Author's note: Thanks for all your lovely reviews! This chapter is all
about Erik's childhood relationship with Madame Giry. There is no Christine
in this chapter, but there will be in later chapters. As for Erik and
Christine getting together.I'm not sure. I haven't thought that far ahead,
to be honest! But I'll see what I can do.
Hope you enjoy!
A Phantom's Story.
Chapter Two
Just as the child was approaching his fourth birthday I became aware of a darker aspect of his lonely existence. One evening, just as I was preparing to go to bed, I heard a loud, childlike scream from the room above. Startled, I crept up the attic staircase only to see the housekeeper shaking a small figure violently by the shoulders. I immediately shrank back into the shadows against the wall.
"Look what you've done!" the housekeeper screamed, twisting the child's arm as he whimpered with pain. "Look at the state of the bed sheets! LOOK!" She pointed in the direction of the bed in his room, from which I could smell the strong scent of urine.
Tears were running down his deformed cheek. "I'm.I'm sorry."
"I just changed them this morning!" She shrieked, shaking him even harder.
"I'm.sorry.I had a nightmare."
"Nightmare indeed! You just enjoy being a nuisance! Fancy screaming like that! You could have woken the whole house! It's about time you grew out of all your childish habits!"
"I'm sorry.I didn't mean to." he sobbed, desperately trying to pull away from the housekeeper.
"Didn't mean to, indeed. You hideous little monster! I don't know why I bother! You ungrateful, worthless, hideous little monster!" And she struck him violently across the face. He gave a shriek of pain and sank to the floor, crying piteously and clutching his poor face with his hands. I could bear it no longer, and began to sob loudly in the darkness. The housekeeper's attention was momentarily diverted away from the child.
"Who's there!" She demanded. When I made no reply, she turned back to the sobbing bundle on the floor. "If I find that anyone else has been awoken by your shameful behaviour, I shall beat you senseless!"
I knew she meant it, and, to my great shame, I found myself creeping silently back down the stairs. There was nothing I could do for the child at the moment that would not inflict further pain. I cried myself to sleep that night.
Over the next few months the violence continued. The child was spanked almost constantly by the housekeeper, finding that he was not able to do anything right. I was awoken most mornings, and indeed nights, by the sound of Cecile shouting at him for some minor offence. I hated sitting back and allowing him to be abused and beaten, but I felt totally helpless. I tried talking to Marie, trying to persuade her that I could look after her son, and told her of the abuse he received from the housekeeper. She wouldn't even listen to me, and I knew then that she wanted to cast all thoughts of him from her mind. I still felt extremely guilty for not helping him, however, and one day I could take no more.
It was a warm bright day in early spring and I had just returned from one of my regular trips to the Opera House in Paris, having danced there the previous night. I was exhausted, and immediately went upstairs to change and get some well-earned rest. I had not been in my room long when I heard a familiar, shrill scream from above, and the sound of the housekeeper shouting at the top of her voice. The scream was quickly followed by childlike sobs and whimpers. Concerned as usual, I tiptoed up the attic staircase, hid in a nearby cupboard until she had left his room, then crept in silently. He didn't notice me. Instead he remained lying on his bed, his face buried deep in his pillow.
"Are you all right?" He jumped and lifted his head. He was still weeping quietly, from pain, sadness, sheer terror or a combination of all three I still do not know to this day.
"Who are you?" He looked fearful, so I tried to speak as gently as I could.
"My name's Antoinette. Are you all right?"
"My face hurts." His voice trembled.
"Turn around. Let me see." He turned, and I saw that there was a large cut in the deformed flesh of his face.
"She hit me again."
"Why?" I asked, horrified.
"I went exploring downstairs, and she caught me and punished me. I only wanted to see what it was like. I wasn't stealing or anything, honestly!"
"I'm sure you weren't."
"She dragged me back up here and said: " No wonder your Mama doesn't love you, you little monster!" And I said: "You told me that my Mama died when I was born! You said that I was an orphan!" And she said: "Don't answer back! Little children like you should be seen and not heard!"
"Never mind!" I said, gazing at the sad, dull room and his thin, ragged form. He deserved better than this. He deserved the truth.
"I'm sorry, my dear," I said, "Your Mama didn't die when you were born. She lives downstairs. She's called Marie." He looked at me, bewildered.
"Why doesn't she love me?"
Here I was faced with a delicate situation. Had the housekeeper told him about his deformity? Was he too young to understand?
"Has the housekeeper ever told you that your face looks a bit.funny?"
"No. Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing! It's just a bit red, that's all. Probably where she hit you."
"Oh."
"It's not that she doesn't love you! It's just that she's very busy. Your father's very busy too. He's a mason."
"Why haven't they ever spoken to me though?"
"They've been away," I lied hastily. "Because of your father's job. They only just got back yesterday."
"Will you take me downstairs so I can live with them?"
"No. They're still very tired."
"Can I live with you then? I don't like the housekeeper. She beats me and shouts at me."
I thought for a moment. Why not? He deserved better, and I could look after him. I could make his room better. Buy him some nice things.
"I'll go down and speak to your Mama. Wait a minute.What's your name?" I asked suddenly. He looked at me uncertainly.
"I don't know."
"Well. what does the housekeeper call you?"
He thought for a moment.
"Little Monster," he said at last.
"Do you know why she calls you that?"
"No."
I heaved a sigh of relief.
I went downstairs and once again I asked his mother for permission to look after him. She said yes, since I seemed to feel so attached to the " little monster."
