Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for Sister Helena, that sweet old nun that everyone wants to love, but finds a little too cheerful :)
Side Notes:
Ch. 22 is for the daroga lovers out there. Three cheers for the Persian! Roses and Thorns also contains quite a bit of Lerouxism, so those who have not read the original POTO, get thee to a library and confess! (watches as corner of Leroux purists whoop and holler). Hehe—seriously, no worries if you haven't read it; you will be able to follow the chapter just fine.
A couple of people have asked about Jerusalem and my descriptions. They are indeed firsthand (save for the 100-year difference). I spent some time in the Holy Land in college, digging up old stuff and studying the culture. And I'm telling you, once old city Jerusalem gets in your veins, you can't get it out again! I'm going to post some of my photography on my website (see profile) if readers would like to see the places I'm writing about.
Thank you to Chat for her fabulous job betaing! And barefoot is back from her beta vacation, so she'll be on board for the next chapter. Loff zee betas!
Of Roses and Thorns
"He who wants a rose must respect the thorn"
Persian proverb
"Christine, I find it hard to understand why you insist upon staying at this convent, when there are extremely nice, luxurious, and not to mention convenient hotels just outside this pile of old stones," the lawyer grunted as he struggled under the weight of the large water-filled basin. "That is where the rest of the fashionable French stay when they come to Jerusalem. And you would have no trouble finding a suitable place to bathe your child in one of their spacious suites. These bare rooms are nothing short of a jail cell—why, one can hardly turn a complete circle in their own bathroom without banging their shin on that infernal metal tub. It's a wonder they have plumbing at all!" He set the basin down with an indignant huff, accidentally sloshing soapy warm water onto the fine dress shoes he insisted on incongruously wearing with the baggy linen pants and thob of the Middle East.
The Comtesse set her squirming son down, then straightened her back and stared at M. David incredulously. "And I find it hard to understand how a man who was perilously close to being locked away in Scotland Yard can complain about the size of his bedroom—which, I might mention, does not have bars on the windows and door." Putting a hand to her forehead to shield the bright sun, she gazed onto the city bathed in light, its exotic streets pulsing with the rhythms of everyday life. She raised her eyes to the hills just beyond the wall, her gaze sweeping along their tree-flecked contours and majestic steeples. "Besides," the woman murmured, "Scotland Yard would not have such a glorious view."
The avocat shrugged disinterestedly and plopped into one of the veranda chairs, propping his feet up on a small footstool. "I might as well be in Scotland Yard, for all the freedom that Persian and your cranky old caretaker afford me. Why, we have been here nearly a month, and they have not even allowed me to venture outside of the nunnery yet! Apparently we are the only guests allowed to stay on the fourth floor, so there is no one for me to socialize with when you are gone. And you leave me alone everyday to go traipsing about the streets in Arab clothing—pants, no less!—doing goodness knows what for hours on end." M. David sniffed indignantly at the mistreatment he had suffered, his restless fingers toying with a large plant palm at the side of his chair.
Plunging a sponge into the water, Christine twisted it harshly. "You can hardly see the pants under the long thob and jacket. I cannot wear a corset and bustle in this city, when no one else does," she bit back, forcefully scrubbing the soil from her child's hands.
Jean-Paul cried out at the sponge's attack and crossly squirmed from his mother's arms. He attempted a bold escape from the other side of the basin, but the woman quickly snatched him back before he could hoist himself out of the water.
"And I hardly 'traipse about the streets,' as you so kindly put it. Norry or M. Khan always accompany me." She pushed the wriggling child back into the basin and picked up his other hand, this time washing his fingers more gently.
Realizing that one of his arms had been freed, the boy took advantage of his watery position and brought his fist down hard upon the soapy surface, splashing dirty bathwater all over the front of his Maman's plain gray dress.
Christine gasped in shock as rivulets streamed down her face and neck.
The lawyer chuckled at the woman's distress and rose to hand her a towel. She took the cloth, muttered an exasperated "thank you," and patted her face and hair dry.
"Is that the potted plant Jean-Paul found his way into?" the avocat asked, his mind momentarily straying from his wallow in self-pity. He pointed to an overturned orange and red ceramic pot, the green froths of the plant half-buried under the soil spilling from the mouth.
Christine glanced over her shoulder and nodded. She dipped the sponge again and wrung the water onto the sour-faced child's curly black hair. "It is impossible to keep an eye on him every single minute of the day. And since Papi and Norry are across the street at the orphanage, I wasn't able to stop him in time. Of course, Henri, if you chose to put aside this sulking and make yourself useful more often, perhaps the rest of the veranda greenery might be spared."
She gave the man a half-hearted smile to ease the sting of her words, but he did not miss the hard glint in her eyes, so reminiscent of the coldness she had turned upon him in the London cellar. A shudder ran down his spine at the memory. He sighed and nodded in resignation, powerless to fight against the woman's newfound reserves of strength.
