NOTES:
I had a surprisingly hard time writing this for some reason, but I believe it'll be smooth sailing from here out. If I don't split the next chapter, we've got three left. I'm real excited to pull out the OMG TWIST. Real excited.
Also, in honor of Niamh Perry's final performance as Miss Fleck, I made a pretty picture, called "Miss Fleck 2". It's over on my deviantart (littlelivewire). Look at it. It's hot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Last Day Of The Season
Off the beaten path of Coney Island, after you passed the boarded-over, ghostly relics of the pre-electricity age and tiptoed through a narrow walk rife with tall grass and chirping insects, it was only a brief walk to the old piers by the sea, and perched on one was a place called Suicide Hall. It was where folks went when they didn't know where else to go. It was a place to step off the edge of the pier and quietly vanish into the surf, vanish from a world in which you were of no consequence, a world in which you were nothing but a failure, and a disgrace, and a fool.
The bar looked as old as the pier itself, constructed with the same loathsome, grimy planks whose filth glistened in the moonlight, with small windows always illuminated by firelight and salt spray, as ominous as the eyes of a brooding phantom; as you approached it, the walk beneath you moaned and creaked as if the spirits of the damned were yet endeavoring to call you back, or to merely bewail their own fates. This was the end of the pier, the end of the line, the end of hope.
The white-souled Flecks would never be seen in a place like this, but Gregory De Rossi would, and that's where I went at two o' clock in the morning on closing day. I hadn't slept.
"Maria," I had mumbled into the telephone sometime earlier. "Get a third ticket. I'm coming back to Italy with you."
A moment of silence, and then she breathed, exultantly, "Oh, Greg! Davvero?"
"Si."
A giggle was audible over the line. "Ah! Mio caro! I knew you would come. I am always right, no?"
"You are always right."
"Esattamente!" Maria chirped. "I will tell Vanni right away. I will speak to you again soon, Greg! Never mind about money, we will take care of it all."
And that was that. After a decade of living a lie in America, I was going back to Italy, back to the Mediterranean sun, back to what I was before, with the people I truly belonged with. A whole ocean would separate me from Ariel, and perhaps our child, for the rest of my life. She would shortly become a dream of the past.
I pushed open the bar door with a grinding scrape that alerted the bartender to my presence.
"Good evening." He looked like the kind of guy who had been on the job long enough to know that his customers weren't exactly life's winners. "Well, technically it's morning, but you catch my drift. What can I get you?"
I wanted Rosso, and was promptly furnished with a full glass. Brushing the crumbs off my counter space, I settled down and sipped, eyes trailing dispassionately over the joint's failed, cluttered attempt at decoration, and wondering where I ever went wrong in my life. That I had a job to do in four hours didn't bother me in the least. I was going to lose my Ariel forever, and with her was all that made life beautiful. All that mattered now was the moment, my heartbeats, the taste of the wine flowing down my throat.
"One more."
There was another patron nearby, on the other end of the counter. I hadn't even seen him. Had his voice not been so familiar, I wouldn't have cared.
"I think you've had enough, don't you?" the bartender asked pointedly, eyeing the pile of empty bottles nearby. "You ain't going to be able to get out of bed for a spell…"
"One more, I said."
With a pained roll of the eyes, the bartender went over to where the beer was kept, and I took a closer look at my drinking companion. I blinked. It was Christine's husband, Raoul, our cantankerous carriage friend, but now he seemed too tired, too drunk to even complain. Clearly he didn't realize this place's reputation. Or did he? More to the point, why was this wealthy husband and father drinking himself into a hole at two in the morning?
He noticed me; I suddenly found myself under the scrutiny of two bleary eyes.
"You," he mumbled. "I've seen you."
I held up my voice trumpet as a clue.
"Yes. You were in the carriage." He frowned at the memory. "You're Dr. Something." With an unsteady lurch, he straightened up and yawned. "What're you doing…in a place like this?"
"Feeling bad."
"Wh…" He burped. "Why?"
"I lost my girl."
A drunk sort of amusement spread across Raoul's face. "You…got a girl? Who…?"
"You've seen her before." I don't know why I was confessing all this to him; I guess I just felt lonely. "In the carriage."
"Wait. Her? That…that bird girl? Who knows that Poe poe…m. The Poe po-um…"
The phrase 'Poe poem' turned out to be quite a tongue twister for the poor inebriated fellow, but he eventually got it all right.
"Yes."
He chuckled. "You two were… Ha, that's strange, I never…"
"Never what?"
It seemed too big a concept for a man as inebriated as Raoul to condense into words, but at length he sort of tossed up his hands and said, with the unknowing condescension so perfected by the wealthy, "I never thought that you people…you know, did that sort of thing."
He shrugged and smiled slightly, as if expecting me to admit that it was true, but I didn't, and he grew uncomfortable and went back to his beer with no further comments.
I couldn't sit there anymore. Down went the rest of the wine, and then I left. I wasn't even good enough to sit in Suicide Hall. Perhaps the pier would be an improvement.
)
(
)
On the way out, I nearly collided with Meg Giry; we both yelped and jumped, and after a brief moment of embarrassment, we recognized the other. In the moonlight, Meg's hair was bejeweled with water and straggled down a red and black bathing suit. She had been swimming? At this hour?
"Ah, pardon me," she mumbled, stepping around me and into the bar, leaving me alone, and before the door shut I heard her tell "Bernie" to get her a cup of coffee.
Coney Island to my right, Suicide Hall to my left, and there I sat on the pier's edge, trapped between heaven and hell.
The door clattered open after a bit, and out burst Meg, along with the sound of Raoul's shout, "Miss Giry! I'm not afraid of him! I've bested him before! And if he ever had the courage to meet me face to face, man to man…!"
But his only reply was Meg's rapidly vanishing form creaking along the pier boards and turning sharply onto land and out of sight.
She had departed so violently that the door had not latched shut. I looked at it, flapping in the sea breeze, troubled, but only for a moment more, for a conversation had begun.
Raoul's voice was silent, and then flabbergasted. "No…" he choked. "No, it can't be…"
"Not afraid of me, you say?" came a sinister voice that was undeniably that of Mr. Y!
I scrambled up and sat at the door's crack, out of sight, and through it I beheld the bewildering scene: Raoul on his feet, unsteadily grabbing the bar, and an unmasked Mr. Y, leaning on it, a sinister smile clashing eerily with his twisted deformity.
"Look at you," he crowed, voice dripping with glee. "Deep in debt. Stinking drunk. Pitiful. The years have not been kind, have they, Vicomte?"
Drunk though he was, Raoul made a mighty effort at lunging, and succeeded only in crashing into a chair. "You!" he yelled, his anger tainted with terror. "Stay back, or I'll kill you, I promise you!"
Mr. Y seemed to doubt it. "So I see. Well, as you've said, you've beaten me before." He crossed over the bar and advanced on him, unafraid. "But that was a long time ago. We were playing a different game. Care to try another?"
"Another what?"
"Another game, a wager, if you will." Mr. Y lowered his voice tantalizingly, his eyes agleam. "With much higher stakes."
It seemed that Raoul wanted nothing more than to strike him down, but the temptation of destroying Mr. Y at his own game was too great. He leaned forward, sneering, but there was hunger in his voice as he asked, "Which would be?"
"Christine."
"Christine?" Raoul cried. "What do you…?"
"Our Christine shall choose at last," Mr. Y replied, drawing closer. "Is she yours, or is she mine? We will let her decide."
"Let her choose." Raoul sat back and laughed, shaking his head with at least some confidence to temper the drunkenness. "She did once; let her do it again! Draw the stakes, deal me in!"
"Very well. If she sings, she has chosen me, in which you immediately leave."
"And if I win?"
"If she will not, I shall pay off any and all debts you have, and let all of you leave."
The man must've been swimming in debt, for his eyebrows flew up at the promise of having it paid off.
"You lost once, and you will lose again," he smirked, more confident than ever. "We've a son, Christine and I. What makes you think she'd forsake our child?"
Mr. Y's eyes became like two glowing embers as he rose to his full height and pulled out the proverbial ace. "Your child?" he inquired ruthlessly, his smile twisting his deformity. "Are you very certain of that?"
Raoul tensed. "What do you mean?"
"Such a child, that Gustave. Strange, musical. Does he remind you more of you…or me?"
"You are lying, bluffing." Raoul leapt to his feet, wildly denying it. "I'll take your little wager. Devil take the hindmost!"
Mr. Y nodded, as though praising a particularly good monologue. "Very well. Let us review the stakes once more." With an alarmingly fast motion, he lunged forward and pinned Raoul to the bar, hissing, "If she walks, you leave together, pockets full, debts paid! If she sings, you leave alone. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" the other growled.
Mr. Y let him go, and they shook hands as though they'd sooner throttle each other.
This new revelation amazed me. Mr. Y had a son! Gustave's little voice, solemnly intoning "The Raven", echoed in my mind. I hustled back to Phantasma.
)
(
)
September the third, 1907: the last day of the regular season. It was, in a practical sense, a fond farewell to the sultry, carefree summer days, an absurd tip-of-the-hat to the never-ending cycle of the seasons, which would shortly cool the air and color the leaves in preparation for the deep freeze of winter, that solemn and strange time.
Phantasma was more mobbed than it had been on opening day, if that were possible. Folks from all over were coming to see our closing day line-up. Christine Daae was a major draw, and Mr. Y had also prepared a special hall of automatons, the "American history" exhibits, and offered free ice-pops by the Crystal Fountain. It was looking to be fun day for just about everyone but Mr. Y's Trio.
Then there was the little dilemma I'd overheard at the bar. Perhaps Christine would not sing at all, and leave with Raoul. Perhaps she would, and stay with Mr. Y. As I walked to breakfast, I looked at myself and the whole world of Phantasma as though I were truly seeing it for the first time. It was all for that woman. Ten years of back-breaking work, all for this one uncertain moment tonight.
I looked up at the Ayrie, into those glass eyes. It occurred to me, for the very time, that they were just glass.
