Chapter Seven
The Mysteries of Mr. Y
After breakfast with Rodger, Mr. Whittington arrived home to an antsy Miss Fleck, who was itching to go for a walk. Under the understanding that they would not venture too far, she put on a respectable coat and cap, and the two of them strolled down the street. The weather was decent. Strings of little birds balanced on the telephone wires, the sun occasionally came bursting through the overcast sky, and the refreshing scent of warm gravel and rain came steaming up from the ground.
There was a bridal salon called Celine's at a nearby corner. Its display window was filled with fashionably thin, flat-chested mannequins with frizzed and waved bobs, vivid cheeks, and dark eyes, and it was upon these frozen beauties that the bridal gowns and bridesmaid dresses were displayed. Miss Fleck pressed her fingers against the glass, in spite of herself, and marveled aloud.
"Get a load of that dress," she sighed, pointing to the center mannequin. "I guess I'd just about die for a dress like that."
The dress was elegantly simple, with straight, pleasing lines and long sleeves with frosty, intricate lace like a spiderweb. Upon the mannequin's head was the matching bridal veil. It was sewn into what looked like a cap, with little crystals around the brim, but below the ears a long cascade of lace fell to the floor and trailed behind. It was cathedral-length. On either side of the "bride" were her "bridesmaids", clad in whisper-soft pink georgette and matching hats. Miss Fleck almost drooled.
"Wouldn't I like to be the girl who goes tripping up the aisle in that!" she sighed again.
Mr. Whittington never made a habit of really examining dresses, but he could see that the bridal salon's wares were of very good craftsmanship.
"You have excellent taste nevertheless, Ariel," he told her. "I think that dress would be beautiful on you."
"Better luck next life," she snorted. "Did you see the price on that thing? Call me a typical bum, but it's the first thing I saw. Ah well. This won't be the first time a mannequin's been better off than me. Let me tell you about it."
(Miss Fleck picks up the story.)
Christine Daae!
That day in the Ayrie was the first time I ever heard her name, and all the information I knew of her came from the letter I dictated and delivered for Mr. Y and what little I could deduce from what I'd heard beyond the door. She was a French soprano, a former ballet dancer, the wife of the Vicomte De Chagny-who she apparently chose over Mr. Y at some unknown time, and this rejection was apparently still stewing within him a decade later.
I looked at her automaton. If she looked anything like that in real life, she was a real peach. Creamy skin, soft and glowing in shades of ivory and rose, chestnut hair that tumbled and fell over her shoulders in pleasing, curly locks, a dancer's figure, standing proudly upon legs that had never seen a day of lameness, deformity, any lack of ability at all. Add to mix the fact that she was a world-renowned singer with millions of dollars, and my dreams of worming my way into Mr. Y's heart were about as realistic as me auditioning for the Ziegfield Follies.
It was like looking into a mirror, seeing that automaton, only instead of seeing my reflection I saw the form of a woman I could never be, and beside her all my plainess was made even more pathetic. I felt all my faults most keenly: my sallow skin, my straight, lifeless hair, the belly and thighs that seemed destined to be eternally dumpy, the malformed leg that was limpy even with a brace. Even with a beautiful dress and make-up I looked like a moth-eaten slob compared to Christine, who needed no make-up and had only a simple gold gown.
The timing was cruel. It was so, so cruel. I went tripping up to the Ayrie feeling so beautiful, still hearing the strains of Swan Lake ringing in my mind, feeling the love of the crowd, the tenderness in my Daddy's voice when he wept, telling me that he felt Mama's presence as he watched me perform. I was on top of the world. Mr. Y would be proud. He would smile at me, and throw roses, and tell me how far I'd come in ten years. And then, to see that woman! To see Mr. Y's hungry, loving expression as he looked at her and made me write the most glowing praises of her talent and beauty! To be the one-and this was cruellest of all-to take that admiring letter and put it in the post-box. I felt like I was holding everything I was ever audacious enough to dream, in paper form, and was obliged to give it away to the better woman. Always the runner-up, never the winner.
Crueller and crueller! Then to hear my father theorizing about further uses for that automaton, to hear him gently suggesting that perhaps he did more than admire its realism. Perhaps he waited until we were long gone in sleep, and then went to her, and touched her...! I almost screamed aloud in agony. This was not to borne! The night I heard Mr. Y playing "Music of the Night", something changed in me. A door in a secret garden creaked on its hinges. A song worked its way up to an unfinished crescendo. A rosebud-perhaps a red one blushed with black-grew wet with dew and tried to open its petals. I did not know what what I desired, but when I saw Mr. Y's adoration of Christine Daae, I felt the full, horrible bitterness of having that adoration denied me. I staggered out of that place a sadder and wiser freak.
I was a pretty bird upgraded to a marvelous cage, but it was a cage nevertheless, and I knew so little of my handler.
(
)
(
)
A few days later, Gangle and I were watching stars, as we always did, the two glowing eyes of the Ayrie towering above us. Whenever I felt like my heart was in a panic and I didn't know what to do, I grabbed him, dragged him into the night, and sat with him on the bench, looking silently into the heavens. His presence, quiet and stoic, always comforted me. He was a living security blanket. If he tried to talk, I shut him up. Bless his heart, but he was (and still is) a yapper, and if you don't stop him he gets louder and louder and starts doing all kinds of Italian things with his arms. In his case, less is more when it comes to speech, and silence is the most eloquent of all. After all, who wants a security blanket who never shuts up?