I immediately went upstairs to tell him the good news. He uttered an exclamation of delight and tried to jump into my arms, but his legs gave way beneath him. He looked up at me with great pleading eyes, and, concerned, I immediately lifted him into my arms. He rubbed his face against my shoulder and closed his eyes. I carried him carefully downstairs and laid him down in my large, canopied bed. He gave a little sigh of contentment and was asleep within minutes, the tears still drying on his red cheeks. I allowed my eyes to explore his poor face. He was very ugly, I could not deny that, but his face had such a soft look about it that I found that I was not in the least bit scared or squeamish. Remembering my earlier concern over his fall, I lifted the covers and gently examined his legs. How thin they were! Upon closer inspection I discovered that his right ankle was twisted slightly, and the flesh was scarred and wrinkled. Now I knew why he walked in such an unusual way. I sighed. This, I knew, would turn out to be a life long responsibility.
I called the child 'Erik' after my father. He deserves a decent name. Unlike 'Little Monster,' Erik is a fine and dignified name, which means 'eternal king.' It suits him very well. He's the king of his own little domain up here, four storeys up from the fields and gardens. The king of his own private world of music and the arts, which I share frequently.
The first thing I did to try and improve Erik's quality of life was to redecorate his room. I almost immediately asked Marie for some money to buy new glass for his window and purchase some new furniture, but she refused. I was very angry at the time, but she insisted that she and Philippe would only pay for 'its' food and clothing, and I would have to buy anything extra myself. Although I was considered a very talented dancer among the Opera House staff, I was not paid a great deal. I had never had to worry about money before and had always looked upon my career at the Opera House as merely a hobby. The first thing I bought (the glass) almost left me bankrupt, but I refused to give up. I immediately set about cleaning and repairing the existing furniture, and, although it still appeared tatty and inadequate, it proved to be a vast improvement. With the money I managed to save I bought him some new toys and books. I also enjoyed making him things. I found mobiles the most enjoyable. Using bits of paper and other materials I found around the house, I made him some spectacular mobiles; silver moons and stars, galloping horses made from black felt, musical instruments and symbols. I made him a large rag rug to put on the floor beside his bed, and several patchwork quilts and pillowcases.
Although I loved dancing and desperately needed the money, I kept my visits to the Opera House at a minimum. There was one reason for this: Cecile. I soon discovered that Erik was even more afraid of Cecile than I had first perceived, and every time she came up to the attic he would hide behind my legs, trembling with fear. I felt so cruel having to leave him alone in the attic with her. She loathed him due to his disfigurement and I wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised if I had arrived back home to find her attempting to perform surgery on his face. But I knew that it was impossible for him to come with me, so I left him in his attic, and threatened Cecile with dismissal if she ever dared to lay a finger on him.
Because of my limited salary, it took me along time to save enough money to buy him some more expensive items. Luckily, by the time our first Christmas arrived, I had enough money to buy him a decent present. It took me a while to decide what to buy for him. He was clever but still very young and liked the sort of things every small child likes. In the end I decided to go to Paris and look for something really unusual. He was fascinated by anything remotely exotic or curious, and in the end I found him the perfect present.
It was a music box, of all things, found in a tiny shop in the Montmartre district of Paris. The shop specialised in beautifully made, often imported, toys. Dolls houses and toy theatres lined the walls, and mobiles hung from the ceiling. The most curious items, however, were the automaton. One of the most beautiful of these was a music box shaped like a barrel organ. It was painted with shiny black paint, but decorated with beautiful gold carvings on each side, and had little carved legs. It had a tassel on the front, purely for decoration, and a long gold handle. On top of the box was a red velvet cushion. A monkey sat on the cushion, crafted from wood and covered in brown fur. It wore an intricately embroidered Persian robe and held a pair of little brass cymbals. When the handle was turned, the monkey would play the cymbals and the box would play an adorable little tune.
I also purchased a lovely little toy theatre, one of those that can be assembled by the owner. It was a model of the Opera House on the Rue le Peletier. Erik was forever questioning me about my place of work and I knew that, this way, he would be able to see what it looked like.
Erik was delighted with his gifts. In fact he was so delighted that it was almost embarrassing. He assembled the theatre in the space of an hour and questioned me about its various architectural features. He was fascinated by the music box, and swore that he would go to Persia one day himself. I closed my eyes in despair, because I knew, even back then, that he would not be able to journey to the nearest village, never mind foreign lands. Poor Erik.
As for Erik's deformity, I ordered a doctor to come to the house. The young man seemed very kind, and he was clearly concerned for the child's welfare. He gently examined his face and said that he may be able to sew up a rather nasty hare- lip, which had been giving him difficulty while talking. Erik was nervous when it came to his operation. I was there by his side the whole time, holding his hand as he took the laudanum, and watching him fall asleep quickly as the doctor prepared some cat- gut.
He didn't know what was happening: I made sure of that. I explained to him before hand that the doctor was treating a nasty cut in his face from his confrontation with the housekeeper. Fortunately he believed me. It wasn't entirely a lie because the doctor took care of that, too.
When he awoke, with a confused, dazed expression on his face, I hugged his small, thin form. He was crying with confusion and feeling sick, but I stayed by his bedside until he fell asleep again, gazing at his less than perfect, yet slightly more attractive lips.
