Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and welcome to our new readers. In this chapter, we gain some insight into Tristan as well as learning about the Phantom's birth defect.
The Doctor's Visit
At precisely ten a.m., Tristan opened a small iron gate on the Rue Scribe side of the Opera Populaire. Ducking his head, he entered the darkness apprehensively, hoping Cecilié's directions were correct. He pulled the gate shut behind him, wincing at the loud screech of the hinges. When the noise died away, all he could hear was his own anxious breathing and the steady drip of water in the distance.
The sound of metal rubbing against itself made him jump as a light appeared in the middle of the air barely a foot from his face, blinding him. It took a few seconds of panic before he realized that the noise had been the dark shutter on a lamp being raised, thus the illumination. When his eyes finally adjusted, he made out the white half-mask of Monsieur Angel behind the light.
"Shall we?" M. Angel said. Turning, he led the way into the bowels of the theater, Tristan hurrying slightly to catch up after his initial surprise.
"Where is Madame Giry?" he asked as he came alongside the other man.
"Teaching. Apparently there is some new dance Meg and Christine have to learn before Friday's performance." There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice, though Tristan wasn't sure if it was for the dancing, or whatever new opera was being put on.
"Um…" he said, searching for a topic of conversation. Everything he had prepared had been for Cecilié's ears. "Don't you want to blindfold me?"
"Cecilié assures me you are worthy of my trust and Christine thinks you should be nominated for sainthood for all that you've done for us. I'm not so sure I trust her judgment, though, seeing as she has agreed to marry me. Please do not make liars out of them."
"No, no I wouldn't," Tristan said. "And congratulations."
M. Angel paused to run his fingers along a crack in the wall. There was a soft click, and a door opened. "Thank you. After you."
Tristan went through the door and found himself standing in the middle of a wide spiral staircase. He had never seen it before, but knew he would find it very familiar if he closed his eyes. M. Angel began to descend, and the doctor again had to hurry to keep up. "I take it you are feeling better?" he asked.
"Better yes, completely well, no. I have no stamina. Last night I climbed to the roof and back down again, and was nearly done in. Christine had to help me part of the way back." He frowned. "Please tell me that will pass."
"Yes, of course it will, but you have to give it time, Monsieur. You are recovering from a serious injury. Have you followed my orders at all, resting as I told you to?"
The other man sighed as they came to the bottom of the staircase. "I have made an attempt at it. But I am not used to inactivity and too much rest makes me more tired, if that is possible." He opened another hidden door by pushing on a section of stonework. A whole section of the wall pivoted and Tristan followed him along a much narrower hallway, this time in silence.
After several minutes of walking, M. Angel opened a final door, and they entered his domain through the mirror. No longer needing the lantern, he blew it out and set it down on a table. "Where do you think would be the best place to do this, Doctor?"
Glancing around the room, Tristan's gaze settled on a tall, sturdy looking table. "Perhaps you could sit on that," he suggested, inclining his head in the table's direction.
Nodding, M. Angel cleared off the top of the table, then sat down. He unbuttoned his shirt while Tristan opened his medical bag and removed the few items he would need. When he turned back, M. Angel had taken off his shirt and was watching Tristan, an unsettled look on his face. "I assure you, Monsieur, that this will be far less painful than having the stitches put in."
Scissors in hand, Tristan bent down and began snipping the threads. "Mademoiselle Daaé did a most admirable job. You will barely have a scar." Taking up a small pair of forceps, he began to pull out the cut threads. Every once in a while, M. Angel would flinch but otherwise he showed no reaction.
Finishing, Tristan straightened up. "It looks like it's healing very well. No more signs of infection. If you would follow my advice and rest when you are tired, then slowly work back to your former level of activity, you should be perfectly sound."
"Save for this," M. Angel replied, gesturing at the mask-covered side of his face as he shrugged his shirt back on.
Tristan was at a loss at how to reply to that, or even if a reply was wanted. He opened his mouth to speak, but M. Angel cut him off.
"I have never wondered much about the cause of my affliction. I was born with it, kissed by the devil, or so some have said. Wondered about the why, yes, but not the how. But now—" His gaze roamed the room, coming to rest on a drawing Tristan recognized as being of Christine. "Now Christine has agreed to marry me and with marriage there comes the possibility of children. I would not wish upon any child the agonies I have suffered." He looked back at Tristan, tears in his eyes. "Tell me the truth, Dr. Jarred. Could a child of myself and Christine end up with a face like this?" He tore off his mask, and Tristan was hard-pressed not to take a step backwards in reaction to the violent motion.
Instead, he moved in, asking quietly, "May I examine you more closely?"
"Certainly," M. Angel replied. Reaching up, he removed his black wig. "Have a good look, take as long as you want."
