Alright, so on to some heftier stuff now. Erik. My fear is that the ALW fans will dislike the Leroux parts of him and vice versa, so I'll end up annoying everybody. Heh. Oh well, the Leroux is quite subtle – though I will be using a couple important things from the book in later chapters, which I will note as we go.
Thanks to the people who reviewed Chapter 1, much appreciated. :)
2. Beautiful Dreamer
The inn's room was small, but comfortable - a low fire burned, lending the polished wood of the furniture a glossy glow and the bed, piled with a thick quilt and pillows, looked inviting. Erik dropped his small case by the trunk, which the porter had already brought in. He took a minute to absorb the stillness, watching a flame dance within the sculpted glass of a lamp ...that little lick of fire must feel safe in there, ensconced as it was in its round, glass house. That's why it twirled so brightly.
He sighed, letting the silly idea pass, then removed his cape and threw it on a nearby chair. His jacket and scarf followed, then he walked across the carpet and reclined, still half-dressed, on the bed, leaning against the headboard. His eyes slid shut. God, he was tired. So very, very tired. And his head hurt. It felt as if a tight cord had been wound about his skull and some demon was pulling at it … tugging, mercilessly. He groaned a little, and rubbed his scalp in an effort to make it go away.
When he got to his temples, he carefully removed the plaster from his face … the whole structure came off quite easily, working just like a mask. He had had to give up the elegant white leather cover he was used to, he was sure the police had found it back at the Opera House all those years ago. Even now, wearing it in public would be the same as signing his death warrant.
He had discovered some time ago that the best type of mask to wear when he went out in public was one that looked like plaster and bandages. People usually came to their own conclusions about what had happened to him – many, like Henri, pictured him in the wars (the more imaginative or romantic ones sometimes suggested a duel), some put it down to an unfortunate accident, while others surmised that he was recovering from some sort of disease. On the rare occasion he had to speak of it directly, Erik usually observed what the other person was thinking, and simply supported it. It was easiest that way - when their suspicions were confirmed, what lay under the mask was no longer an unknown, and so no longer a source of fear. Disgust, awe, embarrassment, aversion, pity … he still had all of these directed towards him at times, but at least fear was not always the dominant reaction. Of all the looks people gave him, it was the look of fear in a woman's eyes that … annoyed … him the most. He had no patience for it.
He exhaled as he massaged his stiff face muscles and kicked off his shoes. Travelling was always a tedious business. People everywhere. Inquisitive fools. He turned the lamp low and his breathing gradually became deep and rhythmic. As he came nearer to sleep, unbidden memories crowded his mind.
It was now about four years since he had left the Opera House, a ruined and pathetic creature, disgusting to himself. He remembered the night vividly – he had found himself somewhere on the back streets of Paris, with nothing but the few belongings he had hastily gathered as he left: some money, clothes and drawings. He didn't even know why he had taken them, because all he really wanted to do was die, here in the street. He remembered the keen wind that had whipped him as he kneeled in the gutter, doubled over in agony, retching ... Christine was gone Christine was gone ... the realization had sliced into him again and again as he wept, shuddering, unable to get up. He was sure he had spent hours there, with his knees to the cobblestone.
Finally, he had sensed daybreak and his instinct for survival forced him onto his feet. He had stumbled about in the blue light of dawn until he found a small, abandoned shop - it was more just a hole in the stone wall than anything else. He pushed aside the scrap wood blocking the entrance to find alittle space, covered with debris: the rafters looked shaky, but he could see the shell of a counter, a table, and the remnants of some merchandise – mostly bolts of scorched fabric. It looked as if there had been a fire here. He laughed maniacally at the thought, until tears came again. This is what the costume room at the opera house probably looked like now. Thanks to him.
Almost as if in punishment, he decided that this would be his home for a while.
He survived in that place for God knows how long, sleeping in the splinters and sawdust, crying and moaning until he couldn't breathe. For hours on end, he would stare at the sketches of Christine he had brought with him, murmuring her name, words of love, words of hate, confessing to her as if she were a priest. Or an angel. Wishing like a child that somehow everything would just be … alright. He tried to think of other things, but that was just like closing his eyes to make the darkness go away. Dreaming of her was torture, not dreaming of her was worse still, for then he was all alone. All alone in the dark.
One by one, the days melted into each other, indistinct cycles of dreaming and waking. Eventually, he realised he had had to go in search of food and other supplies. He would emerge at night, donning a hood over the black mask he had fashioned out of some burnt material from his shack. With his skills, it was easy enough to steal bread and alcohol from the taverns in that seedy neighbourhood - the place was populated, mostly, by the scum of the earth … he fit right in.
His money was used for opium or morphine, when alcohol wasn't enough. He had brought a small bottle of the blessed fluid with him, and spent as long as he could in the bliss of drug-induced stupor, but it had run out all too quickly.
He had to escape from reality, for it was unbearable. He had seen happiness – its exact form – in Christine. Those days he spent teaching her, privately daydreaming of the life he thought they could have together, were the most joyful he could remember. Such beautiful dreams. And then he had held her, smelled her scent … kissed her. The memory of her touch still lingered on his lips, like a deep, comforting burn. All of that, only to realize that he couldn't keep her. To realize that he had been deluding himself the whole time, that she would never be his. His dreams of love, of grace, of peace, of passion, of music … of having her by his side as his angel, comforter and muse … of having her look at him with both awe and tenderness … a little living bride, all for him, just for him … all had evaporated as the castles he had built in the air came crashing down about his ears. The pain was too much; it lay like a physical weight on his chest.
