Chapter Twenty-Four
Erik
"It is because of the father," Lockwood said.
"What is?"
"All of this. The urge to pry around in the name of protecting her loved ones, the self-sacrifice, why she thought she had to prostitute herself out to pay off her medical bills. The root of the issue is because of the father."
"You mean, because Claude Giry committed suicide and Meg saw him do so?" I was becoming impatient; I could have told him that witnessing a parent's suicide would have long-lasting effects on someone.
We were standing side by side at the window of Lockwood's office, gazing out across Kirkbride's gardens. Patients in their red and grey uniforms were scattered across the green lawn, individually or in small groups, looking like a flock of cardinals pecking for food. I could see Meg standing by the rose beds, her profile clearly showing her baby bump. She was carrying a wicker basket over one arm, and a nurse was cutting the pink roses with a pair of secateurs and placing the flowers into it. I wondered where the roses would be displayed.
"Not just that," Lockwood replied. "You see, he told her to look after her mother. They were his final words. And so that is what she has been doing, ever since."
"I don't understand, Doctor Lockwood."
He beamed at me as though he had discovered a new branch of science.
"Your ward behaves, even thinks,the way that she does because on some level she is trying to take care of her mother, to protect her from pain. Because that is the very last thing her father asked of her. It explains a huge amount. Be cheerful, Mr Danton, this is an enormous breakthrough in Meg's treatment. I have found the root, now I can start digging it out, like an unwanted weed."
I wondered if the view of the early summer garden was influencing his vocabulary.
"Even if you are right, Lockwood, Claude Giry has been dead for over ten years. And I do not see how your theory can account for the fact that Meg tried to take her own life after—"
"As her father did!"
"—After Antoinette Giry had already died. There is no way of protecting the dead."
"It is a start, Mr Danton," he assured me, refusing to be fazed. "It is a start."
"Be careful, doctor," I advised as I turned to from the window. "Some weeds have roots that run deep."
"I know that extremely well, and I am always careful. Don't look at me like that, sir, the investigation into the Tamworth case is still ongoing." He glanced around as the little carriage clock on the mantlepiece began to chime the hour. "It's visiting time, if you would like to see Miss Giry. It's been a couple of weeks."
"I have been busy," I answered. "I am still busy. The Imaginarium does not run itself and I have many demands on my time."
"I have no doubt of that, Mr Danton, but I know she would appreciate a small portion of it."
I clenched my hands behind my back in an attempt to hide my irritation, even though I knew that my jaw had clenched and my teeth were grinding. I was, of course, glad that Dr Lockwood felt that he was making progress with Meg, but could not understand why the final words of Claude Giry made any difference, and did not appreciate being guilted into visiting my troubled ward. Nevertheless, I made my way to the visiting room with its two fireplaces, retired from service now that summer was finally here, and displaying vases of dried flowers instead of the blaze I had seen on my first visit. There were already several patients and their visitors in the room, the murmur of chatter and the quiet shudder of female weeping. I felt the attention of the whole room fall onto me for a moment, and struggled with the all-too-familiar sensation of shame and self-disgust under the communal gaze, but then I was no longer important, and people turned back to their own conversations.
I selected a table and sat, drumming my fingers lightly against its withered top and listening to the tune that formed itself around the pattern of beats in my mind, until Meg entered the room. She was not alone when she did so. The second woman was another patient that I did not recognise, with light brown hair and a slim frame, and her eyes fixed on me as Meg approached.
"Meg," I rose to my feet. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," she gave a weak smile as I leant to peck her on the cheek.
"Who is that man?" The other patient demanded as we parted, and I saw impatience flash across Meg's face, before she rearranged it into a smile and turned to her.
"Tillie, this is Mr Danton, my employer and my guardian. Erik Danton, Tillie Maynard, my roommate."
"A pleasure to meet you," I said automatically. She frowned at me, not extending her hand for me to shake.
