Chapter 16
Blindly I staggered across the Garnier's roof, catching myself upon the base of a statue moments before dropping hard onto my knees. The pain did not register on me, and neither did the cold of the winter air. Snow was beginning to fall around me, a few icy flakes landing upon the cheeks of my mask. They did not melt there, but remained—for what heat existed, to warm them into water? No, as snow they came, and as snow they continued, and soon my black mask had begun to look almost white. My head dropped until my chin was on my chest; my breath whistled harshly in my lungs, burning with every breath.
Her voice still rang in my ears, as if still she stood upon this roof, telling that stupid boy all my dearest secrets. So quickly, they had spilled forth into the world; it had taken so little time, so little effort, to lose the privacy I had spent nearly fifty years wrapping protectively around myself. And now, all of it was gone—gone, because of one silly girl who, against all my better judgment, I had allowed into my confidences…
Hardly could I breathe now beneath the mask, but I dared not remove it—not that I now had much reason to keep secret that which Christine had already unmasked… I laughed bitterly, mirthlessly, at the horrible pun I had made, and allowed myself to sink further down, onto the rooftop, as snow piled up around me. A veritable blizzard had begun—a perfect end to my night of tragedy—and the cold was welcome, and so I allowed it to sink into my bones.
This stillness was a different one than I had experienced in the cathedral, weeks ago. This was the stillness of hopelessness, of pain and suffering so immense that there was nothing left to do but lie down and admit to defeat. She had turned me aside more completely, more irreversibly, than was even fathomable.
At the drained end of such fury as had just moments ago possessed me, I felt sapped completely of all will to move; what had occurred just now, beneath the gaze of Apollo and his lyre, served not to energize me further. I lay my head upon a pillow of snow, and allowed my eyes to close against the world which sought so to interfere with the happiness I had begun to mold from the muck and mire that my life had become. I did not understand Christine's unhappiness with me; I had treated her with every kindness, had set her free from me and never even asked her to return. I had not disturbed her happiness, had left her to exist as she would, had left her to see if she would come back to me on her own. She had not, and still I had left her in peace! Tonight had frightened her so terribly, but it did not make sense to me why.
I opened my eyes briefly, and found the world too cruel—immediately I shut them again, like a child who believes he can remain safe from monsters if his head is beneath the coverlet.
She had been close to the falling chandelier, yes, but not nearly close enough! Did she not believe that I knew what I was doing? Few mistakes I ever made in my little escapades about the opera—and when I did, they usually served to my own disadvantage, and not others'. Why, then, did she think me so incapable? Never would I have allowed harm to befall her… Had I not proven as much, again and again?
She had rejected me, had denounced my very presence to the man I hated most in this city—and she had known exactly what she was doing. Certainly, she could not have doubted the repercussions of such a confession to the Vicomte de Chagny—surely, surely! Bitter tears welled beneath my eyelids, and began to slip between the cracks, though I did my best to trap them within.
Stupid child. Stupid, stupid child! Was I even safe beneath the Garnier, anymore? Would a mob come seeking me with torches and pitchforks? Would I suffer, like Frankenstein's monster? Would they hunt me down, like Dracula, like the wolfman, and burn me at the stake for the beast, for the horrendous mutation that I was?
Further I buried my face into the steadily-rising snow, as if to vanish beneath that white blanket would be to vanish from the world entirely. Perhaps I would die there, laid out upon the roof, in the same spot where I had stood and heard her vicious monologue of how terrible and beastly I was, of what a monster I was. It was clear how she felt about me, now, clear that she could never love me. What a fool I had been! What was a mask, after all, when I still was what lay beneath it? No façade would ever change what was beneath it, no matter how artfully done, or how well it could deceive the eye, the finger, the lips. I would always be Erik, just Poor Erik, the Living Corpse.
I made a weak attempt at moving, and found that I could not. Snow weighted me down, my limbs felt lifeless. I sank back against the gentle fluff, allowing myself to be numb, to be motionless, to be for all appearances a corpse in truth. Still my heart beat strong against my chest, as if out of spite; I ignored it, opened my eyes and stared up into the Parisian sky. Beautiful, the stars against the velvet night, twinkling and distant—so far away, perhaps, that I appeared to them as beautiful as did they to me.
