II. Too many Years
Snow was falling steadily, dancing on gusts of wild wind. The sky was of a uniform shading of pale grey, and the landscape outside, the roofs and streets, already covered deeply, seemed to be painted in black and white. The light was fading rapidly.
Inside the room, a fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, but there was still a feeling of cold in the air, so strong it was almost tangible. Partly, it came from what still remained of the winter's cold from before the fire had been lit, but partly it seemed to originate from the man standing at the window and gazing out into the swirling ballet of innumerable snowflakes. He stood quite still, intent on what lay beyond the glass, ignoring everything else. Despite the temperature, he was in shirtsleeves, and he had even pushed them up to the elbow. On a chair lay a discarded black cloak.
The door opened a fraction, and then a woman slipped in. She was in her middle years and dressed all in black, and although she was not very tall, there was a certain stern, commanding presence about her. After all, Madame Giry was the ballet instructor of the Opera Populaire.
Silently closing the door behind her, her eyes never left the man at the window, who did not stir at her arrival, as she crossed the room and deposited a bag on her bed. Despite the sound of the flames, the silence lay heavy in the air. "I somehow expected to find you here", she said at last.
He neither moved nor responded.
Almost automatically, Madame Giry straightened the cloak on the chair. "Where have you been?"
"Out", he answered curtly, still staring straight ahead.
"Only in this? It must be freezing out there."
"I don't care." His voice might have had a pleasant sound, had he not spoken so tonelessly.
"I was worried about you."
She might as well not have said anything, for he did not react at all.
Carefully, she approached him. "I was afraid that they might catch you. That they might do something to you."
"They can't kill a ghost", he said flatly, impassively watching how the wind swept the smoke from the chimneys.
"But you're not a ghost. You're of flesh and blood."
This time, he shifted his position very slightly. "Oh, thank you, I hadn't yet noticed", he said scathingly.
Madame Giry sighed. "At least accept that I was worried."
For some time there was silence, broken only by the wind rattling the shutters and the greedy crackling of the flames. Then he said, very softly: "Why don't you just hate me, like everybody else?"
"Because I know you better than everybody else", she said simply. Only a few paces away from him now, she could see that his dark hair was wet in places, and there were moist patches on his shirt, as well – whereas the cloak had been quite dry to the touch. He couldn't have been out in the snow in just his thin shirt, could he?
"You might exclude someone", he said, and his voice suddenly sounded hoarse and throaty.
"Are you sure?"
Again he made no answer, but she could see how his knuckles whitened as he grasped the windowsill harder. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch his shoulder, then stopped the motion in mid-air. This was the closest she had been to him for several years, she realized. And she was not sure if he would suffer her to touch him, especially in his present mood. It did not truly show on his face; his features appeared entirely impassive as his eyes followed a solitary crow wheeled through the sky by the wind. But so close to him, she thought she could sense the torrents of feelings inside him. Rage, throbbing and boiling. Hatred. Wounded pride. And pain. So much pain. It made her afraid.
No, she told herself, he wouldn't harm her. Not her. But the truth was that she wasn't too sure anymore, not after all he had done. He wasn't the boy she had once known anymore, as she had reminded herself countless times during those last few days. He was a grown man, and he was dangerous. A long time ago, she might have told him to change into a dry shirt and go to bed, but this certainly was no option now. He was long past the stage where she could have dealt with him like that. You didn't send the Phantom of the Opera to bed, except if you were eager to meet with a most unfortunate accident.
He had never liked it when he had not gotten what he wanted, she recalled, and she had known for a considerable time that he could be quite possessive with certain things, but that he would ever carry it that far…
She should have never let him near the girl.
But even if she had tried to intervene then, she would not have been able to stop him. He simply did as he pleased, and he had done so for years now.
Still, she wondered if this all might have been avoided if she had just acted differently somewhere in the past. Maybe it could have changed what was to come – and saved them all much pain. But how could she have known what was going to happen? How could she have known?
She was climbing down the dark, narrow, slippery staircase, a lantern in one hand and a basket in the other. "Where's my favourite ghost?" she called into the darkness.
There came the sound of hurried footsteps, and just as the staircase opened into what seemed to be an underground hall, he stepped into the light, shielding his eyes, but beaming. "You'll never guess what I did", he stated.
