"Gaston! Where've you been?" My brother, Philippe, Vicomte de Chagny, is as much like a spaniel dog as any human could be. He hasn't got a bad bone in him. I can almost see my father cringe when we embrace, as if my debauched habits can be caught by touch.
"Drinking and shagging."
Philippe pinked and laughed nervously.
"Whenever you're ready…", I whispered. I long for Philippe to lose his virginity. Women will be a revelation to him.
Lili came into my arms and I kissed her forehead.
"Are you staying to supper?"
"Mm."
"Oh, wonderful!"
Mother's absence was palpable at the table. I don't know how they can dine there daily; I couldn't. Father and Lili sensed it, and struggled to keep the conversation going. The one bright spot in the meal was my lovely Lucie assisting with the service. I noticed Philippe working hard not to notice her. No no, Brother Dear, you must walk before you can run, and you are most definitely a toddler. Mademoiselle Lucie requires a firm but gentle, experienced hand.
Eventually Lili excused herself and kissed us goodnight.
"Come again soon, Gaston."
I nodded. I don't like to lie to her.
"Gaston, come for a ride!" Philippe urged.
"Later, Philippe--I want to talk with Father for a moment."
"Come get me?"
"Yes, I will."
I followed Father into the drawing room. He poured us cognac while I helped myself to a cigar. He doesn't smoke, but no proper gentleman would fail to have cigars on offer for his guests. Or his prodigal son.
"Mother would say you'll ruin your voice," he smiled indulgently.
"I suppose I'll have to fall back on my looks."
He sighed. I don't know why I'm perverse like that; I know those remarks hurt him.
"I went through Mother's things again."
He nodded.
"There were clippings, of the fire, the Opera Ghost, your wedding, my birth announcement. By the way, I never knew I was premature."
If I'd provoked my father, he gave no sign of it. He met my gaze with the eyes of a man who's got nothing to be ashamed of. Good for you, Raoul; own your wild youth!
"You have questions?" he asked softly.
"Yes, it's nothing really, I mean, little things. The paper said that the night of the fire, the Opera Ghost–Phantom–escaped through a trapdoor with Mother. I thought you and Mother left the theater together that night."
"We did leave together, later."
"So the paper is over dramatizing."
"I don't know about that. I'd have to read it," he chuckled.
"But the Phantom didn't abduct her."
"He did take her down with him. I went after them and brought her back."
"Did you have to fight him?"
"No, nothing so heroic, son."
"Tell me," I demanded. Softening, I added, "Will you?"
My father looked at me for a long minute. I couldn't read his face at all. Now, I think he wanted to look at me as his son for perhaps the final time.
"When I got down there, I saw your mother. She was…upset. She shouted at me to leave her and escape. She was afraid for my safety," he mused. "Little bit of a thing that she was, worried for me. So: the Phantom caught me, bound me, and told Mother that he would kill me unless she consented to remain with him, as his wife."
"His wife? He knew her?"
"Oh,yes, he knew her." He sounded very sad.
"So it wasn't…I thought it was just circumstances, that she just happened to be the unfortunate girl that was there at the time."
"No. It was Christine he was after."
I drained my cognac. This was nothing like I'd imagined. I'd always believed she was just a young singer in the wrong place when this Opera madman broke loose. But the Phantom knew her, took her deliberately, tried to force her into marriage?
Father continued. "Remember she was in the school there, Gaston. The Opera Ghost was an extremely eccentric character, but he seemed to be a relatively benign presence for quite some time. For years before I became involved with the Opera–I don't know how long--he sent endless notes to the management about how things should be run down to the slightest detail; demanded a salary; insisted on Box Five being left vacant for his use. It was quite maddening to the managers, but harmless. There were all sorts of fantastic stories that grew up around him, of course. He watched over the Opera; he considered it his and knew everything that went on. Nothing escaped him. Naturally, at some point, he heard Mother's voice, and he took an interest in her."
"He fell in love with her voice?" I guessed. My father explained it all so matter-of-factly; as if he'd lived with the story so long that he'd become inured to how bizarre it was.
"I didn't know him. I certainly can't speak for him," Father shrugged. "He was…alone. Lonely."
Suddenly I flushed with pride for the dashing young Raoul, rescuing his beloved from an obsessed madman.
"And you saved her from him!"
"Oh, glory, no," he laughed oddly and ran his hands over his face. When he looked up at me again, I saw the faintest traces of tears he'd wiped away. "You're such a romantic, Gaston."
"No I'm not," I grumbled.
"I told you it was nothing heroic, at least not on my part," Father admitted. "Mother saved me: she agreed to marry him, in spite of my protests, and the Phantom released us both."
"Released you! Why?"
"There is only one man who can answer that."
I reviewed the tale in stunned silence. Father appeared to be lost in bittersweet thoughts of his own.
"Whatever happened to the Phantom?" I asked finally.
Father seemed to be pulled from a dream.
"I don't know. So far as I know, he was not heard from again."
I rose to leave.
"Those are all your questions?" Father seemed almost surprised.
"Right now," I nodded. "Thank you."
He smiled. I thought briefly of embracing him. I think he would have appreciated it, and I felt as though I wanted to, but I didn't.
-0-0-0-0-
I found Philippe outside cleaning a gun. It was just turning dusk.
"Want to ride?"
"No, I'll sit here and watch you polish your tool…"
"You're dreadful, Gaston."
"Mm."
"Gaston," he wiggled over confidentially. "That serving girl, you noticed her."
"Plump little brunette, yes, I noticed."
"She's not plump!"
"I said plump, not fat. Plump like a pigeon is not a bad thing, Philippe. One wants a bit of padding here and there, and something to grab onto," I smiled. If he wouldn't blush so furiously, I wouldn't tease him so mercilessly.
"Don't speak of Lucie that way…I may love her," he confessed. As I studied his open face, I realized that such idealism can only survive in a pretty package. I turned cynical the first time I toddled up to a mirror. The beautiful have no concept of the extent of their luxuries; the ugly carry only what they must. Alright, I'll play the wise older brother, but gently and kindly; let him keep the illusion awhile longer.
"Philippe, you're the Vicomte de Chagny; a servant girl is not for you. You must breed noble babies, remember, with a pedigree longer than the spaniels'."
"Father will understand."
"He will not understand anything for a good while yet. You're too young to be thinking seriously about any girl."
"You make me sound like an infant. I know a little something, Gaston." he puffed up defensively.
"Forgive me, Monsieur Don Juan. So, Man of the World, have you yet spoken to your little dove? Does she know how you adore her?" I could not resist whispering into his ear. "Have you whispered what you long to do?"
"Stop it, I said!" he pinked again. "I wanted to ask you…"
"Ask Father," I snapped, feeling disgusted all of a sudden. "He's…more like you."
"Gaston! Help me!" he insisted. "I know she's noticed me. She smiles at me, but I don't know what to say."
"Pick some flowers. Say it's a beautiful day. Ask her about herself. Admire something about her–tell her she has magnificent breasts."
Philippe leapt up, outraged. "You take that back, Gaston!"
I raised my hands in surrender, trying to make light of it. "I was joking, Philippe, only joking."
"No you weren't! Take it back!" He was still clenching his fists in fury.
"For god's sake, Philippe, she's not your fiancée, she's a servant girl!"
"Take it back!" he demanded again.
"Pardon me, Philippe. I meant no insult to your Lucie," I said sincerely.
"You'd better leave her alone, Gaston," he dropped to the bench again, pouting.
"Me?"
"I know you were looking at her."
"Don't be ridiculous. I would look at a goat if you put it in skirts. Philippe, how would I compete with you for any girl? Hm?" I asked harmlessly.
Romeo returned to cleaning his gun sullenly.
"I have to pay for everything I get," I reminded him.
I got a shrug in reply.
"Philippe, come to Zizou's with me. It would help your confidence around Lucie, honestly."
"I don't want to, I've told you a dozen times."
"Women don't like innocent men. They pretend to be scandalized, and I'm not saying you have to be a complete satyr like me, but women like a man who knows what he is doing around them. Even if they're not absolutely sure they want him to do it."
Philippe huffed doubtfully.
"They're nice girls at Zizou's; clean, pretty, friendly. They'll be good to Gaston's little brother...your life will change, I promise," I sang.
"I'll think on it," he grumbled. That was as close to a 'yes' as I was likely to get, and I felt victorious.
"Good!" I slapped his knee as I rose. "Meanwhile, you'll pick flowers, and discuss the weather, and admire how her hair shines in the sunlight. Find a way to kiss her hand. Once you've made that first contact, it is difficult for her to object later when you–"
"I am not trying to seduce her, Gaston," he replied primly.
"You are hopeless," I called, trotting away. "If you don't, someone else will!"
-0-0-0-0-
I lay in bed and thought about mother being abducted by a lunatic recluse who'd murdered several men, terrified everyone associated with the opera, and just accomplished the destruction of the Opera House–her only home since she was orphaned. I imagined how terrified she must've been at the thought of spending her life with a madman; but she'd agreed to do it to save my father.
My father…suddenly it struck me that I'd've been conceived around that time. She wouldn't have known I was inside her, certainly, but some say that the child can be marked by a terrible fright to the mother.
When I was small, I asked Mother why I looked different; she said, "Because it's the way God made you." Of course that was expected to make it alright, because it demonstrated that I was not a horrible mistake. I remember that I wanted to ask her what I'd done to make God so angry that he'd made me the way he did, but I never asked.
As I got older I wasted no more time speculating on the cause of my defect. Understanding didn't help me to face myself or anyone else. My insight that Mother's terror of her fiendish abductor had damaged me was the closest I'd ever come to an explanation. It hit me violently. I was sick; I moaned; I knelt on the floor beside Mother's trunk and rocked myself as she used to rock me. I would have given anything for her arms around me. I think I grieved everything: Mother, my face, my life–the one I had, and the one I wouldn't have. I know that when I was finally finished, nothing remained inside me. I crawled back to my bed and lay down with no expectation of ever waking again. I truly thought I would die, and I didn't care in the least.
I awoke; after a fashion. I pissed, drank, and fell back into bed. When I wasn't sleeping, I was just lying there, not thinking of anything. Not food, not wine, not women. If the deprivation of feminine charms couldn't drive me from my bed, believe me: it was damned hopeless.
Eventually, the fair Lucie came to my aid. I heard a rap, rap on my bedroom door and a sweet voice:
"Monsieur Gaston? Pardon me?"
Obviously I was dead and by a colossal mistake, in heaven. Little Lucie's head popped around the door. Heaven.
"Monsieur Gaston, I'm sorry, please excuse me. Are you ill?"
Not anymore, Sweetheart. "Ah, yes, Lucie, I have been…" One advantage of being me is I don't have to worry about how I look when a luscious dumpling appears at my bedroom door. Lucie's breasts, bottom, thighs; the entire package down to her tempting little toes popped around the door. Undoubtedly heaven.
"Yes, the food has been piling up uneaten, Monsieur. I was beginning to worry."
Oh god; worry--about me? Impossible. "What a sweet thing to say, Lucie."
"Is there anything I can do for you, Monsieur Gaston?"
Heh heh. "Yes, Lucie; for a start you can call me 'Gaston', remember? Now, now, before you protest, don't you think I should be on a first-name basis with my guardian angel?"
Lucie has a musical laugh. She was doing well; giving the illusion of looking at me by glancing at my chin from time to time.
"I'm no angel!"
"Mm, why not let me be the judge of that? You're pretty enough to be an angel."
"No, M–Gaston. Um, you must be hungry?"
"Ravenous," said the Big Bad Wolf.
Lucie was happy to keep me company while I ate. While she perched on a chair nearby, I was able to examine her ankles; pretty. Not the most delicate I'd seen, but strong legs have their virtues. I was just beginning to wonder what might be on for dessert when I heard Philippe demanding "Take that back!" Damn brotherly feelings to hell and England.
"Lucie, that was wonderful, and I'm so grateful for your concern. But now you must go, and please don't return, hm?"
My little sparrow was astounded, even frightened. She could not guess what she had done wrong.
"It would be so simple for you to utterly captivate me, dear Lucie, but alas, you've already captured my brother's heart. Surely you've noticed."
"He is very sweet, the vicomte, but so shy! Every time he sees me, he blushes scarlet!" she confessed. Her eyes were shining as they might if she was describing…an adorable puppy.
"He is shy…he is much like our father was in his youth. He holds you in the highest esteem, I assure you. So you see, as much as I would like it to be otherwise, the situation is impossible."
In the perverse nature of things, I believe that this display of chivalry, unique in my lifetime and intended to drive her into the uncorrupted embrace of Philippe, actually endeared me to Lucie.
It also drove me from my bed with a throbbing surprise for Mignonette.