Nadir found me on the rooftop, snooping about as usual—he found me there, barely more than a lump beneath the snow. Brave, kind man that he was, he dug me free, and escorted me back below. I sank down onto the sofa in my parlor, which still smelled a bit of Christine and her so-distant presence. Nadir lit a fire for me, changed me out of my soaking clothes and wrapped a housecoat around me. He told me that a woman had died, told me how horrible I was. I only stared into the fire, eyes slowly slipping shut again, and refusing to open.
After a little while, he left me.
Still half-numb, I reached up weakly to peel away the mask which sat so uncomfortably against my face. I dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a quiet thud; my eyes never opened. I felt so exposed without that mask, so exposed without the mask which Christine had torn away from me. The fire I felt dancing upon my dead skin, and unconsciously I strained towards it. For a moment, I imagined life returning, tingling, to the nose that was not. However, when I opened my eyes, when I raised my fingers to my face, it was the same Poor Erik as had greeted me every morning until the last few months.
I lay upon the couch for some time, wrapped just barely in my robe, eyes drifting between half-open and closed, sometimes staring into the fire, sometimes falling in and out of fitful dreaming in the darkness. The logs burned out, and the fire died; still, I imagined I could feel the warmth trying and failing to seep into my weary bones.
I heard a footstep in the hall, and my eyes began to slide open—fighting, struggling their way upwards, arguing endlessly against the weariness that begged them to just close, and never again open. It had been a kindness beyond what I had ever expected of Nadir, for him to have so rescued me, even after having done something as terrible as I had; he deserved to be greeted, to be thanked, to be recognized at least, if nothing else.
My study door opened, and Christine walked in, with Raoul and the corps de ballet trailing behind her. She crossed silently to my side, and I tried to move, but found that I could not—my body was weightless, but powerless. I watched as she knelt beside me, watched those who were with her laughing, though I could not hear them. I could hear only her sweet voice, as she whispered to me, "Forgive me, Erik…" Her tiny hands reached forwards, caressed my cheeks… and then her nails dove into my skin, finding purchase and ripping off the face that had so haunted me.
The fire was ablaze again, and she stood, laughing, and tossed that mass of skin onto the fire. Raoul said something, but I could not hear him… and then the corps de ballet lunged forth with knives, their faces suddenly contorted into those of harpies.
I gave such a start that I awoke to find myself plummeting towards the parlor floor. I landed hard beside the couch, on my back; staring up at the dark and silent ceiling, I gave a quiet sigh. My heart still beat loudly against my chest, protesting to the trials I had just put it through. I offered to it a silent apology, and then slowly began to raise myself up from the floor.
The study door opened, and for a moment, I believed my dream had been real. I gave out a feverish cry of terror, and weakly tried to drag myself farther from the door. It was just a draft, however, and soon I sank back down flat onto the floor, shivering and sweating, and tried to calm my racing pulse. With shaking breaths, I pulled myself over to the couch, and up onto it. I sank down into the cushions with a sigh, and felt my eyes slipping shut again. So nice, to just lie there and rest...
Three days passed in such a state; my memory of them is nothing more than a blur of darkness and shadows, of rising occasionally to see to needs, only to fall once more onto that sofa, wrapped only in my robe, shivering and sweating, trembling with weakness, and sleeping, dreaming, always of her, never of anything good…
On the fourth day, I heard a voice, calling my name. It was her voice, and so I did not respond, for I knew it to be another dream. Still, those sweet tones persisted, and eventually I tried to reply, though my own voice was little more than a hoarse whisper after so many days of silence and fever. The parlor door opened slowly, gliding as dreamlike as possible, and that beautiful frame entered the darkness, baring a candle shielded by her small traitor's hands.
I barely paid her any mind, knowing her to be the dream that she was. Always it happened the same way; always she came, always she hurt me—beat me, burned me, cut me, anything at all to inflict pain—and then she left again. This time, however, she came to the sofa, and merely looked down at me in horror. Was this the eternity I was to spend, then? I wondered, as I looked up at her face, contorted with fear and loathing, her fingers shaking at their hold on the candlestick. I turned my eyes away from her, forwards, past her little legs and into the empty fireplace.
