A cleansing storm (cont.)
"Are you expecting me to pity you?" Raoul's voice was cold, and Erik shook his head and wiped the tears away.
"No, I'm wallowing in self-pity again — and you're right, it's no place of mine to do so and it's demeaning." He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself before continuing. "I could have stopped it if I had confessed the truth, but I didn't have the courage. It was cowardice: simple cowardice and selfishness. You were good to me, confoundedly good. I didn't want to like you, but there is simply something about you that... You're a good man, Monsieur de Chagny, and at some point I realised that somehow I was very fond of you."
Both men fell silent again. "And the organ?" prompted Raoul.
Erik sighed. "I had such a longing for music... I couldn't contain myself any longer. I came to bitterly regret it."
"And how much of all that rubbish you told us was true?"
Erik laughed again. "Believe it or not — most of it. I had only to leave out a few tiny details, and from that partial framework you built up an image for yourselves that was a false mosaic."
"What you told young Dubois — was that the truth, or a lie?"
"Most of it, alas, was true. But it was not as a soldier that I was made captive, but as a nine-year-old child. The torture and... the other"—Erik swallowed—"was unfortunately real. I was broken so often that I learnt to take on precisely the role that was required of me and play it to perfection. Sometimes I no longer know where I end and where the role begins that I'm currently playing. It's often hard for me to separate myself from my act, since I had really rather not be myself but someone else entirely. The Phantom of the Opera — poor unhappy Erik — the cynical soldier Pierre Bertrand — all of these are to one degree or another parts that I play. They are all in some way fragments of me, but I am never whole. I don't understand it myself."
"How long were you captive?" asked Raoul, who could feel nothing now but pity: not for the man before him but for the child that he had once been.
"Six years. But I wasn't tortured throughout — I should never have survived that."
"And the story of the massacre?"
"The truth, regrettably. I was in Persia. I was only meant to be working there as a magician and architect, but I became a figure of terror. There were rebels who had taken up arms against the regime, and I was responsible for their torture. The Shah had a little dispute with a certain Emir and I was part of his strategy... I had to convince superstitious men that I was a Djinn, an evil spirit who served the Shah. It lasted for... years. A bloodbath years long..." Erik choked and spat out blood. Then he took another swig from his flask.
Another silence fell.
"And the man who pursues you?" Raoul asked further.
"You know him as 'the Persian'. He is my friend, and yes, I killed his son, but he was not wounded but ill. But the story is otherwise true — including the part where he wants to turn me into a better man. As if it were not long since too late for that."
"Why didn't Christine recognize you?" Raoul simply couldn't get his head round how she could have failed to recognize Erik.
"You must know how very short-sighted she is. She recognises people chiefly by their voices. So I began to smoke like mad in order to alter mine." He shook his head and continued, "I knew that I was ruining my voice. I knew I would never in the future be able to reverse what I had done, but at that moment I didn't care. I didn't want a future. I wanted to die — but I wanted to drag the two of you with me into the abyss. My hate was so appalling that it consumed me utterly.
"I've reduced my smoking, but my voice will never fully recover. It suffices for singing simple songs to Marie, and I would still rank it alongside the leading performers of the Paris Opera, but I know what I have lost through my own folly. Never again shall I achieve perfection."
"What's wrong with your eye?" asked Raoul.
"It's always been like that. The left eye is perfectly normal, save that it appears yellow by sunlight. The right one is hideous, grey and red: I hate it. But I see very well, even in darkness. Christine... she told you that my eyes often couldn't be seen at all, didn't she? That's simply because she is so short-sighted, and in poor light almost blind."
Another uncomfortable silence fell.
"Would you mind if I put my jacket back on? I'm getting cold."
"Not at all," responded Raoul absent-mindedly. It was not until Erik had put on his jacket again that he realised that the other man had also regained his gun. That was less than reassuring.
"What do we do now?" asked Erik.
Raoul didn't know either. "I have no idea," he admitted. "In my place, what would you do?"
Erik stared at him dumbfounded. "Surely you're not seriously asking me that?"
Now it was Raoul who had to laugh. The question had come so naturally to his lips out of habit, as he had so often asked it of Pierre... who had actually been Erik all along.
"I don't see why it should be for ME to bear the responsibility on my own," he retorted. "This whole messed-up situation is YOUR fault. So you ought at least to come up with some ideas as to how we are to get out of it."
"So you don't mean to kill me," observed Erik.
"No. Unlike you, I'm no murderer."
"I have no Plan B. All this was... completely impromptu. What with Christine's breakdown today and Dr Martin's warning... I couldn't bear it any longer."
"And yet there was a grave here, and you had a notebook prepared," Raoul pointed out.