)
(
)
Breakfast might have been livelier if it weren't for the previous night's shocking events. As I walked to my seat, there was chatter, but it was subdued, nervous, as though Alf would presently come to attack someone again. Damien and Genevieve had come together, which surprised me, although I didn't notice them at first. They had chosen seats off to the side and were eating wordlessly, faces pale, behaving as though they had no right to be eating in public in the first place. Alf and Ariel were not present.
"Good morning, De Rossi," greeted little Mr. Geddes behind his newspaper, which obscured his whole body. "Hell of a night, last night. Have you seen the Flecks yet?"
"That's what I was going to ask you."
"Ah." He put the paper down. "I'll be interested to find out just what in the heck happened last night. I tell you, I've known Alf even before he was married, and I've never seen him get that angry, not even close to it. First time I ever heard him swear, too!"
I realized I'd never heard him swear before then either.
"Listen, De Rossi, you're sort of in the know with them; do you have any idea what went on?"
"Well…" I began cautiously, unsure of what to say. "I can't…"
Ultimately, I didn't have to say anything, for at that moment, Alf and Ariel entered the tent, and with them came an expectant, nervous silence.
Ariel looked as though she hadn't slept all night. If it weren't for her rigid corsets holding her posture erect, she likely would've just slumped over, and Alf didn't look much better. The last time the Fleck duo looked this bad, they were standing beside Polly's open coffin, shaking hands.
It seemed that Alf had an announcement, because he didn't sit down. Ariel gave me a sad good morning nod and went over to hug Genevieve.
"Er, everyone," announced Alf meekly. "I want to apologize for the way I acted last night. It was completely unacceptable. What's more, I have been tremendously unfair to the Pennysworths. None of what I accused them of is true. I apologized to them last night privately, but now I do so publicly."
At this, Damien nodded seriously. Ariel was still hugging Genevieve, and judging by the way she was stroking her hair, one or both of them had burst into tears.
"Furthermore," Alf went on, "I used poor language in the presence of a great many ladies, to say nothing of how frightening I must have been. I am very sorry, everyone. Nothing like this will ever happen again."
There was a great nodding of heads and murmurs of forgiveness as he shuffled awkwardly to his seat, his great tattooed head bowed. Ariel finally released Genevieve and wiped her eyes. A last kiss on the cheeks passed between the two of them, and then my beloved Signorina (if I could even still call her that) came over to me and sat down.
We did not speak. There was nothing to say. I wondered if I ought to tell her what I had overheard at the bar that morning regarding Mr. Y and the parentage of Gustave, but decided against it, seeing no need to deepen her disillusionment with the world of men.
)
(
)
There were stacks of flyers on Mr. Y's piano, huge stacks; it was the first thing I noticed when we entered. The Ayrie was tidy. Over in the corner, Mr. Y was sitting cross-legged on a couch, his lap covered in paper, snapping his fingers like a metronome and humming as he made quick notations. He was clearly composing.
He stopped abruptly when he saw us. "Ah," he said. "Good morning. Last day of the season. Big night tonight."
Knowing what I did about his little wager, I nodded.
"Today you do your big promotional stunt at the beach; I've got the balloon prepared and these flyers ready. Noon is when you'll need to do that. Now, if you've no questions, you two…" He gestured to me and Alf…"May go. I would like Miss Fleck to stay for a bit."
Alf didn't move. Having learned what he did about Mr. Y's identity, he was clearly prepared to take a more suspicious approach to Ariel being left alone with him.
Mr. Y felt his unease and immediately bristled. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Fleck?"
"Yes." Alf replied firmly, not skipping a beat. "I would prefer it if she came with me."
There was the loudest silence I ever heard as Mr. Y stared at Alf like he was insane, eyes flashing, and then he raised his head a bit, his voice frigid. "But I would prefer it if she were to stay here, as I have said."
Alf sat down on a nearby chair. "Then I will stay here, as well."
Ariel blushed and looked from me, to Alf, to the door, to Mr. Y, at a loss for what to do.
"There is no business between you and my daughter that her father cannot be present to witness as well," Alf explained, in what was clearly an ultimatum.
It was clear that Mr. Y had never expected to be crossed, especially not by ol' Alf, and both rage and shock were battling it out on his face, which was trembling quite alarmingly. But suddenly, it softened, and he became completely calm again. It seemed a funny thought had broken up the contention.
"My dear sir," he chuckled lightly. "If you are only now looking to be an effective chaperone, you have failed."
Alf frowned, blinking. "Failed?"
Mr. Y massaged his unmasked temple, sighing, trying to find words to express himself. His cheeks grew pink. At last he looked towards all three of us in an awkward sort of way.
"I was hoping to deal with this privately, but…" He shrugged and folded his hands. "Listen. I understand that sexuality is a natural part of life, but, please, the next time you…" He pointed at Ariel…"And you…" He pointed at me…"Decide to enjoy each other, please refrain from doing so in my garage. The noise was very alarming to come home to."
Then Mr. Y put his face in his hand.