Tonight, however, I had a definite purpose for our twilight outing, and to be perfectly honest, I had a feeling he wasn't going to take it very well. We parked our butts on the bench as usual. I smoothed my skirt, he dusted the knees of his trousers. His dark eyes were calm. I watched him for a minute, regretting that I was probably about to make him mad.
"Gangle," I essayed to begin, surprising myself with the formality of my tone. "I have to ask you something important, and I'm not sure how you'll take it. You'll listen to me, won't you?"
He blinked and looked at me, seeming to sense my seriousness. "Yes, Signorina," he replied, his accent a calm Brooklyn one. "Yes, I will listen. What is it?"
"I have been thinking hard about Phantasma, and Mr. Y, and Christine Daae, and-" Words momentarily evaded me-"And, well, everything we overheard on opening day."
So far he was calm. "Okay," he said.
"Right. Well, I've been getting to feel that there's a lot we don't know about Mr. Y. Too much. He knows everything about us, and while we do his bidding and play his characters, he has this whole past nobody knows about. A past with this Christine Daae lady, and the Girys...we don't even know his real name!"
Now he was getting testy. He fumbled for his voice-thingy.
"Please, please," I said quickly, hoping to nip an "Ee-talian melt-ah-down" (I can't resist making fun of his accent) in the bud. "Please, just listen."
And so he was quiet, but he had an impatient "I can no wait-a to yell at you" face.
"I know you're going to tell me that you don't know anything, and I believe you." This was an honest statement. "When you tell me things, I believe them, because I like you. I trust you. You mean a lot to me, you know."
His impatience faded into a smile that was almost shy.
"I feel the same about you, Signorina," he said so sweetly that I felt bad for all the times I secretly wanted to punch him. In fact, I felt a sudden urge to give him a hug. But I had a proposition to deliver.
"Thank you. Now, here is my point: I'm going to unravel Mr. Y's mysteries. Who he is, where he's from, his history. And I want you-" Here I put a hand on his shoulder-"To help me."
He looked at me as though I'd suggested that we both jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.
"You...what?" he cried. "I no unner-stan' you!"
"Yes you do, Gangle dear, you're just being a nervous Nellie. Listen, we're not going to do anything illegal. All I want to do is read up about this Christine Daae lady and her husband, do some poking around, see if I can't piece this mystery together. Aren't you curious? You must be."
"I not!"
"You always were a shocking liar," I sighed. "And a such an obviously bad one, too. Come now, I'm not planning to assassinate Roosevelt, I'm just being a detective. What's so bad about that?"
"Wha's so bad?" he exclaimed, his arms starting to do Italian things. "Plenny is-a bad! What happen if-a Mr.Y find out? Hmm? What then?There must be good reason he no tell-a us things. You want to be in trouble? Why-a this matter to you?"
I remembered the Music of the Night. I felt the hole in my psyche that kept crying for something unknown to fill it. How could I explain to him why all this mattered to me? I could barely figure it out myself. My throat suddenly tightened and hurt. I looked away.
"Signorina!" moaned Gangle, touching my shoulder. "Please, no cry. I sorry. I not mad. I jus' no unner-stan' you. No cry."
"I am not crying," I declared resolutely, pulling myself together with a cough. "I am fine. Never mind. Forget it. I respect your decision. I will do this alone."
His face tightened. That seemed to hurt his feelings. "No, no," he whined feebly."Not alone. I help you. Okay? Happy? I help you."
"You're just saying that."
"I not lying!" he insisted, and he grabbed my hands. "I can no jus' let you do all-a this alone. I not know why you do it, but I help you. Keep you out-a trouble. You funny girl, Signorina, so pretty when you smile, I can no stan' it when-a you mad with me."
"Mad with you. As if I could ever really be mad with you, Signor." I kissed his cheek and turned it pink. "Are you sure you really want to help me? Honest? Not trying to humor me?"
"What means humor me?"
"Nothing important. So you really want to be a detective?"
"Yes," he replied. He looked nervous, but he took and deep breath and went on, as though he were trying to talk himself into it, "We both be dee-teck-tiffs together. Yes. I be like Sherlock."
"No, you're Watson. I'm Sherlock because I thought of this in the first place."
"Ah, yes, yes. You are Sherlock, the boss. You tell-a me things are ell-ah-men-tary."
My heart warmed. Moments like this made me love him. "You are adorable," I cooed.
"You adorable-est," he replied, and his voice calmed back into good English. "But Signorina, does your Dad know what your plans are? I don't think he would like it."
In my mind, I saw my Daddy's tattooed face looking sternly at me and pronouncing my prying behavior unreasonable. Gangle was right about that.
"No," I confessed. "I didn't tell him and I don't plan to. He would be worried. Better just to leave him out of it."
Gangle nodded, but he still looked a little troubled. "I see. But I have one more question. Why me? I mean, why do you want me to help?"
I opened my mouth, ready to give him a rational reply, and promptly realized that I didn't have one. I swallowed. All at once I felt like an actress who had forgotten her lines. I looked into Gangle's friendly brown eyes and genuinely wondered why it was that I wanted his help, why I had automatically assumed that I wanted him involved in what was, in reality, my business. Well, I guess he always had been. In my business, that is. It was one of those unspoken things-like you make me happy-that sounded so strange when verbalized.
"Er, because!" I eventually blurted. "We usually do everything together anyway, don't we? And I trust you. I think you're the sort of man a lady can depend on when she's got to...ah...solve mysteries."
He nodded as though I had placed a great, solemn duty upon him. "Well, Signorina, you can trust me," he said. "When do we begin this, ah, great investigation, Miss Sherlock?"
"The investigation begins Sunday afternoon at the Coney Island Public Library, Signor Watson," I replied.
The novelty of such a statement was delicious. I felt like I was the plucky, never-say-die heroine of some adventure novel, and Gangle was my world-wise escort, who spoke with a foreign accent, inexplicably carried a lasso, and said things like Not on my watch! I burst into thrilled giggles and grabbed his hands, and our laughter irreverrantly broke the quietness of the night. I could scarcely believe my own audacity. Any day now, I'd be tipping over ballot boxes or wearing my panties inside-out.
"Oh, Gangle!" I cried. "Shall we really do it? Shall we?"
(
)
(
)
To put a long story short, we did. Daddy needed little convincing to stop at the library after Mass. In fact, he confessed that he'd always wanted to make a visit, but never brought it up-he didn't want to slow the group down and "be a burden", to quote him exactly. I chuckled and gave him the Oh Daddy routine, but inside I was more than a little disturbed. I wondered what other desires Daddy had foregone for the sake of everyone else's feelings. Perhaps one day I'd awake to find him half-dehydrated, his conscience forbidding him to fetch a cup of water without invitation, and out of his crusty throat would come his pitiful explanation, "I didn't want to...be a... burden."
Sundays at Phantasma were always pleasant, for in stark contrast to the other neighboring attractions, we shut down in observation of the Sabbath for the entire day, not just a few hours in the morning. Even in my day that was a radical thing for a Coney Island attraction to do. Common sense told you that you'd be losing a tremendous amount of money doing that, but it actually attracted a lot of admiring publicity and the money that came with it. Folks thought Mr. Y was a very pious man. In reality, he didn't give a rat's hat about the Sabbath, but I figured he knew that we freaks (especially Aggie-Ann) did, and after all was said and done he wanted a break anyway. So we got Sundays off, and the whole City of Wonders to ourselves.
"Oh, Ariel," Genevieve practically roared before the assembly at breakfast. "Is that Sunday dress new? I declare it is the nicest dress I've seen you wear yet. Look, Della, look at how the black and gray stripes go so perfectly with her jacket. And a seven-gored skirt, too! And that hat and veil! Isn't it marvelous? Say it's marvelous!"
She didn't notice my Daddy stuffing pieces of napkin in his ears. Gangle wasn't present. He was in the kitchen, giving the cooks their daily tongue-lashing over the lack of oregano in his sauce ("It taste-a like bullasheet without it!") or some flaw in his food. I bet they wished he'd never gotten that voice trumpet.
"You do look nice, Ariel," agreed Della mildly, her third arm giving my appearance a thumb's up. "I've seen girls who look positively dead in black, but you really liven it up."
I thanked them both and returned to my sausage.
"Say," whispered Genevieve. She watched my father carefully out of the corner of her eye. "I hear you're headed to the library. Won't you be a real help and just stuff these papers here...no, no, don't look, just keep eating and pretend I'm not talking. I'll just put them here in your handbag. Just stuff these papers in some of the more popular books, will you? You're such a doll."
They were little slips of paper advertising Genny's suffragette society. I was accustomed to such sudden calls to activism, and gave both Genny and Della winks of understanding.
(
)
(
)
Noon found myself, Gangle, and Daddy stepping across the musty, ancient book-scented threshold of the Coney Island Library, ready to learn. Daddy and his tattoos were met with the usual stares; sensing this, he quietly stole away into the fiction area, a list in hand. Gangle and I, who actually looked reasonably normal, sat together at a small table with no disturbance.
"Here's what we need to search for," I whispered, producing a list from my handbag. "Anything about Christine Daae, particularly any place that is significant to her, such as her birthplace and any places she has lived..."
"And especially any place in France," Gangle whispered back. "When Mr. Y and I were coming over to this country, he said he was coming from France."
"Did he ever mention where, precisely?"
"No. But I do remember that our ship left from the city of Calais."
Armed with notebooks, my sidekick and I went marching to the card catalogues, and then began our campaign, strutting through the labyrinth of leather-bound books, notebooks and pencils in hand. Daddy, on a far more easy-going mission, sat at his table reading "Treasure Island" with a peaceful expression on his tattooed face. He had no idea of the seriousness of Miss Sherlock and Signor Watson's research. He didn't even notice the little girl who was pointing at him and telling her mother to look at the funny man.
"Ah! Signorina!" trumpeted Gangle a bit loudly, turning from a nearby shelf. "Here is a book we can use!"
"Ssh! Not so loud, you dope." I scolded. "This is a library. But let's have a look."
The book was "Great Sopranos of France", and when I beheld the phrase "Daae, Christine" in the index, along with the page number where a whole article about her was just waiting to be read, my heart raced with excitement. Aside from the gloves and the dress, I was a bloodhound on the scent. I slapped Gangle on the back. He grinned proudly. Such are the thrills of doing research in a library.
"Now," I whispered, looking at Daddy out the corner of my eye, "Read the article to me quietly, and I'll translate it into shorthand."
Here's the basic gist of what I wrote down:
Christine Daae. Born in 1881 outside of Uppsala, Sweden. Mother died in 1885. Mr. Daae and Christine travel to fairs and the like, the former playing the violin and the latter singing. They are soon discovered by a Professor Valerius, who takes them to Gothenburg and then to Paris. Mr. Daae dies in 1893, and Christine enters the Paris Conservatory to become a professional singer. After her 4-year course of study, she enters the Opera Populaire as an understudy in the 1897 production of "Hannibal". The sudden departure of the lead soprano, Carlotta Guidicelli, and her consequent assumption of the vacant role, propels her into stardom. From 1896-97 she is a figure in the controversial "Phantom of the Opera" affair. After the death of the aforementioned "Phantom", she marries Viscount Raoul de Chagny in 1897. Their marriage has produced a son called Gustave.
After I had scribbled the last bit of shorthand, Gangle and I almost asked the exact question at once.
"What do they mean by..." Gangle began.
"The Phantom of the Opera affair?" I finished.
The phrase itself made me think of Edgar Allen Poe, ravens, and tell-tale hearts; as you can imagine, I was immediately intrigued, but the book gave us no elaboration other than the maddeningly information-less sentence provided. After all, it was a general compendium on French sopranos, not an in-depth discourse on Ms. Daae. I did the head-scratching thing while Gangle waited patiently.
"Signorina," he mused at length. "You want me to look for other books?"
"Hmm? Yes, you probably should. Perhaps one exclusively about the Opera Populaire, or Christine herself; those books would surely tell us about it..."
"Hello there, Ariel."
I froze, and Gangle jumped. Slowly, I turned to face my Daddy, eliminating all traces of agitation from my countenance, and he in turn smiled pleasantly at me and my notebook of shorthand.
"Land sakes!" he exclaimed softly. "You both look like a pair of regular researchers. What are you looking for?"
There was no point in lying, but I quickly decided to give him a half-truth. "We're researching Christine Daae, the lady Mr. Y is trying to book for a performance, Daddy. I'm curious about her. If she comes, I'd like to know a thing or two about her."
"True, true," Gangle chipped in.
Daddy's eyebrows rose. It seemed that he himself had been thinking on this subject as well. "How interesting," he said. "That seems reasonable to me. What have you found so far?"
I thanked Christ that my Daddy could not read shorthand; he could not tell that I had underlined and circled the phrase "Phantom of the Opera affair". He'd be completely fascinated and insist on getting involved in our research, and then it wouldn't be long before he discovered my true intent and declared me unreasonably nosy. I gave him a brief, tidy summary of Christine Daae's life that satisfied him.
"What an interesting life," he said. "I wonder if Mr. Y has ever met her before. I should say he ought to have; I haven't quite been able to forget that automaton..."
"Daddy," I moaned.
"Now, now, Ariel, I know the thought mortifies you. I wasn't going to say much more than that." He frowned. "Still, I confess myself surprised at Mr. Y. A man such as himself, keeping the form of a lady in his..."
"Daddy!" I moaned louder, bringing a gloved hand to my brow for emphasis.
"And that is all I have to say," Daddy concluded. He patted my cheek fondly. "My precious, white-souled Ariel, so much like her mama. Such delicate nerves. Exceedingly attractive in a lady."
"Say, Alf," Gangle interjected, giving me a significant glance. "Me and Ariel want to stop off in the Italian District-I've got some ingredients to pick up. You see, I've got to teach those fool cooks in the Roman Colosseum Restaurant how to make sauce correctly. Now, I don't want to interrupt your reading, so how about we just get the shopping done and then come pick you up again?"
I could tell by Gangle's face that he wanted to discuss something with me. I could also tell by Daddy's face that he was nervous about letting me go out of his sight in the big city, even with the trusty Gangle. After all, the place was filled with all sorts of dangers, like falling pianos, and pocket-pickers, and speeding automobiles, all intent on my destruction.
Gangle seemed to sense this. "I promise you that she is completely safe with me," he said. "Won't let her out of my sight!"
Daddy spent another couple seconds looking unsure, and then he slowly nodded, looking at his pile of books.
"Alright," he said. "I will wait here. Be careful, the both of you, and I know you will mind your manners, Ariel."
(
)
(
)
The general feel of Brooklyn and the Coney Island area has not changed much in fifteen years, but the appearance certainly has. Nowadays everybody's got an automobile. In my day the streets were filled with horses and carriages, and every now and again an automobile would come rumbling by, as if to shame them with their modern speed and shiny wheels. The air was a bit cleaner, too, and don't even get me started on how ladies dressed to go out walking. Hats and gloves and a respectable shoe-tip length dress were the order of the day unless you were a bum or a whore. That went for men, too, but with suits of course.
I'm not saying this to be an old crabby maid, I just want you to be able to picture the city just the way it was when Gangle and I walked through it on that summer's day, on our way to the Italian District. The air was warm and dusty. Teams of horses pulling milk wagons clattered past us. Young boys played with stones in the alleys. An old woman was knitting on her stoop, her feet on a dirty newspaper. As for Gangle and I, we were strolling quietly along in our sober Sunday clothes. We did not hold hands. In my day, that would have suggested that the two of us were involved. Whether we were long-time friends didn't matter; it simply wasn't being done.