"Oh, I know it very well. You just scared a buffet lady almost to death."
"Oh, come on! She should have simply given it a closer look." He had lowered his hand, and his eyes blinked mischievously from beneath a feathered mask in black and gold.
Could it be that he had grown another inch? Their eyes had been about on the same height when they had first met, and he had grown a little taller during the following months, but now it seemed to her that he had grown even taller than she had realized. There was no way to tell when he would stop growing, just as there was no way to tell how old he was exactly. He could be anything between thirteen and sixteen. And he had exactly the talent for mischief she expected from a growing lad. "She claims there was a tray with sandwiches floating in mid-air", she informed him.
"It wasn't! I just pulled it out of the flap on a string." He tugged on the sleeve of the overlarge and much too lacy white shirt he was wearing – he simply loved digging around among the old costumes, she knew it. They had done quite a lot of digging together, actually. "The sandwiches were good, by the way." He snickered. "I might leave her a note telling her so."
"And sign it with The Opera Ghost again?"
"Sure. I find it nice how they all believe in me."
She giggled along with him. "Well, you won't have to do that again today, for I brought you something."
"Really?" He eyed the basket with great curiosity. "May I see?"
Smiling, she pulled it out of his reach, teasing him. "Only some bread and cheese. Oh, and something else, too."
"Something else?"
"It's something you like. Something you really like."
His features shifted into a grin, while he playfully tried to grab the basket from her. "Not chocolate, by any chance?"
"Your chances are good with that."
"Oh." His grin widened. "Chocolate is something I would kill for."
"But you have to promise me something first."
His grin vanished as he saw how serious her expression was. "What is it? Is there something wrong?"
"I'm a bit worried", she answered him honestly. "Not all people believe in ghosts. Someone might come to investigate. What if they find you?"
"They never will", he said confidently. "I doubt they know all about the secret passages I've found."
"Still, you shouldn't draw too much attention to yourself. Don't scare people too much. Except maybe –" She broke off and shook her head. "Never mind. Just don't do it."
"Except what?" he insisted, and after a moment's consideration, he added: "Except who?"
She only shook her head again. "It doesn't matter."
Gingerly, he reached out to touch her shoulder. "Someone upset you. What happened?"
At first she wanted to tell him that it was of no importance, but the way his bright eyes held her gaze… He was silently urging her to explain, and promising to understand. Before she knew what she was truly doing, words burst out of her, about that crude stagehand whose name she didn't even know, about the looks he had always given her, about how he had recently adopted the habit of trying to touch her behind the stage, about the words the man called after her, about all the humiliation…
"He'll regret it!" The boy's normally gentle, melodious voice was a hiss, and his teeth were bared in an angry snarl. "I'll make him suffer for this! I promise you, I will!"
The man had mysteriously disappeared only a short time later, Madame Giry recalled, and two weeks after his disappearance they had found his body in the river. Fallen into the water after drinking too much wine and drowned, this was what she had heard. And at that time, she had not questioned it. But now… She strongly suspected that it had been no accident. He had always tried to guard her, grateful and affectionate, and she had detected a flicker of jealousy in him when she had told him that she was going to get married. But he had accepted it, and had been glad for her, and he had offered her comfort after her husband's death, which had come so much too early.
She might have taken him as her lover then, and she admitted to herself that she had seriously considered it a few times, but their relationship had changed then. Ever since her husband's death, he had slowly begun to dominate it. He had ceased to be a younger brother and, to her eyes, turned into something more distant, more demonic. On the night after her husband's death, he had suddenly stood in the doorway, clothed all in black and in a flowing cloak, and wearing his white mask for the first time. At first she had not realized who he was and shied away from him, taking him for some kind of angel of death. Only hearing his voice had calmed her down. Finally, exhausted from crying, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Had he taken advantage of her then, she would surely have yielded, but he hadn't done so. He never had. And she had not dared to approach him in such a way, not anymore.
From then on, he had appeared upstairs frequently, growing bolder. There had frequently been tales among the chorus, ballet and stagehands that he had been sighted stalking the corridors somewhere, even in broad daylight, and if she believed only half of it, it was still much. The Phantom, they had started to call him, because of the way he could suddenly appear and be gone again equally fast, and they had spoken this name in awe and fear. Soon he had been bold enough to challenge the manager – and then, finally, he had come across Christine.