"I shall try to do better, Madame," he muttered and stared down upon the bustling streets.
A group of pilgrims—French, by the look of their clothing—was making its way along the Via Dolorosa, following the Stations of the Cross to the Holy Sepulchre. M. David watched as their guide pointed towards the convent, telling the story he had already heard several times in their month at the holy site.
"…the convent is also known as the Ecce Homo; for those of you not proficient in Latin, it translates as 'Behold the Man'. The convent is built atop the ruins of Antonia's Fortress, the old Roman stronghold; several Roman roads, arches, and even cisterns have recently been excavated underneath the Ecce Homo. They are, unfortunately, not open for public scrutiny…"
The lawyer studied the rapt crowd, searching for a familiar Parisian face or two. He recognized no one, though there were several pretty faces amongst the group.
"…Many men stood before Pilate on this ground to await sentencing, including our Lord and Savior. From here, they were taken to the courtyard just beyond the fortress to either be incarcerated or flogged. The Church of the Flagellation stands there today—the small, twelfth century chapel we observed next to the Franciscan monastery. Now, if you will turn your attention to the left…"
Sighing again, M. David turned away from the devout to watch a raggedy old vendor tail the pilgrims. He held some small object in the air, the glass glinting brightly in the sun's rays.
"Anywhere you go!" the merchant cried in surprisingly smooth, practiced French. He waved the object around as several of the group turned to observe him.
Henri started as the Comtesse immediately appeared at his side, her eyes wildly searching the streets for the source of the voice.
"Take the soil of Jerusalem with you, anywhere you go, only one lira!" the old man again cried, and the avocat realized that the object he waved about was a small vial of dirt. He snorted as several men and women queued to purchase the goods, and voiced his humorous thoughts to Christine.
"One only has to bend over, remove a shoe, and pour the collected sand into a pouch—it is not as if dirt is a scarcity here. Why, every time I open my lips, I get a mouthful of it…"
The lawyer's words trailed away as he observed the rigid Comtesse, her thoughts far away from his jest, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She clutched the roof railing so tightly, her knuckles were bloodless mounds atop to back of her hands. Her lips parted slightly and she exhaled, her words barely a whisper, meant more for her own ears than her companion's.
"I was so sure, for a moment."
Her lids fell shut and several tears seeped out, clinging prettily to her eyelashes and running the length of her cheeks. Henri's breath caught in his throat at the loveliness before him, silhouetted by the bright light of the Mideastern day…her sun-kissed skin and hair…the allure of her neck…the gentle curve of her corsetless body under the cotton of her dress…
Suddenly, the meaning of her simple words struck him, cutting him to the heart. Him…he thought angrily. She is searching for him, that monster of a man she takes such an interest in. That is the reason she roams the streets everyday. Even why she is bathing her child out here on the roof—to watch for him!
Impulsively grasping her elbow, he pulled her around to meet his face. Christine's eyes flew open in shock at the abrupt movement and she yelped, immediately yanking her arm back. Her face turned stony as she indignantly rubbed her elbow.
The brief glimpse into her eyes had been enough for M. David, however. He had seen all he needed to, cared to. Longing had overflowed from the clear blue, before cold anger had filtered in—shameless longing—and more significantly, for a man that wasn't himself. Jealousy seized hold, quenching any humor that had fleetingly resided in him.
"He's not coming, you know," he glowered huffily. "The only reason he was aboard that ship to begin with was to discover what I knew about Fraternité. He more than likely took a boat back to France when we docked in Jaffa, so he could root around in the Brotherhood's dealings. That would be the most logical step, in my opinion."
"No one has asked for your opinion, Henri," she snapped, her icy glare all but slapping his face for his cruel, hurtful words. Hurtful, in part, because he had voiced her own dreadful thoughts. And as day after day passed in which she neither saw nor heard her angel…
A squeal of laughter broke the tense interlude. The Comtesse turned away from the sulking man and back to her son, but all that met her eyes was an empty bath basin. Gasping in surprise, she grabbed a towel and followed the trail of soapy water leading across the terrace and onto the breezeway, next to hers and Jean-Paul's bedrooms. She ran to the corridor in time to see her boy, naked and dripping wet, toddling away from her as fast as his little legs would carry him. Somewhere behind her, M. David's laughter rose up.
"Jean-Paul, stop right where you are!" she sternly commanded.
The boy gave no notice to her order; instead, he shrieked with glee at what seemed to be a most promising game. Impishly peering around the corner, he waited until his Maman was almost upon him before turning to run again.
Christine unfolded the towel, expecting to scoop up her child the minute she rounded the corner. He was not there. Searching the stone floor for rapidly drying footprints, the tearful woman at last threw her hands up in exasperation. She had learned how best to handle Raoul de Chagny, Henri David, even Erik, at times. At that minute, though, she believed she would never in her lifetime discover the secret to managing her strong-willed son.
"Little man, mon petit," she cajoled wearily, "please come back!"
