CONFESSIONS
He stood silent, unseen by the keenest eye. His cloak wrapped around his body, his look hidden in the shadow of his hat and his factions veiled with a white mask. A man walked in his direction, not realizing he was being observed he allowed himself a yawn, the silent streets of Paris seemed to him empty and little did he suspect his life was about to change forever...
'Monsieur le Vicomte...' a soft unknown voice called him from nowhere 'We have to have a final word...'
Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, recognized the voice he had thought was unknown to him. And after all the last time he had heard that voice had been two years ago. Slowly and almost motionlessly he placed his hand in the pommel of his revolver, remembering what the Persian officer had told him.
The unseen man observed this, and couldn't help but allow himself a small smile. He spoke again, acting as if he had missed the movement.
'Monsieur, our time is wasting.'
Raoul spoke courageously, coldly and almost sarcastically:
'Monsieur, our time has wasted two years ago.' He said 'I must confess I am surprised you remain alive.'
'I'm full of surprises Monsieur, but you are totally right, I myself I'm surprised I still live.' He said more to himself than to Raoul.
'Monsieur the Phantom, I really do not see where this "conversation" is going, and I know that for the sake of those who love us, this "word" has to come to an end.'
The shadow became a man, as he stepped into the alley, Raoul observed him curiously, he had not changed much since they last met, he remained squalid, pale and almost emaciated, his hair as dark as the night and his yellow eyes kept some of that old brightness.
'Those who love us?' He asked with scorn 'or did you mean those who love you, Monsieur? After all, I must remind you that I was deprived of that feeling since the world received me. I know well Monsieur that there are people who love you' he said spitting those words more with envy than with hate 'And I can assure you that is for the sake of one of them and for her happiness, that I do not place my lasso around you neck.'
Raoul pulled his revolver out and positioned himself in such a way the other had no escape. But Erik did not wanted to escape, in the other hand he let out a small laugh, soft but perceptible.
'Perhaps you have forgotten my last visit to your house, a gunshot is not going to do the work Monsieur, not with Erik.'
Raoul knew he was right, but did not put away the gun. He fixed his eyes on those of his adversary and finally understood that the conversation that they where about to have was not only inevitable but also necessary.
Finally putting away his revolver and passing one hand through his hair, the Vicomte sighted and then fixing his eyes in Erik's he said:
'Let us go to another place.'
'Follow me, Monsieur.'
***
There is a place near the Siena River, a little park where an old, blind man uses to sit only to listen to the river or to the people that walks from one side of Paris to another. Sometimes birds arrive there and the old man feeds them with pieces of bread, humming some old song that reminded him of other times.
Raoul knew the man well, for that wise person had in many occasions wished him the best, as he and Christine passed by.
Erik knew the man as well, for that kind soul had been in many occasions his only listener.
Father Valentine was not there that night because he had a mass to attend, but the spot was perfect to them; it was private and no one would see them.
They entered the small kiosk where Father Valentine sat during the rainy days, and each looking to the opposite directions remained silent: one waiting for what the other had to say, and the other wondering how to say it.
Erik placed one of his fingers in the glass wall of the kiosk and draw a music note: "Sol"
'Did you know that the word sol, comes from the word solei or sun, and in Spanish is also spelled sol?' asked Erik without turning.
'Yes, I knew.' Answered Raoul wandering if that had anything to do with what Erik wanted to say.
'When I was a child, my mother used to call for me once a week, every Sunday after she returned from mass. We would have supper together and sometimes, if she were in a really good mood we would have tea... She was a beautiful woman, her hair was golden as the sun or sol and her eyes where yellowish, I always remember her wearing a white spring dress with red flowers on it.'
Raoul did not answer. What could he possibly answer to that? He continued to observe the outside and Erik spoke again:
'After I left home, I had constant nightmares about here: I would dream I was in the garden as when we had tea, and I would call her, open my arms for her and offer my forehead... but she never came, never embraced me and jamais! She never pressed her lips against my forehead.'
Erik turned slightly and observed the Vicomte's back; he lifted his mask a little, just to dry a silent tear that had escaped his eye.
'If the gypsies knew something about my dreams, they never said a word... the nightmare didn't change across the years, and became more often when I was in the Mazederan, I could have them trice a day, whenever I closed my eyes... Persians thought it was my punishment for being such a monster, and perhaps they where right.'
There was a long silence which seemed to last forever, snowflakes begun to fall from the dark sky and their breaths began to cover with vapor the glass walls.
Outside the snow began to cover the grass, the leafless trees began to become white and cold embraced them.
Raoul did not know what to think; he knew there was more and that it was being difficult to Erik to tell him. He wondered why was he telling this to him, when two years ago he had separated Christine from him. Raoul thought about his own mother, she used to play with him and Philippe, they would run in the garden and play with an orange ball, and then at night she would read to them stories about ghosts and ships and kings... pretty much as father Daee. He smiled remembering his youth, his childhood, how it had been full of joy and happiness...
'She sung badly, you know? Perhaps because her heart was still grieving, I knew her voice was powerful and that under my wing she could have not only Paris but also the world! I did not intend to love her; I only wanted to teach her. But suddenly I founded myself at night thinking of her, and my old nightmares disappearing. I loved her. I thought that she could see... find... or even love the man who hides behind this mask. I dreamt of a house on the suburbs, of summer walks, of laughs, of music... I dreamt of love. And then I founded that she couldn't love me, because her heart belonged to you... I went mad, obsessed and felt denied and betrayed... you know the rest.'
Erik turned and founded Raoul looking at him, there was something in the look of the Vicomte's eyes that could be perhaps be translated as pity, but that only he himself knew what it was. Erik walked slowly and pulled the revolver from Raoul's cloak.
***
A happy fire burned in the chimney, illuminating the big salon. A beautiful woman of golden curls and blue eyes read a book with a black cover. An old lady who spoke contemptuously interrupted her.
'Madame de Chagny, the boy is ready.'
Christine de Chagny left her book aside and thanked the old lady. She walked upstairs and entered the second bedroom to the right, where a boy with wet hair sat in his bed.
'Mommy!' He said jumping to her arms.
'Philippe!' she said carrying him to the bed and pulling out a towel to dry his hair. 'You are going to get sick!'
She dried the boy's hear and putted him into the bed, covering him with several blankets and tickling him as she finished. She sat in the chair near the bed ant took a book from the night table, she founded the page she had been reading last night and begun:
'I found myself surrounded by pirates, the pirates of the north...'
He fell asleep easily. She closed de book and kissed his forehead, observing her boy's factions... he looked so much as Raoul... but definitely had her eyes.
She turned the lamp off and kissed his forehead one last time, she closed the curtains and the door behind her. Slowly and happily she returned to the salon and picked up her own book as she laid in the couch thinking only on her own happiness. 'Did you ever love him, Christine?'
Christine de Chagny stood up looking for who had asked the question, she feared voices, and especially if she couldn't tell where they came from.
'Did I lever loved who?' she asked
***
Scarlet blood covered the snow. What a weir contrast! White impeccable snow and red dark blood... the same contrast one red rose has among a white bouquet.
'Good have mercy on my soul! And God Have merci in yours!' were the words he spoke.
***
'Him...' the man said entering the salon 'Did you ever loved him?'
***
What is love?
But a confession
Of the soul
***
'Why?' He said covering his face with his hands... 'Why...'he begun
***
'I just want to know, if you loved him?'
***
A confession
Of a feeling
Intoxication
Of a being
***
'There is nothing I can do...'
***
'Yes, I loved him!' she said bursting into tears.
***
but when the soul cries
and the face laughs
lives are no more than masquerades
is useless a confession
when there is no music
on the night... love becomes a shade
***
He stood up and begun his way home.
***
'But only as the teacher he was...'
***
Masquerade
Paper faces
On parade
Masquerade
Hide your face
So the world
Will never find you...
***
They embraced in an everlasting hug. He observed from outside, and smiled.
'Then she did love me...'
He wrapped his cloak around himself and begun to walk to the Opera House recalling the weirdness of that night.
He had pulled Raoul's revolver from his cloak, and the Vicomte regarded in horror.
'I thought I was going to die after she left.' H e had said 'Several times I pulled mi Punjab Lasso, or knife or revolver or anything I could use against myself, but courage failed me and I had to put away whatever I had grabbed.'
'I know that feeling.' Raoul had said speaking for the first time in a while 'that's what I used to do when I believed she had a lover... and she had one: you.'
He had played with the revolver for a while before answering:
'I...'he said slowly putting the gun against his chest 'I would have given anything just to hear that she loved me.'
Raoul had observed his movements and thought he was going to kill himself. Raoul jumped on him to take the gun from his hands and they both fell backwards breaking a glass wall and falling into the snow with thousands of glass pieces.
He had pushed the Vicomte away from him, and they both regarded each other's faces. He's face was intact, but his back bleed, Raoul's forehead had a cut and he bleed. Their bloods mixed and gave the white snow a scarlet tone.
'God have merci on my soul! And God have merci on yours!' Erik had cried 'What where you intending?!"
'To retain you from shooting!"
'I was not going to shot!' He said trying to stand up
'No?' Raoul standing himself
'Why?' he said covering his face with his hands 'why did you try to prevent me from shooting? Don't you hate me?'
'I do, but I prefer to hating you alive.'
'I can't live, but I cannot kill myself. Monsieur! You are truly unpredictable!'
'There is nothing I can do...'
'Monsieur.' Erik said truthfully 'you are a good man.'
'And you are an unhappy man. I don't want to have pity on you.'
'And I would kill you before you could. I suppose everything is said then.'
'Almost everything...'
'What do you mean Monsieur?'
***
Raoul had arrived to his house and entered, he observed his wife reading one of her favorite books.
'Did you ever love him? The pain had changed his voice a little, he was talking softly and acute.
He could tell she was scared, but brave enough to ask:
'Did I ever loved who?'
He made himself visible and she ran to him.
'What happened?"
'Him... did you ever loved him.'
She was trying to take a better look of his forehead. She grabbed her hands gently and looked her to the eyes.
'I just want to know if you loved him.'
Christine understood whom he meant and asked scared.
'Did he had...'
'No, he had nothing to do with this, but is important for a soul to know if you loved him.'
'Yes! I loved him!' she said bursting into tears 'I loved him Raoul, but only as the teacher he was...'
'Love is love... in anyway you put it.' He said embracing her with a smile
'Then she did love me.' He said watching from outside 'I love you too...'
***
The Opera Ghost begun his phantomlike way to his lair... a new thought in his mind: He had been loved; now he could await death in peace.
***
THE END
He stood silent, unseen by the keenest eye. His cloak wrapped around his body, his look hidden in the shadow of his hat and his factions veiled with a white mask. A man walked in his direction, not realizing he was being observed he allowed himself a yawn, the silent streets of Paris seemed to him empty and little did he suspect his life was about to change forever...
'Monsieur le Vicomte...' a soft unknown voice called him from nowhere 'We have to have a final word...'
Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, recognized the voice he had thought was unknown to him. And after all the last time he had heard that voice had been two years ago. Slowly and almost motionlessly he placed his hand in the pommel of his revolver, remembering what the Persian officer had told him.
The unseen man observed this, and couldn't help but allow himself a small smile. He spoke again, acting as if he had missed the movement.
'Monsieur, our time is wasting.'
Raoul spoke courageously, coldly and almost sarcastically:
'Monsieur, our time has wasted two years ago.' He said 'I must confess I am surprised you remain alive.'
'I'm full of surprises Monsieur, but you are totally right, I myself I'm surprised I still live.' He said more to himself than to Raoul.
'Monsieur the Phantom, I really do not see where this "conversation" is going, and I know that for the sake of those who love us, this "word" has to come to an end.'
The shadow became a man, as he stepped into the alley, Raoul observed him curiously, he had not changed much since they last met, he remained squalid, pale and almost emaciated, his hair as dark as the night and his yellow eyes kept some of that old brightness.
'Those who love us?' He asked with scorn 'or did you mean those who love you, Monsieur? After all, I must remind you that I was deprived of that feeling since the world received me. I know well Monsieur that there are people who love you' he said spitting those words more with envy than with hate 'And I can assure you that is for the sake of one of them and for her happiness, that I do not place my lasso around you neck.'
Raoul pulled his revolver out and positioned himself in such a way the other had no escape. But Erik did not wanted to escape, in the other hand he let out a small laugh, soft but perceptible.
'Perhaps you have forgotten my last visit to your house, a gunshot is not going to do the work Monsieur, not with Erik.'
Raoul knew he was right, but did not put away the gun. He fixed his eyes on those of his adversary and finally understood that the conversation that they where about to have was not only inevitable but also necessary.
