Chapter Fifteen
Those In Glass Carriages
When Mr. Whittington and Rodger went to see Mr. De Rossi again, he listened to their update with a grim expression. The man himself was looking reasonably healthy, but he looked tired as he spoke.
"That is the thing," he sighed. "In those days, who knew? Hindsight is 20-20. That time of the year was awful, really, me and Ariel went through some bad times. We didn't understand each other, got into fights."
"She never mentioned any fights to me," said Mr. Whittington.
De Rossi smiled sadly. "Well, she won't likely tell you everything. She might not remember all of it. I don't. But after the Fourth of July, we started having a lot of trouble."
(Gangle picks up the story.)
The Pennysworths' party was a rollicking success. Good food, good friends, and the weather was just perfect. Giovanni and Maria raved about it as I walked them to the main gate to say goodnight. We stopped under a large neon clown and, leaning, let the crowd of tired mothers and half-conscious drunks stumble past us into the night.
"I never had such a good time, Greg," gushed Maria, looking pleasantly drowsy, a wisp of wet hair curled on her cheek. "If this is what Fourth of July is, then I love it."
Giovanni was equally enthused. "Si, si! America throws good parties, even if-ah their food is not so good." His smile spread wide so that I saw all his teeth. "And I will never forget...seeing you and Ah-ree-ella...getting hit-ah by that wave!"
I knew they'd grill me with that one last time, as they had been doing all evening, and they did. They had a routine: Giovanni pretended to be the wave, and he would crash into Maria, who would fall over his shoulder and shriek.
"Eeek! Eeek!" she screamed and laughed. "Eeek! Save me, Greg!"
Giovanni nudged my shoulder and winked. "Ah-ree-ella's a real screamer. She must-ah be a real treat in bed."
Of all the things I needed to visualize. "Vanni..." I scolded.
"Hey, hey! I not saying that's a bad thing!" he said, waving his hands. "It is-ah good for a lady to ess-press herself." He gave Maria a sideways glance. "Well, anyways, buona notte, Greg!"
A final handshaking and kisses, and off went Giovanni and Maria into the throng of exiting patrons. I sighed and looked a the clock tower. It was eleven o' clock. Time for me to go to bed, and for once I didn't have makeup to remove or a costume to hang up. All I needed was a quick sponge-bath.
Damien was already in the bathroom when I walked in, applying lotion to his mouth scars.
"Evenin', De Rossi," he greeted. "Did you have fun?"
I went to the sink and turned on the hot water. "I had a lot of fun, thank you. Maria and Giovanni did too. You and Genevieve throw good parties."
At the mention of his sister, Damien's demeanor became subdued, almost sad. "Genevieve," he said.
When his attitude didn't brighten again, I was obliged to inquire as to why.
It seemed that he had only been waiting for someone to ask. Perhaps it was only the black bathrobe, but the man suddenly seemed to grow pale; his eyes darted with anxiety, and the voice that usually laughed so arrogantly took on an unusually pained tone.
"It's Genny," he told me. "I think something's wrong with her."
As I washed my arms, I pictured the girl as she had looked that evening: tall, loud, big hair. Nothing unusual. "I didn't see anything different about her tonight, Damien. In what way is there something wrong with her?"
"Well, at the party she was herself. But when we got back home a while ago..." He drifted off, as though he couldn't quite explain, and then he continued, falteringly, "She made me a cup of tea."
I blinked. "Made you a cup of tea?"
"I know it sounds ridiculous," he insisted, "But she never does that. Ever. She made me tea, made some for herself, and sat there smiling the whole time. I asked her what the hell she was smoking, and she just shrugged and smiled some more, and told me it was a beautiful night, and a beautiful world. Then she went to bed."
"Oh. That sounds nice."
"Yes, it sounds nice," Damien said, still upset. "But you don't know her like I do. This is not how she acts. And right out of the blue like this..."
I turned back to my washing, convinced that he was overreacting.
"I think she's finally snapped." His voice began trembling. "You don't know the abuse she's seen, De Rossi. You'd never know, but before we even signed on to Astley's, we were in Rhode Island, in this joint called Callahan's." He said it like it was a concentration camp that he'd barely escaped from. "Genny and me, we're orphans. Always were. No one to look out for us. That makes it easy for people to prey on you."
