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 22
February 1883: Beneath the Opera House
"Mademoiselle Giry, let me assist you in returning to your rooms. It's not safe for you to stay here with such... an unstable and deceitful individual."
"Daroga, please," Meg pleaded and took Nadir's hand into her delicate one. She took a shallow breath and looked the Persian in the eye.
"Think like a businessman for a moment. Don't let your memories cloud your judgment." She paused so that her words would sink in. "Erik's opera... it will be good. It will be good for the opera. Exotic, romantic tales draw the crowds like a moth to a flame, Monsieur."
Nadir sighed and helped the poor girl to her feet. "... You are right. The play would do well, but that doesn't change the fact... He should've consulted me first."
"Agreed. You have every right to be angry with him for not consulting you first," she agreed. Erik saw Meg glance in his direction and he paused to hold the dissonant chord. She turned back to the Persian.
"I don't know what truly happened, but... it seems Erik is trying to honor Malaika's memory and merely please you. The story is perfect for the stage albeit untrue, but only we would know the truth. Maybe the other stories of his life aren't... fit for popular taste."
Meg's sigh pierced through his playing and Erik felt a tinge of guilt again. His playing slowed into a melancholy dirge filled with remorse. Meg continued, "Daroga, I advised Erik to write a tale of revenge. How is..."
She paused and the Persian sighed again realizing the young ballerina wanted to know why.
"You want to know what happened to Malaika..." he articulated for her. Meg's head bobbed in a nod. Erik noticed a strand of her fine ebony hair falls loose to frame her face. The Persian led her over to the coach and sat down beside her.
At his piano, Erik shook his head and noticed Nadir sitting on the couch with Meg. Slowly, he began a decrescendo to hear their shared sad tale from Nadir's perspective… and to know how much of their story would be truly shared with his little ballet rat.
"Malaika was not the attendant of the young Sultana, but she was the most beautiful of the Sultan's harem," Nadir began. He denied, clarified, and confirmed as he went through Erik's libretto and their shared past.
" I was not a gardener, but the third-in-command of the Sultan's palace guard. We fell in love, and the young Sultana found out about our affair. She caught us and dragged us naked before her father, the Sultan. The punishment for our actions was severe - execution.
"The executioner, the sultan's Angel of Darkness and mastermind of his labyrinthine palace, was called for. The Sultan wished for swift executions for us both, a surprising gesture of pity on his part. However, the Sultana demanded something far more intricate. She always enjoyed… Her father placated her bizarre thirst for death. The more macabre the death, the more delighted she was. She had tired of the Punjab lasso, Azrael's specialty. The assassin refused, "Nadir said in a controlled voice as if he had told this story many times before. Yet his cheeks bore two trails of sadness. The man swallowed and looked up at her with mournful eyes. At some point, Erik had stopped playing. His hands trembled remembering the moment and he fought with himself. If I hadn't refused... If I had turned on the Sultana or the Sultan... If I had sacrificed my life for their freedom... A clear tear fell onto the ivory keyboard. He pulled his hands into his lap and tried to control the tremors. He couldn't make himself look at Nadir.
"Rather than be dealt a swift, merciful death, Malaika would die according to tradition. The next morning she was stoned out in the palace courtyard for all to see. I was forced to watch." Meg's sharp intake of breath made the Persian pause in his tale.
"My execution was scheduled for the next day. I was placed in the same cell as the executioner who had refused to grant Malaika a quick and painless end to her life. He had the means to prevent the Sultana's desire for a painful death, but he had refused the Sultan. He signed his own death sentence. In the cell, he didn't speak... as I struck him again and again in my rage. It wasn't until I pulled away that I saw the Sultana watching from the grate above us. She laughed. I knew then my fury was aimed at the wrong person."
Meg glanced at the wretched man at the piano. Nadir followed her gaze but he felt no compassion for the Opera Ghost and his tears. The man should mourn for the loss of a better individual. The Phantom leaned against his piano, his arms folded on top of its black body. His forehead rested on his forearms and hid his face from the pair.
He swallowed hard feeling guilty for miscalculating human cruelty. What had possessed him - the Angel of Darkness, the mastermind of the Sultan's palace, and the morbid executioner - to begin unraveling his twisted scruples? He had grown tried of being a puppet; he had known his time as the executioner and mastermind of the Sultan's palace was drawing to a close. His own death at the command of the Sultan, a surety that the palace's secrets would remain secrets, had frightened Erik to his core. Erik closed his eyes remembering Malaika's dewy, honey-colored eyes settle into determined acceptance of her fate in the palace's receiving hall. Nadir had watched Maliaka be stoned… but she hadn't died from the stoning. Broken, yes, but the Angel of Darkness recalled hearing the woman's strangled cries as the Sultana's hands encircled her throat. Then there had been silence and Maliaka's bloody body being dragged out of her cell past his own. In the neighboring cell, the chained devilish man had remained silent, numb. He could've saved her… but at the time, he had simply wanted to die as well. Now he wished he had done everything differently.
"The Sultan delayed my execution one day and then another. Apparently, he felt Malaika to be at fault for such treachery. Her adultery was judged to be more severe than my disloyalty. Three times, the Sultana came to taunt me into hurting Erik more. I refused. She gave up after the third day. That evening Erik spoke to me. He promised escape if I would unchain him. He promised freedom if I simply followed him through the palace's convoluted tunnels. When I unchained him, he hit me so hard I passed out. He escaped; I didn't."
