Farewell to Box Five


By late-morning, MM. Moncharmin and Richard were greatly unnerved. After taking breakfast at Café de la Paix, they entered their office where they discovered upon a side table a queer display. Arranged just so was a fine cognac, a box of equally fine cigars, and a note whose author was instantly known by the great grinning skull imprinted into the wax sealing the envelop. With some hesitation, M. Richard tore open the message and read its contents under the anxious eyes of his fellow manager.

"Dear God, tell me what it says man!"

"He's leaving!"

M. Moncharmin could not have crossed the room faster if someone had lit a fire under his coat tails. "So he is!" he cried after pouring over the scarlet scrawl. He gave a nervous sort of laugh and inclined his head at the offering left with the communication. "Shall we have a drink to celebrate?" Before he could give an answer, the cognac was being poured and M. Richard found a tumbler in his hand as his partner began a toast. But not a syllable had finished passing his friend's lips before a terrible voice filled the room...

"And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently slip away." 1

The sound of glass shattering filled the room as MM. Moncharmin and Richard's tumblers fell from paralyzed fingers, and the two men scrambled from the room. They veritably climbed over each other as the narrow door frame did not accommodate both passing under it simultaneously. As they fled down the hall, the spectral laugh rang loud in their ears. The disturbing sound only drove them to greater hysteria, and eyes wide with terror, the two managers pushed violently past any confused persons that were unhappy enough to encounter them.

From his hidden place, a narrow passage between two walls, Erik snorted, feeling quite satisfied with the conclusion of his prank. The masked man tipped his hat in the direction of the fleeing managers then made his to his intended destination.

The hollow pillar of box five was not the most accommodating place. Especially when circumstances required one to arrive early to avoid interaction. The muffled sounds of dancers warming up reached Erik through the thick shell of marble surrounding him. Dull thuds of toe shoes on the boards was accompanied by the occasional trill of an instrument warming up or a young chorus girl's shriek of laughter. Every noise was familiar, and he took pleasure in each as a man does with the happenings of his own household. Then it came upon Erik in an instant - these domestic sounds were something he may very well never hear again. As the weight of his thoughts settled upon him, he lay his forehead on the curved wall of his cocoon, his thoughts turning to memories made in the Opera house and memories he had tried to bury there.

Suddenly, she flashed before his eyes. He saw her moving about the stage, in her dressing rooms, attending to her hair, drinking a glass of port at the house on the lake. Feeling his heart seize up in a most painful way at the onslaught, he reached into the pocket of his dress coat and pulled from it the black silk ribbon. He rubbed it between his gloved fingers before bringing it to the lips of his mask with reverence. He kept it there for some minutes, and has her gentle perfume filled the pitiful hole that was his nose, his eyes closed. The images swirled about in his mind as vivid as the moments they had captured. His heart was suddenly a painful drum in his ears serving as an accompaniment to Christine Daaé's voice, which snaked its way from the dark and forbidden place he had hidden it to haunt his conscious.

The sound of the box door opening and the strict tones of Madame Giry's voice roused Erik. He waited several breaths after the door had shut behind her before emerging. By this time, he had spent nearly two hours confined in the dark hollow of the pillar, and before addressing the Daroga, the masked gentleman allowed himself several moments to stretch silently, as his extreme height had obliged him to stoop in the low niche. After his spine was roughly back in the position nature had intended for it, Erik again donned his hat and took a seat at his companions elbow, dropping his cloak carelessly upon the back of his chair.

"What do you think of the Leading Lady?"

The Persian nearly jumped, his program falling to the scarlet carpet.

"Allah..." the eastern man exclaimed pressing a nervous hand over his fluttering heart before turning his attention to the object of the inquiry. "That pale little thing?" He asked peering down at Meg Giry who had just entered and was currently chasséing across the stage, the curls of her inky hair bouncing behind her with each step.

"She's..." The Daroga thought of all the times he had seen La Sorrielli's majestic form, a perfect specimen of womanhood, execute this very part confident and seemingly effortless in her motions. Then he compared it to this girl currently sauntering across the stage meekly, hardly using the large portion of the boards available to her.

He opened his mouth to express his disappointment, but Erik held up a gloved hand, cutting him off. "Wait, just indulge her for a little longer." The Persian did so wondering just what his friend was up too. He could however not help feeling a little sorry for the poor chit. While tradition called the Prima Ballerina's first scene should have concluded in a thunderous applause, Meg Giry was met by absolute silence. He saw her falter for a few moments, muddling the intricate foot work in her distress, and he was sure she was only moments from tears when she fixed her smile, squared her shoulders, and launched herself higher than the audience had ever seen a dancer reach.

"Ah, there she goes." Erik murmured, his eyes half lidded as he watched her progress. "You've been fortunate enough to witness the birth of a new leading lady Daroga," he murmured over the scattered and shocked applause of the audience, his eyes still trained on Little Giry's form as she executed a succession of Pirouettes with the most perfect technique. "There is nothing like an audience to promote a little discipline."

The Persian continued to look on, his mouth hanging half open with shock. Then he noticed the fierce look in her eyes, a powerful anger roared just under her porcelain shell. "That is more than discipline Erik!" He looked from the masked man at his side to Meg Giry's awesome airborne form then back to his companion. "Don't tell me... you and she... but Mademoiselle Daaé-" He was cut off suddenly by an iron grip on his shoulder. "Do not make the mistake of allowing that name to pass through your lips ever again Daroga." The words were punctuated by a warning squeeze, then the hand was gone and Erik was reclined next to him once again, legs crossed and inspecting the program.

He did not lift his eyes as he addressed his companion again, "But as to prevent any snooping you may be inclined to engage in, I will let you know that I owed her mother a favor and was not opposed to using my position as Opera Ghost to persuade management and contact the girl. When I did, I may have implied some ...consequences if her performance was poor."

The Persian sputtered. "But she's just a girl!"

"Yes, and a superstitious one at that, needless to say she has had many late nights in the practice rooms since."

"Where you tutored her." It was not a question.

"Where I tutored her." Erik affirmed softly.

"Why?"

"I was indebted to her mother."

"Not significantly enough to willfully interact with a chorus girl every night for several months, I know that much my friend." At that statement, Erik returned his golden gaze to the twirling figure on the stage and was silent for several beats.

Then he replied softly, "She would have liked to see her friend succeed."

A silence came over them both and they returned their attentions to the stage, watching the progress of Little Giry and the other dancers until the curtain closed - the first act had drawn to conclusion. Erik was out of his chair in an instant and within the obscurity of the shadows before the house lights illuminated the vast room. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the wall and looked over at the Persian. "Now as to the real reason of our outing tonight", Erik began to pace the edge furthest most wall of the box, trailing his hand idly along the divider, "I need a man to represent me during my sea voyage. I can not do very much without raising suspicions." He gestured casually to his covered face as he spoke.

"His character is of no consequence, in fact it may be better if it is a little shady for he will have to engage in a lie." The masked man nodded absentmindedly agreeing with himself before the Persian interjected, interrupting whatever inner dialogue the masked man was engaged in. "Well, if I am fetch you such persons, you must certainly tell me where you are headed. No sane man would agree to such terms, traveling with an unknown man who hides his face and to an undisclosed location." Erik laughed in his disquieting way for several moments. "Oh Daroga, you forget Erik knows much more of the world than his Daroga, Erik's experience knows very well that money will settle any problems a gentleman would have with those terms." The Persian just shook his head and did his best to keep his skin from crawling at all the things his companion had seen in his life. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent! You will find find an envelope in your jacket pocket. No, don't open it here. I can assure you of it's contents. There are 10,000 francs. When locating these gentleman, I would think you wiser than to take all of the money with you, a few notes will suffice. Assure them that they will receive that sum of 10,000 for meeting you at the Gare Saint-Lazaren noon next Monday fortnight wearing their best suit and with anything they do not wish to part with on their person." The Persian gave his companion another dubious look, but knowing better than to quarrel with the other, he settled for inquiring how he would find Erik on the appointed date.

"Oh, I will find you..." Erik murmured. "I had thought of traveling as a corpse at first-, Oh don't look so." He chided at the Persian's sudden white complexion, "But the idea of exposing myself in such a way at this age was not very agreeable to me, so I've divined another method that I think will work very well, very well indeed."

Around them, the din of society swelled once again as the well dressed gentry poured back into the theater and Erik guided the Persian back to his seat by the elbow as the chandelier above them dimmed. The eastern man eyed the fixture warily and could not help but wonder if Erik had some fresh disaster planned for this evening. But his attention was soon caught up on stage as Meg Giry leapt from the wings of the stage, a vision of white gossamer, she appeared a swirl of morning fog stirred from its low rest over a lake. The ballerina's skirts bellowed behind her, barely able to keep up with the energy of her jumps and turns. Suddenly her awkward form was no longer so. She had morphed into something else entirely. Her slightness, inky hair, and dark eyes only lent to the transcendental performance occurring. She had truly become a spirit of the forest in a way no one, not even La Sorelli, had every achieved, and when it was all over and she came back to the world, limbs shaking as the spirit of the dance left her, the audience was on their feet, cries of bravo overwhelming the majestic theater.

Notes:

1) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow