A Stroll on Sunday Chapter 33: Admissions, a phantom of the opera fanfic

If Nadir was obliged to generalize, he would say that the Persian culture favored speaking over listening. Rhapsodizing, orating, lecturing, chattering; all took precedence over listening. Nadir had often wondered what the point of prattling on so was, if no one really paid attention.

At an early age, Nadir had learned that he had no particular interest in speaking himself. He much preferred to observe and absorb what others said and did. He believed it was this predilection that made him a proper investigator. He put forth the effort to acquire contacts, and then simply sat back… and listened.

He had quietly put forth the name 'Nora Farley' and let his acquaintances, both personal and professional, chatter among themselves. She was cousins with a diplomat, which tremendously helped the availably of information on her. Even with that connection, she was somewhat elusive. She was wealthy, though Nadir could not pin down a figure. She was well thought of in the proper circles— at least the ones aware of her existence— but was not particularly sociable. Nothing about her suggested that she would keep company with Erik.

The next piece of new concerning Miss Farley that reached Nadir's ears was that she had been on the passenger list for the steamship Brandreth, recently departed for New York. She was weeks gone, and in all of that time, Nadir had not heard from Erik. Given their last conversation, this otherwise typical silence was concerning. Was it possible that Erik had committed some foolish act that had prompted the lady to leave the country? Not only was it possible, Nadir thought it quite likely.

With a sigh and a prayer, Nadir set forth for the Palais Garnier. He kept a pistol level with his eyes throughout his trek through the cellars. Erik had been in a fairly pleasant, fairly forgiving mood of late—but without his Miss Farley, how might he have reverted?

He stopped as he drew closer to the underground house. How might he have reverted, indeed!

Music did not flow through the underground labyrinth—it lambasted and ricocheted off of the cavernous walls. Nadir stood, transfixed by the sounds for some time. This was no siren's song, though it did seduce and condemn the listener. Forget what you know of love, it said, forget what you know of hope and of pain. Let me cast off the veil from your eyes and teach you truth. You do want to know the truth, do you not?

Nadir shook himself free from the spell of the music and pounded on the door. "Let me in, Erik!"

When there was no response, Nadir tried the door. It was locked.

Cursing his foolishness, he turned the pistol on the door knob and fired. The door splintered and the lock fell off, allowing Nadir to push his way into Erik's home.

The music slowed but did not stop.

"That was… very foolish, Daroga," Erik whispered when Nadir entered the parlor. At least it seemed like a whisper—Erik's voice was soft and low in Nadir's ear.

"Forgive an old man his foolish fears," Nadir said. "Are you well?"

Erik shrugged, and Nadir had to admit that he had seen Erik look worse. His hair was a mess, but his black mask was in place. He did not wear his coat, but the vest and shirtsleeves he wore seemed somewhat fresh. His long fingers were speckled with red—a pot of scarlet ink alleviated any concern Nadir might have had on that score. Pages and pages of music surrounded him.

Nadir took a hesitant step forward and then another. Erik glanced at him.

"Put down your hand, Daroga, I have no intention of killing you today."

"Oh, good," Nadir said, "because I had little intention of dying today."

"Ha-ha," Erik made a few cryptic notes on the paper set before him. "What do you want?"

"I… heard."

Erik snorted. "I sincerely doubt that."

"Your Miss Farley has departed."

"She has," Erik said in measured tones.

"You seem to be taking it well."

Erik set down his pen and leaned away from the piano a bit, though he did not bother turning to face Nadir. "Did I tell you that I have been working on a new opera?"

"Given that you are in the habit of telling me precious little about your life—"

"Something you are glad of, I assume?"

"Rather," Nadir sat down awkwardly. "What is this one? Doctor Faustus Merrily Escapes Salvation?"

Erik ignored him. "It's a sort of… La Vita Nuova. Not specifically, of course. No Dantes or Beatrices to be found."

"I would have thought Inferno to be more your style," Nadir said. "And from what I heard… that was the new opera, wasn't it?"

"I had thought to compose something beautiful," Erik continued, "I have never tried to make music beautiful before. Compelling, true, enticing… but beautiful? I want to compose something beautiful."

