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 the characters and own none of them, not even Rivka. I pinched her and Ze'ev's images from portraits by Isaac Levitan, a famous Russian-Jewish painter.
Side Notes:
Thank you so much to Chat for betaing! Her own work can be found here at FFN under "Chatastic."
Thanks to Cookies for assisting me in Russian formalities.
I realized I have been sadly remiss in thanking my Aria reviewers and readers, as well. Thanks so much, y'all—I really appreciate your kind words. Sending many crazy bluebirds and flower petals your way!
Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement.
The First Husband
"Remember, before you even throw the noose, be sure to slide the rope through your fingers to rid it of any kinks in the line. You want the coils to slip easily off of your hand when the lasso is thrown. Now hold the ring loosely in your hand, like this…the joint at the base of the noose…"
Christine carefully smoothed her hand over the leathery rope she had loosed from the tight coil, took hold of the noose, and glanced back at her teacher. He nodded his approval.
"Do not hold your wrist so stiffly; allow it to move easily. Let your wrist act as an axel, and swing the rope as if it were a wheel revolving horizontally around your wrist and over your head."
Erik gently grasped the back of her hand to demonstrate. He shook out the tenseness in her wrist and situated her fingers over the noose ring, checking to see that the rope rested properly in the crook of her little hand.
"Once you have the rope in a spin, let it move swiftly enough to enable you to guide it. When making the cast, step forward, bring your hand to the level of your shoulder, palm down—" Erik eased her arm away from her body "—and let it stretch to full arm's length without interrupting the swinging motion of the noose. Then you let it go and ensnare your prey..."
Christine stared at the blanched stump of olive tree several feet in front of her. It was difficult to focus on her lesson today; Erik had chosen to take her deep into the hills of the outskirts of the city, instead of their underground room next to the cistern. The clear, mid-March day stretched out before her with its endless blue skies and gentle breezes that carried the spices of the city. The olive trees swayed lazily, their branches still sleepy in the morning sun. Even the borrowed shaggy camel that had carried them up the steep terrain had settled upon his haunches in the shade, and was now flicking his tail and chewing happily at some unknown thing.
And with Erik standing just behind her, the smell of his skin a sharp mixture of soap and the narghile that he and Nadir had imbibed in earlier—a welcome relief to the rather musty, cellar-like smell that usually clung to his clothing—it was a struggle to focus on her "victim". At the moment, all she could feel was the press of his form against her back.
Goodness, what a wanton, sniveling mess I have become these past few days, she mused, and leaned into his chest a bit more, enjoying the feel of him.
The man teasingly lowered his mouth, whispering his instructions into her ear.
"…and after the noose is snuggly about the neck, you whip your arm down and over, effectively crushing the windpipe and garroting your victim. Or, if you are strong enough, you could snap their neck and not even have to mess with strangulation."
She wriggled away from her teacher, her ears burning, shaken that he could make such gruesome words sound so harmless.
He shrugged his shoulders and smirked at her floundering. "Come now, Christine. We could have begun with pistols or daggers, and spared your delicate sensibilities a moment longer. You, however, insisted upon beginning with the rope. So let us strip off the party gloves, my dear wife, and speak plainly." His voice became serious, all levity at once dismissed. "I am teaching you to kill. If, for some reason, you find yourself in a situation in which you need to apply any of this, the worst thing you could do is hesitate because you are afraid. Do you understand? To think first would mean death."
Christine nodded, trying her best to cover the discomfort his words had stirred. Suddenly, the luster of the bright, spring day grew dim, and the hills of Jerusalem, grey. An unbidden face manifested before her eyes…Mas Quennell's…his cool, emotionless expression…pale, thin lips twisting malevolently as he tightened the rope about her throat. Had Mas hesitated before he began to strangle her? Had he been afraid, just for a moment, to take her life? She skimmed through her memories from that particular night in London, trying to recall a flicker of regret in the man's stony eyes. She remembered nothing but hatred. Hatred, and pleasure in the pain he was causing her…
It was odd that in the two months following the attack, it was not the attack itself that had haunted her dreams. It was the loss of her voice and Erik's departure that had caused her to toss and turn in her bed. However, now that she had found her voice and her angel, the demon that had been lurking in the recesses had taken hold of her. Three weeks of marriage to Erik, and already, half of their nights had been interrupted by one of them starting awake after a grueling nightmare.
She had always suspected that Erik's dreams often plagued him. Many times, in their days at the Opéra Populaire, he would come to her morning lessons in the foulest of moods, sneering and snapping at the slightest offense. The child Christine had not understood his tempers, and simply believed that she had angered him in some way. His wife, however, understood. The quiet, unconscious moans of a tortured boy…the vengeful growls of a rejected genius…all played out in the dark hours, in his dreams.