Our days together fell into a pattern. He would wake up first, and wait for me to come upstairs, and then pounce on me the moment I entered his room. I would take him some breakfast from the kitchens, help him wash and dress, and after lunch his education would begin. I taught him music and art, which he really enjoyed. I also taught him matematics and English, and, although I am no academic, I could tell that he was going to be exceptionally clever. I also tried to help him walk properly, for he had developed a slight limp. He seemed to have a problem with his writing, and he would get really frustrated when he couldn't join his letters. After tea I would read him a story or play with him, and then I would tuck him in. He seemed to smile up at me every night, although he couldn't really smile, as though to tell me in his own little way that he was grateful and happy. I think he knew how much trouble I had gone to in order to rescue him.
By the time Erik had reached the age of five, he was a lively, skinny little thing with boundless energy. He loved to climb and run around, and I knew that the attic was getting too small for him. Unable to burn off his excess energy, Erik began to put on weight. I was delighted at first; Erik had always been stick thin and I knew that it would probably do him good. However, Erik soon became visibly uncomfortable. He had no room to exercise and the weight gain began to make him irritable and restless. I feared that Erik would soon become overweight, but I could think of no way in which I could allow him to exercise. He was not allowed downstairs and I knew I could not take him outside, so he remained in his attic, growing increasingly restless with each passing day. One day, I arrived home from the Opera House only to find that Erik was not in his room. Remembering his discomfort at being confined to the attic, I immediately began to panic: What if he had escaped and gone exploring outside? And then I heard the familiar sound of his angelic singing voice floating upwards from a lower storey. Despite my relief, I knew that it was considered a serious crime for Erik to go downstairs.
Following the sound of his voice, I ran downstairs until I reached the living room on the first floor. I pushed open the door and there was Erik, standing with his back to me, singing at the top of his voice. Then I gasped with shock. Marie was standing at the other side of the room, trembling violently, her back pressed against the wall. She was staring at Erik with an expression of horror and dreadful fascination, like a victim mesmerised by a rattlesnake.
I took a deep breath. "Erik.come away now. I don't think she wants to hear you sing."
Erik didn't react, but my voice seemed to end Marie's paralysis. Before I could stop her, she reached for the nearest object, a book, covered the room in three long strides, and brought it down with awful precision on Erik's head.
Erik's song ended, and he screamed with pain just as Marie brought the book down again, this time between the shoulder blades.
"Get away!" She shrieked. "Get away! You horrible, repulsive, ugly creature! Get away!" The book came down again, and Erik keeled over. He whimpered with terror as Marie raised the book for another attack, and I leapt forward, catching her hand just in time.
"Leave him alone!" I screamed, snatching the book from her hands and pushing her violently back against the wall. "Don't touch him again! If you dare touch him again I'll."
Marie's rage seemed to end, and she crumpled against the wall. I ran over to Erik's stricken body and tried to comfort him. He was shaking violently and sobbing with terror and bewilderment.
"Erik.are you alright?"
Erik sniffed and nodded his head. I gathered him into my arms. "Come on, darling. You're safe now." I gently messaged his shoulders and stroked his fluffy hair, which, I realised, was stained with blood from a wound on his head. Holding him tightly to me, I looked up at Marie with a glare on my face.
"How could you?" I cried. "How could you do this to your little boy?"
Marie gazed at Erik with an expression of revulsion and terror. She didn't seem to hear me.
"I thought I told you to keep that monster of yours out of here?" She growled.
I was furious. "My monster? Since when was he my monster? He's yours really." my voice trailed off as I remembered that the monster in question was still curled up in my arms. "And anyway, he's no monster! How could you be so cruel! He only wanted to sing for you!"
"He shouldn't have come down here! It's your responsibility to keep him up there! He startled me, and I didn't want to hear him sing!"
I looked at her with an expression of pure fury. "How was he to know that? You're just being selfish and spiteful and cruel! But what else was I to expect from you? Come on, Erik!"
And I stormed out of the room.
I took the trembling bundle back upstairs and laid him on his bed. I carefully checked him over, asking him where it hurt. Luckily the wound on his head wasn't as bad as I expected; Marie must not have hit him as hard as I had thought. However, he was still a bit dazed, and his back and shoulders hurt. I tucked Erik into his bed and quickly sent a servant girl down to the village to fetch the doctor. The young man looked at Erik's injuries and declared that he would be fine, but he seemed concerned about Erik's state of shock. I had told the doctor that he had taken a tumble while climbing, but the man seemed unconvinced. However, he said nothing, and dressed the wound on Erik's head. He also gave me some medicine to help Erik sleep, and told me to give it to him before bed.
As soon as the young man left the house, Erik began to sob again. His bottom lip had been trembling ever since the doctor had arrived, and I had known that tears were coming. I took him in my arms again and asked him what was wrong.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Giry!" He sobbed. "So sorry! I couldn't stand it any longer, I had to go for a walk, and then I heard her singing! I'm sorry!"
"Now, now. You've got nothing to be sorry about! I know you've been feeling trapped lately. Hush, hush! Tell me what happened next."
"I followed the sound of her voice," Erik sniffed. "It was such a beautiful voice. I couldn't resist.it sounded like the voice of an angel. I pushed open the door and she was standing in the centre of the room, singing. And I thought that she must be an angel, because she was so beautiful. I have never seen such beauty! And her voice.I wanted desperately to sing with her, to hear my own voice alongside hers, but she seemed to freeze with horror as soon as she saw me. I meant her no harm! I loved her! I didn't mean to scare her like that! She's my mother, oh, yes, I know she's my mother, and when she struck me.it upset me so much!"
"I know, I know."
Erik looked up at me, his eyes suddenly curious.
"Aunt Giry?"
"Yes?"
"Why did she strike me? Is my voice so awful?"
I rested my cheek against the top of his head. "No.no.not at all. I think you startled her," I replied, truthfully. "She's nervous and easily startled."
Erik sighed. "Oh." There was a pause, as I held him. And then, nervously: "Aunt Giry?"
"Yes?"
"What does 'deformed' mean?"
I sprang back in shock. "Where did you hear that word?"
"I overheard you and the doctor talking one day. He said something about me being deformed. What does it mean?"
He sounded a little frightened, as though he somehow feared my reply. I looked sympathetically into those large eyes. He was too young.far too young to bare the reality of this yet.
"That's nothing for you to worry about, dear," I said, attempting to sound convincing.
He still seemed unsure.
"Is deformed the same as ugly?" He asked, fretfully. "It's just that she said I was ugly."
I tried desperately to swallow the lump in my throat. "No, Erik." I said, finally.
"Deformed just means that you're.a little bit different, that's all. Absolutely nothing to worry about. But unfortunately some people seem to think it means ugly, yes."
"So I'm ugly?" he sniffed, gazing up at me with those beautiful eyes. I sighed. I knew that, in reality, Erik was not pleasant to look at, but I could not bring myself to tell him that.
"Of course not! Some people might say that you are, but you should never listen to them. You're just as beautiful and valuable as everyone else, I promise you."
Erik let his head fall back against the pillow. He seemed reassured, if only for the moment. I held out the vial of medicine and he obediently drank it. His eyes closed, and I pulled the bedclothes more tightly around him, snuffing out the candle.
As I began to turn away, I heard Erik's voice again, this time sounding very sleepy. "Aunt Giry?"
"Yeesss?"
"Is deformed like having long fingers?"
I blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Long fingers. I have very long fingers. That's quite unusual, isn't it? It's deformed. And I have little feet."
"Yes!" I replied hastily, relieved. "That's exactly what it is! Yes!"
Erik smiled drowsily. "I like having long fingers." and he fell into a deep sleep.
It was only when I was well out of earshot that I began to cry. It had been a narrow escape, such a narrow escape from revealing the truth.
After this unpleasant incident, Erik did not venture downstairs any more. He seemed to resign himself to life in the attic, contenting himself with more creative activities as opposed to 'walking' and exploring. Despite his slight weight gain and the almost total lack of exercise, he remained very thin, and I found myself glancing suspiciously at the small portions which the cook prepared for him. He never complained about the amount of food he was given, however, and would always devour whatever was put in front of him ravenously. As a consequence, and despite my almost total absence of culinary skills, I decided to start cooking for him on an evening.
Another, rather frightening consequence of his violent experience with Marie was that he totally lost confidence in his own voice. I begged him to sing for me on many occasions, but he would shake his head fearfully and slink away to play the violin. Sometimes he tried to sing when he thought no one else was nearby, but the voice which emerged was not the beautiful treble voice he had once possessed, but an unpleasant, raspy squeak. It sounded like it was permanently stuck in the upper register, and it was often quiet and edged with tears. From behind the door of the attic bedroom I would listen to his desperate attempts to find his lost voice. He would rasp, squeak, and strain until his throat was sore. Sometimes he would end up sobbing and, forced to intervene, I would enter his room only to find that he had collapsed onto the bed with exhaustion. I decided that it was a confidence thing; he still thought that Marie had struck him because his voice sounded awful. I tried to reassure him that he had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, but his singing ability did not return. After a while he stopped trying, and he seemed to forget that he had ever possessed such a gift. His violin and piano playing skills did not fade, but I still miss the sound of that angelic voice, and I pray that, one-day, I will hear it again.
The third, rather disturbing consequence of Erik's confrontation with his mother was the fact that he became even more interested in her. I could tell that he was in awe of her beauty, both physically and vocally, and I knew he secretly wished that he could meet her again despite her act of violence. He continuously asked me questions about her and the rest of his family, until in the end I satisfied his curiosity by bringing him an old family tree book to look at, along with several portraits. He was strangely delighted with the small line portrait of Marie and insisted that I stood it on his bedside table. Despite my distress at this fascination with the mother whom I knew would never exist for him outside pictures and dreams, I did not have the heart to deny him this small pleasure. Even now, I often catch him staring at it in wonder, as if his mother was truly the angel he had first perceived her to be, a beautiful celestial being whom he knew would never sing for him again.
He's eight years old now, and he's still the same skinny little creature he always was. His disfigured face is always mischievous and happy, and his habits are still the same. He still limps around the attic looking for trouble, and sometimes, when I decide to spend a night up in the attic in the room next door to him, he sneaks in. The next morning I discover him, stretched over my legs like a huge silken foot warmer, and snoring loudly.
He's still at once naughty and friendly in his own way. His lips have changed shape as he's grown older, giving him a curious, crooked smile which he often displays to show warmth, happiness, and love.
Love. He gives love unconditionally, and I worry that sometime soon he'll venture back Downstairs, on a valiant quest to find his lost mother and, even if she rejects him, he'll still love her anyway. I wish I could give him all the love that a real mother could give, which brings me to another of my worries.
He's still blissfully unaware of the condition of his face and head. He thinks he's just a normal, happy little boy. It can't go on forever. I wish it could. Poor little thing! Why ever did this have to happen to him? This terrible fate, this life sentence of misery forever hanging over his head! He'll find out eventually, and I dread to think how sad and frightened he'll be. I've done all I can. I'll just have to be there to comfort him when the time comes. It's too late now to repair the damage that has already been done.
Does he know already? I don't think so. No, he doesn't. And yet his eyes always seem to possess a wisdom beyond his years, a knowledge of the universe and nature beyond the reaches of any ordinary mortal, of which he is perhaps still unaware.
