Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! I really appreciate the support.
It's finally time for our Phantom's backstory…
Chapter Twelve: The Magician's Story
1.
As a naïve young man with aspirations to be the next P.T. Barnum, Gerard had thought show business was all about glamour and intrigue. And while there was certainly intrigue and glamour, running a music hall also entailed never having any money, and firing people.
On days like today, he concluded that firing people was his least favourite part of the job.
Erik and Miss Daae had more or less saved his summer season with their new act, but this did not mean that he could afford to relax. He still had one magician too many, which meant that Robert still had to go.
There was a soft knock on his office door. Gerard offered a silent prayer that the magician would not make a scene.
"Come in."
The door opened, and Robert stepped cautiously into the office. He looked very young in his day suit, without his dress clothes and top hat. "You wanted to see me, Gerard?"
"Yes, Robert. Please sit down."
Gerard then launched into an eloquent, well-prepared speech about how much he valued Robert, what an excellent contribution he had made to the winter season, but how it was important to move on now, and that Robert didn't want to risk allowing his career to go stale by staying in the same place. But he would always be a part of the big, happy family at the Grand Music Hall, and maybe, next season, or perhaps the season after that, he could come back with a brand new act…
Robert listened to all this in silence, his frown deepening with each overblown compliment. When Gerard had finished, the magician leaned forward in his chair.
"This is about that damned Erik, isn't it?"
"No!" said Gerard, rather too emphatically. "Absolutely not. Not at all."
"Don't lie to me, Gerard. I'm not stupid."
Gerard sighed. "Listen, Robert. I'm very sorry, but I simply can't afford to keep a second magician. It's my fault. I should have been more careful with the programming. I will of course pay you up to the end of the week…"
"You had better, given that's what my contract states." Robert stood up to leave. He paused at the door. "You'd do well to be careful, Gerard. That Erik has been nothing but trouble since he arrived, laughing at us all from the shadows. Did you ever find your pocket watch?"
"Well, no. I didn't. What's that got to do with anything?"
"I'd be willing to bet that Erik still has it. He's a thief and a liar, and worse besides, or so the rumours say."
"I don't listen to malicious rumours, Robert."
"Perhaps you should start. Good day to you." Robert slammed the door as he left.
Relieved, Gerard slumped back in his chair. That had been difficult, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. At least Robert hadn't demanded any more money.
He knew he had done the right thing. Now he could focus his attention on his new headline act. He leafed through the papers on his desk, until he found the new poster, the one featuring Erik, Miss Daae, and the Mechanical Nightingale.
Yes. He had big plans for Christine Daae and Erik. They didn't know it yet, but he was sure they would be delighted.
Gerard smiled, picked up a pen, and set to work.
2.
"I've never taken tea before," said Erik, a dubious note in his voice.
Christine supressed a laugh. "It's really very simple. I'm sure you'll soon get the hang of it."
They had met under the theatre's glass balcony. Although he still wore his dark coat, she was surprised to see that he had added a splash of colour to his clothing in the form of an emerald green waistcoat. It was the first time she had ever seen him in anything other than black. It made her smile.
They walked arm in arm through the streets. His muscles felt tense beneath his sleeve.
"Will there be lots of people there?" He still sounded uncertain.
"I don't think so. It should be quiet at this time of day."
She felt him relax slightly. "Good."
Christine had found the teashop on one of her walks around the neighbourhood. It looked like a warm, welcoming place from the outside, with a range of delectable-looking cakes displayed on stands in the window. She suspected it would prove a little more expensive than the coffee shops closer to the theatre, but for once she was determined to treat herself. To treat both of them.
The doorbell jingled cheerfully as they stepped inside. The interior was quaint, with flowered tablecloths and rose-patterned wallpaper.
She looked at Erik again. He stood stiffly by the door, his fingers digging into his coat. The eyes behind the mask were uncertain, almost fearful. He looked odd in this setting, like a raven standing in the middle of a rose garden.
"Are you all right?" she asked gently.
He nodded. "Yes."
"Shall we find a seat?"
She led him to a table towards the rear of the shop. He slid into the chair opposite, drumming his fingers nervously on the tablecloth.
"Can I help you?" A woman in her mid-thirties loomed over the table. She was smartly dressed, her white apron spotless and her hair tied back in a neat bun. She smiled at Christine, and then turned to look at Erik. Her smile grew thin.
"We'd like tea, please," said Christine. "And I'll have a slice of sponge cake."
The woman eyed Erik suspiciously, and then turned back to Christine. "And what's he having?"
Hurt flashed in Erik's eyes, and Christine felt a stab of anger. She opened her mouth, ready to chastise the woman for her rudeness.
"'He' will have a scone with strawberry jam," said a darkly smooth voice from across the table. "And no milk with my tea. I'd prefer lemon."