The first night she had witnessed his nightmares, she had gathered the broken man into her arms, hoping to soothe his fears. Instead, she found herself violently thrown to the ground, his confused, contorted face hovering above hers in blind rage. And then he had pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck and pleading for forgiveness. Since that night, she had quickly learned to simply let his nightmares fade into the darkness from whence they came; there was nothing to be done, except hope that her presence would be a small comfort to him in the black reaches of his mind.
And now she had her nightmares, as well; the same one, over and over again. First, the pain…weight crushing her chest…the fire licking up her throat and into her head…sight running red…the pain would be forever seared upon her memory, rising up and claiming her when she least expected it.
She shivered.
And then she was in the cold, hard ground with things crawling about, winding their way through the soft earth, skimming along the sides of…of her coffin. Raoul, his empty eyes turned to her, death exuding from him…Death is but an illusion, he would whisper. Then she would scream.
And wake to find Erik next to her.
"Christine?"
Her glassy eyes snapped to his; they were dark with concern, the gold holding her captive, reading her thoughts. He always knew what she was thinking, feeling. He could see her fears, too.
She hated Mas Quennell. Hated him for killing Raoul…hated him for attacking her and threatening her child…hated him for violating her dreams, long after she had left him behind in London.
Hated him for making her weak again.
A sob broke in her throat. Burying her face in Erik's robes, she clung to the rough material as if clinging to her one lifeline. She was vaguely aware of the man's arms wrapping around her shoulders, his melodious voice soft, soothing her fears. At length, he spoke.
"The dreams have to be faced at some point, angel. I know I am not the best person to help with this…" He touched her cheek. "If this is too difficult, though, we can forget about the punjab lasso; I can teach you to use something else, if you like."
Christine considered his offer, and then shook her head. "I need to do this. I want to learn."
Erik's thumb came under her chin and tilted her face up. Seeing her determination, he smiled down upon her, eyes glistening with approval. "Good girl," he murmured. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and considered what to do next. Finally, he led his pupil to one of the rocks jutting out from the hill and settled her there, took up the lasso, and strode into the clearing.
"The best way to learn how to cast the rope is to observe." The man stretched his arms and shoulders up over his head, working out the kinks in his back. Loosely coiling the lasso around his left hand, he grasped the noose with his right. "When you become skilled enough, you will simply be able to send the rope flying without working it into a spin. Quickness is key. Watch my wrist movements, stance, shoulders, the direction of the rope…"
Her teacher whipped the lasso around the tree stump with such speed and agility, Christine barely had time to process what had happened, let alone watch for specific movements.
"Erik, I couldn't see a thing—"
"Just watch, Christine," he interjected, and proceeded to throw the rope several more times. After the fourth or fifth throw, the woman began to notice repeated actions; the way he worked the noose into a spin while he was casting, a simple flick of the wrist…
The lesson continued on for a good hour or more, alternating between Erik's instruction, and her practicing it. The first time she tried to cast the lasso, it ended up flying from her hands completely and falling in a miserable heap upon the ground, several feet shy of the tree. Erik had not laughed, however; instead, he merely told her to pick it up and try again.
She did, and finally, after a dozen or so casts, she managed to hook the noose around a jagged portion of the stump. Thrilled at last to see the lasso hit its target, she flung herself into her teacher's arms with a gleeful cry, forgetting the second step—pulling the noose taut.
The camel bellowed along with her, the creature growing restless with lack of movement. Erik glanced at the beast, lowered his wife to the ground, kissed her forehead, and called it a day.
"I think this should be sufficient for one afternoon, my angel." He untied the camel reins from the gnarled branch and adjusted the brightly colored blanket. Tightening the saddle straps upon the animal's hump, he swung into the seat, his gray abaya flaring behind him. "It is getting rather late, and it will take a good hour to return to the city, and bring the camel back to its stable. And you will want to time for your toilette before we make our way to the Jewish Quarter, I would imagine."
"Yes, we wouldn't want to smell like camel, would we?" Christine laughed and grasped the man's hand, allowing him to pull her up into the saddle behind him.
Checking to see that she was settled, Erik clucked his tongue and rattled off something in Arabic. All of a sudden, the woman felt a rush of air as the camel sprang up, its knobby legs lifting its passengers high above the ground. Her arms tightened about her husband's waist as the animal lurched forward, causing her panicked stomach to lurch with it. After awhile, however, the camel's gait eased into a peaceful sway, and Christine loosened her grip on her companion's clothing.
