The Daroga's mirth did not last long. It seemed to have been the product of exhaustion and incredulity, as opposed to any kind of real happiness, and so ended with his head still in his hands.
"How do you do it?" he asked at length. "How is it possible that you look at everything that has happened these past months— no, years!—and simply—'do you want to see a card trick?!'" His voice had started out equitably enough, but ended with enough angry force that Erik flinched.
They stared at one another. Erik distantly heard something being dropped in the kitchen: faithful Darius, no doubt. Neither he nor the Daroga paid it any heed.
"Were you not the one," Erik started, very slow and quiet, "who came to me a few days ago and said 'Why, Erik, you have time and world enough! Change! Live! Be like me!' Or perhaps you simply thought of those as parting words. A salve for your conscience, 'Look, I did what I could to encourage the old devil to mend his ways!' Tell me, if your little cousin had not suddenly reappeared, would you have ever bothered to call on poor old Erik again?"
"Erik—" the Daroga's voice was sharp.
Erik was on his feet, pacing. "No! It is all of your own doing, Daroga! You and I both know that you may have tracked me—but you were never going to drag me back to that kalaheh shagal Shah's court anyway. Why even bother finding me in the first place? Why bother staying?"
"I knew you would find trouble," the Daroga replied coldly. "I knew others would be hurt. I stayed to clean up after you—and so I did."
Erik reached into the deep recesses of his mind, into those dark days of Mazandaran and the command of the Persian language they had given him, and unleashed a thoroughly comprehensive and utterly profane diatribe concerning Nadir's character, parentage, and personal habits. The Daroga was unmoved.
"Tell me, Erik," he said, "why is it that, when this sad—pathetic—business was done… why did you come to me? Why did you come, proclaiming that your lovesick heart would finally kill you, entrusting me with those little trinkets of the Daaé girl, asking me to play your messenger once again?"
They were frozen, Erik realize, stuck in some old tableau that they had been practicing for decades. Did all men get so stuck? Erik wondered. Other men, with ordinary friends, ordinary wives, ordinary faces? Erik did not think so. The problem was: he was unsure how to unstick himself.
Perforce, he stayed on the topic at hand. They both knew the answer to the Daroga's question: there was no one else to turn to. But Erik would not say those words, not now. "You already meddled. As always."
"And what if I had not?" the Daroga asked. "How much more blood would be on your hands? The Count—"
"That," Erik cut in, "was the siren."
Erik knew that look, as well. The Daroga did not believe him. But he was already on to the next point, regardless. "What would you have done to that poor girl?"
"Many people marry without love," Erik said, an echo of earlier, desperate words. Why did it feel like everything said today was simply a repeating motif? Was there nothing new to add to the symphony of his life? He should have done more to help the diminuendo along. "It grows. They marry for some other, practical concern, something on offer that the other one needs. Well, I had something. I had something to give Christine that no one else did."
For once, in his wretched life, he had something good to offer a woman. Not mere slavish devotion, or the worthless blood in his veins—though, yes, he certainly would have opened his wrists and abased himself to the ground for her. And not the simple gift of music, which was just as likely to be misunderstood and ignored as it was to be admired. No. What he could have done for her voice—what they could have done together for their musical souls—Erik could not imagine anything more precious to lay at the feet of one's beloved.
It had not been enough.
They were interrupted by Darius, who must have screwed up all his courage to come in and set down a tray of sweets. He nodded differentially at Erik. He certainly no longer looked young, not with that hairline much higher at the temples than it had been, but there was still something in his face that spoke to the errand boy. Erik returned the nod.
"It was one thing when you were twenty," the Daroga spoke again, with less venom but equal intensity. "When you were a boy of twenty, surrounded by people who wanted your heart to be as dark as their own, I could… tolerate how you seemed hellbent on your own destruction. But now? I wish you would choose to do better."
Oh. Another recognizable look on the Daroga's face. It had been a long, long time since he had seen it. Disappointment. It was a look that never failed to make Erik feel… small. Helpless. But unlike other occasions when he felt helpless, he had no desire to fight back.
There was little to be said after that. A few minutes passed, and the Daroga spoke again, almost conversationally. "So. Will you behave for Mojgan?"
Erik snorted and decided against picking up a cookie. "I shall endeavor." He rethought the cookie again, a recollection of times past telling him that it would be worth the discomfort of eating while masked. "You should have arrested me when you had the chance, Daroga."
The Daroga was silent for a long moment. "No. I stand by my decision."
"Why, are you infallible?" Gentle raillery. Erik thought that was as good as one could hope for just now. "Why even make it in the first place?"
"Well. You made me laugh."
Erik, who could not recall ever truly having made Nadir laugh before today's madness, was spared from answering. There was a knock.