Another squeal met her ears and she turned towards a sparsely decorated parlour of sorts. There was her naughty little boy, exposed to the elements, water dripping from his dark locks onto the green, threadbare rug. Just beyond him stood the five other occupants of the room: the Persian, Papi, Norry, Sister Helena and Sister Marie, returned from their visit to the orphanage.
The maid's face was a study. The holy sisters awkwardly glanced away from the Comtesse's flushing face, shielding the smiles that played upon their lips. Mssrs. Khan and Nitot, however, made no attempt to hide the deep guffaws that emitted from their persons. They slapped their knees and hooted with laughter as Christine protectively swept over to her giggling little boy and wrapped the towel around him. It was evident to all in the room, judging by the mother's fatigued expression and sodden appearance, that "bath time" had not been a success.
Taking pity on the poor woman, Norry strode across the room and lifted Jean-Paul from her embrace. He chuckled as the small boy wrapped his wet arms about his wrinkled neck and pressed a kiss on his whiskered cheek.
"Don' you worry any about this scamp, girlie," he said, offering the frazzled woman a secretive wink. "Papi can finish up an' give you a bit o' rest. I dare say my grandson has run you ragged this morning." His laughing eyes flicked over her sopping curls and wet dress, and shifted the boy to his side to help the woman up. Beckoning to his daughter to follow, the old caretaker left the room for the mess that awaited them.
"Your son is precious," cooed Sister Marie as she watched the old man's retreating back. "How fortunate that you have such a loving family to help you through this difficult time. It is not any father that would leave everything behind to follow his daughter to a far away place, Madame Garnier."
Christine started at the strange name, then hurriedly caught herself before either woman noticed her surprise. She put a hand to her hair in embarrassment, sure that the curls were drying wildly about her face. "Yes, I am very fortunate," she murmured. Nodding her apologies to the two sisters, she escaped towards her room to freshen her appearance before the noon meal.
"Madame Garnier, a moment please." Nadir Khan strode past the nuns and across the corridor to catch up with the woman. "Did you wish to take a turn about the city, or has your son stolen your strength?" He smiled at the woman, his eyes still glistening with amusement at the boy's antics.
A weary laugh escaped her lips and she smoothed the skirts of her dress. "Do I truly look that horrible, M. Khan? Of course I would like to walk the city with you—perhaps through the Muslim Quarter markets today, then towards the Jaffa Gate? Goodness knows that Jean-Paul has endless amounts of energy, and could do with a chance to expend it. I would really like him to be exhausted by bedtime, for once."
"Your son is certainly strong-willed, Madame." The Persian glanced towards the rooftop terrace as a great splash and a child's squeal rang through the air. "Even Erik would have had a difficult time keeping a grin from cracking that stony façade of his, after the scene just now."
A heartrending expression suffused the woman's features, and the Persian immediately regretted the mention of his friend's name.
"I am afraid that I shall never understand him, M. Khan," she sighed, running a hand through her curls.
The daroga nodded. "You are not the only one to feel that way, Madame—I have spent many years struggling to comprehend Erik's motives. And just when I believe I understand the man, he does something completely unexpected that challenges my notions. For instance, falling in love with a young chorus girl." He smiled warmly at the woman, touching her cheek in a brief show of fatherly affection.
She weakly returned the smile, her cheerless gaze falling to the ground. "Yet when the young chorus girl loves him back, he flees from her. It has been nearly two months since I last spoke with him," she murmured, "and more than a month since I have heard his voice. How can he truly love me, if he turns away from me—"
"You must never doubt his constancy, Christine Daaé," the Persian cut in, bringing her eyes back to his with a commanding voice. "I believe that since we arrived here, not a day has passed in which he has not seen you. Your teacher shall whisper your name when he breathes his last—do not doubt it. If you let go of him, he shall let go of himself."
"Then why does he stay away, Monsieur?" she demanded, anger stirring within her breast.
The man hesitated, thrown off-guard by the sudden fervor of his friend's little singer. He shrugged, at a loss for words. "I have pondered this many times, Madame, but I am still unable to answer this question. Perhaps he is afraid that his bloody past shall put you in harm's way. Maybe he stays away because he fears his black mind when he is with you. Or it could be as simple as not knowing what to do when his love is returned by another."
Nadir sighed and leaned against the breezeway railing, lowering his voice to avoid the attention of curious ears.
"You must understand, Madame de Chagny, that Erik has never been loved by another human being. While you were still an infant at your mother's breast, your angel was a young man who had already suffered a lifetime's worth of pain. You had the tender care of a father and mother that showered you with kisses and taught you how to open your heart to others. Erik's mother gave him a cold mask and then taught him his first and only lesson—that he was alone in the world. The drive for survival taught him everything else: Strike first, or be struck. Become the hunter, not the hunted. Hide your weaknesses, so others cannot destroy you."
Christine inhaled a deep, shuddery breath. "Are you saying he sees his love for me as a weakness?" she whispered.
