This will be my last chapter for a little while so happy Christmas to you all!
"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us"
It was time to consult some alternative sources. Yesterday George and I met for lunch at our favourite café – a proper French café, not some modern, fake looking emporium. Ever since he moved back from California after his retirement, we've met in this place as often as we can to put the world to rights over some delicious food. It has not been easy for him, what with losing his wife several years ago and having no children, but it's good to see him keeping busy. And not long after we started into our crepes, we were complaining about our usual subjects: young people, the war, the government..
"I keep telling you, Gustave, this country would be a much better place-"
"-If the two of us were in Congress! You're absolutely right, old friend."
But when all our complaints were over and done with, we got talking about the past as we often do these days, and my attempts to capture it on paper. I told him about how I've been writing about the first time he came to my home for dinner.
"Yes, I remember that too, of course! My goodness, your father… I know you like to defend him, Gus, but seriously, what a strange character… No wonder you were so nervous about bringing me home to meet him! But he was friendly enough, when all's said and done.."
"Yes.. " I sighed wistfully, "I miss him so much.. All these years later.."
We sat in silence for a while, just watching the world go by on the street outside. How did we become so old? Five minutes ago we were playing marbles in the schoolyard and trying to hit home runs. And now..
"I couldn't believe it that day when you phoned me up and said that you were moving back to New York," I told him,"And when we met up again, it was just like old times. Well, kind of.. And now here we are, two old coots, droning on about the good old days. Never thought it would happen, did we, when we were youngsters running around Coney Island."
"I know" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, "Where do the years go?"
Yes, we have shared so much, whether it is though letters or conversations down crackly telephone lines, or latterly, face to face. But there is so much George never knew, and still doesn't know. Like the times when my Papa told me about his dark past…
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
It was my questions over the gypsy potions and cures that got him talking the next time. I fell on the ice in the January of 1909 and sprained my wrist. Papa fussed over me yet again, with such care and gentleness, rubbing the contents of one of his mysterious jars on the injured wrist.
"How did you learn about these things?" I asked, wincing a little at the burning sensation.
When he'd finished treating me he brought me into the sitting room and sat opposite me in his armchair.
After a little while, as if he needed to gather his thoughts, he told me about the wise woman who travelled with the fair.
"She had a great gift for healing and she was sometimes called on to attend to the wounds on my back, but only if they were particularly bad," he began softly. I looked down at his wrists and looked at those scars which had bothered me ever since I first saw them. He never left the house without his black gloves to cover them up and sometimes even wore them at home.
"Wounds? From your…
"Owner, yes.."
I looked away sadly. He never let me see him without a shirt or nightshirt on and this was why.
"Is that how you got the scars on your wrists too?"
"No, Gustave. They exist because when my mother showed me my face I was so terrified of what I saw that I smashed the mirror. A friend of hers bandaged them for me. This lady was kind to me sometimes but she was too scared of my mother to argue with her."
Yet again I felt guilty for asking a question. "I'm sorry, Papa."
"What for? Anyway, yes, the wise woman in the travelling fair.. Yes, sometimes I was allowed out of my cage at night to sit by the fire. That was when she taught me. She was no kinder to me than anyone else, she only taught me so that she wouldn't have to touch me or come near me any more."
His voice was steady and matter-of-fact. I trembled, unable to imagine what dark horrors he had already lived through. The sound of a mirror smashing echoed in my mind...
"I'm sorry," I whispered again, unable to think of anything else.
"It is good to know about remedies and such things," he shrugged, "and they have certainly come in handy with you around."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Despite my injury he still made me go to school. "Your eyes and ears are still working, aren't they?" he reminded me drily. Everyone took pity on me, even Miss Mackenzie, so it wasn't too bad although baseball and other games had to be put on hold for a while.
But in between school and other mundane things, as I sat on the sofa with my arm in a homemade sling, Papa also told me about his escape, four years after he had been captured.
"Oh, you were only there for four years," I remarked in relief.
He glared at me and I shook, for I knew that dark look too well.
"Only four years!" he scoffed, "Try living like that for four weeks and see how well you get on!"
"I'm sorry! Truly I am, I just didn't think-"
"Do you want me to tell you this story or not?"
I was quiet then and I waited for him to calm down and resume his story.
"I would have been there a lot longer if Madame Giry hadn't found me-"
"Madame Giry?" I exclaimed, before clamping my hand over my mouth, instantly sorry for interrupting.
He glared at me again and then continued.
"She wasn't called Madame Giry then of course. I think she was about 18 at the time. She lived in the Opera House dormitories, just like your mother did and like her she was training to be a ballerina. She and some of the other girls had sneaked out of the Opera House to visit the fair, which was camped in a field somewhere outside Paris at the time. They were lured into the tent, along with a few others, by my owner, telling them to come and see the Devils Child. Well, he pulled the sack off my head and paraded me around as usual, and people laughed and screamed, and everything was just the same as it always was... Except for Antoinette – that's Madame Giry's Christian name. She just stood there looking at me, not with contempt or fear, but with sadness and pity. I will never forget that look."
He was silent for a while and I waited patiently for him to continue.
"She helped me escape," he stated simply. "She helped me get away from that prison, and she brought me to the Opera House, the two of us running all the way, breathless and frightened."
"Did your owner chase after you?"
"No," he replied, looking away from me and fidgeting with a button on his shirt, "He...he did not.. Antoinette sneaked me into the building through a grille at the side and brought me all the way down to the fifth cellar. There are several levels beneath that Opera House you know, and you can remain there for a long time without ever being discovered. As I did, for many years."
"You mean you lived there? In a cellar?" I gasped.
"It was safe. I was far away from people and their cruelties. In between her lessons, Antoinette brought me food and clothing, along with books from the vast Opera House library. I read everything I could get my hands on. She was kind to me, often risking getting into trouble. I was grateful to her…back then."
"What happened then?"
"Well, six years later my protector left to get married and become Madame Giry. Some office clerk called Pierre Giry, apparently. And I had to fend for myself. I was nineteen by then, but I was not like other nineteen year olds. I was full of hatred and anger towards mankind, and the one person who I respected and trusted had abandoned me, or at least that was how I chose to see it. So I stole food from the kitchen. And I… borrowed from the company itself. Props, scenery, materials, tools... you would be surprised what is left lying around a theatre, you know.."
I wondered exactly how many items he had "borrowed".
"I was building a world for myself, you see. Not one where I would be dependent on a hateful parent or a group of vagabonds or a well-meaning dancer, but where I would be the undisputed master... And I wanted a realm fit for a king. So I became the Opera Ghost."
"You became a ghost? How can you be a ghost when you're still alive?"
"Oh, Gustave," he sighed, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands for a while. He sighed and I dared not move. When he looked up, he looked so sad that I went to sit beside him.
"You must understand, son, I was not the person I am now. I had so much hatred and contempt inside me… To be honest it started off quite simply. I used to explore all the cellars and passageways around the building, before I learned to creep around unnoticed, and all my comings and goings created rumours that there was a ghost in the building. Theatre folk love all that kind of thing. The kitchen staff were particularly superstitious and I used to leave notes for them, asking for food to be left out for me at a particular time or I would come and haunt them. And... it worked. I could eat and survive.
"So gradually I extended my methods to the rest of the Opera House, namely the management. Thankfully the manager at the time was an ignorant buffoon who proved to be as gullible as his staff. And so the Opera Ghost began to earn a salary, which meant that he could buy food on the occasions that he needed it and live in relative comfort for a change."
"You had a salary? For being a ghost?"
"It sounds ridiculous now, doesn't it? People flocked to that place, not for the music, of course, which was mediocre at best in those days, but to see if they could spot the infamous ghost! I knocked over some scenery, made a few spooky noises, threw my voice a little…"
He was trying to sound indifferent and contemptuous, but there was a look in his eyes that I could not fathom... When he named his monthly "fee" I was incredulous.
"They all deserved it, all vain, conceited peacocks, every one of them. And the manager knew nothing about opera, he just knew the right people."
"Yes, but..."
"I made him very wealthy and all he ever did was complain about me. " His tone was dismissive, but I thought I saw some sign of humanity in those eyes. Perhaps regret? I truly hoped it was.
He sat there, thinking quietly, then shook his head. "Oh, when I think of it all!" he cried at last, "I can't pretend any more, I am not proud of my actions. But at the time I justified it all to myself, after all that had happened to me. Sometimes, like just now, I find myself still trying to justify it. But I can't change anything, it's all in the past now.
"And then, eight years after she left, Madame Giry returned, a widow now, with a six year old daughter – Meg."
I shuddered at that name.
"She was the new ballet mistress and Meg was going to begin her training in the ballet corps. And one of the first things my old friend did after she settled in was come down to my home to visit me. But I had changed. I was a scared boy no longer. And although she had heard rumours of this ghost, she had never dreamed it would be me.
