BEFORE WE BEGIN!
1. Oh ho, beloved readers! If you have not read the previous chapter, "Curtains", do so before reading this, or you will be awfully confused.
2. Remember Mr. Whittington talking about how Mr. Y missed Fleck's baklava, all the way back in Chapter Two? This is the chapter with the incident he's referring to.
3. I've waited a long time to write the Mr. Y/Fleck exchange in this chapter. A long time...
Chapter Eighteen
A Man In A Mask
(Fleck picks up the story.)
Mama was buried in the churchyard that belonged to St. Anastasia's, and on a warm Sunday in August, Daddy and I went to visit her, arms full of roses. We were quiet as we walked. Churchyards just seem to have that effect on people. It was as though we were walking through time, passing the worn and mildew-covered stones of days long past, passing the weathered ones of the past century, coming at last into the clean and flower-covered stones of recent years, among which was Mama's. Daddy had purchased a plot next to Mama, and already had his name engraved on the large "Fleck" stone. Beneath the Orthodox cross, it read:
FLECK
Alfred Ivan 1857-
Apollonia Ismene 1866-1905
We put our flowers down beneath her name and stood there in silence, me and Daddy. It was hard, seeing Mama's lifespan written on a grave. It was even worse seeing the blank space next to Daddy's birth year. One day, they'd engrave a death year, too, and we never knew when that would come. All we knew is that it would.
"Hello, Polly dear," murmured Daddy fondly after a bit. "Big day coming for us, you know. Christine Daae is coming to Phantasma. A French opera singer. Season's just about coming to a close. It's going to be September soon."
"Indeed," I said. "Our very first year at Phantasma. And then, there'll be a second season!"
"God willing," said Daddy.
"And we'll remember you all the time."
Another moment of silence, and then we gathered up the old, dead flowers, told Mama goodbye, and started for home. We were pretty courageous for a bit, but we started dabbing our eyes, as we always inevitably did, shortly after clearing the first block. It was never overly sad going to Mama or talking to her, but it always hurt to leave her behind.
And speaking of hurt, there was always the aftermath of answering that ad. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. The Opera Ghost made Christine Daae automatons, for corn's sake, according to the French lady who gave me the information. Christine Daae automatons. As much as I wanted to give Mr. Y the benefit of the doubt, I just couldn't do it anymore. He was the Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. And now, he was inviting his lost love, Christine, to his new world of music.
This meant that he'd lied...well, no, he hadn't lied, but he certainly didn't lay his cards on the table. He had concealed this from us, all these years. Gangle was right. I had been blinded by my love.
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(
)
Gregory's 33rd birthday, as it turned out, was going to be on the same day Christine Daae arrived, the first of September, and I knew I had to do something very special. No tablecloths or impersonal curtains, lace or no lace. It had to be something that expressed the depth of everything I felt about him, a truly thought out, deliberate, sentimental gift that would make his heart sing.
For I loved him. It had taken time for that love to bloom; the seed had been planted long ago under the stars, and the tender shoot had slowly and stubbornly forced its way upward, but the petals didn't spread until he kissed me in the tunnel. Then they began opening slowly, coaxed evermore wider with each nice thing he did to me, every unappreciated way he looked after my safety, and when I kissed him in the city my love was complete. I may not have been able to articulate my feelings then, but they were real.
We never discussed that kiss, if you can believe it, but I guess when a girl kisses you and then immediately dives into a discussion about curtains, it's a bit disorienting. In the days after it, though, we were a lot friendlier. I began noticing things about him that I liked, things I'd never noticed before, like the way he smelled when he hugged me (had he always worn cologne like that?), and the gentleness mingled with affection in his voice when he addressed me. Handsomeness, too. It wasn't until I'd begun entertaining the thought of he and I together that I noticed how ruggedly handsome the man was, how very fine and sensible his features were.
And so, I, Signorina Sherlock, figured out the mystery of my own turbulent feelings at last. Aggie-Ann was right. If I ever got in a jam, who else would I go running to for help but my dear Gregory?
"Since when have you been able to read Italian, Ariel?" asked Daddy curiously, for I was looking through an Italian cookbook written in Italian. Aren't libraries swell? It was L'arte di Mangiar Bene, this cookbook of which Gregory spoke often and glowingly.
"Never," I replied. "But I'm going to make Gregory a surprise for his birthday out of this cookbook. Er, with the help of an Italian-English Dictionary, naturally."
"Well, isn't that nice!"
From what little Italian I understood, I could locate what I wanted: Salsa di Pomodoro.
In English, that's Tomato Sauce, and as I looked down the ingredient list, I smiled. Gregory was always impressing upon the essentials of good tomato sauce making, the right balance of ingredients, and when I saw such words as Roma pomodori, aglio, olio di oliva, sale, pepper, basil, cipolle, sugar, and Vino Rosso, I knew I'd struck upon a winner. He'd love it.
September the first was going to be a very special day in more ways than one. Christine Daae was coming, it was Gregory's birthday, and I was going to tell him that I loved him.
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(
)
Mr. Y was beside himself with nervousness at Christine's impending arrival, and took every opportunity to drill us in what our duties were. He singlehandedly polished the glass carriage himself, installed some seat cushions in it, and was found pacing it in search of potential cracks more than once.
"It's solid, but with enough force micro-cracks can happen below the surface, and then all it takes is a shock to shatter it!" he lectured us hoarsely, as though we were trying to stop him or something.
The Ayrie's usually spic-and-span interior soon became the workshop of a frenzied man. It looked like an ink bottle got into a boxing match with a ream of paper, that's how feverishly Mr. Y was composing. We, the Trio, learned a whole litany of new songs. I can rattle my parts off right this minute.
It's a funhouse where the mirrors all reflect what's real, and reality's as twisted as the mirrors reveal. And the fun is finding out what the mirrors show...
Ladies! Gents! You, good sir, and you, my friend! Everyone, time for fun! (Nyeh-heh-heh, I chortle) Here, tonight, ringing in the season's end...Mr. Y's last surprise! Starting soon upon our stage, the performance of the age...!
Daddy, myself, and Gangle hummed it for days. Sometimes we'd all take turns humming it. Sometimes one of us would unconciously start it, and then the other two would finish it, not really thinking. It was scary.
)
(
)
In memory of Mama, I baked some baklava one day, the day before Christine was set to arrive, and the supplies were sufficient for two trays. It was such fun. As I brushed the golden honey across the layers of phyllo, I remembered one of her trademark phrases.
"Your Daddy and me are like baklava and honey," she'd say right out of the blue, in the middle of cooking. "I always knew it."
"Indeed you are, Mama," I'd always reply.
That's what I thought about as I watched it bake, and as I ate it with Daddy later on. It's deceptively heavy stuff; after a few pieces we were full, and there was still a whole tray left. We were poking it and pondering what to do when there was a knock at the door; it was Madame Giry, come to inform me that Mr. Y wanted to go over the aria with me one last time.
Mr. Y. My heart grew sad, but I came up with a use for the extra tray of baklava.
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(
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For the first time, I walked up the Ayrie's spiraling steps with no real feeling of excitement. My heart was sad. My tray of baklava felt cold in my hands. I knew that Mr. Y-the romantic dream in my mind-was a lie. The facade he wore was a lie. And what I was doing with Genny, secretly, even to this very day, was a lie. The world was just one big lie.
There it was again, as it had been for months: the Ayrie door. But before I could get close enough to knock, I heard Mr. Y begin playing within.
Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation...
I stopped and swallowed at the cruelty of it all. It was the Music of the Night. It was the song that made me love Mr. Y. Memories of kneeling against the barn door in the starry darkness came tearing into my mind and heart, along with every dream I ever had for the two of us. I shut my eyes hard, but two hot tears escaped and slipped down my cheeks. On and on Mr. Y ignorantly played while I sat on the top step and wept silently into my sleeve, taking shuddering breaths and trying to pull myself together before I went in.
The last notes took flight and faded into silence. I heard a sip of something, and then a creaking bench. Then Mr. Y seemed to do some bored improvising. Rising, I felt my cheeks, hoped my eyes weren't all that pink, and knocked on the door, though all I really wanted to do was go right back down the stairs.