At this point I had stopped washing and went to sit beside the man. He was staring at the floor, two tears in his eyes as he related his tale, almost as though he were being forced.
"The guy in charge of the joint, the Callahan guy, he had this..." He shook his head and shivered in disgust-"He had this love...if you can call it love...anyway, he had this thing for little girls."
Our eyes met, and when I saw the grief-stricken suggestion in his eyes I was so horrified that I was almost nauseous. I didn't want or need to hear any more, but I couldn't conjure up any words.
"I was a little boy, and Genny was even younger. Wasn't even having her period yet. The age where you're into ponies and princesses, you know? And this animal would take her...he'd do it at night...he'd take her, and he'd rape her. He'd slap her around first, and then he'd rape her, and I'd be banging on the door, hollering, and I'd hear Genny scream and scream..."
"Damien!" I cried, the image in my head absolutely terrible, "How...how on earth did you two escape?"
"I snuck away one night and found a policeman," he said. "I had to run around in the dark for some time, but eventually I found one, and told him that the guy I worked for was hurting my little sister. Two days later, Callahan was in jail, Genny was in the hospital, and then we were both sent back to a state orphanage, where we ended up staying until I was eighteen. After that, I applied for guardianship of Genny, got it, and we left the joint, started looking for a job."
"And so that's when you found Astley's, at Coney Island."
He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yep. And I'll tell you, De Rossi, Genny has never been the same since she was raped. Before it happened, she was just like every other girl her age. After that, it was like she became a completely different person. She got all nasty and defensive, didn't want to read and play dolls anymore. Never touched another toy again. All she wants to do is boss and gripe."
This was making me very sad. "But she still cares about you, doesn't she?"
He kept staring at the ground, his scarred countenance losing its ferocity and taking on the sad, broken look of someone who has survived unspeakable horrors.
"I know she loves me, somewhere deep inside," he said softly. "Hatred is just how she expresses it. To be perfectly honest, I think she actually wants me to hate her."
"Why?"
"Because she knows how to handle hatred. It's predictable. Love isn't. It's a give-and-take. You have to have trust in order to love, and she just doesn't trust anyone anymore. So she hates everyone, even me, because it's safer." His voice became throaty. "And now she's suddenly all happy, calling me dear and making me tea, calling the world a beautiful place. Why would she suddenly do that? When's it ever been beautiful to her, huh? I think she's finally snapped, De Rossi, I really do."
The poor fellow was becoming emotional, so I had to play it cool, offer some help.
"Just wait a while," I told him. "After all, you just had this big party. She's probably just excited. If it goes on for a while, then maybe you'll want to ask her how she's feeling."
He nodded, still looking upset. "Right. I'll do that. Don't tell anybody what we've discussed."
)
(
)
I went to bed a sadder and more serious man, but despite the sad news I'd just heard, my mind sort of automatically gravitated towards Ariel. I couldn't help it. Every night, I always thought of her. I still do, to this very day. I let my mind wander over everything we'd done that day, from when she'd comforted me at breakfast to when we got hit by the wave. Especially when we got hit by the wave. It had been a precious moment, holding her in my arms and looking at the stars, and then came that explosion of water that sent her, screaming and soaked, over my shoulder. Call me typically masculine, but I rather liked the way she clutched and snuggled against me when she was scared. Also, even though "Gangle" bemoaned it, holding her while we were both soaked thrilled me, particularly because the cold water had made her chest "come to life", if you know what I mean.
Maria was also cute, in a different way. There was little she and I could do in the presence of top-wolf Giovanni, but we could play at splashing and fighting, and we fed each other S'mores at the campfire. Ariel and Genny went for a walk not long after that. Once they left, Aggie-Ann played patriotic songs on the banjo. Giovanni proposed that they play "Maria Mari" for Maria, and even though they didn't know how, he told them the chords, and we sang with it. Then we did the same thing with some other songs.
