...
Breezes lazed through the chasms and hallways under the great opera house. In summer, warmth dried the walls and quieted the coughs of the door boys even as it carried measures of the choruses above. But it was nearing winter now, and the damp had returned with sickness on its heels.
The Opera Ghost would be busy.
"Ah, Monsieur, I did not expect to see you today," said old Maurice as Erik passed. Maurice had built sets and managed the flies on Parisian stages long before Erik had made his home here. He may know as many tricks with ropes as the Ghost himself.
"Good evening, Maurice. How is your cough today?"
The old man smoothed his white hair back. "A little worse, but I can still manage the doors."
Erik nodded. "I'll deliver something for you to drink before the show, and another to help you sleep."
Maurice tucked a shabby blanket around a makeshift mattress. Old curtains made sturdy medding material, it seemed. "Oh, I am obliged. I cannot cough while the prima sings, no?"
"Perish the thought. I'll leave the packets in the kitchens today."
"Thank you, Monsieur. Please send my regards to Madame."
"I shall."
…
The drafts and breezes of the Garnier depended on the expert coordination of doorways. Open one, and airflow shifted to cool or warm a particular area. As the dancers performed, there must be general movement of air to cool them. If a gust touched the prima as she sang, it could damage her control and ruin a performance and, at all times, when an audience was in attendance, fresh air must circulate the main theater or they ran the risk of a surly crowd.
Erik looked over his apothecary chest and withdrew a drawer. With winter coming on hard, he'd need to resupply. The door boys had grown in number and winter always took a few. A sprinkle of grains went into the mortar and he ground the lot into a powder as fine as blow ash.
The door boys were poorly named- they were no more boys than he a ghost. The knowledge of how the doors worked in sequence, releasing and moving masses of air about the place, was the result of years of work and learning. But, as most of them were orphans, runaways, or otherwise unhomed and unclaimed, once their useful lives on or behind the stage were done, those that had failed to find a place outside the opera house could find a place within it.
More specifically, underneath it. His neighbors were discrete and avoided his passageways. In return, he turned his great knowledge of poisons to their benefit, for what was poison but medicine in intemperate dosage?
He left a scribbled note upon the table and departed for the kitchens, leaving the carefully folded packets behind a notched panel he'd modified years ago. Then he straightened his cuffs and left for the passage to his box. Dvorak's Rusalka was in early rehearsals and he needed to provide his notes.
…
The prima made a gloriously haunting Rusalka, and he made sure his notes reflected his satisfaction before posting them and departing, collecting his packages from the corner the usher knew to tuck them into, and made his way along the passages only he and a handful of the doorboys knew.
He paused at the well-stuffed mattress of old velvet curtains.
"Ah, Monsieur," Maurice greeted as he set aside his bowl. "I am very well tonight thanks to your little powders."
"Any pain in the lungs?"
"Only a bit. One side. The touch of cardamom made your potion pleasant indeed."
He'd make a note of that. Powdered poppy was bitter. "Thank you, Maurice. Perhaps honey next time, as well?"
The man nodded. "That would be kind, Monsieur. Thank you. Give my regards to Madame. She was perfect tonight."
Erik nodded. "I shall. Bonne nuit, Maurice."
Yes, she had been.
…
Madame sipped Chinese tea and looked over her notes. "They said I should restrain my warmer emotions when Rusalka is rejected for the foreign princess." She dropped a hairpin into the pile in a nearby dish. When she tilted her head, a curl slipped free of her half-deconstructed arrangement.
Erik stilled. "I wonder if the managers have ever been jilted in love?"
A brief shadow passed her brow. Her desire for the role was not accidental. Christine's delicate cup made a bright porcelain ring when she set it in the saucer, then a corner of her mouth twitched with humor and conspiracy.
"Oh, I do love it when you make fools of them." His bride was beautiful; a perfect angel, right until her natural instincts as a performer were questioned.
"If they wish to see less warmth, then I will freeze them with terror."
Erik grinned and refilled her cup, then allowed himself a chablis. "I saw Maurice today."
Christine set aside her notes. "Yes? I've felt a chill in the air these last few days. How is he?"
He shrugged. What was there to say? The cellars took their toll even as they gave their blessings. "Well enough for now."
She sipped her tea and plucked at a curl. "He was very kind to me. Always made sure my things were just so."
"I'm aware. I will see that he is comfortable."
Her lithe fingertips traced the edge of her cup. "It's only October."
"I know."
…
The buzz had spread early through the exclusive cloister of the cellars. It had been sudden, though not unexpected, and the news was shared with a mix of honor and hushed jealousy. The long retired costume mistress had spent the last few years tidying the fabrics and tools after the work day was done. She knew where things went, how the cutters would reach for their tools, and the proper way to lay out the precious laces and brocade trims so they would last.
She'd slipped away quietly in the small hours.
Erik, in his long black cape and hat, paid his respects. She'd crafted parts of them, after all.
His clever pulleys and levers carried her down gently to the water's edge, and with less fuss than carrying his groceries, her little self was laid in his boat. Christine had arranged a lovely bouquet of chrysanthemums and asters, and those went into the boat as well. Then Erik took up his pole and made his way out into the cathedral of bones.
History would inflate the communards and forget their strange community. It was probably for the best.
…
The slim wooden drawer moved smoothly with a light push. The edges were polished and smooth from handling and made comfortable, hushed sounds when handled. Arranged by purpose, potency, and purity, his apothecary chest blurred the line between science, medicine, and perfumery. The original owner of the chest had poisoned a number of his patients, and Erik understood what the fool had not- that potency was no substitute for care, and knowledge was not to be mistaken for wisdom. Fully half of the original contents and drawers had been thrown into the Caspian Sea in favor of Erik's own uncontaminated craftsmanship. The original owner had followed moments later.
After balancing the scale, Erik noted the amount in his ledger and settled the dried matricaria back into place. He'd need more, as well as poppy and antiseptic, for the coming winter. He'd already begun the Austrian synthesis for the fever and pain medicine, learned after he'd hewn a fine mantlepiece for a chemist there. A stock of meadowsweet and willow was set by in case the reaction was poor. Or illness overwhelmed his supply.
Erik shifted, attentive to any pain or discomfort. There was none today, but that would change. And what then? It was a habit of his genius to work and work and work with little food and less sleep. When he was light headed and weak, he'd emerge, freshly scrawled music in hand, to collapse on his canapé and sleep. Now, Christine would scold if he neglected himself too long. No doubt her fussing would extend his life.
He was a burden. A strange, devoted, dangerous burden. Half man, half mad.
His hand hovered near the single locked drawer; a clever thing with no key, fitted with a delicate mechanism no one could open by accident. Force would release an agent to neutralize the contents, preventing misuse of the substance within. Erik had saved it when he took the cabinet. It was a precise blend of euphoric, sedative, and depressive agents with a single purpose.
He'd only ever used it once. The boy had slept so peacefully.
Peace. To rest.
"Erik? Are you still working?"
He cleared his throat and snatched his hand away from the mechanism. "I'm here, my siren."
She entered lightly and sprang into view. He could compose a rhapsody to the cadence of her tread.
"I've brought a crock of baeckeoffe," Christine said as she reached for him. "The managers were kind enough to ask their wives to arrange one for us."
"I have a feeling this is diplomacy as much as a kind gesture?"
Christine straightened a flawless cuff and smoothed her brocade trim. "I think they learned a greater appreciation for Rusalka's rejection once it was expressed with-" her brow arched "-experience."
The tightening in her brow and faint crinkle of bitterness was gone in an instant.
"My brilliant siren. I will come once I've finished here."
She slipped from the room like sweet spring mist and Erik closed up the chest. Painted scenes depicted medical procedures and practices, and Erik found himself tracing a flaking gold leaf tableau of birth, adolescence, maturity, and decline. At the end, a skeleton shambled on.
...
The opera house ended it's fall concert season as the main set construction entered its final stages. Workers were sawing, hammering, sanding and painting at all hours. The Parisian aristocracy complained about the lag in the season's entertainments even as the winter balls and parties went into full swing. The door boys were ragged with schedules and Maurice's cough was worsened by the paint fumes and dust kicked up by set work and repairs.
"Monsieur!" he greeted brightly, despite all of this. "I would say we were on holiday but it seems a new season has sprouted, no?"
"It seems so. If only such additions could be spring."
Maurice's laugh was interrupted by a cough. He covered it quickly. "The stage is a dusty mistress, Maestro. This is nothing."
"Of course, old friend." Erik withdrew a small packet. "This is just a tea to warm you," he lied. "Nothing more."
"Many thanks. You know, I was just recalling the days when you first came to the opera house. Oh! How the little rats scattered and screeched when even a ribbon was out of place. Half the time it was just the maids and ushers tidying up while they danced for the leering men in the salon. We did our best to keep them calm but when we saw that it was nothing more than mischief with them, we let them have their fun. Girls like a little scare now and then."
Maurice's eyes had softened with memory, so Erik let him continue.
"It wasn't long after that I heard music coming from the walls, Monsieur. Music from other lands, other places; nothing like what I grew up with, throwing rocks at the crumbling Cathar walls. Music only God could inspire but the devil alone could understand. It shook the very air." He relaxed and grew thoughtful. "You played a mass once. One I'd never heard. The alleluia was magnificent and the kyrie made me weep my confessions in the flies. I thought, the mind that birthed this can birth glory or destruction at a trifle." Maurice leveled his gaze. "I was right, wasn't I, Monsieur?"
Erik swallowed. "You give me too much credit."
Maurice laughed again. "Perhaps. Such a man would not bother to snap all the rose blossoms from the chorus girls' bouquets, would he?" He only laughed harder when Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, do not think we don't remember, Monsieur Phantom! I hope Madame enjoyed whatever use you put them to."
She had. He'd perfumed her bathwater like a spring garden after the chorus had failed to meet his expectations.
"Do not forget your tea, my friend. Rest well."
"Good evening, Monsieur. I'll let you know if I see any roses come in."
…
A few mild days spared the cellar cloister. It was short lived.
…
The Rusalka debuted to broad critical acclaim, with reviews showering the performance with praise and occasional confusion. Slavic folktales were hardly the stuff of Parisian stages, but it was a risk the managers took on the recommendation of their resident consultant.
Erik poured tea from his samovar and admired the intricate enamel work. A bit gauche for Parisian sensibilities, but the colorful enamel garden cut the gloom of his underworld. Only someone familiar with a Persian oasis could appreciate the contrast.
In much the same way, he and Christine were not made for this place; ill-fitted and unmatched to their surroundings. He was at odds with the curving finials and gilt of the opera house, and Christine was too bright and vital for the soft quiet of the lake. Like crystal catching a sunbeam. And yet she'd been rejected by her Prince and returned.
And he'd welcomed her as a queen. His queen.
When she found him, he was working at the mortar, preparing the evening draughts.
"Christine, do you ever wish revenge on the boy?"
She stilled, her brow lowering in thought. "How many lives meet with ruin to feed the desire of a moment?"
"Are you… happy?" Erik gripped the pestle with his goblin hands.
His queen smiled softly. "Not all sacrifices are futile, Erik. Not all sacrifices are losses." She kissed his hollow cheek. "Thank you for the tea."
…
Winter's wrath was a knife edge. A strange cold wafted down the cellars, colder than the walls, and the residents burrowed deeper into the earth.
They were already buried. How convenient.
But it would pass and the temperature would adjust so the walls did not weep and the air was not so sharp. The furnaces of the opera house above would warm the cellar soon and Erik's pipes would carry the heat as far as his little house by the lake. Mists would rise from the lake and wander, veiling his underground to the cathedral of bones and beyond.
Erik carried these heavy thoughts as he made his way through the passages. It was always concerning, this first full rush of winter. It sometimes took his more precarious neighbors during the night.
A rustling nearby. "Good morning, Monsieur! Did you think old Maurice would sleep in and miss his post, eh?" He grunted as he pulled up his trousers properly and buttoned his suspenders. "A brisk morning, Monsieur. I shall need my scarf and hat today!"
"I'll make sure the furnaces are started early." A little reminder to the managers would make sure they were properly stoked.
"Oh, that's terribly kind, Monsieur. I would hate for your lovely Madame to catch a chill."
…
The mortar was cool and dry when he began. The weight of stone was familiar, welcome even. He'd crafted this particular one with leftover stone from an Italian chapel and was amused that it was musical even when grinding seeds, leaves, or dried flowers into powder.
With a glance to his notes, Erik pulled out the next drawer and tapped a measure onto his scales.
If music could soar, make both the giver and receiver take flight, then stone was the anchor that tied them to earth. A single note could ricochet in a basilica but was held from heaven by the marble that birthed it.
As the raw marble chewed the pebbly mix to a paste, Erik added a few drops of a milky suspension. Then he paused, recalling the deepening coughs he'd heard of late, and added two more. Erik scraped the preparation into a phial and added a dash of cardamom and honey crystals to mask the bitterness. If only it were so easy to mask his own.
…
The Rusalka was intoxicating. Christine elevated youthful love, dashed hope, and resigned grace with an otherworldly aura that bent the space around her. Erik willingly fell into her gravity.
"How is my siren this evening?"
She secured her dressing gown and wrapped a shawl over her shoulders. "I am wonderful. The orchestra is settling in and the conductor actually used his eyes tonight."
Erik poured tea and offered wine. A single glass would do no harm. "Not having to chase the music is a good place to start, I suppose."
"And my costumes are better fitted. There's a clever new seamstress who found a way to make the wedding costume easier to change out of. I even have time to drink."
He held his tongue while Christine sipped her wine. "And you, my angel? How did you find the performance?"
That her brow still furrowed when she sought his opinion. If he was an angel, then God had scorched him for his presumption to sing heaven's music on earth. Their path had turned and twisted and left them both wounded and lost, yet here they were, in his parlor discussing performance.
"You were transcendent, my love," he said, and swirled his tea leaves. "You may want to practice the phrasing in the climax. Your Czech is challenging." When he looked up, she was looking at him over her wine glass.
"I travelled, Erik. I grew up hearing it."
"Ah, but your audience did not." He shook his head as she grinned. "Try sounding a bit more like a spoilt heiress. They'll understand that.." When she nearly spilled her wine from laughing, Erik knew the night was his.
When she finished wiping the tears from her cheeks, she stilled and set down her glass. "And how is my dear friend, Maurice?"
Erik flicked his wine glass. Crystal had a comforting resonance. "I do not think he is resting well."
Christine's gaze stalled on the crystal as his fingertips played the rim.
"Is there any more you can do for him?"
"To a point, yes." He flicked the edge of the glass and the unclouded sound rang loud, echoing off the walls until it died as sharply as it was born.
…
Cold settled in the walls. The heated air that Erik pilfered from the furnaces kept the place livable, but only just. Residents took to heating rocks by the furnace and cradling them to bed, wrapping themselves around warmed stone like lovers.
Perhaps he should not think about this too long.
…
Maurice's wheeze was thin and windy. "Good evening, Monsieur!" he managed.
"Good evening, Maurice. The air was excellent during the performance. My compliments to you all."
The old man grinned. His cheeks had sunken. "I'll let them know you approve, Monsieur! I'm very glad, for I had trouble. I think I may have to reassign doors a bit. Until I am well again."
"Of course. Perhaps one of the younger boys could fill in until you are better?"
Maurice nodded. "Until I am better. I can think of one. He will learn quickly." The man's brow furrowed as he fought back a cough. "Monsieur, I visited the church yesterday."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I made my confession. I had a great many things to confess, so it took some time." His giggle was high pitched and reedy. "My penance is a great many Hail Marys and to apologize to those I've wronged."
Erik chose his words carefully. "Have you begun your penance?"
"All those I wronged are already dead!" His guffaw broke into a cough, then he held out a rough rosary of knots and wood. "And I have begun my prayers, Monsieur."
"I'm no priest, Maurice. God made it clear long ago he has no use for me."
The old man's gray brow lowered. "Maybe not, Monsieur. But I look forward to finishing my prayers. I'm too old to sin much anymore, and a good rest is the best reward for such a man, eh?"
A silent pact was struck. "As you say, old friend. I have your evening tea, if you'd like it?"
"Ah, thank you, Monsieur. My little sleeps mean I can work the doors. I look forward to Madame's performances. She is the light of the stage."
Erik bowed. "She is my siren. Bonne nuit."
"Bonne nuit, Monsieur."
…
Composing is the only haven when monstrous clawings scrape the brain. Erik's pens dulled under his speedy hand, and a pile of quill shavings littered the desk and floor. Soft footfalls drew him from his trance.
"It's late. You should rest."
"Later. I want to finish this phrase."
A curve pressed him from behind. Erik eased back minutely and sighed.
"At least eat, then." She lingered, her hands kneading his tense shoulders. Her breath skated over his ear. "What are you composing?"
Erik pressed his ruined brow against her palm and kissed it. "A requiem."
…
The final performance of The Rusalka had arrived, and the opera was completely sold out. The sets were ragged from use and repairs, the performers were tired, and the costumes carefully pinned, ready to be disassembled for their precious trimmings and silks. Christine had let her understudy take the previous day in order to prepare for the finale.
The apothecary case had provided tinctures to soothe her throat, and the day of near silence for rest had been unnerving. Sirens were born to sing.
That Erik yearned for her- was it proof of her spell or his devotion? Either way, she had tucked herself at his side while he played, as if in need of a proxy, and had floated away when he excused himself to prepare teas for the door boys.
Spiced tea hid the herbs, and honey to sweeten the bitter. Cardamom for the exotic pleasure of it. When your life had decayed to the point of oiling hinges and opening doors on cue, any hint of a world beyond would do.
For a moment, his mind wandered to exquisite sparkling mosaics and the aroma of spices and flowers on sun-warmed winds. Cracking leather and flashing blades.
With a shake, Erik returned to his notebook. He leafed through his records, checked and rechecked his measurements before he retrieved a particular plate for his scales. Only then did he slide his fingertips along the last drawer of the cabinet. He found the slide, the latch, the catch and twist. A tiny button was exposed, and a small slide on the opposite side of the cabinet released for Erik to complete the last trick. Disarmed and unlocked, Erik withdrew the drawer and slid on his gloves.
This preparation needed no sweetening- it was bewitchingly fragrant.
…
Christine owned the stage as much as the managers owned the gables, gilt, and marble that held it. Let the aristocrats lust after the girls in the salons; true beauty was wrapped in floating rags of watered silk and silver chiffon, delivering death and salvation with a kiss and a song.
Erik breathed in time with her phrasing, fingers twitching over imaginary strings and keys as the songs ended. A fine performance. The audience was rung out with emotion and leapt to applaud, stopping only to brush at tears.
Leaving aside his champagne, Erik smoothed his suit, left a generous tip, and slipped through the magic column to his passages. He checked on the dressing rooms, the manager's offices, the costumers and, sleek as a panther, wove through a hallway full of guests to disappear into a hidden panel. He stole a massive bouquet and embellished it with another, then lifted a bottle of wine as he passed an usher.
In minutes he was home, arranging the massive bouquet into sprays of color. As he adjusted here and trimmed there, he checked each and every red rose for symmetry, blemishes, and fragrance. Then he ran a hot bath. His siren would need quiet and comfort after so much hard work. Opulence was not merely having fine things, but being able to enjoy them without being molested or watched. The boy never understood that.
When he returned to the flowers, he plucked out the rose that caught his eye and trimmed the stem to fit the bud vase in Christine's bedroom, tied with a black ribbon.
He made his offers with care. It would not do to wear out his welcome.
…
Erik tucked the pouch into his pocket with care, mindful of the sealed packet within. While Christine sipped wine and bathed in luxurious piles of scented bubbles, Erik had his errand to run. He dropped off his regular teas and medicines, then doubled back through the passageway for his last stop. He heard the thin breathing long before he saw the source.
"Good evening, Maurice."
The man's face was gray and angular, unrecognizable from the cherry-nosed, pink cheeked man from months before.
"Ah, Monsieur," he wheezed. "An excellent evening. Madame was a triumph."
"She was. She asked me to thank you for keeping the air backstage so refreshing."
Maurice waved a dismissing hand. "A trifle." He wrapped an arm around his chest. "Her thanks humbles me."
"I will be certain to let her know." Erik paced a little, exploring the space Maurice had called home for years. A one room, open sided apartment in the cellar of heaven. "Tell me, Maurice, how are you feeling?"
He coughed. It was a meek sound and shifted nothing. "It doesn't matter. I heard the finest performance of my life tonight, and nothing could ever surpass it."
"Oh?" Erik flicked his cloak as he turned.
"Yes, Monsieur. The orchestra was perfect. The dancers were precise, the sets were bright. The chorus was faultless, and the baritone was rich. And oh, Monsieur," at this, Maurice wrung his hands. "Monsieur, you are right, Madame is a siren. She cannot be of this world. Surely we cannot hear such music and listen to anything less?"
Maurice stood stiffly, fluffed his pillow, and straightened his strangely luxurious bed. "Monsieur, I have said my prayers. A man can wish for no more than rest now. Would you agree?"
Erik considered. The ability to decide when a life was well lived was rare, and often reserved for kings. If Maurice was the king of a cellar, so be it. Who was he, a mere water goblin, to decide what a sacrifice signified?
"Of course, old friend. Here, your evening tea. I think you will find it quite pleasing." Erik held out the pouch, and it was received without hesitation. "I planned to play tonight, and Madame will sing. If you wish to listen, do not drink it for another hour."
Maurice held the pouch up in salute. "My deepest thanks. And extend my thanks to Madame. May the world deserve her some day."
Erik bowed. "The world may. I never will. Bonne nuit, my friend."
With a rattling sigh, Maurice inclined his head. "Bonne nuit, Monsieur. May God keep you."
"And… and you."
The Angel of Death turned and disappeared, descending to the deeper levels of the cellars.
…
Christine was dressed in a confection of blue and white, her hair looped and coaxed into loose braids and coils. She greeted him with tired excitement, his rose in her hand.
"My bride," he kissed her hand and held it to his chest. "You are a vision."
"Will you join me in a glass of wine?"
"Yes, but first, a favor." At her raised eyebrow, he led her to the great underground organ. Engineered to use the very pipes and structure of the opera house itself, and run from the same furnaces that heated the salons and the magical taps in his home, the organ had both relieved and fueled his periods of manic creation.
He sat at the keys and kissed her hand again. "Let us sing a little before we retire."
She tilted her head, curious. "What are we singing?"
Erik unfolded a few sheets and lined them up on the board. The ink was crisp and fresh. "A requiem mass."
Later that night, after they'd spread the rose petals over their bed and then ground them into the sheets, Erik lay still while his siren dropped off into a well earned sleep. He crept silently from the bedroom and laid out his suit and black cape.
…
The buzz had spread early through the cellars. It had been long coming, and the whispers carried a lilt of pity and relief. The long employed door boy had been a master of the stage itself, not just the boards. He'd commanded the flies as long as anyone could remember, and knew the very heartbeat of the opera house. Old Maurice could stand anywhere and tell which doors were open. A king of his craft, mourned only by the lords and ladies of his court.
What was Erik in all of this?
The pulleys and levers conveyed the king on his last tour. With care due his station, Erik settled him into the boat and tucked a bouquet salvaged from the previous night into the folds of the shroud.
Erik lowered his pole and played ferryman. He was an Angel and he was Death. He was both lord of the underworld and it's gatekeeper. He was Maestro and patron. Rejected yet beloved.
At the shore of the cathedral of bones, the royal supplicant was laid to rest in Paris's most gracious lodgings. This one exacted no toll, for the ferryman was already paid.
…
Ragged stems and bits of greenery littered the table when Erik returned. He quickly cleared the mess and heated the samovar for tea, then dressed for the day.
"Are you going out?" Christine called from her dressing table.
"I have errands, my siren." Would his siren sing a requiem for him one day?
She tied her robe and emerged, pink and loose-limbed. "What errands could you have today?"
Erik poured tea. "I feel a sudden desire for spring," he kissed her hair and settled his wide brimmed hat. "I won't be gone long."
He indeed wished for spring, and flowers did not bloom for the dead.
...