"Employer and guardian? Why are you wearing a mask?"
Meg closed her eyes in mortification, and I felt myself stiffen.
"I am the master of a freak show on Coney Island, Ms Maynard. I am one such freak myself. This mask conceals a face that not even a mother could love. Now, if you will excuse us, I would like to speak with my employee and ward."
She went, and Meg sank down into the chair opposite mine.
"Thank you." She rubbed her temples. "There were a lot of things I expected when I came here, but I did not anticipate getting a shadow."
"She is annoying you?"
"She follows me around like a puppy," Meg smiled weakly. "She is an irritant, nothing more. There is far more here to be distressed by, and poor Tillie was forced here without her knowledge, let alone her consent. Oh, Erik, I really am glad to see you. We need to make arrangements for getting me out of here."
"We can't get too far ahead of ourselves," I objected, but Meg was reaching into her pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. "Look, I've got the dates written down."
She passed it over to me, and I saw that it began with the twenty-second of January 1901, and listing the months until the twenty-second of October. She gave me that wan smile again.
"There is only one night that I could have conceived, and everyone tells me a pregnancy lasts for nine months. Baby and I might end up with the same birthday, if all goes to plan. And then I can go home."
"We will have to see how you progress under Dr Lockwood's care," I kept my voice gentle. "But I certainly hope that you are right."
"I must be," she answered, her brown eyes full of desperation. "For our daughter. I must take care of her. The way Mother took care of me."
"He certainly believes that you have made a breakthrough, and that he has found, in his words, the 'root' of your problems."
Meg spread her hands. "If he believes so, and thinks that whatever this revelation of his can help me, then so much the better. I know you are of the opinion that I will say whatever it takes to leave this place, but I really am trying to be receptive to Lockwood. Some of the others—" She pulled a face "—they have different ideas of what constitutes medical care, but I can say in all honesty that this was nothing like what I feared it would be. I am feeling a little more like myself every day."
"Good," I told her hand. "The hard work is yours as much as your doctor's, and you are right, there are arrangements to be made for when the baby is born, and when you can come home, regardless of whether those two things happen at the same time or not." I took a deep breath, wishing I did not have to say what would come next. "You will find that there have been some changes to The Grand Circle once you return."
"What sort of changes?" Her body language and tone shifted immediately to suspicion and apprehension.
"I have let out apartment Four to a new tenant."
"Mother's apartment." She glared at me and I could see moisture forming in her eyes. "Without asking me? I hadn't finished going through all Mother's things yet, deciding what I wanted to keep. I know it's been seven months now, but it takes time, you can't just—"
"Meg, please, be quiet and let me explain. I have not thrown anything away that was in Madame Giry's apartment. It is all in storage. But I have had to redecorate so that the new tenant can move in."
"Oh," she seemed to deflate. "Well, good. As long as I can access Mother's things when I come home. Who is this new tenant then?"
"He is a Russian violinist I have just hired at the Imaginarium."
I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket for a pencil, flipped Meg's list of dates over, and wrote the letters: S-Z-C-Z-E-P-A-N-S-K-Y.
"That's the way his name is spelt, but you pronounce it 'Shepanski'."
Meg read the Russian name, and then looked up at me. "A violinist? A new member of the orchestra, you mean?"
"In truth, I think he may be the most talented musician I have ever encountered in all my born days."
Meg raised her eyebrows. "That's high praise, coming from you. He must be truly extraordinary."
"He is, I am astonished that I have never heard his name before. There was some strange panic in Russia that his skill was because he had made a deal with the devil or was possessed or something along those lines, so we are going to be promoting him along those lines. Danse Macarbre never lived up to its name when I played it on the violin, but when Szczepansky does, I swear I can hear the devil laughing."
Meg chuckled. "My dear Erik, such poetic praise! I do believe that you are in love."
"It is unusual to meet someone with a talent that I would consider higher than my own."
"Ah, that's more like the man I know. Things as the Imaginarium are going well then?"
