The New Manager
January 1881
Andre
"Another disastrous meeting!" Firmin said, entering the office with his hands thrown up in exasperation. "At this rate, we'll just have to rope off the theater and sell the seats around that accursed crater!"
"What went wrong this time?" I asked, rising from my desk.
Firmin huffed as he paced. "The contractor said the damage was far too extensive, and it'd be impossible to repair without tearing the whole building down and starting over from the ground up!"
"Truly!" I cried. "Oh Firmin, we're ruined!"
Firmin whipped out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. "Yes, it would seem so… if the owner's wife wasn't so mystifyingly fond of this company, that is." He spat the word fond like a curse – as well he should have, for how this fondness was now the source of all our frustrations.
"Ah, yes, the owner's wife – our savior!" I said dismally. "I'd have almost rather she just left this company alone to die its natural death instead of torturing us further in this way. Doesn't she know we're never going to financially recover from this debacle?"
"It appears not. So, in the meantime, we have to subject ourselves to the pointless agony of resuscitating a cadaverous opera-tion. Operation, excuse me," Firmin coughed. "Although, that woman apparently thought it best to send us a little help. Apparently, we're not capable enough to manage this opera house on our own!"
"It was hardly our fault the chandelier fell!" I wailed.
"Regardless, the new manager – our new partner – is due to arrive any minute now. Best be ready for him. We want to make a good impression. He's our last chance, after all; we don't want to scare him off on the first day."
"No, not at all! The Opera Ghost will do that well enough on his own," I moaned in reply.
A knock startled us both out of our conversation. We turned towards the oak office door, apprehensive.
Firmin, being the closer one, stepped to the door and opened it with a flourish, even as I shakily rose to greet the newcomer. Firmin's voice held a faint quiver of nerves as he spoke, "Good afternoon, Monsieur! We have been expecting you. Please, come in, come in!"
The man who stepped into the office was every bit the imposing figure our imaginations had assumed him to be. He stood at least a foot above either of us, and was dressed in a black wool dress suit and a cashmere cloak that seemed to wrap him from head to toe in darkness. A fedora was perched on his head, its brimming dipping deeply to obscure his face. Quite the fellow!
"Gentlemen," he acknowledged us with a terse nod, his deep voice infiltrating every fiber of my being with even just that one word.
"Come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable! We have much to discuss," Firmin said, nervously fretting over the new manager. "May I take your cloak and hat?"
"Allow me," the man said, and with a simple sweeping movement the hat came off, allowing the office's gaslight to throw itself across his features and give us a clear view of his face. Neither too wrinkled nor too chiseled, nor too attractive nor too ugly, his face seemed to embody the very definition of average. Perhaps the most notable thing was that it was a little gaunt, but that was hardly even a surprise after he had shrugged off the cloak and revealed his rather gracile build underneath the expertly tailored suit.
He extended a gloved hand in our general direction. "Charles L'Esprit."
A shake. "Richard Firmin. I handle the finances of the operation."
Another shake. "Moncharmin Andre. I make the artistic decisions."
L'Esprit afforded us both what I can only describe as a contemptuous look. I felt myself shrinking beneath his burning glare. "So which one of you is responsible for the mess that I am now here to clean up?"
Firmin and I glanced at each other and swallowed in sync. Like us, it appeared our new partner was not very pleased with the arrangement.
"This company has fallen on hard times lately," I began neutrally, "through no fault of our own."
"Random happenchance has led to some economic hardships…" Firmin added.
"… worsened only by the abrupt departures of some of our most prominent stars," I concluded.
L'Esprit wandered from us to approach Firmin's desk, where copious bills and ledger books were strewn messily across the surface. We had clearly been busy sorting through the accounts in the past few days, hardly having a chance to straighten up before his arrival. He nudged a book, glancing briefly at the page it was open to. His tone was almost amused as he commented blithely, "Random happenchance appears to have had some very destructive consequences for the company ledger."
"Indeed," Firmin found his small voice saying.
"So you see why you were sent you here," I said quickly. "We were assured you were an expert in these sorts of operations. We're new to this, you see, and we've hardly been the managers here for even six months. We just need a little guidance to get this company out of the little hole we've fallen into."
"But more on that after," Firmin rushed to add. "First we must give you a tour of the opera house."
"A tour…?" Although L'Esprit's face remained solidly stoic, his tone indicated humor. I couldn't begin to fathom what he found so funny about the suggestion, though. Without waiting for me to figure out the punchline, he flipped the ledger book closed and turned to us expectantly. "Please, indulge me."