The return trip through the hills was quiet, with both persons simply enjoying the other's company. The soft plodding of the camel's slipper-like hooves and its easy shuffling had a hypnotic quality; the woman soon found herself leaning against Erik's back in drowsy contentment.
After awhile, her teacher broke the silence. "Christine, look."
She opened her sleepy eyes to find magnificent Jerusalem spread out before them, its sandy walls glowing white in the glaring, early-afternoon sun. Pressing her lips to the channel between her husband's shoulder blades, she murmured a prayer to heaven, simply grateful to be alive.
OOOOO
Ze'ev Borochov was the picture of contentment in his cozy parlor that evening, a marked contrast to his guests across from him upon the new, overstuffed sofa, holding half-empty teacups in their hands. Erik stared defiantly about the room, his fingers drumming against his knees in an irritated fashion. He had not been expecting their meeting with Ze'ev to be a social occasion; Christine knew as much. Earlier, he had explained that they would be visiting the Jewish Quarter, and she should wear her plain gray dress and a scarf tied over her head; he also would be discarding his libas and thob in exchange for plain black slacks, shirt, and vest. He instructed her to keep conversation to a minimum, and to not answer any questions in detail.
Erik had met with the Russian several times since their first encounter at the bookstore to ascertain whether the man could be trusted. At last, he had agreed to bring his new wife to see Borochov. Her husband had told her that Ze'ev was a distrusting, guarded man; the former radical had made many enemies, and was not open to meeting new people.
Erik and he should get along splendidly, then, she had silently mused as they made their way through the shaded streets, into the Jewish Quarter.
Even Christine, however, had been caught off guard when the man and his wife had met them at the door of their home, each holding a tiny child nestled in the crook of their arm. Erik had mentioned nothing about a family.
Borochov was not at all what she had envisioned; she had thought Jews were craggy-looking men with sloped brows and large noses, like so many political posters upon Parisian newsstands and walls showed them to be. Ze'ev, however, had soft brown hair, an intelligent face—youthful as well, despite his beard and wire-rimmed glasses. His slightly bent frame lent him a worn look, as if the world was just a bit too heavy for his shoulders. He had kind eyes, though; she put great stock in people's eyes.
He sat in his old straight-back chair—the one his wife had wanted to throw out, he explained, because of its threadbare condition.
"I would not allow her to get rid of it," he said to his guests, trying to make the eccentric pair more at ease. "Since my arrival in Jerusalem, I have developed an irrational aversion to change of any kind—a tendency that often frustrates my Rivka beyond belief. Other times, however, my little wife could not be happier with my desire to keep our young family firmly rooted in Jerusalem."
The mother clucked her tongue and moved about the room, bouncing one of the babies in her arms. Her gaze roved over the two strangers sitting upon her sofa, briefly rested upon Erik's mask, then shyly fell back to the infant.
Rivka Simkhovna Borochova was beautiful…quite possibly the most beautiful woman Christine had ever seen. Her looks, while not stunning or ostentatious, were infused with a quiet sobriety that made the other woman feel as though she were studying a work of art. The lady had wrapped herself in an understated oriental shawl, the gold and green flowers warming her olive skin. A striped ivory scarf graced her head, its fringed trim mingling with waves of dark brown hair that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Colorless lips…classic chin…keen black eyes that took in everything around her. Even the gray circles that rested above her cheekbones did not detract from her appearance; instead, they gave her face an honest, open quality that caused one to believe they had met her before.
From the corner of her eye, Christine saw that Erik was also studying the woman. She could not help but observe that this Russian woman curved in all of the places that she did not, and wondered if he thought she was lovely as well. The wife protectively threaded her fingers through his.
He glanced at her, eyebrow quirking in amusement, and let the small act of jealousy go. His hand, though, remained wrapped about hers, his restless fingers absently toying with her wedding band.
Christine was shamed by her jealousy; she tried to remember her manners. "Your babies are precious. What are their names?" The mother smiled warmly, and she suddenly felt like a child for being jealous at all.
"My wife does not speak French, Madame Reinard," Ze'ev explained. He held up the sleeping baby in his arms. "This sheyne meydel is my daughter, Sasha. She is quiet now, but when she is awake, she babbles happily at any and all things. And her brother," he nodded to the boy in his wife's arms, "is as quiet as Sasha is loud. His name is Benyamin."
Rivka turned to her husband and murmured something in Russian, then looked to Christine expectantly.
"My wife asks if you would like to hold Sasha," Ze'ev said.
"Oh, yes! Yes please. Thank you…" She looked to Erik for help.
"Gospadin Borochov," Erik whispered in her ear. "And his wife is Gospazha Borochova."
