Monsieur Manager,
I have reviewed the preliminary schedules for the 1885 spring season, and am well pleased with the selections. For the most part, they are suited to the current strengths of the company. I am glad to see that M. Richard is, at least, still concerning himself with this aspect of the Opera. For while M. Richard is a very poor composer, he does recognize the mechanics of music and knows how to 'oil the machine' as they say.
Of course, as I am sure you are well aware, the gravest concern of the moment is procuring a new soprano to headline. The idea of calling in 'special guests' for 'limited engagements' was no doubt clever, but the public is clearly tiring of your inconsistency. None of the current chorus members or understudies are yet seasoned enough to bear the burden of the Garnier reputation. Furthermore, none of the names you have listed for consideration are suitable.
I therefore suggest, most humbly, that you apply to Dores Crespo-Fonseca, who played a lovely Gilda in the recent production of Rigoletto. She will do quite nicely in a number of the upcoming roles— though perhaps 'special guests' would be better suited to play our Normas and Desdemonas. Though, if Senhora Crespo-Fonseca gave proper attention to strengthening her lower register, I could see her one day tackling such choice roles.
As a final note, allow me to thank you for showing such charming consideration for my person, in that you have refrained from selling my box. It may seem like rather a trifle, but I am most indebted to you.
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,
O.G.
Postscript: I took the liberty of reviewing the accounts of the Opera, and have found that M. Morel has been padding certain expenditures in the most outrageous fashion. I have marked these abuses for your consideration.
Didier read and reread the letter a dozen times, searching for some hidden meaning in it. He found none.
He observed the stationery, which was very fine cotton, with his uncle's magnifying glass. He examined the envelope, which showed the letter had had been posted from the Boulevard des Capucines post office—a minute's walk from the Garnier! The wax seal on the envelope was only noteworthy in that it was remarkably plain. The wax had been indented with little more than some blunt object, rather than a signet.
He returned attention to the content of the letter. The Ghost had chosen their new soprano—why? To kidnap her, as the tales said about the Daaé girl? The Ghost had thanked him for keeping Box Five available. Didier did not wish to be reminded of that, as it meant that one of the premier boxes in the house was perennially not bringing income.
At last, he called for the main accounts book to be brought to him, and found numerous red marks on the more recent pages. A brief perusal demonstrated that the accountant Morel was indeed embezzling from the Opera, though Didier would hardly call it 'in outrageous fashion.' Indeed, if Monsieur le Ghost had not seen fit to point it out, the tiny additions would have likely gone unnoticed…
And what did that mean? The Ghost—the damn Ghost with his precious grand tier box and quarter-of-a-million franc extortions—was trying to be helpful?
Didier massaged his temples for a moment. Oh why, oh why, oh why had he agreed to this job? His private income was not large, but was suitable for a careless bachelor or even a moderate family. Wouldn't he have liked that? A nice country house with a nice girl and a nice—
"Monsieur Moncharmin?" Monsieur Remy appeared at his door, "a reporter from Le Figaro was hoping to have a word with you have the Lakmé production."
Oh, yes. That was right. If Didier lived in a nice country house, he could be quite guaranteed that his opinions would account for very little and with very few people.
Escaping that fate was reason enough to do the Opera Ghost's bidding. For now, at least.
The mask was beautiful. Perhaps not in terms of aesthetics, for it portrayed unremarkable features, but certainly in execution.
It was the mask Erik had crafted as he wooed Christine, a mask to make him look like everyone else. Pliable flesh-toned leather, of the thinnest and finest variety, was contoured and seamed to connect at various points on Erik's face. With the use of a mild adhesive, the mask would respond to his own expressions. The eyebrows—he was very proud of them—were carefully constructed, strand by strand, from clippings of Erik's own hair. The removable moustache was likewise painstakingly arranged. And while it would not, perhaps, pass close inspection, anyone he might encounter on a morning stroll would be fooled.
