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Chapter 11

Erik

Tantalus.

A figure from Greek mythology. Trapped in eternal punishment within the torturous confines of Tartarus. Forever standing beneath a fruit tree, feet in a clean, freshwater lake. But the fruit evaded his grasp, and the water receded whenever he bent to take a drink.

Normalcy was my fruit.

Companionship was my water.

I'd long since resigned myself to this life. But now, with these budding feelings for Christine, I felt the sheer presence, the utter ache, of thirst for human contact, hunger for a different life. An ordinary life. A life where I could pursue Christine openly, like so many of the men who called after the ballet girls after performances.

But I could never.

The shame of what she'd say about my mask - never mind my face - was enough to make me shudder.

No.

I'd forever be alone in this house. In this mansion on the lake.

For it was a mansion. Two stories and wide, it was a Gothic beauty of my own design. Grey walls of stone. A wide foyer with two curved staircases that connected at the top, above which hung a black wrought iron chandelier - electric, of course. Downstairs, a parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, and study. Upstairs, half the size of the bottom floor, was a bedroom, a bathing room, and the chamber.

The chamber. Although the bedroom held my clothes, my bed, I slept in the chamber.

At first, I hadn't known what to call this room - a windowless space with only a rug, a lamp, and a coffin. But as I sat reading one night, as I read Poe, as I read his poem The Raven, the word chamber seemed quite apt.

Poe wrote about horrors happening in his own chamber - horrors of the mind, but nonetheless. I myself was a horror. A horror to behold - I always had been. My mother made that clear. And when I left her, the world made that clear.

So I would sleep in a coffin, where my skeletal figure surely belonged.

And I would do so, so that if the day ever came that I decided that life no longer interested me, I would already be in a coffin when Jules came to retrieve my body. All he'd need to do is add weight to the thing and let it sink to the bottom of the lake. The man worked hard enough - I could at least make that easy for him.

But this - this was the kind of detail that would never be acceptable to a woman. Even if I somehow mustered the courage to invite Christine down here - and on the impossible chance that she accepted the invitation - the mere sight of the coffin would cause her to ask questions.

At absolute best.

These thoughts followed me on my way to the surface. I made the usual route to my box, reached under the seat, and retrieved her latest letter.

Dearest Erik,

I spoke to Madame today. She mentioned that she believes you to be an angel. She mentioned that you and her sometimes speak - with your voices.

I will not ask to meet you in person if this is something that you do not want. I will respect your privacy in that regard. But do you believe it may be at all possible to hear your voice? Is there any way that we might communicate this way?

This might, I believe, relieve some of my loneliness.

Please say yes.

Your friend,

Christine D.

I had to remember to breathe.

She wanted to meet me. She wanted to hear my voice.

Images - involuntary ones - flashed through my mind. I pictured her and myself walking through the Bois, one of her hands on the crook of my arm and another holding an umbrella to block the sun, as I pointed out a piece of art being painted by some street artist. I pictured us picnicking in the grass, light shining on her face as she smiled up at a bird singing in the trees - and I smiled at the beauty of her. I pictured us returning home to-

And that was where the images fell apart, crumbling to a heap like a wall of sand and loose stones.

We wouldn't return to a lovely apartment in Paris, blue and yellow flowers potted beneath the windows.

No, we'd return to the Phantom's lair, on a dark lake a mile beneath the surface, where no natural light would ever reach. She'd come home with a man whose face was terrifying enough to be put on display for horror entertainment.

I felt disgusted with myself for these fantasies. Of course they would never come to fruition - and even if they did, somehow, come true, then I would never be able to be a normal man. I had no idea how to love and be loved. I had no idea what loving touch was like, how to participate in that. The most affection I'd ever received was a pat on the shoulder from Giovanni, the man who gave me the gift of architectural knowledge. The most loving words were his pride in me, in my accomplishments.

No, even if my face miraculously changed overnight, I could never be a normal man to a woman. I didn't have the skills, and I feared it was far too late to learn.

I could never show her my visage. My form.

But my voice.

My voice was my one and only beauty. I could show her this, and stop my contact there. If she found my voice to be a worthy companion, then that was good enough for me.

A week, I decided. I'd tell her to meet me in the empty dressing room in a week's time, after the opening performance of Hannibal. I'd tell her to go to that dressing room after everyone else had left.

It would give her enough time to change her mind about the meeting, if doubts sprang. It would give me time to prepare.

I forced my hands to steady as I wrote my reply.