Nadir cast a quick look at Erik from underneath his thick eyebrows. His gaze lingered but a few seconds on Erik's abstracted countenance, and then fell to the chessboard again. It had been a long time since Nadir had moved his piece, and Erik had not made the slightest attempt at making his move yet. Nadir chewed at the corner of his moustache, repressing a sigh. Before what now Nadir used to think about as the disaster below the Opéra, it would have been him the one to take his time to make a move, while Erik studied him amusedly. And if Nadir had made so much as to move an eyelash, Erik would have instantly noticed, and supplied one of his scathing ironies.

Nadir had hoped Erik would start claiming back his life as his body healed. He had somehow managed to delude himself during the two painful months Erik spent in his home, recovering from his wounds and fighting the illness in his lungs. Although it had taken Erik much longer to regain his health than what it normally had taken him to recover from any other ailment he had suffered since he'd first met Nadir, the Persian had thought that it was only due to the fact that his friend was fighting in a double front, so to speak. Erik would get back on his feet again in no time, once he was out of bed and free from his and Darius' imposing presence, Nadir had told himself.

But now, after a week of living by himself in the new apartment, Erik was still leading the same dull, empty, stifling routine he had maintained in his last days in the apartment at the Rue de Rivoli. If Nadir came during the morning he would catch Erik still in bed more often than not. If he came in the afternoon or the evening, he'd find his friend sitting on the couch, staring vacantly into the flames of the fireplace.

The cover of the piano Nadir had rented and had installed in the empty dining room was still closed, and so was the case containing the new violin. The leather case in which Nadir had placed the remains of Erik's musical scores was gathering dust on a table beside it, as were the stacks of white paper and the writing and drawing implements on the desk in Erik's room. The books and newspapers on the coffee table remained untouched. The few plants the Persian had bought would have died without water hadn't Darius been there to tend them. Not even the familiar game of chess was enough to attract Erik's attention now.

Nadir shook his head. It was a pity to watch such a brilliant man drowning in the depths of the pain of loss and shattered self-belief.

"Was my move so foolish that it prompted such disapproval, Daroga?"

Erik's voice held a trace of his once usual irony and it pleased Nadir to an absurd degree. That voice had been only tinged with toneless despair as of late. Nadir cleared his throat in an attempt to cover both his compassion and his joy.

"Which piece did you move?" he asked, as he cast an innocent look at Erik.

Erik's hands rose in mock exasperation.

"Really, Daroga, I thought my game was dull but not that dull!" He exclaimed.

With even more joy, Nadir saw the trace of a smile touch the corner of Erik's mouth. He chuckled.

"You must forgive my absentmindedness. Years do not come alone," he excused himself.

"Nonsense," Erik said, dismissing his excuse with a wave of his hand.

He had not completed the movement when he started coughing.

Nadir watched helplessly as Erik doubled over, one of his hands grasping the arm of the chair, the other covering his mouth. Nadir stood up and hurried to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. Long minutes passed in which Erik's body racked under the coughing fit.

At last it subsided, and Nadir offered him the glass. Erik took it shakily and had a couple of sips before slowly leaning back. The side of the armchair covered his face in shadow, but the Persian could still hear his laboured breath.

Nadir pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers to avoid staring. He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, my friend," he said. "I think we must call it a night. Perhaps we could continue tomorrow," he added gesturing at the chess board and fearing Erik would take offence at his fussing.

He was even more dismayed to see that the man who sat across him nodded wearily.

Nadir stood up.

"I gather. . . You already know the way out," rasped Erik and it was his friend's time to nod.

He watched as the Persian put on his overcoat and his hat.

"Good night, my friend."

"Good night," Erik answered, and sighed when the door finally closed after the man that had once been his hated enemy.


Something jerked him awake. It took him a while to identify the thump of the wooden cages and the rattling of the bottles of milk as the milkman arranged them in his cart, in the inner courtyard. Erik shut his eyes a little bit tighter, but the dim light of dawn, slipping through the thick curtains, was enough to bother him. He draped his right arm over his head. There. The solid mass of his flesh blocked light as effectively as the four cellars above his lair in the Opéra. And just when he was about to sink into slumber, the clattering of the wheels of the milkman's cart hauled him into consciousness again.

