Papa remained in the sitting room the whole afternoon and evening. He called Françoise in once, asked her to bring the cognac decanter and a glass. Then he made something astounding. He shut himself in. Gracie couldn't believe it. The only time he had locked a door and left her on the other side of it had been the morning he and Uncle Nadir had made the moulds for his new masks, after his heart attack. Otherwise he had never locked any doors between them after one of the first nights in their apartment, when she had woken up for a nightmare and pounded at his door, completely terrified of being alone. All through her childhood until Françoise had started working for them, he had left his door open a crack, so he could hear her if she called him or she could crawl into his bed if she woke up during the night. Gracie knew that was the reason why he slept with the mask, and the thought of him enduring such discomfort every night for her sake had melted Gracie's heart when she had begun to understand such things.
Gracie paced the hall, as quietly as she could, stopping by the door of the sitting room from time to time to listen intently. But there was no sound coming from the other side of the door, and the silence unnerved her. She tried to rationally quell the stifling fear of him having had another heart attack. He must be sitting on his armchair, brooding and drinking, she told herself over and over. But the thought of Papa drinking himself to oblivion was so uncharacteristic of him that it was almost as scary as him getting sick again. Gracie longed to go to him, to hold him and not let him go, but she dared not. He had dismissed her from his presence. He had said he needed time alone. She had to give him some space.
In the evening, Françoise called her into the kitchen and tried to make her eat something. It wouldn't do to get sick with apprehension, she had told Gracie in a no nonsense manner. If Gracie wasn't well, she wouldn't be able to comfort Monsieur Devaux. Françoise's unquestionable logic had made Gracie swallow mouthful after mouthful of untasty food. Then she had gone to her room, changed her clothes, sat by her desk and tried to read, lay on the bed and tried to rest a little, rose up again and tried to write a letter to Lucille. At ten o'clock, Gracie's nerves were impossibly raw, and she had come to fear something that made her knock on the door to the sitting room and call out to him.
Silence was her only answer. She called again, her voice choked by dread.
After what seemed a lifetime, she heard shuffling as he rose from the armchair. Then the key turned in the lock. She waited, but he didn't open the door. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered the handle and peeked in.
He was sprawled on the armchair, a goblet in his hand. He beckoned her.
"Come in, tot."
And from the slur of his words and the vagueness of his gesture, she realised that he was drunk indeed.
Erik looked at her for a long time, until she hesitantly made her way into the room and sat on the couch. Through the comforting haze brought up by the cognac he had consumed, he watched as she primly folded her hands on her lap, and couldn't help a half smile when he remembered the first time he had seen her draw the gesture, the first time he'd invited her into the music room, so many years ago.
He was happy that the memory came to him. It was finally something to shake his mind off the image of Christine Daaé's lovely face, pale and streaked with tears, the last time he'd seen her. He huffed when he realised his thoughts had wandered back to Christine. He was such a fool, to have thought that he could forget her, that he could dull the pain, erase the longing. Gracie's voice, coming from what seemed a great distance, shook him from his thoughts.
"Papa?"
"Hmm?"
"You aren't going out, are you?"
The question caught him completely by surprise.
"Of course not. I'm afraid. . . I'm afraid I'm not in any state to be seen in public. . . right now."
He chuckled, amused with his witticism. He leant an elbow on the armchair, cupped his left cheek in his palm and regarded his half filled glass thoughtfully. He had another sip. The liquid warmed his throat on its way down to his stomach.
"Gracie. . ."
"Yes?"
"How did you find out about Mademoiselle Daaé?"
He watched detachedly as she tensed and her hands tightened on her lap. His own question had surprised him. Alcohol was certainly a powerful substance. It had quelled the fear to make his own questions, something he had never dared with Gracie. He had answered all of hers, even when the answers had entailed digging out memories of the past. True, he had never encouraged her to make them and had never started the conversations himself. He had also been aware of the fact that she preferred to tiptoe around sore subjects and he had never helped her to broach them. He had, in fact, been extremely grateful when he'd been able to avoid the darkest episodes of his life. Instead, he had told her as many amusing, colourful anecdotes as he could recall. He had gone back again and again to the few happy moments of his past, so she would gain at least a partial knowledge of him.
"I. . . You call her in your sleep, sometimes," she said.
Erik's eyes widened, but he was surprised to notice that he wasn't as shocked as he would have been if he had been sober. Cognac had blurred the sharp edges of everything around him. It had made the world less distinct and menacing, and it had somehow pulled him out of himself. Now he was regarding curiously both Gracie's and his reactions to their talk, as if he was a third, silent partner in their conversation.
He nodded.
"I see. . ."
And after a beat, he added:
"What else do I say when I'm asleep?"
Her eyes darted away, in embarrassment.
"Not much," she whispered, nervously fingering the locket that hung from her neck, the one he'd given her for her fifteenth birthday.
"Come on, tot. Humour me."
"You only talk about. . . the time in the fair and about her. . . You talk to her," she finished quickly.
