Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.
De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 4
March 1882: Beneath the Opera House
Erik busied himself with finishing the final tuning adjustments to his piano. He tapped the key several times as he twisted the peg ever so slightly. As the string reached the perfect pitch, he relaxed. He had spent the past week doing the dangerous task of closing the known passages and clearing out older ones for his personal use. When he had finished that arduous task, he had gathered, organized, and shelved what he could salvage of his home. Some things were destroyed completely and needed replacing; others were fixable. Repairing the piano's legs had been easy but attaining the necessary strings had required Nadir's aid. The piano would suffice for composing again. While he enjoyed the violin, it did not serve him well in creating multiple voices for an orchestra.
Erik glanced at the pipe organ as he pulled the tuning key away from the peg. Its pieces were spread lovingly on the stairs leading up to the empty space where the bench had been. He had the tools to repair minor dents and clean the pipes, but he needed new pipes, knobs, and keys. With his funds diverted to Nadir for their plan to revitalize the Opera House, Erik was limited in what he could do for his precious friend. The inability to play the many voiced machine made his heart ache.
"No more tears, Erik," he muttered to himself as he settled at the keyboard upon his makeshift bench and began to play a round of arpeggios. His fingers had lost some of their elasticity; his arms and wrists were a little stiff. The practice, however, felt good for his soul. He plunked out a melody that had niggled at his brain earlier in the day. He drew the song out and reveled in the sound echoing in his lair. Without realizing it, he found himself smiling. "Tomorrow we will start again."
As the piano fell silent at the song's end, Erik rose and surveyed his domain. A fire in the hearth warmed the small table, couch, and side chair. He had simply taken them from the storage rooms in the back of the Opera House; missing furniture would not be missed until much later or not at all. They made his lair… seem comfortable, less empty. With the destruction of the bed and other items for Christine, he had needed something to fill his home.
Already his repaired, oak desk held quills and ink along with a stack of fresh paper for composing. The small silver and enamel music box rested quietly on the corner as a daily reminder. His eyes glanced off it before memories re-surfaced and left him incapacitated again. His shelves held what books and composition sheets that had survived the fire, and he hoped that soon he would fill them again.
When his gaze fell upon his fireplace mantle, he admired the broken candles made useable again and black violin case propped open. Somehow the violin had survived; he had found it hidden underneath his broken desk when he had started to repair it. He had wept as he played it. Now, with a sense of humor, he had placed his violin upon the stone mantle. Next to it rested the small clock given to him by Nadir. Its quiet ticking and soft chimes on the hours and half-hours gave him some connection to the world above him. He was sick of finding you asleep at 3pm in the afternoon, you dolt, scolded his inner voice. You were so accustomed to the opera's comings and goings that you neglected to realize it's not a satisfactory means of judging the length of a day.
"I had no need of Time before," Erik replied to himself. "I do now." He flipped the carpet corner up and tripped the foot peg in the room's corner that forced the bookcase door to open. The door swung open slowly, smoothly, and silently. Along with his lair, he had dusted, swept, and polished the wood floors and panels until they gleamed. He sighed feeling at home as he walked down the polished hall towards his bedroom. He wanted to clean up before tackling another project... or play his precious violin. Over the month and a half, he had thanked whatever stray foot or hand from the mob that had sent the violin to its protected hiding place. Without music… he had nothing, and his precious violin was a lifeline for the first few weeks of his meager return to life. He would've truly despaired if he had not been able to play anything.
Pouring cold water into the small basin, he set the porcelain pitcher down with a thump. First the much mended linen work shirt came off. Then the stiff black leather, half mask. The water on his face felt wonderful. He let the water run in small rivulets down his neck and onto his chest as he reached for the cotton towel hanging on the side. His right fingertips felt the deformity on the right side of his face while the left felt normality. He pulled the towel down to stare at himself in the small, cracked mirror that hung over his wash basin. His right, blue eye rimmed in brown seemed to glow white in the shadows while his left green eye reminded him of meadows bathed in sunlight. Strands of his dark brown hair failed to cover his deformity and clung desperately to his forehead. It's like a mismatched mold was used to make me. A monster on one side and a man on the other, he mused to himself. The inner voice, for once, somberly added, Two halves don't always make a perfect whole. He looked down at himself as he continued to wash using the towel to clean. The whip scars across his chest and shoulders were pale white against his ivory skin. The smaller ones were shrinking, but the larger ones that had cut deep were still apparent. Lifting his left arm, he analyzed the brand marks he had received on his backside. They, too, were angry looking but had mended over the years.
"I'm a map of torment," he reflected as he touched a sore spot on his right upper arm. The sore spot was left by a bullet along with its brother that grazed his leg when he had escaped the gypsy camp the first time. He had fled, bleeding and afraid that they would be able to track him. They didn't. He gave a wry smile. "I wasn't worth the money to track down. Who would want a singing, voice throwing monster when the world offers more horrific sights?"
No one answered his question. Erik shook his head and grimaced. He pressed his hand to his good eye while the other clutched the side of the basin stand. That night paled in comparison to the night he was branded for defying the Sultan's wishes. In turn, the night Christine broke his heart was worse than any wound he had received physically. Running his hand through his hair, he lifted his head to stare back at himself and he slowly smiled. Christine would return to him. He would show her he wasn't a monster, but a man worthy of her love and devotion.
He changed his clothes quickly and purposefully walked to his lair. He had lovingly placed the letter Nadir gave him in a place of prestige on his desk (once he had fixed his desk, of course). He read Christine's letter three times before realizing he had forgotten about the second letter. Picking it up, he examined it. The paper was thin and cheaply made. The wax seal was flat and revealed nothing of the individual. In contrast, Christine's seal had used a small initial stamp of a fluid C. The handwriting was small and neat in graphite rather than ink. The simple signature of M piqued his curiosity. This person obviously didn't want to be known if the letter was found. However, the identity of the person eluded Erik. He set the letter down on the desk and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Who are you, Monsieur M, and what do you have of mine?"