A-Musings - Erik
"What is that sound?" Erik stops in his trek from his home in the bowels of the Garnier to the first level and Christine's dressing room. In place of her singing is a delightful bird-like trill or as bird-like is possible to be heard through the thick walls that line the passages from the main floor of the opera to the lower levels.
Once the work on his lodgings was complete within those walls – Erik chose to interact with the outer world as little as possible. He was grateful Charles was understanding. Why could not all people be like his friend? Not the handsomest of men himself, Charles was most tolerant of his anonymous associate who wanted only to work in peace. It would be Erik's suggestion during the second phase of the competition, when Charles was asked to update his original plan, that won the prize – the task of building what would be known as Palais Garnier.
The design was to separate the project into three distinct parts: public spaces, auditorium and stage. Alphonse de Gisors, one of the members of the jury said the plan was "remarkable in its simplicity, clarity, logic, grandeur." That the architect never sought his presence anymore was not disturbing. Charles was all too happy to be lauded for the new opera house and Erik was all too happy to be forgotten in a safe place never again to be challenged by nosy landlords or rude neighbors.
The only reward he wanted was no public acknowledgment or acclaim, only permission to build a home between the walls on the fifth level near the man-made lake. The water resonating against the concrete walls offering some semblance of nature. Charles graciously gave the approval and promptly forgot about as was his wont.
Living below the Garnier is safe and secure – Erik knows the layout and workings of the building as no one else. One advantage is while not in direct contact with others, he is still privy to their conversations and many elements of the lives of those who work and perform there. A lonely existence, but not entirely isolated. There is some pleasure to be had in playing his pranks – harmless for the most part. The only person he is perhaps cruel to is Carlotta – more for her heartless singing than anything else. Even so, her hurt pride does not prevent her from continuing to perform. He suspects the emotional upset he causes actually brings some real feelings to an extraordinary, but essentially dead voice, so all iss not in vain…and, frankly speaking, there is no one to replace her. Not just yet.
The idea of birds finding their way to the lowest basement is novel. Hearing birds at all is something he seldom experiences any more. Sometimes in spring, when the nestlings are new and the parents are seeking food for their young, there will be chirrups during the night along the Seine. Paris is not a friendly environment for the nightingales he loved as a child in Boscherville, hearing their song through the window of his attic room. Night is the only time he dares venture out for any length of time, keeping in the shadows. Both his mind and body demand he breathe fresh air – even if it is night air.
At least once a week, however, he makes his way to the green grocer and patisserie – a man must eat and he enjoys the feeling of sunlight on his face, however short-lived. Not enough time to stroll in the park, certainly. The city offering no real hospitality to furry or feathered creatures or humans most times. Years ago he discovered midday is when the crowds were the heaviest is the best time to go out. People rushing about have little time to look at him too closely.
Today was his shopping day. Satisfied Christine would be practicing the choreography for Hannibal, he ran his errands.
Yes, the sound is most definitely like a bird singing – calling out to a mate, perhaps, or warning others of a crow looking for food for its own young. No, the sound is happy. Is Christine happy? Is there something about her rehearsal making her happy? The time he referred to her perlicues brought about what he believed were referred to as giggles – very similar to what he was hearing now. Why would she find a simple anatomical term to be funny he wondered at the time. His first thought being she was laughing at him. Better than fear, but still not comfortable for him. But she did not know him as a him. He was the Voice or Angel.
And yet, she did not seem to be laughing at him – only his use of the word. "god, has it been that long since I engaged in conversation? I must sound ancient and stodgy to her." Learning how to be an angel is challenging work. Not that he called himself the Angel of Music. That was her name for him – that day when he heard her singing the Mozart. Earlier singing found him attentive, her voice had a lovely quality to it, but not enough for him to reach out to her – not in the auditorium, at any rate, where she was dancing about mostly humming under her breath.
Chancing upon her that one day, hearing the moving soprano through the walls, after checking his traps, touched his heart as never before, he could not help but speak. Happiness is a feeling unfamiliar to him – the few times he felt any sort of happiness were rare. Too many years of simply existing dulled what memory he did have. His dog, Sasha. The odd compliment when he played or sang at the fairs. The chandelier. His pride and joy. There was no other like it. Not many, but some pleasant recollections, if he is being honest.
When she referred to him as Angel, it was a misunderstanding on her part. One he chose not to correct. Better she does not know he was as human as she. He is quite content being an amorphous creature. So far the deception, which he considers minor, gives him some much longed for companionship with a sweet woman who cannot judge him by his appearance. Finally something and someone to live for. If his life ends now, he will die having known love – limited, but love, nonetheless. All the more reason to continue to mentor her – giving her something she admits she desires – music. Perhaps the lessons are lifting some of her sadness.
She does seem to be happy – in this moment and he wonders: does he have the ability to make her happy? He never heard the sound from her before the lessons began. Of course, people laughed, he had heard laughter in his life, but never seeming to be a result of his presence. The girl has few friends – Madame Giry took her under her wing thanks to a little coaxing on his part. His investment in their relationship benefitted both, particularly helping with Meg's career with a note or two to the managers. He expects her to give the same protection to Christine she gives Meg. No patrons are allowed access to her. She is too precious.
Wait! Is he hearing her correctly? Must be off doing angel things. Well, he supposes filling his cupboards might be considered doing angel things – in his case at least. For the first time…in a very long time…a smile lifts his distorted lips.
If for only this moment, Erik believes his world to be as nearly perfect as it could ever be.