Erik pondered last Sunday's walk with Nora. To say it had been nerve-wracking was not an understatement. The entire time, Erik had been on edge—even as he had laughed along with Nora, even as he had indulged in silly observations of sub-par public sculptures, even as he had not-quite-almost enjoyed himself. It was not so bad for the first little while of their walk. At that point, he was simply too-conscious of Saturday's events and too-conscious of Nora's hand on his arm. That had been miserable in its own tolerable way, but nothing compared to the edge of panic that had accented the rest of the walk.
It was only logical, he supposed. Erik always made sure to be safely ensconced in his Opera house before the hordes of Parisians made the streets hellish. Nora, of course, didn't seem to mind. She insisted that all of the attention they attracted was because of her evening attire. Erik had humored her in that, but he was fully aware of every glance directed towards his face.
Not his face, of course—the mask. And here was Nora, insisting that she would see him next week and walk with him again! Somehow, he could not bear either option: he could not bear to present himself as such a spectacle again, and he could not bear to refuse Nora's invitation.
Erik did not need reminding that his experience with women was limited. Still, he had read and observed and engaged in that little debacle with Christine. He knew that some women would dissolve into tears if their wishes were refused, others would turn to scornful vengeance. And Nora would… what? Tears he could not see, and unfounded rage he could not see.
…then again, Erik could also not see how walking with him was possibly her true wish. He was very likely imposing himself on her, which was a road he did not wish to travel down again.
But then again—Erik was not in love, and Nora would soon be gone. She had presented him a rare opportunity, the chance to sharpen his personal skills with little inconvenience to himself or others. Had he not vowed to continue living? Had he not even thought that he might attempt to learn how to live well? Perhaps, the more he walked and chatted with an average woman about inane things, the more equipped he would be to fulfill that vow.
But for now, his masterwork mask needed to be put to the test. It was a torture of ten different varieties putting it on—chiefly that Erik was forced to make use of the vanity in the Louis-Philippe bathroom. It was the only mirror in the house, and he was obliged to see what he was doing.
To say that he had made peace with his reflection was a lie. He could look on his bare face without the tears and weak stomach that seemed to afflict the rest of humanity. But there was still disgust in his heart, and he mocked the idea that he had ever, ever believed that Christine did not fear his face.
He pressed and smoothed the mask, paying special attention to how it contoured around his jaw line and cheekbones. The edges of the mask were slightly too prominent; stage makeup would be needed to help them disappear. A wig would also be a beneficial addition. Even his afflictions were not in line with ordinary men, Erik reflected. He had not lost his hair in any particular pattern—it had merely thinned out all over, leaving him with black gossamer in place of true hair.
With the wig in place, he returned to the vanity—used first by Christine and probably most recently by Nora.
His observations were detached as he examined his handiwork. An adjustment here or there, notes for his next application of the mask.
"I am a handsome fellow, am I not?" Erik muttered to the mirror.
No, not handsome, but imminently suited for going out in the daylight—which was exactly his intention on this Monday morning.
It was mostly to see if she was lying. That is to say, Erik knew Nora was lying, but to what extent? She had said that she was leaving for Marseilles—was she really? Or was it simply an escape from the Opera Ghost? (But then way bother with Sunday morning?...)
She had not mentioned when she would be departing, but Erik made some assumptions given what he knew of her character and plans. If she was returning Saturday, and if her business was as complicated as she made it sound, she would assuredly be leaving today. Given the careless way she spoke about money (never actual money, simply things that required money), he could guess that she would be taking one of the finer passenger trains. That, coupled with her inclination for early hours, led Erik to assume that she would be taking the nine-fifteen train out of Paris.
At first, he had thought of staying near the train station, which was close enough to the Garnier. But how easy it would be not to see her, if she was there at all. He wanted to know if she was leaving or not, not simply guess at it.
Her rented home was near the Rue de la Harpe, in one of the Louis XV buildings. The road was narrow and the buildings cast deep shadows over the quiet street. Erik could not have selected a less conspicuous hiding place himself. He took up a post with a view of her door at eight o'clock.
It was not long before a hired cab came to a stop before her home and the door opened.
