Chapter 16: The Boy of Nizhni Novgorod
Captain Lefevre watched the frightening séance from behind one of the foyer's velvet curtains. He had followed Alice Mifroid from the biologist's home, surprised that a carriage had come to take her and Mechnikov to the Paris Opera. From his post in the foyer, Lefevre had seen her receive a small note from the air, read it, and throw it to the flames. The captain's senses were alert—some plan was afoot!
Thus it was that when Don Juan ignited and the lights went out and the gust of wind proved to have no source, Lefevre was not afraid, because he believed that it was all an elaborate scheme.
Not very afraid, at least.
Truthfully, if he allowed himself to consider, he could not fathom how the score had caught fire by itself, or where the wind could have come from, if not from the supernatural.
The Sûreté do not believe in such things.
Nevertheless, Lefevre envied those at the table, as they clung to each other for safety in the darkness while the storm blew itself out. The captain could only cling to his curtains; his pistol little comfort against a ghost in the night. When he heard the lilting violin, he made the brave decision to find its source. The more he considered the matter, the more he was convinced that a man—a live one—was making this music from the shadows. Thus he left the foyer and made his way deeper into the Garnier.
Unfortunately for Lefevre, the sound seemed to come from every side of the Opera. He no sooner reached one dark corner, when his ears would determine that the music came from some place else. In this way he crept past the grand staircase and through a narrow passageway, without noticing where he was going. He moved so swiftly in his zeal to catch the fraud, that he was several cellars beneath the earth when the violin ceased its whimsical score. The music had so hypnotized him that he was now surprised to find himself surrounded by darkness.
He stretched out his hands before him as he crashed into props and scenery. Where were the stairs that had taken him to the cellar? Was this the same hallway through which he had come? Lefevre began to panic as he realized that he was quite hopelessly lost.
Above him, the séance circle was deadly silent. Pallid faces stared at each other with wide eyes, then everyone began to speak at once:
"… impossible for the ink to burn before the paper ignites!" Berthelot was saying.
"How will we find this Russian fellow?" asked Moncharmin.
"… significantly more physical demonstrations than we've ever seen before," Mme. Curie confessed.
"This is prima facie evidence of a true ghost!" proclaimed the judge.
As the guests chattered excitedly, Richard motioned to Mechnikov. "Doctor," he whispered, "I shall be most obliged if you would assist me in finding Ippolitov-Ivanov." Mechnikov nodded, and the two left the table.
Alice observed the new chaos around her while her mind reeled from Erik's performance. He was proving to be a powerful magician—if not more than that! The manuscript had caught fire as if from the Devil's touch! And from whence had come that delightful music? She stared into the foyer's shadows, but her eyes were unable to penetrate the darkness. Was he standing nearby? Could he see her?
Still as a statue and all but forgotten, the Persian sat in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the others. Berthelot and M. Curie were on their hands and knees, gathering some of the flaky ashes from Don Juan Triumphant. Moncharmin was examining the fireplace, trying not to burn himself despite nearly climbing into the fire himself. Mechnikov and Richard whispered quietly in a far corner. On the other side of the table, Mme. Giry recounted more tales of the Opera Ghost's tricks to Mme. Curie and Judge Brousseau. The Persian's strange, jade eyes fixated on Alice Mifroid. He had expected her to insist on investigating the entire Opera after Erik's presumptuous display during the séance, but she merely sat wide-eyed and flushed while the scientists all squawked on about their theories.
The Persian rose and circled the table to the reserved Alice.
She blinked and looked up at him. "Oh…," she stammered, coming out of her thoughts.
He raised a hand to silence her, and nodded his head toward the group at the other end of the table. He sat in one of the vacant chairs beside her and drew near, so they would not be overheard. "Mademoiselle, I've been observing you this evening. You did not come here tonight to solve the mystery in which you previously held such a keen interest."
She lowered her eyes, lest they betray the truth.