Finally putting away his revolver and passing one hand through his hair, the Vicomte sighted and then fixing his eyes in Erik's he said:
'Let us go to another place.'
'Follow me, Monsieur.'
***
There is a place near the Siena River, a little park where an old, blind man uses to sit only to listen to the river or to the people that walks from one side of Paris to another. Sometimes birds arrive there and the old man feeds them with pieces of bread, humming some old song that reminded him of other times.
Raoul knew the man well, for that wise person had in many occasions wished him the best, as he and Christine passed by.
Erik knew the man as well, for that kind soul had been in many occasions his only listener.
Father Valentine was not there that night because he had a mass to attend, but the spot was perfect to them; it was private and no one would see them.
They entered the small kiosk where Father Valentine sat during the rainy days, and each looking to the opposite directions remained silent: one waiting for what the other had to say, and the other wondering how to say it.
Erik placed one of his fingers in the glass wall of the kiosk and draw a music note: "Sol"
'Did you know that the word sol, comes from the word solei or sun, and in Spanish is also spelled sol?' asked Erik without turning.
'Yes, I knew.' Answered Raoul wandering if that had anything to do with what Erik wanted to say.
'When I was a child, my mother used to call for me once a week, every Sunday after she returned from mass. We would have supper together and sometimes, if she were in a really good mood we would have tea... She was a beautiful woman, her hair was golden as the sun or sol and her eyes where yellowish, I always remember her wearing a white spring dress with red flowers on it.'
Raoul did not answer. What could he possibly answer to that? He continued to observe the outside and Erik spoke again:
'After I left home, I had constant nightmares about here: I would dream I was in the garden as when we had tea, and I would call her, open my arms for her and offer my forehead... but she never came, never embraced me and jamais! She never pressed her lips against my forehead.'
Erik turned slightly and observed the Vicomte's back; he lifted his mask a little, just to dry a silent tear that had escaped his eye.
'If the gypsies knew something about my dreams, they never said a word... the nightmare didn't change across the years, and became more often when I was in the Mazederan, I could have them trice a day, whenever I closed my eyes... Persians thought it was my punishment for being such a monster, and perhaps they where right.'
There was a long silence which seemed to last forever, snowflakes begun to fall from the dark sky and their breaths began to cover with vapor the glass walls.
Outside the snow began to cover the grass, the leafless trees began to become white and cold embraced them.
Raoul did not know what to think; he knew there was more and that it was being difficult to Erik to tell him. He wondered why was he telling this to him, when two years ago he had separated Christine from him. Raoul thought about his own mother, she used to play with him and Philippe, they would run in the garden and play with an orange ball, and then at night she would read to them stories about ghosts and ships and kings... pretty much as father Daee. He smiled remembering his youth, his childhood, how it had been full of joy and happiness...
'She sung badly, you know? Perhaps because her heart was still grieving, I knew her voice was powerful and that under my wing she could have not only Paris but also the world! I did not intend to love her; I only wanted to teach her. But suddenly I founded myself at night thinking of her, and my old nightmares disappearing. I loved her. I thought that she could see... find... or even love the man who hides behind this mask. I dreamt of a house on the suburbs, of summer walks, of laughs, of music... I dreamt of love. And then I founded that she couldn't love me, because her heart belonged to you... I went mad, obsessed and felt denied and betrayed... you know the rest.'
Erik turned and founded Raoul looking at him, there was something in the look of the Vicomte's eyes that could be perhaps be translated as pity, but that only he himself knew what it was. Erik walked slowly and pulled the revolver from Raoul's cloak.
***
A happy fire burned in the chimney, illuminating the big salon. A beautiful woman of golden curls and blue eyes read a book with a black cover. An old lady who spoke contemptuously interrupted her.
'Madame de Chagny, the boy is ready.'
Christine de Chagny left her book aside and thanked the old lady. She walked upstairs and entered the second bedroom to the right, where a boy with wet hair sat in his bed.
'Mommy!' He said jumping to her arms.
'Philippe!' she said carrying him to the bed and pulling out a towel to dry his hair. 'You are going to get sick!'
She dried the boy's hear and putted him into the bed, covering him with several blankets and tickling him as she finished. She sat in the chair near the bed ant took a book from the night table, she founded the page she had been reading last night and begun:
'I found myself surrounded by pirates, the pirates of the north...'
