Disclaimer:
All characters and events relating to The Phantom of the Opera story belong to Gaston Leroux and other respective owners.
Author's note:
To place The Phantom of the Opera characters in a modern day setting and still maintain some semblance of believability necessitates changes, most notably with Christine's character. It simply does not work having her as an extremely naïve girl, not with the cultures and influences that prevail today. I do, however, hope to capture the character's sense of loneliness and vulnerability, as that is a universal theme that transcends time, but I will not endeavor to make her weak.
Erik also poses a challenge. With modern medicine, it is very difficult to imagine how one would survive in today's world and not undergo plastic surgery to correct deformities. I hope I strike an acceptable balance between the plausible and the absurd.
Raoul is perhaps the easiest of them all to give a modern voice, yet I will endeavor to avoid all pitfalls and clichéd abuses of his character.
Le Messager
Nemo me impune lacessit.
Spring, 1985—
The pianist was seated before the black grand centered on the elegant stage, the lights bathing him in a pale glow. Fitted tux, suit tails off the back of the bench, he sat tall, proud, giving an acknowledging nod to the audience before his fingers rested over the keys.
The chord sounded, followed by a swell of notes that took hold of the concert hall and the senses of the hundreds within it. Like fire, the music seared them, surging to life under the graceful hands that moved rhythmically up and down the ivory keys. Quiet nods of approval circulated through the crowd, every person entranced, relishing the sounds voiced through the dark room.
Perspiration beaded on the forehead of the pianist, his mouth clamped tight in concentration. His body rocked stiffly with effort. The song was relentless, taxing the dancing fingers, draining him.
Minutes fell away. All were lost to the power of the music, the awe of the mind and soul that composed it, the delicate and fearsome strains of music. On and on it grew, shifting in chords, time, key, whispering a story of unthinkable fury and misery…
A wrong note struck.
…Just one, and it was immediately covered by the multitude that followed. There were no awkward glances from the audience, no jeering murmurs. The flaw would go unknown, forgotten.
But she recognized it. This piece would haunt her until the end of her days. How many hours had she stood, unknown, listening to the young composer pour his soul into the beast, drawing out a thing a majesty such as she had never heard…such as the world had never heard.
She gripped the program tighter, her attention torn from the performer.
"I am sorry, but it is not satisfactory work. Your request is denied."
He had glared at her, the subtle flex of his jaw the only visible sign of his restraint. It was all she could do to keep a calm focus on those burning gray and blue eyes. He tilted his head up a degree, the overhead light casting an ominous glow upon the mask.
"And in what way is it unsatisfactory?" His even voice cut to her, as biting as it was melodic.
Dr. Olivia Wilson pursed her lips, her eyes moving from the pages of sheet music on her desk to the young man standing before her.
"It is not up to the standards of this institution, and certainly not for a doctoral candidate. I expect better of you, Mr. Lacroux."
He said nothing, standing utterly still with his normal ungodly perfect posture. The chair of the Doctoral Governance Committee sat back in her chair, peering at the student over her glasses. He was young, far younger than the other candidates, his compositions and pianist skills daunting, to say the least.
The rejected piece lying before her was hardly unsatisfactory. Even in its nascent stages, the depth of it was profound, enough to guarantee the student fame, reputation.
Yet she could not allow it. She would not. Too many times, this student had made a mockery of the institution, disregarding the rules, forsaking boundaries, his presence before her now only evidence of her tolerance for his abilities. She could not permit him the fame he would achieve with this work, not before forcing him taste defeat, the very sentiment he unwittingly evoked so often upon others.
"Is that all?" he said flatly, placing his hands behind his back, the epitome of coolness. Wilson knew better. The cut had been made, the wound bled.
She gave a thin smile and nodded. "Yes, that is all."
It was not the composer that sat at the piano now. The composer was master over this song, not enslaved by its deadly intricacies. The man on stage suffered under it. She watched grimly. What an actor he proved to be, in her bed or to an audience. There was enough talent there to mask the truth, and enough depravity to play the lie.
She should have never given him the stolen music, let him adopt a piece that could tamed by no other than the hand that wrote it. Still, even from this performance, glory would be secured. The true composer, however, would remain unknown, forgotten. It was a pleasing thought.
She folded her hands and continued to watch the beautiful struggle onstage. The audience—the world, would never know.
He watched from high above the stage, kneeling, hidden in the shadows. His masterpiece…his work of months, butchered before the world by a thief, one of his own peers.
He closed his eyes, the mask smothering the one lone tear as he drew a shuddered breath.
Every note, every pause, every ebb and swell he knew, had sculpted—his no longer.
He struck the match.
Rising, he took one last glance at the façade below. Without regret, he released the small flame, turning away into the darkness.
Astonished cries echoed throughout the concert hall as the piano ignited.