The woman stared at Erik as if hypnotised. "Lemon?"
"Yes. Lemon."
"I'll see what I can do."
She turned on her heel and walked quickly away.
Christine stared at him. "Erik, I'm sorry. How deplorably rude."
He shrugged. "Do you think I'm not used to it?"
"We can always leave."
"No, I want to stay." He gave a tight smile. "I'll give her a second chance. But if she forgets the lemon, it might be a very different story."
Christine unfolded a napkin. "It's awful that you have to put up with such behaviour."
Erik sighed. "Can we just forget it, Christine? Start again?"
He was looking at her pleadingly. She nodded.
"So," she said. "Tell me about yourself."
He stared at the tablecloth. "What would you like to know?"
"Well, perhaps you could start by telling me where you're from."
Erik was quiet for a long moment, and Christine started to wonder if she was actually going to learn anything. She knew he was a private man, had known this since their first meeting. But she had hoped he would be more forthcoming than this.
Just as she was trying to think of a way to prompt him, he spoke. "Have you heard of a city called York?"
She shook her head.
"It's in the north of England. A fine medieval city, with a magnificent cathedral. I was born there."
"What did your parents do?"
"My father was a labourer. He worked for a masonry contractor. My mother was in service."
Their tea arrived, along with her cake and Erik's scone. The woman served them while being careful not to look at Erik, and hurried away as quickly as she could.
"Ah," he said. "She remembered the lemon. Good." He lifted the slice of fruit and squeezed some juice into his black tea. Christine watched, wondering how on earth this could be preferable to milk. But that was a question for later.
"My mother was a servant, too," she said. "That was before she met my father, and they both went to run a farm."
Erik nodded. "So you'll understand that my family didn't have much money. You'll know what that's like."
She nodded. It felt like a very long time ago. When she was ten, Professor Valerius and his wife had become her family's benefactors. Since then, although she had never been rich, she had also never really wanted for anything. Something made her suspect that Erik's life had been quite different.
"How did you become a magician?" She asked. "Or are they common in York?"
"Not at all." He slipped into silence. His scone lay untouched upon his plate.
"What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"Please? What is it?"
He stared at his plate. "I don't think I can continue this story without explaining the reason for the mask."
"So?"
"So…if I do, I'm afraid you'll be repulsed, and leave."
She reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers twitched, but he did not flinch away. "I promise that won't be the case."
"We'll see." He took a sip of lemony tea, possibly for courage. "I was born with a severe deformity. It affects the whole of my face, apart from the small part that you can see. My parents thought it best that I was kept inside our tiny house, partly to keep me safe from any superstitious or cruel neighbours, and perhaps also because of their own shame."
She had no idea what to say to that.
"Oh, Erik. I'm so sorry."
He waved a hand dismissively. "It is what it is. Or was. I never went to school, but that wasn't unusual at that time. But I was irrepressibly curious. Whenever I had the chance, I would sneak out of the house. I was very good at it. I would follow my father to work and watch them build new houses. And as I got older and braver, I ventured further into the city, so I could visit York Minster." His eyes sparkled. "I would go in, hide behind a pillar, and listen to the organ and the choir. It was the first music I ever heard. I wanted to hear more and see more. I wanted to see everything.
"When I was around twelve years old, my parents were approached by a showman. I still have no idea how he learned of me. Perhaps he saw me on the streets of the city, after I'd snuck out one day. He offered to take me on tour, so he could exhibit me at sideshows and fairs. He already employed several so-called 'human oddities'. My parents were hesitant, but the showman said the tour would only last for two years, at the most. And he offered to give them some money, to help the family in the meantime. But he insisted that he wasn't buying me." Erik gave a harsh laugh, and shuddered at the same time. "He wanted to make that very clear. So my parents agreed. And, if I'm honest, a part of me wanted to go. As I said, I was desperate to see more of the world, and here was a chance to do just that.
"So I became a sideshow performer, and it lasted for far more than two years. My new manager toured me around England. For years I performed in taverns and at country fairs. These weren't always pleasant, but I managed to learn a few illusions." Erik's mouth twitched in a brief smile, and then his expression grew sombre again. "For several years, I would just stand there without my mask, and people would stare at me. But when I started to learn magic, my manager saw it as an opportunity to increase the appeal of my act, and consequently charge more for entry.
"He created this ridiculous backstory for me, about how I was a scholar and a genius in the field of magic. Apparently, among other things, I had built a maze of mirrors for the Shah of Persia, and automata for the Sultan of Turkey. I would wait in my tent behind the stage, listening to him drone on about all these remarkable things I had done. He even had little souvenir pamphlets printed.
