Chapter 1: What Happened Next
[featuring 'No One Knows Anybody's Names', 'Erik's Lame Puns', and 'Raoul Fights the Phantom']
~ Summer, 1907 ~
The doctor froze in shock when he opened his office door to a trio of circus freaks, but the message they delivered was equally surprising.
"A woman's been shot on the Coney Island Pier," said one of the freaks. The doctor silently nodded in confusion and turned back into his office, ordering his assistant to make haste. The young man abandoned his book keeping and jumped from his seat to gather the necessary equipment. Other calls he'd witnessed had been routine enough, but this was his first big emergency! Even his employer was shaken!
The circus freaks led the doctor and his assistant to a carriage waiting outside curiously painted red with gold trim. While the medical professionals settled into a plush velvet seat across from two of the freaks, the third freak hopped into the driver's seat and picked up the reins to a pair of pure white horses. At their driver's command, the animals raced at thoroughbred speeds though the urban streets of Brooklyn, narrowly dodging pedestrians and other carriages, whose drivers shouted curses and threats as the lavish vehicle left them in the dust. The doctor and his assistant were wide eyed as the carriage pulled into Phantasma. They'd heard of the infamous amusement park, as had everyone else in Brooklyn, but neither the doctor nor his assistant had ever visited. Even a lightning fast carriage ride through the park confirmed Phantasma was just as marvelous as the most unbelievable rumours claimed. When the carriage came to a sudden halt, the doctor and his assistant turned their heads in every direction, unsure where to rest their gaze. Every spectacle in Phantasma demanded their attention and awe.
"Follow us. Don't lag behind," urged the freaks. They dragged the medical professionals through a maze of hallways, some dark as night, others brightly illuminated by light reflecting off walls of mirrors. At the end of the labyrinth, the scene awaiting the medical professionals was unlike anything they'd seen before, and yet their unconventional summoning to this topsy-turvey place had prepared them for anything.
On a sofa in one corner of the room, a young woman with dirty blond curls was sobbing hysterically into her hands. Beside her, a black-clad matron was bent over in prayer, or maybe she was sleeping. It was hard to say for sure. On another sofa, a disheveled aristocrat was too drunk to understand what was going on. The only alert person was a small boy with a pale, tearstained face and hands folded tightly in his lap.
"Who's in charge here?" asked the doctor. When no one answered his question, the doctor's assistant tapped his superior on the shoulder and pointed to a tall, skeletal man kneeling beside a bed. His arms were tightly wrapped around an unconscious woman in a bloodstained theatrical costume.
"Christine! Mon ange! Mon amour!" the kneeling man wailed into the unconscious woman's chest.
"Excuse me, sir," said the doctor, politely tapping the kneeling man's shoulder. When the kneeling man lifted his head from the unconscious woman's chest, the wide eyed doctor took a step kneeling man's murderous glower was frightening enough, but the man was wearing a white mask covering half his face. Was he in costume also?
"We'll need everyone to leave," said the doctor. The masked man nodded and barked out an order in French. The little boy was the first to obey the command; he slid off the sofa and shuffled out of the sickroom followed by the disheveled aristocrat. The hysterical blond woman shook the black-clad matron to wake her from her peaceful slumber, and the two women filed out of the room.
"That includes you," the doctor's assistant told the masked man while the doctor hurriedly dug through his surgical bag.
"I'm staying!" the masked man said stubbornly in perfect English. He clutched the body of the injured woman in theatrical costume. The doctor's assistant tapped his preoccupied superior on the shoulder, asking him for help, and the doctor distractedly ordered the masked man to leave. When the masked man's escalating protests were heard by his companions in the next room, the disheveled aristocrat and the black-clad matron marched into the sickroom and each grabbed one of the masked man's arms. They dragged him kicking and screaming out of the room.
"Brûle en enfer, bâtard fils de pute!" the disheveled aristocrat shouted drunkenly from the next room.
"Qu'est-ce que tu m'as dit, imbécile ivre?" the masked man yelled back. The insult was followed by a loud slap and yelp in pain from the aristocrat.
The doctor's assistant rolled his eyes. When he got up to shut the door, the two women were dragging the squirming masked man down one end of the hallway, while the boy with tearstained face was hurrying down the opposite end with the disheveled aristocrat in tow.
After silence fell over the sick room, the doctor and his assistant turned their attention to the women in the bloodstained theatrical costume. She was still breathing, but they had to act fast if she was to be saved.
After a seemingly endless surgery, the exhausted doctor and his assistant roamed through the maze of corridors, searching for the man in charge of Phantasma. They rarely encountered another wanderer, but they stopped everyone they passed to ask for directions. No one had the answers they needed until the two medical professionals ran into the trio circus freaks from earlier.
"Looking for something?" asked one freak.
"Yes," said the doctor. "We are looking for the man in charge...the one with the mask?"
"Follow us." The freak waved his arms and took off with his companions on his heels and the duo of medical professionals running to catch up.
The doctor and his assistant clung to a wrought iron bannister as they followed the freaks up a steep spiral staircase to an aerie. The freaks pointed to a dark shape in the shadows and vanished as quickly as they came. With his back toward his visitors, the tall frame of the masked man stared onto the vastness of Phantasma.
"May I help you?" he asked before the medical professionals could speak. The doctor turned to his assistant who was gawking at a massive portrait of the woman they had just saved. The doctor did a double take when he saw the work of art.
"May I help you?" the masked man repeated with growing agitation.
"Mr...uhhh…" the doctor said.
"Mr. Y," said the masked man, standing up straighter.
"Egret?"
"Ee-grayk," the masked man corrected, stressing the syllables of the pronunciation. "It's French," he added to the American heathen. The doctor nodded. Perhaps 'Mr. Y' was French by ancestry, but he had to be American by birth. He spoke English with the upper crust Transatlantic accent as if he'd learnt it in his youth at a New England boarding school.
"That's a curious name," the doctor commented. "How do you spell that?"
"Y," the masked man replied in English.
"Why? Because I'm afraid I don't know much about French names. They throw too many letters in there." The doctor laughed, but his chuckles subsided when the masked man threw a seething glare over his shoulder. The French were very proud of their language, and the doctor had unintentionally offended a very frightening Frenchman. The glare, however, was replaced by cackling.
"No! My last name is spelled Y! That's it!" the masked man shouted. His maniacal laughter filled the room as if the pun was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Now, how is she?" Mr. Y asked, regaining his rigid composure. "Or are you going to keep me on the edge of my seat in anticipation?" The masked man turned to face the medical duo, his golden cat eyes sparkling.
"Your...wife?" the doctor started, taking another glance at the massive portrait.
"She isn't my wife," the masked man corrected. "Her name is Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny. The vicomte is her husband."
The doctor nodded, unfamiliar with European titles of nobility. Perhaps this strange man was not married to the woman, but he was obviously her lover. The doctor didn't know much French, but he recognized 'mon amour' when the words had escaped the masked man's lips in his fervent mourning. Not to mention, the little boy with the tearstained face was a perfect combination of the masked man and the woman they'd saved. The giant portrait of Christine in Mr. Y's aerie was a tipoff as well.
"She's still in critical condition," the doctor admitted, "but we believe she's going to make it."
Mr. Y let out a long sigh of relief. His tense frame relaxed as he leaned against the railing of the aerie, a boyish grin on his face.
"Merci, merci, merci…" he muttered under his breath.
In his aerie, the Phantom gazed proudly onto the wonders of Phantasma as his companions filed into the room. Meg and Madame Giry were first, followed by Gustave and Raoul who threw a murderous glare at the Phantom. Raoul's jaw dropped in shock as he took his spot in line.
"What the hell is that?" the vicomte shouted in rage when he saw the massive portrait of Christine.
"That," the Phantom said cooly, "is your wife."
"Yeah, I can tell! What's she doing there? When did she even sit for such a portrait!"
"It doesn't matter," the Phantom said briskly. "Now shut up so we can talk about Christine." He lovingly sighed every time he mentioned the woman he adored more than life itself.
At the sound of his wife's name, Raoul held his tongue. He could fight with the Phantom later, but now he was anxious to know how his darling wife was faring. The Phantom paced back and forth in front of his audience while his Siamese cat, Ayesha, trailed his footsteps. The group waited in anticipation for him to speak.
"Welcome," the Phantom said with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "I have called you all here to share news of Christine."
"Yeah, we got that part…" muttered Madame Giry under her breath. The Phantom ignored her sarcasm and eye roll.
"Her condition is still critical," he said as paused in his pacing. "But the doctor believes she's going to pull through!" He pumped his fists in the air excitedly. When the news sunk in, his audience breathed a collective sigh of relief, all except Meg.
"Are you still going to have me arrested?" asked Meg meekly as she dried her tears with the sleeve of her dingy white blouse. While they had been waiting for the doctor, the Phantom had violently thrown a variety of threats and curses in her direction.
"We'll talk about this later, Meg," said the Phantom, "but I believe the answer is no."
"Thank you," Meg said, finally releasing her sigh of relief.
"You're all dismissed," said the Phantom, waving them away. "Except for you, Vicomte. We need to talk."
