Nadir's Warning

Erik

It is not enough, for some people, to be alive. Some, like Nadir, seem to use their precious few breaths on this wretched planet making sure the rest of us have absolutely no fun at all.

"Have you gone completely out of your mind?" Nadir hissed at me, after recovering from the apparent speechlessness my declaration had rendered in him.

I crossed my arms. "I assure you I am in complete possession of my senses."

"This cannot bode well." Nadir shook his head, ignoring my perfect sensibility. "Not well at all."

"And why exactly not?"

"Because you are you, Erik!" Nadir accused. "You are a manipulative, sadistic, scheming devil who has committed countless atrocities against humanity without a single punishment or shred of remorse!"

Not true, Daroga, my mind whispered in reply. My angel Christine was punishment enough for all the sins I ever committed.

"All the sins Erik committed," I said heavily, "were because of his face."

Nadir opened his mouth as if to argue, but I held up a slender finger to silence him.

"Now… I am not handsome, but I am no longer aesthetically disturbing. It took many years for me to perfect this particular mask – a mask that looks and moves like any other person's face. With this mask, I can walk in the light of the sun in the Tuileries without bothering the faint of heart." I turned from Nadir. "With this face, I can be a man, rather than a monster."

"I thought you hated humanity."

"Jealousy, dear Daroga, can often manifest itself as hatred." I caught my face in one of the many mirrors on the walls. I couldn't look away once I locked my eyes on my reflection. "I am not too prideful anymore to admit that." My hand came up unconsciously, fingertips tracing my jawline, gracing up to touch my cheek.

Nadir looked conflicted. "So - what is this? You're… happy, now?" he finally mustered.

"I don't think I'll ever be happy," I admitted, eyes still trained on my false face in the mirror. I'd never enjoyed looking at myself this much. "But I am satisfied. Yes… I think I am quite satisfied with this face. What do you think, Daroga? How do I look?"

"It isn't a particularly handsome mask," Nadir commented, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. Damned old fart always found something to keep him wary. "If you were in control of your own appearance, why wouldn't you make yourself look more…?"

"Contrary to what my managers believe," I said, "I am not a greedy man. I'm not looking to claim more than what I deserve. All I wanted for my entire life was a normal face – and now I have one. Anything more would have been a pitiful attempt at vanity. No, no, I am and shall always be an ugly man. An ugly face fits over my own the best. Sculpted features lie easier when shaped closely to those which they cover. Thus: it is nothing but a gaunt face which covers a wretched death's head."

"An improvement," Nadir summarized after a beat.

I sighed. "Exactly."

Nadir wandered to the fireplace, turning from me and steepling his fingers to his temple, deep in thought.

"I believe you," Nadir finally said. "I believe you truly want this – to be a man of society, to venture out in the light of day, to do whatever it is you feel you deserve to be able to do."

But then he turned and stared at me with vehement viciousness. "It was not but three weeks ago that you locked me in your torture chamber. I have a right to be wary. At the end of the day, though you may finally have a normal face to show the world, it is still you who lurks beneath that mask. And I have seen both sides of you, Erik – the genius and the madman."

"One side shall never be seen again," I promised. Sincerity was a new taste on my tongue. "With this new face, I have no reason to resort to such measures as the ones I used before."

"And what of the soprano, Mademoiselle Daae?"

Her name was like a piercing blade in my heart. I couldn't stop the venom as I hissed, "What about her?"

"She still wears your ring," Nadir accused. "The one that you said binds her to you."

"That's a matter between her and me," I defended acidly.

"Erik," Nadir shook his head, "you can't move on to this new life of yours if you're still trying to control her."

"She accepted the ring of her own volition. I hardly made her -"

"Do you hear yourself? Erik, do you truly not understand the gravity of your actions? You kidnapped the poor girl and threatened to kill thousands if she didn't accept your love! She was not in a position to refuse your wishes!"

My Christine… could it be true? That she only agreed out of fear? I knew it, surely, but a small piece of my heart had hoped… just maybe…

"What do you propose, Daroga?" I sighed theatrically. "You want me to release Christine from her promise to me? Do you truly hate Erik so much that you want him to cleave his heart further? Very well, Daroga, very well. I'll play your game. But the only way that can occur is for me to tell her face to face…"

Nadir rubbed his temple thoughtfully. "That is assuredly out of the question. It is best if the two of you never speak again. Actually… what would truly be best is if you two never laid eyes on one another again."

I narrowed my eyes at Nadir. I didn't like his ideas, even if I knew he was right.

"Perhaps we should give her what she's waiting for," he proposed slowly. "We give notice of your death, allow her to bury you, and then move on. She never has to know the truth - that you live and breathe within these walls still - and then she can live on without fear."

Without fear… of me…

I sighed heavily. "Only one problem, Nadir – I am very much alive."

"We pulled the same trick back in Mazenderan," he explained without hesitation. "We'll find a body from the catacombs and place it in your coffin. With a mask on its face, she won't be able to tell the difference. But if she removes the mask -"

"She won't," I said definitively, and then repeated, much more solemnly, "she won't…"

"Then it's settled. I'll post the notice in the Epoque tomorrow morning."

Nadir placed his hand on the crystalline doorknob. He was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned to me gravely.

"Had I not been there with you in Persia, I would be far less forgiving. Don't make me regret giving you this one last chance."

He left swiftly, disappearing from the doorway. He had a talent for fading away from conversations – a talent he no doubt had picked up from his association with me. Sometimes I forgot that the Persian was as much a fixture of the opera house as The Opera Ghost.

And so he left me like that, no doubt returning to his humble flat on the Rue de Rivoli, and I was left alone in my vainglorious office to mull over his words of warning.

I lifted my eyes to the bust of Pallas above the oak door, and its shimmering bejeweled eyes stared back at me.

A new life was rearing to begin. All that was left was to bury the old.

Andre

"What do you think, Andre? Do you think the Persian will convince him?"

Firmin was slumped sullenly at his desk, nearly hidden behind a mountain of bills.

I was feeling very nearly defeated. L'Esprit was a strong character, and although the Persian had seemed firm in his conviction of the opera ghost, I was not fully confident that would be enough. I answered my partner honestly. "I don't know."

"He's an odd fellow, though, don't you think?" Firmin asked. "That flat of his was filled with oddities and exoticisms… he's from another culture and yet knows so much about our own."

I thought on that. It was curious that a man, foreign to our country, would be the consummate expert on a ghost that was very much a fixture in such a renowned Parisian landmark. What knowledge did he have about the ghost? And from where did he obtain it? "It makes you wonder what connection he has to our resident ghost."

"Perhaps he knew the ghost before he died," Firmin joked.

I laughed with Firmin, but the implication lingered in my mind a second longer than it really should have. "Do you think our ghost is Persian?"

"He could be," Firmin shrugged neutrally. "I never gave it much thought."

Firmin was not a creative-minded man. He was a logistical man, focused on numbers and books. I had known him intimately for a very long time, and knew that his belief in the opera ghost was a feat of its own. No wonder he was so disinterested in the mystery of the ghost; he was terribly disappointed in himself for allowing the ghost to convince him of its existence.

I, on the other hand, was much more open-minded. I didn't mind considering the existence of the supernatural… rather, it intrigued me.

"People become ghosts when they die with unfinished business with the living. Perhaps the Persian knows something about this unfinished business -"

Firmin interrupted me. "Hold that thought, Andre, he's coming back!"

We flew to the doorway, awaiting the Persian as he walked steadily down the hall in our direction.

"Well?" I asked desperately as he approached us. "Is L'Esprit going to continue to anger the ghost?"

He appeared deep in thought, and my question seemed to confuse him for a startled moment. When he collected himself, he answered in a mystifyingly vague way. "That should not be a problem."

