Authors note: So this is for all the phantom readers who reviewed my little black words on the white paper of the computer. Thank you especially for telling me André s first name – rather strange I thought the only person called Giles was Buffys watcher – you never learn out. Oh and for any Carlotta-speech mistakes I am very dearly sorry, but I happen not to speak Italian at all. Now bye small-talk and hello story.
But I seemed not to be dead. If I had been, I would not have woken up to find a blonde, young girl gently laying a wet cloth onto my aching forehead. Or was that the best sign for heaven?
"He has woken up, mother!" the girl, who I now recognized as Meg Giry, shouted into the other room.
"How are you feeling, Monsieur André?" Madame Giry asked me while opening the curtains. It seemed to be an honest question, not one of those polite inquiries to cover up the disinterest like the noble circles liked to use it. But I guess there were no noble circles for me any longer. But had I actually ever fit in there?
"Alive" my voice was somewhat raspy and hoarse. She smiled a bit and I could not help but notice how it took 20 years off her face.
A hope came to my mind. Maybe I had only dreamed Firmins death. Only a bad dream and now I had awoken. "Firmin?" my only wish lay in that question. But Madame Girys frown told me everything I needed to know but hated to see. "No" she stated.
This much for hope. For illusion and dream. For wishes. They only come true in fairy tales. In the world of fantasy where I had liked to live. Where the burning down of an opera and the death of my only friend had ripped me out of.
"Meg, bring Monsieur André his supper." The girl who had been watching us with a childish interest, quickly hurried out.
"Where are we?" it came to my mind that I did not know this house, even though I tried to place it. I tried standing up, but had to give up soon as everything started to spin uncontrollably.
"You have to stay in bed!" my savior ordered. For that was what she was. Without her I would be only a pile of ashes. But there was a part of me, the one that was not controlled by the optimistic, no worries nature of Giles, a part that wondered if I would not have more belonged to be a bit of stray dust next to Firmin instead of alive in a soft bed.
"This is La Carlottas " I noticed how she spit the title out "summer residence. She has offered us the possibility to stay here until we find something else." Madame Giry did not seem very happy about it. The way her brow furrowed told how soon she wanted to get out of this charity trap.
"How long have I been unconscious?" I could not even begin to imagine the time span. "Four days." "We thought you might never wake up again." Meg chimed in as she served me a soup. "You do not say such things to a patient" her mother told her off.
When I lifted the spoon up towards my lips, the lady of the house stormed in. Without her make up, jewellry and glittering clothes she looked just like a woman who was beginning to show her age. And somehow she even seemed sad. Maybe I had underestimated her capability of honest feelings. I had know she and Piangi had belonged to each other in some way, but it was the first time I came to think that she might have actually loved him.
Her face was inches before mine. "So you decided on waken up!" And I felt my pity for her dimish quite quickly. Unconsciously I wince as my head starts throbbing again. "Does your tete hurt?" She surprised me once more with her quick change of moods. "Yes" I sounded like the sissy I was. "Take this!" she gave me some tablets, a sort of painkillers.
Carlotta disdainfully stared at the back of my head. "Does not look good." Just what I needed - a compliment turned around.
"Do you have a mirror?" I was not sure I actually wanted to see it. But if others did, I guess I would have to, too. Meg gave me one and I noticed what an attentious girl she seemed to be.
Carlotta was all to right. About half of my hair was gone, but instead of just looking bald, a circle of burned, red flesh had remained. I shuddered and put down the mirror.
Was this what the phantom had felt like? But no, I did not know what he must have felt like, never would. For it had been his face, the body part that made a person unique, that gave us our identity. I could not help touching mine with my hands, although I knew everything was fine there. But I could not bear picking up the mirror again.
And there were people taking care of me, it was almost laughable. Never in my life had there been three women around me who all somehow made sure I felt well.
"A wig would hide most of it." Meg tried to assure me. "No" noone was more astonished by my answer than I was. But there was a strange urge in me – I did not intend on hiding what had happened to me and even more, to Firmin. People in the world out there should know that the burning down of the opera populaire had meant more to some, than that they would have to simply go to anhother theatre. And who would I want to impress anyway?
"Your decision" Carlotta stalked off into the living room. I returned to slowly sipping the chicken soup.
Meg kept watching me until I felt like some sort of museums piece. "You should go and help Carlotta." Not that she needed help at the moment. Meg did not seem too happy about it, not a fan of Carlottas presence either, but she left the room, slightly grimacing at her mother.
How did it feel to have children? There were times when I had wondered what it was like to be married, to have a wife, children, even parents-in-law, all that came with it. And when I watched the interaction between Meg and her mother the thought came to me, that it might not be bad at all, even be worth the time and trouble.
I finished my soup and disgrudgingly felt sleep dawn on me again. Were four days not enough of it? "You should sleep" was she reading my mind? I closed my eyes, fearing where I would return to. I was afraid of the fire, the empty and sad faces and then Firmins dead body. There are events in a life that mark it, that take its toll and will never leave you until you die. They give you an identity, a certan characteristicum, but also a fear.
"You made a much wiser decision than I thought you capable of. How often I tried to get him to stop hiding in those secret dorms, to forget about his deformation, to stop staring into mirrors and tormenting himself. To write his music in public, to show the genius he was to the world. To see that not all people in it would be repulsed. That they would get to know his work and admire him for it. But he never believed me, he had no trust in the world and its citizens." Madame Girys mind seemed far away in memories. "You choose to remain in the land of living. Maybe there is more to you, Monsieur André, than meets the eye?"
I wondered that too. But sleep came over me and soon I started snoring.