Chapter Eight - Déjà vu

Masquerade
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade
Look around
There's another mask behind you

True is false
Who is who

Seething shadows, breathing lies
Masquerade
You can fool any friend who ever knew you

I received the invitation for the annual Grand Masquerade Ball at the Státní Opera via Nadir. At first I was rather suspicious, wondering why someone would actually want to invite me. Not that I couldn't just have attended the ball if I'd wanted to. But usually the host would make countless laughable attempts to secure I wasn't there. However, when I saw the Royal seal on the back of the letter, it made perfect sense. One thing I had learned at the Persian court was that those of kingly blood do not like to owe a thing to another person, because that makes you dependable and an easy target for blackmail. The emperor's somewhat distant cousin did not seem to buy the story of the unsociable architect who has never been seen. I suppose he either believed to be facing a phantom competitor for fame and influence in this town – because unfortunately, his lavish villa had not contributed to his own status quo but instead had sparked curiosity among his fellow noblemen as to who'd built it – or it was merely a Royal caprice. Still, there was no doubt that I would go. I certainly would not miss blending in with the crowd, enjoying a few ridiculously expensive snacks and watch the rich and famous celebrate themselves in all their glorious vanity.

The question I had to ask and answer myself was whether I should ask Illina to accompany me.

She was indeed still with me, but to be honest – I did not have the slightest idea why. When I'd finally gotten up from the floor on that fateful night, I'd run away and left her on her own, too shocked and ashamed of what I'd done to be around her any longer. There are no words to describe how terrible I really felt. The guilt had washed over me like a giant tide, drowning me in a poisonous cocktail of penitence and desolation. The grief was slowly eating me up from the inside, and I felt powerless to somehow put an end to it. For the very first time in my life, I was at a total loss for things to do. Only a fool would have thought an apology, even a sincere one, would make it any better. There was, in fact, nothing I could do. I could only hope she would forgive me, as undeserving as it was.

I was so sure she hated me with all her heart and soul, but when I came back in the early hours of the morning, she was still there. She'd cleaned up the mess I'd left behind, washed herself and just sat on her bed motionlessly, her expression blank. Like a beautiful, but broken, stone angel. It hurt so much to see her like that.

My mind did not find a moment of peace, as all my thoughts that weren't directly linked to Illina revolved around the beautiful miracle that was taking place in the midst of this hurtful chaos. She was with child. My child. It seemed so surreal, impossible in a way – how can a monster be the origin of an innocent life? – but it was happening, and inside I was ecstatic, hesitant, jubilant, fearful, relieved and terrified. This baby was the fruit of our passion, an unspoken love born into the world. Absolute perfection from utmost imperfection. In a way, it could be the end of a vicious circle. It would give me the chance to undo all the damage inflicted upon me. My child would never feel unloved or unwanted, would never be mistreated and abused. It would never be in need of anything. Nobody would lock this little one in a room, the cellar, a cage, or anywhere. I would show my little one the world and the great things one can do in it. If only I could. It was all so close, and yet so far way... because I had severely damaged the frail bond of trust and closeness between Illina and me. Maybe I had torn it beyond repair.

As the days went by, she stayed in her room most of the time, leaving it only when she had to. I found myself pacing the living-room for hours on end, unable to find an answer for why she didn't just leave. Part of me wished so hard she would. Leave me alone, that voice inside my head cried everytime I caught a glimpse of her. Go and don't ever come back. The truth was, I could hardly stand being around her. It was a constant reminder of my horrible misstep, like a knife to the heart that was being pushed in a little deeper each and every time. And yet I dreaded the moment I'd find her gone, desperate to keep her, wanting her back so much it was unspeakably painful.

That was why I eventually decided to take her with me. I was terrified that if I left her alone for a minute, she would run from me. Maybe, so I told myself, she was still here only because she was afraid I would violate her if she attempted to leave. Perhaps she was scared I would track her down and take brutal revenge.

My steps slowed down as I made my way towards her room, and I had to summon all the willpower I had to go through with it, to knock on her door. She didn't answer, of course. So I pushed the door open, standing in the doorway. I wasn't surprised that she didn't even turn her head into my direction. All those small things were low, cruel blows, but the fact that I knew I deserved every single one of them pained me even more.

"There is a ball at the opera," I said softly, holding up the piece of paper as though it meant anything. Pausing for a moment, I tried to find the courage to ask her this. It seemed so cynical. "Will you accompany me?"

At first there was only silence, of course. I hadn't expected anything else, and so I waited. Hoped she would answer me. It took a long, long time, and when I was about to turn away because I was almost convinced she'd decided to ignore me, she finally spoke up.

"What am I supposed to wear?" she asked tonelessly.

I stopped, looking at her for a second, wondering if that was half a yes or half a no, depending on the tone of voice. But it was hard to say because there was no undertone in her voice at all. Just an empty, indifferent question.

"We'll find something," I said. Pausing for a moment, I waited for a hint as to what her answer really was, but she didn't say a thing. "Is that a yes then?" I questioned.