The raw pain in his voice made Tristan wince. Knowing, however, that nothing he could say would change the way M. Angel felt, he simply did his job, peering closely at the discolored and thickened flesh, running his fingers gently over the bumps and ridges. It was as he suspected; an overabundance of capillaries gave the skin its bright color, while a tangled mass of larger veins caused the distortion of his features on the right side of his face. Finally, he stepped back and asked his questions. "Does it pain you at all, Monsieur?"
"No." He kept his face averted from Tristan's, his gaze on his feet.
"Has it changed any over the years, gotten better or worse, a different color?"
"No."
"Any headaches, seizures, vision problems?"
M. Angel seemed to consider that question carefully. "I have headaches occasionally, but nothing that has ever seemed to me to be more than a normal person would suffer. Never have I had a seizure and my vision is fine."
Pulling up a chair, Tristan sat down, signaling the examination was at an end. After a moment's hesitation, M. Angel got off the table and found a chair as well. Once he seemed more comfortable, after replacing his wig and mask, Tristan said, "I've seen similar abnormalities in my years as a physician, most of them present from birth, some of them far more severe than yours, though I know that is hardly any consolation. I have never seen the condition in siblings or passed from parent to child. The chances of a child of your union sharing your affliction are probably very close to zero."
Tristan watched as M. Angel processed that information, the masked side of his face revealing nothing, the uncovered side flicking rapidly through apprehension, relief and finally joy. "Thank you," he said at last, his voice heavy with emotion. "I do not think the thought of having a child that looked like me bothers Christine in the slightest, but I…." He looked away from Tristan, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes.
Hoping to change the subject to something more pleasant, Tristan asked, "So when is the wedding?"
"It had better be soon," M. Angel replied, the trace of a smile on his lips. "Cecilié has agreed to speak with the priest of the Church of the Madeleine on our behalf. Christine would be very pleased if you would agree to attend."
"Of course. Send me a note with the date and time and I will be there to share in your joy," Tristan replied.
He had expected his response to please M. Angel. Instead, it seemed to make him uncomfortable, as he shifted in his chair, rubbing his hands together in a nervous gesture the doctor had never seen from him before. "Dr. Jarred," he began.
"Tristan, please. I think we are long past the need for formalities."
"You are probably correct, especially in light of what I am about to ask you." He glanced down at the ground, taking a breath before saying, "I have few acquaintances and even fewer friends. I am hoping I can count you among the latter." He looked the doctor in the eyes. "Tristan, would you be willing to stand up for me at my marriage to Christine?"
The request startled Tristan, but there was no way he could refuse, not with the question he had been waiting patiently to ask M. Angel. "I would be honored, sir, to be your best man."
A look of relief came over M. Angel's face and he held out his hand toward Tristan. The doctor shook it firmly then said, "I now have a request of you, Monsieur."
"Enough with 'Monsieur'." He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I seem to be in need of a new identity, though I have not made up my mind completely at this moment who I shall become. Call me Erik, as Cecilié does, for the time being."
"Very well, Erik. It is about Cecilié that I wish to speak to you." Suddenly Tristan was the one who was uncomfortable. "She and I have been speaking, when I have come to attend to you and Christine, and she has told me that you are the closest thing she has to family save Meg. So I thought I should come to you and ask your permission—"
"Ask my permission for what?" Erik looked quite amused by Tristan's nervousness.
"—Ask your permission to court her," he finished.
The other man stared at him for a few seconds, then threw back his head and laughed.
"What is it that you find so hilarious, Monsieur?" Tristan asked coldly, unsure if he was being insulted.
"Oh, oh…It is not you, sir," Erik gasped between peals of laughter. "It is this whole incredible situation I find myself in. All I ever wanted was for Christine to notice me, to look upon me and not run away screaming. Instead, I find myself engaged to be married, with a sister, a niece and a possible brother-in-law. You would have to have lived twenty years in solitude as I have to know how much that amuses me." He bent over, still laughing. "You may most certainly court Cecilié, if she will have you." He sat back up, wiping tears from his eyes.
"I appreciate your support," Tristan answered. "Now I must be getting back to my surgery, and I had hoped to see Cecilié for a moment before I left."
Still laughing, Erik got to his feet. "Yes, yes, I'll take you. I would like to be the one to give Christine the good news that you will attend our wedding." Picking up his lantern, he lit it from one of the many candles scattered around the lair. He opened the mirror then stepped through, Tristan on his heels.
The Phantom's disfigurement in the movie appears to be based on Sturge-Weber Syndrome. While the syndrome itself was not named until the use of radiographs in the early 1900's revealed the extent of the neurological problems, there are other external symptoms such as the portwine stain, eye problems, and seizures that an intelligent physician would have noticed patients having in common. The extent of the problems varies from person to person, thus the Phantom in my story has the portwine stain and the abnormal vein growth that distorts the right side of his face, but not glaucoma or epilepsy. For more information on Sturge-Weber syndrome go to
http/ www. sturge-weber. com (remove the spaces).