Raoul pointed to himself in confusion while the others filed out of the room, pretending they hadn't heard anything after their dismissal. Only Gustave offered Raoul a pitiful look at being stuck with the cantankerous masked man. The Phantom and Meg Giry made awkward eye contact before she scurried away after her mother.
What is to become of her? the Phantom wondered as he heaved a sigh.
Raoul shuffled to the Phantom like a student who'd been asked by the teacher to stay after class. The Phantom was leaning on a grand piano, staring at Raoul as he stroked the Siamese cat.
"What do you want?" Raoul grumbled when the Phantom didn't speak.
"I believe you remember our little bet?" said the Phantom, clearly satisfied with himself.
"Yes. I do. And if you think-"
"The bet is off, Vicomte."
"What?"
"I said. The. Bet. Is. Off," the Phantom repeated, irritably enunciating each word. "I won and don't you dare forget it."
"Oh I see," scoffed Raoul as he folded his arms. "You just wanted bragging rights. You don't care how many people get hurt in the process-"
"Oh shut up, Vicomte. I had a change of heart and decided to be merciful."
"Yeah, just like you had a change of heart beneath the opera house. Then you pull this stunt ten years later!"
"Enough, Vicomte" said the Phantom. "We still have much to discuss and I'm a very busy man."
"Fine, then. Continue."
"I was about to," the Phantom said with an eye roll. "Now, your wife was invited to America to sing in my show. She has fulfilled her end of the bargain and will be paid handsomely," he spoke in a business-like tone, but emotion soon bled into his speech. "Christine was even more marvelous than I anticipated, so I will raise the amount I offered. And of course, I will cover your travel expenses and her medical care, seeing as how you left your entire fortune on a roulette table in Monte Carlo." The Phantom smirked. Even Ayesha glittering eyes mocked Raoul from her perch atop the grand piano.
"That's not true!" Raoul protested. "It was craps…"
"Obviously, your wife is in no condition to travel at the moment," the Phantom continued, "but as soon as she is well enough, the two of you may take the boy and leave. In the meantime, the three of you are welcome to stay here while she recuperates."
"I have business to attend to in France," Raoul said obstinately.
"You mean debts to pay? Let's not pretend being here is losing you money," the Phantom sneered.
"And just what does that mean?"
"You're useless, Vicomte, just like every other aristocrat with too much money and too much time on their hands."
"You're one to talk, Monsieur Twenty-Thousand-Francs-A-Month," Raoul sassed as he strode to the balcony railing and haughtily gestured to the Phantom's empire. There was no way all this came from honest work.
"I have amassed a great deal of wealth," the Phantom admitted. "But I'm a very busy man with very little time, so I suggest you stop wasting it."
"Fine, then. Continue," Raoul snapped again. He'd play the Phantom's game, and then he'd get his family far away from this funhouse of death as soon as possible.
"I was about to." The Phantom rolled his eyes again. "Now, if your 'business in France' is so important, Christine and Gustave may stay behind, and you can return for them after Christine's recovery."
"You must be an even bigger lunatic than I initially thought if you think I'd leave my wife and son-"
"You forget the boy is my son, Vicomte," the Phantom said smugly. Raoul narrowed his eyes angrily at the man in front of him. He was still skeptical Gustave was the Phantom's child, but the more Raoul stared at the masked man, the harder it was to remain in denial.
"Fine, but Christine's my wife, and I refuse to leave her here with you," Raoul said adamantly. "She'll be moved to a comfortable hotel-"
"She and Gustave will stay in my care. You may decide whether you wish to stay with them," the Phantom said firmly. The matter was not up for debate.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Strutting around deciding my fate like a god!" Raoul shouted.
"I am many things," said the Phantom pensively. "Musician, conjuror, inventor-"
"Murderer, psychopath…"
"Some know me as the Phantom of the Opera, others the Angel of Music or the Angel of Death."
"Can you get on with it already?"
"At present, I go by Mr. Y," the Phantom said, regally straightening the collar of his jacket.
"What, no first name?" Raoul scoffed at the Phantom's obviously made-up alias. He likely only used the name because he was a wanted fugitive back in France and possibly other places as well.
"I had one once, but I don't use it anymore," the Phantom said wistfully. "Since it seems to matter so much to you, it was Erik." The name felt strange on his tongue after spending so many years being buried at the furthest corners of his mind. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever spoken it aloud.
"Well then, Erik, don't get used to having Christine around. As soon as she's well enough to travel, she and I will return to France with our son and we will never set foot on American soil for as long as we live!" Raoul stomped his foot, but Erik was unaffected by the man's childish outburst. Raoul stormed down the staircase of the aerie, leaving Erik alone to pet his cat in silence.