Firmin and I had discussions about the arrival of the new manager for several days before his first day. It was important to start off on the right foot with the man, as he was to become our partner, and so accordingly we were to treat him as our equal. In a team like ours, it was important for there to be a sense of balance and trust… and so it was of the upmost importance that we made a good first impression with L'Esprit.
Our original plan was to charm him with the craftsmanship of the building first - to show him the grand splendor of the building and to woo him with the fine details that the construction teams had tirelessly chiseled into the stone walls of the façade, both inside and out.
Patting a column, Firmin rambled off some nonsense about the stone being imported from a highly respected granite quarry in Romania. It wasn't true, of course – we had hardly read the documents detailing the building's construction, as they weren't pertinent to the management of the company within the structure – but we were trying to impress L'Esprit, and anyway he wouldn't know the truth any more than we.
"Bucharest, is that so?" L'Esprit questioned, gazing up at the column which stretched far above us. "I could have sworn this sort of stone came from Ravières."
Firmin blanched.
"Ravières, right, right," I said, stepping in. "Those two places, we mix them up all the time. This stone came from an exquisite granite quarry in Ravières, not Bucharest. Our deepest apologies on that error, Monsieur L'Esprit."
Still he gazed at the column. "And granite, truly? This hardly looks like granite."
My hand was twitching for my handkerchief, but to pull it out now would give me away. "Perhaps you've never seen such fine granite as this."
"Ah, but surely this is just simple limestone?" L'Esprit rapped the column. "Yes, it is limestone. It has a softer feel than granite. And the quality of the stone in the Ravières quarry is average at best." He turned his gaze to us. We couldn't help but wither before him. "Gentlemen, this opera house is a glorious wonder to behold. It hardly needs exaggeration to impress me. Let its artful construction speak for itself, and for all of our sakes – do not try to speak about things you know nothing about again."
We had nothing to say to that. Obviously the man had done his research.
So we continued on in our tour, showcasing such sights as the Salon de Réception, the Salon de Glacier, and of course the Grand Escalier d'Honneur.
Finally we stood in front of the main attraction: the opera hall, itself.
Herein lay part two of our plan. Firmin and I knew L'Esprit was going to be worried about the destroyed auditorium, so we saved it for last hoping he'd be impressed enough by the rest of the building to not walk out immediately. With any luck he'd be sympathetic to our plight and decide to stay and work with us.
He had to stay with us… that was the only way we would survive this! But his assistance was not assured. He had not signed any contracts; he'd simply been referred to us by the owner's wife – and that woman had been clear with us that whatever agreements they had made in private were most certainly nonbinding. It would be up to us to assure his support and in consequence the future of the opera house altogether.
With great reluctance, therefore, I pulled open the theater door and ushered my colleagues into the opera hall.
L'Esprit barked a laugh as he entered, surveying the damage that was immediately visible. "A little hole, indeed! Monsieurs, my good men – the entire theater has been destroyed!"
"I'm glad he can find it in himself to laugh at this," I mumbled to Firmin.
L'Esprit turned on his heel. Had he heard the comment? "Au contraire, Monsieur Firmin, I find absolutely nothing humorous about this in the slightest. This will take extensive remodeling to fix. Yes, yes – look! Not a single one of the five tiers has remained untouched! It's as if an avalanche blew down the side of a snow slope. What did you say was the cause of such a disaster?"
"The chandelier fell."
L'Esprit looked positively… pleased? How odd. "All of this from a seven-ton chandelier?"
I couldn't help but ask, "How did you know it weighed seven tons?"
L'Esprit blinked back at me in surprise, clearly not expecting the question. A full beat in its entirety passed before he answered, "I have some familiarity with the chandelier market."
It was a flimsy excuse and quite an odd one to use, I knew, but I let it go. He'd already demonstrated his superior knowledge about the opera house; I had no desire to be further humiliated. Perhaps he had just come across that little piece of knowledge in his reading. Or perhaps he truly did have some association with that market, however pigeonholed and niche such a market may be. We knew nothing of the man, so I supposed anything was possible.
L'Esprit navigated around the ruin, examining it with a thoughtfulness he hadn't demonstrated before. The entire tour leading up to this he'd been distant and cold, with all the seeming of a parent putting up with an explanation of some arbitrary well-known concept that their child has just recently learned. Nothing impressed him, nothing surprised him, nothing could garner his attention – save for this.