She let out a long, barely audible sigh, a pained shadow crossing her beautiful face for such a brief moment that I wasn't quite sure it had actually happened. I could tell she did not want to go. She had absolutely no desire to spend an evening with me, and even though it hurt and angered me, I couldn't blame her.

"Will you come with me then?" I repeated, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.

"Yes," she replied laconically after a moment.

I simply nodded my head, lingering for a second before I left the room. Now that this was sorted, I had preparations to make.

The very moment I entered the Státní Opera, I almost felt as though I was back at the Opera Populaire in Paris. It was amazing, not to say shocking, how similar the two houses looked on the inside. A grand staircase with elaborate mahogany and gold banisters in the vast white marble entrance hall led to the main opera house, to an extensive ballroom dominated by red silk and golden columns. There even was the same kind of pompuous chandelier that I had caused to fall in Paris. I tensed inside, having a rather bad feeling about this for some reason. It was nothing, I told myself. Opera houses all over Europe looked more or less the same. Especially the ones that had been built around the same time, which was the case here. But it still felt like an ill omen.

Looking over at Illina, I let my eyes wander over her. She wore a strapless black and dark red corsetted dress that was the perfect balance of free-flowing, sweeping fabric and bustieresque constraint. It fit like a glove by slimming, supporting and accentuating her in all the right places. Her hair was put up in a simple, yet elegant bun that was being held together by two silver rose-shaped hair clips, and I almost found myself wishing her beautiful face wasn't hidden behind the mask of red feathers and paillettes around her eyes. She looked like an alluring, overpowering Cancan dancer from the Moulin Rouge, and I enjoyed myself glaring at every man who dared to take a too close look at her. She was mine.

For myself, I had decided to keep it simple. No matter where a man goes, he can always wear black and look both good and intimidating in it.

"Ah, Herr Le Mônfaté!"

I sighed inwardly as a short, red-faced, overweighed blonde man made his way towards the two of us through the crowd. The news of my arrival must have spread at the speed of light. Judging by his ridiculously pompuous clothing and the excess jewellery, he had to be His Royal Highness.

"It is an honour to meet you at last, mein Herr," he panted as he came to a halt. "I am Rudolf von Habsburg. Finally I do get the chance to express my gratitude for the magnificent mansion you built me."

Not wanting to, but figuring it would be beyond foolish not to in such a public place, I bowed my head just a little. Not respectfully by any means, but barely abiding the rules of society.

"The honour is all mine, Your Highness," I replied with mock respect, almost to the point of sarcasm, but von Habsburg obviously did not notice.

Watching him from behind my mask, it didn't take me long to figure out why exactly he was such a distant cousin of the emperor. This man wouldn't be able to rule a herd of sheep if his life depended on it. He, on the other hand, appeared to be very impressed to see me, gawking at both me and Illina so rudely that I found myself tempted to tell him off.

"There's someone I would like you to meet, mein Herr," he said, beckoning me to come with him. I sighed inwardly, not very keen to be introduced to anyone, but it was inevitable. I tugged at Illina's arm gently and we both followed him through the crowd of chattering noblemen and their uptight, strained-looking ladies who constantly and frantically fanned themselves so they wouldn't pass out.

I came to meet a tall, plumpish man with short and slightly curly hair. He was dressed in a fine suit, and he wore small spectacles that made him look more intelligent than he probably was. His round face was framed by a beard and – I have to give him that – a perfectly trimmed moustache.

"This is Monsieur Leroux," von Habsburg said as we shook hands. "Like myself, he takes a deep interest in architecture. He is currently travelling Europe in search of inspiration for his writings."

"Documentations," Leroux corrected as he eyed me curiously. "Bringing all the wonderful countries of Europe to those who cannot see their beauty themselves."

"You are headed from France then?" I asked, even though – contrary to myself - his accent while speaking German was apparent. Somehow it was pleasant to meet a fellow countryman.

"Indeed." He nodded, sipping his champagne. "Paris, to be precise. Have you ever been to Paris, Herr...?"

It was highly amusing to watch von Habsburg assume the colour of a ripe tomato when he realized he had forgotten to give Leroux my name. He stuttered masses of overly exaggerated excuses, once again proving himself utterly unworthy of his supposedly Royal blood, but before he could compensate for his misstep, I introduced myself.

"Erik Le Mônfaté. Well, I was born and raised in St.-Martin-de-Boscherville en Normandy, a few hours from Rouen. But yes, I have lived in Paris for a few years." And with a humourous undertone in my voice that nobody but me would understand, I asked, "Have you ever been to the Opera Populaire?"

"You mean, before it was almost burned to the ground? I'm afraid, no." Leroux sighed. "It's a real pity. Although I am quite curious about that incident. Charles Garnier was the most famous and proficient architect of his time. He would never have constructed a suspension so frail that the chandelier in the main opera house could have fallen. No, no..." He leaned in a bit, and whispered in a conspiring voice, "It was the Phantom of the Opera."

