Here's Chapter 10 - another sad one! Hopefully things will get a little more cheerful from now on. Please read and review!
"No-one told me that grief would be so much like fear" - C.S Lewis
It has been a few days since I wrote that last section; I needed to rest from writing for a while. My hand trembled even as I wrote, and in the end I just sat at my desk in silence, the only sounds being the incessant ticking of the clock and my own ragged breathing.
I have re-lived every detail of that night in my mind, a hundred, perhaps a thousand times. And yet I have never written any of them down. Until now.
What an innocent, gullible child I was! Why was I so easily lured away by the promise of a fairground ride? How was I so easily deceived by an act of such manipulation and insincerity?
All the violent deaths that have taken place since that night! Earlier today I was reading about another dreadful murder in this city. The victim had children, and my heart ached for them, for I knew what pain they would go through. All those murders and wars and death, and yet that one solitary death still haunts me, six decades later.
Mother's words to me that night in the hotel room keep haunting me. "You know, sometimes I have this silly wish that you would stay an innocent little boy forever..." And yet, ironically, in my mind it is she who has stayed the same. I would change, just as she feared; in time I would grow old, and watch my hair turn grey and creases appear on my face, but she would remain young always, with her chestnut curls and flawless beauty.
Melancholy was descending on the room, as I emerged from the past. Realising that I needed the company of the living, not the dead, I made my way downstairs to join my wife in front of the TV. Not surprisingly, she worries about me when I am working on this account.
As I expected, she looked concerned when I entered the room and asked me if I was ok.
"You've been writing a long time, Gus. Sometimes I think it's not healthy for you to be opening up old wounds."
"I'm fine, Helen, honestly," I assured her as I sat down next to her, "What are you watching?"
But I can't stop writing, not now. I need to finish what I've started. Perhaps then I will understand. Perhaps later on I will shed the tears I've been fighting for days.
Perhaps I'm not as cynical as I thought I was.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
My mind returns to that beach, sixty years ago. Things were happening around me, people were running and shouting, but I only noticed Raoul, my father, who was not my father, cradling my mother in his arms. And standing near them, this stranger, who inspired such fear and awe in me; crying with such gut wrenching pain. To see such a powerful man weeping openly was frightening to me.
I stood in front of him, and he lowered his hands which had been covering his masked face. He just looked at me, and the eyes that gazed on me were not a monster's but a man's. I felt a curious mixture of fear and pity for this man who shared so many of my dreams and passions and was now mourning the death of someone he had clearly loved.
Look with your heart, Gustave I remembered.
Slowly I reached out to take off his mask, but he stopped me with his hand. "No," he whispered.
He knelt in front of me and bowed his head. Carefully, fearfully, he removed his mask. To my surprise, he pulled at his scalp and his hair – his wig – came off too. His bowed head had only a few tufts of black, greying hair on it. With care, so as not to frighten me again, he raised his head so that he was looking at me.
The flesh was still mangled, the mouth still malformed, that piece of skin was still missing... but those eyes were the same, and all the sadness of the world was in them. My heart ached for him, despite my numbness. We looked at each other, and I did not scream or run away, nor did I ever do so again.
The police arrived, followed by an ambulance and Mother was taken away. I could not look at her face as she was lifted inside the ambulance. Surely this is not Mother? Surely this cannot be her, lying so still, so lifeless? Somebody put a blanket around me. I was cold, but did not care. Everything was strange, eerie, alien. Mister Y and Father-who-was-not-Father even talked, I could hear them but could not understand.
I remember Mister Y lifting me into his arms. I clung to him, but for safety, not out of affection. He carried me, with people looking and pointing. I heard voices from every side but could focus on nothing. The beach receded from view as I stared over his shoulder, numb and disbelieving. It all seemed to be happening to someone else. Some other Gustave.
He carried me over to another tower on a different side of the park, opposite the one containing the Aerie. With a little effort, he carried me up another spiral staircase which opened out into a small, cold apartment. With no resistance, I allowed him to remove my wet clothes and replace them with a nightshirt, which was far too big. He dried my hair with a towel while a grandfather clock ticked away in the corner. I can vaguely remember him laying me down in a bed, his bed I learnt later, and putting the blankets around me.
Most of that night is a blur, except for Mister Y telling me that he had to go to the police station and the mortuary, that there were some official things to see to, and that Miss Fleck would stay with me. I just lay under the covers as he sighed and closed the bedroom door. I think Miss Fleck came and sat beside the bed for a while, then left again. There were voices, comings and goings.. I'm sure I slept too, but I can't remember.
All I really know is that I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room; it could have been a week later for all I knew.. and I remembered what had happened. But I could not cry. Numbness was still paralysing me and I could not yet accept that Mother was gone. She will come and get me I kept thinking. She will walk in here, any moment now, and wonder why I'm here and not in the hotel.
At some point, Mister Y knocked at the door and tentatively opened it, his mask in place again.
He stood there, fidgeting nervously and looking at the floor. Finally he spoke.
"Gustave," he began gently, "I've made you some porridge. Come and eat it while it's hot. You need to eat something."
Although I did not feel remotely hungry, I rose slowly from the bed, and with no hurry whatsoever, followed him out into the kitchen, which was also the dining room and the sitting room. We were on our own in the apartment now. I was not sure if that was a good thing or not. In the corner, the clock ticked. Mister Y took a robe of some kind and put it on me, which warmed me a little. A fire was now lit in the hearth and he began coaxing it into life. There was a small table in the middle of the room, with a bowl of porridge and a glass of milk in front of the only chair, and a spoon lay beside them.
I sat. I did not think I would ever be hungry again, but I did manage a few spoonfuls. Then I just sat there, stirring it and thinking, and sipping my milk. The silence was eerie. I swallowed, and the sound seemed to fill the whole room.
"I'm sorry it's so cold, Gustave, but the fire is blazing away now and you will be warm soon. I-I'm not very often here during the day."
I nodded.
I sat there, stirring my porridge until it got cold and Mister Y took it away. And slowly, gradually, it dawned on me.
Mother was dead. She had been shot and now she was dead. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't happening to someone else. Mother was dead.
She would never play with me again. She would never tell me stories again, or sing to me, or have snowball fights with me in the winter. Never again would we go on picnics or travel into Paris, to a café or the market or the Bois de Bologne. She would never sing for me at the piano again; I would never hear her voice again. I was a child and could not think beyond those simple, immediate things, could not imagine the next five, ten or twenty years.
"Mother is dead," I said dully, my first words in that dark, silent apartment.
Mister Y was stoking the fire again when I spoke. He laid down the poker, turned around and walked towards the table. "Yes, Gustave, she is," he told me, with infinite gentleness, "I am so sorry."
I ran from the table back into the bedroom, slammed the door and flung myself on the bed. I stayed there, my head buried in the unfamiliar blanket. There was no lock on the door but Mister Y did not follow me. He stood outside the door and begged me to come out, but I could not.
I was trapped here. Mother had died and left me with a stranger, in a strange country. Everything was wrong.
I could hear Mister Y outside, pacing up and down, and crying with gut wrenching sobs, just like on the beach.
"Oh Christine… My Christine…"
He was grieving too and I could not go to him. Not yet.
And still my tears would not come.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I lay on that bed, which was not even my own bed, for a long time. Then Mister Y knocked again. Peering around the door, he watched me with concern. "Gustave, the vicomte wants to speak with you. He will be leaving tonight, once all the formalities are over, and wants to see you at the hotel."
I rose slowly and nodded at him. I remembered I was still wearing nightclothes at this time of day and wondered what my mother would have said. My heart ached at the thought. When I entered the main room, Mr Squelch was there, carrying my suitcases. "Here are your things, Gustave," he told me, in a surprisingly soft tone. The other two, never far behind, entered behind him.
Apart from some half-hearted bows, the trio did not seem to be in the mood to perform at this time. One by one, they came to me and sympathised in normal voices, telling me how beautiful and talented my mother was.
I opened my case. There on top was my bear and I hugged him tightly. And my clothes.. all the things that Mother had packed for me. It seemed a lifetime ago. And there was my Hans Christian Andersen book, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and all my belongings from that other world, far away across the ocean.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
At the hotel, I sat in what had been my bedroom while Mister Y and Father-who-was-not-Father talked in the living room area. About me, I suppose, among other things. Two former enemies, now trying to be civilised to each other, given the circumstances. When the door of the suite closed, indicating that Mister Y had left, I went into the living room and Raoul turned from the window to face me. "I hear you have your luggage now. That's good. If you want me to send anything else to you-"
"Do I have to stay here?" I interrupted.
He looked at me sadly, all attempts at stiff formality gone.
"I think it's best, Gustave. He is your real father after all. I have to accept that; I've been denying it for too long. And anyway, you never felt at home at the chateau. You know that as well as I do. You never wanted that world. This was the reason why. All those years… I knew, you see, deep down. That's why I tried to force you into going hunting, touring around the estate.. To make you into a vicomte, into someone like me. But you're not."
"I don't want to stay here! I want to go home!"
"It's for the best, Gustave. A fresh start.. " He sat down, defeated. "Oh, Gustave, I couldn't give your mother the life she deserved. Whatever she needed, I just couldn't provide it for her. Or you.. The two of you.. you had your music and all the other things. He could have given you both everything, but for some reason she married me instead. You belong here with him. I can't be a father to you, don't you see? I never could."
I argued and protested. I couldn't understand his explanation. But he was leaving. He was going home to explain everything to his relatives; I still have no idea what he told them. My stepfather and I searched the room and found the tin soldier that Mother had looked after for me. It was in a drawer, still wrapped in paper and Raoul promised me that he would give it to Louis along with the postcard of the Statue of Liberty and that he would explain what had happened.
"You should probably write to him too," he suggested. In answer to my next question, he did not think that he could send or bring Alfie over to me; he would ask Louis' family to look after him permanently.
There the two of us stood in that hotel room, not knowing what to say. I wandered into Mother and Raoul's bedroom and there was Mother's fur hat on the bed, ready to be packed up with everything else. I remembered how she had always worn it when we went out together and how happy she had looked. And now she would never wear it again.
It was the hat that finally broke me.
I sat on the bed, nuzzling it against my cheek and cried at last. Raoul hesitated in the doorway then came and sat next to me, and clumsily put his arm around my shoulder. I had never been comforted by him before and here he was, showing me affection when it was too late.
Raoul felt awkward around Mister Y and me that day, as all the formalities regarding Mother were completed. Looking back I think he also saw a different, human side to Mister Y on that beach as Mother died, but it still did not make them friends. He left that day on a late sailing and his old enemy even brought me to the docks to see him off. Strangely enough, the three of us travelled together by cab, although we hardly said a word to each other. Just before he embarked, I hoped Raoul would embrace me, or show me some kind of affection again. But to my disappointment, he just shook my hand and wished me well in my new life.
"Look after him," he told Mister Y darkly. They did manage to shake hands, although that may have been for my benefit.
I caught sight of him on deck as the sun was setting, his blonde hair, so unlike my own, blowing in the wind. He waved to us, or rather to me, and he looked so sad that I almost longed to join him. But what kind of life would I have had? True, Mister Y gave him the money he had promised Mother. He did pay off his debts although the estate still cost a fortune to run and it didn't solve all his problems. For a brief period, he even managed to give up drinking, but it was a lifelong battle for him.
Perhaps he was right; perhaps he just could not be a father. At this stage, I don't feel any desire to be too harsh on him as a father figure. He was very much a product of his time and his environment, after all.
I only saw him once more, and that was several years later.
The ship pulled away and was soon drifting out of the harbour, towards France. When I look back on that strange day, it feels like there was a watershed of some kind, like a curtain descending on the first act of a play.
"Let's go home, Gustave," Mister Y told me softly, and I followed him.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I woke from a nightmare, my heart pounding as if it would burst from my chest. "No!" I gasped, hardly able to get the sound out. Meg had shot me, there had been blood everywhere, while she laughed cruelly... I struggled to sit up, getting tangled in the bedclothes. Mother was not here.. I could not run to her or call her.
Mister Y was at my side in a moment. "It's all right, Gustave, it was just a dream," he soothed, "Just a bad dream." He sat on the edge of the bed and gently put his hands on my shoulders.
"Meg was trying to kill me!" I managed to blurt out. I was still trembling and needed someone, anyone..
"You are safe now; no-one was trying to kill you, Gustave."
I took some deep breaths as my heartbeat returned to normal. Mister Y caressed my shoulders, trying to comfort me.
"I don't think you should be alone tonight. I'll move my blankets in here and keep an eye on you. In fact, I think I'll sit with you for a while."
"I wish Mother was here.." The trouble was, now that my tears were unblocked, I couldn't stop them.
"I know, child. I wish she was here too.." There were tears glistening on the mask and I realised that he was grieving just as much as I was. Hesitantly, as if he were afraid, he put his arms around me but I did not return his embrace. He was not Mother and I could not pretend he was.
I sat back against the pillows and clutched my bear, trying unsuccessfully to control my own tears. "I'm sorry, Mister Y", I sobbed.
"Oh Gustave, there's no need for you to be sorry, it's perfectly fine for you to cry. You've been through so much in such a short space of time, I know that." He took out a handkerchief and gently wiped away my tears.
"She used to comfort me when I had nightmares." Used to. My voice was barely a whisper and there was a lump in my throat the size of a tennis ball.
"I know. Remember, that was how we first met – you'd had a nightmare and you ran to her?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Tell me about her. What else do you miss about her?"
"She used to sing me to sleep. She had a beautiful voice, and she would sing while I played the piano as well. And she told me stories, about Little Lotte and-"
"And the Angel of Music, and the goblins and trolls of the North."
"You know about them?"
"Of course. Her father used to tell her those stories, as you probably know, and she told me all about them during our lessons. And what else did she do?"
So I told him, long into the night, all about Mother, about the things we did together and what she told me of her life. He listened with interest and fascination.
"She told me about life at the Opera House, but she never mentioned you," I told him, puzzled.
"That story is for another day, my boy."
"I miss her. I miss her so much."
I suddenly burst into tears again. "Why is she dead? Why did Meg kill her? She never did anyone any harm!" My grief was raw and frightening and I reached out for the only parent I had.
"Oh child… Oh you poor, poor thing.."
We cried together in each other's arms for a long time and finally, when our grief had abated a little, Mister Y laid me down under the covers. He made a bed for himself on the floor and returned to tuck me in, something he was not used to doing. "And here is your friend!" he smiled, placing my bear in my arms. He looked at me with such sad eyes, and yet such devotion too.
"Gustave, I can't even try to replace your mother. She was wonderful, unique. But I promised her I would look after you, and I will always do that, no matter what happens. I swear it to you."
I didn't answer, my eyes still brimming with tears. He gave me his handkerchief once more and I dried my eyes. I looked down at the bedclothes, but his gentle voice made me raise my head.
"P-Perhaps I could tell you stories from now on? And sing to you? Would that be all right, do you think?" His shy smile eased my own nerves and even a little of my sadness.
Slowly, I nodded. "Yes. I would like that, Mister Y."
He sang me a soothing lullaby and I slept peacefully, without nightmares.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
There were other nightmares in the weeks that followed, and other nights when I cried for my mother. Try as he might, Mister Y could not answer my eternal "Whys?"
"Why did Meg kill Mother? They were friends, when they were growing up. Why did she hate her? Why did she try to drown me?"
In vain did Mister Y explain about how jealous Meg was of her former friend, jealous of her wealth, her voice, her starring role in the concert. She was also jealous of me, he explained, because she and her mother had found out that I would inherit Phantasma and all of his fortune, and she hated me enough to try and kill me, even though I knew nothing about this at the time. He even tried to explain how he had ignored her for ten years, ignored her sacrifice and suffering, how she was driven insane by neglect and despair..
In the end, Mother was still dead. And Meg, declared insane before her trial, spent the rest of her life in a mental institution somewhere in New York State, and her mother, who was not completely sane after all these events either, moved to the adjacent town to be near her. Some say she worked as a dressmaker, others say she was a sort of companion to an elderly blind lady; I have no idea. I never saw either of them again, although there were rumours that in later years Madame Giry was seen wandering around Coney Island talking to herself.
Over the years, people have asked me: "Have you forgiven Meg Giry?" And that is a difficult question. Forgiveness.. yes, we are supposed to forgive aren't we? "Life is too short to bear a grudge" people say, although they're usually talking about something much more trivial than murder or manslaughter.
Is life too short to bear a grudge? No, it is far too long. All that hatred and bitterness, eating you up inside – for decades? No, I do not want that. And for that reason, yes, I do forgive Meg Giry, although it took me a long, long time to be able to say that. All these years later I just have pity for her, nothing more, nothing less. Is that true forgiveness? It is the best that I can do – forgive, but not forget. How can I forget it ever happened when Mother has missed out on so much? My graduation, my wedding, the birth of her grandchildren… she is the missing face in every photograph, the empty chair at the Christmas dinner table. And no amount of hatred and bitterness could, or will ever, bring her back.
All this sadness is weighing down on me yet again. C.S Lewis wrote "No-one told me that grief would be so much like fear". How true. He was writing about losing his wife but interestingly he also lost his mother at the age of ten; no doubt he experienced that fearful grief then too.
Time to lay aside the past for a while, before I become trapped in it.