"Well enough. We have had a small rodent problem that I am bringing in a rat catcher to deal with."
"We used cats to deal with rodents back in the Paris Opera House. You remember Figaro? What am I saying? Of course you do, you gutted him."
I flinched. "A cruel and unwarranted act that would never cross my mind today."
"I'm glad to hear it. Have you heard from Christine at all?"
"I sent her a letter about three weeks ago, to update her on your condition, so I expect a reply any day now, given the current speed of the international postal service."
Meg nodded. "I've written to her too; if I go and fetch it from my room, will you send it for me? If I'd known you were visiting today I would have brought it with me."
"Of course."
"Don't go away." She stood up and bustled from the room. I watched her go, and then gazed out of the window, allowing my attention to wander as I began drumming my fingers on the tabletop. The music that had began to form in my mind was just beginning to gain a shape again, when someone else sat down in Meg's place. I blinked in surprise.
"Ms Maynard. Can I help you with something?"
She leaned across the table, keeping her voice low. "You live on Coney Island, that's in Brooklyn, yes?"
"It is," I confirmed.
"I have family in Manhattan, and I don't think they know I am here. They haven't come to visit me, no one has come to visit me, and I'm not supposed to be here. There is nothing wrong with me."
I wondered whether she was right, but held my tongue.
"I have a note here, if I give it to you, will you pass it on to them?" She reached into her pocket, trying to be discreet, and passed a crumpled envelope across the table to me.
"You can't write to them yourself?" I wondered. If was one thing for Meg to ask me to send a letter abroad, but I could see no arguments against using the US postal system.
"I have written. The nurses here are not sending my letters, if they were, then I would have received a reply by now." She leant back in Meg's chair. "Look, Mr Danton, I understand, you don't know me from Adam and you're probably thinking that I am as crazy as the rats in the basement. But would it be such a hard thing for you to do this one thing for me?"
"Very well," I took the envelope from her and slid it into my inside pocket, and Tillie Maynard's face transformed when she smiled.
"You're a gentleman, sir," she stood up before I could acknowledge her words, and I saw that Meg had re-entered the room. Ms Maynard had vanished like a spooked deer, and Meg sat down, passing me a couple of folded sheets.
"I don't have Christine's address to hand, so I haven't put it in an envelope."
"I will arrange that for you."
"Thank you."
We talked for a few minutes longer before I made me apologies and left, feeling torn. I truly did have things to do that pressed upon my time, and yet every time I saw Meg and the growing evidence that she was carrying my child, it felt more difficult to leave her at Kirkbride. It did not help that she watched me go with the eyes of a smacked puppy. I found a single unused stamp caught in the lining of my jacket pocket, stuck it onto Tillie Maynard's envelope, and slipped the note into the nearest mailbox without bothering to look at the address.
Meg's questions about corresponding with Christine had brought my former pupil into my mind again, and it was as though speaking of her had conjured her. When I returned to The Grand Circle, I found a letter in my pigeonhole addressed in her familiar, tidy script.
I could tell from the date that she must have replied to my own missive almost immediately, but the wait had still felt interminable.
Dear Erik
Thank you for keeping me updated with Meg's progress at Kirkbride. I think of you all often and wonder how you are. In reply to your question about Matilda, she is perfectly well and does not seem traumatised by the circumstances in which she found Meg, although she did suffer from nightmares for a few nights immediately following the event. She is more delighted by her memories of the Imaginarium than troubled by them, and has frequently expressed her desire to become a ballerina when she grows up 'like Miss Giry'.
I am glad that you finally know the truth of Meg's life when you first arrived in Brooklyn and must admit now that she told me all about it when we met at the Magnifique Hotel. While I am sure that you are angry and upset, I ask that you do not take any action that you will regret later. Meg was doing what she felt she had to in order to survive; you know about that perhaps better than any of us. I hope that this knowledge may cause you to rethink your decision to station prostitutes around the Imaginarium concert hall. I understand that you wish to protect the women in your employ from the unwanted attentions of male patrons, but I cannot help but imagine that each of those women is another Meg Giry, trying to stay alive. It is often so easy to forget the plights of those less fortunate than ourselves.
