Chapter XX: M. Ivanovich Reminisces

Later that day, I had a piano lesson with M. Ivanovich. I was struck yet again by how very old he seemed as he sat next to me, asking me to repeat my homework once again because his mind had drifted off the first time. I played the first of Mozart's variations on "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" a second time and waited for my teacher's comments. They were very brief and vague.

"All right, my dear, you go on with the next variation for next time, yes?"

I had by now reached a point where M. Ivanovich's absentmindedness had ceased to annoy me, so I just nodded and put the Mozart variations back into my bag. As I did so, I remembered what I had been meaning to ask M. Ivanovich for a while.

"M. Ivanovich", I said, "do you know Erik, the music theory professor?"

The old man turned around with an energy I would not have expected of him, and stared at me, his eyes suddenly bright and alert.

"Why do you ask?" he said tensely.

"Well, I have him in music theory and he lent me a volume of piano music recently. It was a Russian edition and your name was written on it. At least, I assumed it might be your name, but of course, I may have been mistaken..."

"No, no", the old man shook his grey head, "you are right. I have given Erik parts of my music library. He was once my student."

My curiosity was aroused by this new piece of information.

"What was he like?" I asked. "I mean, I have heard him play the piano, so I know he is a fantastic pianist, as well as a superb singer and a composer, but who is he really?"

M. Ivanovich leaned towards me, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"You would be wise not to ask any questions about Erik", he said gravely.

"I think I already know more than I should", I whispered. "And my cousin Christine is very much involved with him. That is why I need to find out more. I think she is in danger."

"Very well", he answered. "If you really want to know I suggest we go somewhere where the walls don't have ears."

We both left the college and continued towards M. Ivanovich's apartment, which was only a few blocks away. The old man looked furtively about him as we went, and hurried as much as his old legs would permit.

The piano professor's home was smaller than I had expected, but completely filled with books, music and Russian furniture. The living room was dark, and its one large window was framed with heavy red curtains which smelt strongly of tobacco. I sat down in a chair and M. Ivanovich kindly offered me some tea before lowering himself into an armchair with great effort.

"Well", he sighed and peered at me, "what is it that you wish to know?"

I didn't know where to begin. I am not even sure I knew what I was looking for. Some clue, maybe, as to the history of this mysterious masked being, anything that could help me understand his actions, or predict what he might do next.

"Everything", I said. "Whatever you can tell me, Monsieur. The things that have happened at the college lately - the institution secretary and now Carlotta Piangi..."

"Ah, yes", M. Ivanovich nodded, "that is all clearly Erik's doing. They are not the first things to happen over the years however, even though these occurrences are usually few and far between as long as Erik is left alone."

"But then Erik is known to be a dangerous man!" I said. "Why do they keep him at the college?"

M. Ivanovich chuckled.

"Not only do they keep him, they pay him well. Very well indeed. I am sure Erik is able to live quite comfortably with the salary he's given, even though he has fewer students than any other professor."

"But why?"

"Child", M. Ivanovich said, "although you are young, I am sure you are not quite as innocent as you look, given what they show on TV these days. Surely you understand that there may be things our managers would be most anxious for people not to know, let alone their own good wives! Everyone has their secret, and imagine what secrets a man like Erik must know, with his eyes and ears everywhere in that building!"

"So he blackmails the management!" I exclaimed.

"It is my guess", M. Ivanovich said humbly. "Either that, or they are too afraid of his little 'pranks' to fire him. Probably both. You see, they could not get to him, because they do not know where he lives."

"Do you?" I asked.

"Yes", M. Ivanovich said. "But I will not tell anybody. I know Erik too well to betray him. He can not be blamed. You do not blame an ignorant child who does not know better. You understand?"

"You mean he can't help himself?" I said, perplexed. "I know he must have had a difficult life, but surely that can't excuse any crime?"

"No, but it may, perhaps, explain a lot..."

"Please, M. Ivanovich, tell me all you know about Erik!" I pleaded. "I have promised him not to interfere with his plans, but now I am afraid what those plans may be, especially since he has taken an interest in Christine. No, it's more than just interest, it is almost like Erik is obsessed with her. And I'm in part responsible for leading her to him, and I don't know what devilish scheme I have helped set in motion!"

"Calm down", the old man said with half-closed eyes. "I will tell you what I know. My memory may not be the best where names and dates are concerned, but the most important things I remember clearly. I first met Erik more than twenty years ago, during the time of the former headmaster."

"How did you meet him?"

"He was auditioning for the college. It was most extraordinary - nobody knew who this young man was or where he came from, and yet he distinguished himself as the very best among the aspiring students. He was an outstanding violinist, singer and composer, and could easily have been accepted as a major in any of those fields. In fact, he already sounded better than most of the professors, even though his technique was a little unorthodox. As for his skills on the piano, they were rather good but not nearly to match his other abilities. He said this was because he could not take a piano with him when he travelled. That was the first hint I got that he did not actually have a home."