He moved to continue on his way, but Firmin – bless him – blocked his path. "We thank you for your graciousness in speaking with our colleague, Monsieur…"

He trailed off, realizing he had no idea of what to call the man we had previously seen fit to just refer to as The Persian.

"Khan," the Persian supplied after much hesitation.

"Monsieur Khan, then," Firmin said. "You have been most helpful. I shall sleep peacefully tonight knowing L'Esprit's been set on the right track."

Khan frowned at us. "I fear things may not be as simple as they seem."

"And why ever not?" Firmin asked, echoing the sentiments of the question in my own mind.

"He," Khan stressed this word so greatly that it was impossible not to infer his meaning, "is never simple."

"But you said L'Esprit -"

"Will not cause trouble for you with him. Yes, of that much I am certain. Nothing L'Esprit can do will ever upset him. Not in any way you would have to worry about." Khan shook his head. "But the situation remains perilous. I urge you both to remain on your guard."

Firmin sputtered, "On our guard?! Monsieur Khan, for the almighty's sake, what exactly are you implying?!"

He regarded us both the way a sympathetic general might look at two soldiers he was sending off on a dangerous mission. "I wish you both the best of luck. I am only sorry that I cannot explain the situation more, but his secrets are not mine to tell. Still… I will be around, with a watchful eye out for him."

He side-stepped Firmin with a militaristic ease, marching down the remainder of the corridor as Firmin and I could only gape after him.

My heart was pounding, restless against the ribcage it was bound within. We had summoned the Persian – Monsieur Khan – here to soothe our worries, but were left with far more questions than answers.

According to Khan, L'Esprit was not a concern for us regarding the opera ghost. That was one piece of good news, at the very least…

That only left us with everything else to worry about.

Erik

For approximately fifty years, I believed everything would be different for me if I just had a normal face. Now I had obtained one, but somehow still found myself slipping my hand against the hidden latch mechanism which allowed my office's bookshelf to swing open and allow me entrance into my maze of hidden passageways.

I slid through the walls with practiced ease. They were narrow at many points, only having been built as wide to accommodate for my thin frame, but I knew the contortions my body had to make to slip by without dirtying my fine suit. After all, I was the architect of this dark labyrinth, and I'd stalked these halls endlessly in the past decade… not a single corner or crevice was unfamiliar to me.

After several minutes of travel, I finally stepped out onto the solid ground of the shore in front of my home. For a moment, I paused to consider it.

This was my home, the home which I had built for myself beside the underground lake beneath the opera house… both of which I had also built. Everything here was my domain. I'd poured out blood, sweat, and admittedly some tears into the construction of this building. It was the absolute peak of architecture, I knew – no other structure in existence could rival my design. No law could govern me down here. I'd been free from the shackles of city codes and regulations when I built this house, free to experiment and engineer to the far reaches of my mind's infinite imagination. And so: I had built for myself a house with all the luxuries of the modern age in the most remote corner of the world.

And yet - I couldn't bring myself to feel any pride for it any longer. Instead, staring at it, I felt impossibly numb. Despite all its impressive feats of engineering, all the architectural miracles I had pulled off to erect its walls… this house was ultimately a monument to my supreme loneliness. With my bony pale hands I carved its stone, with only one burning wish – to escape from the piercing gaze of the human race.

Now I was returning to the world above. I was no longer Erik, the spectral figure that wandered between the domains of the dead and the living. I was now Charles L'Esprit, a man with a full name and a face. I was now a part of the living world.

Except… I still found myself returning here, night after night. It was my home. Where else was I to go? This house was more than a secluded retreat from mankind; it was quite literally my house - with a kitchen, a water closet, and a bedchamber. If I were to completely foreswear my entire past life, where was I to sleep?

