I told Mignonette where I was going, made myself as presentable as possible, tucked the Sonnets into my breast pocket and went to meet Aunt Giry. We rendezvoused at the Opera Café. I smiled nervously; Aunt Giry looked like she'd been sucking lemons.
"Gaston, this is your last chance to let this be. For the love of God–"
"Aunt Giry, I appreciate your concern," I replied ironically, "But I want to do this. Now, if you don't mind, I prefer not to keep him waiting." As we crossed the square, I asked, "Which reminds me; I feel a bit strange calling him 'Erik' now that we are meeting. What is his last name?"
"He has never mentioned one," she replied, "I don't think he knows." How could he not know his name? We made our way through the theater, past the familiar places, into the places known only to a few. We came to a staircase that wound down and around for an incredibly long time. "There are many ways in and out," Aunt Giry remarked.
"You told him about me? Prepared him for–"
"No, I didn't. It will be dark in the caverns, Gaston," Aunt Giry interrupted. "You will not see each other until you reach his home." We took a turn off the staircase which would have been easy to miss. Aunt Giry unlocked a door; I noticed she had quite a collection of keys. It was black on the other side of the door. Aunt Giry indicated that I should step through. Just ahead I saw the contours of a man in a cloak; I could make out no features, just dark and light.
"Thank you, Madame. I will see Monsieur de Chagny to the surface when he leaves." She looked as if she was dying to say something, but she left us quietly.
"Welcome to my home, Monsieur," Erik said. His voice was deep and musical. "Please watch your step; the way I take you is fairly smooth. I make you to be a shade taller than I. You should have no trouble." We walked in silence; occasionally he would make mention of a turn, or that I should watch my step. I could just make out his outline ahead of me. It was hard to judge the time, but I guess we walked about ten minutes. I began to see a glow of lights up ahead. We stepped onto an elevated walkway over some water. At the end of this walkway, he stepped down into a vast cavern lit by magnificent candelabra.
"Before you face me, Monsieur," I warned, "I must caution you that I am disturbing to look at." Erik was visibly startled by my words. Time seemed to stand still. He whirled around with surprising grace, and in an instant I was face to face with the man in the mask. He was powerfully built, and that part of his face which was exposed was handsome. His eyes were deep-set and fiery. I guessed that he was older than Father; how much it was impossible to say.
Erik only looked at me for a moment; he stared in disbelief, grimaced, and turned away. His shoulders began to tremble, and he emitted the eeriest, most inhuman sound I'd ever heard: something between a howl and a moan…he was calling Mother's name: "Christine, Christine, Christine…" over and over. He sunk to his knees and mourned, sobbing.
I had never provoked such a reaction in anyone, ever. My face had frightened and horrified before, but I didn't even know how to describe Erik's reaction. I also didn't know how to feel, other than monstrous. I could do nothing but stand and wait, numbly.
Finally Erik's self-control returned. "Please excuse me," he sighed, getting to his feet. Without looking at me again, he disappeared into a room just off the area we occupied. I had to wait and hope he'd return; I could never find my way out. I sat on the sofa and struggled to keep my mind off what had just happened by looking around. I saw his piano, sheet music written in the now-familiar red ink, sketches, paintings–all familiar from the contents of Mother's trunk. In the area where I sat there were shelves full of books, comfortable furniture, and an exquisite Persian carpet. I looked for a cigar box; smoking would have settled my nerves, but I didn't find one. The place didn't smell like he smoked. Actually, the place was neater than mine ever was in my bachelor days, and I had servants.
Erik reappeared and startled me; I leapt to my feet. He appeared much calmer. He poured us wine; I'd have preferred something stronger. I could feel him studying me as he handed me the glass, but I couldn't bring myself to hold my head up. I was still smarting from his reaction.
"I apologize, Monsieur," I began, "it is always difficult to prepar–"
Erik cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Why do you suppose I wear a mask, Gaston?"