I think Ariel and I both died at the exact same time. If I didn't, I shortly would, for Alf's face looked as though the first rays of hellfire were dawning across it as he slowly turned in my direction. I was a dead man.
"I understand there's a lot on your mind right now," sighed Mr. Y, referring to Alf, who wasn't hearing, "But do remember the flyers at noon."
Before he even gave us the go-ahead to leave, I turned and ran for my life. Out the Ayrie door, down the stairs, faster than I'd ever gone down them, towards the outside entrance. I was fast.
Alf, unfortunately, was a lot faster.
Before I could even grab the door-latch, his hands crushed the collar of my jacket, sending my rubber snakes flapping and knocking me off balance. An almighty thrust, and I found myself nailed to the floor, my shirt screwed up in Alf's fist, and I was inches from his infuriated face.
"So," came his sepulchral growl, which echoed horribly in the staircase and reverberated through my skull. "It wasn't just some strange man off the street."
From far above, I could hear creaks and Ariel's feathers shuffling as she hurried down the stairs, crying, "Oh, Daddy! No! Don't! Daddy!"
My blood froze as I awaited the merciless beating I deserved, but it didn't come, at least not yet. A crack seemed to pierce Alf's hardened face. Sorrow was contaminating his fury.
"It was someone…" His growl was downright hurt. "It was someone I trusted."
And then his eyes sort of unfocused and grew misty, and his grip loosened. My stomach turned with disgust at myself for hurting the man. I just wished he'd beat me instead. Anything but this.
"Daddy!" Ariel continued to scream, still running down, coming closer. "Please, don't!"
But Alf had let me go. Where he had just looked grief-stricken, there was blankness, a dumb, unknowing sort of expression. He seemed to be looking behind me. A quick look verified that there was nothing there, but he continued staring, and all at once, he brought one of his hands up to his face and started curling his fingers.
"Alf?" I waved my hand, but he didn't seem to see.
Ariel finally reached the base of the stairs, chest heaving and hat askew.
"Ariel, he's acting strange," I interrupted, before she could say anything. "Like he doesn't see me."
"Doesn't see you?"
"No. See, he's just staring…"
"Daddy?" She hustled over, and after one look she quickly ordered, "Help me sit him down. He's about to have a fit."
Easier said than done, coaxing a big fellow like Alf down, but between the two of us we managed it, and once on the floor he clenched his fists and started to shiver violently, as though seized by a bitter wind. Ariel sat beside him and stroked his head, her countenance grieved.
"Open the door," she said. "If he comes around in the dark, he'll be afraid."
The shaking went on for only about a minute more. Not long after I propped open the base entrance, Alf's hands dropped, his muscles relaxed, and he started feeling stupidly around, as though he had transformed into a big toddler. The abrupt change from murderous Daddy to helpless seizure victim was really jarring.
"Ariel," he mumbled sadly, his face disturbed, like she was missing. "Ariel's hurt."
Ariel kept stroking his head, as tender as a mother. "Ssh," she hushed him. "I'm not hurt."
He blinked and looked right at her. "Ariel's hurt."
"I'm Ariel, Daddy," she told him. "And I'm not hurt. See? Ariel's not hurt."
Alf looked away as though no one would ever understand, and his eyes fell on me. "Where?" he asked.
Ariel answered for me. "You're in the Ayrie, Daddy. The base of the Ayrie. You'll feel better in a few moments."
It was surreal, sitting beside Alf in the dark, listening to him ramble about nonsense in Ariel's lap, but at length his wits returned to him. Suddenly he blinked hard and jolted. He coughed and sat up; one could tell by the look in his eyes that he was truly coherent again.
"Did I…?" he started to ask.
"A seizure? Yes, you did, Daddy," Ariel replied, patting his back. "A shivering one. No thrashing. Fairly quick. You talked for a little while, too."
Alf stretched and sighed unhappily. "Talking too, hmm?" He looked towards the stairs. "Did I fall down?"
"No, we were already all the way down. You started doing the hand thing, you know?"
"I know." Grimacing, he rose to his feet and stretched some more. "So we've already been in the Ayrie, then. I declare I don't remember much of anything about today now, dang it. What did Mr. Y tell us to do?"
The Alleluia chorus started singing majestically in my heart, although I knew it was awful to revel in Alf's mental issues. He didn't remember anymore! The seizure had wiped it clean!
Ariel shot me an equally amazed look before gently telling him, "He just told us to remember the flyers at noon. The hot air balloon, remember…?"
A scraping clatter far above indicated that Mr. Y himself was coming down.
"And we need to hurry along now, Daddy," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door. "We'll be late."
So out went the Flecks, but before they vanished around the corner, Ariel put her hand on her face like a mask while making her other yap, all in the space of about three seconds. Then they were gone.
"Is that you, Mr. Y?" I called up, feigning ignorance.
"Yes!" he replied. "I decided I'd come down and verify that I still have a living Trio."
"You do! I know Alf…er, Mr. Fleck…looked a bit murderous up there, but it was all in the heat of the moment. He's quite alright with it now."
All I heard were footsteps for a while. It was a skeptical sort of silence.