"Your face tells me everything, Mademoiselle. You've spoken with Erik, even if you haven't actually seen him. His crimes are all but forgotten."
She felt the room grow unbearably hot. "It's true, Monsieur. When I was at your apartment, I found a key in your fireplace—" at this, the Persian uttered an oath under his breath, "—and I found it fit the lock of the gate on the Rue Scribe. He was at home when I entered…"
"Wallahi! He was expecting Mlle. Daaé! He must have been enraged to see you instead!"
"Yes," she whispered, "he certainly was. Although… in fact, it wasn't me who was in danger, but himself. When he realized that the woman he loved did not—would not—return his sentiments, how he suffered!"
The Persian began to pull on his long, black beard, as was his habit when considering grave matters. "When did this happen?"
"Less than a fortnight ago. To console him, I offered to search for any cure for his deformity… What am I to do, Monsieur? It has been nearly two weeks, and I've found nothing!"
He smiled. "I find it ironic, that a fortnight ago you would have sought his death for his crimes. Your father is the Police Commissioner of the Sûreté, who is overseeing the investigation of the Opera Ghost. You are hiding a criminal from the police, Mademoiselle! Erik's sad existence may have softened your heart, but understand that your actions go against the law, and you put yourself in danger—and not only with the Sûreté!"
"I'm aware, Monsieur," she responded as she crossed her arms. "And I'm sure that you lied to protect me as much as to help your friend. But I honestly think that Erik can change. He… explained to me his circumstances—"
"And what of the murder? The one you told me about in the library—when will Erik change? Mlle. Daaé was naïve, too, and Erik's broken heart provoked his savage vengeance! You risk too much, for who knows what will happen when his expectations are disappointed?"
Alice shook her head. "When he learned that Mlle. Daaé was not returning for him, it was not me whom he wished to kill, but himself. If Erik were the callous man you've described, I'm certain that I would have met my death that day. Have you forgotten your own reasons for saving his life in your country? Your alternating pity, admiration, and fear of him seemed strange to me when you first explained, but now I understand completely."
The Persian read the honesty in her eyes and sighed. To say more would make him a hypocrite; he could hardly defend the half-hearted arguments that he had just espoused. Nevertheless, her complete change of opinion stunned him.
Not long after they had exchanged these words, Mechnikov returned from his conversation in the shadows with Richard. He assisted Alice into her overcoat before throwing on his own. "I believe we may be in luck," he explained as they left. "Ippolitov-Ivanov is in Paris for the winter, if the gossip columns are to be trusted. Richard and I plan to call on him tomorrow afternoon—the sooner, the better, says Richard. Would you care to join us? This should prove to be most interesting."
At half past three the following day, the two gentlemen and Alice Mifroid called on the Russian composer. A maid led them into a parlor unlike any Alice had ever seen. Like a museum, the brick walls were covered in artifacts from the Middle Ages. Above the mantelpiece was a large image from an illuminated manuscript, enamel painted on gilded paper. Her gaze left the portrait as the three guests sat around a coffee table with a gold ikon of the Holy Virgin resting on top. The ikon was at least as old as the illustration, Alice guessed, and was equally beautiful, despite the heavy wear of the enamel and the absence of some of the pearls bordering the Virgin. Beneath the table, and spreading out beneath the chairs on which the visitors now sat, was a thick carpet in a bright, geometrical design that reminded her of the carpet in the Persian's drawing room, although this one had straight lines and sharp angles instead of gently curling and elaborate florettes. Only an upright piano in a corner revealed the house to be that of a musician. The room was so unlike Mechnikov's parlor that Alice wondered if the two men were indeed of the same nationality.
She did not ponder long, however, before the man himself entered the room.
Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov was rather short and rotund, with pudgy hands that moved constantly when he talked, as if he conducted his conversations in the same manner that he conducted an orchestra. Alice was disappointed—was this indeed the man that Erik had put forward to lead his Opera to glory? Had there been some mistake?