"Very observant of you," commended Erik, seeming almost proud of Raoul. "That was completed months ago. I had it prepared, but then... it was pure cowardice. I simply didn't have the courage."
"Do you still love Christine?"
"Yes," Erik said, and for the first time the two men looked each other directly in the eyes. "She will always be the love of my life."
"And mine," returned Raoul defiantly. "So what's all this with Babette?"
"Babette knows the score. She knows that I'll never love her like that... but then I know that I'm the twenty-seventh man in her life so far. I never wanted to get involved with Babette, but... the thing is, I never learnt how to say no when a woman wants to seduce me. I was never in that awkward situation before. And I find Babette's humour and zest for life quite simply refreshing.
"She knows as well who I really am. One can't really keep that sort of thing concealed in certain situations... you understand?"
"Who else knows?"
"Dr Martin," responded Erik promptly. "I admitted it to him when he took the bullet out of my shoulder, in case I died — when he was to tell you."
The two fell quiet again.
"You risked your life for mine," Raoul said finally. "Why?"
Erik sighed. "Let's call it 'déja vu'. In Persia I made friends with the Daroga, he invited me to his marvellous palace and I passed some of the best days of my life there. When it comes to happiness, I'll never again play more than a walk-on part; I can watch happiness in others, but for me nothing more is possible. When you made me godfather to your daughter, I told myself I could experience that happiness again by being able to partake in a little of yours. And Marie... Marie is such a wonderful child. I've often taken her from her bed at night in order to sing to her in the music room, so far as I still can. And she has seen my unmasked face, and never shown any fear or disgust. She loves me as only an innocent child can. I could never allow her to lose her father."
"Is there anything left in the bottle?" asked Raoul, and Erik handed him the hip-flask wordlessly.
Raoul took a hefty gulp. "It's empty now," he observed. "Have you any more cigarettes?"
Erik shook his head. "Sorry."
Raoul could think of no other means to play for time. "So where do we go from here?"
A sigh from Erik. "If you don't want to kill me... then I have no idea."
"You can't stay in the chateau — you understand that? I can't allow you near my family any longer."
"I understand," answered Erik, resigned. "But would you permit me to... to remain in the neighbourhood as a vagrant beggar? Having given the good Daroga the key to my dwelling under the Opera, I have nowhere else to go. Or would you have me arrested?"
"You can't stay here," insisted the Vicomte. Erik began to tremble, then he broke into tears. In view of the resignation the man had shown previously, Raoul had not expected such a violent reaction.
"No, please..." whispered Erik, "please just kill me."
"You'd rather die than leave?"
"I can't go on any longer." It was a sob. "I've been through this so often before and I just can't go on. Please — it would be more merciful to kill me now."
"Which means you're determined to stay," Raoul said angrily. "And how do you envisage that? Do we simply stroll into the chateau and have me say to Christine: 'It was a lovely ride, oh and by the way Pierre and Erik are one and the same, and now what's for supper?' No, that's not an option!"
Erik made a wry face. "Do we have to tell her? Couldn't we say that we did away with Erik today and buried him in the woods?"
"What?" Raoul's voice rose in fury. "No sooner do you learn that I'm not going to kill you than all you can think of is yet more lies? Lying, duping, deceiving — can you come up with nothing else at all? And there is no 'WE' in this business, is that clear? I said, IS... THAT... CLEAR?"
Erik flinched and ducked his head.
"Yes, of course. You're quite right," he admitted reluctantly, then added: "But... then what are we to do? Your wife mustn't be upset; how are we to break it to her gently who I am?"
"I have no idea — but we can't stay here sitting on this tree-trunk for ever, either."
Erik spat out blood again. Raoul looked at him and got a clear view of the blood that had soaked through his jacket. Already it was dripping from his left arm in particular. His grey beard too was full of blood that had run from the corner of his mouth.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, concerned now.
"No, just a tooth knocked out and a couple of bloody stripes. Nothing I haven't had before. You might have broken a rib or two with that kick."
"Did I kick you?" Raoul couldn't remember doing it.
"Yes, you did."
"Is it very painful?"
"Compared to what I've done to you — it's nothing at all."
Raoul considered. Was it true this time, or was Erik trying to manipulate him adroitly again? The man seemed absolutely determined not to leave. Raoul simply didn't know what he ought to do.
It was true for one thing that Erik had saved his life and had helped him when he had got blind drunk at Christmas. And — even if it was hard to admit right now — the Vicomte liked the man whom he had known as Pierre Bertrand. He wondered how much of the real Erik had gone into Pierre.
"Was it all just a sham? I looked on Pierre as... as a sort of friend. Were you just manipulating me?"
Erik shook his head. "What you valued in Pierre was real; that was me, so far as I myself can be sure. For me that's not easy — I constantly lie to myself as well."
This time it was Raoul who asked: "And what do we do now?"
"You mean, given that we're going round and round in circles?" said Erik with a touch of amusement. "There must be some way of breaking the news gently to your wife." He spat out more blood, then coughed.
"You need a doctor," said Raoul with decision. "I won't have you dying at my hand. Come on. I'll take you to Dr Martin, and after that we'll see."
Erik tried to mount his horse after replacing his eyepatch and nose, but managed it only after leading the animal up to the tree-trunk and then clambering from the latter onto the horse's back. They rode back to the chateau in silence.
Raoul rode in front, in the full knowledge that Erik was armed; but he was sure that Erik would not shoot him in the back.
As they came along the gravel drive to the chateau the door was suddenly flung open and Babette rushed to meet them, dissolving into tears. "He's still alive," she cried. "Thank God he's alive."
Erik slid carefully down from his horse. "What happened?" asked Babette, shocked at the sight of the blood.
"I fell off my horse."
"Off your horse? You? Pull the other one!"
Erik glanced at Raoul. Babette went to the Vicomte and said: "Thank you, Monsieur, for bringing him back to me. He gave me a letter before he rode away with you, saying that he must pay now with his life for what he had done and had finally found the courage to take responsibility for his deeds. I didn't think I would ever see him again alive. Thank you — thank you — thank you!"
"He needs a doctor," said Raoul in an attempt to deflect her. Together they took Erik to Dr Martin, who was appalled at the sight of the blood in Erik's beard and on his jacket. Carefully the doctor helped him out of the jacket and the torn shirt.
"Open wide," ordered Dr Martin, and Erik obeyed.
"Hmm, you really copped a nasty one there. A tooth knocked out and..." He felt Erik's jaw carefully. "Probably not broken, but I'm not sure about that, two more teeth smashed that I'll have to pull out for you — must hurt like the deuce — and the other teeth have shifted. So how did this happen?"
"Fell off my horse," Erik maintained. Dr Martin looked at the bloody weals across his back and on his left arm.
"Off your horse?" he enquired, sceptically.
"Yes, right into a bush. Too bad," insisted Erik.
Dr Martin felt cautiously along Erik's ribs. "Two broken ribs. I'll clean the wounds and put a bandage round your chest, and that's all I can do. You need to spend the next week in bed."
Raoul felt dreadful. He had no idea that he had caused such injuries. All he could remember was one punch in the face and a couple of blows with his riding-crop. But clearly it was more than that.
"You can take off the nose, if that helps you breathe more easily," he said, and Dr Martin stared at him, astonished.
"Did he... confess, then, before he fell off his horse?" the doctor asked, disapprovingly. Then he sent Raoul and Babette out of the room. "I'll deal with him now; that's my duty as a doctor. After that you can start killing him again."
When Erik left the examination room, Raoul and Babette were waiting for him. He had put on his jacket again and cleaned his beard, but all the same there was still a trickle of blood from his mouth, and a visible swelling in his jaw. Looking at Raoul, he asked quietly if he might change his clothing before leaving the chateau for good.
"Why the change of heart? I thought you were desperate to stay?" enquired Raoul.
"Dr Martin tells me that Christine all but lost the child; it has survived, but she will have to remain lying down for the rest of her pregnancy. I have no right to any preferences of my own. Forgive me for even having thought about it — I'll never trouble you again."
"No!" cried Babette. "Don't go!"
She turned to the Vicomte. "Please, Monsieur, he's hurt, please don't send him away. I'll take full responsibility for everything he does, but please let him stay here, at least until he has found somewhere to go."
"You love him," Raoul realised.
"Yes, I love him — that vain, self-centred, untruthful, self-pitying swine! That's why I'm begging you to give him time to get well. After that you can throw us both out together, if that's what you insist."
Erik stared at the plump woman. "Babette, I have nothing left. No money, no place to stay, nothing. And I'm no longer young and strong enough to start all over again. I shall end up as a beggar in the street, and I can't ask you to share that."
Raoul observed how the two of them looked at each other. Then he came to a decision.
"Into bed with you, Monsieur Bertrand, and there you'll stay for the next week. Babette, he isn't going to be able to eat anything but gruel. You'll be personally answerable to me for seeing that he gets back on his feet."
"Yes, Monsieur!" said Babette, beaming. "And thank you very, very much."
"Thanks," said Erik awkwardly.
"Don't think you're getting away with this so easily," growled Raoul. "As soon as my second child is born, you will be down on your knees begging my wife's forgiveness. And don't you dare wriggle out of it!"