"What happened?" I said.

"Erik would have been accepted, of course, had it not been for his mask. He refused to take it off, and when he was asked about it he became very aggressive. In the end it made all the professors insecure, they did not know what to do with him. He claimed not to have a last name, nor a place or date of birth, nor any previous teachers whom we could contact. It seemed that he had appeared out of nowhere and he would, or could, say nothing more. What sealed it was, I think, when a heated argument about this ensued and one of the professors, a hot-headed violin teacher whose name I don't remember, reached for his mask and tore it off. It was a horrible sight, one that I think nobody had expected. Erik was utterly furious and flew at the violin professor, nearly strangling him. It took four strong men to tear him away."

I looked at M. Ivanovich. His face had turned pale as the memory of this scene played in his mind.

"After that", M. Ivanovich continued, "there was no question about Erik being accepted to the college. So he went on, auditioning for orchestras and operas. It was always the same - he was by far the best musician, but he never got the job. It did not always end as violently as at the college, but somehow or another Erik's mask, or his whole appearance, made people uncomfortable. They were afraid of him, sensing, perhaps, that something was not quite right. In the end they always preferred to hire another, a lesser musician, but someone with references and more agreeable manners. Someone who would do as they were told, no doubt. Erik never did that."

"But how did you come to know him?"

"He came to me. It was a while later, after he had been to many failed auditions and become quite bitter with his fellow musicians. Then one day I found Erik at my doorstep. He had remembered me from the college auditions, I had tried to speak in his defense I believe, but nobody would listen to me - a new teacher, and foreign, at that. I couldn't express myself properly. Ah well! Telling me about his misfortunes, Erik asked me for piano lessons, since he had found out there was an opening as a rehearsal pianist at the opera. I agreed, wondering how he could hope to learn enough to secure such a position with relatively little prior knowledge. Well, he was an amazingly gifted student. I let him practice on my piano, as he had none of his own, and in two months I had taught him everything I knew. He went on to apply for the job, and once again was rejected."

"Because of his mask?" I said incredulously. "I would have thought we were more open-minded that that these days."

"He was never given a reason", M. Ivanovich said. "Anyway, I felt sorry for him since I knew how hard he had worked, so I talked with the headmaster of the college, trying to convince him to hire Erik as a substitute piano teacher, just for a few months, while I was away on sick leave after having had some minor surgery. The headmaster reluctantly agreed, saying it was my responsibility. Erik has not left since, even though his tasks have been varied. Sometimes he has taught the piano, sometimes the violin and now music theory. He has never been very popular among the staff, and his students have acknowledged that he is a very good teacher, but they have always been more or less afraid of him, I gather."

"Did he ever talk about his life, or his past?"

"Only briefly and, as it were, by mistake. He mentioned having spent his childhood in some poor orphanage in eastern Europe, but running away at an early age. Once he spoke very bitterly to me about circuses, and in reply to my question he admitted that he had spent some time touring with a circus, displaying his face for all to see. 'The Monster Magician', they had called him. Musically, I was amazed to find out that he was largely self-taught. He had acquired his remarkable abilities by listening to recordings, watching the circus orchestra and borrowing the musicians' instruments at night, or on rare occasions receiving a lesson in exchange for 'other favors', the nature of which he would not specify to me. I once found him studying very intently a map of the sewers surrounding the college. That is how I found out where he had made a home for himself. It appears he had the same problems with finding a place to live as he did with finding employment. Over the years, I believe he has continued building his home down there until it is quite comfortable - I have heard him imply something of the kind. It was I who, years ago, helped him move my old piano down there. That is the only time I have actually seen his home in the sewers, but I found it so extraordinary that I secretly marked the place on a map when I got back."

I paused a minute to take in all this. The story was terrible in itself, but it was the unspoken parts that horrified me the most. If this was the modified version of his past that Erik had chosen to share with another person, I thought, what would the real, complete, uncensored version be like?

"Do you still have the map?" I asked, trying to be pragmatic and pushing all other thoughts aside for the moment.

"Of course!" M. Ivanovich replied. "I have it right here in the bookshelf... or is it in the bedroom?"

M. Ivanovich looked at me, almost as if he were expecting me to answer his question.

"No", he continued, "it is in one of the bookshelves, surely."

He rose and went to a shelf, rummaging through some old books until he had to admit defeat.

"I am sorry, Peggy", he said at last, "I am very tired at the moment and my memory is not what it ought to be. We will have to call it a day. When I do find the map I will give it to you, but you must promise to use it wisely."

"Of course" I said. There was nothing more I could do right now. After all, I couldn't expect the poor man to remember where he had put a map years ago when he couldn't even remember my name.