"Is that you, Miss Fleck?" he called.
Was it? I was starting to wonder. "Yes, sir."
I entered the Ayrie with my baklava, to find that Mr. Y had a great deal of sheet music, some of which I'd never seen before, spread out across his piano.
"I was cooking today, sir," I said, although I couldn't look him in the eye. "And I thought you might like some of what I made."
He turned from the piano inquisitively. "Did you? And what is it?"
"Baklava. It's Greek. It's made with phyllo and honey, layered almost like a sort of lasagna..."
"How kind of you." Mr. Y accepted the tray like it was a particularly ambitious school project and nodded politely, always the pleasantly distant professional. "We can eat it when we're through, which really shouldn't take long at all."
As he prepared the sheet music, I took a long look around the Ayrie in a way akin to saying goodbye to a beloved place from your childhood. I let my eyes linger on every beautiful little thing, every little invention, everything that made me admire my Master.
"Is something wrong, Miss Fleck?"
I mastered myself. "No, sir."
The piano gracefully sung forth the song I now knew so intimately, and as I sang it, just the way Mr. Y taught me how, my voice bore testimony to the thought that love never dies. It does, however, change. I would always care about him-I couldn't help it-but it would never be what it once was. His love was never meant for me; mine was never meant for him. This was the reality of it all.
"Thank you," Mr. Y praised when I was through. "You need no further teaching."
The sky was dark beyond the eye-shaped windows when the two of us sat down to the baklava, and despite the lights, a shadowy sort of something descended on the Ayrie. Beside me, Mr. Y cut himself a little test piece and tasted it.
"Mmm." As he chewed, his eyes widened, and his head bobbed with undeniable satisfaction, but he still endeavored to be as cool and clinical as possible. "This is very good, Miss Fleck. Yes, very good. There is nothing quite like this in France."
It was the first time I ever heard him admit that he was French, even though it was common knowledge. With a sort of perverse excitement, I gently prodded him on, asking, "What sort of desserts do they eat in France?"
"Creme Caramel, Creme Brulee, lots of cream." His rarely heard accent came out a bit. "Lots of fresh fruits with it as well. I scarcely had time for dessert, except for when I had to steal it, but I found that stolen sweets always did taste the best."
And that was the first time I ever heard him admit to a crime.
Did I dare press on? "Steal it?" I ventured as he took a rather big forkful. "Hadn't you any money?"
Mr. Y couldn't speak while chewing, but his piercing eyes fixed me with a look halfway between amusement and pity. I was about to apologize when he swallowed and replied, "Of course I hadn't any money."
"Of course. I didn't mean to suggest..."
"Never mind." Mr. Y looked from his crumby plate to the baklava tray. "I am actually quite impressed at how well your father has kept you insulated from the realities most freaks face. And considering you've grown up in a freakshow, the achievement is doubly impressive."
My cheeks burned. "I..."
"Although your nationality likely is a factor; I find most Americans seem to think a fair salary and clean living conditions are a universal right." Mr. Y gave in and cut himself another slice as he talked. "Just the presence of two loving parents puts you in the upper echelon of the freak world, Miss Fleck. Add a home, American citizenship, a regular salary, friends, possessions that are your own, an education, and a culture surrounding you that is forward-thinking, and you may as well call yourself a princess."
My insides squirmed with shame, and I looked away, hating myself for the way I always seemed to say the wrong thing.
"And you are also quite beautiful."
The breath caught in my throat. I looked back at Mr. Y, overwhelmed at this unexpected and tremendous compliment. He thought I was beautiful. The realities of opera ghosts and automatons receded into the background. Mr. Y thought I was beautiful.
"Ah. I didn't mean to embarass you," the man apologized, unflustered. "But I'll have you know that beauty also sets you apart. You are much more attractive than me. You have no need of masks. And so you have this as well, a big benefit. I never had anything like you had or have now."
In that moment, it occured to me that the Master and I had never actually had a conversation like this in the whole decade we'd known each other. Apart from my shyness and his polite distance, it was downright chatty. We were eating dessert together on a couch, for Pete's sake. Or, rather, Mr. Y was doing the eating. He really liked that baklava.
