Raoul joined our cabal after all. Gaston, Reza and me were the three musketeers and he was our young dashing D'Artagnan. We had cheerful Reza, fat Gaston, stupid Raoul and crazy Erik. Hours of drunken debate went into the determination of these defining characteristics. It was agreed that cheerfulness was actually a character flaw when taken to such extremes as Reza did, that Gaston could not be Gaston if he lost weight, and that Raoul was more defined by his stupidity than his beauty, just as my insanity was a more salient characteristic than my ugliness. Once we had it all decided, we congratulated ourselves by heading out into the city to see what trouble we could scare up.
Raoul's name and title won us admission to the most astounding gambling houses and absinthe parlors; if Christine considered the tame little coffeehouse a den of iniquity, she'd've burnt me at the stake for some of the places Raoul dragged us. Sometimes we'd had enough but weren't ready to surrender to our scoldings yet. On those occasions, we'd hole up at a posh whorehouse, the madam of which was a dear old friend of Raoul's. It was just a place to get drunker and smoke one last cigar before we stumbled home. I never did anything naughty. I didn't really have a taste for other women anymore; I know it sounds peculiar, but I suppose that's what a bit of happiness does to a man, even a marginal one like me.
"Papa, what does God look like?"
"I don't know, Son. What do you suppose God looks like? Look—there's a rabbit, see?" We were stretched out on the wall by our duck pond, searching for interesting cloud shapes.
"Mm. And a flower over there! And a dragon! Mama says we can't see God."
"That's true."
"But then how does she know that God put the baby in her tummy?"
"Do you know what a miracle is?"
"Uh-uh."
"A miracle is something really magical, just the most wonderful thing that could happen. All babies are miracles, and God is the only one who can do miracles, so then it makes sense that babies come from God, hm?"
"I'm a miracle, too," he said, tugging at me.
"You are absolutely the biggest and best miracle Mama and I ever saw," I smiled. I sat up so he could climb into my lap as he wished.
After a few more questions, it became clear that Masson wanted some reassurance that his new baby wouldn't be a 'broken miracle', like me. I was glad to see some brotherly feeling had taken root, but his plain-spoken concern had taken my breath away, it wounded me so. He thought I was cross with him, but I assured him I wasn't. I didn't know how to admit to him that there were no guarantees surrounding the new baby. I'm afraid that he'll hate me and Christine someday for gambling with his life; for selfishly making him, unconcerned with how he'd turn out.
I distracted him by producing a chocolate from behind his ear. My son and his Christine raced along home ahead of me. When I turned the last corner, he bounded from the front steps and flew into my arms. He patted my mask with his chubby hands just as he'd done the day we met.
"Papa, I love you."
"And I love you, Masson." He rested his head on my shoulder; he still had that sweet baby smell about him. I squeezed him tightly; how I longed to keep him that way forever.
After Masson was asleep, I told Christine that he was worried about the baby being like me. Avoiding my gaze, she promised she would talk with him. No, don't, I said, he didn't mean anything by it. I pulled her close, trying to comfort her when I had no comfort to give. So there it lay, between us: the curse of my ugliness. Had I marked this child? Were Masson's children cursed? Had we tempted God one too many times, demanding a second perfect infant? We clung to each other in the dark. We had nothing to say. After several hours, exhaustion claimed Christine, so I slipped away from her.
I went down to my lair and flagellated myself mercilessly. It was a blasphemy for me ever to lay hands on Christine, much less get a child on her. It was a blasphemy for me to imagine she could really overlook what I am. I crumpled to the damp stone floor in despair, demonic voices swirling around me. My precious Angel had kept them at bay for so long...
Surely you didn't think this fairy tale game you've played could go on forever?
Yes, I did; I thought she'd exorcised you!
Exorcised us? Exorcised you, you mean! We're you, Erik.
No, not anymore. I've been good.
How can you be good? Look at yourself! Where do you see goodness?
Christine sees the goodness in me. Reza says I've changed!
Who's been with you from the beginning? Not Christine…not Reza. You can't fool us; we know you. We and you know the truth of it.
I'm learning; I am different! Christine says--
We'll see what Christine says when the monster escapes from her perfect body. She'll be unable to pretend when she realizes that your pollution has utterly engulfed her!
No…
You know it's true, Erik. Look at Masson. Look at his eyes when his temper flares. Beautiful though he may be, will he make an assassin when he's grown?
I stumbled up blackened alleys, the voices in hot pursuit. I was so disoriented that I had no idea where I was running; even in my kingdom below the opera house I was lost. I thought I was headed to the street, but I pushed open a door and found myself exiting the false column into Box 5. I wailed and threw myself to the orchestra below, turning my ankle. Still the voices came. I couldn't outrun the voices, I knew, as I scrabbled onto the stage.
How high can I go? If I can get to the roof…
You won't end it, you pathetic dog; you haven't the nerve.
I can and I will! I'll be rid of you!
I swung up into the flies and made short work of fashioning a lasso. All the while the voices taunted me.
Do it! Do what your bitch of a mother lacked the courage to do, if you think you're man enough! DO IT!
It was easy to slip the lasso over my head, easy to step free of the flies, almost like watching another man from a great distance. Then, Christine singing and a shower of fireworks in my mind's eye.