The composer greeted them all warmly—especially Mechnikov, whose accomplishments were the pride of their shared nation. The two debated the contrast between life in Russia and in France, while the maid laid out tea. At last Ippolitov-Ivanov surveyed his three visitors and asked what had brought them to his door.
Richard rubbed his sweaty palms on his knees. "We had a rather unusual suggestion that you perform some of your work at the Opera."
Ippolitov-Ivanov's eyes brightened. "Why, I would be delighted! Quite an honor! And which of these is my admirer who recommended me?"
"We don't know who he is," offered Mechnikov. "In fact, we didn't talk to him directly. He played one of your pieces, which put us on to you."
"How interesting! What did he play?"
"I confess I have forgotten the name, though I remembered hearing it in Moscow six months ago."
Ippolitov-Ivanov leaned forward. "Could you perhaps hum it for me?"
Mechnikov obliged, although no one would mistake him for a performer.
"Aha!" cried the composer. "This is my Procession of the Sardar."
"Procession of the What?" asked Richard.
"A sardar is an Afghan lord," he explained, turning to Richard with amusement. "The Procession is actually the fourth movement of an orchestral suite that I call Caucasian Sketches. Each movement describes a different land of the Caucasus Mountains."
"And have you met a… um.. a sardar?"
Their lively host laughed, his generous front shaking from his mirth. "No, sir, no. But I've seen some of the region, and had plenty of material to inspire me." His gaze traveled around the room, resting on his beloved artifacts. "In fact, I wouldn't have been able to compose these pieces had I not gone to direct a music conservatory in Tbilisi. And I wouldn't have done that, had I not myself received an unusual suggestion."
"How did you receive this suggestion?" Alice inquired, returning her teacup to its saucer. She had a strange premonition that she knew who had sent the composer on his journey.
"I was visiting a fair while in Nizhni Novgorod when I was still a young pupil of the St. Petersburg Conservatory. There was an unfortunate youth there about my same age, whose singing and violin music delighted all of us.
"But the poor young man had a head like a corpse, one with no nose and no eyes that we could see. His music was more beautiful than anything I had ever heard, more lovely than even the music at the conservatory. He sang in a lilting foreign tongue (no doubt that of the gypsies with which he traveled) and played whimsical, intricate airs on his violin.
"I was so fascinated that I returned to the youth's tent later in the evening, when most of the gawkers had gone home. An eager student, I wanted to ask whether he had learned his skills from the gypsies or elsewhere. His performance had so captivated me, that if he had answered that he learned from the gypsies, I would have quit the conservatory right then and joined the vagrants with him.
"But he answered me, in his beautiful voice—which was just as rich when he spoke as when he sang—that should I wish to gain something of his skill, I would best stay as I was until I had a solid foundation in music theory, and then hear everything that I could in Tbilisi. Imagine my surprise at this answer, for my classmates at the conservatory considered the region to be quaint but outdated. Ah, I learned much from my time in that old city, for though the people's traditions are old, it is this timelessness that lends beauty to things. I collected many of my artifacts from there, and they—along with my memory—serve to inspire me. Doubtless the young lad had himself visited the city, for one cannot invoke its magic unless one has made a rigorous study of it. Shall I play the first movement of my Sketches, to demonstrate? Now that you have heard my explanation, you cannot help but hear the exotic land in the music." With a nod from Richard, who had after all come to see if this man could help his Company, the composer rose from his chair and went to the piano, where he began performing another astonishing score.
As she listened to the audition, Alice considered that the boy of Nizhni Novgorod could only have been Erik in his youth. No doubt his talent helped him to endure a most trying time, when he was all but a prisoner of his circumstances, obliged to show the world what he only wanted to hide. Despite his torture, he had patiently offered some advice to a fledgling musician who was his own age, though clearly his inferior in skill. And Erik had been to Tbilisi, that austere but exotic city in the Caucuses. The relics decorating the composer's parlor now had special significance—had Erik's golden eyes once rested on golden treasures such as these?