"Was it very bad in France?" I asked as gently as I could.
His eyes sort of gazed around as he finished chewing and swallowing. "Yes," he replied. "Very bad."
In that moment, I realized how lonely Mr. Y looked. It wasn't that he looked sad, but there had always been this mysterious, mystical, magical air about him that made me think he could do anything, rise above anything, write a symphony, save the day. He was Mr. Y! He was timeless. Somehow, I couldn't grasp that he was once a child, that he was likely prey to abuse, that he could be grieved. Watching him do something as mundane as eat on a couch and admit that his life was painful really shook me to the core.
He was just a man in a mask.
"Mr. Y," I asked. "Is Mr. Y your real name? I mean, you must have a first name, or something, but I don't think you've ever told us..."
"No." The Master's face and tone were like the shutting of a book. "I have never had any name other than Mr. Y. My parents didn't keep me long enough to name me. They were offered a handsome price by a local freak show, and that was it. My first name was 'Devil's Child'."
"Oh!" I groaned miserably. "That's awful. Oh, Mr. Y, were they very mean to you?"
"Quite mean. They marketed me as only sub-human, and as such, their treatment was sub-human as well. The scars from my beatings are still visible, even to this day." His eyes lowered. "The abuse was part of the act."
"How did you ever escape?" I cried.
Mr. Y picked at his baklava but did not eat it. "I murdered the man in charge and fled, and then I gave myself my name, Mr. Y. That has always been my name."
Coldness and misery gripped my heart.
"I apologize," Mr. Y said, giving my shoulder a little touch. "I'm disturbing you."
But another question was on the tip of my tongue. I looked into my Master's strange blue eyes, at a loss for how to say it, and then I blurted, "But...how...Mr. Y, how can you make music the way you do? How can you make the Music of the Night?"
And then it was his turn to be caught off guard. "The Music of the Night?"
"I heard you playing it once." Trembling, I admitted, "And I never forgot it."
Mr. Y didn't answer immediately, and when he did, he said only, "I am not even entirely sure how I make the music I write. It comes to me. I hear it playing in my mind, and then I compose it."
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
I had not realized it, but during this discourse we had drawn quite close to each other. There, sitting in the dim Ayrie, Mr. Y had never been more approachable, and yet so far away. No words. Just wordless gazing. His eyes were hypnotizing me. I felt unreal.
"Why the night, Mr. Y?" I heard myself ask, in a voice little more than a whisper.
He broke eye contact with me and silently struck a lever. With a rattle, the shades for the eye-shaped windows came down. What little light there was in the room slowly faded away. The strip of light on Mr. Y's face thinned, and thinned, and then it was no more. We were consumed by the darkness, the Master and I.
I could not see him anymore, but I still heard his voice, and could feel his presence, like a jaguar in the jungle.
"This is why." A moment of silence, and then he went on. "In the darkness, everyone is equal. Ugliness or beauty is of no matter. The darkness hides them both. In the darkness, you can be free. You can express yourself. It is the great equalizer."
His voice. If only I could describe it to you. It was warm, and confiding, but still had that smooth, cultured feel, the syllables like music. His voice was music. I felt myself helplessly giving in to his dark world, hanging on his every word.
"Freaks like us can readily agree that the light has done so little for us. It only exposes our maladies. But there is beauty underneath. We're like diamonds cultivated in darkness. That is why I write the Music of the Night. That is why, I believe, there is no other music like it. It is timeless. It does not give in to the fashions of the moment. It connects us together. It makes us free." He touched my hand. "It brings us the joy we've never felt before."
In the velvety darkness, I brought my other hand to Mr. Y's mask and felt the smoothness of the porcelain for a moment, and then, with a little moan of emotion, I threw my arms around his shoulders and kissed him. One of my cheeks pressed into the coldness of his mask as I did, and for an unbelievable few moments, I paid adoring tribute to my Master, kissing his mouth with an intensity that left me bereft of air. I wanted him. I wanted all of him.
