Chapter 11

It would be pleasant to imagine that Christian had soothed Erik's mind completely. It was true that the son's tact had prevented the father refusing his food or burning the encyclopaedia. Instead, Erik waited until Christian's usual time to scurry upstairs; no sooner had the boy gone than Erik's hand slipped beneath his pillow to where the boy kept his lurid little sketches.

There was nothing in the pictures that was more revealing or salacious than anything on the stage but there was a sort of frenzy in the lines that somehow gave the pictures an indecent air. Through all these frenzied images, the same and upturned eyes emerged over high, freckled cheekbones and pointed chin. So this was the little scrap of a thing that had lured his Christian away from their quiet home! The face overshadowed every other thought in his mind.

Erik put on his coat, his nose and his mask. It took his longer than it used to. Things were heavier nowadays. The nose shone in the candlelight, worn thin by years of use. It was not in fact transparent, as has been suggested. Though the maze was harder to navigate without practice, he had run through certain routes so frequently that they had set in his mind. Within what felt like moments, he was above the stage watching the dancers below. A little to the right, somewhere in the middle, he found the girl from the pictures, her stubby fingers in the air. There was an air about her of languor – laziness, Erik would call it. Half of these ballet girls weren't fit for a seraglio. As for the violinist – who hired these idiots? Chattering mid-practice! Gossiping! He was used to it from the lounging stagehands, but the musicians and the dancers – What idiots ran this shamble? Glancing at the instructor, he recognised the Giry cheekbones and inherited tatty shawl. Where would that old woman be now? Dead, he supposed. After Don Juan Triumphant he'd had no authority or opportunity to bring English sweets to Box Five, and he had never sought her home address. He hoped the girl had lost that sharp shriek of hers along with her scrawniness.

As the girls spun, they threw out whispers of gossip; the slut, to her credit, focused on her dance, sticking out her chin a little more than was elegant. It was in this way he caught the girl's name.

"Justine, that one over there," a stagehand muttered a little too loudly – even above the stage, Erik could smell the cassis reeking from the lad. "Six thousand francs to keep her, you know. What do you think she did to him for that?"

"Who's her patron? I can't keep up."

"She hasn't got a patron anymore. They have no idea where the money came from! Six thousand francs in cash on the manager's desk and voila! She gets to stay after five days away from lessons."

Erik grimaced. Five days was practically a lifetime in a ballet. No self-respecting manager would keep someone so slack or sickly.

At the Opera Ghost's height, a short letter would have done it: Send that girl away, immediately. Failing that, a nail through the floorboard on which she danced would have sent her away – either through terror or injury. He stifled a chuckle at the memory of Carlotta's croaking. Nothing quite so theatrical as the chandelier was right for this situation, sadly. That was no longer an option. He slipped down behind a heavy curtain to take a closer look. He had hoped for a loose floorboard, an misbalanced set – something which could reasonably be construed as an accident. No such luck. Whoever was managing the Opera House now seemed to have some idea of how to run a theatre. He supposed he could slip her something, but that would mean following her until she ate. His fingers closed around the dagger in his pocket. No – that would be too messy.

…

A rat scurried across his bony foot and across the bare wooden boards, stretching its glossy body. Anyone who watches a rat gliding about will begin to see the resemblance between it and the ballerinas. The rat scurried and gnawed upon the glistening core of a peach, which rested on the boards opposite as Christian sat hunched over a piece of paper scribbled and stole glances.

Erik's light, frail body made no sounds as he carried himself across the boards.

"You've overpaid your model if she won't even stay still."

Christian jolted at his father's voice; his hand crumpled the piece of paper.

"I-I didn't know you would be going out."

"It is still my opera house - is it not?" replied Erik in that beautiful voice, his mouth moving slowly and slightly under its black mask. Perhaps the climb had taken it out of him – he was not so quick as he had been fifteen years ago, and his arms ached. "I walk about it as I please, and… I can never resist a good Faust… And… what they have here is a not... But never mind. Let me see your progress, boy."

By this time Christian was on his feet with his hands behind his back; a muscle tensed in his thin neck. It didn't occur to him that Papa had been prodding about beneath his pillow, having not previously had much need for privacy and less idea now that it would ever be violated. Still, he opened his fingers; the paper fell from the rafters to the lesson room below.

"I haven't any progress, Father. The Angel of Music has blessed me but the Angel of Art has not," he said, glancing about the room and seeing the rat enjoying his discarded peach. "I had tried to draw one of the rats but they never stay still."

Erik's face felt hot beneath the mask. Was the boy really trying to lie to him now, this late in his upbringing? There was more to this than looking, he was sure of it. Erik looked down again at the ballerinas and replied, "There are ways of keeping them still - or moving them as you need. I will show you one day."

Christian's face felt unexpectedly hot; he hid himself behind his long hair. It is worth noting that at fifteen years old, Christian had never been to a barber's shop and his long, franc-gold hair grew at a pace Erik had not anticipated. That same dagger was used now and again to saw through Christian's hair when it got too long to be manageable; at this time, it stopped a little below his shoulder blades. With a better shaven face, he could likely have passed for a girl, being neither broad nor tall; but the hair never grew on Erik's face, so he had no razor for Christian and no knowledge to pass down to him. These haircuts were horrible for them both because they were often provoked by Erik's momentary joy at seeing a golden headed figure in a woman's powder gown before his beloved was snatched away when Christian turned his head.

"Shall we return home, father?" he whispered, as the music was drawing to a close. Christian's voice was quiet anyway, and near unintelligible beneath the loud, smoky voice of a man below addressing the ballerinas.

"I think not." Erik's stomach lurched as he spoke. "I should like to know who… this little beloved of yours is to… to think she can steal you…"

"No one is stealing me, Papa… Papa? Papa, what is wrong?"

But Papa did not answer. He could not. Christian's voice did not – could not pierce his father – his father was in a daze – the daze pushed away the world around him, the air, the dark, the light, the colours, his son, he retreated from it – all of it. He needed to get home. He put his foot out onto what he thought was the board but missed it and stumbled and fell onto his side – and but for Christian's arm would have fallen from the riggings altogether and plummeted into the dance hall floor.

A yelp dived out from the riggings and ran around the room, echoing over Monsieur Simon's announcement to the dancers. The girls looked up. There was contention later about what they saw: a fight, maybe, two figures wrestling in black, or one huge figure turning to escape, or a kidnapped child crying out as the huge black thing retreated.

After a few minutes a stagehand, on the orders of Monsieur Simon, clambered up the riggings in time to see the back of a black shoe vanishing, albeit with a stumbling gait. He saw a half-eaten peach, a stick of charcoal. Yelling down that no one was up there, the stagehand saw Monsieur Simon attempting to clamber up himself, though the Giry woman took hold of his coat, advising that he was in no way dressed for that and anyway there was no need. In doing so, and in calling the boy back down, Meg Giry did Erik a great service; the delay allowed Christian to haul his father to a dark corner and sit him down until his gasps subsided.

It had happened once before, years ago, after a starving spell, but Christian was too young to remember it and Erik had tried not to think about it. As Erik regained his breath, he slung his arm around Christian and demanded to be taken home, which Christian did. They went to bed immediately, but neither slept. Looking at his father's turned back, Erik saw the bones shining through his linen nightshirt as clearly as if a skeleton were there. Christian listened to his father's rattling breaths in silence, curled in a ball, not daring to move or speak or touch him, despite so desperately wanting to cling to him like he had as a boy with nightmares. The hours stretched on in this manner, even after Erik finally rose from his bed. They remained in the darkness for several weeks, playing the gentlest tunes and softest melodies.