As I had tried to do earlier, I tried to point out some constellations to Maria; Ariel had taught me how to locate a great many, but that bored her just as quickly as before. She wanted to eat more goodies and have a dance. She was never one for contemplation. Dance, dance, dance! Damien cranked on a phonograph machine, and the campfire scene transformed into an impromptu dance floor.
Ariel never returned, which was bizzare for her. I figured she was getting tired and worried about ol' Alf, something she was wont to do whenever away from him for any extended length of time. And so it was that the grand Fourth of July celebration came to a close.
)
(
)
"Good morning, everyone!" Genevieve almost crooned as she swept in to breakfast with a small dish, her deep voice lyrical with mirth. "Happy Fifth of July. Damien and I were so pleased to have you at our little party. Thank you for coming. It was a treat. God bless you. God bless the United States of America."
Behind her, Damien stood, his posture humble, his general demeanor not unlike a scarred, nervous housepet. "Ah, yes. It was a treat," he echoed, watching his sister as though he feared she would pull out a rifle and kill everyone in the room.
"This dish is for you, Mr. Fleck." Genny put her little covered dish in front of him. "It's some of last night's dessert. I shouldn't like you to miss it."
Alf looked at the plate and then at Genny, too astonished to even say anything. Some of his half-chewed sausage fell out of his mouth.
From there, the woman who was supposedly Genny sat next to Ariel, dug about in her skirt pocket, and gave her a fistful of hard candies. Then she gave a piece to everyone in the room. When she put Damien's piece on the edge of his plate, like a mother giving her son a vitamin pill, he sucked his scarred lips in and looked like he was going to cry. That was some breakfast.
Genevieve Pennysworth wasn't the only person acting different. Something about Ariel was not the same, either. Her basic personality had not changed, but she developed this sort of nervous, intense, yet sensually uninhibited aura. I didn't notice it the day after the Fourth of July, shrugging it off as a bad day or something, but as the days went on and it kept up, I began to wonder. Many were the times I'd watch her up on her hoop and notice that her moves had a certain...well, sexiness to them. I don't know how else to describe it. Before the Fourth of July, her moves were beautiful but classical, but afterwards they took on a luxurious, sexual sort of feel.
I think Alf noticed it, too, even though he didn't say anything. Ariel would be doing her routine, thrusting her hips and bending into splits, her eyes closed and her moist little rosebud lips slightly parted, and he'd blink and stare, as if unable to see her correctly. Then he'd frown and shake his head, as though he were brushing a notion aside. Her relationship with me was the same as it always was. We looked at stars and talked about life, read poetry and discussed theories. But often, I would watch her green, melancholy eyes turn to the sea, where they would linger for a while. I'd ask her what was wrong, and she'd say it was nothing. During the day, she went about her duties as usual, but with this (as I have said before) this element of sexiness. Not deliberate sexiness, but a fluid, natural kind.
By mid-July, it occurred to me, if only subconciously, what must be going on. I suddenly realized where I'd seen the symptoms before: the stride, the rosy cheeks, the half-smiling, parted lips, the dialated pupils...as much as I wanted to shrug it off, I couldn't deny my gut instinct. I'd seen it again and again back in Italy. Ariel was having sex. What's more, she was doing so on a regular basis. Don't call me crazy. It's a lousy thing to admit, but I, well, know what a satisfied woman looks like, and Ariel fit all the descriptions. But then I'd see her reading "The Pilgrim's Progress" to Alf, prim as a rose, and it seemed ridiculous. The daughter of Alfred "Reasonable" Fleck having frequent premarital sex? Really, Gangle? And with whom? And when would this have begun?
To which my conscience would reply, With who else? The only person I could envision Ariel giving her body willingly to was Mr. Y. There was no other man in Phantasma who made sense, none who would dare. When a girl's got a Dad called "The Mighty Mr. Squelch", the sex isn't worth the potential beating, unless you're his boss or something. Over the next couple days, I watched Ariel and Mr. Y interact very carefully, and to be perfectly frank, I was stunned by how their behaviors validated my theory.
"Good morning, Miss Fleck," Mr. Y would greet her -unusually warmly- in the morning, when all Three of us would come for our cards and keys.
