The Boy

by JP Kraft

It's April 1906 and Erik and the Persian have relocated to San Francisco. Erik is now a successful businessman. When attending a charity event, he sees a woman from his past who has a profound effect on his present and his future. She helps him to see himself as a man of value, worthy of being loved and ultimately has a hand in reuniting him with the woman who holds his heart.

1. Chapter 1

The Boy

by

JP Kraft

San Francisco 1906

"Honestly Nasir, I don't know why I let you drag me to these tiresome events." Erik scanned the crowded ballroom of San Francisco's Palace Hotel. "There's no one here I care to meet; it's damned hot, and the food at these events is always abominable."

Nasir Khan smiled. This was typical Erik, grumbling and irritable to cover his insecurity about appearing in public. "My dear friend, as always, we are here because it's a good business opportunity. It never hurts to have influential contacts, especially since you've mentioned wanting to expand the business into a second location. And where better to meet possible investors than a social event for society? Especially one for a philanthropic cause. They already have their cheque books and are minded to do a little writing in them."

"I've told you before Nasir, I don't want investors. Investors are always looking for more than their returns. They want favors, and I won't be beholden to anybody." He glared at Khan through the eyeholes of his mask. He wore a full face mask tonight. He thought it made him look more forbidding than his usual half mask.

What he didn't realize, was that the mask sitting above a tall, slender, well-built frame dressed in the height of fashionable formalwear presented more of a challenge, especially to the ladies, than a deterrent. Combine that with the fact that he owned Club Incognito, a gambling hall and supper club popular with society's elite, and the mysterious masked and very rich Erik Dantes was privately considered a catch.

Many society matrons with single daughters in need of a husband were willing to overlook his lower social status and the eccentricity of the mask given the rumors of his wealth. However, had they known what lay beneath the mask and the history that went with it, they might not have been so eager to push their daughters forward into his path.

Khan met his gaze with equanimity. Ah, here was the true reason for his friend's irritability—loss of control. He understood Erik, perhaps better than Erik understood himself.

They'd met when word of a master magician began spreading through the countries of the Middle East. On orders of his master, Kahn was sent to find this magician and bring him to Persia. He watched as the brash young man presented himself to the Shah-in-Shah first as a master magician then as the architect who had the ability to build the palace of the Shah's dreams. A palace combining the ultimate in luxury with the strongest possible security.

Over the three years it took to complete the magnificent palace, Khan came to know the young man quite well. Erik was erratic, sometimes violent, always dangerous and exceptionally brilliant. He was also a loyal friend if he chose to be. He'd been with Khan through the worst day of his life, doing everything in his power to save the man's wife and unborn child, but it was not to be.

. . . .

Khan stumbled into the bedroom in the too-quiet house. He'd left two hours before to find and bring a physician back to the house for his pregnant wife Bahar. She had gone into sudden labor in the middle of a quiet evening at home with their friend, the young Frenchman.

He stopped, frozen at the sight of his wife lying amidst blood-soaked sheets and his friend, kneeling at her side, his arms bloody to the elbows.

"I'm sorry, Nasir." Erik looked up, tears rolling from his eyes. "I did everything I could, everything I could think of.…"

"I know, my friend," Khan let his tears fall as his heart broke gazing down at the body. "You tried to help her."

The physician lifted Erik to his feet and pushed him to the bedroom door. "Go into the front room, both of you. I will come when I've finished my examination."

They sat in stunned silence until the physician joined them. "It was not to be, Daroga." He shook his head in sympathy. "The child was turned partway, lodged against her pelvis."

"I've read medical texts. I thought I could help. I—I tried to…to…turn…" Erik stammered, looking from the physician to Khan.

"Yes," the physician continued. "You did exactly what I would have done. It was impossible. The child was lodged tightly." He turned to Nasir. "I am very sorry, Daroga. There was nothing I could have done to save them. She lost too much blood too quickly. We must be grateful that she did not suffer longer."

Khan bowed his head in acceptance of the physician's words. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small leather purse, holding it out to the man. "For your time."

