This little piece almost was part of my Prologue story, but felt very different to me in terms of its style, so it was tucked into the Scrapbook folder. The time period is during the several months during which Erik was writing his Don Juan Triumphant, the masterpiece to showcase Christine's voice and his talent, the masterpiece he never got to see performed. I wonder sometimes how much he regretted that later. The Managers of course thought their Opera Ghost gone, and dared to hold a gala ball, which our friend promptly gate-crashed in the best fairy-tale style.

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~R

Aminta

2017

Aminta consumed his every thought.

Her face swam before his tired eyes, full red lips parted in a smile, dark curls flying in a flamenco stamp of passion, rosy cheeks and flashing eyes, hands reaching out, reaching for him, to seize him and draw him against the warmth of her body.

Sewing was not unlike architecture, plans to be turned just so to utilize the materials effectively. A man could become master of all skills, given sufficient time, and long since had he learned to sew, repairing the rags given him as a child and as a captive. Now the occasional button or jet bead demanded his attention, but the old skills had come back to his hands quickly. The silk pieces curved, molded themselves to one another; the costume grew. Peach silk, orange silk, black Spanish lace. His own flesh, sewn into the dress, a bloodless accidental stitching of thin, papery skin, but no staining, so cold and wasted had he become. Costly laces, embroidery, beading…no expense spared. His Aminta would dazzle.

And who to stand opposite of her on stage but Don Juan, his creation, triumphant at last, powerful, lustful, envied.

How to make his demure Christine into wanton Aminta? What he would give to sing with her on stage, just once. She would recognize his voice, true, but Christine was professional; she would not give him away, and with a good enough disguise, no one else would know. But how…Perhaps Passarino's robe could be made full, with a heavy enough cowl. A dark and heavy ugly robe, to conceal an uglier form beneath. Only his hands would be visible, and at last, she would have to touch him as the role demanded. Blood rushed to his groin, a painful constant arousal these days as he wrote her part. Stacks of paper grew, piled about the base of the piano, red-inked notes sliding down the staff, climbing the lines, as fingers raced to keep up with the voices and orchestrations in his head.

Feverishly he wrote, barely eating enough to survive, cold and wretched as the fires burned low, but blazing with creativity and passion otherwise. More than once he thought of turning to other stimulants as he had in the past, but could not take the time to ascend the endless tunnels and stairs, nor take the risk of finding a procurer.

Finally the flame guttered and extinguished itself. He lay stretched across his masterpiece, a sacrifice to the muses, then shakily rose, vision blurred, and staggered to the coffin. Sleep, he needed sleep, and food. When he had eaten last? It was no matter. Perhaps if he awoke, he would find sustenance.

A midnight foray into the Managers' Offices, an open box, invitations spilling out. A gala event, a masquerade ball, the re-opening of the Opera House. A twist of fancy, of lace and paint, masks to hide behind, the ugly, the grotesque flouted for all to see, to be removed and discarded later. Rage clouded his vision. They would never know the truth of a mask, the pressure, the pain of skin long denied fresh air and light, the weight of concealment upon the flesh, the sense of being trapped and suffocating. No, they would never know. His bony fingers curled in fury on his return to the lair. Yet their childish foolishness would serve his purposes well.

He could for once walk among them. His own face could serve as a mask, but she…she would know him in an instant. Burning eyes swept the well-worn novels in the bookcase. Poe…perhaps Red Death. Thin lips curled in a sneer. How utterly appropriate.

The magician of Ninsky-Novgorod had once thrilled audiences with his tricks. Glowing balls, sleight of hand, purple flames burning in one palm, all done with nothing more than a whisper of music. The tall man behind the black mask swayed and moved in a silent, sibilant dance, hypnotizing and enticing, drawing larger and larger crowds to see his legerdemain and feats. His hair had been quite long back then, a straight silky tail of black tied back with a gold cord. The gold-embroidered black robes had been left behind one desperate night in Persia, but the flames of Hell he would keep for this last show. It seemed somehow fitting. He seized the bolts of red velvet, heavy folds spilling across his arms like a wave of blood or fire. Not only his Don Juan would burn.

They whirled by, laughing behind their masks, seemingly oblivious to the gathering storm. Bright colors blurred, their laughter and jeers grating on his nerves like a rasp. The Managers, wearing dark dominos overlaid with the outlines of bones and skull masks. Madame Giry in her eternal, funereal black. And then, there, a flash of pink and blue, soft curls flying, a dazzling smile. She was here, too. Here, happy in his absence, having thought him gone. Holding the hand of that prancing boy.

With the practiced ease of years he flung the powder, igniting the tiny spark to set the flames leaping, then stepped aggressively from the mock inferno. Before him people scattered, guests, staff, and servants alike.

A horrified silence descended upon the room, dozens of faces turned to him fearfully, expectantly. Behind the mask his face twisted into a sneer.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"