Weary from the night's events, I trudged up the stairs, looking forward to making a face-plant onto my bed. I hadn't even made it out of the fourth cellar when I heard, "Buquet, let's talk." I turned around to see Erik right behind me. Sometimes I hated how sneaky he could be.
"I've been contemplating what you said—,"
"There's a first."
He glared at the interruption. "—and there might be some truth in what you say. I've come to the conclusion that if you were to stay in my home it might help to dissipate the tension—create a distraction for Christine. I believe things might run a bit smoother if she had a companion she can trust. Perhaps, in time she'll learn to forget…"
His face. How much she hated him. He didn't have to say what we both knew. I realized how difficult it must be for him to say these things, to open up his home…to admit I was right.
"If I consent to do this, some conditions will have to be set first."
Without breaking eye contact he pondered all the possible downsides but eventually gave in. "Name it."
"First of all, what am I to do about work? I can't just up and go without a trace, and they'll certainly know I'm missing."
"I'll take care of it. You won't have to be gone very long. They can spare you for a few days."
"Secondly, if I choose to take you up on your offer, you will let Christine go."
Bracing myself, I was certain he'd change his mind about the whole thing. He visibly tensed but just as quickly, he relaxed. "Done. After--,"
"One week."
"—One week. Christine will return with you."
"Then it's a bargain." I held out my hand.
He looked at it as though it would bite him but then, reluctantly, took it in his own and we shook to seal the deal. He immediately dropped his hand as if it burned to touch another human's flesh.
"I'm glad you're doing this. I know it will make a world of difference--,"
"This is merely for Christine's sake, nothing more."
He waited down by the lake while I gathered a few items from my room, which wasn't much. My little knife and the hilt that held it, the clothes I arrived in, and a small red leather satchel. It was when I met him down by the gondola that I was faced with another condition: Crossing the lake. Open water. Small rickety boat. He appeared to read my thoughts through my translucent face.
"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Your curiously unconquerable fear of H20. I do apologize but you're rather limited on choice for means of transportation."
"Not all water, you nitwit. It's not like I'm afraid to take a bath or anything."
"So, what is it then?"
"Nothing I'm sure as hell gonna tell you. Let's just do this as quickly and painless as possible."
"Would you prefer to be unconscious or perhaps the blindfold?" he joked.
"Don't even touch me…unless of course, I'm drowning."
It was an uneventful yet unbearable boat ride before we reached our destination. It was a cleverly hidden house, really, camouflaged within the rest of the stone and rock that surrounded the cellars. The only evidence was that there was a door. A door leading nowhere, it was made to appear. Erik had locked Christine in a room he'd specially prepared for her, and after shaking my head at his unorthodox tactics on how to treat houseguests, he slipped in to talk to her first and explain our arrangement. Needless to say, Christine was stunned speechless to see me and naturally had many questions.
"All questions will be answered in due time, my dear." Erik explained. "In a week's time you and Mademoiselle Buquet will return above. By then you will have been with me for two full weeks and I hope that within that time, you will learn not to fear me and will come back to me."
My, but didn't we make an odd trio. A self-appointed trinity brought together by fate and opera. That same fate that brought me to Joseph and that same fate that took his life. Yes, a peculiar trinity—the demon, the angel, and the cross-dressing culture-shock; branded as nothing more than a vagabond. I shared Christine's room where we could talk more privately and she poured all her fears and secrets as well as tears, apologizing for sounding so wicked, but was thankful that I was confined with her in such a terrible place and she didn't have to suffer it out alone. I found I couldn't sleep much (due to the fact Christine didn't sleep much either), so it wasn't highly unusual for Erik to find me asleep on the sofa with a book on the floor nearby, after which, I would wake up covered by a blanket that hadn't been there before. He never said anything about it, so neither did I.
He had a small but enticing library. Christine and I would be in and out of it all the time, various times of the day. Sometimes Erik would read aloud to us in the evenings as we sat by the fireplace. It's not like we had much else to do. Erik wouldn't let Christine out of his sight, it seemed, so we never left the house. They still went on with singing lessons and I got to hear his music for the first time. I can't begin to describe what it did to me. How hauntingly beautiful it could be, how different it sounded from all other music I've heard. This was a very personal and private time for the both of them and Erik did not hesitate in telling me so. He preferred that I didn't intrude and be a cause of distraction for Christine. I knew there was more to it than that, because I would peek in on them on occasion when my curiosity couldn't stand to be ignored, but I complied with his wishes and tried to keep myself occupied elsewhere for the duration of the lessons. But one can only do so much reading.
It was the third day Erik realized this and decided it was time I went up to work for awhile. The stagehands were all amuck, baffled and curious as to where I'd been. Of course, honesty didn't have much of a part to play here, and I couldn't answer truthfully. I merely said I was getting away for recuperation purposes and probably would for the rest of the week. They'd exchange glances but wouldn't press any further, except Jacques. He caught up to me at the lunch hour.
"Recuperation, eh? Just what are we recuperating from?"
"Really, I'm surprised you have to ask."
"Oh, of course, how stupid of me. About Ol' Jo, right?"
From his tone I could tell he was suspicious and wasn't convinced by my façade. He kept digging and our conversation turned into somewhat of a game—an annoying game. Who could hold out the longest? Who was the better actor?
"No doubt, you've noticed the affect this whole ordeal has had on me. I'm worn out and half mad. I thought it best to take a little time away from the Opera. It'll be good for my health."
"Naturally, but I do wonder, why now? And since when do you care about your health? I practically had to fist-fight food down your throat so you wouldn't starve yourself to death!"
Uh-oh. My lingering pause made his suspicions grow.
"Why after all this time do you choose to take off now? It's been nearly three weeks since—since the incident."
"What can I say, I've been in denial." I said through clenched teeth, beginning to lose patience. He broke first.
"Okay, what's going on, Maggie?"
"Shh!" I glanced nervously around the Café de L'Opera. "Don't call me that! Do you want everyone and their dog to know?" I stuck a forkful of chicken in my mouth.
"Then tell me what this is really about."
I sighed irritably around a mouthful, rolling my eyes. "I can't."
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"
Yes, I'm Death's houseguest. "Now why would you think that?"
"Because I know—knew—Jo and I'm beginning to see a pattern, here. Can't pull the wool over my eyes, Mags. You two are too much alike."
"Would you knock it off?" I instantly lowered my voice, noticing we'd drawn some attention. I tend to do that a lot. "No, I'm not in any trouble."
"Would you tell me if you were." The question was slowly drawn out to sound like a statement, like he already knew the answer. He seemed to stare intently through the table.
"Why do you care? I can take care of myself."
"Jo thought so too and now look where he is! So yes, I care a great deal."
Saying this appeared to have exhausted him as if he'd had it on his mind for some time and it relieved him to let it out now.
"Thank you, Jacques, but I'm fine."
He nodded, staring at his coffee before picking it up. "Yeah…of course. Of course you are."
Feeling guilty for being so snippy, I softened. "Thank you, Jacques. I guess I'm just not used to someone who gives a damn."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly in a tired half smile but it didn't do much to erase the pensive look from his face.
Jacques
The Opera was producing Carmen. Joseph Buquet had been at the Opera for a little over a month. He was initiated into the Hell's Angels Brotherhood. A laidback man of good humor and bad hold of liquor, he became an instant favorite among the boys and was well liked. But then something changed…
A few of us were down in the cellars—the first two only—to locate some set pieces. If something was needed below the second cellar we'd draw straws, arm wrestle or whatnot to decide who would go down. More often than not, Joseph volunteered. He wasn't superstitious like the rest of us. Of course he hadn't yet seen the Ghost's handiwork firsthand, either. It was one time that Joseph came bounding up the stairs, two at a time from the third cellar, pale, shaken, breathless and without the props he was sent down for.
He began raving about a face—a horrendous, indescribable demonic face that could hardly be called such. He wouldn't say how he'd come to see it. He insisted it was the Ghost. That was the day he became a believer. It was also the day he became an alcoholic, drinking excessively, even downing a flask on the sly when he thought no one was looking. It was the day he started the ghost stories, whether true or not, no one seemed to mind. After a few weeks he began looking paler with bloodshot eyes and deep circles under them as if he hadn't slept a wink for many days. He became more withdrawn and stared off into space. Over time, his drinking didn't cease but he did it in the confines of his room rather than out in a bistro with his friends.
Finally, I took him aside one evening after our work was done, bought him a drink. We talked a little about trivial things, then I began to ask questions which he easily dodged.
"What's going on, Jo? You don't seem quite yourself as of late."
"I don't know what you're goin' on about. There's nothin' wrong with me." He'd mutter, fully aware of the direction this conversation was going.
"I beg to differ, Jo. Look at you. You haven't been sleeping, you always show up drunk or leave drunk, you look like the walking dead. Something's up."
Joseph sighed wearily, as if he'd sang this old song before. "It's nothin' for you to worry about, Jacques. It's my own burden."
"Are you in any trouble, Jo? You know you can tell me."
He smirked. "No, Jacques. Even if I were, as I said, it's my burden to bear."
I slammed my glass down on the table. "Horseshit! Joseph, you lying ijit!*" My action unintentionally stirred up his temper.
"Why do you give a shit? It's my life!"
"I give a shit because you're our mate, Jo! That's what brotherhood is all about. You give a shit about each other!"
Jo managed to calm down after that, and even gave a small chuckle though it sounded more like a grunt.
"I apologize, Jacques, you're right. But this is nothin' I can't handle. I know how to take care of myself."
I gave up the argument then, knowing I would get no more out of him. "Right. Whatever you say, Jo. If you ever need a chat…I'll buy you a drink."
"Thank you, Jacques. But I'm fine."