Anyway, we walked in silence until the library was well behind us, and then I poked him.
"What did you want to tell me?" I asked.
He blinked a few times, then swallowed, and replied, "I tell you a little later."
I'd known him too long to be satisfied with this reply, and judging by his expression he knew it. He immediately plunged into a discourse about all the things he needed to buy, all the ingredients, how those cooks in the restaurant couldn't boil a decent pot of water, the blueness of the sky. He was either anxious or stalling for time, that was certain, but I could not discern why.
Once in the District, he chattered pleasantly in rapid Italian with the shopkeepers and patrons: swarthy, cheerful men in suspenders, black-veiled, chubby widows with rosaries, and old grandmothers who talked earnestly with him about food as they poked tomatoes and measured herbs and went through boxes of foreign-looking spices. I amused myself by looking at the big greased wheels of Romano and Parmesan cheese. Then I remembered the Suffragette Society papers.
"Do you speak English?" I asked an elderly lady who was reading an Italian psalter.
She looked at me and gave a regretful shrug.
"Good," I said, and gave her all the papers.
When all that shopping was complete, Gangle insisted on buying me coffee. We sat at a cafe, and after I partook of a few sips of the hot, sweet coffee, I looked at him seriously.
"Gangle," I said. "You are anxious. What do you wish to tell me?"
I caught him off-guard, and it showed. He cleared his throat. "More like a question," he said, turning concerned eyes upon me. His accent thickened. "Ever since opening day, all-a the week long, you no seem-a like yourself, Signorina. You nervous all-a the time, sad even. Every time Mr. Y come around, you always looking scared. No try to deny it, I know-a you too good."
I felt my cheeks burning. He had noticed. It was true. Every time we went up into the Ayrie to be dismissed at closing-time, the sight of Mr. Y at his piano, luxuriously fingering the keys, made my heart pound.
"He scare you, Signorina?"
"No, no, no," I denied vigorously. "No, Mr. Y does not scare me. I just don't know what to feel about him anymore. He confuses me. He's very secretive. That's why we're doing this investigation. So you're going to teach the cooks how to make sauce right?"
The sudden shift in topic seemed to displease him, but complaining about bad cooking was one of his great passions. A wry smile tugged his mouth.
"Yes, I going to! I tell-a them this very morning I going to. They make-a it all wrong, no oregano, and all-a the tomatoes not mashed good and cooked too hard. I tell-a them, no, no, no! You ruin the flavor! They think-a I crazy. If Mama and Giovanni could taste-a what they call 'Talian sauce, they die!"
I knew he had a Mama who died, but I never heard of a Giovanni, and told him so. He frowned.
"I never tell-a you 'bout my older brother, Giovanni? Huh!" His voice became normal again. "Well, for one, we look alike. Everybody always said we looked the same, only I was a bit shorter and not so handsome. Not so smart either. He had Mama's nice face and Papa's brains."
"Oh, Gangle! They didn't really call you ugly?"
"No, not to my face."
"Oh, that's terrible!"
He smiled and shrugged, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair. "They never called me ugly. They knew I would beat them if they did." His expression softened. "I was not known for being a very self-controlled young man. I was very angry, not very nice to know."
"I should think you'd be angry if people called you ugly."
"Not just because of that. Other things." He did not seem to want to go into what those things were. "Anyways, Giovanni and I always liked to help Mama in the restaurant. Even if I was ugly, I was a much better helper. I was a better cook. Giovanni was better at getting his way, not doing work."
"Gangle dear, you are not ugly. I will not have you say so, either."
He smiled. "You remind of Mama when you say things like that. Greg' ry! You bright boy! You not have to be like Giovanni. You special in your own way, Il mio bambino. She was very special to me, my Mama. Nobody understood me like she did. When she died I lost more than a Mama. I lost my friend."
I could sympathize wih that. I sipped my coffee and swallowed hard, suddenly seeing my own Mama's gentle face in my mind's eye: her tender, dreamy eyes, her funny arm-stump, her voice telling me that I was her special baby. I shut my eyes against the sudden rush of grief brought about by this recollection, and the awful plunging of my heart. The emerald ring on my finger felt heavy.
A warm hand grabbed mine. "No worries. We not talk about this anymore. I don't want to take you back to your Daddy looking sad. How 'bout we talk about our investigation so far, Miss Sherlock?"
I swallowed my pain resolutely and dug out my shorthand notes. "Yes. Well, we've got a lot of biographical information, but the whole subject of the 'Phantom of the Opera affair' is really nagging on my nerves. Oh, that rotten book! Bringing it up and then not saying a thing about it!"
"Next time, we will find a book all about the Opera Populaire. We'll figure it out." He gave me an indulgent grin. "But Signorina, I think I have made a little connection."
"Have you?"
"Yes. Your notes say that the whole controversy happened in 1897. That is the very same year I met Mr. Y, and came to America from France."
My heart leaped. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Furthermore," he continued, "That is the same year that the Viscount Raoul de Chagny married Christine Daae."
I remembered the fight in the Ayrie and almost jumped out of my chair. "And so that would be the same year that she turned Mr. Y down! So Mr. Y would have to have been in Paris!"
"At the same-a time as the Phantom of the Ah-perr-ah thing!" added Gangle excitedly, forgetting his grammar.