Darius slipped away. The Daroga stood. Erik stood.
The door opened, and gentle words were exchanged between manservant and lady.
And Erik remembered.
He remembered that voice, not as a whisper, not an old impression. He remembered gentle laughter without any hint of mockery. He remembered words freezing on the winter air in the forest between Nowshahr and his kingdom by the sea. He remembered pretty little songs sung that were supposed to keep wild beasts away but really just kept their spirits up.
He was glad for the memory of the voice, as he honestly did not think he would have been able to pick her out of a crowd. He had seen Mojgan with kohl-rimmed eyes, dressed in beautiful robes and head coverings held with bejeweled clasps. He had seen her dirty and bundled into boy's clothing. Occasionally, he had even seen her at rest, in loose kaftans and charming little caps. This fashion plate that had stepped out of De Mode, with curled and pinned hair and dressed in Rambouillet wool, was almost unrecognizable. But the voice was there, and the soft smile, and the flash of raven's wing black as her eyelashes lowered.
She stepped over the threshold, and stood in front of Erik, with her hand extended. He glanced at it curiously, memories of Persia warring with the present in Paris. After a moment, he took it, barely touching her glove.
He glanced back at Nadir. "Strange days, Daroga. Are they not?"
"Truly," the Daroga stepped forward and Erik let Mojgan's hand drop. She gave it to the Daroga, who squeezed it with more familiarity and then dropped a kiss on her cheek for good measure. "Come in, joonam. He still has yet to learn any real manners."
She settled in Erik's previous seat. He found himself still standing, even after the Daroga indicated another chair. Erik shook his head slightly. She would not stop looking at him, and it was making his skin crawl. It was not that he could detect any unkindness in her gaze—quite the reverse, actually.
"Well, I would hope we wouldn't stand on formality now," she said, taking off her gloves. "Oh, Darius, did you make shirineh nokhodcheh? I can't remember the last time I had these." She happily took up one of the cookies, but her face grew thoughtful as she ate it. "This is Parastoo's recipe!"
Erik only half-listened to the light conversation, Persian liberally augmented with French. She was different, he could tell, subtly so. The same symphony under a different conductor. He fought the urge to pace for a time, but eventually gave in, making a slow circuit around the sitting room. All the while, he could feel Mojgan's eyes following him. When he would glance back at her, she would blink impassively.
"Nadir said you've run in to some trouble of late," she said when he at last stood still for more than a minute. "Are you all right?"
Erik spared a glare for the Daroga, who remained, as usual, unmoved. "Yes. Fine."
"I'm glad," she replied earnestly. "If… there is trouble, I may be able to help. I don't know how long my husband will have us in Paris, but as long as I am here, I have some resources at my disposal."
That word—husband—brought up an old picture of a stuffy, aristocratic accountant who was nearly as ugly as Erik. Well. Half as ugly. He had one whole side of his face that was quite serviceable, lucky dog. Dead dog, though, Erik was sure. But then she briefly outlined what her free-wheeling diplomat of a husband was doing, and Erik remembered what Nadir had told him: She has remarried a man in the foreign service and he brought her here.
"Do you like this one as much as the last one?" Erik asked.
Nadir made an exclamation of disapproval for Erik's innocent question, but Mojgan appeared to be unperturbed. "He is a… good man, in his way. Nothing like Feridoon, but still a good man. I would say we've become friends." She helped herself to tea. "Not to make things sound bleak! I suppose very few people have the luxury of marrying for love."
Erik cast another look at the Daroga. "Quite so. Marry for practical reasons and the love grows. Some couples end up quite wild about each other."
"Well, I'm not going to claim to be wild about Reza," she chuckled. "But I am fond of him. He is good to me. And… I would have been a fool to refuse him." Something in her tone made Erik think those last words were not her own. She shrugged slightly, and turned that warm gaze back to Erik full force. "It sounds like you're speaking from experience, Erik."
Erik did not know what hurt more about her comment: that he could not say, ah, yes, come to supper and meet my dear Christine or the fact that Mojgan stated it as though it was actually possible. In the end, he simply shook his head, and she let the subject drop.
"Returning to the topic of Erik and trouble," Nadir cut in, "How precisely did you explain this visit to your husband? You did not mention who else might be here, did you?"
Mojgan shifted uneasily for a moment, but confirmed that, no, she hadn't explained Erik to her husband, or anyone else at the Persian Embassy. She did not think it was safe. Such had been the course of wisdom, but somehow speaking those words galvanized old fears.
The Daroga was on his feet, and Erik could see in him that capable, responsible police officer of old. He handed his own teacup off to Darius. "Two cups. Only."
Ah, the four of them had played that game before, hadn't they? The last days in Mazandaran, when he and Mojgan both had to live as ghosts or risk becoming them.