In trying to remember exactly what he did during those months of fresh agony, he could only see a blur. He had killed some people, he knew that much. On his occasional trips along the dark, twisted alleyways, he had come across some men he did not like the look of, and some who had tried to rob him. He would usually throw them against the wall and choke them, sometimes with his strong hands, but usually using the lasso he had constructed out of scrap rope. If there were any bystanders, such action merely served as a warning to the unpleasant individual to be less unpleasant in future, and he eventually released them. But if there was no-one else around, he did not let go until they stopped breathing. He didn't know how many victims there had been. Most of the deaths had gone unnoticed anyway – they were likely murderers themselves, or else robbers, rapists … rubbish no-one wanted. Since he felt powerless in every other way, somehow the primal thrill that came with inflicting violence – knowing that he had control over life and death – soothed him, in his madness. As he killed, he imagined once again the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan … where he had been someone of importance, right-hand man to the Shah himself. And sometimes in his pleasanter dreams he returned there, to Persia, and to Asia, to the places where he had been young. Where he had been innocent of the exquisite torture of love.
Looking back, he was quite certain that during those months he had attempted suicide a number of times as well, though for some reason he never succeeded. Perhaps he hadn't really wanted to. Although he would never admit it to himself, in the hidden corners of his mind, he felt there was something incredibly romantic and dramatic and … noble … about suffering like this, dying for the love of a sublime woman. His mind came alive with pretty, childish fantasies. He half-imagined himself as Tristan or Lancelot from the English stories he had read … sometimes he was Romeo … or else one of those impassioned lovers from Greek mythology.
Oh, he could see it! At the end of all things, his suffering and torment would be laid at her feet … every tear he had shed for her, every cry he had made in the night … a burnt offering at her blessed altar. Then she would be there, smiling down on him. She would be sorry. She would accept his gift with infinite gratitude, kiss him again with lips like white fire, and ascend into heaven like the angel she was …
Although the rest of him descended into despair and darkness, his poet's heart – with all its romantic sensibilities, its twisted ideas of love – still beat strongly, making his drugged dreams both beautiful and terrible.
Finally, the day had come when his fancies were intruded upon, and the material world once again demanded his attention. The roll of bills he brought with him had dwindled into almost nothing. One night, he had looked at the money left in his hand – it was not enough to buy his usual bottle of morphine from the man who sold it, though it may perhaps purchase a smaller amount. Worth a try, though he did not know what he would do when he was absolutely destitute.
Erik opened his eyes and emerged from dozing to swat the memories away. It seemed so long ago … a different world to this cosy little room in Lyon … the creature he remembered no longer existed.
It was with nothing but contempt for himself that he looked back on those days, and his time in the Opera House. Then, he had been an animal, living like an animal – unwisely, he had let his passions rule him, and bring him to the edge of ruin. Surviving by instinct and emotion. Love, desire, hatred and despair had ruled his life in swirling torrents of madness, and like a fool he had allowed them to direct his actions, letting them get the better of him. He knew now that such an existence was always doomed and was amazed at the naïveté he had displayed back then. Lying here in comfort, he felt decades older … and centuries wiser. He may still be an animal, we were all animals, but now he was an animal living like a gentleman, and he would not forget it.
He rose wearily and undressed with care, tossing each expensive item of clothing onto the couch. As he crossed the room, he caught a glimpse of his disfigured body in the mirror – his malformed face was riddled with shadows in unnatural areas, and his otherwise fit torso was marred by the lattice of thin scars which spoke of past abuse. With a wry smile, he nodded gracefully to the image as if it were an acquaintance in the street and then turned away. Always a gentleman.
Later, as he lay under clean sheets, he concentrated on what he should do tomorrow, in order to keep other thoughts at bay. Of course he should go to Marseille, as he originally planned. From there he would take a boat to Italy, or somewhere else. He had vague ideas about visiting the East again, thinking that after being absent for such a long time, the danger to himself must now be considerably reduced. But in truth, it didn't matter where he went. At the start of his journey, his only thought had been to leave Paris.
He remembered Henri Baccour from the train and inhaled deeply, contemplating. What about Nice? Obviously the poor man regretted his offer – Erik smirked a little, remembering how he had toyed with the fellow's nerves – but nevertheless, the invitation had been given and he was at liberty to accept it if he wished.
Of course, it would be a thoroughly idiotic thing to do. Thoroughly idiotic. It would serve no purpose whatsoever, and only distract him from his course. The possibility only struck him with such force because it was so odd, coming just at that time.
Erik didn't believe himself to be superstitious, but when one has spent a great deal of time in the company of gypsies and in the mystical East, it is impossible to shake off all respect for signs and omens. Putting what he had read in the newspaper the previous morning together with this unexpected invitation, it certainly seemed like a great coincidence. Or more than a coincidence. Perhaps the fates were telling him something …
No! He turned onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut, angry at himself for having slipped. He would not be so ridiculous. He had given up such beliefs at the same time he gave up fairy tales. A man like him … making decisions based on signs and impulses … and possibilities he didn't care to contemplate anyway … rather than good, common sense. He knew better than that now. He was just tired, and that's why all these strange ideas had plagued him tonight.
Tomorrow he would head for Marseille, and then he would leave France behind.