For years, Madame Giry had only been glad about his special attention for the girl. Far too late she had realized that he saw her as his own, and that he was not ready to let her go. How could she have known that his feelings for Christine were that deep, and his wrath at seeming to lose her that terrible?
She should have, she told herself once again. She should have. And she should have done something before it was too late.
But what? She did not doubt that his affection for her had ever truly diminished, and she knew that she still had his trust, even now, or else he would not be here, yet for too many years he had only done as he wished. And for too many years, he had been used to be obeyed.
And for too many years, he had been alone.
She took a step closer, so that she could regard him from the side. His expression was stony, she saw, and the way his jaw was set almost made her take a large step back, or better yet a leap. But what scared her even more was the way he looked: He was pale-skinned by nature, yet he appeared even paler, and there were shadows under his eyes, as far as she could see, or at least dirty smears. His hair, normally neatly brushed back, was untidy and had lost all of its usual gleam, and he had certainly not shaved this morning. And despite their being pressed together tightly, his lips had an unhealthy bluish shading, as if he had been out in the cold for too long.
And there was something else still: He did not wear his mask.
"Where have you been?" Madame Giry asked again, her voice tinged with worry.
"Nowhere." He spoke tonelessly, without emotion.
"You've been out in the snow without even your cloak?"
"It doesn't matter."
"You could have caught your death, out there in the cold!"
"I wish I had", he said bitterly.
Madame Giry was not sure how to react to this. Part of her wanted to take him in her arms and hold him tight, while the other itched to slap him around the head for being overly pathetic. And the next moment, she wanted to slap herself. Good heavens, he wasn't a ballet girl! She was already forgetting who he was. Of course, the state he was in currently was highly unusual, but he still was the man before whom managers and crew had trembled, and would tremble still. Even if he was feeling utterly miserable, it was better not to anger him. Or maybe he was even more dangerous in this state.
She watched him silently, not knowing what to do. Still he did not move. Only one solitary tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto his shirt.
Once more she reached out for him, and this time her fingertips brushed his upper arm.
"Don't pity me", he said, an only half-hearted attempt of protest.
She stroked his arm nonetheless, and he allowed her to, or at least he made no move to stop her. His eyes remained focused on the snow outside. Maybe he wanted to be pitied after all and was just reluctant to admit it? It seemed plausible enough. He had been alone all this time, he had always been alone, come to think of it. He just couldn't want it to be this way.
Should she have shown him more affection during those last years? Maybe it would have helped, but on the other hand, it had seemed that he preferred to make an impressive appearance, and she had been reluctant to spoil that by pulling him into a hug. Maybe he should have been snuggled frequently, but he was just the wrong type for being snuggled.
Her hand wandered up to his shoulder, down over his shoulder blade, caressed his back –
"Why do you do that?" he said at last. "Why would you care? You have no reason. Why don't you just turn me in?"
"I couldn't", she answered truthfully. Not even after he had killed several people who had nothing to do with it all. The young Vicomte de Chagny had called him a madman and a murderer, and maybe de Chagny was right, but part of her still saw in him the boy he had used to be, and whatever he had done, she still felt sorry for him.
"Don't pity me", he repeated weakly, as if he could read her mind – which was not entirely out of the question, of course.
She rested her hand between his shoulder blades. The silly boy! After all, he had come to her for something, hadn't he? "But I do", she said gently.
Very suddenly, he spun around to face her, and she automatically took a step back. "Oh no, you don't!" he snapped. "Nobody does, and I don't care! I don't want them to, do you hear? Just admit you feel repulsed, just like everyone else! Yes, look at me! Look at me, if you can! I'm nothing but a monster, and you know it!"
Madame Giry did not turn her face away, but held his gaze. Unmasked, he was not a pleasant sight. The two sides of his face just did not match. While the left half was normal enough and could be even considered attractive, the right was heavily scarred from above his eyebrow down to his upper lip and all the way back to his temple, marred by what seemed to be burns, although Madame Giry was not sure what it really was that had marked him so. Only his eyes were the same, sharp and bright blue, their gaze as intense as ever, but now more ardent, more baleful than usual.
