bending her frame dangerously close to snapping. Even for Poe-loving Ariel Fleck, this kind of talk was chillingly morbid. I had to snap her out of it.
"Come, Signorina, you need to come out of this room, get some fresh air. You are looking ill. Come, come, you've had enough books and music, and certainly enough thinking. Come with me."
She cast a desultory glance about the little room and rose, as if I were compelling her, and followed me out into the main parlor.
Alf had abandoned Vanity Fair and was on the last few pages of The Old Curiosity Shop, judging by the way it was overturned in his lap. His decorated head was slumped on the chair arm, where he was having a good, theraputic cry.
"Little Nell..." he wept in explanation, though his head did not rise, "I'm at the part where...Little Nell...dies."
"Oh, no, Daddy!" cried Ariel. "Daddy, you are making yourself perfectly miserable with these books, and Doctor Lawrence says that you must not have any great shocks to your system! Oh, Daddy, do stop!"
He sniffed wetly, as though he were a great sponge absorbing a puddle, and presently stopped in obedience to Ariel's pleas. She knelt for a few moments at his side, ministering to him in a decidedly matronly way, murmuring and kissing until he seemed quite soothed, and put a pillow beneath his head while slyly taking away the books.
"There," she said gently. "Now, Daddy, Gangle and I are going to sit outside in the fresh air for a bit. Lie quietly, or I'll have to fetch the Doctor, and then Mrs. Beardsley will surely find out."
Thus left to rest his troubled mind, the two of us left Alf and departed into the cool haze of stars to work out the conflicts within our own. We sat down upon the bench. The Ayrie's great eye-shaped windows were all aglow, indictating that Mr. Y would be spending yet another sleepless night composing and planning.
"I'm sorry," said Ariel. "For being so depressing."
"Ahh, don't apologize, Signorina. It is a hard thing, loving someone." That was putting it mildly, considering the mental acrobatics she was employing to dodge the Opera Ghost conclusion. "Love can be very painful, make you do funny things. Can I help you, somehow?"
I knew very well that there was nothing I could do, but it felt like a nice thing to say.
"In relation to myself and Mr. Y, no. There isn't anything you can do, unless you're in with Cupid," she replied. "But...Gangle? There is something I've been considering doing. Something for our investigation. It's a little bizarre, but I suppose there's nothing for it. I've thought about it all evening."
Oh boy.
"What?"
"The New York Times." She sat up very straight, as though she must deliver a sales pitch. "You can take out advertisements in it, for a little money, and I've been thinking...they can't exactly verify who you are. The person taking out the ad, I mean. So, if I were to assume an alias, say I was an author looking for information on the Phantom of the Opera, offer a little money...perhaps I could find something yet?"
"An alias?" I was convinced that she was becoming unreasonable. "But, Signorina, you would certainly have to give some sort of address, or means of communication, and you'd incriminate yourself. It could be traced."
"I could state in the ad that the respondant must respond by way of another advertisement in the personal section," Ariel shot back, having apparently giving this matter great thought between morbid sniffles. "I have seen such things done."
I saw her angle and felt sad. Not only was she in denial, she was bent on researching and researching until some source, anywhere, told her what she wanted to hear and validated her unmovable conclusion of Mr. Y's harmlessness. Perceiving that she was serious, all I could do was offer advice and caution. I couldn't let her get into trouble. "If you are really set on it, Signorina, I suppose I can't stop you, but it seems unsafe, and I do want to help you."
"Do you?"
"Of course."
She drew in a deep, nervous breath that whitened her lips. It seemed that she was about to try my willingness to help most severely.
"Well, Gangle, my darling friend," she began, grabbing my hands. "I was thinking that you would be so kind as to take out the advertisement in your name."
"My name?" I gasped.
"Er, an alias of your choosing, I mean," she quickly amended, blushing. "Not your name. Certainly not."
"But you said you were going to do it."
"Never mind that. Don't you see I can't? You know as well as I do that ladies are never taken seriously as authors, not in the slightest, and offering a man information for a book has so much more potential for prestige. To do so for womens' writing is practically renegade! And don't dare try to use Jane Austen as a counter-example, for I'll have you know she published Pride and Prejudice anonymously after writing it in secret!"
I heard a hint (well, more of a splash) of Genevieve Pennysworth in her logic that made me hesitant to refuse, lest she'd inherited some of her vitriol as well. But I still had my protestations.
"But...if it should come to meeting with someone, I'd be instantly recognizable. This voice trumpet would give me right away!"
"In such a case I would go in your stead," she retorted smoothly. "As your supposed secretary. You would sit nearby (for all this would have to be conducted at a cafe or something) to make sure I was alright. I would of course be wearing a disguise. Don't look so grim, Signor Watson, we're clever freaks; between the two of us there's a fair amount of brains. An aerialist and a former gangster! Surely we're good for something."
Why was it that could never say no to her? Placing my beastly hand on top of her little white one, I bowed my head and promised my devotion to her hare-brained plot, a decision that I would agonize over all night.
"Oh, Gangle, I guess a lady never had a friend as wonderful as you," she breathed, putting her other hand atop mine, making an Italian hand sandwich. "I will pay for the advertisement costs, of course, and anything else you see fit to charge. Oh, thank you."
She kissed my cheek, and so I was at least half repaid.
"As for your alias..." she mused, finger on her lips. "You look like a Vincent Vellazio to me, and as for myself, I do believe that...ah...Prudence Puckett will fit the bill admirably."
Why on earth my dear, half-mad Signorina would name herself something as ironic as Prudence I shall never know.
(Gangle stops here for now.)
"Hell!" swore Rodger, shaking his head in amazement. "I guess this was the point Ariel got kooky on us. I never heard of denial like that. And she and her old man shared a bed? Eeesh. That's a lot to tolerate in a girl, De Rossi!"
"It is," admitted Gangle. "But she's different now, quite a bit more rational."
Rodger nodded as though he understood, but his mouth twisted a bit skeptically. "Well, that's always a good thing."
"I'll be interested to hear her perspective on this," said Mr. Whittington, giving his notes a final once-over. "Naturally, there'll be editing before this gets printed. Thank you, Mr. De Rossi."
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. Well, you read about the Thanksgiving Break already. So that's that.
2. Thanks for reading this excruciating chapter of "City of Wonders"!
3. I got a Kindle for my 21st birthday. It can read this story to me. Yay! Great for proofreading.