"Good morning, Mr. Y," she'd say back breathily, looking at him for a nervous, reverent moment before looking down, her chest heaving against her corsets. She sure never said good morning to me like that.
The whole feeling was of tension and secrecy, as though something special was going on between them, and they must tread carefully around me and Alf, shooting each other significant little looks. They couldn't just be singing. But what could I do? Who would I tell? What if I was wrong?
)
(
)
"Christine Daae will be coming in September," announced Mr. Y to myself, Alf, and Ariel one day. "And you three are going to figure prominently in the promotion and in the actual arrival. As such, I've got some inventions that I will need to teach you how to operate. Follow me; we'll go to the one in the garage first."
At the base of the Ayrie, under the first spiral of stairs, Mr. Y kept things like spare automatons and metalwork in sort of second workshop. It was like the heavy machinery version of the Ayrie, with more of an emphasis on creating. When we went inside, there was that typical garage aroma: the harsh, acrid oil and the cool scent of steel. On the walls were neat rows of wrenches and hammers, and the on the worktables were sheets of glass and trays of bolts. Something huge, right in the center, was covered by a tarp.
"That's the invention, isn't it, Mr. Y?" asked the ever-perceptive Ariel.
"It certainly is," the man replied, going over to it, his masked face radiating with pride. "And out of everything I've ever made, this may be one of my favorites. Have a look."
Off went the tarp, and the three of us cried out in amazement. It was a carriage, made entirely of heavy glass, pulled by a glass unicorn and driven by a glass skeleton. You'd think it would have been more utilitarian, but Mr. Y had spared no detail design-wise. It was just beautiful. The overhead workshop lights caused little prisms in the rims to throw little rainbows all about the glass and around the room. I felt like I could just jump into the thing, whip the reins, and fly to Santa's Workshop or something.
"Gee whillikins!" cried Alf, so amazed that he reverted back to his quaint childhood slang. "Look at that swell piece of machinery there! It's a beaut, Master, a real beaut!"
"Marvelous, Mr. Y!" gushed Ariel, scurrying in circles around it.
I tried to say something into my voice trumpet, but I failed and ultimately made a wierd honk.
"Thank you." Mr. Y stroked the side of it fondly. "Installing the special features wasn't easy. You'll have to learn how they work before you can drive it."
Alf's tattooed face split into a big, gleeful grin that gave me an amusing glimpse of what he must have looked like as a little boy on Christmas. It was hilarious seeing this childlike delight on the face of a fifty-year old widower.
"We get to drive it?" His usually growly voice was quite high.
"Yes. You three are picking up Ms. Daae from the docks, outside the customs building." Mr. Y's eyes lowered in a secret sort of joy. "And from there, you'll take her to her hotel. Anywhere else she needs to go, you'll drive her about. Get inside."
We did, and when we were seated, Mr. Y pointed out a little lever.
"Pull that lever, Miss Fleck."
She did. All at once, a silvery mist seemed to fog the glass, and suddenly the carriage was completely opaque. We couldn't see out of it, nor could anyone look in. Ariel let go of the lever and shrunk back into her seat, eyes widening, and me and Alf's reactions were basically the same.
"Jer-u-salem crickets!" Alf gasped, looking around in awe. "What in the dickens just happened?"
"The glass fogged over," replied Mr. Y with a serene expression. "This feature is best to use when going about in public."
And that was all the explanation we ever got about that.
Mr. Y "unfogged" the glass by pulling the lever again, and gestured to the skeleton that was sitting where a horseman would usually sit. "Now, this skeleton here controls where the carriage goes. When you-"
"Has he a name?" Ariel asked brightly, completely interrupting the man mid-sentence.
Mr. Y blinked in obvious surprise and stared at her. "A name, Miss Fleck?" he asked, as though he weren't quite understanding.
"Yes, a name," she replied. "Did you give him one?"
There were a few beats of awkward silence. Alf gave his daughter a severe look that she didn't notice.
"I have not," Mr. Y admitted slowly, eyes darting a bit.
"May I name him Oscar?"
"May I inquire as to why, Miss Fleck?"
"Because he looks like an Oscar."
The man didn't seem to know how to even react to such a bizarre request, so he looked at the skeleton, looked at Ariel, and said, in a flustered sort of tone, "You...may."