"Yes. It almost killed him. It almost killed you. He cannot see beyond that."
She shook her head in disbelief. "But Mas Quennell was the monster who strangled me! If it had not been for Erik, I would have been dead in Paris before I even had the chance to flee to London. Surely he knows this!"
"He does not think like that, Madame," Nadir retorted, shaking his head in frustration. "He only sees you, nearly dead with his lasso around your throat. That death device was an extension of his body long before I first made his acquaintance."
As Christine mulled over his words, she studied the man's drooping shoulders and his tired demeanor. It suddenly occurred to her that Nadir Khan had more than likely borne witness to much of Erik's past in Persia…a history that her angel was most reluctant to impart.
His friend, however, may not be so tight-lipped, she pondered.
"M. Khan," she began softly, "you have been a friend to my poor, unhappy Erik for many years, whether he has appreciated you or not. You have heard words from his mouth…seen things that I know nothing of. I ask you, beg you, Monsieur—help me understand him as you do. Please, tell me of Erik's life in Persia."
The daroga carefully examined the woman's pleading eyes. Finally he shook his head. "It is not my place to tell another man's story, Madame, for I cannot know his thoughts. If he desired you to know, he would tell you—"
"M. Khan," she desperately broke in, "he tried to tell me once, but I would not listen—"
"—however," he continued, his voice rising above the Comtesse's exclamations, "I would be more than willing to share my observations, my story." He paused for a moment in reflection, smiling at the woman's startled face. "Instead of walking towards the Jaffa Gate, I think that a quieter destination would be suitable; there is much to discuss. This afternoon, Madame, I shall teach you to see your angel in a different, more human light."
OOOOO
The nuns had made special concessions to accommodate the odd family, since the youngest daughter's heart was still heavy with sadness from the loss of her husband. The sisters made no mention of their guests' strange ways, however, for it was not their place to question another's chosen method of grieving. And the fact that the Persian guide had kindly doubled the pilgrim house's financial intake did not go unnoticed, either. So the convent's staff, made up almost entirely of Jerusalem natives who had grown up under the protection of Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage, was more than willing to help the family in any way they could. And one such way was serving all meals in the fourth floor parlour, away from the other guests.
Lunch was usually a quiet affair. More often than not, two or three people were exploring the different quarters of the old city, attending one of the many masses, or making themselves useful about the convent grounds. It was a rare occasion when the entire Nitot household was seated around the plain table.
Today, however, all happened to be present. Even Sister Helena, the nun who helped to oversee the orphanage, had joined them for the meal.
The table was spread with various plates of bright red dill tomatoes, cucumbers in a cream sauce, hummus with olive oil, and freshly baked flatbreads. The wide doors and windows had been thrown open to allow the warm, exotic wind to flow into the room and drive out the stale air. Cotton-white curtains billowed through the openings, their quiet snapping providing a background music that rivaled Chopin.
Laughter filled the breezeway as Norry, Papi, and the daroga took turns regaling the others with tales from their visit to the orphanage. Christine held a clean and clothed Jean-Paul in her lap, quietly encouraging him to eat pieces of bread smeared with fig preserves. She glanced up as the maid excitedly described how the children had sang a Palestinian folk song for her, their heads waggling back and forth, toes tapping out the light rhythm. The Comtesse smiled softly at her friend's enthusiasm. It had been many months since she had heard the woman's laughter, seen her eyes glisten with elation. The visit to the orphanage seemed to have done Papi a world of good, and she silently blessed Sister Helena for suggesting it.
Fingertips grazed over her forearm, breaking through her musings.
"You are rather silent, my girl," Henri whispered into her ear, leaning slightly closer than etiquette allowed. "Are you still furious with me for goading you this morning? Really Christine, it was only a bit of a tease." The man chuckled smoothly, letting warm puffs of air tickle her skin.
"I remember the days when you could laugh at yourself—I wish you would do so again, darling. Do you remember the bustle?" His fingers brushed her spine uncomfortably.
The woman eased away from the man and shifted her child to her other knee, shamefully using the boy as a barrier between her and the amorous avocat. Her eyes darted around the table to see if anyone had observed the interlude. Thankfully, all seemed engrossed in Papi's story save for the daroga, whose narrowed eyes were trained upon M. David in a glare of warning.
Henri slid his hand away from Christine's back with as much subtlety as possible, and placed it on the table. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to follow the current conversation, willing the pink flush to disappear from her face.
"And what of you, Madame?" the sister inquired. "Shall you attend mass with your father and sister at the orphanage Sunday morning, instead of the going to the Sepulchre?"
