During the strains of the funeral music in the small chapel in Fort Worth, Ronnie sat in the front pew, helplessly watching her grandmother's open casket. Elizabeth Hannah looked more beautiful than she had in years, dressed in a lime green dress, her ebony-gray hair swirled about in curls along her shoulders. She looked twenty years younger and at peace. The mortician had done a good job, Ronnie thought with some cynicism. She had seen too much of her grandmother's suffering to be fooled by the illusion.
As relatives that she had never even met started to spill into the chapel, Veronica fervently wished that she could be anywhere but there. Every little thing seemed to set her into a near collapse of embarrassing tears, especially the sight of her grandfather standing by Elizabeth's coffin. He seemed like a man who had lost everything and wanted to be buried into the earth with her.
No, not again, Ronnie cursed. I will not cry! I will not cry!
Remember the play…remember our work…
The sweet manly voice in her mind seemed to be the only glue holding her together. She closed her eyes and thought about Erik, her mind calming. For a moment, she almost thought she could feel a light touch of finger stroking her hair, but it must have been her mind playing tricks on her.
She was quite exhausted.
Last night, she had spent hours poring over the text of Gaston Leroux's "The Phantom of the Opera," scribbling notes and observations to herself. She had read the novel once before, shortly after she had seen the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical for the first time. About three years ago, she had developed an extreme case of what she had called "Phantomitis," devouring all of the stories she could about the legend as she listened to the swelling notes of Michael Crawford again and again. That was when she read Leroux's book, but it so paled in comparison with the high romance that she craved that it barely even left an impression on her.
This time, having known what to expect, she found the story not only more bearable but rather enjoyable. And she picked up on the subtle erotic phrases of Leroux's writing that she had missed the first time, such as Erik's remarks to Christine regarding Don Juan Triumphant:
"I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep; but my Don Juan, Christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from Heaven."
And there was another one:
"You see, Christine, there is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. Fortunately, you have not come to that music yet, for you would lose all your pretty coloring and nobody would know you when you returned to Paris. Let us sing something from the Opera, Christine Daae."
Also, there was Christine's statement to Raoul:
"Then know that each of my visits to Erik increased my horror of him; for each of those visits, instead of calming him, as I hoped, made him mad with love! And I am so frightened, so frightened…"
Such phrases made Ronnie's imagination run wild. She thought of Erik, cursed with ugliness, blessed with a voice from the heavens, in determined pursuit of a woman, "mad with love". She dreamed of herself as Christine screaming in horror, scrambling about his lair to escape him. And eventually, she would become exhausted, out of breath from all of that running about in a tight corset…and she would collapse onto the cold ground. Erik would capture her, sweep her up furiously up into his arms and make her his bride! He would throw her upon the top of the coffin, ripping her nightgown from her shoulders and then he would kiss her with all of the passion he had been denied for so long. Under his clutches, she would become faint and dizzy until her blood would race with excitement…and her body would become possessed with an overwhelming urge to mate with him…and then…
Shouldn't we stick to the task at hand, Veronica?
The ghostly voice caused her to give out a startled gasp in surprise. He had been so quiet for so much of the day that she almost thought he had left her completely. And when she realized that he had seen the sexual scenario playing out in her mind, she was mortified.
"I think I'm getting tired, Erik," she whispered hoarsely. "I've finished the Leroux novel. I really need to go to bed because Grandma's funeral is in the morning."
Of course. Pleasant dreams, Veronica.
All night, Ronnie tossed and turned, unable to free her mind of the sexy images of her fantasy yet not daring to indulge in them in case Erik was watching her.
The strains of "Amazing Grace" brought Ronnie back to the present. She shouldn't be thinking of such things at Elizabeth's funeral. It was so disrespectful. Yet, she remembered how her grandmother would rhapsodize about her favorite classic movie stars like Clark Gable and Lew Ayres and William Powell. "How those men send me!" she would say with a reminiscent grin. Ronnie smiled a little at the memory. Probably, her grandmother would understand.
After the reception, Ronnie finally was able to have a little peace and quiet. While it was nice seeing certain family members, she was too on edge to really enjoy their company. Her grandfather was so deep in mourning that everyone was worried about his health. Her mother was not only grieving but became so anxious about the funeral that she was literally sick to her stomach from all of the stress. Her father did what he typically did during times of turmoil. He became an impenetrable stone wall, barely talking to anyone except in short terse replies.
Escaping to the haven of her old bedroom, she turned on her computer and began to type up some of her notes she had made from the Leroux novel. She was all too ready to lose herself in the world of the Phantom.
There were several differences between the novel and the musical version.
As Erik noted, he was portrayed as a necrophiliac and a madman who had committed innumerable atrocities. Christine was intense and haunted and frail, even a bit insane. Or at least, so Ronnie thought. Raoul was not the hero of the Webber musical, but a bit of a pansy actually. And he was so possessive of Christine while he looked down at her common background at the same time. Ronnie found him quite annoying in the book.
She noted that in the novel, Erik had killed Joseph Buquet, the concierge who was hit by the chandelier, Count Phillippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny who was Raoul's brother, along with countless of poor souls in Persia and India and so forth. In the musical, he had killed Buquet, Ubaldo Piangi (a man not so much as mentioned in Leroux's novel), and assumedly the whole audience with the chandelier.