'Gaston'–his familiarity struck me.
"You're…reclusive. When you must be seen, to preserve your anonymity, you–"
He interrupted me with a single bark of laughter. "No," he replied. From the corner of my eye, I saw that he held the mask in his hand, waiting. Drawing a breath to steady myself, I looked up at Erik.
Just before I raised my head, I had a fleeting thought that I would recognize him; the mystery of the Opera Ghost would be solved. But…not like this. The face I looked into was my face; older, slightly different, but there could be no mistake. He must've worn a wig before; his hair was gray. I don't know how to describe the journey my mind took at that moment.
That face…My face…Chretien…Mother…Father knew, he saw me every day and he knew…Philippe, Lili…Aunt Giry…'he knows nothing of you'…I know nothing of myself now…'I have never been ashamed of you, Gaston'…Erik and Mother…Erik…'Your father. Forgive him, Gaston. Promise.'
When I returned to myself, Erik was sitting in the chair across from me, watching the thoughts play across my face–our face. He leaned forward and refilled my glass. I hadn't even noticed I'd drained it. We drained that bottle in silence.
"Would you like to see my wine cellar?" he asked. It was such a bizarre invitation under the circumstances that I followed him. The cellar was huge and well-stocked. I don't know very much about wine, but he invited me to choose our next bottle and seemed pleased with my selection.
"One of a very few luxuries I permit myself," he mused. He held his glass up in toast. "Your Mother," he said softly.
After we drank, I managed to find my voice. "You didn't know." He shook his head no, closing his eyes briefly. I thought he might say something, but the moment passed. I remembered the Sonnets and held them out to him. He accepted the book and was lost in it for several minutes. He touched it as he might have touched Mother's face. When he looked at me, he was visibly moved; a single tear traveled down his cheek. He seemed embarrassed by it, and tried to smile and nod his thanks to me.
He gave a big, cleansing sigh. "What can I answer for you?" He regarded me tight-lipped. Obviously he was allowing me to invade his privacy because he felt obliged to do so. It was clearly difficult for him.
"I hardly know now," I confessed. Erik nodded. Still he watched and waited. He can be very still. Suddenly, a question occurred to me: "What…is my name?"
"I don't know," he replied frankly. "I'm sorry; I don't think I've ever known." He must have seen my confusion. "I was not wanted," he explained. "My mother had as little to do with me as possible, and I was on my own at an early age."
"I can't imagine," I confessed.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "Will you eat? It's no longer as warm as I'd like, but that can be remedied. Come along, it shouldn't go to waste simply because we've had the shock of our lives."
"I didn't expect you'd be so congenial," I confessed.
"I didn't expect you'd be so handsome," he replied.
Erik reheated the food efficiently. I tried briefly to help, but the kitchen was small and I felt superfluous. The meal was marvelous: duck in a fruit sauce, turnips and potatoes, carrots with onions and dark, crunchy bread. I noticed that Erik did not eat much; he watched me pack it in with amusement. We agreed to wait for dessert and moved away from the table. I felt strangely comfortable with Erik, considering. I located a smidgen of courage. "Will you tell me about my mother?" I asked.
He smiled. "I have not seen your mother in twenty six years. I thought you might tell me."
Irritating. He was playing with me. Alright, if he wanted, I would say it. "Will you tell me about my mother and you?"
"Ah. At the risk of sounding obtuse, I should think it's obvious." Damn him.
"You loved each other." Brilliant, Gaston. Erik raised an eyebrow. I pressed him. "What happened? Why didn't you go into the light with her?"
"Why didn't she stay here with me?" He sounded defensive.
"Because it's no way to live. People live in the light." He looked unconvinced. "I live in the light," I added.
"Obviously you had the benefit of an upbringing which convinced you that you have a right to exist." When he said these things so candidly, I got the sense that he was trying to shock me and put me off-balance. "Your mother loved you."
I nodded. "Very much. She always told me she was not ashamed of me. I never covered my face. She made sure I was treated just like my–her other children." Half-siblings, I guess they were now. "The only thing was that Philippe–the younger son–was named vicomte."
Erik nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, improbably, he started talking about Mother and him.
"Your mother was a lonely orphan when she came here. I watched her grow; she never entirely fit in with the rest of the Opera rats. I suppose I felt some kinship; I became concerned for her happiness. Then I heard her sing." Erik paused. He seemed at a loss for words.
"I loved her. I wanted her with me. It was pure; there was nothing bestial about it," he insisted, angrily. "I spoke to her, hidden. I taught her…" he closed his eyes, dreamily. Suddenly they snapped open. "She became convinced that I was the Angel of Music her father had promised to send her. I let her believe; I meant her no harm," he regarded me defiantly, as if he expected to be accused. "I only wanted to hear her, to help her, to give her my music. I sang for her. In time, we sang together." He wet his lips, considering. "I don't expect you to understand this…it was…a deeply intimate act…to sing with Christine." He sighed, struggling for control as tears threatened again. "She wanted to see me. I denied her as long as I could, but when she pleaded…" he shrugged. "She later told me that she had been relieved to learn that I was a man; that she had fallen in love with a being of flesh and blood." He met my gaze steadily. "Yes. She loved me, long before I ever dared to dream it."
"We spent time together, here, singing; reading; talking. She tried to persuade me to permit her to unmask me; I always refused. One day she took me by surprise and removed the mask. I was desolate; I knew that everything was lost, but she told me to trust her. She looked at me, but nothing terrible happened. She didn't shrink from me; she touched me. She kissed me. Do you understand? Do you?" he demanded. "My mother refused to kiss me!" His gaze was intense, but I refused to look away. He seemed to expect a response from me, but I had a huge lump in my throat. What could his life have been?
Finally, Erik smiled and poured us more wine. "I see your mother in you. You are strong-willed. Stubborn," he chuckled and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees in an incredibly informal way–for him. "I'll wager you have a lovely voice as well." He was amusing himself; I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be amused or not.
"Is that supposed to be funny?" I asked, defensive.
"Not at all." He decided to turn the tables. "What do you do with yourself, Gaston de Chagny? How do you amuse yourself up there in the world? How do you live?"
"I have a small house on the estate grounds. I keep to myself. I used to spend a lot of time here in Paris; not so much anymore."
"Oh?"
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "I used to drink–get drunk–and gamble–which I still do–and whore–which I don't do so much anymore."
"So you are a spoiled wealthy boy."
I wanted to get up and beat the hell out of him. "If you like," I shrugged.
"Well? What would you call it?"
I was sure he was baiting me; why? "I had a wife briefly. She's dead." I glared at him. "You have a grandson as handsome as you."
He laughed like a madman at that.
"You're irritating me, Erik; you realize that?"
"I'm sorry about your wife, Gaston, truly. How old is your son?"
"Nearly two. Chretien. He loves everyone. He might even love you."
When Erik spoke again his eyes were soft and kind. It surprised me. "It's good you have him." He nodded and returned to his tale of Mother. What a strange man.
"So, we were in love. Happy. It was understood that we would be together for life. We talked about marriage and babies–I didn't care about any of that, but it was what Christine wanted. It was very…normal, if you can imagine it. Then one day the talk turned to 'going upstairs', as we called it–I don't really remember how the topic arose. Christine had assumed that we would move into the light; I had assumed that we would not. We couldn't agree in that first discussion, and we turned away from it quickly. It was frightening. After that, whenever it came up, the conversation got more heated, until finally we were actually arguing. She went away for a day; the reunion was gut-wrenching. I can still feel the horror of realizing that we were fighting; I could not bear it." Erik drained his glass and poured another. He was wearing his pain like a heavy cloak.
"I was fifty, fifty one at that time," he explained. "I couldn't just erase all that I'd experienced. I couldn't climb out of my cave and pretend that I was like everyone else, and the world would love and welcome me. I was raised like an animal. I was beaten. I was hated. Maybe she thought that her love could wipe all that away; heal me; make me normal. I am not a normal man." He looked at me as if he was daring me to argue the point. I tried hard not to react to what he'd said.
"We couldn't agree. We ignored it, but whenever talk turned to marriage after that, she would smile and play if off, as if it was some joke between us. I didn't notice that at the time, mind you. I've had twenty six years to reflect on every moment…" he admitted. "I knew about the vicomte; she had told me they were childhood friends. I had no reason to doubt her, and I was neither worried nor jealous. Then one day she was quite agitated and confessed that she wanted some time apart. She was worried, she said, about how we would make a life together, and she couldn't think clearly when she was with me. My reaction was a combination of disbelief and terror; she was my world. She promised she loved me, said it would only be for a week or so."
Erik popped out of his chair abruptly. I got the sense that he wanted to pace. "Tea?" he suggested.
"Oh, yes, thank you."
"Do you take it the English way, or do you prefer lemon? Honey?" he called from the kitchen.
"Ah, English, actually." I moved to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway. I recognized that he needed these diversions and breaks to settle himself. It had been a hell of a day for the old man, even without reliving these memories.
"Me too," he agreed. "Pity. The English can even ruin tea. Now, in the Orient, with spices, lemon, honey–that is tea."
"You've been to the Orient?" I must have sounded astonished.
"Oh, yes," he replied mildly, "I've been…many places. Another story for another day, my boy," he chuckled. He handed me my tea and we returned to our seats. He continued.
"Christine was true to her word; she returned in a week. She took up the discussion of living in the light again. 'Erik, this is so very important,' she said. 'If you can just give me this one thing, I swear I'll never ask you for anything again.' I told her I couldn't; if she could only ask me for anything else. She wept; we both wept. I didn't understand; she clung to me, repeating that she loved me. When she was all cried out, she said that she needed more time away. How long? She didn't know. I had to let her go." He was feeling it all over again.
"When she left, I was frantic; I felt I was losing her. Having nothing else, I turned to my music. I knew the music would bring her back. I worked on Don Juan Triumphant round the clock until I passed out from exhaustion; when I awoke I went back to work. Weeks turned to a month; two. I finished Don Juan and no sign of Christine. I heard about the Masked Ball and took my opera to them. Christine was at the ball, with the vicomte. He loved her; I could see it." Erik chuckled bitterly. "I saw plenty…I saw his ring on a chain around her neck. In an instant I went mad with jealousy; I made a scene and frightened her terribly." He paused and sighed. He seemed to be considering whether to continue. "Is this what you wanted to hear?"
I nodded. "I wanted to know about Mother and you."
"Yes, we're coming to the 'Mother' part; patience, my boy," he replied sardonically. "All during rehearsals for Don Juan, I tried to persuade Christine to speak with me. I wrote her pleading notes; tender notes; ugly, jealous notes. She would not see me. The longer her silence endured, the more lunatic I became. I evolved a plan to take the tenor's place at the climax of the opera. If she could sing with me, if I could get her alone, I was convinced that we could make it right. It wasn't as if I took a firm decision to destroy my theater in order to abduct Christine. I never appear without multiple means of escape being laid; things simply unfolded badly. All I wanted to was to have Christine alone to remind her of what we had between us."
"When we arrived here, I begged, I wept. Christine pleaded with me to not make it any harder than it was. At some point I realized that crying would not persuade her; this made me furious. I told her she was like every other faithless woman who cared about nothing but a pretty face and an empty head. I accused her of horrible things." Erik surprised me with a soft smile. "Your mother never put up with any cheek from me; she stood her ground. My accusations hurt her, but when I said that she'd only encouraged me for the help I could give her career, she was infuriated. She said she didn't know me anymore and turned to leave. 'No,' I said, 'you don't walk out on me.' I gripped her arms, too tightly; it only made her angrier."
Erik looked at me apologetically. "It gets a bit disjointed now…"
I nodded. He looked at me a minute longer; I couldn't guess what he was thinking. He sighed again.
"She struggled, she tried to strike me…" He buried his face in his hands briefly. When he looked at me again, he didn't even try to hide his tears. Again he leapt up and began to pace. "I never laid a disrespectful hand on her, do you understand? All the time we were together, I never pressed any advantage, never made the slightest suggestion, never took the least liberty. Never. I adored her, do you hear?" he demanded.
"Yes, yes," I assured him. I didn't feel so comfortable around him anymore. I thought maybe he could be a madman after all. And I was trapped underground with him. Then, he sat down just as suddenly as he had sprung up. His eyes were streaming, but he held my gaze.
"We tussled; it was…stimulating. One moment we were fighting; the next we were…not…fighting. It was not entirely mutual at the outset, but she…changed her mind." Erik glared at me, defensive again. "I do not say this to exonerate myself; I know that I should have exercised more fortitude. I only mean to say that you were not entirely the product of anger and jealousy." He averted his gaze; he seemed very angry, and thoughtful, and ashamed. The moment passed. "At any rate, my...performance, if you will…was insufficient to convince her to abandon her plans with the beautiful boy. We were still arguing when her savior appeared. I bound him and told Christine that he would live if she stayed with me–but, you know how this turned out, if I'm not mistaken."
I nodded.
Erik composed himself instantly; how, I don't know. He stood again. "Right, you got what you came for, I believe. Time to go."
"Wait." I blurted. "Please." I was still trying to absorb what I'd heard. He waited. His cloak was over his arm, and he flicked at it impatiently. I didn't really have any idea how to say what I wanted to say. I went back to the kitchen and fixed us more tea. When I returned he was still standing there with his cloak. I ignored his scowl and handed him his tea.
"Thank you, no; you were just leaving."
"Don't you want to know anything, about Mother?" I was stalling for time. I don't know what more I wanted from him; any questions I had weren't formulated, but I wasn't ready to leave.
Erik softened. "Yes. Was she happy?"
"I think so, yes. My fa–Raoul was very good to her. She never forgot, of course. She left me that entire trunk of things, you know, the list I sent along."
He nodded.
"I think that Raoul took good care of her," I said.
I remembered the photo of Mother I had brought. "Here–this was taken about a year before…" He hesitated for such a long time. I thought he might not accept it; it was as if he didn't want to know. When he looked at her, he gasped; I told you, she stayed beautiful. He handed the picture back to me; he was overcome again.
"No, please keep it," I said. He nodded thanks, unable to speak. It was an uncomfortable few minutes. When he seemed a bit more composed, I found myself getting all puppy-like. "So, I thought perhaps I might bring Chretien sometime."
He shook his head. "No."
I was crushed. "No?"
Erik studied his hands for a moment. He walked to the book case where he'd laid his mask and replaced it. "Go back to your home, Gaston de Chagny. There was nothing for Christine here; there is nothing for you here."
"But you're alone!" I couldn't believe he was just shutting the door on me.
"Yes, I am alone." His eyes said nothing. I don't mean I was expecting a rush of fatherly affection, but…I don't know. I was all he had.
"I won't see you again," I said. Brilliant, Gaston.
"Likely not. Do you attend the opera?"
"Not really. I mean, I have attended…"
"I'll see you if you attend," he replied lightly.
Now it was my turn to be tearful. He ignored it and led me back to the light. At the end of the corridor, he turned. "Right. Through this door and you're home. Thank you for coming, Gaston de Chagny," he smiled.
"If you should change your mind, ever, you need only send word with Aunt Giry, and–"
"Yes. Yes, I know. I will." He knew he wouldn't, but I never stopped hoping he would.