So it was through logistics alone that I kept my quarters down in these cellars. Soon I would find a plot of good land beside the city and build a house above ground, like a normal man. But that would come later, after I was sure I would not be found out, and after I was sure that I truly did want to rejoin society. I wasn't fully convinced on that part yet. After all, society was the one to revile and rebuke me. Their whippings and beatings were not easily forgotten… or forgiven.

Regardless - I shook my head clear of these musings. It was settled that I would remain here for the time being, as I tested the waters by interacting as a normal man would with the managers. What was not settled was the matter of my love.

My Christine.

Nadir wanted me to deceive her. Why did my heart clench so at the very thought of it? I'd deceived her before. In fact, I'd done so very much worse to her. This tiny act of trickery would hardly be my most unforgivable deed.

It would mean closing the door to her forever, though. Christine's angel would never be able to visit her again. And yes – yes, I knew that such visitations were completely out of the question as things stood currently – but still – still, I couldn't help but hope. Perhaps the Vicomte would betray her one day and she would return to me. After all, she chose me, didn't she? She turned the scorpion and chose a life with me… she chose to marry me…

And I was the one who turned her away. I sent her to the surface with her suitor – I even had the decency to ensure he was well enough to steer before letting them board the boat, ha! Why had I done that…?

I was standing in the doorway to my bedchamber now, staring in at the ghastly sight. Revolting, reviling – no wonder Christine had been so horrified! I was a living man who slept in a coffin. I'd seen no problem with it. It was fitting, after all – a living corpse should feel very comfortable slumbering against the velvet plush lining of a glossy, well-polished casket.

Now – like everything else – things were so very much different. I had a human face. A normal face. And normal men didn't sleep in coffins.

It was settled. Despite my endless, longing love for my angel… I would deceive her. It would be as Nadir said: the notice of my death would be published in the newspaper tomorrow and Christine would soon return to my dark abode to find a corpse in my stead. She wouldn't be able to tell the difference, my poor angel, what with my terrible resemblance to rotting fodder. And then she would bury me and return my ring to my horrible little finger, and she would finally be free to marry her handsome young Vicomte.

I stepped over to my table of masks. I had nearly two dozen masks set upon porcelain blank-faced busts, some with rather extreme displays of emotions – madness, anger, elation, agony - but for the most part the rest had stoic, somber expressions. I was a melancholic man and hardly saw the need for an extended expression of enthusiasm. I had crafted most of the masks with my own tools, although a few I had picked up during my travels. They were all very beautiful works of art. I always surrounded myself with beautiful things… since for the longest time that was the only thing I could control in regards to my terrible appearance.

My hands lingered over the plain white mask; it was the least decorated one of them all. But I touched it fondly – despite its simplicity, it was indeed my favorite and my most common choice for many years. Touching it was like feeling a part of my own body.

I knew right then that this would be the one I would use. I would deceive my beautiful angel Christine with this simple white mask – just as before.

.

Nadir's flippant suggestion to scour the Paris catacombs for a corpse was ill-advised and senseless. Thus I did not even bother to check; I knew already that no viable corpse would be found amongst those putrid cadavers and naked bones. I needed a recent dead body: the fresher, the better.

Of course I could not obtain such a corpse as readily as I would have wished. My promise to Nadir at the time of my departure from Persia was ingrained in me still, however much I wished it wasn't. I could not kill recklessly without true reason; Nadir would be upset with me... and I, in turn, would be lost.

Nadir had somehow wormed himself into my life and become the living embodiment of the conscience I had lost somewhere along the way. I could not defy him, however much I desired. I had made a promise to him and could not break it. Even if it would have made my life much, much easier.

With murder out of the question, I took to the Parisian streets looking for a suitable candidate. Despite my affection for my normal-face mask, I opted to go without it and instead wore a plain, expressionless black mask. I did not want to be caught by the authorities in my new identity's face while transporting a dead body across the city. It was better to don the mask just this once.

It took three hours of searching – quite a surprising amount of time, in all honesty, considering the cold January snow that was flaking across the city at the moment – but at last found an old beggar collapsed in a snowy alley.