An older man appeared at the door, ushering out two houseboys carrying a trunk. The man spoke with the driver and then returned to the door.
Ah, there she was. Nora was dressed in a trim hunter green suit and a veiled hat, a traveling outfit, if Erik had to guess. There was one point in her favor. The older man approached her and started to speak. Erik could not quite hear what was being said. He came closer to them, still hidden. He was surprised to realize that the man was not speaking in French, which he had conversed with the cabdriver in.
English, Erik realized. Of course it was English. Erik had never devoted much time to the study of the language. He had always found it to be rather ugly to his ear, lacking the musicality of Italian or even Persian. He read it, of course, as he read many languages, but the spoken words sounded awkward and barely intelligible to him.
Nora started speaking. Erik could not say that the language itself sounded any better coming from her, but he was intrigued by her voice. She had always sounded a bit off in French, like a dramatic soprano trying to sing a lyric role. Erik now found that to be a very accurate analogy. Her English was spoken in lower, darker tones which suited her voice far better.
Their conversation was mostly lost on him—but the words train, Marseilles, Saturday all stood out. The old man seemed to be trying to persuade Nora of something, which she dismissed carelessly.
At length another woman exited the house, dressed in plainer garb than Nora and holding a small suitcase. The three conversed for a short period of time before Nora evidentially put an end to the discussion and walked towards the carriage. The older man had one last, seemingly stern word for Nora. She replied to it by embracing the man, who patted her back once and rolled his eyes. Erik almost laughed at that. It was an identical gesture to Nora's; an unforgivable breech of etiquette that was only made when they thought they were unobserved.
In a minute, the cab rolled off, in the direction of the train station.
So that was one lie Nora was not guilty of.
Erik followed the carriage, though not with the intention of catching up to it or heading to the train station. He could feel the adhesive of his mask starting to give, much to his frustration. It had taken him long enough to find ingredients that did not irritate his skin—now, to need to reformulate! There was still business to attend to in the Opera, and Erik did not want to take the time to return to his home and carefully remove and clean this mask first. He patted at it with the tips of his fingers, ensuring it stayed secured for a while longer.
His first stop at the Garnier was Didier Moncharmin's office. He was gratified to spy, through a slip of moving wall, that Moncharmin was reading Erik's letter. The boy mumbled under his breath, reading aloud and commenting on what he read. Nonsense mostly—Gilda, what is a Gilda? How shall I fit 'La Crespo-Fonseca' on the playbills? Morel? Not Morel!
It was most amusing. Most gratifying, however, was how well Moncharmin seemed to take it all. He dealt with the misappropriation of funds that Erik had found in a concise manner and put the letter in with his critical correspondence.
Oh, he also moaned a little and pulled at his hair, but Erik thought that a fair trade. Erik felt the mask dislocate a little more when he smiled. It would be best to speed his errands along. He dispensed with the least important, choosing to place a letter in Box Five for Madame Giry and be done with it.
He paused before sliding the pillar open. Someone was most assuredly in Box Five. It would not be the cleaning staff at this hour, nor the boxkeeper. Suddenly he heard a quiet mumble.
"Allah, forgive our dead and alive, our present and absent, our young and old…"
Ah, that was a familiar voice—familiar like any old cut that refused to heal. The Daroga was in his box, mumbling the prayer for the dead! Erik nearly laughed at him. He had sent word of his impending demise nearly two years ago, and now—only now—was the man getting around to acknowledging it?
"Whomever among us You took life from, let him die with faith…" At this line, Erik heard his old friend snort and then sigh.
Erik was nearly tempted to speak out, to taunt Nadir. Since when has Erik been Muslim? Perhaps I missed that part of my life… The words sounded a bit hollow in Erik's own mind. A man was actually… mourning for him? Commemorating him, in the only way he knew how.
It was almost touching.
The Daroga repeated the takbir, and then stood silent in Box Five. Erik stood silently with. At length, the Daroga left—and Erik did as well. For better or worse (but most likely for the better), that part of Erik's life was now truly dead. Smoke on the pyre, and prayers on the wind.