Maggie
The stagehands weren't the only ones who noticed my absence. Meg rushed up to me later that day, also begging to know what'd I'd been up to. I hated lying, I really did but seeing as she was particularly close to Christine and being still so young, I didn't think she would understand. Meg was also a notorious gossip. So, needless to say, I wasn't confident entrusting her with such information. I tried to be as honest as I could without spilling the beans.
"I'm sorry Meg, but I just can't tell you."
"Why not?" She whined.
"Because it's not my secret to tell."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, so it is a secret! Please tell me! I swear not to tell anyone else."
"Please Meg, don't ask me." I pleaded, leaving her standing there, intent on getting away before I cracked.
"It's about Christine isn't it?" I stopped, which was apparently a good enough answer for her. "Please, Maggie. As a close personal friend, I think I have a right to know."
I could see the waterworks working their magic and realized in that moment how everything about Meg reminded me very much of Kessy. Dear, sweet little Kessy who sat home wondering where her family had gone. Finally, I gave in.
"Fine but we can't talk here."
"We could go up to the roof. There shouldn't be anyone up there this time of year. Too cold."
Meg led the way up the winding staircase that led to the door of the roof. The snow had stopped for the time being and we could see the setting sun glint off the patches of thawing snow. The wintery breeze hadn't died down however, and I immediately wished I'd worn a jacket as did Meg I'm sure.
"I can't stay very long, so I'll be brief."
"Where are you going?"
"It's—there's just somewhere I have to be." She waited for me to continue, rubbing her arms rapidly for warmth. "Meg, try to understand that there's not much I can tell you but I will say this much…I've seen Christine."
Her eyes widened and sparkled with an onslaught of questions. "You've seen her? Where? Is she alright?"
"She's fine. She's—staying with someone."
"Someone outside of the Opera?"
"Sort of."
"Well, when did you see her?"
"Yesterday." I saw the light in her eyes dim slowly into suspicion.
"Who is it?"
"A friend."
"That doesn't tell me a lot."
"I told you I couldn't." Suspicion turned to doubt.
"You don't expect me to believe it was her so-called Angel, do you?"
Yes, that's exactly what I expect you to believe. "In a way, yes."
Her face crumpled in hurt and frustration, which, I must say, surprised me. As little as I knew about Meg, I'd never seen her this way. She was bubbly, curious, always on the move, the very epitome of "life". This new side of exasperation, doubt, negativity was someone else all together, not her. Not Little Meg.
"Look, I know I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm not that dimwitted."
"What?"
"Don't toy with me. I never believed in that "Angel of Music" trash anymore than you did."
"Well, Meg…I was wrong." I replied calmly, still adjusting to her mood swing. She looked at me in disbelief. "Besides, how else did she come to sing so well? I heard she wasn't exactly the pick of the litter before I came."
Meg nodded. "She sounded like a goat. So she's been taking lessons. She just chooses not to say who her real tutor is, can't say I blame her. Do you know how many chorus girls would sell their soul to get their hands on a teacher like that? I played along with this because I know it made her feel good. But I can't do it anymore. So please, please just tell me the truth."
I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe there was a spoonful of gossip in my nature, too. Maybe I couldn't stand this new Meg. Maybe it was the relief of getting at least one burden off my chest. When swimming in a sea of maybes, you grab the nearest life preserver whether it's reliable or not.
"Meg, I will tell you and I need you to try very hard to understand. Christine…Christine is with the Phantom." Her eyes widened in wonder and puzzlement. "The Angel and Phantom are one and the same."
Her jaw dropped and I figured her eyes would fall out of her head. "And how do you know all this?"
I stood silent a long while, sifting through my words carefully. "I've met him." She eyed me more and more suspiciously with each passing second.
"You're in league with the Phantom!"
"It's not what you think."
"Well, what should I think? He's taken my best friend for god sake, and you're involved!"
"Not willingly! I guess you could say I'm under contract."
"In other words, working for him."
"Not because I want to, I sort of have to."
"Why?" She demanded harshly. Another persona of Meg one rarely witnesses—an angry accusing side.
It was like seeing her through a three-sided mirror: a different angle of Meg in each reflection. When Monsieur Gaston Leroux wrote his book based on these events, Meg was sketched idly as a silly, empty-headed, will-o-the-wisp girl, fulfilling the role of a scrawny scatter-brained gossip and nothing more, doing her a great injustice. It's true Meg may have seemed those things to many who viewed her. But no one really knew her, just as they never really knew me.
"Never mind, Meg," I sighed, "I've already let on far too much and I can see this conversation is headed in a nasty direction." I headed for the door to make my point clear that this was over.
"Where are you going? We're not done." I paused halfway through the door frame reluctantly meeting her angry, confused gaze.
"Yes, we are. I told you there's somewhere I have to be." And I shut the door, trotting quickly down the winding stairs and ducking into a nearby door, waiting until I heard Meg pass. After a few minutes I came out and made my way cautiously to the third cellar, where Erik was no doubt twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me.
Good long chapter in exchange for good long absence—I make peace. I'm quitting my second job soon, but then school starts up again, so we'll see what happens. I've already got a head start on next chapter so it should come up soon.
~I. Wolf