He fell asleep easily. She closed de book and kissed his forehead, observing her boy's factions... he looked so much as Raoul... but definitely had her eyes.
She turned the lamp off and kissed his forehead one last time, she closed the curtains and the door behind her. Slowly and happily she returned to the salon and picked up her own book as she laid in the couch thinking only on her own happiness. 'Did you ever love him, Christine?'
Christine de Chagny stood up looking for who had asked the question, she feared voices, and especially if she couldn't tell where they came from.
'Did I lever loved who?' she asked
***
Scarlet blood covered the snow. What a weir contrast! White impeccable snow and red dark blood... the same contrast one red rose has among a white bouquet.
'Good have mercy on my soul! And God Have merci in yours!' were the words he spoke.
***
'Him...' the man said entering the salon 'Did you ever loved him?'
***
What is love?
But a confession
Of the soul
***
'Why?' He said covering his face with his hands... 'Why...'he begun
***
'I just want to know, if you loved him?'
***
A confession
Of a feeling
Intoxication
Of a being
***
'There is nothing I can do...'
***
'Yes, I loved him!' she said bursting into tears.
***
but when the soul cries
and the face laughs
lives are no more than masquerades
is useless a confession
when there is no music
on the night... love becomes a shade
***
He stood up and begun his way home.
***
'But only as the teacher he was...'
***
Masquerade
Paper faces
On parade
Masquerade
Hide your face
So the world
Will never find you...
***
They embraced in an everlasting hug. He observed from outside, and smiled.
'Then she did love me...'
He wrapped his cloak around himself and begun to walk to the Opera House recalling the weirdness of that night.
He had pulled Raoul's revolver from his cloak, and the Vicomte regarded in horror.
'I thought I was going to die after she left.' H e had said 'Several times I pulled mi Punjab Lasso, or knife or revolver or anything I could use against myself, but courage failed me and I had to put away whatever I had grabbed.'
'I know that feeling.' Raoul had said speaking for the first time in a while 'that's what I used to do when I believed she had a lover... and she had one: you.'
He had played with the revolver for a while before answering:
'I...'he said slowly putting the gun against his chest 'I would have given anything just to hear that she loved me.'
Raoul had observed his movements and thought he was going to kill himself. Raoul jumped on him to take the gun from his hands and they both fell backwards breaking a glass wall and falling into the snow with thousands of glass pieces.
He had pushed the Vicomte away from him, and they both regarded each other's faces. He's face was intact, but his back bleed, Raoul's forehead had a cut and he bleed. Their bloods mixed and gave the white snow a scarlet tone.
'God have merci on my soul! And God have merci on yours!' Erik had cried 'What where you intending?!"
'To retain you from shooting!"
'I was not going to shot!' He said trying to stand up
'No?' Raoul standing himself
'Why?' he said covering his face with his hands 'why did you try to prevent me from shooting? Don't you hate me?'
'I do, but I prefer to hating you alive.'
'I can't live, but I cannot kill myself. Monsieur! You are truly unpredictable!'
'There is nothing I can do...'
'Monsieur.' Erik said truthfully 'you are a good man.'
'And you are an unhappy man. I don't want to have pity on you.'
'And I would kill you before you could. I suppose everything is said then.'
'Almost everything...'
'What do you mean Monsieur?'
***
Raoul had arrived to his house and entered, he observed his wife reading one of her favorite books.
'Did you ever love him? The pain had changed his voice a little, he was talking softly and acute.
He could tell she was scared, but brave enough to ask:
'Did I ever loved who?'
He made himself visible and she ran to him.
'What happened?"
'Him... did you ever loved him.'
She was trying to take a better look of his forehead. She grabbed her hands gently and looked her to the eyes.
'I just want to know if you loved him.'
Christine understood whom he meant and asked scared.
'Did he had...'
'No, he had nothing to do with this, but is important for a soul to know if you loved him.'
'Yes! I loved him!' she said bursting into tears 'I loved him Raoul, but only as the teacher he was...'
'Love is love... in anyway you put it.' He said embracing her with a smile
'Then she did love me.' He said watching from outside 'I love you too...'
***
The Opera Ghost begun his phantomlike way to his lair... a new thought in his mind: He had been loved; now he could await death in peace.
***
THE END