The physician shook his head. "I cannot take what I did not earn. Distribute it to the beggars outside the mosque in exchange for prayers for their safe journey together to heaven." He moved to the door, pulling it open to the night air. "I know you do not have any immediate female relatives nearby. I will send the holy woman from the village to prepare Bahar's body." He nodded once more, then took his leave.

Khan closed his eyes in silent prayer, sinking onto a pile of cushions. Moments later, the smell of mint tea came to him and he looked to see Erik kneeling beside him, a cup of strong tea held out.

"Here," Erik whispered, "drink this."

"Thank you." He raised the cup to his lips, barely able to keep it from spilling as his hand shook and looked at his friend.

Erik had washed Behar's blood from his arms but there were still traces of it under his fingernails. He'd rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt to hide the worst of the stains. He couldn't hide it all and there were still streaks on the shirt front and on the opaque veil he wore attached to a turban so only his eyes were exposed. He wouldn't take it off, thinking seeing Behar's blood was still easier for his friend than seeing his uncovered face.

Nasir set his cup aside and gently grasped his friend's hands. "Do not blame yourself. The doctor himself said you did everything correctly. This was not meant to be." He closed his eyes, pulling in a deep breath. "It was the will of Allah."

"Allah?" Erik pulled back, standing abruptly and pacing the small space. "The will of Allah? And you just accept that?" He shook his head, grasping at the sides of his turban. "Allah? The merciful god? What kind of merciful god let's a young woman die screaming in agony?!"

He stopped, realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry, Nasir. I didn't mean that." His hands fell limply to his sides as he turned away, unable to look at the raw grief on the man's face.. "I just don't understand your belief."

"No. I'd imagine you can't." Nasir rose, moving to stand behind Erik, placing a solid hand on his young friend's shoulder. "Belief must come from experience. And from the heart."

"Experience." Erik chuffed a harsh laugh. "I've had lots of experience with your Allah, or Jehovah, or Jesus or whatever he's called today. Nothing I've experienced tells me there's such a thing as a merciful god." He shook his head adamantly. "Nothing."

"I can't make you believe, Erik. It's enough that I believe."

Erik turned abruptly, pulling his friend into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, Nasir. So very sorry." Then he let go, stepping back. "Someone's coming." As he spoke, the village holy woman entered the room followed by other women holding lengths of clean cloth to be used to wash and wrap the body. He turned his back to them, stepping into the shadows in the corner of the room.

The young man stayed with Nasir for several days, supporting his friend through the early days of grief, leaving only when summoned to the Shah. By the end of that time an unbreakable bond was forged between the two men.

. . . .

That bond led Nasir to disobey a direct order from the Shah and instead of killing the young architect, helped fake his death and escape Persia with his life. Ultimately, after a few years of watching his royal master grow more and more cruel and fearing his actions in saving Erik's life would be revealed, Nasir fled to Paris.

He and Erik had often spoken of Paris. The city loomed large in Erik's imagination. The young man shared his dream of living and working in that resplendent city. He wanted to design buildings that would thrust Paris to the top of the architectural world. Nasir felt with certainty, that if Erik escaped the Shah's assassins, that's where he would go.

Once he arrived and settled into a small flat, it wasn't hard for him to find Erik in Paris. All he had to do was read the newspapers. Le Figaro published a series of articles covering the final stages of the building of Garnier's glorious opera house. It wasn't long before a single sentence mentioned a young assistant who wore a mask.

The walk from his apartment to the construction site was a short one. Nasir made a habit of including it in his daily walks, knowing that sooner or later, he'd find his quarry. It only took a few days before he found his friend scrambling up ladders and working alongside the bricklayers and plasterers as they put finishing touches on the exterior design.

Nasir watched in amazement as Erik helped to build the magnificent Palais Garnier and later make it his secret home, doing everything he could to exert control over the building and its inhabitants.

Control was everything to Erik. After so many years where others held control over him, he finally broke free and built a life for himself on his own terms. And all was well until Christine Daaé. She was the first, the only person, to break Erik's indominable spirit. Nasir could only stand by watching helplessly as his friend almost lost his sanity and his life in pursuit of the beautiful young soprano.

Ultimately, Erik overcame the madness and when he arrived at Nasir's flat in Paris, battered and desperate after a night spent fleeing an enraged mob through the sewers, the Persian took him in. Nasir treated Erik's wounds, housed him, fed him, and listened to him rant and cry until he regained his equilibrium and once again became the brilliant man Nasir knew and respected.

It was Erik's idea to leave France and cross the Atlantic Ocean and Nasir wondered time and again if his own sanity was in question for following.

. . . .

"I want to go to America." Erik shivered, wrapped in a woolen robe and sitting before the crackling fire in Khan's parlor. It was almost two weeks since Erik's escape from the opera house. Luckily no one suspected a connection between the odd, dark-skinned Persian who frequented the theater at all hours of the day and night and the dangerous man whom the newspapers called the Phantom of the Opera.

"America? Why in the name of Allah do you want to go to that uncivilized wasteland?" Nasir set out two cups of strong coffee and passed one over to his friend. He didn't like the way Erik was looking. Even for him, Erik was unusually pale and couldn't seem to shake the fever he'd picked up during his escape. He worried that his own attempts at nursing his friend were falling short and he'd have to call in a physician soon.

"Because it's not Europe or Russia or Asia. Besides, it's the late 19th century, America is quite civilized by now." Erik sipped his coffee and grimaced. "This tastes awful. Put some Brandy in it." He held out the cup and tried to smile. "Please."

"You know I do not keep alcohol in my home."

"I know you abstain," Erik said, then pointed at a closed cabinet along the wall. "I also know you keep some spirits for those very rare occasions when you entertain guests."

"Yes, well, you don't qualify as a guest."

"I'm staying in your home. What does that make me?"

"A nuisance."

Erik harrumphed. The sound turned into a coughing spasm that had him folding almost in half, trying to catch his breath. Nasir knelt beside his friend, rubbing his back and holding him in the chair. "I don't like the sound of that cough, Erik. I'm going to fetch a doctor tomorrow."

"No." Erik's hand reached out, clamping tightly around Nasir's wrist. "No one can know I'm here. I'm a wanted criminal. It could mean my death, and quite possibly yours, too, as an accessory.

"I just need a little more time to rest." He shivered again, clutching the robe tighter with his free hand. "Funny how once you've actually done it, running through the sewers of Paris loses all its romantic appeal. Damn that Victor Hugo, anyway." He tried for a small smile, hoping Nasir wouldn't see how weak he truly was.

"All right, my friend." Nasir opened the cabinet and added a large splash of Brandy to Erik's cup. "You win. Now drink up and let me help you into bed so you can rest."

"No." Erik shook his head then swallowed the Brandy-laced coffee. "It's easier to breathe if I'm sitting up."

Nasir nodded agreement and tucked a blanket around Erik's legs. "All right then, a compromise. Tomorrow I'm going to the herbalist and getting some eucalyptus and mint to steam in a kettle so you can breathe the vapors. I'll also get some honey and yarrow to add to your tea to sooth your throat and help reduce the fever.

"But if you're not better in three days, I will find a doctor. Agreed?"

"I'm too tired to argue," Erik whispered, leaning his head against the high back of the chair.

"Agreed?" Nasir pressed the point, knowing that unless he could get his friend's word, the clever man would find a way to evade him.

"Agreed," Erik whispered, his eyes sliding shut. "Sometimes I hate you old friend."

"I know." Nasir placed his palm on Erik's forehead, uneasy at the heat coming off the man's brow. "Sometimes I hate you, too."

Nasir watched him sleep for a while, then lay a shawl across Erik's chest, tucking the ends over his shoulders against the cold when the fire went down. It was best to let him sleep where he was than to try to move him back to the sofa in Nasir's study that served as a temporary bed. They could continue their discussion about travel to America tomorrow.

. . . .