It had been another calculated risk on his part, Erik recalled. He had admired Nadir's determination to defy the Sultana. He had hoped to save a life rather than take it. His plan had relied on the Sultan not truly wanting to punish a close member of his guard… and wanting his dark pawn, a liability to his safety, dead.
"In the morning, the Sultan gave me a choice - agree to track down and bring back the assassin or refuse and die by the sword. I chose the former and I was released. I followed Erik's trail until it disappeared somewhere in Italy. I could not return to Persia without proof of his death so I sought employment on a mercantile ship carrying spices from the Indies. Ten years ago, I crossed paths with Erik again, and we came to an understanding of sorts."
Nadir rubbed his eyes and looked away from the teary eyed Meg. The fight over Erik's libretto had drained him; the story had finished him off. Rising to his feet, he held on to what little composure he had left. The image of Malaika with her flowing, black hair crowned in flowers rose to the surface from out of the depths of suppressed memory.
"Mademoiselle, again I ask you - will you allow me to escort you home?" he asked masking his emotions. Holding out his hand, he waited for the young ballerina to decide. Her gaze lingered on him before drifting away.
"I need a moment," she replied finally looking down at her hands. She heard Nadir's steps move towards the outside passageway leading out of the lair. Sitting on the couch, she was angry at the world for treating people in such horrible ways. She felt the strong urge to comfort both Erik and Nadir. Nadir, as much as he denied it, still blamed Erik for his part in Malaika's death and exile from his homeland.
Similarly, Erik blamed himself and felt... regret for not offering the harem girl a swift end. Meg was sure Erik didn't regret killing Joseph Buquet; perhaps he regretted Louis-Phillippe if he did truly kill the man. For Piagni, Erik may have felt remorse as well. To find out Erik was an executioner in his Persian life seemed bizarre but also fitting for the man. He seemed to have no scruples about murdering God's greatest creations for his own means. Yet the Phantom sitting at the piano grieved for a life he had refused to take himself. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
The silence engulfing the lair was only broken by the ragged, breathy inhales of the Ghost. The rustle of her skirts against the red Persian rug filled the emptiness until they ceased their movement. She reached out and paused unsure of what to say. What could she say to ease the obvious guilt and pain in the man at the piano? Her hand fell to rest on the wood at the end of the keyboard.
"I can't keep promises," he said quietly before she could speak. "You shouldn't trust me. Everything I touch decays and dies."
"What you did to me was an accident, Erik," she replied in a comforting tone.
"That doesn't change the fact I did it." He shifted in order to hide the twinge of guilt he physically felt. He turned his head to look at her with his left green eye. "That I could do it to you again."
She averted her gaze and he understood.
"Go away, little mouse. Go…before I hurt you more than I already have."
Uncharacteristically, a quiet Meg left his side and walked to where Nadir was waiting. Erik didn't watch her receding figure. He didn't bother to listen to make sure she had left. With stiff muscles, he removed himself from the piano and rose to his feet. He felt pitiful. He felt old. He wanted the solace of his coffin and for the world to end at daybreak. Carrying a heart that felt like lead and a brain to match, the weary and guilt-ridden Phantom disappeared into the hidden confines of his lair. He pulled himself into his funerary bed and tried his best to curl into a fetal position in spite of its limited confines.
Erik clutched his head in a vain attempt to suffocate the laughter in his head. The voice rode over the wave of spiteful laughter badgering him over and over about the past. He wished Nadir had never told the story. He wanted to go back in time and save Malaika. Kill the sultana, kill the sultan, die in the process. He refused to kill Malaika because he had seen her and Nadir one evening. He envied the love they shared; he already knew his days were numbered with the Sultan. He wished he had never hit Meg. She was so innocent and had finally grown to trust him. Now that was all gone. All gone. He whimpered and wanted to die. Meg would never...
Staccato footfalls echoed across the wooden floor. They paused at the threshold of his room. He had assumed Meg would not return so soon if at all. He hadn't bothered to close the bookcase and bedroom doors. Hell, she was only the second woman to ever be this close to his personal living space. The Phantom didn't dare to move; he hoped that Meg would not dare to enter his private rooms further. Yet Meg's footsteps neared and stopped next to his final resting place.
"When you are ready to apologize..." she began to say but stopped. Her warm hand lightly touched his upper arm before reaching up to smooth away his rumbled hair. Such a maternal gesture made his breath hitch, but only for a moment. He felt tense all over, his muscles drawn out like uncoiled springs. Her hand pulled away and he shivered. Something warm and heavy, well-worn and smelling of the little ballerina was placed over his body. "… I'll forgive you, mon ami."
He listened as she retreated into the night and back to the world of the living. In the perpetual night, he waited until he heard nothing except the soft chime of the mantle clock strike midnight. Carefully, he disentangled himself and touched Meg's shawl. The Angel of Darkness began to weep remembering a similar gesture of compassion and kindness from long ago.
"There's no forgiveness for me. Not ever. Not from anyone. The Devil doesn't deserve any forgiveness. I am his Angel of Darkness, and I will never be forgiven," he whispered as he pulled the shawl into a childlike embrace. But she gave it freely. She called you friend. He inhaled the smell of rose and lilac that lingered in the woven threads. Trying to find solace only dredged up the forgotten faces of the dead as he succumbed to sleep.