She smiled at him.
"Any...how," Mr. Y continued lamely, breaking eye contact with her, "The skeleton...er, Oscar, I suppose...he controls the movements. You push this little button and tell him where you wish to go. Dr. Gangle, tell...Oscar...to go to the cotton candy booth. Don't actually call him Oscar, though; I don't know how the mechanism would react..."
I pushed the button and said, "Go to the cotton candy booth."
"You got it, Boss!" growled "Oscar", his skeletal teeth chattering and flames glimmering in his eye sockets.
Ha, ha! Just kidding, just kidding. If the thing had actually done that, all anyone would have seen was my terrified Italian ass hoofing it in the other direction.
In reality, the unicorn lurched forward (the three of us gasped), and the carriage, with us inside, rolled out of the garage into Phantasma.
"I'll be gosh darned," breathed Alf hoarsely, shrinking back against the seat like he was on a roller coaster, and not a carriage going about two miles an hour.
"How does Oscar know how to do it, Mr. Y?" cried Ariel.
He rolled his eyes amusedly at the "Oscar" thing and replied, "That's classified information."
But she was not satisfied yet. "Suppose, Mr. Y," she asked, a cheeky grin on her face, "Suppose if I asked Oscar, Go to Heaven?"
"Ariel," said Alf sternly, but there was a glitter of terror in his eyes. Who knew what Mr. Y was capable of?
But Mr. Y seemed to think that Ariel's coy, cutesy behavior towards him was funny. "Well, Miss Fleck," he replied, "I regret to inform you that Oscar is a skeleton, not a miracle worker."
That made us laugh, and before we knew it we arrived at the cotton candy booth. You should have seen the merchant's face when we rolled up.
"Well, we're here at the booth!" declared Ariel.
"Amazing," marveled Alf, looking back at the Ayrie, although he trembled a bit. "Technology today!"
Ariel asked Mr. Y if she might ask Oscar to return to the Ayrie garage again, and when he consented, she thrusted her chest out like a naval captain and ordered, "Go to the Ayrie garage!"
How the heck Oscar knew to take us back I never knew, and in a way, I didn't want to find out. Off we rolled, back to the Ayrie garage. Once among the tools and oilcans again, we climbed out and took a last admiring look at the carriage; then, all too soon, Mr. Y had to put the tarp back over it.
"That's all for today," the man said, leading us out and locking the garage. "We'll learn to operate the hot air balloon tomorrow."
Hot air balloon? That got me excited. Ariel's eyes gleamed. Alf looked nauseous.
"But I would like to keep Miss Fleck for a bit, if you don't need her for anything, Mr. Fleck. Music purposes, you see."
My heart seized. Music purposes, huh? I watched Ariel's porcelain little face growing slightly pink out of the corner of my eye. Mr. Y was giving her an interesting glance.
"Fine by me," said Alf, that charmingly trusting fellow.
"We'll just head up now," said Mr. Y as he headed for the staircase that led to the Ayrie, beckoning for Ariel to follow. "Good afternoon, the both of you."
"See you later!" chirped Ariel, tripping off after him.
Then the two of them started up. Standing there, my mind spinning, I knew that I had to figure this mystery out. I had to be a spy. After Alf had gone his own separate way, I waited for a while, to give Mr. Y and Ariel a chance to arrive in the Ayrie, and once I determined that they'd had enough time, I started up, very quietly.
When the Ayrie door came into sight, I crouched in the darkness. I scarcely breathed, for even the slightest noise would give me away. Carefully, oh so carefully, I pressed my ear to the door to listen. This is what I heard.
A door deep in the Ayrie creaked, followed by timid footfalls, then Mr. Y made an impressed sound.
"Beautiful!" he praised. "I knew it would look nice on you."
"Oh, does it?" came Ariel's voice, nervous and giggly.
"Indeed. Now, we can move on to..."
"In this, Master?" Ariel sounded surprised. "Er, you really want to do it while I'm wearing this?"
"I don't see why not. Sets the mood quite well."
My heart thumped. My face flushed. This exchange hadn't much to do with music!