Erik winced as if struck. So she knew. She knew about the fair. He hurried to have another sip of cognac. It didn't taste as good as before. Its warmness was not as comforting. He balanced the glass on the arm of the chair, rubbed the bottom against the embroidered flowers on the damask.
"How long. . . How long have you known about the fair?"
He swallowed hard, eyes still intent on the bottom of the glass. He wanted to know, but dared not look at her. What must she have thought, to learn that her papa had been treated like. . . No, that he had led the existence of an animal? That he had become a mindless, dirty creature?
Gracie stole a glance in his direction, took in the paleness of his lips, his jaw tightly clenched. The languor of his posture, which she guessed had come from his drunkenness, was gone. Should she tell him the truth? Should she uncover the fact that she had known, from the start, of his fear of being caged? Or should she rather tell him about the pictures she'd seen when she'd been seven, the day she'd learnt why he was in danger of ending in one of those terrible sideshows? Or rather should she begin her tale the day she had finally realised what had caused the scars on his wrists and ankles? The day she had understood, with a tinge of self-regret at the fact that it had taken her so long, why he rarely rolled up his sleeves, why he stiffened, shied away ever so slightly whenever she touched his bare forearms? She decided to make her tale short and chose the last event.
"Since I was eleven."
"Only eleven. . ." he whispered, his voice ragged.
He was still tracing circles on the arm of the chair with the bottom of his glass. After a while he stopped, imposing himself the tight composure he usually reserved for his outings. Gracie watched, as he slowly finished the cognac and leant forward to refill the glass. With a wavering, clumsy hand, he unstopped the decanter and poured himself a generous measure. He lifted the glass, as if making a toast.
"To the loss of your innocence, my dear," he said bitterly.
His mouth quirked in a tight, self-deprecating smile Gracie had never seen before. It chilled her to the bone. He took a generous sip and sank back against the chair.
"And how did you come to know who Mademoiselle Daaé is?"
Gracie swallowed and shrank under his piercing gaze. To lie wouldn't do now. Perhaps to try and stall the answer?
"Besides your dreams?"
He nodded once and Gracie's eyes darted away. So much for stalling. She took in a deep breath, bracing herself for his outburst of rage.
"I. . . I read The Phantom of the Opera"
"You. . . what?"
"I read Monsieur Leroux's book," she said almost inaudibly.
"God in Heaven. . ." he breathed.
Gracie looked up, in a sudden bolt of alarm. He had never, ever invoked God before. He had once told her that God and him had never been in good terms and had finally fallen out with each other. He had said so with a smile, but even back then she had known he meant it seriously.
He was still slouched on the chair, but now his shoulders had drooped and he seemed much smaller than what he really was, as if he had collapsed under the weight of his shame. As she watched him, he lowered his head, covered his eyes with his hand. There was a long, smothering silence.
"How repulsed you must have been. . ." he muttered, his voice ragged.
"Oh, Papa no. I have never. . ."
Gracie leapt up. She fell to her knees by him, placed a hand on his knee and looked up into his face.
"I have never been disgusted by you. . ." Her voice caught, drowned by the threat of tears, but she could feel the tension of his muscles under her hand, could feel the shudders raking his body, so she continued:
"You are the sweetest, most talented, most generous, most intelligent man I've ever met, Papa," she declared fiercely.
He shook his head in denial. She grasped his knee hardly.
"Yes, you are," she hissed. "I love you, Papa. I love you. Don't you ever dare to think I'd ever despise you."
A low thud alerted her towards the fact he'd dropped the glass.
"Papa, look at me," she demanded.
The hand that was covering his eyes tightened, his fingers grasping his temples.
"Come now, Papa. Look at me," she coaxed him.
Slowly, careful not to remove the mask, she pried his hand from his face and held it between hers. His eyes were tightly shut, tears wet the right side of his face.
"Look at me, Papa," she cajoled him in her kindest and most reassuring voice.
She wiped his tears with her thumb, and held her palm against his good cheek. Ever so slightly, he turned his head towards her caress.
"Papa?"
"Oh, Gracie. . ." he sighed in a tiny voice.
Finally, he opened his eyes. She smiled at him and cast herself against him, sitting on his lap and hugging him in a tight embrace, until the initial shock and hesitancy to hold her had given way, and she felt his arms around her. She sighed against the side of his neck, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was, what an effort it had been to open up to him. She leant against him, relishing the comfort and safeness of his embrace, and felt how he also relaxed. They held each other for a long time.
At last he sighed, patting her shoulder.
"I've stained the carpet," he remarked, in a voice muffled by their embrace.
She chuckled, grateful he'd gathered his wits to try and make her laugh. She leant over the arm of the chair and looked at the huge puddle of cognac.
"Is it bad?" he asked from the deep recesses of the armchair.
She nodded, biting her lip in mock worry.
"Do you think Françoise will be able to wipe it out?"
She shook her head.
"Oh, my. What will Nadir say?" he asked faking panic. "I've ruined his best carpet!"
She flashed him a naughty smile.
"We'll have to move your chair closer to the fire, Papa."
Author's notes: Here it was, chapter 31. I hope it solved some of your questions... The next few chapters will solve the rest... I promise!
