A/N: Thanks once again for the encouraging reviews, Aiya Quackform and atheshar. You have no idea how much I appreciate them – at the moment they're what's keeping me focused on the story, amidst the mountains of work I should be doing. :) And you hit the nail on the head with your comment about the "H" in "her". I throw these things out there, hoping they'll be noticed, and I'm so glad to know that they are!
So, we're still in flashback mode, continuing on from the end of the last chapter. Ah yes, I love the Persian – although this story is based on the film asfar as plot goes, I prefer Erik's background in the book. I like to think the daroga was in the Opera House the whole time, just keeping a look out (;) ). However, as you will see by the end of this chapter, he isn't directly involved in Erik's flight from Paris – though he is definitely important as a catalyst for developments in Erik's character. He sets some events in motion.
Reviews are very much appreciated.
9. Lost Property
That very night, Erik stole across the city towards the Persian's home, the canvas safely wrapped in cloth and concealed under his cloak. It was a long walk – as walks from poverty to middle-class always are – but eventually he found the place, waiting quietly for him at the secluded end of a modest avenue. He knocked on the door, the noise sounding flat and dull to his ears …feeble taps in the dark.
He waited on the stoop, noting with some unease the stillness of the street: he was no longer used to long stretches of silence, for over the past two years he had become accustomed to the sounds which pervaded the alleys surrounding his home – the drunken shouts, the clamour of fist-fights, the cat-like drawls of street-women …and the crying of their brats, hidden somewhere out of sight.
The calm quietness of this area seemed almost suffocating in comparison.
Finally, the door was opened and a low lantern loomed cautiously in the entrance; the flickering light seemed almost out of place, inconsistent with the dark blue stillness. The glowing glass was attached to a hand, and the hand was attached to the figure of a servant – thin and dark-skinned, wrapped in a robe, his bug-like eyes were impossibly wide.The butler bowed respectfully, but his gaze did not for a moment break contact with the visitor's face; Erik could feel his eyes quickly touching on all the details of his mask, like an unpleasant insect.
"Can … I help you, Monsieur?" The words came out of the servant's mouth hesitantly, yet retained the gloss of professional politeness.
Erik dipped his head and turned slightly to withdraw the package from his cloak: as he did so he was somewhat annoyed to notice, out of the corner of his eye, that the fellow immediately stiffened, presumably in preparation to punch or kick a weapon out of the bandit's hand. Careful, boy. If you treat all your guests with such courtesy, one day you'll find yourself having to put those fists to good use. But Erik resisted the urge to twist the servant's poised, suspicious arm off ... once the bundle had been retrieved, he simply held it out. "I came to return this," he stated.
After a pause, Darius took the item and cautiously unwrapped a corner, his eyes widening even more in amazement, until they looked like saucers.
"But … but … Monsieur … how …"
The visitor interrupted in a low voice. "I wish to speak to the daroga."
The servant tore his gaze away from the canvas and looked up, bewildered. "The daroga? Ah … I'm afraid it's impossible Monsieur. He is an ill man and he is resting now."
"I understand." Erik kept his voice soft, but abruptly stepped into the doorway, forcing Darius to retreat a little. "But know that I shall not leave until I have seen him."
The servant swallowed and the lantern trembled a little in his hand."Very well." He led Erik into the front room, lit a couple of lamps and gestured toward a couch. "Please wait here. I will see."
Darius exited, and soon after, a door was heard opening somewhere down the hallway. Erik, left to himself, didn't dare sit down on the spotless couch, but he inspected his surroundings curiously: the furnishings were quite modest, but he had not seen such comfort for a long time. His eyes wandered over polished floorboards, soft, elegant draperies and beautiful antiques and rugs that could only have come from the East; everything was clean and fresh. Above it all, there hung the faint aroma of incense – some jasmine, perhaps … and maybe sandalwood. Everything triggered memories for him: hazy images of blue skies and sand and marble halls floated through his mind, and laughing courtiers, and dark, peaceful nights. The distant reflections came and went, shimmering, not quite real, like mirages in the desert.
Presently, he heard the door down the hallway open again and the sound of footsteps, which heralded Darius' return. The servant came to him with a slightly surprised look.
"He says he will see you." Darius led him to the bedroom door, then motioned for him to enter.
"Thank you," the visitor said coldly, as he swept past.
Erik entered a dim room, in the centre of which was a wide bed. The daroga lay peacefully within the sheets, some cushions propping up his back, looking for all the world like a sultan himself amidst the folds of fabric, which Darius had arranged around him with great care. However, his face bore no regal strength – he was thin, and much older than Erik remembered. His brown skin had deep wrinkles at the forehead and mouth, while the once-black hair and trimmed beard were now streaky grey. His dark eyes were surrounded by slack, crinkled skin, and shadows nestled in around them, as if he had been deprived of sleep.