"But before we do," Mr. Y went on, and I heard him walk elsewhere, "Let's have something to drink."
A tinkling of glasses, a sound of pouring, and sips.
"Now, I'd prefer it if you kept this a secret," said Mr. Y, much more softly. "I mean, don't go about and..."
"I quite understand," replied Ariel in an understanding fashion. "Wouldn't want to make anyone jealous. My lips are sealed."
"Of course. You understand it would be poor publicity if it got out that one of my own employees and I were..."
"Yes, yes, you can trust me, Master. Nobody will suspect a thing."
"Very good, very good. Now, if you're quite done, we'll just..."
There was no way I was going to stick around and listen to them move on. I couldn't bear it. All of my fears were confirmed. As I went down through the darkness, my limbs felt alien, numb, and my stomach was completely turned. The concept was insane, but it was real! Ariel! Beautiful, sweet Ariel! Sleeping with the Master! Sleeping with the Phantom! Living a lie! How could she do it? Perhaps Mr. Y was coercing her?
I thought of Alf, poor, quaint, Victorian, reasonable Alf. The man would be utterly devastated to discover this, but if I knew anything about his personality, I knew that he would destroy anyone -even Mr. Y- who brought his daughter to shame. Then everyone would know. The media would be all over it. Phantasma would be ruined. We'd all be out of jobs. Oh, what could I do? What should I do? It seemed clear to me that I would have to confront Ariel.
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(
)
It was dinner when I saw her again. In she swept with Genevieve, blushing and cheerful, her green eyes glittering with happy sparkles and her hair coiled in their usual braids, but for the first time, the sight of her filled me with disgust and misery. There was a gauzy pink scarf around her throat.
"Evening, all!" trumpeted the (still!) new-and-improved cheerful Genny, and everyone greeted her, having finally moved past their fear of doing so.
Alf made up a plate for his daughter as she sat down, and commented on her scarf. "Why a scarf, Ariel? Cold?" he teased.
"Genny gave it to me," she explained, "And I think it's just adorable, no matter the weather!"
To which Genny blew a kiss, and Alf looked faintly embarrassed.
Ariel flopped one of the ends."I'll be sure to wave it like a flag when we go up in the hot air balloon..."
"Ah, don't remind me," the nervous Daddy moaned. "Bring a bag with you when we go up, will you, Gangle? I'll need it."
But I did not respond. I was too shocked. For when Ariel had flopped the end of the pink scarf, the part around her neck had momentarily scooted down, and on the lower part of her neck was a big pink hickey. It wasn't a typical bruise; I think I ought to know the difference between the two! The sight of it shook me to the core. That's why she was wearing a scarf! In my mind, I saw Mr. Y's lips sucking on her white, rose-petal flesh...
I completely lost what little appetite I had.
"Uh oh!" crowed Mr. Geddes, grinning as he poured himself some water. "De Rossi doesn't like his sauce!"
A mixture of chuckling and exasperated sighing rippled around the table a bit. I shrugged, too unhappy to even respond. For the remainder of the dinner, I picked at my food and pushed it into different designs, feeling as though all the beauty was sapping out of my world.
"I have something very important to show you!" whispered Ariel to me on the way out. "Very important! I'll show it to you tonight, okay?"
"Okay." I had something to show her, too.
)
(
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The stars never looked more desolate as they did that evening as Ariel and I sat down on the bench. I knew what I had to do. I had to expose this nonsense, these lies. Seeing Ariel blithely unaware of it all made me even more disgusted and miserable.
"Have a look at this, Gangle dear," she breathed excitedly, and from her skirt pocket she produced a piece of newspaper. "Someone answered our ad! I didn't think they would, but look!"
And it was so. Under the "Personal" section, someone had replied, "To V. Vellazio and P. Puckett: Have info on Phantom of the Opera. Meet me July 30th, Gypsy Cafe, 5:30 pm. Pay upfront. S. Horner.
I was genuinely surprised, but my eminent duty robbed me of any excitement. Frankly, this whole business was appalling to me now. After looking at the paper for a bit, I simply handed it right back, with no comment.
"Why, Gangle," she almost protested, an injured look in her eyes. "You don't seem happy at all."