"And Madame Giry and Meg must have been there, too, to witness it!"
"Si, si! So they all-a must-a be from Paris! Siamo intellegenti!"
"That would explain their speaking French!"
"Well, we knew-a that already!"
At this point, we were both on our feet, coffees forgotten, screaming theories at each other like regular lunatics. We must have been quite a spectacle.
"So we know-a where Mr. Y and the Girys from," said Gangle, calming a bit to think. "That is very helpful."
I nodded, trying to make other connections with our information.
"Oh!" he suddenly yelled, jumping to his feet again. "Signorina! I remember something he tell me on the boat! I ask-a him why he come to America, and he tell me, 'Got into some trouble in France'! He got in trouble, did something bad..."
"You don't think...!" I cried, scarcely daring to believe it, "That Mr. Y may have something to do with...might be involved in...the Phantom of the Opera thing?"
"Maybe! But we know he cannot be the Phantom. The article says that he died. Maybe he was a helper?"
"We'll have to read about what the whole thing was about before we can make any guesses," I said. My head was swimming. "The next time we come to the library, we'll figure this out."
I couldn't help theorizing, however, on the way back to fetch Daddy. I kept seeing Mr. Y's masked face in my mind's eye, walking about in France. I saw Christine, and Madame Giry, and Meg. I tried to imagine the Opera Populaire. I pictured a phantom-perhaps like Poe's Masque of the Red Death-sweeping his cape over the whole assemby like a curtain, and everyone's voices blending into a low murmur. I was thinking so hard that I did not see the street as I walked. Once or twice, Gangle had to steer me away from a sidewalk crack or some trouble.
When we reached the library at last, Daddy was inside on his chair, ready to go home, but as I approached him I saw that something was wrong. He was pale, sick-looking, with half-closed eyes and a pained expression drawn out across his features. Gangle noticed it too.
"Hey, Alf!" he said, striding over with me in tow. "You feeling alright?"
Daddy didn't even try to shrug it off. "No," he said weakly.
His hands were cold.
"Oh no, Daddy, how long have you felt like this?" I cried, wishing we hadn't left him. "Are you nauseous?"
"Not nauseous," he replied. "I was reading, and all of a sudden this weakness came over me, like ice almost, and now I have this strange pain in my head." He squinted. "And the light hurts my eyes."
"You still feel weak?" asked Gangle.
"Yes, somewhat..."
We each took a side and helped Daddy up onto his feet. He blinked uncertainly.
"Okay, Daddy?" I asked. "Can you walk home?"
His sick face did not look confident, and when he took a few steps with us, they were very unsteady. I was afraid.
"Alf," said Gangle seriously, "If you're really feeling this bad, we'd better go get some help."
"No, no, please, let's keep going," insisted Daddy. "I think I'll be fine. Let's go."
We cautiously walked him out into the street, and the fresh air seemed to strengthen him a bit. The sunlight, however, made him look twenty times worse. I noticed that there were dark circles under his eyes, and the eyes themselves looked misty and unfocused. I was terrified by how sick he'd become in the time we'd been gone. Was he going to be okay? Dear, silly, proud Daddy never admitted things like this!
"I feel a little better," he said, although he definitely didn't look better. "Let's keep going."
And so, slowly, and sometimes falteringly, we made our way down the sidewalk. I gripped Daddy's hand and kept asking him how he felt as we went. It was truly an agonizing experience seeing him look so ill.
After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at the familiar gates of Coney Island, and at the quiet, Sabbath-keeping city of Phantasma.
Gangle wasted no time in bringing immediate attention to Daddy's condition. He sat poor Daddy-who at this point was breathing heavily and needed to rest on my shoulder-on a bench and swept right into where Aggie-Ann and a few others were singing banjo hymns and sipping tea.
"Alf's sick!" he interrupted hastily, causing the singers to stop in alarm. "I don't know what's wrong with him, but we've got to get the man something to drink, or even a doctor. He looks like he's about to fall over. Please hurry!"
Aggie-Ann abandoned the music, Damien quickly produced a cup of lukewarm tea, and Mrs. Beardsley came bustling over to me and Daddy, as everyone else looked on, murmuring in concern.
"Alfred, dear?" she asked him, taking his hands and rubbing them. "Can you see alright? Here, sip this tea, dear. Ariel, help him. Oh, Alfred, you look terrible. You need to get to bed right away. We ought to telephone for a doctor."
"Telephone for a doctor, you say?" said Damien capably. "What's his number? It's in our directory, right?"
"Yes, right next to the phone."
Aggie chewed her lip nervously as Ann asked, quaveringly, "Mr. Fleck's gon' be awright, isn't he?"
"I'm…fine…" my Daddy tried to interject, distressed at the attention he was garnering, but Mrs. Beardsley had already begun giving orders to the freaks who were beginning to gather around, wondering what the fuss was about.
"Which doctor? Isn't there one closer?"
"What's the matter with Alf, anyway? What's the last thing he ate?"
"I declare, Damien, stop standing about and just call any doctor! What does it matter which one? The man's sick!"
"Please!" cried Daddy. "Just…help me up…to bed…"
Mrs. Beardsley laid a cool hand on his brow. "Alfred, dear, you're not well…"
He struggled to get up, and I helped him. "Don't call any doctor," he insisted, his face still horribly drawn. "Please, Edna, just help me to bed and get me something to drink."