Those gentle, patient, understanding eyes are fixed on me now. I think he wants his dinner. You can always tell!
A Phantom's Story.
Chapter Two
Just as the child was approaching his fourth birthday I became aware of a darker aspect of his lonely existence. One evening, just as I was preparing to go to bed, I heard a loud, childlike scream from the room above. Startled, I crept up the attic staircase only to see the housekeeper shaking a small figure violently by the shoulders. I immediately shrank back into the shadows against the wall.
"Look what you've done!" the housekeeper screamed, twisting the child's arm as he whimpered with pain. "Look at the state of the bed sheets! LOOK!" She pointed in the direction of the bed in his room, from which I could smell the strong scent of urine.
Tears were running down his deformed cheek. "I'm.I'm sorry."
"I just changed them this morning!" She shrieked, shaking him even harder.
"I'm.sorry.I had a nightmare."
"Nightmare indeed! You just enjoy being a nuisance! Fancy screaming like that! You could have woken the whole house! It's about time you grew out of all your childish habits!"
"I'm sorry.I didn't mean to." he sobbed, desperately trying to pull away from the housekeeper.
"Didn't mean to, indeed. You hideous little monster! I don't know why I bother! You ungrateful, worthless, hideous little monster!" And she struck him violently across the face. He gave a shriek of pain and sank to the floor, crying piteously and clutching his poor face with his hands. I could bear it no longer, and began to sob loudly in the darkness. The housekeeper's attention was momentarily diverted away from the child.
"Who's there!" She demanded. When I made no reply, she turned back to the sobbing bundle on the floor. "If I find that anyone else has been awoken by your shameful behaviour, I shall beat you senseless!"
I knew she meant it, and, to my great shame, I found myself creeping silently back down the stairs. There was nothing I could do for the child at the moment that would not inflict further pain. I cried myself to sleep that night.
Over the next few months the violence continued. The child was spanked almost constantly by the housekeeper, finding that he was not able to do anything right. I was awoken most mornings, and indeed nights, by the sound of Cecile shouting at him for some minor offence. I hated sitting back and allowing him to be abused and beaten, but I felt totally helpless. I tried talking to Marie, trying to persuade her that I could look after her son, and told her of the abuse he received from the housekeeper. She wouldn't even listen to me, and I knew then that she wanted to cast all thoughts of him from her mind. I still felt extremely guilty for not helping him, however, and one day I could take no more.
It was a warm bright day in early spring and I had just returned from one of my regular trips to the Opera House in Paris, having danced there the previous night. I was exhausted, and immediately went upstairs to change and get some well-earned rest. I had not been in my room long when I heard a familiar, shrill scream from above, and the sound of the housekeeper shouting at the top of her voice. The scream was quickly followed by childlike sobs and whimpers. Concerned as usual, I tiptoed up the attic staircase, hid in a nearby cupboard until she had left his room, then crept in silently. He didn't notice me. Instead he remained lying on his bed, his face buried deep in his pillow.
"Are you all right?" He jumped and lifted his head. He was still weeping quietly, from pain, sadness, sheer terror or a combination of all three I still do not know to this day.
"Who are you?" He looked fearful, so I tried to speak as gently as I could.
"My name's Antoinette. Are you all right?"
"My face hurts." His voice trembled.
"Turn around. Let me see." He turned, and I saw that there was a large cut in the deformed flesh of his face.
"She hit me again."
"Why?" I asked, horrified.
"I went exploring downstairs, and she caught me and punished me. I only wanted to see what it was like. I wasn't stealing or anything, honestly!"
"I'm sure you weren't."
"She dragged me back up here and said: " No wonder your Mama doesn't love you, you little monster!" And I said: "You told me that my Mama died when I was born! You said that I was an orphan!" And she said: "Don't answer back! Little children like you should be seen and not heard!"
"Never mind!" I said, gazing at the sad, dull room and his thin, ragged form. He deserved better than this. He deserved the truth.
"I'm sorry, my dear," I said, "Your Mama didn't die when you were born. She lives downstairs. She's called Marie." He looked at me, bewildered.
"Why doesn't she love me?"
Here I was faced with a delicate situation. Had the housekeeper told him about his deformity? Was he too young to understand?
"Has the housekeeper ever told you that your face looks a bit.funny?"
"No. Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing! It's just a bit red, that's all. Probably where she hit you."
"Oh."
"It's not that she doesn't love you! It's just that she's very busy. Your father's very busy too. He's a mason."
"Why haven't they ever spoken to me though?"
"They've been away," I lied hastily. "Because of your father's job. They only just got back yesterday."
"Will you take me downstairs so I can live with them?"
"No. They're still very tired."
"Can I live with you then? I don't like the housekeeper. She beats me and shouts at me."
I thought for a moment. Why not? He deserved better, and I could look after him. I could make his room better. Buy him some nice things.
"I'll go down and speak to your Mama. Wait a minute.What's your name?" I asked suddenly. He looked at me uncertainly.
"I don't know."
"Well. what does the housekeeper call you?"
He thought for a moment.
"Little Monster," he said at last.
"Do you know why she calls you that?"
"No."
I heaved a sigh of relief.
I went downstairs and once again I asked his mother for permission to look after him. She said yes, since I seemed to feel so attached to the " little monster."