She smiled gratefully at her husband and handed her teacup to Rivka's waiting hand. She was rather impressed that the young mother could hold a sleeping baby in one arm and two teacups in the other, and considered that the woman must have a great deal of practice shuffling babies and objects.
Pulling her hand from Erik's to reach out for the child, she murmured her thanks to "Gospadin Borochov". Cradling the little girl in her arms, the woman watched as the infant stirred, wrapping petite fingers around her larger one. Sasha cooed in her sleep, and Christine's heart leapt; she missed the feel of holding such a tiny, weightless thing. She nearly said so to Erik, but felt him stiffen uncomfortably before she could even utter the words. At that moment, she would have given anything to be able to read the expression on his face; unfortunately, the only view she had of him was his emotionless mask.
Even if I could see his face, she thought, he guards his emotions so carefully, I doubt I could fathom what he is thinking. So instead, she turned back to the Borochovs.
"How old are your children?"
"Five months, Madame. I was in St. Petersburg for the trial when they were born. In October, after I had returned from Russia to find that I had missed the birth of our twins, I vowed never to leave my wife and children behind again. I have not set foot outside the city walls since. Very few people know that I am in Jerusalem, and even fewer know my real name. I would prefer to keep it that way." The man looked pointedly at his guests, then relaxed as they murmured their assent.
"You have a son, I believe, Madame. Jean-Paul is his name, correct? He would be close to the age of three now."
Christine's face paled. "Two and a half years."
The Russian smiled. "I am sorry to startle you; it must be daunting to have a stranger know so much about you. I came by the information honestly enough, though. You see, your hus—" he caught himself, "—the Comte de Chagny told me quite a bit about your small family during our time together. He even showed me the tiny portrait of you that he kept in his watch; that was how I recognized you at the Church of the Flagellation."
She carefully nodded. "Yes, I know the picture that you speak of. We had them done for our third wedding anniversary; I gave him the watch, and he gave me a brooch."
"A brooch from Prague—a locket, in truth. I was with him the day he purchased it. He was going to have his portrait done upon his return to Paris."
Christine's cautious gaze locked with his. "There was something special about the brooch, Gospadin. Perhaps you remember?"
He smiled at her test. "A secret compartment behind one of the portraits, Madame. One has to pop the frame out to find it—very clever thing. There was a small piece of paper slipped into it."
"No," the woman said in confusion, shaking her head. "There was nothing in the compartment. You are mistaken."
"Madame, I assure you I am not. I was present when he wrote it, though I cannot tell you what it said. He meant it for your eyes only, I believe. If it is missing, either Chagny removed it, or someone else did."
Erik cleared his throat, his patience wearing thin. "Sir, perhaps it would be best if you first explain your relationship to the boy," he snapped. "Then we can discuss cherished anniversary gifts and other such frivolities."
Ze'ev started at the unusual outburst, then settled back into his chair and pensively ran a hand over his beard, his eyes intriguingly fixed upon the masked man. At length, he spoke. "Very well. I can see that you are anxious to get to the heart of the matter, Monsieur." The man turned to his wife and murmured some brief explanation in Russian. She nodded and crossed the room to Christine, gently lifting Sasha from her arms. Kissing her husband upon his forehead, she quietly slipped from the room and shut the door behind her.
Ze'ev cleared his throat. "Tell me, Madame: what do you know of the last three years of the Raoul de Chagny's life?"
She thought for a moment. "We were married for those three years…he became the Comte when his brother drowned," her eyes flicked briefly to Erik, "which happened at the time of our elopement. When we returned, he took up his responsibilities as Comte de Chagny—the estates, finances, households—and from what I have recently learned, he inherited membership to a secret gentlemen's league, of sorts." Her voice softened. "He was away from home more often than not—travels regarding business, he explained, although I now believe that frequent trips somehow involved this organization."
The Russian nodded. "You are referring to the Fraternité. An assortment of some of the most influential figures in France: aristocrats, authors, politicians…"
The woman looked pointedly at Ze'ev. "I do not care who or what they are, Gospadin. They murdered him, you understand. Poison. I don't know why. All I have been told is that he was in possession of this oath that they are still searching for." Her blue eyes met his. "I was hoping that you could help me to understand his role there—tell me why they killed him."
"I will do my best, Madame." He turned to Erik. "Have you told her about the Sergei Degaev alias?"
"Only what you have told me. Are we really to believe that Raoul de Chagny, that naïve child, was actually an informant for the Russian Okhrana?" he asked incredulously.