And then I felt his free hand fumble in the other direction, snapping the lever, and with a grinding heave the window shutters began rising again, like the eyelids of God retracting in surprise. Slowly, the light returned. Slowly, Mr. Y's face came back into focus. He stared at me like I was insane.
I was absolutely horrified. In the dark, it had all made sense, but in the light, what was I supposed to say? What-and now he was wiping his mouth, blinking-what was I supposed to say to explain that? I couldn't! For a moment I was frozen, but then I leapt up. There was nothing to do but run.
"Wait!" His hand clenched around my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. I couldn't get away.
I felt like I was going to faint with shame."I'm sorry," I babbled stupidly, unable to look at him, tears in my eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Please sit down."
"I'm..." The world was hazy. "Sorry."
"You're working yourself into a faint. Come on now, sit down."
I suppose I did sit, or perhaps my knees simply gave way, because I felt the couch squeak under my rear.
His voice was calm. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know, " I moaned, face in my hands. "I don't know. It was just that I...loved you then!"
There was silence for a while, then he spoke.
"I'm sorry."
That made me look up, and when I did I saw that there was regret in Mr. Y's eyes, as though he were ashamed.
"No, I'm the one that ought to be sorry." I said. "Please forgive me. I'll never do anything like that again."
"If you insist on being forgiven, then I forgive you, but I think the blame lies with me," insisted Mr. Y. "I ought not to have spoken so freely. I ought to have seen that you, being a young woman, and I being a man...I surely stirred up emotions in you that I shouldn't have. I am very sorry."
"So am I."
"From this point on," he told me, "We'll just forget about it. I'll never bring it up again."
I bowed my head. "Nor will I."
"You must never," Mr. Y cautioned me gently, "Mistake pity for love."
Meg chose an interesting moment to burst through the door, I'll have you know. All at once, there was a clatter, and with little time to prepare, she came waltzing in. I straightened up and patted my hair, hoping I didn't look too emotional.
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Y," she trilled, her manner bringing a lightness to her dancer's form."Jai quelque chose per vous."
But Mr. Y was clearly irritated by her sudden entrance, even if she did have something for him. "Tu m'as fait peur!" he said with a severity that deflated her. "Frappez à la porte avant d'entrer!"
She awkwardly tucked a stray piece of hair back into her bun. "Je suis désolé. Puis-je vous le donner maintenant?"
Sighing, Mr. Y extended his hand. "Oui."
Apparently, someone had made a monetary donation, for he accepted three dollar bills and a fifty cent piece. One that had a slight dent in the side, like...wait! Three dollars and fifty cents? That's exactly what I paid that...
"Cela sera utile, non?" Meg said hopefully, twisting her coat as though hoping to redeem herself.
Mr. Y looked the money over. "Oui. Très utile. Merci."
She remained for a few moments with a slightly injured smile, obviously having expected a bit more adulation, but when Mr. Y made no further comment she bowed, gave me a nod, and walked off with far less enthusiasm than when she'd entered. The door shut with a sad clank.
When I said nothing, Mr. Y leaned forward, cut himself more baklava, and addressed me gently, "Interruptions aside, are you quite alright, Miss Fleck?"
Meg had been that mystery French woman in the cafe. That meant she had personal experience with the Opera Ghost. Mr. Y. Madame Giry, too! But why on earth would she risk giving out that information for $3.50? And-here my heart jumped-did she recognize me in my disguise? Surely she would have let on if she had! This discovery only reinforced the fact that Mr. Y was the Opera Ghost. My heart was heavy. It was time to say goodbye.
"Are you alright?" repeated Mr. Y.
I came back to reality, cold, cold reality, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm fine." I rose. "If you have nothing left for me to do, then good evening."
He bowed his head. "Good evening. Ah, wait! Your baklava..."
I didn't stop. "You may keep it, sir, since you like it so much."
The funny thing is that he didn't contradict me. As a matter of fact, he'd eaten half the tray singlehandedly.
When the Ayrie door shut behind me, the resulting thud was like the closing of a giant book, the closing of a gate, the end of a period of life. My love-my romantic love-for Mr. Y was entirely over.