And what a mess this was! I supposed it would have caught anyone's attention, however. The opera hall was almost entirely destroyed, as L'Esprit had so aptly described. Our cleaning crew had roped off the most damaged section, so that no careless visitor would fall into the crater that the seven-ton chandelier had created, and the rubble from outside the perimeter had been swept away. Within the crater, though, the rubble remained untouched; even some dried blood could still be seen on the velvet linings of the crushed seats.
Eyes trailing to the ceiling where the broken chain of the fallen chandelier still hung like an ominous reminder of the tragedy that had occurred, L'Esprit asked, "And how many did you say died in this incident?"
"Five." I counted on my fingers. "One, a concierge in our employment. Two, a professor at Le Cordon Bleu. Three and four, a surgeon and his wife. And five, the opera house's owner, Monsieur Maturin."
L'Esprit nodded along as I rattled off the list. At the mention of the owner, he turned to me in surprise. "I wasn't aware that Monsieur Maturin was among the deceased?"
I nodded gravely. "We received word just this morning. He succumbed to his injuries last night."
"Is that so…?" L'Esprit broke his eyes away from me to look back at the damage. "The Madame made no mention of him even being injured to me during our meeting."
"She's very private," Firmin explained, although I would have believed secretive to have been the better adjective in this case. I had met the woman on only a handful of occasions – during which she was nothing but the armpiece of her husband – but had exchanged numerous correspondences with her following the chandelier crash to gauge her as such. The most mysterious secret she held, in my mind, was the decision to restore the opera house through any means necessary – her words, of course – despite the clearly awful memories that must be attached to it for her.
"What will that bode for us here, however?" L'Esprit was still looking in the direction of the rubble, although his eyes seemed to look past it and at the stage. This was a good sign! He was speaking of an us! "Will the Madame be up to the task of being the new owner of this enterprise?"
"I am sure we will manage," I could only say, and even of that fact I was not sure.
We returned to the office shortly after. On entering, I gestured to the two gondola chairs beside my desk, and the three of us began the tedious work of reviewing the many contracts in our employ.
Three hours into our discussion, a flash of red ink showed itself and it became obvious we couldn't ignore the proverbial elephant in the room any longer. Andre pushed the opera house's most dangerous contract in front of L'Esprit and let him look it over without explanation. Andre and I held our breaths as L'Esprit read it over with an inscrutable expression.
Finally L'Esprit looked up at us blankly. "What is this, a practical joke?"
"I assure you, it is the farthest thing from a joke in the world," Firmin swore solemnly.
L'Esprit glanced at me, his hard stare commanding more elaboration on the matter. I obeyed. "There is an… individual… who has taken up residence in this building, and who has made some… demands… in return for his continued… cooperation."
"Monsieurs, are you really trying to convince me that there is a ghost haunting this opera house?"
L'Esprit was not laughing.
I was glad he wasn't. It wasn't a funny matter, after all. "We were skeptical at first, as well…"
"I am not a superstitious man," L'Esprit declared. He looked to Firmin. "Am I to understand you believe this ghostly nonsense, too?"
"It isn't nonsense!" Firmin said heatedly. Oh, if he had only seen the things we had! "We have received letters! And there have been sightings! And the latest incident – the chandelier –"
"Are you about to say a ghost brought down the chandelier?" L'Esprit asked patronizingly. "Oh, please, get ahold of yourselves, gentlemen. Do you even hear yourselves? You both sound stark raving mad. Ghosts do not exist, and even if they did I am certain they would have better things to do than cause millions of francs worth of property damage to opera houses such as our lovely one."
"And what are you proposing, exactly?" I scoffed.
L'Esprit waved a dismissive hand at the contract. "I have no intention of honoring this contractual prank. This opera ghost requests twenty thousand francs per month. Twenty thousand, gentlemen!" He afforded each of us with a scolding glare. "If this wasteful expenditure is any indication of how this theater has been run, I'm not surprised at the condition of the books. Pray, tell me – you don't actually pay this, do you?"
"We do," I muttered dejectedly.
"And the other condition this opera ghost has listed – to keep Box Five available for his personal use – do you honor that, as well?"
I shrugged helplessly, echoing my partner's sentiment, "We do."
L'Esprit picked the contract up and held it in front of our faces. "Things are going to change around here now that I am here. Beginning with this." He began to tear the contract in half.
"No!" Firmin squealed. "You'll anger him!"
"Let him be angry. I have no fear of an imaginary ghost." A second tear followed the first, and then another, and another, until the document was completely shredded.