Muttering curses in every language he knew, Erik threw the covers to one side and stood up. The intensity of his cursing increased with the stabbing pain in his leg. He put on his mask, limped towards the window and cast the crepe curtains aside. The veil curtains that hung behind them were thick enough to hide him from prying eyes, Erik knew, so he stayed by the window, blinking in the light.

So many years of living five stories underground, away from the world, had sharpened his senses to such an extent that now the slightest light or noise bothered him. He knew that no matter what he did, the morning sounds of the neighbourhood wouldn't let him go to sleep again.

Better to start the day, then. Get washed, get dressed, conjure enough energy to make a cup of tea, drop on the bed in exhaustion, count the cracks of the paint on the ceiling. Maybe, if he was lucky, fall asleep for a short while. Sleep was eluding him lately. Perhaps it was a good sign, his body must be healing, he thought, and then he snorted. Why would his healing body be any kind of good sign? There was nothing for him in this stretch of empty time he called his life. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to look back on with anything but self disgust. He turned his back to the light, clumsily. It was time to start another bleak, pointless day.


Erik had just mustered enough energy to skim through the newspaper the Daroga had brought the day before when a bellow from the ground floor shattered his concentration. The screams were muffled by the three stories that separated the ground floor from the third, by the thick walls and the closed doors. They would hardly have been noticed by anyone with normal hearing, but for Erik they were deafening roars. All the hustle bustle of the neighbourhood disturbed him, but none of the noises that jarred his senses during the day and part of the night was as bad as this one. It made him physically sick.

The concierge, a fat, middle aged woman was screaming at her daughter. Erik had only caught few glimpses of the child. She was a shabby, scrawny creature about five years old, with matted auburn curls and pale skin. She would often be out in the courtyard, but she would never run, scream or play as other children her age. She would huddle in a corner and talk to herself, in the good days. In the bad ones, she would huddle in a corner and cry.

A painful knot seized Erik's stomach in an iron grip. The bellowing had increased and he guessed the woman had gone out of the porter's lodge and would soon cross the inner courtyard. He stood up and went to his room. He peeked through the veil curtains. There she was, dragging the child by one ear. The woman opened the door of the coal room and threw the little girl in the dark interior. She slammed the door and turned around. Erik backed a step.

He stood perfectly still, pricking up his ears, and soon he heard the sobs, despite the distance and the door of the deposit. His jaw clenched in a supreme effort to control his anger and the churning in his stomach. He paced to the other end of the room, taking controlled breaths. When he had reached the wall, he turned around and paced back, making sure he stretched the muscles of his right leg.

He had crossed the room several times when the air in the little chamber became stuffy and oppressive. He went out to the long hall, which stretched along the whole apartment, and there he resumed his pacing. His steps quickly found a rhythm which matched the sentence he'd been repeating to himself:

"It's none of your concern, none of your concern, none of your concern, none of your concern. . ."

Nadir threw a glance at Erik, apparently engrossed in the newspaper. During the last few days, it seemed Erik was somehow finally coming close to himself. He still moved slowly and hesitantly, and both the piano and the violin remained untouched, but the scathing remarks that had poured from his friend's mouth every few minutes in the old times were dotting their conversations more and more often. Erik also appeared to have recovered part of his concentration. Instead of staring into the flames or into space, he now spent part of his evenings scanning and commenting the latest news and gossip of the city, and Nadir's heart had warmed the day he had found a book lying open, face down, on the couch. And today he'd seen the old fire smouldering in the depths of Erik's eyes, despite his friend's attempts at keeping an icy façade.

Nadir couldn't tell whether he should be happy or worried at the light shining in there. It was the light of anger, the scorching fury that had brought so much misfortune to so many people, including his friend, in the past. Nadir repressed a sigh and stared at the contents of his glass. He raised his brows, in resignation. Erik's quick temper had always been a part of him, just as his brilliant intellect and his unyielding pride. And, speaking in earnest, if the irascibility hadn't come back, Nadir would have missed it. And yet, he'd now have to postpone his plans for that evening for, if he put them in practice, his actions would have the opposite effect of the one he had intended.