I looked away. "That's because I'm not happy at all."
"But...why?"
"Because I am sick of this nonsense, all these lies." Fury was beginning to boil in my chest, but I kept my voice calm. "I have discovered something terrible. I can't let it go on."
She grabbed my arm. "Why...why, Gangle dear, I don't understand!" she cried. "What did you discover?"
I looked right into her face and delivered the line. "You're sleeping with Mr. Y."
Dead silence. Her jaw dropped. For a few seconds she remained, frozen, scarlet rushing into her cheeks, and then she let go of me, leapt up, and half-sputtered, half-screamed, "What? I am doing no such thing! How dare you!"
"But you must be!" I countered angrily, taking her fury as a confirmation. "The two of you don't sing. Maybe you did at first, but not anymore. I know because I heard. I suspected it, and so I listened after you went in, and I heard. You and Mr. Y had drinks, and he said something about keeping it all a secret. And you said nobody would suspect anything."
At this point, Ariel was off the bench and standing some distance away from me, white and trembling, with two furious tears in her eyes.
"If you simply must know," she quavered, "He told me to keep the song a secret, and not to sing it for others. Before that, I tried on the gown I'd wear for the performance if need be."
The quickness and specifics of her reply sent a frightened shiver through my stomach. Had I really been mistaken? But, no! There was something else that she couldn't explain!
"You don't believe me, do you?" She brought her hands to her face. "You don't believe me!"
"I will believe you," I said, rising and going to her, "If you can explain this hickey to me."
I gave the neck of her dress a little tug and exposed the pink little mark. She jerked back as though she'd been scorched and retreated farther away, rubbing it and weeping.
"That's not what it is."
"Then what is it?"
She turned away and burst into tears that shook her frame like wind through a sapling. I stood in silence, watching her cry, nausea welling inside me at how I was hurting her.
"Signorina," I almost groaned. "Why are you letting him do this to you? Why?"
"I am not letting him do anything to me," she wept, not turning around. "He doesn't love me. He didn't before and he still doesn't now. I can't believe you think I would sleep with the Master. You think I'm a whore, don't you? A whore!"
"No!" I hurried over to her and brought her wet face to my jacket. "That is not true. But I know that, well, because of what he is, he would be very good at making you keep quiet about anything he'd want to do to you. And that is what he must be doing, because you are always looking so bothered, and with these marks on your neck..."
She jerked back away from me as though I'd struck her, and her tearstained-face darkened with rage.
"Because of what he is? What do you mean by that?"
It had to be said. I could not indulge her fantasies anymore. Looking into her swollen, furious eyes as calmly as I could manage, I said, "The man is a convict, Signorina. That is a fact. You can deny it, and deny it, but it will never change."
"How can you say that? After everything he's done for you, you...!"
I did not back down. "Because it is true," I insisted firmly. "You and I have seen the facts. I don't deny that he has done nice things for us, but why do you think he has really done them? He wants that Christine lady. You, me, your daddy, and everyone here, we're just part of the plan to get her here!"
"Shut up!" she screamed, shaking her head. "I can't hear you talk like this! It's terrible! Shut up!"
"You know as well as I do that he is the Phantom of the Opera. You know it, but you are blinded by your love for him..."
"Stop it!"
"And I will not let him hurt you. You understand? If he does not stop this immediately, I promise you, I promise you, I will go straight to the police and your Daddy and tell them everything I-"
SLAP! said Ariel's hand as it came flying across my face with a stinging slap. For a moment I stood, dazed and blinking, cheek burning, and then I felt her shove past me and stalk off. I turned around in disbelief.
"You...Ariel..."
She didn't stop, nor look back. "Don't come near me!" she sobbed. "I think you're awful, and, and I... hate you! If you get Mr. Y into trouble, I'll never forgive you!"
And off she ran, past a booth, around a corner, and out of my sight into the darkness. Once her footsteps faded, there was a desolate silence. I was alone. There was nothing but the stars overhead, the abandoned rides, and the ocean breeze. My slapped cheek still hurt. I sat back down on the bench, not knowing what else to do, her parting words ringing in my head.
In all the years I'd known her, Ariel had never, ever been that angry with me, nor had she ever used such hateful words. She thought I was awful. She hated me. All I wanted to do was help her, and now she hated me for it. What was she going to do now? Would she tell Mr. Y, or her father? I didn't know, and at the time, I didn't care. I loved Ariel, and now she hated me. I wiped my eyes, which had started filling with tears, with my sleeve, but I did not cry. Call it Italian pride if you like, but I refused to cry over a woman's slap.
I got up and went to nearest telephone. I couldn't just sit around and brood. I had to go somewhere, see someone who loved me. After a brief exchange with the operator, I waited, heard a ring, and then a click, followed by a shuffle and Maria's voice. She sounded as though she'd been reading or something.
"Ciao. Per chi sto parlando?"
Hearing her voice made me bizarrely emotional, but I kept it out of my tone. "Ciao, Maria. Sono io, Greg."
"Greg!" she gushed, and my heart was warmed by how happy she sounded. "Hello! How are you tonight?"
I was honest. "Not very good. I need to see you, Bella. May I?"
There was a pause on the line, and then Maria said, simply, "Yes. Vanni is asleep."
The way she said it, and all the things she suggested with her tone made my heart beat wildly and filled my blood with fire. It had been so long -too long- since I felt this way. "Where should we meet?" I almost whispered.
The location thus given, I hung up, buttoned up my jacket, and headed into the night.
)
(
)
It was well worth the walk to the little back-ways joint that Maria had indicated. In the smoky darkness, we hurried to each other and kissed, and kissed, and after we were all warmed up, the action moved to a small, secluded, relatively secret area filled with boxes and old abandoned jackets. The Dr. Gangle in my head begged and pleaded with me not to do it, but I didn't listen. I was feeling hurt, Maria wanted me, the mood was right, and I was pretty weary of my self-imposed, perpetual abstinence. Right then and there, with a swishing of skirts and an unbuttoning of drawers, it all came to an end.
The last time I'd done it with Maria, it had been in Milan, Italy, 1897, in the vine-covered upstairs of a little inn called La Rosa Bianca. Now it was 1907, and we were in God-knows-where Brooklyn, in a significantly less romantic setting, but for me it was heaven. Ah, to be wanted! To be held and enjoyed! Nevertheless, it would be very bad if I got her pregnant, so I had to practice careful self-control. Even after a ten-year break, I was still skilled. Maria enjoyed herself immensely, and right before I hit the top I pulled out and finished elsewhere. Madre di Cristo!
"Ah! Good job, Bello," Maria purred like a teacher praising a particularly good student, her face flushed and moist with sweat. "Even after all this time, you are a good lover."
I was still kneeling over her, my head buzzing with heat and my drawers still down. With my voice trumpet tossed over my shoulder, I could not speak, but I could smile in acceptance. We spent a few moments like that, looking at each other. It was a moment in which the world seemed free of consequences, free of inhibitions, and the only things that mattered were Maria and I. Of course, we eventually had to part; she teasingly admonished me to "put my thing away" and get off her, and after a final kiss, we went our separate ways in the dark.
Striding through Phantasma's main entrance, I felt defiant and proud. I felt like a man again. Laughing, I punched a sign for no reason. In my mind, De Rossi was roaring with delight. Gangle wept silently in the shadows, ashamed of my moral backsliding.
Well, Ariel, I thought savagely, head held high, How do you like me now? Slap me around all you like, and I'll...just...er, have sex with...Maria.
My rationale was rather stupid, as it usually is when a man is angry or otherwise coming down from a major testosterone high, and it wasn't until some time later that I began to understand the stupidity of my behavior. It wasn't that night. The minute my head hit the pillow, I fell fast asleep.
(Gangle ends here for now.)
"See?" the prisoner sighed. "Trouble, trouble, and all because Ariel and I didn't understand each other. I can still feel her hand on my face. Don't ever get her mad, gentlemen. She has a mean left hook."
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. Don't ask me where I came up with the "Oscar" thing, or Miss Fleck's bizarre need to name things. I still don't really know. But it's funny.
2. Thank you for reading. Merry Christmas!
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