Author's Note: Thank you to all those who read and reviewed the last chapter. This chapter is a little different from the others, because it is the chapter in which I begin to detail Erik's past. To differentiate between the main story and the past sections, I have decided to write the latter from Erik's POV. I hope this works, and that you enjoy it!
I must acknowledge the 1943 film version of Phantom of the Opera, which has been a slight inspiration for some aspects of this chapter. See if you can spot the quote from it :)
Happy New Year! And many thanks for your wonderful support in 2012!
Chapter Thirteen: The Story of Erik Carriere
"Well, I can't find anything physically wrong with you, Monsieur Carriere."
Erik glared up at the doctor. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Doctor Ledoux smiled at him benignly. He was a middle-aged man with a perpetually sympathetic expression, the perfect combination of professionalism and kindness. He had been the Opera's favoured physician for many years, and Erik had always respected him greatly. Except tonight, when he was the object of the man's concern.
"People – particularly gentlemen – do not faint without reason."
Erik folded his arms. "I did not faint! I simply felt light-headed for a moment. I'm fine now."
Madame Giry rolled her eyes. "Really, Erik! Why can't you just listen to what Doctor Ledoux has to say?"
"I am not like one of your silly ballet girls, Madame, whatever you may think."
Madame Giry sighed. "I did not imply that you were, Erik."
"I think this is a simple case of tiredness, Monsieur Carriere," said Ledoux. "I believe you might be overworked. Perhaps you should take a holiday."
Erik stared at the doctor for a long moment.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Did you say a holiday?"
The doctor nodded. "Rest and relaxation. Or, perhaps, a simple change of scene."
Madame Giry nodded, rather too emphatically, Erik thought. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell him for the last three years."
Erik pushed away the crocheted woollen blanket with which Antoinette had insisted upon covering him, and rose unsteadily to his feet. Using the nearby desk as a brace, he stood before the two concerned individuals and pointed to a tall pile of paperwork.
"Have you any idea what this is, Ledoux?"
The doctor raised his eyebrows. "It looks to me very much like paperwork."
"That's correct. And there is far more. Far more paperwork where that came from. Whole rooms simply crammed with paperwork. And there are meetings, Monsieur. So many meetings, with so many people. And there are endless rehearsals. And performances. And more rehearsals for more performances, and then I have to start planning for next season, and you seriously expect me to take a holiday?"
Erik folded his arms, grunted contemptuously, and waited for a reaction. Antoinette and Ledoux continued to stare at him with varying degrees of worry, and Erik suddenly felt very tired indeed. He slumped back down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. He realised that they were shaking.
"Thank you, doctor," said Antoinette. "Would you please leave us for a moment?"
Erik heard the heavy footsteps of Ledoux as he left the room. He did not look up, not even when Antoinette sat down on the couch next to him.
"This might be just what you need, Erik," she said.
He shook his head. "I couldn't leave the Opera. You saw what happened while I was away last week…the place descended into mayhem…"
"That won't happen, because you can leave detailed instructions, and we'll get someone to take care of it while you're gone."
"It's my home."
Antoinette rested a hand gently on Erik's shoulder.
"I know. But perhaps, if you were to go away for a while, you could gain a new perspective on things…"
"You mean Christine."
Antoinette nodded. "You love her, don't you?"
Erik looked at the wise face of the ballet mistress and realised that there was no point in denying it. Antoinette had known him for more than fifteen years. Sometimes, he suspected that she had a greater insight into his character than he did himself.
"Yes. I think so." He swallowed hard. "I've treated her very badly, haven't I?"
Madame Giry said nothing.
"I've been cruel and heartless."
"You're frightened."
"Yes."
"You must not be frightened of Christine, Erik. She is the most sincere person I have ever met. And if she tells you that your face does not bother her, then I think you should believe her, or at least give her the chance to prove that she's telling the truth."
"How can she be telling the truth? How could she fail to be repulsed by this face?"
"Has she ever given you any indication that she's repulsed by it? Think carefully, Erik."
Erik ran a distracted hand through his wig. "Well, she did gasp."
"In surprise, I would suggest. And perhaps relief that you finally trusted her enough to remove your mask." Madame Giry smiled. "Whether you believe it or not, Erik, I think she cares for you."
"But I don't know what to do!" Erik was on his feet and pacing about the office, making himself feel rather dizzy. "What do I do, Antoinette?"
"Well, you could begin by making amends. Ask her to stay. And if she agrees, you could invite her out to dinner."
"Invite her out to dinner?" Erik stared at Antoinette as if she had just suggested they take a trip to the moon.
"Why not?" The ballet mistress smiled. "It wouldn't be too difficult, would it? And perhaps you could also do what you promised, and write her a great role. You could finish your opera. Perhaps she could even assist you…"
Erik sighed. "You're right, as usual. I will speak to Christine tomorrow. I'll ask her to stay…if she wishes to. But first there are other matters which need to be dealt with."
"And what are those?"
"I meant what I said about Christine. I refuse to allow her to sing that terrible opera. Il Muto is a disaster waiting to happen, for her career and for this theatre."
Madame Giry stared at him, and Erik saw real fear in her eyes. "What are you going to do?"
"I think I've been Count Philippe's puppet for far too long. I refuse to be influenced by him any longer."
"But Erik, the Count is…"
"My patron. I know. But don't you see? The reputation of the Opera is more important than that man's vanity projects."
Madame Giry tried once again to lay a hand on Erik's arm, but he pulled away, and stalked towards the window.
"You must know I'm right," he said.
"I agree with you, Erik. You know I do. But without Count Philippe, there would be no Opera…"
Erik whirled around. "Without me, there would be no Opera!"
Madame Giry took a step backwards, and Erik felt remorseful for losing his temper.
"I'm sorry, Antoinette. I didn't mean to snap at you. But you must see that I can't let him do this. Not anymore. Please would you send for him first thing tomorrow? I think it's about time we had a frank discussion about the future of the Opera."
There was silence. Erik was panting. He still felt weak after the evening's events, and he suddenly wanted to be alone. He waited for Antoinette's reply.
"Very well," she said. "I'll send for him. But please, Erik. Don't say or do anything rash…"
"Thank you," said Erik, ignoring her plea. "And now I would like to be alone."
When Madame Giry had gone, Erik turned towards the window and looked out at the quiet streets. He hoped that Christine was not too upset. He had been a coward and a fool, but there was still time to put things right.
Tomorrow, he would tell the count that his patronage would no longer be required.
But for now, he found himself remembering a different life, when Count Philippe's influence as a patron had meant everything.
Fifteen years earlier…
I'm not dressed for an occasion such as this. I'm wearing my best suit, of course, but it is a little too large for me, and the hem of my cloak is frayed. A servant – I forget which rank – looks at the cloak in distaste as I remove it, as if wondering whether such an item is fit to grace his master's cloakroom.
The Count de Chagny glares at his employee. "Well, man, what are you waiting for? Take Monsieur Carriere's cloak!"
The servant eyes me suspiciously, but takes the cloak from my hand without comment.
Chagny smiles at me, and indicates that I should follow.
He opens a door, revealing a room filled with grandeur. Grand things, grand people. But the thing which almost causes me to swoon is the smell. The scent of good food, piled high on silver platters. A glorious smell of fragrant cheese and cooked meat and something sweet and sugary. My stomach rumbles, and I glance embarrassedly at Chagny. I hope he does not hear it.
Soup is what I'm used to. Soup and bread. My landlady complains about this – "The same soup, night after night, week after week". She thinks I'm being ungenerous with my money. She persists in the belief that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I am actually rich.
I'm young, but I'm a realist. I know Chagny has not invited me here as a guest. Rather, he has invited me as part of the evening's entertainment. I'm used to it, of course. Singing for my supper is a reality of my life, and I'm accustomed to performing in far less salubrious places than the Count's town house. But despite the grandeur and the Count's impeccable manners, the place makes me uncomfortable. I know that I'm not part of this world which I have been summoned to enter.
I eye the crowd with interest and wonder what will be required of me tonight. The audience is well-dressed, the ladies almost drowning in absurd upholstered creations, and the gentlemen in evening suits far newer and finer than my own. They don't look like the sort who would enjoy a folk song, or the kind of ditty I am accustomed to performing at the cabarets.
Each pair of eyes - twenty, a large crowd - is fixed on me, and they don't look particularly friendly.
"Good Lord, Philippe! What the devil have you got there?" This from a man with a ridiculous waxed moustache.
Chagny grins. "This, my dear fellow, is Erik Carriere, the finest tenor of his generation."
I turn to stare at him, and he winks at me.
"Is this a joke?" says a thin, bespectacled gentleman.
"Not at all," Philippe replies. He turns back to me. "Monsieur Carriere, may I introduce Monsieur Richard and his partner, Monsieur Moncharmin. Directors of the Paris Opera."
The Paris Opera. The name makes me shiver. I've walked past that great theatre so many times since my arrival in this city. Occasionally I've lingered by the stage door, watching the singers and musicians filing in, and wondering what it must be like to perform in such a grand place. The audiences are a sight to see as well, walking delicately up the steps to the entrance, a sea of tall hats and satin dresses and fans.
I stare at the two managers as if they're a pair of exotic creatures from a far-off land. I must be staring at them quite intensely, because after a while they begin to look uncomfortable.
"Monsieur Carriere is going to sing for us this evening," says Chagny.
"Oh, how lovely!" says a young lady in a nearby chair. Her voice is so shrill that the sound makes me jump.
Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin exchange glances, and then turn twin glares upon Chagny.
"Now look here, Philippe. We accepted your invitation expecting to come to a party," says Richard. "If this" - he pauses, and looks down his nose at me – "gentleman is serious about auditioning, perhaps I can give him my card…"
But Philippe is adamant. "No, you must hear him here! Tonight! And now, music, please…"
He waves towards the grand piano. A gentleman begins to play in what, I must say, is a rather uninspired, weary manner. I hesitate, not quite daring to cross the room, to walk beneath the glare of the chandeliers.
"Well, go on." And Philippe lightly pushes my arm.
And so I go. Hunching my shoulders, trying to keep my masked face hidden from the curious eyes, I walk towards the beautiful instrument and its indifferent player.
And I sing.
I sing, and I watch their faces. I see their expressions transform from suspicion and fear to intrigue and even pleasure. This is nothing, of course. It always happens, regardless of the venue, or the class of the audience, and I know that their pleasure will not last. When I stop, they'll look at me and see that it was just a monster in a mask singing all along, and they'll feel cheated.
This is what I've learned.
My voice can deceive for a short time. It can convince those in my presence that I am, perhaps, handsome, beneath the mask. And when I sing, I almost feel handsome. I straighten my back and dare to look my audience in the eyes. Chagny is smiling at me, and in the corner of the room I can just make out Mademoiselle Giry, the little dancer, smiling too.
And I realise that it must have been her who convinced Philippe to let me sing tonight. I'm not sure whether I should feel gratitude, but my lips – or what passes for my lips – turn upwards in a smile.
I focus on Mademoiselle Giry's gentle face, and I sing. I try to make everyone in that room understand that I am human, just like them. I turn my masked gaze towards the opera house managers, who are staring at me, their expressions frozen in wonder. And I hope that just once, someone will see that I am a singer, not a sideshow novelty.
I am an opera singer. Surely, despite everything, they can hear that? No, don't look at my mask. Don't be distracted by my appearance. Listen to me!
I have reached the end of my song. There is an intense moment of silence. My audience exchange bemused glances, and then everyone turns to look at Chagny, as if awaiting instruction.
He begins to applaud. The audience sags with relief and applauds too. And, despite my misgivings, I permit myself a bow.
The applause continues for quite some time. And after a moment Chagny obviously feels obliged to rescue me. Swooping forward, he guides me towards the refreshment table.
"I do believe this calls for champagne," he whispers, pouring two glasses and offering one to me. Thanking him, I take it and sip it awkwardly, hindered slightly by the mask. It is a far cry from the absinthe they drink at the cabarets, a dreadful substance which I've never been able to stomach.
Chagny grins and inclines his head towards the opera managers, who are deep in conversation by the door. "Look at those two fools. I think they're arguing over whether to sign you up."
My eyes widen. "Do you really think so?"
Chagny nods. "Most definitely. Richard is, first and foremost, a music connoisseur. He will want you. Moncharmin, a more practically-minded man, will be seeking to talk him out of it. But don't worry. I'll soon convince him otherwise." He strides over to the managers, and not for the first time I'm agog at the easy confidence of the aristocracy. "Gentlemen! What did you think of our remarkable Erik Carriere?"
Startled from their discussion, the managers look at me nervously.
"Quite remarkable," says Richard, forcing a smile. To his credit, he offers me his hand. "You have a great talent, Monsieur Carriere."
"It is most certainly unique," says Moncharmin, eyeing me above his spectacles. His partner glares at him.
"I am Monsieur Carriere's patron," Chagny says, not wasting any time. "And I am also yours, gentlemen."
"What do you mean by that?" says Moncharmin.
"I believe that a talent such as Monsieur Carriere's would be an asset to the Paris Opera. We need new talent, fresh talent…"
Richard is nodding enthusiastically, and I realise that I respect him. "Of course, of course, you're quite right, my dear Count. But there are, if you'll forgive me, some issues we need to address…" He looks directly at my mask, and I drop my gaze to the floor.
"They're more than mere 'issues', Richard!" says Moncharmin. "They're insurmountable obstacles. What do you expect us to do, de Chagny? Replace the act three ballet with a vaudeville interlude? Do you wish for me to cheapen our great institution with a freak act?"
The words are like blows. My instinct is to cringe, but somehow I manage to draw myself up to my full height.
"Monsieur, I would be grateful if you would not talk about me in that insulting manner," I say, surprising myself. "You have no idea what you're saying."
"But a man in a mask must have something to hide," says Moncharmin, who has gone rather pale at my challenging tone.
"Monsieur Carriere was injured in a fire," says Philippe, before I can reply. "He was singing at a theatre in London when a backcloth went up in flames. It was a terrible tragedy. And now he's trying to rebuild his career. I am surprised you haven't heard of Monsieur Carriere, Moncharmin. A rising star at Covent Garden? You do pretend to know an awful lot about music. As do you, Monsieur Richard."
I stare at Philippe, wondering what on earth has possessed him to make up such an absurd story about me. I feel rather angry. Is the truth so shameful? My disfigurement is the result of no fire, and he knows that perfectly well.
Whatever the reason behind Philippe's lies, they seem to have worked. The managers, especially Monsieur Richard, look instantly apologetic, and rather horrified, as if Philippe has caught them out.
"I am so sorry, Monsieur Carriere," says Moncharmin. "I hope you'll forgive my appalling manners. I had no idea…"
"I did," says Richard, not to be outdone. "In fact, I believe I have heard of you. Yes, I believe I read something in the papers. Covent Garden, you say? A fine opera house, Covent Garden…"
"So," says Philippe, smiling broadly. "Will you grant my friend here a formal audition?"
"Certainly, certainly," says Richard. "Of course, it will be difficult, but we will most certainly consider…er…"
"Our position!" says Moncharmin, helping his floundering partner. "Yes. We will consider our position in regards to this matter."
Philippe smiles broadly. "Good. Perhaps you could give Monsieur Carriere your card, gentlemen?"
"Our card," says Richard. "Of course." He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a small white oblong. "Call on us at the Opera House next week, Monsieur Carriere. We will see what we can do."
They both shake my hand again and hurry towards the refreshment table. Philippe de Chagny follows them.
I remain standing where I am, alone, staring at the little piece of card in my hands. I can hardly believe what has just happened.
Something taps me on the shoulder. I give a start and whirl around. Mademoiselle Giry is grinning at me.
"Well?" she says. "What happened?"
I shake my head in confusion.
"I'm not sure. The managers gave me their card. They've asked me to call on them at the Opera…"
Mademoiselle Giry gasps. And then, all of a sudden, she leaps forward and wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace which makes me stagger.
"Oh, Erik! Do you know what this means? It means they're going to offer you a job!"
I manage to disentangle myself from her arms. I stare at her, swaying slightly on my feet. "A job? You mean…singing?"
She laughs. "Of course!"
I feel light-headed. "But…singing? At the Opera House? For an audience?"
Antoinette claps her hands together. "Yes! Oh, Erik. Aren't you pleased?"
"Pleased?" For a moment, I'm not sure. This is all I've ever wanted, just to sing and be heard, but I have an odd feeling, the strangest sense that I'm here under false pretences.
But Antoinette is delighted. She can't stop smiling.
"You'll never have to go back to those places," she says, hugging me again. "Never."
And I remember the jeering, leering crowds, and the laughter. I remember the heat of the sun, and the people, so many people, crammed into the tent. And I remember the indifference of the clientele at the cabaret. I had thought that the cabaret would be different, but they only wanted to see my face. Just like all the others.
Shyly, I meet Antoinette Giry's eyes. And I smile.
Perhaps I am no longer a monster.