Firmin and I could only watch helplessly as L'Esprit gathered the remnants and tossed them in the hearth. "We have no further need for fairytales."
"Firmin!" I grabbed my managerial partner's shoulder as soon as L'Esprit was out of sight. "What are we to do? He doesn't believe in the ghost!"
"We need to make him understand. He's only going to make things worse if he provokes the wrath of the ghost by going against the terms of the contract." Firmin said, thinking aloud. "But how to make him believe?"
We stood in silence, thinking.
I snapped my fingers. "The Persian!"
"The Persian…?" Firmin asked, trying to recall. "That strange man with the astrakhan cap? What about him?"
"So you've seen him, too!" I smiled. "Before the disaster, I saw the Vicomte de Chagny asking around about the opera ghost. The only one who seemed to know anything about him was that Persian man who loiters around here. He's almost a fixture of the opera house, himself." I tapped my chin. "That man has to know something about the opera ghost. Enough to have evidence of his existence, and of the absolute necessity of following his orders."
"But where do we find this man? I don't think I've seen him since before the disaster."
"I heard a rumor that he has a flat on the Rue de Rivoli." I said, and then checked my pocket watch. "If we hurry, we can get even there before the sun starts to set this evening."
"Splendid!" Firmin cried, clapping me on the shoulder. "Without further ado - lead the way, Andre!"
The Persian lived in rather a modest flat on the Rue de Rivoli.
We climbed the steps to his door with trepidation. What was this man like? Would he be accommodating to our needs? Would he be willing to hear us out? He was said to be the expert on the opera ghost… which was concerning in and of itself. What type of man loitered around an opera house and concerned himself with ghosts of such a breed? Was this man insane?
Firmin was the more objective of our pair, with little patience for entertaining thoughts such as these. As such, he shook away his nervous hesitation quicker than I and knocked on the door.
The door opened and we were greeted by a young tan man in foreign dress. I did not recognize him and so assumed him to be the Persian's servant. His voice was heavily accented as he asked us, "What business do you have here?"
Rather mannerless, I sniffed. The impropriety was enough to spur my words. "We are here to speak with the Persian man who lives here."
The servant eyed us carefully. "What is this regarding?"
"The opera house," Firmin said, rather perturbed. After all, it seemed obvious to us. The Persian seemed to have no other business other than our opera house.
We stared at each other for a long cold minute, before the servant bowed and led us into the receiving room. He silently left, presumably to fetch his master, leaving Firmin and I alone.
I took the chance to gaze around the room in awe. I had never seen such exotic decorations! Woven curtains hung around the walls, made from fabric I'd only seen imported for a costume piece once before. Brass lamps crowned two of the side tables, located beside a curious settee made of… teak, it appeared? Once again, a strange material I had only seen a time or two before.
The Persian entered silently, his entrance only made known to us when he spoke over his shoulder to his servant. "Darius, ma naaza bh cheaa nekhewaham dashet."
We could only guess what that meant.
"Good evening, pardon us for the intrusion," I began slowly. Only now was I beginning to wonder if the Persian even spoke our language… what a waste of a trip this would be if it turned out he was not able to understand us! "We are the managers of the opera house -"
The Persian held up a hand. Thankfully, in accented French, he said, "No need for introductions. I know who you are."
"Oh," I sputtered.
"Just tell me why you are here."
"We have a new manager, who is a nonbeliever of the ghost," Firmin explained. "We need you to help us make him understand the folly in his ways! He means to completely disregard the contract!"
The Persian stood still. "You don't mean…?"
"The contract!" I cried. "The arrangement that Poligny and Debienne made with the ghost – L'Esprit intends to throw it to the wayside."
"That is not good," the Persian said, color draining from his face. "Not good at all. He won't be happy… which means this could end very disastrously for all parties involved." The Persian's voice lowered to no more than a whisper as he said, "Especially now that he has nothing more to lose."
"Please, Monsieur," Andre begged. "Help L'Esprit see reason. We can't afford another catastrophe!"
"I will speak with him. But beyond that I promise nothing." The Persian's eyes flickered a flame of sadness. "I know him too well. If my warnings are not enough for your new partner, I am afraid there is only one way this can end."
The Persian's ominous words lingered with me long after we departed from his flat that evening, and I could only hope for L'Esprit's sake that he would come to his senses sooner rather than later – lest we suffer something worse than another shattered chandelier!