The Comtesse nodded emphatically. Worship with the children and sisters would be a breath of fresh air, compared to the stress of attending mass at the Crusader church. Though the stones of the holy place rested atop the very place Christ had been crucified, she had found nothing but disappointment within its smoke-blackened walls. Like a piece of driftwood caught up in a strong current, she was pushed here and there amongst swarms of pilgrims jostling their way towards the many different masses taking place, lighting candles at Calvary, weeping at the Tomb. She was sure she would have been swept under, had it not been for Norry's steady hand guiding her through the crowds. Christine had come away from mass with several bruises on her arms…she could not remember having been injured within a church before.
"Splendid! We shall be delighted to have you in attendance, Madame." Sister Helena clasped her hands together, her wrinkled face alive with joy. "You shall enjoy it very much; Father Jakob from the neighboring Franciscan monastery is currently saying Mass until we receive another priest. Our beloved Father Theodore was taken by God last year." The old woman crossed herself and respectfully lowered her eyes.
"Is not Father Jakob the German who presides over the Church of the Flagellation?" Papi questioned.
The daroga pushed his plate away and leaned back, intent on the conversation.
The nun looked at the maid in surprise. "Why yes, Mlle. Nitot, he is. Have you met him? A wonderful man…so kind and humble. We were truly blessed to receive him in Jerusalem twenty years ago, especially after the…" The old woman frowned slightly, deliberating whether to continue. "After the murder."
"What murder?" M. David chimed in, suddenly taking interest in the nun's story.
The sister hesitated at the man's eagerness. "It is a sad tale, Monsieur, one I do not like to tell. The way they found Father Cyril …" The nun shivered, though the room was warmed from the day's sunlight. "I was in St. Etienne at the time with my ailing mother, so I cannot give you a firsthand account—"
"That is a pity, Sister," the daroga abruptly cut in, a look of unease suffusing his features. He pulled out his watch fob, flipped the lid open and snapped it shut again. Rising from his chair, he bowed slightly to his luncheon companions. "If you will excuse me, my faith calls me to the noon prayer in two minutes. Madame," he inclined to Christine, "if you and Jean-Paul still desire to walk about the city this afternoon, we may leave directly after the Zuhr. I believe that the Mt. of Olives would be a fitting destination today."
Sister Helena put a hand to her heart in excitement. "An idea has just struck me! M. Khan, would you be so kind as to take Madame Garnier and little Jean-Paul to meet Fr. Jakob? He would be thrilled! And the Church of the Flagellation is on the way to the Mount, so you need not go out of your way. It really is a fascinating building, and the father could tell you so many stories about it."
Christine nodded eagerly, oblivious to the Persian's deepening grimace. "What a lovely thought, Sister! I would indeed like to meet this Father Jakob." Gathering her sticky-fingered son in her arms, she rose from the table. "If you will excuse me, I must ready myself for the excursion." She nodded her farewells as the men stood, fixing her gaze slightly to the left of M. David's head so she would not have to look at him.
OOOO
The call to prayer sounded just as Christine slipped into her bedroom, and she knew that the others would be leaving the table as well. Conversation was nearly impossible when the muezzins projected their voices from their minaret towers over the city. One by one, each mosque began the adhan and the city fell silent as their earnest calls rose and fell, echoing in every crevice of the building.
The Comtesse scrubbed her child's fingers and face clean, then set him on her bed while she changed out of her simple gray dress. She slid off her light undergarments and stepped into her linen trouser libas, hand-woven and dyed in a rich violet and orange.
Next came the white thob, the tunic-like dress that billowed about her small frame, all the way to her ankles. The thob was rather thin and barely decent, save for the strategically placed qabbeh panel on the front of the dress. The first time Sister Marie had displayed the clothing for her, Christine had blushed at the thought of wearing it—especially with no corset. The sister had lightly laughed away the woman's fears and pulled out a beautiful jillayeh, a richly embroidered green coat that fit nicely about the shoulders and chest.
Christine folded the jacket across her front and tied a colorful silk sash around her waist. Reaching under the elbow-length sleeves of the jillayeh, she pulled the white thob material out and let it hang over her wrists.
Lastly, she smoothed back her curly hair and knotted it at the nape of her neck, then draped a gauzy striped mendil over her head and secured it with another scarf around her throat. At first, the Comtesse had been uncomfortable with the layers of material about her face. After several days amongst the throngs of people, however, she was glad for the scarf. She found, to her delight, that it offered immense protection from the sand, which on gusty days whipped about in the air and threatened to coat her mouth and nostrils. The headscarf also allowed her to observe Quarter life from the inside, not as a European foreigner who strutted about the markets during the day and returned to the hotels at night.
The last thing that she desired was to be noticed, just in case they, (she still could not bring herself to utter the name 'Fraternité'), had also found their way to Jerusalem.
As the last strain of the adhan tapered off, Christine slipped on her leather shoes and clasped Jean-Paul's hand, patiently leading the toddler to the rooftop terrace. She hovered next to the ledge until the Persian rose from his knees and rolled up his prayer rug.
"Well Madame," he breathed deeply, resting his hands upon his hips, "shall we roam the hills of kings?"
The pair ambled along the Via Dolorosa amidst a flurry of sound and color. Building after building rose up on either side; many were connected by stone archways that stretched over the expanse of the road. Shopkeepers lining the cobblestone streets sat outside their small stores, exhibiting brightly-colored fabrics, glassware, books, jewelry, and all manner of vegetables and breads. Some smoked waterpipes; the spicy fragrance of the narghile tobacco hung over the streets, lending an exotic richness to the air of Jerusalem.
The streets were not as crowded as they had been earlier in the morning, since many of the Muslim faithful were just now returning from the Zuhr. Nevertheless, Nadir Khan walked slightly in front of the Comtesse and Jean-Paul to clear a path through the throngs of people, his back straight and authoritative.
Clutching her child tightly to her, Christine kept her eyes properly lowered to avoid any unwanted attention—only a brazen woman dared to meet men's eyes in the old city markets.
This custom, however, made her search for Erik rather difficult. She had, admittedly, observed him from the waist down when he was not aware of her eyes upon him; in fact, she had become rather proficient at conjuring his image in her mind, especially in recent weeks. Recognizing one thob-clad torso among a multitude of thob-clad torsos, though, was entirely different.
"Have you seen him yet, Monsieur?" she mumbled, pulling the scarf away from her face as far as she dared.
"What was that?" the Persian tilted his head back, straining to hear her words.
Christine simply shook her head. Conversation was nearly impossible as they moved through the noisy market; only when they neared the Franciscan monastery did the crowds lighten and they were able to hear one another. As they swiftly passed the peaceful, ivy-filled courtyard, the Comtesse remembered her promise to Sister Helena.
"M. Khan, may we take a moment to meet Fr. Jakob? The Church of the Flagellation is just beyond this courtyard, I believe."
To her surprise, the daroga lightly pressed a hand on her back to quickly steer her past the monastery. "Perhaps when we return from the Mount, we can stop. Fr. Jakob may be conducting a mass and would not appreciate the interruption."
Christine halted in puzzlement. "It is a Thursday afternoon. I highly doubt that we would be an intrusion."
The Persian sighed. "Madame, if you must see the Church, let it be on the way back."
She scrutinized the man, his sudden reluctance to enter the chapel not consistent with his normally patient demeanor. Casting him one more curious glance, she walked on.
The two meandered along the city outskirts in silence, each holding one of Jean-Paul's hands as he toddled along between them. Once they reached the openness of the hills and were out of earshot from others, however, the daroga began his tale.
"I feel that I must warn you, Madame, of what I am about to tell you. It is sad, tragic. You may discover several things that you did not want to know about."
Christine gazed ahead, blue eyes blazing with determination. "I am ready to listen, Monsieur."
The Persian nodded.
"When I first met Erik, he was living amongst gypsies in Russia. The khanum had heard of his unparalleled talents for magic, and sent me to fetch him to Tehran. He was young and overconfident in his abilities. Lethal, as well—taking what he wanted, simply because he could." The Persian smiled wryly. "He still has a tendency for insolent thievery, though, thankfully, the years have softened the sharp edge. The Lover of Trapdoors—that is what your angel was called in Persia, Madame."
Christine smiled softly at the name, shaking her head. "How fitting; it does suit him, doesn't it? Rather dashing."
"Yes, it does." The Persian turned to the Comtesse, his face all seriousness. "However, I would not attach romantic notions to his life there, Madame. It was anything but."
The woman blushed at the light scolding and kept walking, letting go of her son's hand to let him run a few feet down the path.
The daroga continued. "He was the Shah-in-Shah's favorite, as well as the khanum's—the shah's mother. I believe they found him refreshing at first; he did not shower them with words of praise as others did, but stood before the throne as an equal. At one time, he nearly had complete control of the royal court. To him, life in Mazenderan palace was a game—human beings were the pawns. He was an advisor, a royal architect, magician, among other things; one of the most powerful men in all of Persia, with the voice of an angel and the mind of a devil.
"Then the killings began. And suddenly, the game lost its luster."
Nadir took a few cautious steps down the steep Ofel Road hill, then held out his hand to assist the woman. As she absently took his hand, he noticed that her face had gone deathly pale.
"Do you wish me to continue, Madame de Chagny?" he asked tentatively.
"Yes, please," she whispered, lifting her chin resolutely. "I want to know."
"Very well," he murmured. "First came the political assassinations, by order of the shah. That is why Erik first came to Jerusalem—to silence a priest, so to speak."
Christine's head came up. "I did not know he had been to Jerusalem before." She considered his words, suddenly remembering the daroga's strange behavior earlier. "The murdered priest at the Church …" she murmured breathlessly, barely side-stepping a loose cobblestone.
The Persian nodded. "The first time was for Father Cyril, but Erik has been here several times since, I believe. 'A most ingenious city, if ever a person desired to go to ground', were his exact words."