Nadir did not comment. What he had heard had been compelling and perhaps enticing—but not beautiful. Certainly not beautiful.

"Here—let me play you something," Erik did not bother looking through the papers before starting to play. He did not play much, and Nadir doubted that it was the entire composition, but it was enough for Nadir to hear a profound difference from the previous music. It was only light and soothing in comparison to Erik's other work—but it was beautiful by any standard. "I made her cry with this."

Nadir blinked and found that he was nearly in tears himself. "Pardon?"

"Nora. I played her this—and she cried," Erik's hands jerked away from the piano suddenly and he ran them through his hair. "Since she left, I have not been able to compose anything like it. My light and cheerful and beautiful opera— it has matched my Don for darkness."

"Why did she leave, Erik?" Nadir knew it was a foolish question, a dangerous one. Sometimes one needed to ask the dangerous questions to receive the important answer.

"Oh, why would you ask Erik such a question?" It was never a good sign when Erik referred to himself by name.

"Concern," Nadir said, "simple, friendly concern."

"She left because I would not lose her," Erik said. "I touched on too many of her fears with my own."

That was not unbelievable. "I am sorry to hear—"

"I do not wish to speak of it," Erik stood and walked over to the little secretary set up against the far wall. "Take a look at this, and tell me what you think."

"If it is music, you know I am practically worthless."

"Practically? I should say entirely," Erik handed Nadir a sheet of paper. "But it is not music. Read."

Monsieur O.G., the letter began.

Enclosed with this letter is your stipulated salary for the month of February.

I hope I do not presume, sir, to intrude upon your time or try your patience, but there were some matters of business I should like brought to your attention.

1. As you may be aware, our lead tenor will soon be retiring. The company is most keen on having M. Belanger take his place; however, I believe that his understudy, M. Hahn, has real potential, particularly when one views him from a marketing perspective. Please advise.

2. The company has flat-out refused to perform Faust for the autumn season. Shall I press the issue or do you have a suggestion for an alternate production?

3. My uncle, the other M. Moncharmin, whom you have dealt with before, is returning to Paris for the entire month of April. In theory, he will be resuming his managerial duties for the duration of his visit; I suggest we carry on as if he is still sunning himself on the Amalfi Coast.

Please contact me as you see fit, yours, etc…

The letter was signed with a flourishing Didier Moncharmin.

"The manager?" Nadir asked, as if he knew nothing about it. Though come to think of it—what was Moncharmin up to?

Erik nodded.

"What do you intend to do?" Nadir asked.

"Reply, of course. And see if he complies." Erik took the letter back. "It is quite something… to be asked one's opinion."

Nadir chose not to remind Erik that in Mazanderan, his opinion had been law punishable by death. Erik would certainly remember it… differently. "I suppose I do not need to worry about you. You are busy with your opera—your opera house—I should have known you could survive a passing fancy—"

Erik's attention shot up and locked on Nadir. His eyes burned. "A passing fancy?"

Nadir held up his hands. "I misspoke. But you seem so well—at least—come, recall the spectacle you made in my parlor over Christine! Dying of love! Nearly dead! Assuredly dead!" Nadir shook his head. "You seem so much the better this time."

Erik voice was quiet when he spoke, and he did not sound angry. "I am not."

"Then I do apologize," Nadir replied.

"Do you know the feeling of a gunshot wound?" Erik asked after some moments had passed. "It is… intense. A projectile rips through skin and muscle, blood pours forth, and you are convinced—convinced—that you will die. But then, the bleeding slows, the bullet is removed, the wound bound… one heals. Oh, there is that phantom pain from where bullet might have nicked bone, and that pain may last for years after the true wound is long scarred over. Christine was a bullet to me. I did believe that I would die of her love—perhaps I might have, under different circumstances. But Nora… she has left me with a cancer. It does not always hurt, though it some times does. You cannot really see it, and I may live a long time with it. But it will kill me. It will most assuredly kill me."

They sat for a long time in silence, born out of the fact that there really was nothing to say. Nadir came to his feet slowly. He did not reach out to Erik, as a different sort of friend might have.