"So he truly isn't upset? He calmed down just like that?"
"Just like that."
A last few stairs, and then Mr. Y was at my level. "You'd think he'd be furious by the way he insisted on chaperoning me and Miss Fleck," he marveled, shaking his head. "As if I were some sort of dangerous fiend."
I chuckled at the irony. "Ha. Dangerous fiend."
"In hindsight, I suppose it was foolish of me to blurt that out, though; I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking. I was flustered, I suppose. I apologize."
"Ah, well, it's fine now. No harm done. If anything, I guess I should apologize for the lady and I, you know…in your garage."
"I'll forgive you if you tell me one thing." He pointed towards the garage door with an outstretched palm. "Why in there?"
"Ah…" I looked into the grimy depths of the place and shrugged in embarrassment. "Well, she left a hanky in the carriage, you know, and she had to bend over to pick it up…and, ah…"
He snorted with amusement, raising his hand. "That is sufficient, thank you."
"So you're not upset, sir?"
"I have issues far more pressing than the sex lives of my employees," he said smoothly. "Anyhow, please inform Miss Fleck that I moved the white dress down into her dressing room, just in case she needs to understudy tonight."
I knew full well why, but I felt the need, if only in a morbid way, to see evidence of the wager. "Understudy? The show is only hours away."
Mr. Y turned, his face unreadable, and ascended the stairs. "Anything," he said softly, "Can happen."
)
(
)
The noonday sun put a halo of light around the cheery globe of the hot air balloon as Alf verified and re-verified that it was safe to fly. Ariel and me stood nearby, arms full of flyers.
"Looks reasonably sound to me," the man declared. "Come on in!"
I still couldn't believe that he seriously had no memory of what had been revealed in the Ayrie, but unlike before I felt no sense of victory, only shame. I'd been given a preview of the devastation that Alf, my good ol' friend of ten years, would be feeling in a few days when my sorry hide was good and gone.
The flyers were piled on one side of the basket, which took up a surprising amount of space that had not been accounted for. I'd say a little less than half.
Ariel put a foot in, mentally measuring with a grim expression. "Er, how are both we and the flyers supposed to fit?"
A plan was concocted to make the piles higher and put some of them sideways, which helped, but there still wasn't much free space, and noon was gaining on us. We had to make do, and by that I mean we crammed ourselves in that basket like a tin of freakish sardines. I ended up squashed against the basket wall, next to a sideways stack, and since big Alf could only fit towards the door, where most of the flyers had been removed, Ariel had to press her body right up against mine.
"This," grunted Alf, squeezing in, making her press closer, "Is unreasonable."
Up we went. A spot of pink bloomed on both of Ariel's cheeks. Every time she breathed, I could feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine, and she knew it. We kept our eyes to the ground, but this was a completely useless tactic considering what we knew about the other's body. No imagination, just reality. It was impossible to be so close to Ariel, and not recall the round, pleasing softness of her belly and thighs, so unlike the sharp, soldier's armor of a corset, comforting and…
No! I swallowed and concentrated on the tallest protruding buildings growing smaller, ever smaller. Not bigger. Certainly not. That would be embarrassing.
Ariel felt the same, I could tell, but with her Daddy right there I bet it was even worse for her. She knew a couple things about me in terms of inches that would bleach the tattoos clean off his face.
And after this, we would never see each other again. Oh, it was not fair. It was not fair at all, that god-awful balloon ride. It made me very sad.
"There's the beach!" sighed Alf gratefully as it came into view at last. "Now we can finally rid ourselves of these flyers!"
All along the strip of sparkling sand, people traipsed about in varying states of undress, lugging picnic baskets and sitting under multicolored circles of umbrellas, carefree as you like, and when we floated into view all their shining faces lifted towards us. At length they were all grouped together, pointing and cheering. I guess they thought we were coming to toss out free ice-pops.
We didn't land, but we lowered a bit so they could hear our spiel.
Ariel would remember the lyrics, but I sure don't. In a nutshell, we invited everyone (in three-part harmony) to come see Christine Daae, and then we finally got to throw those damn flyers out of the basket. It was only thing we were genuinely enthusiastic about all day.
People ran about, jumping and catching them like it was free money as we tossed and tossed, sending Christine's beautiful face soaring through the noonday sky by the dozens, and at last there was space in the basket for us to move apart and have some breathing room.
"Thank God!" puffed Alf, stretching.
Ariel, however, didn't immediately move. She remained against me for a moment, giving me a little look only I could understand, and then she sadly moved away. Watching the thousands of Christines flutter around Ariel's white little face reinforced my belief that I would shortly lose someone who was utterly irreplaceable, one in a million, a true original. The ocean waves in the distance crashed, along with the last vestiges of my joy. We were down to the last few hours.
)
(
)
The next thing I remember is sitting in the wings of Mr. Y's concert hall with Alf and Ariel, watching the last thing on earth I needed to see, namely, "Bathing Beauty, a charming little number in which Meg eventually ended up topless. I just looked at the floor. Ariel looked like she was praying. Alf was having an intense conversation with a stagehand about things "in his day". Just about everyone but us was having a good time.