"My act was such a huge success that my manager found the funds to take me to America. For seven years I toured the length and breadth of that immense country, showing my face and performing my little magic tricks. I performed at fairs and music halls, and even the odd party given by aristocrats at their grand houses. I was laughed at and heckled and even spat upon. But my magic seemed to intrigue people, so I was also cheered and praised for my skill.
"But I was growing tired. The constant travelling was exhausting, and I longed to do something which didn't involve being stared at. As the months and years passed, I found myself wishing I was the man in the pamphlet, the genius of magic who had performed for the Shah of Persia. An artist and scholar, as well as a performer. I wanted to be that man very much, but I didn't see how I could become him. All of my so-called wages went to cover my room and board and travelling expenses. I never saw any of the money, so I had no way to escape and set up on my own.
"One summer, my manager pulled off a massive coup. He made a deal with P.T. Barnum. I was to be the headline act at his New Museum. I was booked for several weeks, but it was so hot that on the first night, the theatre was less than half full. So Barnum decided to write to the local paper. Using an assumed name, he pretended to be an offended audience member. The next day, an article appeared, insisting that my face was 'an affront to human decency' and that such a 'spectacle' should not be permitted in a 'respectable institution'. He even implied that my face had to be fake, because how could such a horror possibly be real?" Erik gave a bitter laugh. "If only that were the case!
"Barnum was a true showman. A genius publicist. And the next day my show was sold out. It was the same the next night, and the night after that. But the audiences weren't satisfied with seeing me onstage. Some of them waited for me after the show. They followed me back to my lodgings, asking me questions. I had my mask torn away twice because they wanted to see if my face was real or not.
"I'd finally had enough. I went to see my manager. I told him I was leaving, and insisted on my fair share of the money from my American tour. He laughed in my face. So I came back later that night, and took the money while he was asleep. I broke the contract with Barnum, but I didn't care. I fled New York with enough money to take charge of my own fate.
"My manager tried to track me down several times, but he could never prove that I'd taken the money, or even that I was the same man who had given him the slip in New York."
Christine felt a strange, inexplicable stab of fear. Some instinct told her there was more to this story than Erik was prepared to reveal.
"What did you do?" she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
"I did what magicians do best. I disappeared." He shrugged. "I went to Europe. I learned about real magic, about illusions, and gave myself the education I had never had. I became Erik, The Phantom. A Master of Dark Magic. I was an illusionist, not a freak-act, and for more than ten years I've performed without showing my face. Sometimes showmen, like Gerard, speculate on the reason for my mask. I let them speculate. I owe them nothing. My illusions should be enough for them."
3.
When Erik had finished his story, Christine was quiet for several moments. After all, what could she say? His life was extraordinary and frightening, and she had no idea whether to sympathise or express admiration. Something told her that he would not appreciate pity, so she did the only thing that seemed appropriate. She asked another question.
"You said you became Erik. Isn't Erik your real name?"
Erik was silent for a moment. He seemed to be studying her, deciding how he should reply. His sudden intensity unnerved her a little.
"It depends what you mean by real, Christine. It's not my original name, but it's my name now. I chose it for myself, so it's every bit as real as yours."
"I see. And your original name…?"
"Christine, if I say that the man who sits before you is the person I actually am, and his name is Erik, can you accept that? I have my reasons to ask this, which should be apparent from my story. I'm not being mysterious because I enjoy it."
Christine thought of Erik's time as a freak-act, and shuddered. Was he afraid of being forced back into that life again?
"I think I understand," she said.
Erik sighed. "Thank you."
They sat in silence for a while. Erik finally reached for his plate. He picked up his knife and cut the scone into very small pieces. He brought a piece to his mouth and chewed it delicately. But the mask was in the way, and several crumbs dropped onto the tablecloth.
"Oh." Erik glared at the crumbs. "Excuse me. I'm sorry, this could take a while."
"Does it bother you?"
He looked up at her. "What do you mean?"
"The mask. It must be difficult, wearing it all the time."
"It's necessary." There was an impatient edge to his voice. "I won't take it off."
"But surely, it would be so much easier to eat…"
"I won't take it off! Our little waitress friend wouldn't thank me, and neither, I think, would you."
His eyes were narrow with suspicion and distrust. Christine cursed her own words, which had been well-intentioned, but, she now realised, ill-considered. This should have been a pleasant afternoon, the start of a courtship, but now Erik was going to storm out. She was sure of it.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was only trying to help."
Erik stared at her. After a long, tense moment, his eyes softened, and he hung his head. "No, I'm sorry. But please understand, Christine…I have encountered many people in my life who wanted nothing more than to see beneath my mask. I don't think you're one of those people, but…old habits die hard."
"Erik." She reached across the table and sought his hand again. It was shaking. "I'm not going to ask you to take your mask off. Do you trust me?"
She saw pain, fear and hope flit across those extraordinarily beautiful eyes.
At last, he spoke: "Yes."