"Erik," the man breathed, as he struggled awkwardly towards a more upright position. "I knew it was you. No-one else would still call me 'the daroga'." The dominant expression on his face was one of deep curiosity, though his eyes also flashed with something like apprehension. "Why are you here?"
Erik walked slowly to the bedside, and spoke in low, but flat tones. "I was returning something that belonged to you. In future, you should be more careful with your possessions, Daroga, so they don't go … missing. I know you are an inept policeman, but you don't want to proclaim it to the rest of the world, do you?" The Persian smiled slightly and attempted to say something, but only ended up coughing into the back of his hand. The visitor watched in silence then sat in the chair by the bed. "You are ill," he said bluntly.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Oh, a while now. But I don't think it will last."
There was pause, and they both looked at the exotic, swirling design of the bedspread – the sick man's withered hands lay on top restlessly, fiddling with a handkerchief.
"Tell me, Erik," the Persian began hesitantly. "What have you been doing with yourself?" There was a nervous tremor in his voice, as if he were afraid of hearing the answer.
The other eyed him a moment, then laughed faintly – a shallow laugh, from the top of his throat. "You know that was never any of your business, Daroga." He leaned back in the chair easily now, crossing his arms, like a smug child who has just won a game.
The Persian's jaw tensed a little and his hands stopped moving; a curl of fabric remained wrapped around his forefinger. "None of my business? Well, you may not think so, Erik, but I am partly responsible for you nevertheless … no matter how much I may wish it otherwise. I believe I am entitled to ask, especially now that I'm …"
Erik frowned and his eyes narrowed a little. "Ha. You may have rendered me a service in the past, but by continuing to indulge you and spare your life while you tried to meddle in my affairs, I believe you were repaid. Amply." His top lip curled into a small smirk. "Don't be greedy now, Monsieur. It is most unbecoming in an officer of the law."
"But I was not paid in the manner I wished to be repaid," he returned sternly. To his satisfaction, Erik detected frustration and anger in the daroga's voice – the man's eyes had become resentful and his forehead puckered until the space between his eyebrows was almost gone. He continued in a bitter tone. "Tell me, Monsieur Trap-door, what was it I saved you for? What have you ever done to deserve the freedom I granted you?"
"Nothing, I'm sure," shrugged Erik, looking away without a hint of guilt. "Daroga," he sighed, "if you believe you made such a bad bargain for my life, I'm afraid that's your concern. Perhaps you can return me and make a better deal …what is the going rate for wanted criminals these days?"
The man merely shook his head and sighed, wheezing slightly as he looked down and resumed the twisting of his handkerchief. He spoke, softly. "You know, a long time ago, when I was a boy, my father once told me that to die peacefully is to die knowing that you have done more good than harm in this world." His lower lip stiffened and trembled slightly; he swallowed with a little difficulty. "Well … I don't know if I can say, truthfully, that I have. I don't know what good, or harm, my actions have resulted in … and I don't know what will … await me … when the time comes …" He exhaled slowly and looked up with tired, sad eyes. "Erik … please, if only … if only you would …"
Erik interrupted him, his voice cold and flinty. "Careful there, Daroga. You know better than to ask favours from me. When, in your life, have you ever known me to keep a promise?"
The Persian nodded his head sullenly and looked down again, contemplating for a few moments. They were silent – Erik didn't move, but sat rigidly in the chair, barely seeming to breathe. Then the daroga spoke calmly, without looking up.
"Erik, tell me about what happened with Christine."
At the sound of her name, which he had not heard spoken out loud for so many months, Erik shook a little. "Christine …" he whispered in faint echo. He looked away to compose himself and after a while replied, "You have heard the story – it must have been in the papers for weeks."
The daroga glanced up and shrugged slightly. "I heard rumours, and I heard gossip, but I want to hear it from your own lips."
Erik was silent for some time, then he inhaled raggedly, his eyes circling the room and finding nowhere to fixate. "God, she was so beautiful, daroga … like any princess, any angel you ever heard of … you can't imagine."
"Yes, I know what she looked like."
"Ah, but you didn't see her there … standing before me … the dress … a wedding dress, you know, for me … coming to me …" his voice was thick, as tears started to form.
"Wait, Erik, I'm not sure I understand. Start from the beginning. Tell me all."
Bit by bit, the story fell out of him, almost beyond his control; sometimes it came out coherently, sometimes not, between his sobs. He took deep, shuddering breaths and tears began to trickle out from under his black mask. He didn't look at the Persian, who simply listened, silently, without judgment – though had he glanced up, he would have seen that the daroga, too, had to wipe away a stray tear now and then as he listened to the broken, passionate story. Eventually, there was nothing left to tell. Erik merely gasped one more time "… I love her so, daroga … I do … still …", rose shakily and stumbled out of the room before the Persian could say anything.