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When I reached the base of the Ayrie, I didn't immediately head home. When the door closed behind me, I sat down in the grass and looked up into the night. There they were, as they always were and always would be: the stars, glittering in the high heavens. Tonight, they reminded me of eyes. Not angels' eyes, but the eyes of ancestors and friends long gone. Grandpa Estevan. Grandma Lavinia. Uncle John. Uncle Wilbur. Uncle Charles, family whose photographs hung on Fleck Manor's wall but whom I'd never personally met. They could look down and see me. Mama, too. What did they think of me?
"That you, Ariel?"
I knew that voice anywhere. It was funny how Gregory always seemed to magically appear when I found myself immersed in contemplation. There he was, in front of me, his jacket tossed over his shoulder. He must have been out walking or something.
"It's me," I said, beckoning for him to come over. "Don't worry, I'm not sick or anything. I just wanted to sit for a while. What are you doing out?"
He sat down beside me. "Don't know. Felt like walking. It's a strange night."
"Strange?"
"Well, maybe not strange, but there's something in the air." He gazed up at the sky. "Stars don't look the same tonight."
"Mmm."
There was indeed a strange foreboding in the stars that evening. Only star-gazers like Gregory or myself can detect it, I think. Perhaps it was my natural bent towards romanticism, but I felt a little bit like Benvolio hearing Romeo wax poetic over the stars when we sat together, and in this state I felt free to unload my worries and discoveries.
"I don't love him anymore, Gregory," I said, still looking into the night, something like a sad serenity settling upon me. "You were right."
He perked up. "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Y. I don't love him anymore."
The calmness of my tone juxtaposed bizarrely with the declaration, I'll admit, which is probably why Gregory got so bamboozled. In fact, he just sort of stared at me for a bit.
"You... don't?"
"I don't." With that, I took his hands and humbly confessed, "You were right all the time, Gregory dear, and I was unreasonable. Mr. Y is the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, or whatever his real name is. I didn't want to believe it. It's true. You were right, I was wrong." I leaned forward and hugged him, filled with contrition. "I'm sorry."
For a moment he didn't respond, obviously surprised, but then he tossed his arms around me and held me close.
"Ariel," his voice chuckled on my left shoulder, a blend of relief and joy. "I was wondering when you'd come around, Signorina."
I'd told him not to use that pet name anymore, but in that moment, all warm and enfolded in his arms, touched by the readiness of his forgiveness, I got all emotional and loved it. I loved him. But, of course, I didn't say so.
"What made you change your mind?" he asked.
I remained in his arms like a little child. "Things."
"Things?"
"Things."
His chest rose and fell with a sigh. "Ariel. So secretive. But are you okay? I mean, when you fall out of love with someone, it can be saddening."
The spicy aroma of his cologne was making me pleasantly drowsy. "I'm not sad, at least not anymore. But Gregory, you must know that tomorrow is your birthday and I've got a surprise for you. Two, actually. One is little and the other is big. Will you be free in the evening?"
"Two surprises?" He kissed my scalp and hugged me tighter. "I will make sure that I am."
"Good. You get one surprise in the morning, and another in the evening."
It was one of those unforgettable evenings, now that I look back upon it. The last day of the season was three days away, tomorrow Christine Daae was set to arrive, and as Gregory and I headed home for bed, leaving the Ayrie and its dreams of phantoms and operas behind us, my heart's turmoil became as calm and serene as the stars over my head. The City of Wonders was filled with anticipation.
(Fleck ends the story for now.)
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. Next chapter (19) is the third and final installment of the "One-Armed Angel" subplot, detailing the circumstances surrounding the death of Ariel's mother, Polly, and the significance of Ariel's emerald ring. It's *really sad*, not gonna lie.
2. Christine, Raoul, and Gustave make their debut in the chapter after the next one! (20) Yay! Once they arrive, you'll recognize the flow of the "Love Never Dies" story. The story thus far encompassed the "Three month gap" between the "Til I Hear You Sing Reprise" and "Christine Disembarks". Ah, I feel like I've gone on a grand journey! Thanks for tagging along!