He was nothing but a nameless cadaver to me. I lifted him easily – I had always been much stronger than my skeleton-like build seemed – and transported him quickly through the Parisian catacombs. I winded the two of us past scores of bones, stacked high against the walls around me. Skulls peered out from the stacks, their empty sockets watching my form as I moved steadily through. I couldn't help but feel a sense of dreadful righteousness at the situation; a living corpse and a dead corpse had found themselves clasped together in the Underground Kingdom of the Dead.

At last the catacombs gave way to my own kingdom's labyrinth, and minutes later I was heaving the dead man down on my living room floor. He was dressed in rags and had thick, dirty locks of hair… not to mention a nose. I certainly had my work cut out for me.

I retrieved my sewing scissors and shaving blade, and set about giving the corpse a lofty trim. The dead fool ought to have thanked me for it – it was probably his first true shave in years. But it was with no graciousness that I scraped my blade against his throat. I was a cleanshaven man, and he needed to look the part. His hair, on the other hand, was entirely the wrong shade. Sacrificing an inkwell, I carefully bathed his stringy hair in a basin of water and dyed it to a shade nearly blacker than my own. Then, with a steady hand, a combed back his hair and slicked it back with gel as I was sometimes prone to do.

His head was nearly perfect. His hairstyle was a near perfect replica of my own, and his death-gaunt cheeks and sunken eye sockets gave him the deaths-head appearance I had been afflicted with my whole life. But there was still the problem of the nose.

I found my shears beside the rest of my gardening equipment, and returned to the corpse. I needed to remove the nose… I held the shears up and opened the blades to fit the lump of flesh between them. All it would take was one powerful clench of my hand to snap through the flesh and cartilage. However… I moved the shears away and thought for a moment.

Technically speaking, the nose didn't need to be removed. My white mask would cover the cadaver's face, and I knew Christine would be too disturbed to remove it. She wasn't brave enough to look upon my face again. And she would have no need to – after all, for what reason would she need to look at my wretched face - to confirm my identity? Why would she suspect to find anyone else in my casket besides me?

And besides… was I really so cruel as to subject someone to the same terrible disfigurement that I had suffered for my whole life?

I made my decision, and placed the shears beside me. With a towel, I wiped the corpse's face clean, taking care to brush away stray clippings of hair that would give away the recent trim. Then I stripped him of his rags and dressed him in one of my lesser worn suits, and finally placed the white mask atop his face.

He looked like… me. It was rather unsettling, to see the corpse stretched out before me wearing my clothes and mask. I had unknowingly picked a good specimen for my purposes, as he was taller than most – although not quite as tall as me – and his poverty had made him almost as thin as myself. A person who had known me my entire life might not have been fooled… but then again, not a soul existed in this world who was unlucky enough to be burdened with that particularly wretched bit of knowledge.

I carried the man into my bedchambers and laid him down gently into the velvet lining of my casket. I crossed his arms against his chest and smoothed the wrinkles in his suit. At last I stood back and stared down at my work.

Something was missing. I stepped to the pipe organ and grabbed a bundle of pages from the stand. It wasn't my Don Juan Triumphant – no, I was intent to bring that infernal composition with me to my real grave – but it was indeed one of my own operas. A rather benign one, actually, that I'd written in an absent mood a few years back. I simply switched out the title page with that of the Don Juan, tucked the bundle into the corpse's arms, and backed away.

The dead man might have been me. I smiled despite myself… my fantasy was finally complete. Now all that was left was to clear out and wait for Christine's arrival.

And Christine would come. There was no question in my mind about that. She was horrified by me, but she was an honest girl who didn't lie. She wouldn't lie to poor Erik. She wouldn't leave me waiting. And I would be here waiting for her. I would wait however long I needed to – be it days, weeks, months, or even years – until she finally arrived once more.

It was almost funny. I never used to be a patient man before I met Christine.