"So you will be back tomorrow then?" He called but I was already down the steps and definitely not thinking about answering.
The sky behind the Opera Populaire had already begun to darken with an oncoming storm by the time I flagged down a taxi. The ride itself was thoroughly uneventful and the driver spoke very little English. My mind spent the twilight drive through the twisting backstreets of Paris trying very hard to squash any and all memories of the previous hours. Unfortunately due to the supreme irony of the universe, the more one tries to forget the more vivid memories become. In every flash of lightning I saw a white mask. In every dark interlude I saw a black travelling coat. In every wind howl I heard a spinechilling laugh. Imagined of course. The real apparition (if that isn't a contradiction in terms) was nothing less than cordial. If you ignore the whole coming-out-of-a-mirror-and-scaring-me-half-to-death thing…
At last, the narrow streets gave way to a larger main road running alongside the valet parking of the hotel.
Despite a persistent fear of travelling in lifts during thunderstorms there was no way I was taking the stairs to the fourteenth floor. In a terrifying echo of childhood nightmares, the corridor to my suite appeared to lengthen with each step taking me further and further away. A treadmill in reverse. Knowing it was only a trick of the mind did not help. Finally I made it to the infuriating card reader that only lets you in after you've given up after the ninth attempt and chucked a tantrum. Room 1408 had never felt so secure. With the chain and deadlocks on (and being fourteen floors up) there was no way any creepy masked men in capes were gonna get anywhere near the inside of that room that night. Or so I thought.
The hotel room itself was roomier than I was used to. First on your right after entering the room was a sizable kitchenette with a bar fridge barely large enough to stand a bottle of Jack and Coke in, a sink you could sail toy boats in and a cupboard with the bare minimum of crockery, glassware and cutlery. To the left was a bathroom large enough to hold an Olympic tournament in with a proper sized bath with a shower attachment, a wall width mirror over the vanity and a towel warmer. And of course the toilet tucked away behind the door. Further into the room behind a short dividing wall: a twin set of king double beds sat comfortably against the left wall with nearly a full two feet between each other and the side walls. A long, waist height sideboard fitted with draws took up the majority of the wall opposite the beds. In the middle of the sideboard stood a fifty-two inch plasma TV which boasted seventeen channels, of which nine were sport and two were pay-to-watch. Said sideboard and surrounding floor was swamped by the contents of my suitcase which I had unceremoniously dumped out everywhere the week before when I had been looking for something. At the end of the room behind the wooden four seater dining table and matching chairs stretched large glass French doors leading out onto a small but deceptively roomy balcony. I had left the room earlier that day with the grey curtains drawn tightly shut and they had remained so.
In the small kitchenette I filled a large glass with water for the rose then carefully picked my way through the minefield of shoes and clothes to the bed furthest from the balcony, stopping only long enough to throw my coat into a heap on the other bed. I dumped the contents of my jeans pockets onto the bedside table, kicked my boots off and facepalmed into the pillow. I didn't bother getting changed; just slept where I fell.
If I had taken the time to change or even turn my head from the pillow, I would have noticed the lightning flashes illuminating a large shadow across the curtains; the shadow of a figure in a long flowing cape standing upon the patio fourteen floors up in the Parisian air.
The next morning began as uneventfully as the night before had been unsettling. I rose from the bed like a zombie from its grave (complete with groaning half-dead sound effects), staggered into the bathroom for the habitual morning shower and then stumbled out and down for breakfast in the hotel restaurant a full half hour before closing time. A record. Halfway through a second helping of eggs, the concierge materialised with a haughty little ahem attempting to pass itself off as a cough, dangling my poor beaten up phone by the corner from his index and thumb as though it was a dirty little biting animal he found in the biscuit tin.
"Mademoiselle, this… item was left at reception for you."
The huge Union Flag case probably didn't help matters. I quickly palmed it into my back pocket with a general expression of thanks before inquiring as to who had left it.
"A young gentleman, mademoiselle. Well dressed and well mannered." Yeah, like that helped.
"I don't suppose he was wearing a tuxedo and a mask, any chance?" I tried to make it sound flippant, pointedly ignoring the snide remark about my dress sense and general being. The concierge just looked at me as though I had asked him to help assemble a flat-pack guillotine.
"Non, mademoiselle." He replied and left me to the remains of my breakfast.
Despite my better judgement, by midday I had returned to the Opera Populaire. If there is one thing I could not stand it was an unsolved mystery. Also I had a book to write. That was the reason for the trip in the first place and I was not leaving without at least a sketchy draft manuscript to keep the publishing vultures at bay.
The security guard at the front desk was more than helpful in pointing out places and routes of interest on my tourist map of the Opera House. Halfway through highlighting the (now disused) Prima Donna dressing room as a point of interest, a far too cheerful French voice wafted over from the stairwell.
"Ah, so you have returned! I am glad to see." The Vicomte, all smiles and hair gel, bounded over as if his shoe soles were marshmallow.
I murmured some sort of agreement and thanked him for finding my phone amongst all the other junk in the props store. He smiled and with a sweep of his hand announced that it was really no problem but he did not find the phone in the props store.
Yeah, what?
"Your phone was lying … here, on the front desk. Along with these…" Seemingly from nowhere The Vicomte produced a single white rose (dethorned) and a parchment envelope.
I took them both and murmured another thanks.
"Might I suggest," he continued, 'if I may be so bold, that the old Prima Donna dressing room would make a pretty set for at least a small chapter in the Opera House book, hmmm?"
Again, a set of master keys were dropped into my hand.
"I hope it's not as dusty as the props store." I feigned Australian bravado when, in all honesty, the little episode in the props store had left me more than a little uneasy and for all his charms and niceties there was something about the Vicomte de Chagny that just did not sit right.
"I am sure you will manage in whatever conditions you find yourself in." And with that, The Vicomte shooed me upstairs to work.