Let us ignore who I supposedly killed in the musical, Erik said to her. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a great showman and tended to overdramatize the murders. I cannot blame him; I would have done the same in his shoes. But he played up those murders for bloodthirsty dramatic effect.
"Yes," Ronnie said, stopping her typing to speak to the voice in her head. "I always wondered why you would hang Buquet right in the middle of the 'Il Muto' ballet when you had already gotten what you wanted: Christine in the role of the Countess."
Exactly. Why would I ruin her chances like that on purpose when I had worked so hard to make her an operatic star? Poor logic with the writing on that. And of course, they would have made the usual excuse: Erik was a madman! Really, it's infuriating!
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Erik. Sort of like an interview? I think it would help me get my thoughts in order for how to approach this."
You may ask me anything, Veronica.
"So Buquet, the scene shifter, was really found hanging in the third floor cellar? Did you kill him, Erik?"
I most certainly did! But not because the man was telling ghost stories! If I were to kill all of those who had told such tales about me, half of the corps de ballet at the Paris Opera House would have been slaughtered! Buquet was a scoundrel! He was not the 'serious, sober, steady man' that Leroux described. He was more like the 'Joseph Buquet' in the recent movie: a drunk, lewd man who would never shut up! And when Madame Giry slapped him and gave him the warning which I had instructed her to give, he and his ruffian friends had attempted to accost her and her daughter. I taught him that was a fatal mistake. Indeed, I should have been awarded a medal for ridding humanity of such a wretched creature!
"Okay, so Buquet's murder was in Madame Giry's and her daughter's defense."
Yes!
"What about Phillippe de Chagny?"
The fool did get caught in my trap, trying to go underground to find me. I won't apologize for that! You have no idea how many men have wanted to see me die when they have seen my face. I was lucky I survived my boyhood in the gypsy camps! Men have tried to beat me and rape me and murder me. I had to learn to fight back just like any animal alone in the wilderness. If he had minded his own business, he would not have gotten hurt. I had no contention with the Count.
"Okay, what about the chandelier falling down?"
Ah, that was an incident which occurred in Eighteen Hundred and Ninety Six during a production of 'Thetis and Pelee'. A steel hawser holding one of the eight counterweights which kept the chandelier in position had been eaten through by fire caused by an electrical short circuit. The weight broke loose and fell through the ceiling. A woman was found crushed to death under the debris. You see how facts and legend blur into an indecipherable mix until no one any longer can distinguish what is true? Time and again, there are testaments and inquests into the events during my stay at the Opera House. Leroux attempts to disclaim them all with forgeries supposedly from the Dagoda! Well, I suppose it was easy enough to take advantage of a poor monster like me…
"So the Persian existed?"
Yes, but he never would have betrayed me to Leroux or de Chagny. He was perhaps one of the only friends I ever had. Yes, I was a well traveled architect. I had helped with the construction of the Garnier Opera House and made my home there. I had lived in India and Persia. And, yes, I was even an executioner there with the Punjab Lasso. But Leroux makes it sound as if I had a choice in the matter. It was either to obey the Sultana or die! Those poor people would have been killed at her hand regardless if I was the face of their doom or not! In fact,they probably died much quicker at my hand than with others.
"How did Leroux ever find out about you?"
For many years, I merely roamed my underground as a ghost, yearning for my lost love to return. One night, Leroux showed up, exploring in places he had no business being. He had stumbled upon a skeleton left over from the Commune. And then he saw my spiritwithout my mask. I disappeared at once. But the die had been cast. He had been a journalist and gleamed out all sorts of rumors and speculations about me as men of that profession do. He had to write popular novels to pay off his gambling debts. And I became another one of his stories. The cur!
"Was there anything he wrote about you that you consider accurate?"
The affection I had for Christine. That was true enough. Although I was not the cruel brute that he portrayed me to be. I never would have drugged her or tied her up. I never would have physically harmed her in any way. I loved her…
Even now, over a century later, Ronnie could hear the sadness in his voice as he spoke of Christine. And she felt horribly jealous. Stupid, really! To be jealous of a dead woman and a ghost!
"And you let her leave with Raoul de Chagny after she kissed you?"
Yes. Perhaps the realization that she really did want me made me see just how foolish my dreams were. My life was not for her. She was so beautiful when I kissed her. And I knew that my fate of darkness and death was killing her spirit; so I let her leave with the boy. Then I ended my own life.
Ronnie gasped, tears stinging at her eyes.
Do not waste your tears upon a poor monster like me, Veronica. That is all long done now. Although I am moved by your compassion…
"You shouldn't have killed yourself, Erik," she said quietly, her head lowered. "Perhaps you could have found another woman who would have loved you for yourself. Someone who could have seen past your face."
That was highly unlikely, my dear. Christine was the only woman even close to such an ideal. When she left me, she took all of my hope with her. Besides, no time remained for second chances, either with Christine or anyone else. All of Paris was out to hunt me down and kill me. I had little hope, except to die in a more merciful way than at the hands of a vengeful mob. I hung myself with my own Punjab Lasso.
Ronnie let out a cry.
Fitting, wasn't it? At any rate, the damage has been done and seems rather irreversible now.
"Not entirely," Ronnie swore. "I shall write your true life and do my best to do it justice. I promise."