They reached the bottom of the hill and turned to gaze up at the old city, its walls basking in the bright afternoon sun. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Nadir reigned in Christine's energetic young son and lifted him onto his back. He gestured to the young woman and she started the steep climb up the Mt. of Olives.
"When Erik wrote to me from London and asked that I decide upon a city to relocate your family to, I immediately remembered his words. It was mere coincidence that Sergei Dagaev happened to be hiding in the city, as well; I suppose that the Russian thinks the same way as Erik. Your angel was most relieved to learn he would not have to scour all of Russia in search of the man."
"Please M. Khan, what of the Persian court?" Christine asked anxiously, impatient to know of the life her teacher had kept hidden for so long.
The man dipped his head. "All the while, Erik believed he was in control, and was using the shah and his mother for his whims. He built them a grand palace—a jewel of genius that has yet to be rivaled by any other architect. In the end, however, he was the one that had been cruelly used. They took his brilliance and twisted it for their own diabolical purposes."
Nadir glanced at the woman's form several feet up the path, wishing he could see her reaction to his dismal story. Suddenly, he remembered the childish fingers wrapped around his neck, and held his tongue. As they climbed the rest of the mount, he silently mulled over his memories.
A broken, weeping masked man…a ghost from long ago…
"There is nothing I can do…I can't turn back the clock and see this terrible thing undone. It's too late ... too late!"
The bitter words followed his footsteps to the pinnacle of the hill. The Persian swung the babbling child from his back and handed him to his mother. He glanced at her face, taking in her red, puffy eyes and trembling mouth. At last he was able to see what he had not been able to as they walked up the hill—her heart was breaking for her angel.
She took the child in her arms, kissed his forehead, and let him slide to the ground.
"Mon petit, go play over there for a bit while Maman and M. Khan talk", Christine said breathlessly, pointing to a small grove of olive trees just feet from where they stood. Collapsing onto the ground, she absently tucked her ankles underneath her thob, then turned to face the tree grove and her swift little boy.
The daroga plopped down next to her, wiping the sheen from his brow.
"My son is out of hearing, Monsieur," the Comtesse stated, struggling to keep her voice steady and emotionless. "Please continue."
The man nodded. "The Lady encouraged him to kill for sport; each murder had to be fresh, creative. Men condemned to die—some innocent, others not—would be brought into a courtyard, armed with a long pike and broadsword. Erik had only his lasso. Yet the trapdoor lover was a master of strangulation, and felled his adversary each and every time with a strategic turn of his wrist and a quick snap.
"The khanum was calloused, however, and grew tired of his prowess with the punjab lasso. She began to demand more gruesome, hideous deaths. I shall not go into detail, Madame. If Erik wishes you to know, he will tell you."
Nadir watched as the Comtesse sobbed quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks. One hand angrily swiped her wet eyes; the other clutched her throat as she tried to steady her breathing. He soundly cursed his friend for his cowardice.
Damn you, Erik…you should have been the one to tell her these things. Instead, you left her in my care without so much as an explanation of who I am, your life in Persia… even without a promise to return…
At last, she was able to speak. "Erik said that he killed a hundred people, possibly."
"I do not doubt it, Madame. I confess, I did not know it was as many as that, but I was not always at court when Erik was." He patted the Comtesse's hand, at a loss for a way to lessen her pain. The truth of it was, however, that he did not want to ease it. Her tears were oddly comforting; for the first time, he found himself no longer alone in grieving for a murderous, thieving Frenchman.
He waited until her tears slowed, then pressed on.
"Nonetheless, a thief is a king till he is caught. And Erik was caught. The shah soon realized that his court magician was too powerful for his own good. I tried to convince his majesty that Erik would not whisper secrets to Persia's enemies—that he was loyal. The shah merely laughed, saying that the magician was honor-bound to no one but his thieving self. I suppose he was correct. I, on the other-hand, was honor-bound to Erik."
The shah's simpering words clung to his mind like a treacherous fever…
"I wish to preserve the unique quality of this palace… he shall build for no other king… I shall leave the means of execution in your capable hands, daroga ... but be quite sure that no damage is inflicted upon the skull. It is my wish that his head should be preserved…"
Nadir shook his head to clear away the cruel voice; he would not tell the Comtesse that particular detail.
"The shah demanded I lure him in, then execute him. I could not do it. As much as Erik had brought the trouble upon his own shoulders, I still held to the belief that he could become a good man. So I secretly helped him to flee Persia. I was sent the Mazenderan prison, and spent five years praying that my sacrifice was not in vain…that my friend was using his brilliance for good instead of evil. Little did I know that he was wiling away his days under an opera house, pining after a young singer."
The man chuckled cynically.
Christine gaped at him, her face pale and eyes glazed with shock.
He laughed again, the sound strangely bitter upon his ears.
"For many years, I have questioned whether I should not have let him die in Persia, if it would not have been more humane. However, I cannot give up hope that he will someday achieve greatness through his genius. He has a great capacity for good…"
"Death is merely an illusion," Christine whispered, unsure of where the words came from.
The Persian inattentively toyed with a small pebble, letting it roll around in the palm of his hand. He angrily tossed it down the slope and watched as it clinked off several rocks, then landed somewhere in the sparse grass. Glancing over to the gnarled olive trees, he watched as the little Comte de Chagny poked at rocks with a stick.
"Do not let him stray too far ahead, here in the hills," he murmured absently. "There are often scorpions under rocks."
Christine nodded, her eyes never leaving her child. They sat in silence, not knowing quite what to say after the tale was finished. Somehow, words did not seem sufficient. She was lost in her own thoughts; the Persian in his. The two gazed across the hills in mute understanding.
"Jean-Paul believes that Erik is his father," she murmured.
Nadir's eyes snapped to her face.
She rushed on. "He calls him "Papa" now, and cries for him at bedtime. You see, Erik was giving him music lessons at night…"
Nadir rose from the ground and strode along the ridge of the hill, his hands clasped behind his back. At length he returned to her, his face unreadable.
A muscle twitched in the Persian's jaw, and Christine began to wonder if she had said something wrong.
"Your child clinging to Erik is understandable," he said quietly. "Children have always been drawn to my friend; perhaps they find him fascinating, mysterious." He lowered himself to the ground again with a heavy sigh.
"I only hope that he handles the boy's affection with care," he murmured.
Christine gave a small, lifeless laugh. "I was drawn to him, as well. I suppose that I was barely a child myself, then…"
Her eyes again filled with tears.
"I did not know I loved him until he set me free," she said quietly, not wanting to break the peace of the hill. "That night below the opera house, I saw his soul for what it truly was." Her lips parted and she exhaled slowly, almost reverently.
"How do I bring him back to me?"
The Persian met her eyes. "You somehow need to show him that love is a strength, not a weakness. He seems to have forgotten this…perhaps he never knew it to begin with."
She said nothing, but Nadir could see the wheels turning within her head. All of a sudden she gasped and clutched the daroga's sleeve.
"M. Khan, I would like to ask a favor of you, but you must speak of it to no one."
"First, you must tell me what the favor is," he said warily.
Christine took a deep breath, her words coming out in a rush. "I want you to purchase a punjab lasso for me."
The Persian gaped at her in disbelief. "Madame de Chagny, are you aware of what a punjab lasso is?"
"I have my suspicions."
"One cannot simply find a punjab lasso in the market place."
She was immoveable in her purpose, however—he could see that. Lower lip firmly jutted out, shoulders set with a stubbornness that rivaled Erik's.
Allah have mercy, what deep waters have I waded in to? he cringed. Erik will already be livid when he finds out the tales that have been told. And now his angel wants a punjab lasso…
At last he shrugged, relenting to the woman's dogged determination. "I suppose I could find an artisan, or a hide tanner of some sort. With a bit of instruction, perhaps they could fashion one."
The Comtesse's features relaxed into a smile. "Thank you, Monsieur."
He paused for a moment in consideration. "You may address me as 'Nadir', if you so choose. Your Erik prefers simply 'daroga', but—"
" 'Nadir' is fine, M. Khan…'Nadir'..." She tried the name on her tongue, deciding that it suited the man. "And you may address me as 'Christine'. My friends do, though Papi still insists on 'Madame'." The woman laughed softly, thinking of her class-conscious maid.
The daroga chuckled as well. "I have no friends, save for a manservant in Paris and a slightly insane masked man who, until recently, did not even acknowledge me as his friend. Five years in hell for the man..." he shook his head, refusing to let his bitterness seep into him again.
A small hand crept onto his shoulder, and unexpectedly squeezed it. His eyes shot up and he stared at the young woman by his side, her face still flushed from earlier tears.
"Thank you, Nadir," she whispered, her simple words beautifully sincere. "If Erik will not say it, then allow me to." She gazed into the grove of olive trees, watching her son at play. "I refuse to believe that your gift to my angel was in vain. Though it may not be monumental in the world's eyes, he has done a great deal of good for me."
He nodded his thanks, his gaze straying to the golden city upon the hill.
"Jerusalem is beautiful from afar, is it not?" he murmured.
Christine smiled wistfully. "I think that it is also magnificent on the inside of the walls, despite the crowds, the dirty streets, and the religious rivalries. You must search harder to find beauty, that is all."
The daroga glanced at the woman, then patted the hand on his shoulder. "I happen to agree with you, Madame."
A/N: Again, thanks for reading! Please feel free to review – I listen to all feedback, both good and bad.
A few word meanings:
du stæm: my friend (Persian)
Adhan: the call to prayer
Zuhr: noon prayer
Narghile tobacco: a tobacco used in narghiles or waterpipes. Usually contains honey, molasses, or fruits to give it a sweet flavor.
Note: the khanum was originally the little sultana in Leroux. I liked Kay's khanum better (so evil!), so I used her in place of the little sultana.