He ran past the stunned Darius, and out into the night. He ran and he ran and he ran through the dark streets, for an eternity, it seemed. Then, back in his home, he lay slumped on the floor – as he had done in the early days – breathless, weeping, until he drifted off into a restless sleep.
The older Erik in Marseille remembered himself with disdain as he sorted out his possessions. He had fallen apart at the mention of her name. Like a lovesick boy.
He continued rearranging things from the trunk, his hands moving with particular viciousness as the small canisters of paint clacked against each other. He took out a number of small canvases – works which he had not gotten around to selling yet. They were unremarkable: pastoral scenes, pets, trees, children on riverbanks … he would not have given a centime for any of them, yet he knew they were commercial and would sell quickly. Money. He laid them aside.
At the bottom of the trunk was a larger painting, somewhat thicker than a normal canvas, wrapped in cloth. This is the only one left. Erik unwound the material to reveal the portrait of a girl. She was in an unusual pose – she seemed to be in the throes of some exotic dance; her full, red skirt swung wide as she twirled, her hands were elegantly arranged in the air and her dainty feet almost floated off the floor. Masses of dark curls surrounded her, and a deep red rosebud adorned her hair. There was something strange about the flower, however – it did not appear to painted, instead it seemed to be made of some type of coloured glass, inlaid into the surface of the picture. If you looked closely, you would have noticed that some of the edges and highlights of the fabric of the skirt were composed in the same way.
Although at this point in the dance the girl's back was to the observer, her head was turned and her face visible in profile. It resembled Christine a little … but it was not her. He had made sure it was not her.
After his visit to the Persian, Erik had instructed Gaspard to use his connections in order to keep an eye on the old daroga.
Jacques had been curiously accepting of the whole incident with the painting. The next time he visited Erik, he asked what had happened in a disinterested manner, then merely shrugged at the artist's rude and evasive reply.
"Oh well, whatever you wish, Vinci. But I must tell you, we could have used that job," was all he said. Perhaps he knew that without Erik's co-operation, their scheme would be dead. Or maybe he had somehow learned to respect the artist's judgment. Erik's own opinion was that Jacques simply wanted to spare himself another throttling.
In any case, Erik continued with his work over the following weeks. The 'business' began to enter somewhat of a slump, as contact after contact turned out to be unreliable, but this just gave him more time to paint and sketch Christine. He recorded every image of her he had in his memory, until the cupboard where he hid these works from Gaspard and the others was almost full.
Eventually there came a week when there was no work at all, so Jacques suggested that their artist simply create some pieces they could sell in order to supplement their earnings. At first, the idea did not appeal to Erik – to have his work spread out on some table somewhere, for all the world to gawk at – but the need for money forced him to agree. He carelessly shot off a couple of trite canvases and sketches, made in the popular style. Although they didn't bring in nearly as much money as the counterfeit works eventually did, they sold quickly and provided everyone with a little bit to tide them over until the next big job. Jacques was pleased with the outcome, and the selling of Erik's pieces became the standard way for them to fill any gaps in their flow of income.
One evening, Gaspard arrived with a small roll of bills.
"Here Vinci," he said, holding them out.
The artist took them wordlessly, dipping his head.
"I have some news, too. The Persian – the one who lives in the Rue de Rivoli – he is dead."
Erik looked up. "What?"
"Yesterday. He died in his sleep."
Gaspard watched as the man inhaled slowly, then sat down on a stool, nodding. So, the daroga was gone.
"Do you know anything else about it?" he asked the boy.
"Not much," Gaspard replied, shaking his head. "Only that he is to be buried in the churchyard soon – in the next couple of days. Cimetière de St. Cecilia, I think. He doesn't seem to have had any family, so there will be hardly any funeral."
Erik felt a heady, hot wave begin to spread through him. If he had died in Persia, half the palace would have been in attendance! Immediately, he gathered up his coat and cloak, and began putting them on.
"Vinci … where are you going?" Gaspard looked on, puzzled and slightly alarmed. "Vinci?"
"I am going to the churchyard. Tell the others I will not be available for a while. Say I'm ill." He made a circuit of the room, blowing out candles and lanterns.
"But I told you, I don't know exactly when they are burying him. They certainly won't be doing it now anyway. It's dark!"
"It doesn't matter. I'll wait." He couldn't just stay here … a churchyard would be far less oppressive than this place was at the moment.
Gaspard trotted into the alley after him as Erik passed through the door and locked it.
"You could be waiting for days," the boy hissed.
The artist merely ignored him and swept up the dark alley, leaving him behind.
Erik walked swiftly, the exertion and the night air soothing him, the chilliness like a balm on his skin. He heard his footsteps echoing off the stone street and walls in mangled rhythms. He breathed deeply. If he had done nothing else for the man, he would at least see him off into the afterlife.