It was my son alright; I recognized the behavior before I recognized the voice or face. The comforting mustiness of my old lair soothed my nostrils and I opened my eyes sluggishly. We were next to the lake.
Masson thumped me furiously up against the wall. "What were you doing with my Annemarie? What's wrong with you?" he raged. His hands clutched my throat. I could see he was struggling for control of himself; that was something, but a wounded lion is the most dangerous; no way could I battle this man-boy.
My first thought was to let him kill me. I didn't know how to face the truth of the legacy that I'd bequeathed my son. I remembered another angry man shaking me, years ago.
"I wasn't trying to abandon her, Reza. It was the pain, I just wanted to make the pain stop!"
"And it's alright for you to end your pain at the expense of Christine and your children? What of the unbelievable pain your death would have inflicted on them? Even now, that dear woman blames herself for being unable to remove your pain. Erik…don't you even want to be a man for her sake?"
"How?" I wailed. "How shall I be a man?"
Reza leapt up and snatched me to my feet. He shook me so hard I had to clutch my throat. I gasped and choked; pleading for him to stop.
"You stop running! You plaster yourself to her side and let her lean on you for a change! You swallow your doubts and fears! What, do you think no other man feels afraid? You think that you have to be a disfigured madman to feel unworthy? Everyone feels unworthy! We do the right thing anyway!"
The idea melted quicker than an ice in August; I had to make it right. I was not about to tell Christine that I'd gotten a monster on her after all. My heart hurt, but the old Erik asserted himself once again. I executed an old gypsy move and shrugged his arms off, sending him sprawling with a brisk kick before he could realize what I was up to.
"What's wrong with you?" I demanded. "I don't want your poxy former girlfriend."
He rushed at me with a roar , but I held out a bony hand and stopped him. "Don't touch me, boy. You don't put your hand on a man if you're not ready to kill him. Are you ready to kill a man?"
I saw something flicker in his eyes; no time to mourn the fear I beheld there.
"I didn't kill anyone! I just want her to come back to me!" If only I could show him how chillingly familiar his frustration was.
"I had a reasonable explanation for everything I did, too."
Masson tore around my old lair, throwing and kicking anything he could reach. "She must love me! She must love me!" he roared.
God, how those words started an icy ache in my heart. No; this would not happen. I clamped my arms around him and hung on until he ran out of steam and sank to what was left of my library floor rug.
"Masson, you want to be a madman? Come on; I'll show you how to be a madman. Do you know how many men I've killed with these hands? You don't want to look down that road."
He shook his head; madness? Youthful idealism? Christ, I don't know if there's a difference any more; I've lived too long.
"I'm not going to give her up; I don't care what you say. You don't know anything about it!"
I slapped his face. "Don't you dare!" I hissed.
I spoke ugly words then. I gave him the story of my life, the way I've never given it to anyone and never intend to give it to anyone again. All my firsts: the day I realized the monster in the mirror was me; finally understanding why Mother hated me; running away; taking the gypsies' self serving interest in me for love and concern. Learning about men and women; my own adolescent awakenings; realizing that none of it would ever be for me. Simmering rage that I nurtured and tended like a delicate vine, until eventually I gave up on being human at all. Killing my first man, grieving for myself as much as for him. Learning about my gifts; longing to share them. The years in Persia; Paris; Christine; everything. Everything; poor Masson. No one should have to hear such a sordid tale.
When I finished, I stood to leave. Masson's golden eyes stared through me; they betrayed no recognition.
"I'm the Opera Ghost, Masson, and always will be. You have that in you, and for that I apologize…but perhaps now you understand why your Mother and I--" My voice gave out. "I'm going home."
-0-0-0-0-
When I arrived home, the course of true love was already running rocky with Miri-ange and her fair vicomte.
"That's the last time we go to the Louvre, then," he was grumbling.
"Fine," Miri-ange huffed; her mother's daughter.
"Fine. Good night–" she shut the door on him.
"Angeline, where are your manners?" I protested.
"Oh, Papa," she sighed. She slipped her arm through mine and we made our way to the parlor. "He's such a dolt sometimes. If I don't agree with his ridiculous opinion, he always manages to make it sound as though I'm a benighted little farm girl."
"Farm girl?" I was mortified.
"You know; untitled means perforce uneducated. Of course I'd agree with him if I were better educated. Are you going to smoke?"
"Of course not; not with you here."
"I don't mind. Mother says it's like kissing an ashtray," she mused.
"Indeed; well, undoubtedly she's kissed her share of ashtrays, woman of the world that she is," I chuckled. "But returning to M de Agrican: there is nothing uneducated about you, my dear. I daresay you're better rounded than he, and that's not fatherly pride."
She smiled; at least my baby girl loved me still. It was delightful to have a peaceful moment, just me and my princess.
"So, how was the Louvre?"
"Glorious, even in spite of Etienne," she sighed, resting her precious head on my shoulder just like her mother. I chuckled and patted her hand.
"Papa. I think I would like to paint," she reflected.
"And so you shall, Angeline." Raising her hand to my lips, I caught a whiff of too-spicy cologne; a hairball threatened. "Shall we shop tomorrow? I'll bring you into Paris myself."
"Papa, you spoil me terribly."
"Guilty, Mamzelle…the better to keep you with me forever, heh-heh."
"Don't worry; Etienne used to say he admired the way I speak my mind," she complained.
"What a fellow says when he's trying to impress a girl is one thing. Now you're a potential vicomtesse…a potential embarrassment," I shrugged.
"Embarrassment! You never worried about Mama embarrassing you!"
"Of course not; I worry about embarrassing Mama."
"Oh, Papa; never," she insisted. "But why would I embarrass Etienne speaking my mind?"
"You may wish to take that up with Manon. Nobility is different, Angeline."
"Raoul isn't like that, Papa!" she cried, aghast.
"Hm. When you're older, I'll tell you some stories."
That had whetted her feminine appetite. She squeezed my arm hungrily. "Papa, tell me now. I'm–"
"Not a child, I know. Just suffice it to say that if Raoul had been more like me years ago, you wouldn't be here."
-0-0-0-0-
I lay awake all night, listening for Masson's footfalls. I never heard him come in, but when I slipped past his open door in the morning, he called out to me. I had to chuckle to myself, recalling how we'd snuck around the opera house when he was a child. He always understood about stealth and silence, even before he could speak.
"Good Morning, Son," I ventured a smile.
"Papa, was that all true last night?" I noticed he was reluctant to meet my eyes.
"It was indeed." I swallowed a big lump of shame which was rising in my throat. I wondered if my boy would ever look at me the same way again, ever love me again. But what else could I do? He had to know what I'd bequeathed him. He had to know his awful heritage, the better to be on the lookout for it in himself.
"You suffered–"
"Everyone suffers, Masson."
"Papa, do you think I'm mad?" he worried.
"I don't think so, but I'm not a good judge of such things," I winked.
"What can I do?" he cried, not particularly appreciative of my insanity humor; just like his mother.
"You can leave Annemarie alone and meditate on my story. You can talk to me and your mother. You can remember that you have a genetic invitation to madness and not let your temper run away with you." It sounds cruel, I know; but I said it as gently as I could.
"I love her, Papa!"
"And did you hear anything I said last night?" I raised an irritable eyebrow and moved toward the door. "Come along, Son; I need coffee."
He stumbled into his trousers and followed me downstairs. We grabbed our coffee and escaped to the music room before the entire household awakened. When we'd settled, I noted him studying his cup rather more than a silly piece of porcelain merited. I waited—less calmly than I appeared.
Finally, he whispered, "Are you mad, Papa?"
I chuckled and smoothed a trouser cuff; my hand was shaking. "Not so mad as I was years ago, Son. We have your sainted mother to thank for her civilizing influence and her forbearance. But, to be frank, I think the madness is still there. Dormant, like a tree in winter, perhaps, or a hibernating bear." I smiled and rumpled his hair. He accepted my affection happily, but he was still troubled.
"Do you fear that you may—" he hesitated to form the words.
"Just go raving mad at any moment? No. Not anymore; I did do for some time. Now, I think it would be some great, horrible tragedy that might send me round the bend. If I were to lose Mama and all of you, for example. Generally speaking, however, I think the world is safe from Erik at long last."
We might have talked longer, but my barefoot, sleep-rumpled Pickle came padding down the steps and clambered up into my bony lap. She liked awaken slowly with a back rub as she eased into the morning. Masson took my cup upstairs for a refill. Handing it back to me, he murmured "Thanks, Papa." He met my gaze as he said it, and as I watched him head upstairs, I felt relieved that we'd be alright, my golden bear and I.