Nadir
With resolute stride, I approached the Palais Garnier. It was nearly afternoon, and the harsh wind was blowing cold flecks of ice against my face. Desperation alone had finalized my decision and ushered me back to this place – I was a soft man, I will admit, and had no desire to extend my exposure to the frozen elements of nature even longer by turning back now. I climbed the stairs carefully, grasping the icy railing as I tried to avoid slipping on an ice patch. Inhaling a single chilled breath, I pushed through the door of the side entrance and made my way to the Corridor du Management on the second floor.
I knew from my previous explorations of the structure that this particular corridor was larger than it seemed. Erik had built the walls in to allow for his own personal secret passageways on either side, giving him a way to flit between rooms without being seen. I had found at least two entrances – one in the hall behind a large portrait of Garnier the Architect that swung out on hidden hinges, and one in the perpetually out-of-order water closet that could be accessed by pulling the chain of a high-tank toilet. No doubt Erik had passageways like these all over the opera house, but I was fooling myself if I ever thought I would find them all.
I rapped on the managers' door.
"He's here!" I heard Andre softly call to Firmin behind the oak door.
The door swung open and I was greeted by an anxious Andre, and behind him, a fretful Firmin. With great gusto they ushered me in and took my cloak, which I was only too willing to give up now that the warmth of the opera house had begun to raise my body temperature, and gestured for me to take a seat.
Only once I was sitting did I look around curiously. The managers had always shared an office space for as long as the building had been in operation, starting with Debienne and Poligny - so it came as no surprise to see an abundance of furniture crammed into the tiny room. The surprise came when I began to count: two desks, two chairs, two stacks of mail, two… were there not three managers here now? "Where is L'Esprit?"
The two managers glanced at each other exhaustedly.
"L'Esprit decided he would have his own office," Andre answered in a sigh. "Which is just one more way that he has chosen to defy the ghost: by breaking yet another tradition in these hallowed halls!"
I mulled this over in my head. Months ago, Erik had raved to me about his disappointment with the new managers and their boring complacency. He explained that Debienne and Poligny had only shared an office out of necessity, and that the original office he had constructed for the managers had not been officially completed when the managers had first moved in. After it was completed, their schedules became too busy to worry about moving into the finished room. Erik had forgiven them for that; he knew what it was like to be a busy man, too, after all. But when the new managers, Andre and Firmin, had arrived, he had hoped they would occupy the office he had built. But Poligny and Debienne had not even bothered to show them the room, and their uninspired minds hadn't thought to check the other rooms in the corridor, and in the end they had settled into the old office that was originally planned as little more than a supply closet.
Now it seemed that L'Esprit had unknowingly gone along with Erik's wish. Surely Erik wouldn't find any problem with that… if it weren't for the fact that L'Esprit had only done so in an act of defiance against a myth he didn't believe.
There was no way to guess how Erik would react. He was, historically, unpredictable. But I could gauge his current feelings towards the situation. "Has L'Esprit already moved in?"
"Almost completely," Andre answered.
"Without incident?"
Firmin nodded. "It was the quietest, smoothest move I've ever witnessed." Then he paused, appearing to debate with himself if he wanted to share something else with me. He decided to go ahead. "The room seemed to furnish itself. Every time I checked, there'd be a new piece of furniture in the room, as if it spawned from midair. Even the larger pieces, like the desk and the bookshelves."
"He might have instructed the moving crew to be quiet, not wanting to disturb the business operations around here," I said, trying to work through my thoughts.
"And that was the strangest part!" Andre said. "I kept looking out the window. But… come here, Monsieur, and you'll see what I see."
I stood and walked to the place by the window Andre had gestured too. I peered out through the glass. The window faced east, towards the Rue Gleck and the Place Jacques Rouché. What I saw was the stretch of streets, filled with carriages and people milling about, and facades of street shops. But nothing caught my eye. "I'm afraid I don't see anything."
"Exactly!" Andre exclaimed. "The street looks exactly like it did when L'Esprit moved in yesterday."
"And?"
"There were no carriages – no wagons – no carts – no nothing, parked by the opera house the entire day!" Andre declared. "At first I thought his crew might be parked on the other side of the building, so I went around to let them know they could move closer, as that would assuredly be easier for them, but there was nobody to tell! Nothing to move!"
I raised my eyebrows. "That is certainly strange."
"We thought so too," Firmin agreed.
Before I returned to my seat I happened another glance at the window, and just by chance my sight landed on a store directly across the street: a furniture shop called Boutique Meuble. Well, that was one mystery solved, I supposed. Unfortunately, it seemed Erik had scared these men so much they were leaping at every shadow that crossed their path and blaming every unanswered phenomenon on the work of a ghost, operatic or otherwise.
