Christine's women's group had metastasized into a herd of harridans so huge that they had to let a room whenever a general meeting was wanted. This turned out to be a monthly affair—ha ha. In order to be more 'effective', they elected to divide into sub-committees; these met at various members' homes, and the officers usually met in our parlor. I have no idea what went on; after the initial to-do at the library, I was excused. Needless to say, I did not suffer over this exclusion. Reza, Gaston and I gathered regularly to laugh at them.
One afternoon, the health issues subcommittee was meeting quickly in our parlor, after which they were all trundling off to the general meeting. I took myself up to my piano. After some time I heard my door shut. I was about to give Reza the devil for failing to knock, since I knew Christine could not be home so soon, but it was not Reza. It was the Creole from the Opera House fire.
"I beg your pardon, Madame, but however do you come to be here?" I demanded.
"Mademoiselle."
"Right, but how did you get in my house?"
"I was at the meeting." She had an eerily still way about her, and her eyes burned as if with a fever.
"Didn't they all leave? You didn't?"
"I snuck back round."
"And to what purpose, if I may ask?"
"I was looking for you." This was the most painful interrogation I'd been involved in for some time.
"Yes, so I've gathered; but again, to what purpose?"
"I was hoping you could tell me why you are so disturbing to me."
"Because I'm the Opera Ghost? Because of the mask?" They sounded like perfectly plausible reasons to me.
"You are the Comtesse's lover, aren't you?"
"The Comtesse and I have known each other for some time," I replied; a non-response, and all I felt this extremely strange woman was entitled to.
"I want to touch you, Ghost." Demure, retiring little Creole, this. She approached, unbuttoning her dress.
Have you ever seen a cat when all its hair stands straight out from its body? Normally this occurs right before it races up a tree. I had no tree; though I did attempt to climb the wall. Couldn't get a grip on it…the wall, that is.
"N-no, Mademoiselle, you don't. I warn you I am not like other men!" I was between a wall and an Amazon.
"I am counting on it," she replied. "Keep talking, Ghost. Your voice enchants me."
The last thing I wanted to be was enchanting, so I shut up. Her dress was open to the waist, and she slipped it from her shoulders. She shook her hair free, and reached down to gauge my reaction. All the while her black gaze burned into me.
"In some respects you are very much like other men, Ghost," she noted. She knelt at my feet and began freeing my discomfort from my trousers.
"No, Mademoiselle," I insisted, trying to sound menacing; difficult in the current embarrassing configuration.
"You should call me 'Josette', since we are about to be so well acquainted."
"Oh, no no. No, no, no. No, don't do that…" But she did. I was doomed once she got her hands and lips on me. No; I was doomed well before that. In retrospect, I realize that I could have shoved her aside and made my escape, but at the time I was laboring under the notion that I'd hurt her (again) if we struggled. The only thing I can say in my own defense is that I am likely the least prepared man on earth for such a situation. I was muddled, terrified, repelled, and thrilled; as people describe horrible train wrecks.
Josette did extraordinary things to me; in my odd semi-lucid thought, I wondered how the devil she'd gone about learning such tricks, but my sanity ran screaming from that question. It was a remarkably intense experience, though I would not describe it as entirely pleasant. Some part of my arousal went to the idea that I was being forced—at least in my own mind, I clung to the image of myself as an unwitting victim of Amazon outrage. The quality of sensation was sometimes sharp, even painful, but always compelling me toward a blinding climax. How I remained on my feet, I don't know. As I stood gasping for breath against the cool, comforting wall, Josette grabbed my arms to help herself to her feet.
"Ghost, look," she ordered. It took a moment for me to realize what the stuff was that she was smoothing onto her breasts. I don't know why I was so taken with it. I thought, I'd love to see Christine—icy bucket of reality, that. Feeling like a spaniel under the table with Sunday's roast, I gathered myself together.
The Creole succubus was buttoned up. At the door, she delivered her parting shot. "Next time, Ghost, I'll expect more from you than a bit of lotion."
I was right behind her through the door, scrambling into the bathroom, where I lost my supper, and then some. I was overwhelmed with panic; certain Christine would see something, smell something. I felt utterly filthy, so I dunked myself in a scalding double-lavender tub and scrubbed my carcass raw. I still felt polluted; uglier and less worthy than ever. I wanted to run crying to the daroga, but as I reached the top step, I realized what a disaster that would be. He loved Christine every bit as much as I, in his way. He wouldn't understand, never. He'd demand to know why I hadn't called out for help. I had no answer for that. Likely, he'd demand to know a lot of things I had no answer for.
Why? How could I? Why didn't I…? I couldn't even think about these questions. I felt as empty as I had when Christine turned away and left me under the burning Opera House. Only this time was different, because now I was guilty. Now I had something to hide from my precious angel.
I took myself to bed; just laid there, staring at the dark. I felt so hollow inside that there were not even any tears to cry out. When Christine tiptoed in, I feigned sleep. I didn't know how I'd ever face her again, but not now, not yet. After slipping into bed, she arranged the blankets around me and kissed my undeserving forehead with wifely tenderness.
. . . .>
"Just coffee, Darius," I rasped. I felt like death on chipped, ugly china.
"Erik, are you ill?" the daroga asked with genuine concern.
"I believe I am."
"Perhaps you'd best turn back around and make for bed."
I shrugged.
"But you must take care of yourself, my friend!" he exclaimed, nonplussed.
"Why? If I die, I die."
"Erik!"
We remained in thick silence together. Finally, my friend could bear it no longer.
"Erik," he whispered. "What could be troubling you so?"
"Nothing, Daroga. I'm overdue for a proper black mood, wouldn't you say? Well, I've got one. Excuse me." I took myself off to work wordlessly.
If there was ever a balance of good fortune in my account, I was grievously overdrawn this day. It was not yet mid-morning before Jules advised that the Curse of the Comte had returned. The boy was already pink as a boiled pig when he entered.
I glowered at him. "I must caution you, Pup, that I am in no mood…"
"Pup! I beg your pardon, Sir! You assured me that you had this Women's Rights thing in hand, and yet I'm informed that they meet regularly! They're more organized than ever, and my wife is the driving force! I warned you!"
"YOU warned ME? I warned you more than a year ago to never attempt to see her again!"
"What's that got to do with anything now?"
"Everything, I'd say. I told you last time you bothered me that she is not your wife; she is my MISTRESS, and if it pleases me to allow her to drag your precious name through the gutter, then so I shall. Go away, damn you."
"You listen to me—" The impetuous git got too close to me, and I grabbed him by the throat.
"No. You listen. I have always wanted to kill you, Raoul, do you understand? The only thing keeping me from snapping your neck right now is that she'd know it was me. When I release you, you must leave here and never trouble me again, or as I live, I will stalk you and kill you so that no one will ever find a bit of you. It will be as if you and your precious name never existed. Do not doubt me; I kill more beautifully than I sing."
I tossed him away. My anger rendered me stronger than I'd guessed, and he knocked his head against the wall. Unconscious and bloody, but still breathing, sadly.
"JULES! Will you please help me remove this dog shit in here?"