The Dream set aside the candle, and knelt down in front of me. Its eyes were the same as Christine's, and penetrated me as deeply, though I barely noticed. Her hands touched my face, and for once, they felt cold to my skin. I tried to jerk away, but managed only a slight movement and a groan. The Dream's face softened, as it whispered, "What have I done? What have I done?" again and again.
I did not answer it, for it was only a dream.
The vision left me, and I was in the dark again. I was thirsty, but could not find the will to rise and fetch water, so I remained on the sofa, wishing that water would somehow pour down my throat without the effort required. When the light returned, with the Dream close behind, it was both Christine and Nadir who came to me, who knelt beside me and whispered and murmured as if concerned. I stared forwards, into the fireplace, and saw nothing else.
Suddenly there was fire, and it seemed as if it had been many hours since the darkness. There was warmth on my skin instead of cold and shadow, and the room was alight. Christine sat nearby, clutching a tiny book in her hands; Nadir was stoking the fire, and then appearing standing at the door, and then suddenly crouched before me again, touching my face, muttering to Christine. I could see her stand, and then in jolts and leaps her body would work its way across the floor; I was uncertain if it was the dream, or my own true vision, which could not quite register this movement properly.
"…in the snow…" came Nadir's voice. "On the rooftop… Apollo…"
"What have I done? What have I done?"
I wept, though I was not sure why. I could not even remember the snow, or Apollo, though I did remember what had happened that night. It was like a knife between the ribs, knowing that Christine was up above, most likely already run away with that silly Vicomte, while I existed in the darkness, with the Dream, incapable of going to her and seeking her forgiveness for all that I had done.
She was in front of me again—or, the Dream was—with her tiny hand pressed against my cheek, against my corpse's cheek. That was when I knew it was a dream for certain; she would never have touched that skin, not with such compassion, such affection. "Forgive me, Erik," she whispered, and for a moment I feared she would tear off that face again, as she had in dreams before. But this time, she did not, she only held her hand against my face and smiled ever so softly, ever so sadly.
On the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh—I know not what day it was—I suddenly found the strength to rise. The fire was lit, though no one was with me in the parlor. Still somewhat feverish, I struggled to discern how a Dream had lit a fire in my parlor. Still was I puzzling over such a matter, when Nadir pushed the door open. He saw me sitting up, and the tray he had in his hands crashed to the floor.
"Erik!" he cried. "We thought you would die—without doubt, we expected to find you dead!"
We? I stared dumbly at him, and then allowed my gaze to slide back to the fire. My head hurt—my entire body ached—and my vision was as if I were staring through a misty tunnel. But I could see what was happening, and understand it; I was sensible enough to know that meant I was recovering.
"I… had made you soup," Nadir was saying, as he knelt to clean up the mess he had made. "I suppose I shall have to make more."
I turned again to look at him, and found my heart warming. This was the second occasion on which he had nursed me back to health, when I had placed myself in such danger, and had done nothing prior to it to deserve his attention. Still, both times, he had remained, both times he had seen to it that I survived the ordeal. I found my warped and twisted lips wriggling themselves into a smile. "Daroga," I breathed. "Thank you…"
"Hush," he said immediately. "Lie back down. I shall bring your food in shortly." He set the tray aside, and walked over to me, pressing his hand against my forehead. He gave a slight nod to himself, and then vanished, acting for all the world like a fussy nursemaid.
I lowered myself back against the cushions, sinking my head down onto the pillow that had been placed there. Blankets they had tucked around me were pulled up once again, and I allowed my eyes to close. As I drifted back into dreaming, I was almost certain that I heard voices, but whether they came from the kitchen or from the Dream, I could not be sure.
"...fever is breaking... in the clear..."
I heard an angel's voice, and then slipped away from them entirely.
When next I awoke fully, I felt almost entirely better. I sat up slowly, struggling through the stuffiness of my head to wrap my mind around all that had occurred. The fire still burned, though it was low, and I could hear Nadir humming in the kitchen. I pushed aside my blankets, and stood slowly, shuffling like an old man into the kitchen.
Nadir looked up at me, and smiled. "Ah, so he is alive, after all!"
I sat down in my chair, and leaned my weight upon my hands. "Perhaps," I replied.
He laughed, and sat down across from me. "So optimistic," he said with a grin. "How do you feel?"
"As if I have been asleep for far too long," I answered, my head lowering. "How many days...?"
The brightness faded slightly from his eyes, and he gave me a somewhat compassionate smile. "A week, my old friend. It was less than I expected, actually; in the beginning, I thought you would never survive. Your body... it is not getting younger, you know."
I nodded silently.
"Allah punished you for your cruelty, Erik," he told me in a low voice. "You should be thankful that he was more merciful than you deserved."
I winced, and shrank back away from him, physically attempting to avoid his sudden harshness. "Please," I managed weakly.
He sighed, and gave me a little nod. "Yes, I suppose it is a little soon to be attacking you. We shall wait for your strength to return more fully."
I could not help but smile a bit, as I allowed my eyes to slip shut again. "So tired..." I whispered.
"Do not fall asleep yet," he said quickly. "Eat something first, and then you may rest again."
I did not nod, but managed to open my eyes; he correctly assumed this to be a method of agreeing, and therefore stood to heat some of the same broth he had been feeding to me. As I reflected more on the hazy memories I had of my fever-dreams, I began to recall in particular those later visions of Christine. Still puzzled over the extent of the reality of that, I fought against the weakness, the lethargy that was overtaking me again, and forced my lips to move. "Daroga... I must ask you a question."
"Mm. What is it, Erik?"
I hesitated, struggling to find the energy to ask the question. "Was... was Christine here, with me, when I was sick?"
His silence extended for so long that I knew the answer already. I could hear his own heartbeat faltering, could feel his eyes turned upon me in disgusting pity. "No, Erik," he finally said, voice soft and gentle. "No, Mlle. Daaé was not here..."
My head nodded, of its own volition, and I heaved a sigh. "No, I did not think she was..."
"She came to me, Erik. She came to me, weeping, and telling me again and again that there was something wrong with you. She... I do not know how she knew, Erik, but she knew. She begged me to go to you, until finally I did, and... well, as you know, she was correct..."
I made him no reply, only lifted my hand to hold it against my cheek, in the same place that the Dream had touched me. Bittersweet, those false memories--I almost wished I had not had my suspicions confirmed, that I could have gone on allowing myself to believe that she had truly been there with me. I had, in fact, been allowing myself to believe it for so long, that I felt lied to, betrayed.
The more I thought on it, the angrier I became, until I found myself suddenly wanting to confront her on the matter. How could she not have come? If she knew me to be in such danger, then she should by all means have come to my side, at least to see for herself the damage she had caused. I could not believe what she had done to me, what she had so willingly done, and the selfish creature had not even come to seek atonement, or to assure herself that I still lived, still survived. Obviously, not a shred of affection was left in her heart, not for me.
If there had been, she would not have left me alone, would not have let me discover her refusal of me through overhearing whispers born upon the wind. She would have told me, and not her silly boy. She would not have shared my secrets, would not have betrayed my every confidence. She had told him everything—everything!
Everything… almost. My head jerked suddenly from its place upon my palm, turned to stare sharply towards where I knew the Rue Scribe to lay. Nadir was startled by my sudden motion; he tried to follow my gaze, but of course found nothing but wall.
"Erik?" he inquired carefully. "What is it?"
I stood, lips parting. Surely, surely she would not… could not…
If she could tell him everything else… why not this?
"Christine," I breathed, and Nadir immediately believed me mad.
"It is only the fever, Erik," he said carefully, as he rose to his feet. "Christine is not here…"
"This is no delusion!" I snapped, as I began to walk forwards. His hand tried to find my arm; I shook it off impatiently. "She has the key, Nadir. She has the key!" I went to the closet, and removed my cloak and hat. "She has it, and I must get it back. It is the only way, Nadir." I swept the cloak about my shoulders, fastening it with one hand and placing my hat upon my head with the other, even as I walked out the door. I had to get the key back from her, and quickly—before she had the chance to place it in dangerous hands.
"Erik!" Nadir called after me, as I vanished into the impenetrable darkness of the Garnier's cellars. "Erik, your mask!"
My voice echoed against cold stone as I called back to him, over my shoulder, "There is no need for masks now, Daroga!"