Things continue to be eventful here in Paris. Raoul and Monsieur Duvall are keeping me busy, as not only are we preparing for a large charitable concert at the Palais Garnier, but I will have another phonograph cylinder available to the public soon. I will make sure one is sent to you.
Please pass on my best wishes to Meg, and remind her that, even though there are so many miles between us, I am only a letter away. I know how frightening it can be to be expecting one's child without the benefit of a mother's guidance, and that was in my home country and surrounded by those who wanted only the best for me.
I would also love to see more of your music, if you are willing to share it. I sang Love and Ashes to guests at the Chateau a few weeks ago, and they were clamouring for information about its creator.
I remain ever your affectionate friend,
Christine de Chagny.
I had trouble sleeping that night, and found that Christine's words regarding every prostitute around the Imaginarium being in the same situation that Meg had once been in left me uneasy and restless. Once I was sure that the evening show was underway and everything was operating smoothly, I left the concert hall, and looked around the darkened amusement park for one such specimen.
It was Polly I found first, the woman I had seen when I approached her mistress at the brothel, and I suddenly remembered the first time Meg had seen her, and what she had said to me when I had told her Polly's occupation and reason for being at the Imaginarium:
"She is someone's sister. She is someone's daughter." Had she been hinting about her own shameful secret?
"Polly."
"Yeah?" She looked surprised. "Is something wrong?"
"No, but can I talk to you about something?"
"About almost anything," she grinned wickedly. "For a price."
"Come up to my office."
She followed me back inside and we took the elevator up to the top floor, the young woman smiling to herself the entire way.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" I offered as I opened the office door and gestured for her to enter.
"Yes please, thank you."
When I turned around from pouring the two glasses, I saw that Polly had already discarded her blouse and skirt, and was starting to undo the clasps of her corset.
"What are you doing? For God's sake, woman, put your clothes back on!"
She paused, looking up at me with an expression of genuine confusion.
"What? You don't want—?"
"No! I was not being euphemistic, I actually want to have a conversation with you."
She bent forward to pick up her blouse from the floor with her fingertips, and then rose slowly when she saw my expression.
"You're blushing like a virgin at an orgy," she grinned. "Are you a prude, or do you just not partake as frequently as you'd like?"
"The latter," I admitted.
"Well, I can easily do something about that." She came towards me and started to kneel, but I hastily put down the wine and grabbed her by the arms, pulling her to her feet again.
"Really, it's very kind of you, but it's not necessary."
"Ow!" Polly pulled away from me. "If you've bruised me, I'll charge you. That stuff costs extra."
She examined the skin of her upper arm and I sighed.
"My apologies. Please, Miss…Polly, please just get dressed and let us talk."
"More of a gentleman's man, are you?" She asked as she buttoned her blouse and I felt myself turn red again at the veiled accusation of sodomy.
"No."
Once she was fully clad again and we were sitting in the two armchairs by the fire, she sipped the wine and waved her free hand at me expansively.
"So, what is it that you want to talk about?"
"I want to know why you do what you do."
"Why I became a whore, you mean?" I nodded and the young woman shrugged. "My Ma was one, and my sister. Ginny Cooper, her name was, the best hooker in New York City. She's dead now, though, the French Disease took her." She looked at me over her wine glass. "No offence meant."
"None taken. Did you ever have any other occupation?"
"No, why should I? I'm not educated and I don't have the funds that you and your lot do. What else could I have done?"
"Become a factory worker?"
"What, and slaved away for some foreman who would expect sexual favours from me anyway? For a man in showbusiness, you really are quite naïve."
I smiled into my own wine; it was the first time I could remember anyone calling me naïve.