I immediately went upstairs to tell him the good news. He uttered an exclamation of delight and tried to jump into my arms, but his legs gave way beneath him. He looked up at me with great pleading eyes, and, concerned, I immediately lifted him into my arms. He rubbed his face against my shoulder and closed his eyes. I carried him carefully downstairs and laid him down in my large, canopied bed. He gave a little sigh of contentment and was asleep within minutes, the tears still drying on his red cheeks. I allowed my eyes to explore his poor face. He was very ugly, I could not deny that, but his face had such a soft look about it that I found that I was not in the least bit scared or squeamish. Remembering my earlier concern over his fall, I lifted the covers and gently examined his legs. How thin they were! Upon closer inspection I discovered that his right ankle was twisted slightly, and the flesh was scarred and wrinkled. Now I knew why he walked in such an unusual way. I sighed. This, I knew, would turn out to be a life long responsibility.
I called the child 'Erik' after my father. He deserves a decent name. Unlike 'Little Monster,' Erik is a fine and dignified name, which means 'eternal king.' It suits him very well. He's the king of his own little domain up here, four storeys up from the fields and gardens. The king of his own private world of music and the arts, which I share frequently.
The first thing I did to try and improve Erik's quality of life was to redecorate his room. I almost immediately asked Marie for some money to buy new glass for his window and purchase some new furniture, but she refused. I was very angry at the time, but she insisted that she and Philippe would only pay for 'its' food and clothing, and I would have to buy anything extra myself. Although I was considered a very talented dancer among the Opera House staff, I was not paid a great deal. I had never had to worry about money before and had always looked upon my career at the Opera House as merely a hobby. The first thing I bought (the glass) almost left me bankrupt, but I refused to give up. I immediately set about cleaning and repairing the existing furniture, and, although it still appeared tatty and inadequate, it proved to be a vast improvement. With the money I managed to save I bought him some new toys and books. I also enjoyed making him things. I found mobiles the most enjoyable. Using bits of paper and other materials I found around the house, I made him some spectacular mobiles; silver moons and stars, galloping horses made from black felt, musical instruments and symbols. I made him a large rag rug to put on the floor beside his bed, and several patchwork quilts and pillowcases.
Although I loved dancing and desperately needed the money, I kept my visits to the Opera House at a minimum. There was one reason for this: Cecile. I soon discovered that Erik was even more afraid of Cecile than I had first perceived, and every time she came up to the attic he would hide behind my legs, trembling with fear. I felt so cruel having to leave him alone in the attic with her. She loathed him due to his disfigurement and I wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised if I had arrived back home to find her attempting to perform surgery on his face. But I knew that it was impossible for him to come with me, so I left him in his attic, and threatened Cecile with dismissal if she ever dared to lay a finger on him.
Because of my limited salary, it took me along time to save enough money to buy him some more expensive items. Luckily, by the time our first Christmas arrived, I had enough money to buy him a decent present. It took me a while to decide what to buy for him. He was clever but still very young and liked the sort of things every small child likes. In the end I decided to go to Paris and look for something really unusual. He was fascinated by anything remotely exotic or curious, and in the end I found him the perfect present.
It was a music box, of all things, found in a tiny shop in the Montmartre district of Paris. The shop specialised in beautifully made, often imported, toys. Dolls houses and toy theatres lined the walls, and mobiles hung from the ceiling. The most curious items, however, were the automaton. One of the most beautiful of these was a music box shaped like a barrel organ. It was painted with shiny black paint, but decorated with beautiful gold carvings on each side, and had little carved legs. It had a tassel on the front, purely for decoration, and a long gold handle. On top of the box was a red velvet cushion. A monkey sat on the cushion, crafted from wood and covered in brown fur. It wore an intricately embroidered Persian robe and held a pair of little brass cymbals. When the handle was turned, the monkey would play the cymbals and the box would play an adorable little tune.
I also purchased a lovely little toy theatre, one of those that can be assembled by the owner. It was a model of the Opera House on the Rue le Peletier. Erik was forever questioning me about my place of work and I knew that, this way, he would be able to see what it looked like.
Erik was delighted with his gifts. In fact he was so delighted that it was almost embarrassing. He assembled the theatre in the space of an hour and questioned me about its various architectural features. He was fascinated by the music box, and swore that he would go to Persia one day himself. I closed my eyes in despair, because I knew, even back then, that he would not be able to journey to the nearest village, never mind foreign lands. Poor Erik.
As for Erik's deformity, I ordered a doctor to come to the house. The young man seemed very kind, and he was clearly concerned for the child's welfare. He gently examined his face and said that he may be able to sew up a rather nasty hare- lip, which had been giving him difficulty while talking. Erik was nervous when it came to his operation. I was there by his side the whole time, holding his hand as he took the laudanum, and watching him fall asleep quickly as the doctor prepared some cat- gut.
He didn't know what was happening: I made sure of that. I explained to him before hand that the doctor was treating a nasty cut in his face from his confrontation with the housekeeper. Fortunately he believed me. It wasn't entirely a lie because the doctor took care of that, too.
When he awoke, with a confused, dazed expression on his face, I hugged his small, thin form. He was crying with confusion and feeling sick, but I stayed by his bedside until he fell asleep again, gazing at his less than perfect, yet slightly more attractive lips.
Our days together fell into a pattern. He would wake up first, and wait for me to come upstairs, and then pounce on me the moment I entered his room. I would take him some breakfast from the kitchens, help him wash and dress, and after lunch his education would begin. I taught him music and art, which he really enjoyed. I also taught him matematics and English, and, although I am no academic, I could tell that he was going to be exceptionally clever. I also tried to help him walk properly, for he had developed a slight limp. He seemed to have a problem with his writing, and he would get really frustrated when he couldn't join his letters. After tea I would read him a story or play with him, and then I would tuck him in. He seemed to smile up at me every night, although he couldn't really smile, as though to tell me in his own little way that he was grateful and happy. I think he knew how much trouble I had gone to in order to rescue him.
By the time Erik had reached the age of five, he was a lively, skinny little thing with boundless energy. He loved to climb and run around, and I knew that the attic was getting too small for him. Unable to burn off his excess energy, Erik began to put on weight. I was delighted at first; Erik had always been stick thin and I knew that it would probably do him good. However, Erik soon became visibly uncomfortable. He had no room to exercise and the weight gain began to make him irritable and restless. I feared that Erik would soon become overweight, but I could think of no way in which I could allow him to exercise. He was not allowed downstairs and I knew I could not take him outside, so he remained in his attic, growing increasingly restless with each passing day. One day, I arrived home from the Opera House only to find that Erik was not in his room. Remembering his discomfort at being confined to the attic, I immediately began to panic: What if he had escaped and gone exploring outside? And then I heard the familiar sound of his angelic singing voice floating upwards from a lower storey. Despite my relief, I knew that it was considered a serious crime for Erik to go downstairs.
Following the sound of his voice, I ran downstairs until I reached the living room on the first floor. I pushed open the door and there was Erik, standing with his back to me, singing at the top of his voice. Then I gasped with shock. Marie was standing at the other side of the room, trembling violently, her back pressed against the wall. She was staring at Erik with an expression of horror and dreadful fascination, like a victim mesmerised by a rattlesnake.
I took a deep breath. "Erik.come away now. I don't think she wants to hear you sing."
Erik didn't react, but my voice seemed to end Marie's paralysis. Before I could stop her, she reached for the nearest object, a book, covered the room in three long strides, and brought it down with awful precision on Erik's head.
Erik's song ended, and he screamed with pain just as Marie brought the book down again, this time between the shoulder blades.
"Get away!" She shrieked. "Get away! You horrible, repulsive, ugly creature! Get away!" The book came down again, and Erik keeled over. He whimpered with terror as Marie raised the book for another attack, and I leapt forward, catching her hand just in time.
"Leave him alone!" I screamed, snatching the book from her hands and pushing her violently back against the wall. "Don't touch him again! If you dare touch him again I'll."
Marie's rage seemed to end, and she crumpled against the wall. I ran over to Erik's stricken body and tried to comfort him. He was shaking violently and sobbing with terror and bewilderment.
"Erik.are you alright?"
Erik sniffed and nodded his head. I gathered him into my arms. "Come on, darling. You're safe now." I gently messaged his shoulders and stroked his fluffy hair, which, I realised, was stained with blood from a wound on his head. Holding him tightly to me, I looked up at Marie with a glare on my face.
"How could you?" I cried. "How could you do this to your little boy?"
Marie gazed at Erik with an expression of revulsion and terror. She didn't seem to hear me.
"I thought I told you to keep that monster of yours out of here?" She growled.
I was furious. "My monster? Since when was he my monster? He's yours really." my voice trailed off as I remembered that the monster in question was still curled up in my arms. "And anyway, he's no monster! How could you be so cruel! He only wanted to sing for you!"
"He shouldn't have come down here! It's your responsibility to keep him up there! He startled me, and I didn't want to hear him sing!"
I looked at her with an expression of pure fury. "How was he to know that? You're just being selfish and spiteful and cruel! But what else was I to expect from you? Come on, Erik!"
And I stormed out of the room.
I took the trembling bundle back upstairs and laid him on his bed. I carefully checked him over, asking him where it hurt. Luckily the wound on his head wasn't as bad as I expected; Marie must not have hit him as hard as I had thought. However, he was still a bit dazed, and his back and shoulders hurt. I tucked Erik into his bed and quickly sent a servant girl down to the village to fetch the doctor. The young man looked at Erik's injuries and declared that he would be fine, but he seemed concerned about Erik's state of shock. I had told the doctor that he had taken a tumble while climbing, but the man seemed unconvinced. However, he said nothing, and dressed the wound on Erik's head. He also gave me some medicine to help Erik sleep, and told me to give it to him before bed.
As soon as the young man left the house, Erik began to sob again. His bottom lip had been trembling ever since the doctor had arrived, and I had known that tears were coming. I took him in my arms again and asked him what was wrong.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Giry!" He sobbed. "So sorry! I couldn't stand it any longer, I had to go for a walk, and then I heard her singing! I'm sorry!"
"Now, now. You've got nothing to be sorry about! I know you've been feeling trapped lately. Hush, hush! Tell me what happened next."
"I followed the sound of her voice," Erik sniffed. "It was such a beautiful voice. I couldn't resist.it sounded like the voice of an angel. I pushed open the door and she was standing in the centre of the room, singing. And I thought that she must be an angel, because she was so beautiful. I have never seen such beauty! And her voice.I wanted desperately to sing with her, to hear my own voice alongside hers, but she seemed to freeze with horror as soon as she saw me. I meant her no harm! I loved her! I didn't mean to scare her like that! She's my mother, oh, yes, I know she's my mother, and when she struck me.it upset me so much!"
"I know, I know."
Erik looked up at me, his eyes suddenly curious.
"Aunt Giry?"
"Yes?"
"Why did she strike me? Is my voice so awful?"
I rested my cheek against the top of his head. "No.no.not at all. I think you startled her," I replied, truthfully. "She's nervous and easily startled."
Erik sighed. "Oh." There was a pause, as I held him. And then, nervously: "Aunt Giry?"
"Yes?"