Borochov grinned. "Yes, through the Sûreté. He went to them first, once he found out what the Fraternité was involved with. I think it was that very naiveté to which you refer, Monsieur, that spurred him to do so. You see, Raoul de Chagny was a man who only saw good and evil—there was no gray area—not yet, not for him. Perhaps in time, with age, he would have discovered one. However, the young, idealistic man simply knew that his fellow "brothers" were doing wrong, and tried to right it."
He cleared his throat. "There were three of us who were known as Sergei Degaev, the "witness" who was slated to testify against the Narodnaya Volya during the Trial of the Fourteen. I shared my knowledge of the inside workings of the organization—their plans to assassinate the czar, acts of violence, inciting publications, etc. Jaros Stanek, a middle-aged investor from Bratislava, testified as to how the organization's funds were dispersed to the fourteen men on trial. And Raoul de Chagny was going to provide information about the source of the Narodnaya Volya's funding. Your very own Fraternité."
Erik started. "So, the Fraternité was funding the Narodnaya Volya, then," he murmured.
Ze'ev nodded. "Raoul was disgusted with the fact that his aristocratic peers were trying to control political situations by using violence-oriented groups, such as the Narodnaya Volya. According to the Comte, the Fraternité financed them because they wanted the radicals to gain influence in Russian politics. If this happened, then the Fraternité, through their financial backing, would subsequently gain a strong arm within the government."
"Why would they want that, Gospadin?" Christine asked, her eyes wide.
The Russian shrugged. "Why does anyone want power and control, Madame? Think of the clout they could have had—not only in Russia, but France, as well. The Fraternité was founded on the principles that the use of terror is permissible, if used for a greater good. They have somehow been involved in most major uprisings in France since the Reign of Terror during the Revolution—the latest being the Commune."
Ze'ev stood up and threaded his hands behind his neck, rolling his head around to loosen the muscles. He slowly paced across the room, quietly sorting through his secrets.
"The Narodnaya Volya also had similar beliefs. Their plans were flawless on paper. In practice, however, they failed because of men like Chagny and Stanek, who believed that money and power were not as important as doing what was right. And because the Narodnaya Volya failed to gain control, the Fraternité found themselves in a grand mess."
He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at Christine, his face set in grim lines.
"You see, the brotherhood's financial support of the radicals also implicated them in the assassination of Czar Alexander II. And supposedly, Raoul de Chagny had the documents to prove it."
"The oath of Fraternité." Christine whispered the words as if calling down a curse upon her head.
Erik ignored her touch of drama. "What sort of documents?"
Borochov resumed his pacing. "Financial records, letters, instructions that would directly link the Fraternité to the Narodnaya Volya. And the oath that you spoke of, Madame—from what I understand, it was the brotherhood's official charter. Each member, since its beginnings nearly 100 years ago, has put their name to it."
Christine gasped. "A list of individual names? But… if something like that was ever made public, it could destroy the members' lives! Why would Raoul have had possession of it? He didn't even know about them until Philippe died."
Erik turned to his distraught wife. "Because he was a Chagny, Christine. Born to privilege, part of an old aristocratic family. Your avocat explained that the Chagnys helped to found the Fraternité—who better to keep the relics than one of their descendents?"
The Russian nodded. "This is true. According to Raoul, Philippe had been the group's executive secretary of sorts, up to his death."
"Philippe always did place a great deal of importance in doing one's duty to the Chagny line," she murmured, on the verge of tears. "He did not approve of me…"
Ze'ev cleared his throat. "Yes, well, apparently Raoul was of different stock." He smiled at the woman. "You already knew that, however, didn't you?"
Christine could all but feel the heat of Erik's eyes boring into the side of her head, waiting for her response. She sidestepped the question.
"What happened to the documents?"
"No one knows. The Russian Okhrana did not have them, because they were unable to implicate the Fraternité without them. With Raoul's death and the disappearance of the documents, the case against a 'secret French organization' was sketchy, at best. The trial of the Fourteen went on without a single mention of the brotherhood.
"And the Fraternité doesn't have the documentation, because they believe that Christine has it," Erik added. "This indicates that it is still hidden away, somewhere." He shook his head in disgust. 'Leave it to that boy to stash it in some secret place, without a single word to anyone. Every aspect of his conduct was irresponsible! What kind of a fool leaves his family behind in the lion's den, while he whores himself to the Russian government? Chagny was slowly poisoned by a man he knew to be dangerous—in his very home, no less!"
Ze'ev firmly shook his head, his black eyes sparking in irritation. "None of his family members could know of his actions, because of that very reason: Mas Quennell's presence in their household. Always watching, waiting for the slightest deviance in everyday life that might suggest something was amiss. He could not rid himself of Mas, because it would cast suspicion on his activities. And he couldn't send his wife and child away, because then the Fraternité most certainly would have known he had become a turncoat."
