Chapter Eighteen: The Persian
I quickly looked around and noticed the form was a man, dressed oddly in long flowing robes and wearing a strange hat. Although the seats were mostly in shadow, I could make out his dark complexion and the menacing stare he was fixing us.
"Hey Holmes," I said tugging at his sleeve. Courtesy was not foremost on my mind, hence the reason I omitted the 'Mr.' from the front of his name.
He looked at me angrily, not happy that I called his attention away from Monsieur Beaufort. "What is it?"
"Who's that guy in the funny hat?" I asked pointing to the strange man.
Holmes followed my gaze until his eyes caught the object of my attention. "This is most curious," he said, his angry quickly dissipating.
"What's 'most curious?'"
The detective ignored me and turned his attention back to the guide. "Monsieur Beaufort, who is that man in the astrakhan hat? His gaze is most hostile."
Beaufort smiled uneasily as he searched his mind for the answer to the detective's question. "He is known as the Persian," he said, speaking the name with venom. "He seems to lurk around in shadows as much as le Fantomé. He never speaks to anyone and he leers at the girls of the corps de ballet. His gaze is so devilish--"
"All right," Holmes said placing a hand on our guide's broad shoulder. "I'll look into the matter of the Persian. Now, getting back to the footlights…"
The voices of the men droned on in my ears, their words jumbled together making no intelligible sounds, save for background noise. My attention remained on the Persian, and I suddenly had the urge to learn more about him.
I glanced at both the detective and the doctor and happily noted that they were both enthralled with the conversation. I smiled to myself and then glanced at my best friend, who looked at me, her stare that of intense boredom. I put my finger to my lips. She cocked her eyebrows in confusion and I mouthed for her to be quiet. I cast one more glance at Holmes and then slipped away from the stage, keeping one eye on the Persian at all times.
He suddenly began moving away from the stage at a rapid pace. I increased my speed, hoping to catch up to the man I was pursuing. I knew I was running on very thin ice because I knew my ankle could give way at any moment.
Keeping my eyes fixed on the man I was pursuing, I increased my speed until I was almost at a run. The Persian seemed to be taunting me, always keeping a few steps ahead of me. He exited the auditorium only a fraction of a second before I did. I chased him out onto the street until he stopped in an alleyway a several blocks from the Opera House.
I stood at the entrance of the alleyway, panting and wheezing. Both my ribs and ankle ached horribly but I tried my best to ignore them. My eyes scChristined the ally, attempting to penetrate the shadows and catch some glimpse of my antagonist. Unfortunately, the shadows were so deep that I was unable to see anything. For the first time in my pursuit I wondered if I had made a mistake following him here alone. For all I knew, he could be armed and dangerous.
Don't be a feeb! You've come too far to chicken out now. Just go into the alleyway and see if he is there. If not, then you've got nothing to worry about.
I tentatively stepped into the alley. My body was tense
with fear and my palms were slick with sweat. Just relax, just
relax, everything is cool. There's no one here, save you. How I
wished I could believe that! I continued hobbling slowly, deeper into
the alleyway. When I was about halfway through it, I let my guard
down. Big mistake!
No sooner did I allow myself to feel safe, I
felt a great weight on top of me and I went sprawling to the ground.
I yelped in pain and struggled to get my assailant off me, but to no
avail. I was no match for the Persian. We struggled for several
seconds, when he pinned me to the ground and held a long dagger with
a jeweled hilt against my throat.
I struggled to breathe, but the pressure of the dagger felt as though it would collapse my windpipe. "W-wh…what do yuh-you wuh-want?" I stammered fear flooded my body, completely paralyzing me.
The Persian smiled and for the first time, I saw a large scar that ran the length of his left cheek, pulling back his upper lip into a perpetual snarl. "I would love nothing more than to kill you," he said in heavily accented French. To emphasize his point, he pressed the blade harder against my throat, causing a trickle of blood to run down my neck.
"W-why?" I asked, hoping to buy myself some more time. It was not my intention to die at seventeen years of age in nineteenth century Paris at the hands of some madman who had an unknown grudge against me.
"You have the nerve to ask why?" The Persian said with a rough laugh. "Well before I kill you I suppose I can humor you."
"Very noble of you sir," I squeaked. I was completely terrified. I couldn't fight him if I tried. The reality that I was going to die hit me hard.
"You and your friends are meddling in matters that are too complex for you to understand. The Phantom of the Opera is not a man to be angered and you have angered him. If I shed your blood, perhaps that intrusive detective will put an end to his investigation, before more people loose their lives."
The thought of being a sacrificial lamb did not appeal to me. There had to be someway to get out of this, I knew there had to be someway I could escape with my life. I just had to bide my time and think of some plan of action.
"You seem to know a great deal about this mysterious phantom. Why don't you tell me what you know about him? It can't hurt, since I am going to die at your hand."
The Persian pondered my request for several seconds and an idea began to formulate in my mind. If I could just keep him talking for a few more minutes…
"What I can tell you is that it would be best if that detective stays away from him. He has interests in Mademoiselle Daaé that you and I cannot comprehend. It is my job to protect him; I made the vow to be his conscience and protector long ago. Anyone who poses a threat to him, I remove them."
"Do you really think that I, a seventeen year old girl, am a threat to le Fantomé de l'Opera?"
My question seemed to stagger the Persian, which gave me enough time to get my wrist out of his vice like grip. Once my arm was free, I positioned it directly under his hand that held the knife. I held my hand in place and waited for the right time to strike.
"No, you are not a threat to le Fantome, but your detective friend is another matter. I have wasted too much time talking. Pray to Allah that he will save your soul."
He raised his hand and started to bring the blade across my throat when, I, with my free hand grabbed his wrist and jerked it away from me.
This action stunned him and he half rose, giving me a chance to roll out from underneath him.
An almost primitive sound escaped from his throat as he lunged at me, dagger wielded. I rushed toward him and rammed into his chest full force, causing both of us to fall to the ground. When he hit the ground, the knife he was holding clattered to the floor.
We struggled for several minutes, until I was able to reach my hand and grab the jeweled hilt. I brought it to the Persian's throat.
"Okay buddy," I said, panting heavily. "What's the deal here? Why the hell were you trying to kill me!"
He stubbornly refused to answer my question. "You are going to kill me Mademoiselle? My soul is prepared, Allah blesses me. How about yours?"
"You haven't answered my question," I said, attempting to ignore the feeling of guilt he invoked in me.
"Nor do I intend to."
"The only reason I'm going to spare your life is because you may be of some use in our investigation. Now, tell me all you know."
Instead of answering, he pushed me off him with all his strength and sent me crashing into a concrete wall. Fighting waves of blackness, I forced myself to watch him take to his heels and dart down the alleyway, in the opposite direction from which we came.
I sat, stunned for several minutes watching the shadowy form retreat. I couldn't believe what had just happened or that I had the courage to face a potential madman with a knife. My throat was stinging horribly and I put my hand against it to see if there was any damage done. When I pulled my hand away it was stained red with my own blood. Great, another wound for Watson to treat! I didn't know much about anatomy and was unsure if the Persian had nicked any important veins. Deciding it would be foolish to waste any more time sitting in the alleyway, where I could possibly bleed to death, I decided to return to the opera house.
I struggled to me feet, my body protesting every move I made. I briefly entertained the idea of giving chase, but my ribs and fear of bleeding to death forced me to push that thought from my mind.
I secured the knife in the band of my jeans and very slowly limped out of the dark alleyway. I'm sure I attracted several stares while I stood on the street contemplating just how to return to the Palais Garnier. After all, it's not every day you see a teenager wearing a dress that is covered with dirt and blood bleeding from the throat standing in the middle of a sidewalk.
"Mon Dieu, you are hurt!" A woman said approaching me on the sidewalk. Her violet eyes were filled with concern.
I shook my head. "It is nothing more than a scratch. Pardon moi, but can you please tell me how to get to the Opera House? I have to meet someone there and I seem to have lost my way."
The woman, who obviously took pity on me, pointed in the opposite direction that I was facing. "It is about a ten minute walk. You just go straight down this road, and you cannot miss it. Are you certain you are all right? I can hail you a cab."
"Thank you Mademoiselle, you are too kind, but I think a walk would do me a world of good. Merci beacoup." I nodded farewell to the woman and then started my painful journey back to the Palais Garnier.
In my current physical condition the ten minute walk doubled in length and I began to wonder why the hell I didn't accept her offer when I arrived outside the magnificent building also known as the Paris Opera House.
Good job Mac, you made it! I thought to myself as I sat on the curb in front of the building. In attempt to slow my breathing down, I forced myself to take deep breathes, despite the pain in my ribs. Once it returned to a normal speed, I removed my shoe and looked at my wounded ankle. Much to my disappointment it was beginning to swell.
And you're surprised because why? Watson told you not to walk on it, let alone run. It's your own fault Mac.
I shrugged my shoulders and in effort to leave my conscience behind, I very slowly limped up the stairs and entered the building.