Yet however direly he glared at her, there was only so much she would take. "Oh, talk sense, lad!" she cried, exasperated. "I've seen your face before and it doesn't scare me, and I've cared for you for years! Actually I feel like giving you a big hug, but if you behave like that, I might well box your ears instead!"
There was a sharp intake of breath from him, and for a moment he appeared rather taken aback, but then his eyes narrowed dangerously. Madame Giry froze in shock. How could she have been so careless with her tongue? She had gone too far, and there was no way she could take back her words. This was not the way to speak to the Phantom of the Opera, definitely not! And especially not if he was in a mood like this! Steeling herself for an outburst, she continued holding his gaze.
But the outburst didn't come. Instead, he turned towards the window again sharply, his lips firmly pressed together, his fingers clenching on the windowsill. She could see how his features twitched, and he flinched as a half-strangled sob fought its way out of his chest. "I'm sorry", he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry for everything…"
There was only one way for her to react to this: Heedless of any protests, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight embrace. At first he struggled a bit, but very soon he put his arms around her in turn. Madame Giry almost smiled at this. So this was what he had come for after all, wasn't it? He had just sought her comfort, just like the youngest members of ballet did from time to time. Only this morning, a scrawny and very unhappy boy had come to her in tears because he was so very far from home and missed his family so much – and probably because what had happened last night had greatly upset the poor child. It had upset everybody. And the Phantom himself was equally upset, it seemed. Just as she had done with the ballet boy, she patted his back and murmured soothing words to him, and just like the boy he grew calmer eventually, and at last his tears subsided.
She didn't let him go yet, though. What was it she feared? Somehow she wished he were again the boy he had once been. He would be easier to deal with, then, easier to control… and he would stay wherever she was. He would not go away. And somehow she was afraid he would now. Of course, he had nowhere to go, but he still might. And she suddenly realized how much she would miss him. It would never be the same without him, without the knowledge that he was watching, without him stalking the corridors somewhere in the twilight, without his little notes and the flowers he occasionally sent, without his visits, late at night… He had become part of it all with the years. If he left the opera… some of its spirit would be lost forever. Even after all he had done, she could not imagine the Opera Populaire without him.
Gently, he loosened her grip and stepped back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I'm behaving like an idiot", he murmured. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright", she hurriedly assured him. It was so long ago that she had heard him apologize for something, and now he had already said it three times… Very clearly, his defences were down currently. "You need some rest", she continued quickly as soon as she realized this, her maternal instincts taking over. "And a warm blanket would do you some good, after running around in the cold like this. I'll make you some tea, shall I?"
"I'm fine", he protested feebly. "I'm really fine."
"And you should change your shirt", she overrode him. "It's still wet in places. Come on, off to bed you go."
"I can't just occupy your bed", he said, but allowed himself to be steered towards it and sat down on it without objections to take off his boots.
"Of course you can", she waved his protest away while she stored her shopping bag elsewhere. "Especially since it's the middle of the afternoon and I won't be needing it now. Remember when you had that bad fever, in your first winter here? You spent three full days and nights in my bed then. So don't have a bad conscience about it, you're not forcing me to sleep on the rug this time."
She met with surprisingly little resistance, and soon she had him tucked into bed comfortably with the blanket up to his chin, and his shirt got a place close to the fireplace where it could dry. Madame Giry was truly astonished at him as well as at herself. She had expected him to put up a fight, despite his apparent exhaustion. But maybe he had come to enjoy her attention? It might just be like with her own daughter: However wildly Meg protested at too much maternal attention, she always seemed to like her mother to fuss over her when she was not feeling well.
Content with her success, Madame Giry sat down at the edge of the bed, having a hard time with resisting the urge to tousle his hair. He was already starting to doze off, and he blinked up at her like a night owl. "You won't go away", she said gently, "will you?"
"What?" he murmured sleepily. "No. Not away."
"Good. We would miss you if you did."
"Not as long as your daughter still has my mask."
"She has?" Madame Giry asked in surprise. "How?"
But he did not quite register her question. "Tell her I want it back", he murmured, before his already drooping eyelids slid shut completely at last.
Madame Giry remained seated beside him for some time, until his steady breathing told her that he was firmly asleep. Meg had his mask? Had he already been gliding off into a dream when he had said it? But she would ask her daughter as soon as Meg returned from the city.
"Sleep well", she whispered, and, even softer: "They can't destroy a legend."