There was no discussion. Nasir's herbal remedies finally worked and Erik was soon well enough to travel. He was adamant about America, and refused to even consider another destination. Once in America, Erik decided to head to the West Coast, specifically San Francisco, where the law was more lax and an unknown entrepreneur had the most opportunities for success.

And he was successful. Within a few years' time, the eccentric Erik Dantes, who for reasons unknown always wore a mask, established a small gambling club. The club became known for the honesty of its games. Erik allowed no cheating and some of the professional gamblers who attended found, to their dismay, that he had no trouble ejecting them bodily at the slightest hint of trickery.

As his reputation for running an honest gaming hall grew, so did his clientele. And soon the small establishment with a bar and a single playing room expanded and became Club Incognito, a large gambling hall with many tables, a bar serving the finest liquors and a comfortable dining room with private booths available upon request.

The owner's perceived eccentricity became a trademark of the club and it wasn't long before guests, taking the name at face value, started arriving in masks of their own. Once it was known that anyone who could pay was welcome and there were no restrictions against women participating, business grew and Erik became a very rich man. The only problem was that Erik was forced to become the 'face' of the club.

He hated appearing in public at social events but Nasir convinced him it was necessary to the continued success of the club. Meanwhile, the former Daroga of Mazenderan worked behind the scenes, as Erik's second-in-command and general manager. He also established connections with politicians, the police, and the newspapers, standing as an implacable wall between his friend and the rest of the world who might want to get too close.

Most people found Nasir's protectiveness of his employer annoying. But both men knew how vitally important that role was. The world was growing smaller by the day thanks to communication devices like the telegraph and telephone. They couldn't risk any hint of Erik's past history becoming known. He was still a wanted man in France and even though the Shah was now dead, his rabid followers might still cry for the head of the architect of Mazenderan.

A light touch at his elbow pulled Nasir's attention back to the ballroom.

"Here." Erik held out a glass of punch. "You look like you could use it."

Nasir smiled at his friend's thoughtfulness and glanced at the crystal goblet in Erik's other hand. Water as usual. Erik never drank alcohol in public and rarely at all in the company of anyone other than the Persian.

Erik raised his glass in a toast. "To getting out of here quickly and quietly." As they gently touched glasses the electric lights in the great chandelier over the ballroom flickered on and off. Erik looked up sharply, drawing in a quick breath then releasing it slowly as he recognized the signal for the guests to take their seats. "Damn. It's 1906, you'd think they'd have thought of another way to get people's attention by now."

"They could use a bosun's whistle like they do aboard ships," Nasir quipped, slipping into his seat at their table at the side of the room. "Except I doubt anyone would hear it above the din."

Nasir purchased their seats at the table despite Erik's objection to attending the gala. They weren't part of the city's social elite, being considered part of the burgeoning merchant class, still their money was as good as anyone else's. As this was a fundraiser, the societal restrictions against mixing the classes were relaxed, to a certain extent, in the name of charity. Their money was acceptable, as long as they kept off to the sides and the back of the room and didn't try to mingle with their betters.

Erik chuckled softly, sitting beside his friend. "Indeed. America is the noisiest country I've ever been in. I keep waiting for them to discover decorum, but I fear it won't be in my lifetime." Sitting straighter, he politely acknowledged the other diners at the table and then turned his full attention to the lobster bisque set before him. He'd mastered the art of tuning out the world around him, leaving Nasir to chat politely with the others. Sometimes, having a reputation as an eccentric was a good thing.

The dessert course was just laid in front of them when a large man in a tuxedo, whom Erik recognized from frequent visits to Club Incognito, stepped up to the podium at the main table. The organizers of the event opted for a raised dais, rather than a full stage. They believed that any stage, other than that at the Mission Opera House was vulgar and meant for low entertainment.

"If I may have your attention please, Ladies and Gentlemen." He waited a moment for the noise to die down then continued. "As you know, tonight's event is to raise money for the Danby Foundation's Hospital for Disadvantaged Children to be opened here in San Francisco." He paused waiting for the murmurs of approval for the cause to quiet. "This will be the first facility of its kind on the West Coast and a great addition to the network of caring facilities in our fair city."