She reluctantly helped me steer Daddy into our home, calling for the others to fetch food and drink and not bother with any doctors. Carefully, I helped Daddy sink into the cushions of the bed, and he relaxed, exhaling and looking at me reassuringly.
"I guess I'm just dizzy," he said. He tried to laugh, but ended up looking delirious. "Probably just hungry. I am fifty, you know."
Gangle and Genny came sweeping in with juice, cookies, and a vial of spirits, which brought a refreshing pinkness back to Daddy's cheeks. Settled in the blankets, he looked much better, but tired. At our door, folks were peeking in.
"No reason to panic!" called Daddy. "I'm fine! I hope you haven't done anything unreasonable on my account. See? I'm fine. I'm just not used to be out and about so much on a Sunday."
"Nevertheless, Daddy," I told him, my lips against one of his tattooed cheeks, "I'm going to take care of you for the whole rest of the day, see if I don't. Dear Daddy!"
"I'll help you, Ariel," said Mrs. Beardsley decidedly. "In fact, I'll go and fetch some warm washcloths and some lavender."
Daddy's eyelids drooped. "I'm tired," he murmured. "I want to nap. Stop worrying so much. Ariel, pull that blanket over here…"
He wasn't kidding when he said he was tired. No sooner did the blanket nestle around him than he dropped off into an exhausted slumber, his decorated face growing blank and peaceful in the plush depths of his pillow.
"That father of yours," sighed Mrs. Beardsley. "I guess I'd better just watch him for a while. I don't like the idea of him slipping off to sleep after an episode like that. I still think we ought to get a doctor."
The whole Mr. Y affair went on my mind's back-burner at the advent of Daddy's mysterious illness, and now I looked upon his sleeping face, so still and disturbing. It had not been too long ago that I had looked at another beloved face, frozen in sleep, lying on a bed of satin, surrounded by banks of wilting flowers. My heart twisted. I suddenly imagined what it would be like if Daddy, like Mama, were to also suddenly die, and the sight of Daddy asleep presently became a horror. I would be all alone in the world without him, truly alone.
I grabbed his unfeeling hand and felt a wave of desolation sweeping over me.
"He just suddenly got ill at the library, Mrs. Beardsley," I felt obliged to confide, as though it might help. "He said he suddenly felt weak and cold. Is that very bad?"
"I don't know," she admitted, but her eyes had darkened when I described the onset of weakness. "But he is ordinarily such a strong man. This is very strange."
My mind started listing all sorts of potential disasters and nervous disorders, each one frightening me like a whole assortment of boogey-monsters.
"Don't worry, Ariel," Mrs. Beardsley quickly assured me, for I must have looked pretty sad. "I'm sure he just didn't eat enough for breakfast and got dizzy from that."
That was a nice, safe, non-threatening explanation, and so I clung to it in spite of all my mental reservations, and the remainder of my afternoon was spent watching over Daddy. I could not be persuaded to leave him for an instant, not even for singing or whatever little entertainment had been devised for our Sabbath evening. Mrs. Beardsley remained with me, helping. Ever since Mama died, she had swiftly assumed the duties of a sort of nanny when it came to Daddy, worrying about him and giving him all manner of womanly advice. If Daddy were not so completely dead-set against re-marrying, Mrs. Beardsley would make a good wife, although I never could imagine anyone taking Mama's place.
Sometime into my evening vigil, when Mrs. Beardsley went to fetch some food, good ol' Signor Watson (Gangle) came padding softly into Fleck Manor to check on the slumbering Daddy, a cup of milk and a magazine in hand.
"He okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, I guess it was only a case of hunger, not enough sugar." A sudden rush of anger towards Daddy leapt up in my breast and surprised me. "I don't know why he does this to me. He could be having a heart attack and he'd still say it was nothing. He could be dying, for Pity's sake, and still...!"
Gangle patted my back. "Probably just his way of being brave."
"It's not brave!" I hissed, suddenly furious. "It's selfish and prideful and stupid! You'd think by the way he goes on about being reasonable, that he'd take his own advice!"
I saw one of Daddy's hands poking out of the blanket, so I tucked it back in, a tender gesture that clashed with my anger. I was actually shocked at how hatefully I was speaking of Daddy. Why, just a few hours ago I was almost paralyzed with fear, guiding him down the street, panicking at any little change in complexion, lest he faint or have a fit of nerves. Now that he was okay, I was calling him stupid.
"Not saying it's okay, Signorina," Gangle said, sitting beside me. "But you must know men have lots of pride. Not sensible like ladies. Your Daddy's getting old, fifty now, and probably doesn't like to admit that hard work is making him tired. No man likes to say that."
I felt the eyes of all the framed Fleck ancestors looking upon me, reminding me that we all must go the way of every mortal upon the earth one day. Once upon another time, they had walked this same floor with similar trials and tribulations; all that was truly different were the times and the clothes. Some distant day, Alfred and Ariel Fleck, like them, would join Mama and be nothing more than faded photographs on a wall.
"He'll be okay, Signorina." Gangle pressed a warm hand on my back. "Now, see here, I've got a little something that will be interesting for our investigation."
He gestured to the magazine. It was the monthly Edison cylinder catalogue, from which we usually ordered a few records for the phonograph machine. I looked at Daddy, wondering if he could hear us.