"Keep it that way," Nadir said. "Few in the embassy cared what I was here for to begin with; and Erik is thought to be dead. Did Reza think it odd you wanted to call again on a kinsman of your first husband? Do you think he might come to suspect something?"
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "I've never set out to conceal something from him before. I believe he thinks it… quaint that I wanted to see an old friend." She looked troubled, and glanced into her tea as if it suddenly tasted bad. "Which I see it actually was a quaint idea. You would think that twenty years and an entire continent would be enough for us to be able to have tea together without looking over our shoulders." She took a sip of her tea and grimaced.
"It would be," the Daroga said. His tone could almost be called soothing. "If we were anyone other than who we are."
Funny. Who we are. It seemed that in this particular circle, even Erik was admitted to belong.
"You need not worry about me," Erik cut in. "I am leaving Paris for a time."
Mojgan looked resigned, perhaps even disappointed. Nadir looked wary.
"Are you indeed?" he said. "This is new."
It was, in fact, of this very moment. There had been half an idea that struck his fancy after the Daroga's first visit, which prompted half an effort at research, which Erik then let fall by the wayside. It must have been hearing that we was truly considered dead to the world that prompted him to a sudden decision- or the equally strange feeling of being made to belong. The Daroga pressed for specifics, and Erik gave them. "Monte Carlo. Garnier is doing work there. It is nearing completion, but there is always fine-tuning to be done."
"And you are going to go work for him?" the Daroga asked, more pointed still.
"Yes," Erik kept his voice very even—light—reassuring. Not that Charles Garnier had any idea that he was about to show up at his latest project, but he was unlikely to turn away Erik's expertise.
"Garnier?" Mojgan broke in. "Like the Palais Garnier?"
"Erik had much to do with that building," Nadir said. The tone was less civil than the words.
"I went there last week," she said. "It was very beautiful."
Curious, that. So she was there, at the opera in recent days, floors and floors above Erik's home? He felt the world going a little fuzzy around him, his thoughts creeping inexorably towards the Riviera coast and away from— well, away. He picked up another cookie and chewed it thoughtfully, something about the crumbly texture and the cool aroma of the cardamom reminding him where he was and what he was doing. And with who. He could not forget who: these madcap Persians he thought he had left behind long ago. "I am sorry I will not be able to show it to you," he said at length, and was surprised that he meant it.
"Yes, I would have liked that. Do you know how long your project will be? I may be in Paris for many more months," she cut herself off and then chuckled. "Merciful God, Erik, was I such a fool when we traveled together? How did you put up with me?"
"You were indeed," he assured her. "Always wanting to do nonsense things like eat and sleep. I despaired of you. But you are still the most pleasant travelling companion I've ever had—" this said with a darkling glare at the Daroga— "And I promise: if you are still in Paris when I return, we will find a way."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Erik instantly resolved to never set foot in Paris again.
They passed the next half-hour in more pleasant conversation, pretending that they were friends and that the world outside the Rue de Rivoli was a kind place.
Nadir she would see again, and so bid him a briefer farewell. But this time, she did not let Erik get away with a mere touch of the hand. She clasped his firmly, and stared straight into his eyes. She had not put her gloves back on, and Erik wondered how she tolerated his icy hands in her warm ones.
"Have you been happy?" she asked.
He had been wise not to make that promise, all those years ago. But he was able to answer with a clean conscience. "I have tried."
"I'm glad you remembered," she said, and was gone.
Erik stayed with Nadir until well after the sunset, on the off chance someone had decided to follow the Shah's envoy's wife and take note of every passerby on the cramped little street. Darius brought out wine, and Erik ate too many chickpea cookies. They did not speak of Persia, or of the Opera, or of any other bone of contention between the two of them. They spoke of the fire in the Rue Port Mahon, and the matter of the slaves in Zanzibar, and the newest Jules Verne novel (no, Erik would not send himself down the Amazon, thank you.)
Erik did not dream of Christine that night, either. Instead, he found himself in a forest, somewhere west of Mazandaran and east of Ghazvin, as far from any path leading to Tehran as possible. He knew the forest he was in, knew who he was with, and why. But somehow, this Mojgan was fleeing to safety dressed in European finery, her dark hair uncovered and unconfined, with rubies dancing on her fingertips. Erik couldn't find the voice for words, but when the tigers decided to come roaring towards them, he sang them all to sleep. Dream-Mojgan smiled at him, more brilliantly than he had ever seen in life, before she also fell victim to his lullaby. That really happened, part of his mind insisted. We were here, and she trusted me, and I sang to keep her safe.
What let him know it was, in fact, a dream was when he put his arm around her shoulders, and her sleeping head rested on his chest, and all he could smell was the jasmine and cardamom caught in her hair.