"Caring facilities, " Erik sneered under his breath to Nasir, ignoring the rest of the man's introduction. "The only facilities most of these people care about involve mansions, gourmet meals, and racehorses. They're only here to rub elbows with British aristocracy. They don't give a damn about disadvantaged anybody."

Nasir nodded in agreement. "Still," he opined, "if even one child is helped by this evening's extravagance, it's worthwhile."

"Let's just throw a at cheque at them and get out of here." Erik moved to rise, stopped by Nasir's forceful hand on his knee.

"It would not do to call attention to yourself right now, my friend. Sit, listen to the boring self-aggrandizing speeches, and then you can leave when everyone else rises to congratulate each other on how charitable they've been."

Slowly, Erik settled back down into his seat, his eyes fixed on the woman stepping up to the speaker's podium. "Who?" He shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake loose a memory.

"What is it?" Nasir frowned at Erik. "Do you know her?" He leaned forward, whispering into Erik's ear. "Will she recognize you? Is she a threat?"

"No. I don't know." Erik shook his head slowly. "There's just something familiar…."

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and thank you for coming out on a quiet Sunday evening to hear my plea," she said. If they hadn't already known she was part of the upper class, her flawless posture and clipped British accent instantly revealed her status. "As most of you know, I am Lady Lillian Featherstone, Dowager Baroness of Danby." She paused, smiling at some of the quizzical expressions on the audience members faces upon pronouncing her name differently from the way it was spelled on the introductory brochures scattered across the tables. "I know. It's spelled feather-stone, but it's pronounced, as I've said, Fanshaw. I don't know why. But it is, and I've learned to live with it. As must we all if we're to make this endeavor a success."

"Lillian Featherstone," Nasir whispered to Erik. "The name's not familiar to me. Do you know her?"

Erik shook his head again. "I'm not sure. I don't recall ever meeting her, but…." He leaned slightly forward in his seat. Their table, set off to the side and slightly back from the speaker's table had the advantage of keeping him in shadow, out of sight of the glitterati and still affording him a close-up view of the honored guests.

There was nothing remarkable about her as far as he could tell. She appeared to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, close to his own age. She was of average height, her brown hair swept into a fashionable updo, her jaw was a little too strong and her nose a little too long to be considered pretty, and her figure was neither too plump nor too fashionably thin. She wore just the right amount of jewelry to proclaim her social superiority and yet not be ostentatious and all of it looked real.

She looked to him much like all the other members of European aristocracy he'd encountered: polished, aloof, and perfectly able to see right through anyone who didn't rise to their social métier. The only incongruity was the unbalance of bracelets on her arms. Her right arm sparkled fashionably from wrist to mid-way up her forearm. Unlike the other women of fashion who wore matching ornamentation on both arms, her left arm was adorned by a single slender gold chain bracelet. Nothing else.

He turned his attention back to the woman's face. Something was scratching at the back of his mind, and he'd learned never to ignore that itch. He was sure if he thought about it long enough he'd remember.

"As I was saying," she continued, "we're here for a new endeavor, a continuation of a project that's been near and dear to my heart ever since I was a young girl of thirteen years. Fortunately for me, I was born into a position where, as an adult, I was able to follow this dream and, with the help of my late husband, The Honorable Sir Reginald Featherstone, Baron of Danby, and fine people like yourselves, it became a reality.

"You know about the Danby Foundation, so I won't bore you with all the details. Suffice to say it has helped hundreds of children in Britain through our facilities in England, Scotland, and Wales. Our latest facility in New York opened its doors two months ago. And now, with your generous contributions aiding us, the Danby Foundation hopes to open its newest Hospital for Disadvantaged Children here in San Francisco.

"But first, I'd like to tell you a story about a boy. A boy who touched my life and inspired me to begin the journey that's brought me here tonight."

He watched intently as she raised her hand to brush away an errant lock of hair that fell into her face, a simple charm dangling from the thin gold bracelet on her arm caught the light. And Erik was plunged back into hell.