*Erik 1841- 1844

I didn't stop running for quite a while. I ran until I was sure I would never see my mother, or that mirror ever again. Mirrors, a torturous instrument, never showing you quite what you want to see. But, in any case I finally saw a flicker of light. I went over to investigate and an older man was sleeping near an open flame.

I sat by the flame for a while and the old still slept. As I sat there I waited until I had all my breath and then found a piece of paper and drew the old man. His long beard was like that of Michelangelo, or Moses. But, he was very short and thin, it seemed as though he was on the run, or homeless. As I drew him I saw it. A violin!

I couldn't help myself; I picked it up and started to play a little. The old man stirred and then sat up. He looked confused and scared for a moment and then spoke up, "Boy, what's your name?"

"I am Erik," I replied simply. I didn't want to let him know anything else about me.

"Where'd you came from and why are you sing my violin?" asked the old man inquisitively, although, I do think he had a right to know the answer to one of those questions.

"I cannot tell you where I am from, but I am playing your violin because I have lost mine and I missed playing it, can I be forgiven?" I asked as innocently as I could, mother always said I had a child-like innocence about me always.

"Oh, so we have a run away. Now, what may I ask do you plan on doing?" he asked with an air of pity.

"I plan to find work in Paris, possibly to be a pianist or violinist," I said smartly, if I ever talked to father like that I would be punished severely. He talked to me for a while longer until finally I asked what his point was. He interested me with his proposal for me to come into the city with him and do sidewalk sketches and play for pennies.

I quickly accepted fretting that he would change his mind. I then asked him why he was in the middle of the forest and he said he was there for inspiration for his art. I found that an honest reason so I accompanied him.

Upon reaching Paris I never thought I saw anything more beautiful. The lights and all the people, but I shied away from the crowds scared that I would have to go through the trauma of the removal of my mask.

Jacques, the old man, gave me an easel, some paints, and his violin to do street art. I guess my air of mystery attracted many people to my stand, mainly women, how curious those delicate creatures were. The always inquired at why I wore a mask for I was such a beautiful youth. I never talked while making art so the triumph of asking questions was not evident.

I earned about 75 francs a day, all of which I used to help pay for our small studio. Soon we had our own art shop, "Masked," was the name. It added a bit of mystery to the it so I liked the shops name.

One day a Persian, Siddharth came in and examined my art. He was impressed that a 10 year old could be so skilled, but what impressed him most was my musical talents.

He went over and talked to Jacques and they talked for a while. As I was finishing up one of my compositions Jacques came over and explained to me how I was going to journey with Siddharth to Persia. I didn't disobey; in fact I was enthralled with the idea of travel. As I was putting my supplies away for the last time Jacques told me to keep them, I refused at first, but he insisted so as a keepsake I took them.

Siddharth showed me an amazing journey through dessert, forest, and mountains. In some portions of the trip we took a boat, in others we walked, and then was took local wagons.

As we ended our three month trek I was thrilled to learn that I would be performing my musical talents to the shah and painting portraits of his wives and children. Siddharth explained that as the shah's advisor he was sent to find the greatest talent in Europe, and he found me. I was flattered at the remark, but remembered to be humble as mother always taught me, although I don't believe she really cared about me. In fact, she avoided me sometimes, and what ever she had against my poor Jesse I will never know.

I was shown to a lavishly furnished room, very expensive taste. I was shown all my clothing, all black suits with capes, very interesting for a young boy; I guess the shah thought there would be an older master of art and music. I was exceptionally tall for my age, so they were only slightly too large, but still they were enough.

In my spare time I would compose. My floor was covered with music; it had to be at least an inch thick. But, when I was performing I was in a different world. There was no deformity in my music; it was all beautiful from the happiest concerto to the most sorrowful requiem.

My art was also a gift. My favorite portrait was that of Rahj, the shah's 9 year old daughter. She had olive skin, not dark olive, more of an Oriental look. Her eyes were ebony black and her hair was the same. Only, when you looked into her eyes they were shaped like that of a cat. He face was gently curved and her nose and eyes were gently pointed, she didn't have one sharp feature.

As a special portrait I painted her rising out of the ashes like the phoenix, her hair spread out and her arms open, ready to embrace the sunlight. Although, the shah didn't understand the idea of it he thought it was masterful.

My other masterpiece was that of Rami-hara, the shah's favorite wife. She had an Egyptian style face and I captured that by having her lying on a couch bedded in satin with pillows that were softer than clouds. She was dressed in a golden robe with jewelry made of sapphires, rubies, and turquoise.

Behind her were the pyramids and the Nile River. The moon was casting a soft shadow on her fragile frame and the scenery. The shah was most impressed with this work. It was presented the Rami-hara herself, rather than for the shah to have it. In his words it was, "a portrait worthy of the goddess Rami-hara."

Siddharth was happy with my work in the Persian palace. I had enough gold to leave Persia and never have to work again. Then, I was given a most devastating nickname.

One day a crooked merchant came into the palace and wanted to trade my mask for some rubbish. "Come now boy, let me see that, it's very well crafted."

"No! It's mine," I said trying to back away from the strange man.

"You can let old Herm see it," he said ripping it off my face. As I looked at him in disbelief and horror he dropped the mask and said, "Well, if it isn't Don Juan himself. What a handsome young man," he said mocking my disfigurement.

My eyes must have turned into little slits as I looked at the wicked man with repulsion, to get the mask back I took a knife off of his cart and threatened to stab him if he didn't return it to me. He looked at me with a look of pure animosity as he handed the white mask back to me. Then, I took a piece of gold out of my pocket and gave it to him for the knife.

When I gave him the money he ran as fast as he could and Siddharth came up behind me and put his large hand on my shoulder. "Why in the name of Allah did you do that?" he asked trying to reprimand me.

"He took my mask, and I think that it was unacceptable, and further more that mask is the only thing that I really need in this life," I said trying to avoid the subject of what was behind the mask.

"Why do you need the mask?" he asked. Damn, I had arisen more questions then I had wanted to.

"Do you want to see?" I was mad with fury, "Do you want to know what lies behind the mask? Do you want to know what my torment is?"

"Yes," he said sternly, almost like a father.

I turned my back to him and removed the mask. To make the sight even more horrific I turned the beautiful side of my face to him first, and then the disfigured portion. He gasped at my horrible face. "So, I see you think I am a, how do you say, Don Juan, also," I said rather sarcastically.

He didn't answer. The shock of what I had revealed was still settling in. I really didn't blame him, although I wish I could. I knew what I had to do, I had to leave this place, I couldn't stay any longer. So, after a year and a half of noble service to the Persian government I was leaving to go somewhere new, like Rome!

I left the same way I came, by foot, wagon, and boat. I had finally reached Rome when I was reaching my 12th birthday.