You'd think that Ariel and I would be talking, seeing as we only had a few hours left together, but we didn't. We couldn't. It was something between sadness and denial. If we were to talk, that would be like admitting we only had a little while left, and it was too painful to even think about. Two performances left before Christine, and then Phantasma's first season, as well as my relationship with Ariel, would be over.
When at last Meg and her girls went prancing offstage, I announced Alf's performance with the last of my enthusiasm and sat right back down with Ariel.
"Christine's on after this," Ariel said.
I didn't look at her. "Yes."
Alf slid weights onto the curling bar, counting them out in fifty-pound increments as everyone clapped and oohed.
"I have a lot of penance to do," Ariel randomly said again.
"Penance?"
"Yes. Last night, Daddy took me to church so I could make a full confession and be absolved." She pulled a rosary out of her pocket, and then put it back again. "I've been carrying this about all day, trying to get a head start."
"Oh."
I was not trying to be heartless, giving her one-word responses like that. On the contrary, I was so hurt and sad that it was all I could take, just to answer her at all. I wished she would just be quiet.
"When are you leaving?" Ariel asked feebly, tears filling her eyes as she watched her father.
My throat swelled. I wanted to say never. "Giovanni and Maria say I may come to their place tonight, to be ready to leave in a day or so."
Silence. Alf lifted a dumbbell vertically, to great uproar.
Ariel wiped her eyes. "Charles made me a nest, you know."
"The peacock?"
"Yes. Just today. He stole bedding from the other birds and made a nest, right on my throne. I can't believe it. All ready for me…" She touched her belly…"To lay an egg in it. As though he knows…"
I tried to watch Alf pick up an engine, tried to forget that I'd soon never see him or Ariel (or my baby?) again, but the scene swam and blurred in front of me. "Why are you telling me this?" I almost yelled, but only succeeded in croaking. "Why now?"
"Because," Ariel murmured hopelessly, "I'll never be able to tell you anything ever again."
Our eyes met in the dimness of the wings, as they had done so many times before throughout the course of ten years, but never as heartbroken as this. I would remember her eyes. Yes, I would always remember them, their thoughtful bands of green, the way they lit up just for me. But then, for all time, my mind would always wander back to this moment, the moment I told her goodbye, on Phantasma's closing day.
I reached out, although I shouldn't have, to touch her shoulder, and before I knew it she was digging out a hanky to dry my eyes.
Applause exploded out on stage. Alf took his last bow of the season and walked off, taking a long drag from a cup of water.
"Christine's up next," he puffed after a swallow, but when he looked at us he froze. "Why…you're both crying! What's wrong? Ariel, are you feeling sick?"
"I'm leaving, Alf," I said.
He stared at me. "Leaving?" he growled in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"
"Leaving with my brother, going home to Italy." I couldn't look him in the eye. "Going back with my family. I didn't know how to break the news, so I hesitated, and now it's come down to the last minute."
"So you're leaving tonight?"
"No. I'm staying with Giovanni tonight, but I'm leaving tomorrow, first thing in the morning."
Ariel's face slid into her hands with a pitiful little choke, and Alf took her into his arms, his eyes sad and his tattoos still and solemn as a statue.
"First thing in the morning?" he repeated, as though he couldn't believe it.
"Yes."
He comforted Ariel for a minute, and then he told me, softly, "We'll certainly miss you, De Rossi. Sure we will. You've been a real friend to everyone here. We'll hate to see you go. But you've got your family. You never know how long you've got left with them."
I nodded, unable to speak.
"Thank you," he went on, extending his hand, "For everything you've done for me and Ariel. You're one of the most reasonable men I've ever known."
A tear snuck into my collar as I shook his hand, and all at once he hauled me into a rough embrace, after which we were both rather overcome, and Alf had to blow his nose. Suddenly Ariel jumped up and hugged us both, and we hugged her, and all three of broke down and wept. It was one of the last things we ever did together as the Trio.
"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a young man better suited to announcing a diva than me, "Christine Daae."
We wiped our eyes to behold the woman herself, clad in a dress of lavender and gold, making her way to center stage like an empress. For all her beauty, however, the fear in her eyes infected it all with a spasm of tension that only I fully understood. This was more than stage fright. This was a decision.
In the wings opposite us, I made out the whiteness of Mr. Y's mask. He was watching. A clatter of heels, and suddenly Raoul was nearby, on our side, his jaw tight, a letter in his hands. Two men, one woman standing between them. This was the moment, the crossroads, and with a wave of the baton, the orchestra played the melody we'd all come to know.
Christine stood as though transfixed in her little spotlight. She did not look at either side. Her eyes were closed, her hands folded. The violin gently hummed her cue.
Silence. Neither orchestra nor singer made a sound. Raoul leaned forward. Mr. Y grabbed the wall. Still, Christine was silent. She trembled.
"Is she ill?" Alf whispered. "She's not…"
But at that moment, Christine raised her head and issued forth the first few notes, as beautiful and terrified as a little bird.
"Who knows when love begins?