I had the sudden burning urge to speak to the new manager - someone untainted by these delusions that Erik had fostered. "Where is L'Esprit now?"
"L'Esprit is out at the moment," Firmin said. "But he'll be back very soon. He said he was surveying the damage in the theater and trying to come up with an estimate."
"You can wait in his office until he gets back," Andre said.
I sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was wait. "And where may I find his office?"
"Down the hall, past the statue of Hecuba."
With a curt nod, I thanked them and left the office. Once more I was in the corridor, trying my best not to feel claustrophobic. Erik could be watching… in these walls, right now!
At the end of the corridor, just past the statue of Hecuba as the manager Andre had said, was a door with an intricate golden carving, and I knew immediately that this was the room that L'Esprit had chosen for his office. It was gaudy and ostentatious: the obvious pick for a man seeking to defy a previously unchallenged authority. I knocked once out of politeness, and after waiting a few minutes for an answer than never came, I let myself into the room.
L'Esprit's office was a sight to behold. A stately rococo desk stood front and center, poised on an imported Persian rug that tugged at my heartstrings. Behind it was a large window, flanked on either side with bookshelves that were loaded with volume upon volume of works in every language known to man. Framed architectural sketches lined the room, and mirrors seemed to adorn every other patch of unoccupied wall space.
Only when my eyes landed on the ornate side table did my heart begin to beat faster. There, in the midst of it this large room many floors above Erik's subterranean domain, sat a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ, crowned by a figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals…
Impossible.
Planted to that one spot, I looked wildly around the room with new eyes. In the back left corner of the room was an original sketch of the Palais Garnier from the days of its construction. To my right was a pair of figurines – a grasshopper and a scorpion – sitting peacefully side by side in their respective caskets on the marble mantle gracing the fireplace. Even behind me, above the doorway, there was a bust of Pallas whose eyes had been fitted with diamonds – diamonds that I recognized as the ones stolen from the Shah-in-Shah's throne room in Mazandaran thirty years ago!
My face lost the last of its coloring when a rustle of movement brought my attention to a Siamese cat crawling out of the ornate side table and leaping onto the large rococo desk, pausing just a moment to look at me with its piercing blue eyes. I knew those eyes… I had seen those eyes before…
…in the cellars of this very opera house!
"Nadir."
His voice boomed around the room. I knew it was him! And yet I couldn't help but shake in fear. Where was he? In the walls? In the ceiling? In the floor?
"I should have known you'd come to visit sooner or later."
His voice was more focused to one location now – behind me! Except now it was moving, as was he, and my eyes followed his dark suited form as he quickly walked out from behind me and traveled to the window behind the rococo desk, keeping his back carefully to me.
"What game is this?" I asked, the fear from earlier gone. Erik could be a very threatening force, but his presence was less intimidating when I could see him. He was just a man like me, after all. A terrifying and dangerous man, surely, but flesh and blood all the same.
"No game," he replied decisively. "I'm quite done with such childish diversions."
My stomach twisted. I hoped against hope that I was wrong in what I was thinking… "Why is the new manager's office filled with your belongings?"
He ignored my question. Typical behavior from him, but aggravating nonetheless. "It's been three weeks of pure misery, Nadir."
Three weeks since he'd kidnapped the young soprano and attempted to murder her fiancé – as well as myself.
"That's not an answer," I said, standing my ground. He could be such a petulant child sometimes.
"I think you might recall the night better than I do," Erik said. His shoulders were squared with tension. "I took a rather high dose of morphine. It's the worst punishment; it was the last time I shall ever see Christine and all I have to remember it by is a foggy memory." He sighed. "But your mind must have been wired, Nadir. In my torture chamber – I could have killed you easily."
I shivered.
"They say your mind speeds up when you're close to death, and your thoughts come faster than you can process them. If that is the case… you must have very vivid memories of that night."
"I do," I allowed myself to say.
A terse pause. "Is your mind racing now?" He allowed for a moment during which my heart almost stopped beating out of fear. And then he laughed. "I'm a truly funny fellow when I wish to be. The funniest of them all."
"Erik -"
"I am not Erik," he said darkly, his tone and mood swinging at the drop of a hat as usual, and then he turned, allowing me to see him for the first time in weeks. No mask covered his face. And yet I did not recoil in fear, for there was nothing to recoil in fear from.
Facing me, instead, was a perfectly normal face, which split apart with a sinister grin as he declared:
"I am Charles L'Esprit."