"I do not know what brought Nora Farley into your world in the first place," Nadir said. "I do not know what compelled you to try to keep her there. She may be gone, but I ask you—whatever it was that first allowed her into your life, do not give up on that."

"You ask much, Daroga," Erik said, "for it was nothing less than life that brought me to Nora."

"Then live, old friend. Do not give over to the despair that nearly killed you the last time."

"I thought perhaps I had already been judged," Erik mused, "and condemned."

"Only Heaven has the providence to really judge," Nadir intoned, wondering all the while if he really believed so.

"No," Erik said, "others judge as well. I believe they might judge better, as well."

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. My sins are wrath, vanity, and… something I cannot quite name." Nora remembered her first confession, made in the very box she sat in now. She had rather delighted in compiling a list of her worst sins—it was perhaps the only time she had ever enjoyed doing so. Ah, youth.

"Wrath?" the screen did nothing to conceal the identity of Nora's priest. Father Powers had baptized Nora, after all—and had heard that first, gleeful confession. Even now, he sounded vaguely amused.

"For being obliged to confess my sins," Nora said.

"And you are aware that the Sacrament of Penance the method that method God and His Church uses to allow you to be reconciled to Him?" How many times had Father Powers said those very words to Nora? Too many to count.

"I am, and I thank God for it daily," Nora said. Well, most days at least.

"What of vanity?"

"I turned thirty-eight yesterday," Nora said, "and spent some hours in front of my looking glass. I lament my lost youth and beauty."

"'To every thing there is an appointed season,'" the priest intone, "'and a time to every purpose under heaven.'"

Nora snorted. "I was sure you were going to say 'beauty is vain, but a woman who feareth the Lord…'"

"No need," he said, "as you've already thought of it. Now what of this unnamed sin?"

Nora shook her head slowly. "It is exactly that."

"In what circumstances did you commit it?"

"Complicated ones."

"There are some hours yet before the next Mass," Father Powers pointed out.

"When I was in France," Nora began, "I was occasioned to fall in love." Something that sounded rather like laughter came from the other side of the screen. "And there is no cause for you to sound so surprised, Father."

"Go on, my child."

"I did not sin against my chastity," Nora said, "I did not make him any vows that were then broken. But I left him, and my… heart is broken." There, she said it. That was the truest confession she had ever made, and probably the most painful.

The priest asked her more questions on the matter, and in the end said, "regret is not a sin, Nora. Allowing yourself to be distracted from your Godly devotion by regret is."

Wrath and vanity awarded her two Hail Marys—but for the very serious sin of breaking Erik's heart and denying her own? Nothing.

"Give thanks to the Lord," the priest concluded, "for he is good."

"For His mercy endures forever," Nora murmured in response.

That evening found her in front of her mirror again, hair hanging down, chin resting on her hand. This was not vanity—this was simply wallowing in self-pity.

She looked at her face from various angles in the candlelight. She was most assuredly out of the bloom of youth. The contours of her face had turned to sharper angles, and her skin had lost some of its old glow. The one thing that age had so far failed to do to her was to line her face—and she found that she resented that favor. There were some people who had their entire lives penned out on their faces—what of Nora's? The lines about her eyes and mouth—laugh lines and smile lines—were practically nonexistent. Vague wrinkles resultant from a lifetime of vague smiles and vague emotions. No real joy, though she supposed there was also no real pain. Was it an equitable tradeoff?

She had often made a point of not showing her feelings. Apparently she had succeeded rather too well. How unlike… Erik. She found that his peculiar features threw every emotion into high relief. Anger, pain, joy—all played out vividly on his death's head face. It was just as well that he wore his mask. Not because he was ugly, but because one could not allow one's heart to be so plainly seen.

DANIEL TREMBLAY

BRITISH EMBASSY

PARIS, FRANCE

SICK OF OTTAWA. THINKING OF GREECE BY MAY.

-NORA

NORA FARLEY

FARLEY HOUSE

OTTAWA, ONTARIO, CANADA

I WILL RETURN BY APRIL. WAIT FOR ME.

-DANIEL