I drew back a little, clenching my fist behind my back to prevent myself from laughing out aloud. Once I was convinced he had actually said what I thought he had, I found it quite hilarious. It was unbelievable. What had begun as a plot to take revenge, as means of pressure, had actually made me famous. A phenomenon people spoke of in hushed voices because they dreaded not being taken seriously. Not that the ballet corps girls hadn't done it before. But I was a few countries away now, some years after the actual incident, and it still had an effect on complete strangers who hadn't even been to the Opera Populaire.

"The Phantom of the Opera?" I repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

"I know it sounds silly...," Leroux muttered, readjusting his spectacles.

"Good Monsieur, no." I cut him short, looking completely serious as I smiled mischievously to myself. "I, too, have heard the stories. This heart-wrenching tragedy of unfulfilled love, it is a true shame that it will be forgotten about in a few years' time."

"What tragedy?" he asked urgently, with utmost curiosity.

"You don't know?" I pretended to be shocked, shaking my head. "The Phantom died of a broken heart because the woman he loved did not return his affection. She was destined to be the prima donna, and he trained her. Gave her his music. Made her voice take flight. But she betrayed him."

By now, Leroux was hanging on every words from my lips, looking at me like a wide-eyed six-year-old boy whose father tells him an exciting tale. And I thoroughly enjoyed myself. If I did this right, someone might be writing my biography. The ending would not be exact, but that was beside the point. Biographies without a little bending of the truth here and there tend to be terribly boring. And so I told him the whole story, also mentioning Nadir as a possible source. I knew the Persian would be wise enough to know what information to disclose and what to keep to himself.

"Even today..." I finished in a low, ominous voice, "... you can still find the labyrinth and the passageways beneath the Opera Populaire. That was where the Phantom lived, they say. In a secret house in the dungeons of the opera house."

"Are you serious?" Leroux was incredibly excited.

"Of course I am. Aren't you a writer, Monsieur? You should put this story to paper. I am convinced it would be magnificent."

"I will!" he nodded vehemently, gripping my hand and squeezing it. "Thank you, Monsieur Le Mônfaté. Thank you so much! For years, I have been looking for inspiration. This one will be my most famous and successful book, I can feel that."

I smiled an apparently generous, but in fact very superior, smile. "I am sure it will be."

As the night grew older, most of the guests lost some of their uptight correctness. A few did so with the help of alcohol, others because it became just too hot and tiring to stick with the rules of expected behaviour on such glamorous occasions. Or sometimes possibly a little bit of both. There was a lot of dancing, a lot of music, good and bad, and every now and then shocked gasps and hysterical laughter would echo through the ballroom when someone fell over or embarrassed himself in some other way.

Even Illina warmed up a bit after a while. She had been quiet most of the time, only speaking when someone directly asked her a question, as it was expected of women in these days. But she was not immune to the effects of champagne, and therefore agreed to dance with me when she'd had quite a bit of it. I spun her around many, many times, making the dancefloor ours and ours alone. She lost her hair clips somewhere along the way; and watching her long, curly hair fly about and cascade down her shoulders as her chest rose and fell rapidly pulled me into a trance.

At one point she tumbled and almost fell over, but I caught her in time and moved away into a darker and more private corner, where I sat her down on a stool.

It was only then that I realised she was glowing, tiny droplets of cold sweat running down her temples. Fear and worry seized me, and then I began to wonder if champagne and wild dancing were any good for a pregnant woman. It really looked as though neither of it was. She was whimpering quietly, and when I saw that her corset was cutting off her breathing, I quickly undid the laces, loosening it. Squatting down, I cupped her face in my hands.

"It's alright, we will go home," I said, leaning in and kissing her forehead. "Don't worry."

"Water..." she whispered, panting a little. "I need... water."

I nodded slowly, hesitant to leave her alone, but it was probably better to first get her something to drink now than getting her home.

"I'll be right back, angel," I promised, and in a moment of daring boldness pecked her lips. I did not expect her to fight me in the state she was in, but feeling her return the caress ever-so-softly caused hope to stir inside me.

But then I remembered she needed to drink, and I snapped out of my little reverie of winning her back. Getting up, I hastily made my way through the crowd, looking for a waiter to ask him for some water. It was a tougher task than I had imagined, because they blended in with the crowd rather well, but when I finally managed to get a hold of one, he quickly brought my glass of water, and I immediately set off to return to Illina.

Tripping over someone's feet halfway through the ballroom, I struggled for my balance for a moment, not looking where I was going because I was busy not spilling the water. It was then that I half stumbled into a man whose back was turned towards me, causing him to drop his glass and mask, almost knocking him over.

"Mein Herr, I am profoundly sorry," I muttered as I steadied myself, only to freeze when I saw his face.

"Raoul, are you alr - "

Then I saw her, how she bent down to see if he had gotten hurt. But the moment she heard my voice, the young woman looked up, and her eyes widened. Time stood still as we stared at one another in complete shock, failing to believe our eyes.

"Erik."

"Christine."

song credit: Masquerade, from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera