Raoul and I continued to write to each other for many years, until just before his death. We exchanged pleasantries and news, but rarely mentioned the past, and he continued to visit Mother's grave regularly. I told him about all the major events in my life and about New York and Phantasma, and although he always gave the impression that he did not approve of me working there, he knew somehow that I belonged to it. He stayed on in the same apartment and never remarried. We sometimes made half-hearted plans to visit each other but between one thing and another it never came to pass. His continued fondness for alcohol contributed to his increasingly poor health during the 30's and he died suddenly of a stroke in May 1940 at the age of sixty five. Ironically, he died on the same day that Germany invaded France for the second time in his lifetime. His nurse wrote to me and told me the sad news, just as he had requested, but inevitably the letter was delayed and I received it long after his funeral took place.

I have found out since then that he was buried in the de Chagny family plot and that the title died out with him. It is likely that the estate and the village have been swallowed up by the sprawl of Paris but I have never been brave enough to find out what became of the chateau itself.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The end of the 1919 season came around very quickly but the final show was one of the best I can remember, with a selection of talented new acts, and of course, the Trio. I played the piano once more and was invited out on to the stage to take a bow at the final curtain. America's losses had been heavy during the war, but now it was over and people were flocking to Coney Island to try and forget their troubles for a little while.

Miss Fleck accompanied me to the employee's ball again; this was becoming a tradition of ours. She was still able to perform her act on the trapeze but she was older now and sometimes confided that she was not sure how much longer she could carry on. And what other job could she do? She was still my heroine, and indulged me with a few dances, although I was now much taller than her.

"You're growing up," she murmured to me as we danced, "And yet sometimes I still see that little boy standing by the dockside, longing to enter Phantasma's gates…"

"Sometimes I think I am still him," I replied wistfully.

Afterwards, when everyone had gone home I lingered by the low wall separating me from the beach and looked out to sea, revelling in the stillness after all the excitement of the evening. Just as I was thinking of leaving for home, I felt a gloved hand on my shoulder and jumped.

"Papa, why do you always have to creep up on like that?"

"Sorry, son. Once a ghost, always a ghost, I suppose. Shall we take a stroll on the beach?"

I nodded. Now that I was an adult I didn't mind spending time with my father, especially after dark, which was the time we both loved best of all. We strolled along the sandy beach with our cloaks flapping gently in the breeze, discussing the ball, the preparations to close down Phantasma for the winter, and Papa's plans to invest in one of the new, respectable movie theatres in the city and perhaps open one here in Coney Island. Enough time had passed for us to take a walk on the beach without too many bad memories flooding back. Time was passing, healing some of our wounds at last.

We were so busy talking that we didn't notice we were now at Suicide Cove, which was, unfortunately, a well named landmark. Jack's bar as it was known was on the promenade directly across from us, and I remembered visiting it four years ago after Papa and I fell out. And it was also the place where he and Raoul had made that bet…

"Let's go home," I said quickly, turning around, but Papa had already seen what I was looking at.

He said nothing, but I knew that suspicious look well.

He knew – at least he must have known – that Raoul would have filled in a few gaps for me during our time together. Yet he never mentioned it, not once. He asked me about Paris, the opera we'd gone to and of course, about Mother's grave, but never about what Raoul and I had discussed.

The next morning at breakfast, Papa remarked on how quiet I was recently.

"You've been like that ever since you came back from France, sitting there lost in your own thoughts every mealtime. Is anything the matter, son?" He laid a hand on mine and when I finally met his eyes, he was looking at me with such concern that I knew I had to tell him. Those eyes, searching mine….He always claimed he couldn't read minds but I'm not so sure.

"It's silly really.. but I've been wondering what would have happened, if Mother hadn't died. What would you have done?"

"I would have married her, of course. The two of you would have lived here with me and I would have had a proper family at last. We would have all been happy."

"Do you think Raoul would have allowed her a divorce, after all the scandal he'd already endured?"

I have no idea why I asked him that, not when we were getting along so well. But although I tried to apologise, the damage was done. He put down his spoon and wiped his mouth roughly.

"You don't know what you are talking about, Gustave. You were just a child."

"Look, maybe he would have allowed her, but I just want to know-"

He stood up, knocking the table a little and the dishes made a clattering noise. But he didn't shout or cry, as he used to do at these times. He just gripped the edge of the table, his voice sad and resigned. "She should never have married him. I should never have left her that night and I spent ten years regretting that and wishing she was here with me, longing to hear her sing once more."

With slow footsteps he made his way out to the back garden, with me following him, and we sat on the bench together.

"While she was in France there was still hope, you see. And now there isn't. She's gone and both the vicomte and I lost her. Don't you understand? Yes, I was trying to lure her away from her husband, I admit that now, and I was desperate to have you both with me when I found out you were my son. But in the end, neither of us won. Neither of us…"

He still didn't cry. He just sat there, head bowed and truly defeated. And it was at that moment that I knew – we both knew, I think – that we could not keep dragging up the past. Things had happened a certain way and here we were, years later, unable to change any of them.

I have no idea if Mother would have left Raoul for him. All I can remember is that when I left them alone in the dressing room, they were getting on well again. Did she change her mind by the time Papa came to her, before they realised I was missing? I have no way of knowing, except through the biased account of my father. But he was right about one thing. Neither he nor Raoul won in the end.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

During that fall, I was grateful for George's friendship although I also spent time at concerts with friends from college. George and I liked baseball games, movie theatres and good music, which helped distract my friend from his dull office job. A small theatre company was based a short train ride away and we enjoyed their musical performances which were fairly good for an amateur company. But the main reason for our attendance was the attractive female cast members, including a set of twins who agreed to go to a dance with us and promptly dumped us for two of the musicians. Such was our luck…

One evening, a few weeks before Christmas, the theatre was putting on a show featuring Christmas carols and songs, and the two of us bought tickets for it. Best of all, there would be refreshments served afterwards where we could meet the cast. That was what we loved about these small companies – you would never have a gathering like that on Broadway.

"Irene Mansfield is singing a few solos tonight, you should see her, she's really something," George informed me with a knowing look, but I wasn't in the mood for flirting with anyone. Besides, I was supposed to be working with my father that evening and it was with some reluctance that he let me have the time off when I showed him my ticket, so I was a bit irritable anyway.

We were sitting down waiting for the concert to start and George was looking through the programme. "That's strange," he muttered, "I don't see Irene's name here." A few enquiries revealed that the lady in question was ill and her place was taken by an understudy. My friend was not happy but I told him that I was going to enjoy the concert regardless of the disruption to his love life.

They sang all my favourite carols and I was content, just enjoying the music. Then the ensemble came on stage to sing "O Holy Night" and I waited in anticipation for this wonderful hymn to begin.

A soprano voice began the first verse, singing solo, and I sat up.

It was exquisite, even with just the opening notes. I just sat there, transfixed as the voice climbed up and down, before blending into the chorus. A technically perfect voice, to be sure, but it was the pure joy and emotion behind it all that fascinated me. Amazed, I looked at the owner of the voice: a young woman of around my age with long blonde hair and expressive eyes. Even from this distance I could tell that she was pretty.

Grabbing the programme off George, I looked down through the list of performances to find her name: Helen Ferguson. I'd never heard of her, but the audience were just as enraptured as I was as we listened to her sing all the verses with such power and skill.

"She's amazing!" I remarked to George as we stood and applauded, "She's hit all those notes perfectly and she's... gorgeous! Do you know who she is?"

He smirked. "No, but I've a feeling you're about to find out!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I don't know how it is that seemingly minor things can alter everything. A little girl's scarf falls into the sea and two young lives are changed forever. If I hadn't gone to that concert on that particular night, my life would have been completely different. Was it love, even then on that first evening? It almost wasn't anything after I tripped over someone's bag and fell on the floor right in front of her…

Despite that mishap, we went out to a café together the following day and other places too in the weeks that followed, including the New Year's fancy dress ball at Phantasma, where I almost scared her off by dressing as Red Death as my father once did under different circumstances. As an aside, I actually still have that same costume and it's in near perfect condition; in fact I wore it to a fancy dress party only last year and won first prize.

Helen had just finished her studies in music at a small college for women and had a part time teaching position in a private girls school, which later became full time. Even now, she enjoys teaching and often gives voice lessons here in the house. She was not even a member of the company but was drafted in at the last minute by the manager who was a family friend, and was only appearing for one night. Yes small things can have a huge effect, no doubt about that.

Within a few weeks, I knew I wanted to marry her. She took some persuasion however. Even now she claims jokingly that she only agreed to go on a date because she felt sorry for me after I tripped up. I usually respond by informing her that I fell in love with her voice, and had to marry the rest of her… But she is still the "star of the show" to me although the blonde hair I once loved is now grey and many years have passed since those lively days at the start of the Roaring Twenties. And after forty four years of marriage I still can't imagine spending my life with anyone else, even though she still enjoys telling people that I once went down on my hands and knees to ask her for a date…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Our courtship took place against a backdrop of studying, of dancing the foxtrot in Coney Island's crowded dance halls, of walks in Central Park or along the beach, and of course, introducing Helen to Phantasma. She'd only been once, when she was younger, but she'd heard of Mister Y and was interested to know more about him. Needless to say, I didn't know where to begin but I told her a little at a time and left out the things she didn't need to know. She was only ten when Mother died but she could remember her parents talking about it. She didn't fawn over me and my sad past like other girls did but just listened as I told her about "the soprano of the century" and my memories of her.

I was worried about introducing her to Papa, but it all worked out well in the end. They met briefly at the New Year's ball, although he retired early as usual. On the first evening I brought her home for dinner, she was a still a little bemused by his eccentric appearance, but she was determined not to stare. In fact, she was confident and polite with him, making conversation about Phantasma and other topics that would appeal to him. And Papa was enchanted by her. She was a strong, lively young lady and most of all she taught music, which could only serve to endear her to him.

But sometimes there were questions that bothered me. What if I turn out like my father? What if I become obsessive and start following Helen everywhere, or get jealous and angry if she talks to another man? What if I decide to try and keep her all to myself? But none of those things happened and I began to realise that I was not doomed to follow his path completely.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

One night in the summer of 1921 I lead her by the hand into Phantasma after the visitors were gone home for a special ride on the Ferris wheel, which I'd arranged beforehand with Jake, the attendant. When the car got to the highest point of the rotation, the wheel stopped, as I knew it would. Helen was not scared of heights but she was still a bit startled until I reassured her. And it was there, high above Phantasma with the backdrop of a starry sky that I asked her to marry me – and she accepted.

We both knew our marriage would not be conventional. I'd known for several years that the woman who married me would practically have to marry Papa too, and that was a tall order for anyone. But despite her initial misgivings, Helen took my father on as well as me, for which I am eternally grateful.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I had achieved my Master's degree by now but was fully immersed in helping to run Phantasma. Joe was past retirement age and his youngest son Frank was being trained to take over from him. Neither of his two older sons were interested in that line of work any more. Although most visitors now only came for the day and the hotel was struggling, the park itself was doing well as were our other investments. So I was fairly sure I could support Helen and our future family. There was one small matter to be taken care of before we married though and Papa and I had many discussions about it.

"Papa, Helen is going to be living with us and what if she walks in on you when you don't have your mask on? Surely it's best she sees your face when we're all sitting down together, calmly and quietly."

Eventually he agreed, and one Sunday afternoon after the three of us had had a pleasant walk in the park together and eaten lunch, we retired to the sitting room where Papa removed his wig and slowly peeled off his mask to reveal the face that I was so accustomed to.

I'd prepared Helen in advance for this, describing the disfigurement as best I could and even attempting to draw a picture of it. She gasped a little, her eyes widened and she put her hand to her chest, but she did not scream, faint or run out the door. And as she looked at her future father in law without malice or fear I knew it was all right. Yes, the face was deformed and she took a while to become completely comfortable with it, but she accepted it, and I loved her for that.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We married in May 1923 before the season began, and I can still remember Papa and I sitting on our balcony the night before, looking towards our beloved Phantasma and both of us aware that everything was about to change in twenty four hours. A new era was beginning. It was warm enough to sit outside at last but I was sipping from a mug of hot chocolate which Papa had insisted on making for me, just like when I was younger.

"We've had some great times up here, haven't we?" he asked me quietly.

"There'll be more great times," I assured him, squeezing his hand, "Only there'll be three of us instead of two, and hopefully more in time."

"You've always been such a good son, you know," he continued, "I couldn't have asked for a better partner, assistant... a better friend…" He put his arm around me and I swallowed. "I know you will be a good husband and father. You're marrying a lovely, talented woman and I hope you will be happy together."

"Thank you, Papa. I hope the three of us will be happy together. But make sure you look after yourself and eat your meals while we're on our honeymoon; I've asked Miss Fleck to call around to you each day and check up on you!"

He'd insisted on paying for our honeymoon in a quiet resort in New Jersey and I thanked him once more for this, truly grateful for all his kindness.

He withdrew his arm slowly and looked at the ground, rubbing his neck like I did when I was nervous.

"G-Gustave, is there…" he stammered. It was so unusual for him to stutter like this and I looked at him, surprised.

"Is there... anything you n-need to know?"

When I told him there wasn't, he let out a huge sigh of relief.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Earlier today, I was browsing through an old photo album of our wedding photographs, a collection of formal looking black-and-white images that conjured up so many memories for me. There we were, our younger selves, looking so happy and hopeful, with Helen in her traditional white dress and myself in my dark looking suit and top hat. There was a picture of the Trio, who would be almost unrecognisable to Phantasma's visitors with their smart wedding outfits and neatly combed hair; I think Miss Fleck wore a pale blue dress and the other pair had dark grey suits. Dr Gangle and Mr Squelch did not enjoy wearing suits and ties but their "sister", as they called her, reminded them that they could not draw attention to themselves on this special day. They were so proud that day, eulogising about how their "little boy" was married and grown up now.

Being Mister Y's son there was some attention from the press but they were not as obtrusive as I thought they would be and my father soon got rid of them, although goodness knows how.

Both of us were Catholics and the wedding was a traditional ceremony in Helen's church. That was one church service my father was definitely not getting out of. Nor did he wish to. "You should have one parent there, at least," he reasoned, but I knew he was secretly looking forward to it. George was my best man and tried to calm my nerves as I waited at the top of the church for my bride to be. To add to my anxiety, when my father came in he immediately sat at the back away from everyone, just as I'd predicted. But my old friend and wedding guest Father Donovan had other ideas. He walked down the aisle to where Papa was sitting and, putting a hand on his shoulder, guided him to his feet and led him to the front row.

"Welcome, Mister Y, I hope you enjoy the service. It must be such an exciting day for you," he told him, gently and without fuss. My father thanked the priest then smiled over at me and we both knew the day was going to turn out well.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I looked at the album until Helen came back from the supermarket and I helped her put the groceries away. We talked about that long ago day while we drank coffee and I looked sadly at the one photograph that I have of Papa, dressed in the dark grey suit he wore as a compromise instead of his usual black. He always refused steadfastly to have his photograph taken, except on this day.

We also looked at pictures of Christine and Charles when they were younger, thinking sadly of the hurtful things my son and I have said to each other. Our telephone call the other day was strained but I did tell him that I loved him.

"Gus, the grass is getting long again, I'm afraid, and those pansies need to go into a bigger pot," my wife remarked as she looked out the window, "The shed could do with a lick of paint, too. If the nice weather lasts you could get these jobs done easily enough."

This is life, this is marriage. Some of the time anyway. The mundane, the everyday, not big melodrama and obsessive love, that's what it's like when you live in the real world and not underneath an opera house. But when we were married first I sometimes thought my love for Helen was far inferior to what my father must have felt for my mother. Nonetheless, I loved Helen with all my heart, and always will. I may never have spied on her through mirrors, kidnapped her from a stage or made an automaton that looks like her, but I daresay she can get by without that kind of "love".

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

On the 16th April 1925 I paced anxiously up and down the living room while Papa gently chided me for wearing out the carpet. I couldn't help it though. What if something went wrong? But it didn't and when the midwife appeared in the doorway, the two of us looked towards her with bated breath.

"Congratulations Mr Durand, you have a healthy daughter!""

Papa and I hugged each other, and then I headed straight upstairs to see our firstborn child, with my father insisting on giving us some time alone before joining us.

I will never forget the moment I first held my daughter in my arms. I was a father, a father… At last I understood how Papa felt all these years, only I was seeing my child almost from the time she was born. I knew I would do anything to protect this defenceless little thing, and it was with some reluctance that I finally went to summon my father from downstairs. With all the gentleness I could muster I laid the tiny bundle in his arms. I could see tears forming behind the mask as he held her and my heart ached for him.

"This is Christine," Helen told him softly, "Christine Helen Durand, your granddaughter."

"Christine.." he whispered, gazing at her in complete adoration. "I can't believe it.. … I never got to hold you like this Gustave… I never even thought I would be a father, and now I have a granddaughter.. Thank you... Thank you both…"

Not for the first time I noticed my father was getting old. He was 68 by now, by his estimation, and showing all the signs of aging, including lines and wrinkles on his face. "Even my good side is ugly now!" he used to complain but at least the rest of the human race shared this fate with him. He was troubled by arthritis too and usually walked with a stick. Yes, he was getting old and increasingly set in his ways.

But he was holding a new generation in his arms, and he was content, truly content, that day.