"What about other women like you, those who do have other jobs, or other people to support them, who have other lives. Why would they choose prostitution as a source of income?"
"You've got to put bread on the table, haven't you?" She looked at me like I was an imbecile. "You've got to pay for the roof over your head."
"But if there were other people who would do that?"
"Pride?" Polly suggested. "Or guilt? I don't know. Why are you asking anyway?"
I took a swallow of my wine to give myself time to word my reply. "I know a woman who chose to become a prostitute in her time of trouble, but if she had spoken to her family, she would have found other options available to her."
"Is this the girl you got pregnant?" She asked.
"How do you know about that?"
"The one who went mad?"
"She is not mad. And how do you know about it, is there no privacy in this wretched city?"
"Not in my experience," she answered. "But there are many reasons why a woman chooses prostitution. It pays, everyone knows that, has known that for centuries. They don't call it the world's oldest profession for nothing. And primarily, it pays women, when sometimes getting work without owning a penis can be very difficult indeed. If I had other talents like singing or dancing or whatever it is that girls in your world do, then maybe I would have made my money another way. But I don't, and that is my lot in life. I have to live, and that is why I earn money in the only way I know how. Maybe it will send me to Hell, but I think I'm a good person on the whole and God will forgive me for taking the only action available to me. Maybe your girl felt the same—that there was no alternative."
I brooded in silence until Polly prompted:
"Is there more you want to ask me?"
"Not really," I admitted.
"Then I guess I should get back to it," she drained the wine, and then looked at me carefully. "Are you sure you don't want me to take care of you? It'll be on the house, and I can make it quick. I have the best mouth in the business."
"Thank you, but no," I assured her, and she rose to her feet. "Polly?"
"Yes, Mr Danton?"
"If you ever do decide that you want a different life, tell me so. There is always a space for an outcast in the Imaginarium, and you may find a profession that does not lean solely upon your sexual prowess."
Polly grinned, leaned forward, and patted me affectionately on my unmasked cheek.
"You're a kind man," she told me. "Hold onto that when the real world hits you, hmm?"
I shook my head as she departed, thinking on what bliss ignorance was. Polly Cooper had no idea what I already knew of the real world, and I did not doubt that my true life story would prove as shocking to her as hers had to me. I wished that one day she would decide to take up my offer and pursue a life outside of selling her body, but knew that I had no power to bring to bear upon her. If it was all she had ever known, then she would not feel the shame that Meg so clearly did.
When I returned home that night, I wrote briefly to Christine, enclosing Meg's letter, and bringing her up to date on Meg's condition. I could only hope that Dr Lockwood was right when he said that he had found the root of her problems, and that between them they could dig them out, without damaging Meg Giry further.
As I prepared for bed, I found that I was remembering one of the few times that I had visited the de Changy Chateau. Christine, Madame Giry and Meg had been taken there after I had sent the chandelier of the Paris Opera House crashing into its stage. I had checked upon its occupants that night, and Meg had seen me on the balcony when I peered in through her bedroom window. We had conversed a little on the balcony, and when Meg turned to go back inside she had paused, her hand on the latch of the French windows.
"Monsieur Erik?"
"Meg?"
"You knew my father. Do you, truthfully, believe that he was mad?"
I had taken a moment to compose my answer, evaluating what I knew of the man who had committed suicide six years earlier.
"I believe… he was, yes."
"Do you think I am too?"
I had smiled at her. "You, my dear Meg, are as sane as I am."
I had to refute that now. I had managed to restrain and even extinguish my wildest urges, whereas Meg Giry seemed to have become overwhelmed by them. Even in my darkest moments I had never considered taking my own life, and could not understand those who chose this permanent solution to what could be a temporary problem. It was my deepest fear that whatever had set her upon this path, revealing it would make Meg even worse than she already was, and I would have no choice but to confine her to an asylum for the rest of her life, and raise my child alone.