"What does 'deformed' mean?"
I sprang back in shock. "Where did you hear that word?"
"I overheard you and the doctor talking one day. He said something about me being deformed. What does it mean?"
He sounded a little frightened, as though he somehow feared my reply. I looked sympathetically into those large eyes. He was too young.far too young to bare the reality of this yet.
"That's nothing for you to worry about, dear," I said, attempting to sound convincing.
He still seemed unsure.
"Is deformed the same as ugly?" He asked, fretfully. "It's just that she said I was ugly."
I tried desperately to swallow the lump in my throat. "No, Erik." I said, finally.
"Deformed just means that you're.a little bit different, that's all. Absolutely nothing to worry about. But unfortunately some people seem to think it means ugly, yes."
"So I'm ugly?" he sniffed, gazing up at me with those beautiful eyes. I sighed. I knew that, in reality, Erik was not pleasant to look at, but I could not bring myself to tell him that.
"Of course not! Some people might say that you are, but you should never listen to them. You're just as beautiful and valuable as everyone else, I promise you."
Erik let his head fall back against the pillow. He seemed reassured, if only for the moment. I held out the vial of medicine and he obediently drank it. His eyes closed, and I pulled the bedclothes more tightly around him, snuffing out the candle.
As I began to turn away, I heard Erik's voice again, this time sounding very sleepy. "Aunt Giry?"
"Yeesss?"
"Is deformed like having long fingers?"
I blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Long fingers. I have very long fingers. That's quite unusual, isn't it? It's deformed. And I have little feet."
"Yes!" I replied hastily, relieved. "That's exactly what it is! Yes!"
Erik smiled drowsily. "I like having long fingers." and he fell into a deep sleep.
It was only when I was well out of earshot that I began to cry. It had been a narrow escape, such a narrow escape from revealing the truth.
After this unpleasant incident, Erik did not venture downstairs any more. He seemed to resign himself to life in the attic, contenting himself with more creative activities as opposed to 'walking' and exploring. Despite his slight weight gain and the almost total lack of exercise, he remained very thin, and I found myself glancing suspiciously at the small portions which the cook prepared for him. He never complained about the amount of food he was given, however, and would always devour whatever was put in front of him ravenously. As a consequence, and despite my almost total absence of culinary skills, I decided to start cooking for him on an evening.
Another, rather frightening consequence of his violent experience with Marie was that he totally lost confidence in his own voice. I begged him to sing for me on many occasions, but he would shake his head fearfully and slink away to play the violin. Sometimes he tried to sing when he thought no one else was nearby, but the voice which emerged was not the beautiful treble voice he had once possessed, but an unpleasant, raspy squeak. It sounded like it was permanently stuck in the upper register, and it was often quiet and edged with tears. From behind the door of the attic bedroom I would listen to his desperate attempts to find his lost voice. He would rasp, squeak, and strain until his throat was sore. Sometimes he would end up sobbing and, forced to intervene, I would enter his room only to find that he had collapsed onto the bed with exhaustion. I decided that it was a confidence thing; he still thought that Marie had struck him because his voice sounded awful. I tried to reassure him that he had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, but his singing ability did not return. After a while he stopped trying, and he seemed to forget that he had ever possessed such a gift. His violin and piano playing skills did not fade, but I still miss the sound of that angelic voice, and I pray that, one-day, I will hear it again.
The third, rather disturbing consequence of Erik's confrontation with his mother was the fact that he became even more interested in her. I could tell that he was in awe of her beauty, both physically and vocally, and I knew he secretly wished that he could meet her again despite her act of violence. He continuously asked me questions about her and the rest of his family, until in the end I satisfied his curiosity by bringing him an old family tree book to look at, along with several portraits. He was strangely delighted with the small line portrait of Marie and insisted that I stood it on his bedside table. Despite my distress at this fascination with the mother whom I knew would never exist for him outside pictures and dreams, I did not have the heart to deny him this small pleasure. Even now, I often catch him staring at it in wonder, as if his mother was truly the angel he had first perceived her to be, a beautiful celestial being whom he knew would never sing for him again.
He's eight years old now, and he's still the same skinny little creature he always was. His disfigured face is always mischievous and happy, and his habits are still the same. He still limps around the attic looking for trouble, and sometimes, when I decide to spend a night up in the attic in the room next door to him, he sneaks in. The next morning I discover him, stretched over my legs like a huge silken foot warmer, and snoring loudly.
He's still at once naughty and friendly in his own way. His lips have changed shape as he's grown older, giving him a curious, crooked smile which he often displays to show warmth, happiness, and love.
Love. He gives love unconditionally, and I worry that sometime soon he'll venture back Downstairs, on a valiant quest to find his lost mother and, even if she rejects him, he'll still love her anyway. I wish I could give him all the love that a real mother could give, which brings me to another of my worries.
He's still blissfully unaware of the condition of his face and head. He thinks he's just a normal, happy little boy. It can't go on forever. I wish it could. Poor little thing! Why ever did this have to happen to him? This terrible fate, this life sentence of misery forever hanging over his head! He'll find out eventually, and I dread to think how sad and frightened he'll be. I've done all I can. I'll just have to be there to comfort him when the time comes. It's too late now to repair the damage that has already been done.
Does he know already? I don't think so. No, he doesn't. And yet his eyes always seem to possess a wisdom beyond his years, a knowledge of the universe and nature beyond the reaches of any ordinary mortal, of which he is perhaps still unaware.
Those gentle, patient, understanding eyes are fixed on me now. I think he wants his dinner. You can always tell!