Who knows what makes it start?
One day, it's simply there, alive inside your heart…"
Mr. Y stepped forward, the first light of ecstasy illuminating his eyes. He had done it.
"It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul,
It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control…"
Christine turned to him briefly, but then she looked at Raoul, her eyes begging him to understand.
"Try to deny it, and try to protest,
But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed…"
The man bowed his head in defeat.
"Love never dies, love never falters,
Once it has spoken, love is yours.
Love never fades , love never alters,
Hearts may get broken; love endures.
Hearts may get broken; love endures."
Tearing himself away from the sight, Raoul smoothed out his letter and approached Alf.
"You may inform your boss," he intoned darkly, "That I have left alone, as I promised. He has won."
Alf's forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. "I don't understand."
Raoul began walking away. "The wager. Christine is his."
"His?" sputtered Alf, aghast. "But she's your…wait!"
He rose and followed the man offstage, protesting all the while, leaving my beloved Ariel and me alone in the dark wings. I clasped her close to my heart and listened on.
"And soon as you submit, surrender flesh and bone,
That love takes on a life much bigger than your own.
It uses you at whim, and drives you to despair,
And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear.
Love gives you pleasure, and love gives you pain.
And yet, when both are gone,
Love will still remain."
I hugged Ariel tighter. Yes. That was so very true.
Across the way, Mr. Y was in thrall to Christine's music, clutching his hand to his heart, his eyes closed, his dream to hear her sing for him again being fulfilled at last. If he were not a man he might have been lifted from the ground like an angel, so intense was his joy. He was like a different person. Alf rejoined us, but was silent.
Christine looked at him and rang forth, triumphantly, the orchestra swelling with her:
"Love never dies, love will continue,
Love keeps on beating when you're gone!
Love never dies, once it is in you…
Life may be fleeting, love lives on!
Life may be fleeting…"
The woman lowered her head, smiling, the last notes of her aria lingering like a breeze of perfume.
"Loves lives on."
The house rose to their feet as one to applaud her, followed by the backstage, everyone in the wings, and even the kids operating the lights. Alf dabbed his eyes and kissed his wedding band. Mr. Y, his face radiant with stage lights and joy, took to the stage with a bunch of white roses, which he humbly presented to Christine. She accepted them into her arms, and together, they bowed as the curtain fell.
"Ah, Christine!" he cried. "Quel triomphe!"
She embraced him, breathless. "Il était beau, Erik. Ah, c'était merveilleux !"
The backstage continued to applaud them as they hurried off to the dressing room. And that was that. The season was over. Freaks and stagehands alike started toasting each other and cracking out the cigars.
But all I knew was Ariel, who was still reclining in my arms.
"My love will live on, too," she whispered to me.
"Well, that's a wrap, folks!" I heard Mr. Geddes cheer. "Our first season!"
There was scattered applause and whistles. With loud snaps, the stage lights were shut off, and the rumble of the audience could be heard as they spilled back out into Phantasma.
"Here's to the 1908 season being even better!" added Damien. "C'mon, everyone, let's head down to the dining tent and have a celebration!"
"A celebration? Swell!"
"I'm up for a celebration! Where'd I leave my hat…we need to put our costumes away first…"
At length, everyone left, giddy with mirth, cheering about parties and champagne, and when the doors shut behind them, the concert hall seemed to suddenly become a ghost town. Me, Ariel, and Alf just stood there together, quiet, like three ghosts.
"He's gone, that man," Alf eventually growled. "That Raoul fellow. He isn't coming back for his wife; no, not even for his…well, the child."
Ariel sat up a little. "What do you mean, Daddy?"
"This whole…" Alf struggled for a word. "This whole set-up, this song, this evening…all of it was just that. A set-up. A wager. Mr. Y has won."
He said it with enough distaste to pique Ariel's curiosity even further. "He won?"
"Yes, dear. He won Christine."
Won Christine?" she stammered, oblivious. "When?"
Alf raised his eyes to the stage, as though he were seeing it again.
"Just now, singing that song. Raoul told me. It was a bet. Apparently, little Gustave is actually Mr. Y's child." His voice darkened. "Conceived prior to Christine's marriage to Raoul. Tonight, they made a bet. If Christine didn't sing, she would go on living with her husband and have their debts paid. If she did, and we know she did, then she would stay with Mr. Y, and Raoul would have to leave, alone, which he did in my presence."
This revelation wasn't new to me, but Ariel was stunned into speechlessness.
"I know," said Alf. "I feel the same."
"His child." Ariel breathed. "Mrs. Y's own son. Do you…do you think he knows this, Daddy?"
He tossed up a hand. "Not the foggiest idea. But I'll tell you what…" He looked in the direction where Mr. Y had gone. "I don't have a whole lot of respect for men who make children and then hit the trail."
That cut me to the core. Ariel's woeful eyes glanced at me and then looked away.
"But that's his life, I guess." Alf grunted. "We'll just forget it. Do the others know that you're going, De Rossi?"
"No."
"Huh! Well, we ought to tell them, throw you the celebration…"
The pain I felt in the face of Alf's good-hearted friendship was almost too much to take. If he knew why I was leaving…
"It's really not necessary, Alf."
But his big arm went slapping around my back. "Nonsense! I insist! You simply must have a celebration. No arguments! I guess I can spend a little money on a friend like you, this one last time."
To hide her sudden tears, Ariel spun around and knelt next to a discarded pink bathing costume that had been forgotten after the "Bathing Beauty" routine.
"Oh, look," she sniffed, picking it up and heading rapidly away. "Meg forgot one of the bathing suits. I'll put it in her dressing room for her."
Alf's grip on my shoulder loosened a bit as he watched her go, able to see right through her cover. He bowed his poor old head.
"She's really going to miss you, De Rossi," he told me unhappily. "Please be sure to write to her often. She'll likely have some difficult times ahead. I take it she's told you about…?"
"The baby? Yes." I swallowed. "I know all about it."
We headed down towards where Ariel had gone, away from the stage and into the narrow hallway of dressing rooms. Madame Giry passed us with an armful of props.
"I hope Ariel isn't too broken up," Alf sighed, glancing at the doors for Meg's name as we went along. "She doesn't need it right now. Starting tomorrow, I'm putting her to bed for rest; we need to start watching for signs of morning sickness—"
Mr. Y's yell, coming from the next dressing room, shattered the silence. "…a child that isn't his! Why, I…Mr. Squelch! Is that you out there?"
He immediately stuck his head in. "Sir?"
It was a strange scene. In the dressing room, Mr. Y was leaning over the table as though he would dash it to pieces, and off to the side, Christine was hurriedly tossing a jacket over a walking dress, the picture of motherly panic. When we hustled in, he ran over, wasting no time.
"Raoul de Chagny," he demanded, seizing Alf by the shoulders. "Did you see him leave? Was he alone?"
There was the slightest hint of haughtiness to Alf's reply. "I saw him leave in a hired carriage with my own eyes, sir. There was no one with him."
"Are you quite certain he left here alone?"
"Absolutely certain. If I may ask why…?"
"Gustave is missing," Christine moaned. "He was meant to be here, in this dressing room, waiting for me; I don't understand where else he could possibly have gone."
Alf peeked behind him, out the door. "Were there any unusual people here backstage?"
"Madame Giry." Mr. Y murmured it quietly, but darkness entered his eyes. "She was here. Yes, and that comment she made…"
"Comment?"
"The vicious back-biting snake!" he seethed, turning and smacking the dressing table. "That she would dare….no! Quickly, you two, go find her!"
Scarcely able to refuse in the face of such fury, Alf and me headed back into the hall, bewildered and at a loss for what to do next.
"We just saw her going that way," Alf said, pointing in the direction we'd come. "Maybe she didn't get far! Land sakes, if life isn't one thing after another anymore!"
Back down the narrow hall, into the stage wings, around the stage door. The place was dark and empty, just as we'd left it. All we got in reply to our cries were echoes.
"Madame Giry!" I called. "If you can hear me, Mr. Y needs you! Madame Giry!"
Alf went around the front of the stage. "Madame Giry!"
"Eh? Who is calling?"
The woman herself appeared in the hall. Not having a free hand available, she propped open a side door with her foot and stumbled in, carrying costumes in a box.
"Mr. Y needs you, this instant," Alf said. "It's very important."
Unmoved by our urgency, she sniffed and kept walking with her box.
"So now he needs me," she said with a sarcastic little chuckle. "You may tell Mr. Y that if the issue is particularly pressing, he may come see either Meg or I at our home, if he can stand to condescend to our level. Good evening."
Alf followed her. "You don't understand. He's insisting."
"I shall see to it that the blame lies with me, not with you. Good evening."
"But Gustave…!"
This only lent a furious speed to her steps. "His love-children are no concern of m-"
Alf was a gentleman, but I wasn't. I clenched my hand around the retreating woman's upper arm, causing her to stop so abruptly that her box went tumbling to the floor.
"I don't have all day, lady," I told her bluntly. "Would you prefer to walk or be carried?"
)
(
)
She preferred to walk, although she hissed like a French alley cat the whole way, promising retribution and torture for this breach of propriety, but I still hauled her along, not giving a damn one way or the other. Alf toddled along in tow, with a flustered I'm-sorry-it-came-to-this expression.
"What is the meaning of this?" she shrieked upon seeing Mr. Y. "How dare your minions manhandle me in this fashion? I demand an answer!"
He came back twice as vigorously. "The boy, woman!" His eyes narrowed. "What have you done with him?"
Shock rendered her speechless for a moment, but she regained control and met his gaze, unafraid. "The…boy? You think I took the boy? Why would I do such a thing?"
Mr. Y raised his eyebrows, as though expecting an explanation. Christine folded her hands and trembled.
"Do you think," Madame Giry sneered, "That I don't know who he is?"
MORE NOTES:
It's an awkward place to cut off, but the next part of this really needs to be narrated by Miss Fleck. Trust me!
Thanks for reading (and tolerating) "City of Wonders"!