"Nothing ground-breaking," whispered Gangle, seeming to understand my trepidation. "No need for us to leave the room. But just look at what I found on page three!"
On page three, there was a thick bordered promotional ad, in which the sketched likeness of Christine Daae jumped out at me. Next to her face was a cylinder and the printed legend:
Premiering on Edison Records: Christine Daae!
We are pleased to introduce the first commercially available recordings
of the internationally acclaimed soprano. Two songs for one price.
"The Jewel Song" from Faust
"Think of Me" from Hannibal
The price-75 cents.
I looked up, dumbfounded at how the universe was making things work out, and Gangle's smile indicated that he shared my feelings.
"First time on record, Signorina!" he laughed. "First time! I ordered it for us. Now we can hear what all the fuss is about."
"Does Mr. Y know about this?" I knew he didn't bother with phonographs, but if he was really keen on hearing Christine...suddenly my heart burned. "Well, anyhow, let's not tell him. We'll keep it to ourselves. That's an excellent find, Signor Watson!"
The last thing I wanted was for Mr. Y to hear Christine singing and become even more enamoured with her. The very thought made me desperately angry. Whenever I went into the Ayrie, I had to keep my eyes to the right wall, lest I see the curtained chamber in which my hated rival was residing. Every night I prayed that some fiasco or another would prevent her coming. Perhaps another engagement or something. Anything! As it stood, he was having a bit of trouble securing a date. I heard talk of Hammerstein-yes, THAT Hammerstein-trying to out-bid Mr. Y for a singing engagement. Back and forth they were telegramming, raising the prices higher and higher, so high it made my mind spin at how anyone could afford it.
Mr. Y seemed confident that he would eventually win, to my deep, deep misery, so confident that he was putting together an aria for Christine to sing. Whenever I was walking up the Ayrie stairs or in the Ayrie itself, I always heard him working at the melody, a gentle, pleading, heart-wrenching tune that made me want to sit down and bawl. It didn't have a title yet, but "Better Luck Next Time, Freak" would have been a good one. I tormented myself by humming it.
Eventually both Gangle and Mrs. Beardlsey bowed out for the evening, leaving me to watch over Daddy and wrestle with my emotions. On the bedside table was Mama's loveliest photograph. There she was, looking dreamily out of the frame, into the watery eyes of her baby.
I know it's stupid to talk to a picture, but I was feeling so bad that I couldn't help it.
"Mama," I murmured, hugging a pillow, trying to remember her smell, "I'm sad."
That was all I said, but suddenly I felt like I was being cut to pieces.
Bitter tears slid down my cheeks and all over my pillow. Nights like this made me want Mama, even if only for an hour, so I could put my head down in the softness of her lap and cry. At least I had Daddy. I snuggled next to him and relaxed, grateful that, at the very least, I was not all alone in the world.
(Miss Fleck stops the story here for now.)
Miss Fleck let out a sniff, but she waved away Mr. Whittington's hanky.
"No, no, I won't snot it up," she insisted, taking a deep breath. "I'm fine. Never mind Miss Fleck, she's a maudlin loony."
She and Mr. Whittington had been walking and talking, and had eventually sat down at a cafe for some coffee. They were inside, ensconced in a booth, reclining on the well-worn seats, the smell of cigarettes and brewing coffee heavy in the air.
"Hardly," said Mr. Whittington gently. "You're far from maudlin. Losing a mother is a hard thing." He averted his eyes wistfully. "Fathers, too."
This subtlety was not lost on Miss Fleck. "Are your...?" she began to ask.
He understood. "Yes. Both my parents are gone."
She looked at him through misty eyes. "I'm awfully sorry. I bet they were real decent people. You're a good sort, Jay."
"Thank you."
There was a sympathetic silence, and then Miss Fleck went digging in her pocket and withdrew a small, battered book.
"We need to lighten up this atmosphere," she explained, "And I've got just the thing. Found it on a park bench one day. I've kept it ever since."
"Really? What is it?"
She held the book up like it was a scepter. "One Thousand and One Elephant Jokes. Don't look so confused, it's exactly what it sounds like. I used to read classics like The Inferno and Treasure Island, but now it's One Thousand and One Elephant Jokes for me. How the mighty have fallen. Well, l won't keep you in suspense another minute. Here we go."
She smoothed the pages open and cleared her throat.
"Okay. What did the cat say to the elephant?"
She grinned cheekily, a mischevious light gleaming in her green eyes as she waited for a guess.
"What did the cat say to the elephant?" Mr. Whittington repeated. He took a deep breath and settled back in his seat thoughtfully. "Can't say I know. What did he say?"
"Meow," replied Miss Fleck.
It was so stupid that the both of them presently burst out laughing, startling a nearby waitress; and thus thoroughly amused, the two of them enjoyed the rest of their afternoon.
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS
1. Yes, I kow elephant jokes didn't technically exist until the 60s, but I needed a way for this chapter to end on a happy note. And I like elephant jokes. Because I'm lame.
2. Judging by the ever-increasing amount of hits I recieve on my update days, I've got a loyal following! Thank you, loyal following! Thank you very much! You're so loyal! And you're a following! Won't you please leave me a review? I allow anonymous ones, you know.
3. FUN FACT: I think of Fleck/Gangle's friendship whenever I hear the song "Chiquitita" by Abba. I just do.