He stared into the orange glow of the oil lamp, hypnotized by its flickering. Silence filled the room, each inhabitant reflecting on the dead man's dilemma. Finally, Erik broke the quiet, voicing what the other two had been thinking.
"Nevertheless, Mas and his brotherhood somehow discovered Raoul's actions, because they killed him."
Ze'ev nodded. "I do not know how they found out. However, Quennell has eyes and ears everywhere…Russia, France, across Europe, really." He took up his chair again and settled into the faded upholstery, turning back to Madame Reinard.
"Anyway, as I said, there were three of us to testify. More than two years before the trial, from the summer of 1882 until just months before your husband's death in June, we were housed in close quarters for weeks at a time during our interrogations with the Okhrana. It was in those periods that I became friends with your former husband, Madame, and learned most of this information." The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Our talks began with the birth of your son, actually."
"Oh?" Christine was intrigued.
"It was September, not long after the interrogations had begun. He had been forced to return to Prague directly after Jean-Paul was born," Borochov explained. "Raoul was in an unusually foul mood—said that you had had a difficult time of it, apparently, and Bohemia was the last place he wanted to be."
"Yes," the woman said softly. "He left Paris not three days after Jean-Paul had been born. Unavoidable business." A lump formed in her throat; she could not even remember the angry words she had launched at him as he had left her side that day. Her hand quickly swiped at her eyes, brushing away tears before they could drop. She let it fall back to her lap.
Erik's hand found it there. The young woman did not know whether he sought it out of comfort or possessiveness. She did not care. It felt good to simply have him at her side, at last. His solid presence, though perturbed at the attention being paid to Raoul de Chagny, gave her the reassurance that she needed. She closed the door upon that unhappy memory once more.
Ze'ev continued. "All three of us—our families—sacrificed so much. Rivka refused to even have children with me until I agreed to settle down permanently. How badly I wanted to tell her… We were not allowed to disclose anything to our wives, however."
The man cleared his throat. Christine was beginning to think that it was a nervous habit of his.
"Talk of our families soon led to discussions of future plans for when the trial was over. It was understood that we could never go back to our past lives, once the trial took place—it was too dangerous. Jaros Stanek and Raoul both enjoyed Prague. Jaros was originally from the Bohemian countryside—the Tatras, actually. They often talked of living in Prague during winters, and summering together in the mountains with their wives and children." His expression grew pensive. "The only desire in my heart, however, was for Yerushalom—the city of peace."
Erik sneered. "I find it rather foolish of you to trust each other so implicitly with your secrets."
The man stilled again, taken aback by his guest's bitterness. He shook his head, and continued. "In retrospect, yes, it was unwise for the three of us to confide in each other. But you must understand, Monsieur, that we were isolated—cut off from friends and family, with heavy burdens weighing upon our shoulders. We needed to talk to someone, or we would go mad. And as we were all on the same side…" Ze'ev shrugged. "Perhaps it is hard to fathom."
Erik's gold eyes grew hard. "I understand the madness of isolation better than you think, Gospadin."
Borochov observed the masked man warily, trying to make some sense of the mystery before him. Not knowing how to respond, he turned back to Christine and faintly smiled. "It was the Comte, Madame, that helped to relocate Rivka and me to our current home, in late 1883. Political tension in St. Petersburg was unbearable, and I could not have my Jewish wife alone in such a place. I would not go to the Okhrana or Sûreté for the funds—I intended to make a clean break, once my service to them ended. So Raoul gave us the money."
"The entry in the Chagny bank ledger," Erik stated.
The Russian nodded.
"And the dozens of transfers to the Prague bank?" Christine asked. "They were under the name C. Daaé—my maiden name. Could they possibly have been for Raoul's planned move to Prague?"
"I cannot say what the entries were for specifically, Madame, but your theory seems likely." Ze'ev leaned back in his threadbare chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that would be a correct assumption."
Erik grunted in approval of her reasoning, a familiar sound that Christine had often delighted in hearing. She could not help but bask in the glow of his praise, however slight.
"What of Jaros Stanek?" her husband asked.
The man sighed. "Poor Jaros—after the trial, he never made it back to Prague. He lingered too long in St. Petersburg, and was killed in revenge. I cannot say what happened to his family, although I suspect they are still settled in Bohemia, somewhere."
Christine nodded, lost in her thoughts. "So Raoul was going to move Jean-Paul and I to Prague, but he became too ill from the poisonings."
"Yes. It was a shame—a damn shame." He shook his head. "And that, Madame, is really all that I can tell you about your—" he glanced at Erik, "—about the Comte."