I cannot lie to you, Gustave; she was deeply disappointed in me. And despite all my arrogance towards her, I felt ashamed after she left me that day. But I never told her that, not in all these years. She did not need to bring me supplies any more – I was used to sneaking out to the market early in the morning and generally fending for myself. The ghost continued his work, making things disappear and reappear as if by magic, demanding changes to the cast now and again through notes and ventriloquism... Madame Giry feared me but she continued to help me too, against her better judgement, by warning people not to take my threats lightly. She knew more than anyone what I was capable of…
People took notice of me, although they could not see me, and I kept it that way. No-one mocked me here, without some kind of.. consequence. I carried on building my empire, never giving a thought to the people I may have hurt or scared away.
And then, after four years, your mother arrived. Ten years old and newly orphaned – I have never seen such innocence. She was everything I was not; pure, innocent, beautiful… I have already told you how I became her Angel of Music. She awakened something in me, the need to protect and comfort. My little Christine.. She was my whole world and I dedicated myself to being her invisible teacher and guide."
It took me a long time to take everything in and digest it. I just sat there and stared into the dying fire. He had gained money through demands and threats, he had scared gullible people.. and what else? My mother's influence had given me strong moral values and his confession troubled me.
I think he knew he had told me too much. He sat there, with his face in his hands again, and it was clear that he was trembling but if he needed comfort I could not offer him any. Not yet, anyway. I rose and went to bed, without kissing him, and undressed as well as I could with one hand, reluctant to ask for his help. When he looked in I pretended to be asleep, not even sure if he was fooled. I lay awake for a long time, just staring at the ceiling.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
He was sorry. "I shouldn't have told you all that, Gustave, you're too young..." he kept saying. "I was a different person then. I've changed, you know I have. I never knew what it was like to be loved rather than pitied or hated until your mother loved me. And now I have you in my life… When I think of what I did in those days..."
When I look back I realise that it had started out so differently. He had demanded food in order to survive. Madame Giry had left him alone in that cellar, with no source of food or money. What could he have done? Living above ground and working at a regular job would have been impossible. But all that money that he had demanded? I could not justify that, or the threats either. And there must be so much more he wasn't telling me….
He was truly sorry, but he had raised so many questions for me. How could he be the same person who sang to me and held me in his arms when I had a nightmare? And the ventriloquism that he used to amuse me and make my stuffed bear "talk" was the same that he once used to intimidate and frighten people.
But he was the same person.
He was a contradiction, a puzzle, a mystery. All he had suffered, the hatred and the beatings and the humiliation, just because of his face. Every time I thought of the bad things he did, I also thought of that cage, or that mirror, or the people who still stared at him and called him names, here in New York, years later.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
School was my salvation at that time. It was such a relief to be away from that atmosphere of guilt and remorse for a few hours. George and I played together and talked about normal things; indeed I did not tell him many details about my father until much later, and as I've said, he still doesn't know everything. And all the things I would learn later on too! Goodness me, if it happened these days, I think a social worker would have got involved by now and I'd have been taken into care…
But there were happy times too. The new season was upon us before we even knew it, and there was plenty of work to be done. The Trio and I helped out with cleaning and preparing the rides. I was twelve now and still small for my age, but I was happy to help with repairs, painting, and any other jobs that needed to be done.
I knew how much guilt my father carried around in his heart and tried to cheer him up. Slowly we resumed our normal routine and I began to enjoy spending time with him again. Those days at the Opera House were in the past, after all, and he was a proper businessman now with a son to raise. We prepared the new brochures, flyers and posters together, getting them ready for delivery to train stations, the ferryports, subway stations and all the other places where Phantasma was advertised. He still loved me, and I still idolised him, although I did not condone everything he used to do, and still don't. Sometimes he let me attend business meetings with him, sitting by his side at the top of the table, both of us dressed in black and white; the master and his heir. Most exciting of all though, we would explore the city at night, when he felt most comfortable.
It was the autumn, or fall, of that year when that incident happened which shook me in every way.
It had been another happy summer, with rides on the Ferris wheel, the roller coaster and all my favourites, interspersed with handing out flyers to visitors in the bizarre company of the Trio and sometimes even clearing tables in the café when they were busy. There were the shows at night, with Miss Fleck flying through the air on her trapeze and Mr Squelch lifting up a wobbly pile of chairs with a remarkably cheerful assistant sitting on top of them all. And of course, Dr Gangle, spurring on the audience between acts and generally being strange.
And then there was our visit to the beach on the second anniversary. Although I was happily busy most of the time, my heart still ached for my mother, especially at night when I lay in my bed. I missed her more than anything and I treasured all my memories of her. I wished she was here to see how I was learning new things like carpentry and baseball, but of course if she hadn't died at the hands of her so-called friend, I wouldn't be living here in the first place, with a father who had been a freak show exhibit and who had pretended to be a ghost and then an angel.
One evening that fall, we were taking one of our strolls around Central Park, under cover of darkness. Lord knows, you wouldn't do that these days. In fact we probably shouldn't have been doing it then, as we found out.
We were just strolling along, my father completely at home in the darkness as usual, when we heard footsteps behind us. Startled, we turned around to see a rough looking man standing there, with a knife in his hand, and my blood ran cold. Slowly, he approached my father, and as he came nearer we could smell beer on his breath.
"Give me your wallet," he demanded harshly. My heart pounded and my throat ran dry. I glanced at Papa who looked scared for a moment, but only for a moment.
The knife was right at my father's throat now and I froze in place. I need to get help I kept thinking but my legs would not work. My whole body was trembling. There was no-one around and I could not move.
"And I'll have your watch too," he rasped, his eyes fixing Papa in a cruel stare and smirking at the sight of the mask. Papa did not flinch but merely stared back, no emotion visible on his unmasked side. Slowly, he reached into his pocket...
I found the use of my legs and tried to sneak away quietly but the man heard me and grabbed hold of my arm from behind, twisting it. "No you don't, kid! You're not going anywhere!"
I screamed but he clasped a hand over my mouth. To my horror, he held his knife to my own throat. I could feel the sharp point on my skin and closed my eyes, but then several things happened at once. My assailant was grabbed from behind, forcing him to release me. Next thing, a rope appeared in the corner of my eye and then the man was screaming in pain and nursing his wrist.
"Run, Gustave!" Papa shouted at me in French, "Run to the front gate, this instant!"
I didn't need telling twice. I took off as fast as I could go and didn't stop until I reached the gate. Breathless and frightened, I looked around desperately for help. No sign of a policeman. People were hurrying to subway stations, to streetcar stops.. I leaned against the railing to catch my breath then sat in the nearest bench, my whole body shaking like a leaf. What's happening to Papa? I thought desperately. Suddenly I heard my name being called and sprang to my feet.
"Papa! Oh, thank goodness!" I ran towards him, relieved and still trembling a little. So was he, I noticed. We embraced each other as tears streamed down my face and just stood there together for a while. My father, my precious father… Despite his past, he was everything to me.
"Did he take your wallet?" I asked eventually when we ended our hug. He put his arm around me and hurried me away to our stop.
"No son, he did not."
"Won't he come after us?" I asked fearfully.
"No, he will not bother us again..." he replied, and his voice wavered a little.
I looked at him in fear, but he was quick to reassure me.
"His wrist is broken. I have had a.. few words with him also. Just a pathetic lowlife. He will not touch either of us again. I was willing to hand over my wallet but believe me, Gustave, when I saw him hurt you..."
His dark, menacing tone made me shudder. The streetcar pulled up just then, and I didn't get a chance to reply. Not that I could think of anything. We sat at the back of that streetcar on our way to the station; Papa's hat was pulled down over his mask as usual and his arm stayed around my shoulders the entire journey. That rope was poking out from under his coat slightly and I tried not to look at it.
"It's all right, my dear," he told me gently, "I'm here now. No-one will ever hurt you. I promised you, remember?"
Those words echoed in my mind as I looked out the window into the night at all the people hurrying home to their normal lives.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Years have gone by since then and I have pondered over that frightening incident many times, especially in recent weeks. My father injured that mugger yet I know if it had been a few years earlier he would not have stopped at that. And it is possible that he wanted to do worse that very night; after all, he was more than capable of it. But he didn't, because I know he could not have looked me in the eye if he had. He had a choice and chose to spare a life. And for me, that's all that really matters in the end.
But now I know how he managed to escape his evil master, without the man ever pursuing him or trying to find him. He never told me, but I still know. The truth just crept up on me gradually, I guess, although I tried to deny it. And it bothers me. No reasonable person would have expected Papa to stay in captivity if there was any way of escaping, but still…
"No-one will ever hurt you. I promised you, remember? "
It's possible that without Papa's intervention, I would not be here today. Or perhaps I would have lost another parent, who knows? It was a long time ago. But at that time, it was not as easy to dismiss my fears and doubts as I grew from childhood to youth in Coney Island.
I really thought long and hard about this ending, and whether Erik should be responsible for another murder - or not. Hopefully this is a suitable compromise. Let me know what you think!