Yes, Christine did find that she was saddened by the thought. How could she have known that all of the evenings she had spent feeling angry and abandoned at their estate, Raoul had been risking his life to try and make a better existence for his small family? She found herself wishing she could take back the hurtful things she had said and done to him. If only I had known…if only he had confided in me instead of leaving me in the dark…
"Ze'ev."
Three sets of eyes turned to the source of the soft voice, the woman peering around the door. Rivka smiled at her guests and murmured something to her husband, nodding to the mantle clock above the fireplace. Her timing could not have been better, almost as if she had been listening for the conversation to die away. Somehow, though, Christine did not believe that was the case. The man replied and gestured to the couple on the sofa. The wife paused for a moment, then bobbed her head shyly, and slipped from the room as quietly as she had entered.
"My Rivka reminds me that it is almost sunset, and the Shabbat will begin soon." He rose from his chair and smoothed down his vest. "Our Sabbath day is rather different in the Jewish Quarter than in other places. You see, our small Russian community looks upon each other as family, so we take our meal together every Friday evening, in the hall next to the synagogue. It is quite a festive occasion." He paused in consideration. "Would you like to join us, Monsieur and Madame Reinard? You would be most welcome."
Christine's sad countenance immediately brightened at the prospect. It had been months since she had had the opportunity to socialize with new faces, and if Ze'ev and Rivka's friends were as kind as they, she would be immensely cheered by the evening.
"I would love to," she stated, just as Erik simultaneously said "Thank you, but no." The pair looked at each other, and for the first time, Christine noticed that her husband was as loath to the idea as she was delighted by it. Disappointment coursed through her.
Of course Erik would not want to go, she silently chided. It was foolish of me not to remember.
She tried to keep her face from falling, but Erik, observant as always, nonetheless saw her displeasure. He sighed and muttered a curse under his breath, then rose from the sofa.
"I trust, Gospadin Borochov, that your meal will be traditional, and that the hall will be very dark, with only the few Shabbat candles lit?"
The Russian grinned at the resigned husband. "Of course."
OOOOO
Indeed, the synagogue hall had plenty of dark corners for Erik to cling to and watch the festivities from afar. The minute they arrived with the Borochovs, he spotted a small table in the shadowed corner that would suit his needs perfectly, and settled into it for the rest of the evening.
At first his little wife had sat with him, reluctant to leave him by himself. After the Kiddush was said over the wine, the challah bread broken and passed, and the meal eaten (a stew concoction of some sort with meat, potatoes and beans), the fifty or so Russians began to leisurely mingle, walking from table to table to converse with one another. His angel watched the laughter wistfully, her eyes fixed upon the smiling faces and familiar touches. A pang of guilt shot through him at the idea that he could not give his wife the society she craved. Frustration began to take hold; he sighed and gestured to the people.
"Why do you not join them, Christine?"
She grasped his hand. "Erik, I wouldn't think of abandoning you—I know how you detest this. Besides, I would not be able to converse with them."
He waved her away. "Nonsense. I have spent my entire life watching crowds from afar; it will not put me out to do so now. As to the language barrier, you may find that some of them speak French."
She cast him a concerned look. "Are you certain?"
"Quite," he smirked. "Go now."
She smiled at her husband and slipped away from the table, making her way across the room to Rivka.
Erik had spoken the truth. He was much more content to watch his Christine as she gracefully moved about the room, greeting the ladies and gesturing to them in an effort to communicate. Though obviously self-conscious of her lack of language, she still managed to find a way to converse. A smile played upon his lips as he observed the women charading to each other about children and such. Her mannerisms were lovely; the quiet, gentle way in which she mingled, as if reluctant to draw attention to herself. With a start, Erik realized that he had not had much of an opportunity to study the way she behaved in society. He was not surprised at all by her passive style.
At last, Christine seemed to find a woman who spoke a little French, and latched on to her in relief. For the rest of the evening, the Russian woman served as a translator of sorts for his disadvantaged wife.
"You have loved her for a long time, haven't you?"
Erik whirled around to face the owner of the intrusive voice.
Ze'ev plopped into the discarded seat and leaned back, stretching out his wiry limbs. "That is why you despised Raoul de Chagny—still do, as a matter of fact."
Storms passed over Erik's eyes at the man's presumptions. "I suggest, sir, that you take care of your tongue. You know that I am not a man to be trifled with."
"I remember your confession to the priest very well, M. Reinard. You are a killer. So am I. You see, we have quite a bit in common, you and I: criminals who have become family men." He smirked at the masked man. "I thought you might appreciate bluntness to subtlety."
Erik said nothing, choosing to watch his wife move about the room. The Russian, however, was not put off by his cold, aloof manners. He sat with the man in silence. Finally, Erik spoke.
"Yes, I hated Raoul de Chagny. He was a spoiled child that already had everything in the world, yet took the one thing that I wanted." He nodded towards Christine. "Now she is my wife, Gospadin, and I would just assume leave Chagny in his grave forever. I do not care about his dealings, his friends, or his brave deeds. It would not bother me if we never uncovered his secrets, or those documents that he hid away," he spat. "But it is important to Christine to know why the boy died. And I must admit, having those papers would give us a much stronger bargaining power."
"On the other hand, you do not know where to look for them," finished Ze'ev.
"Paris, I would assume." He smirked. "Chagny was not exactly the greatest thinker."
"He was a good man, though, who loved his wife and child."
"Don't you think I am aware of that?' the masked man snapped, and abruptly rose from the table. He was weary of being amongst people. Though he had managed to separate himself from the rest of the crowd, he could still feel them closing in, cutting off his air. The familiar black rage was beginning to seep into his mind—he could feel it. It was time to leave. He muttered an incoherent thank you to Borochov for his hospitality and strode across the room to seek out his wife.
OOOOO
Erik slouched in the corner of Christine's tiny bedroom, studying the shadows cast upon the walls by the fire waning in the iron stove. The air had become cold. Nights in Jerusalem were always chilly, but tonight, it seeped through their skin and into their bones.
Christine was asleep. The visit to the Jewish Quarter, combined with their travels in the hills earlier that day, had exhausted her. By the time he quietly slipped from his own bedroom to hers, she was already nearly unconscious. He had been tempted to selfishly wake her. He needed the comfort of her love that night…wanted to hear her cry out her devotion to him, and only him…so much so, that he had nearly slid his hands under her nightgown to awaken her with his touch.
Instead, he chose to watch her sleep, willing the blackness from his mind by replacing it with a softer, more peaceful image. He observed the gentle rise and fall of her chest, curls fanned about her white face and pillow, an arm gracefully draped over her midsection.
This was what he wanted. His…completely his. He would be damned is Raoul de Chagny, Henri David, Mas Quennell, or any other human being, living or dead, tried to steal what was his.
I will kill them if they do, he silently vowed. Kill their body, kill their spirit, even kill the memory of them.
Erik slipped the white mask from his face and allowed the cool air to wash over his mottled features. He pressed his clammy palms to his eyes, once more fighting back the rage that swam there. There was no purpose in brooding away the dark hours until morning. It was late, and he should sleep. Sleep next to his beautiful wife…
Slowly rising from the stool, he stretched out his legs and strode over to the bureau to pull out a pair of Persian silk pants that he kept in Christine's room. He quickly stripped away the plain vest, shirt, and slacks he had worn to the Jewish Quarter and tossed them into the open drawer. The cold air teased his bare skin, causing him to shudder; he quickly slipped on the pants and crouched down next the stove to restoke the flames.
It was when he opened the stove grate that Erik noticed it. A tiny glint of white, barely visible under the old, scratched bureau to his left. He would not have spotted it at all, had the flare of the firelight not driven the shadows away. Reaching under the bureau, he grasped the object between his fingers. It was a tiny piece of paper, tightly rolled into a cylinder and sealed with a minute dollop of wax. The wax was what caught his attention; a scrap of trash would not have an unbroken seal. Sliding his finger under the seal, he unrolled the small thing to reveal what appeared to be a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting precise, if a bit embellished. His eyes skimmed over the words:
Little Lotte,
Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness. Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia. Safe Box number 665.
-R
Erik stared at the note in disbelief. He read it several times over, the words blurring together as if written in some nonexistent form.
It cannot be…it is not possible. Erik, however—of all men—knew that it was indeed possible. The blackness came again, flooding into his mind in full force. He could not reason, not with the fog filling his brain and driving out logic. Crumpling the bit of paper in his fist, he moved to fling it into the fire. At the last moment, though, he growled in frustration and tossed it into the open drawer, not quite willing to destroy the note that could very well carry his death sentence.
He shook his head. It would not do to think on it now, with despair creeping into him, inch by inch. With a bewildered, angry cry, the man shoved the drawer closed and slammed the stove grate shut, then stalked over to his wife's bed and slipped beneath the covers.
Christine murmured something in her sleep; he wrapped a possessive arm about her waist and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck.
And cursed Raoul de Chagny to hell.
A/N: Thanks so much for reviewing – I love feedback, and try to respond either by e-mail or message board to your questions.
I will be posting something to my website for Frat tomorrow. I think, probably, the paintings that I based Ze'ev and Rivka's features upon.