Chapter 9: The Man at the Station
Christine watched from the rooftop of the opera house as the first snowflakes of winter drifted from the thick, dark clouds. She had dressed warmly on this particular day, but the wool coat didn't cover her mouth as much as she would've liked, even if it did have a wonderfully warm hood. It was silly; missing a lesson because she was 'sick,' but she and her father had always spent the first snow outside, playing and making snowmen or ice sculptures together.
Most likely, M. Erik hadn't bought her excuse at all. She knew that he knew her hoarse throat was faked, and that she had headed to the other end of the theatre, the custodian exits instead of the dorms and kitchen. And he noticed that I am in black. She would have turned a deep shade of pink if she were not already ruddy-cheeked from the cold. He looked at me… Stop it, Christine! It's not as if he were watching because he's attracted to you, she berated herself. What would Papa say? Oh, wait…he would say I need to hurry up and get married.
"I thought I might find you here. Now, may I ask what your purpose is in skipping an important practice and staring listlessly at the sky?" Erik stepped out from behind Apollo's Lyre, startling Christine into a squeak. His cloak stayed still in a windless pause of the weather. He looked like a sinister magister right out of a fairy tale. Christine was sure her face was quite red by now.
"Oh- is rehearsal over, then?" She pulled her coat's sleeves down to cover her thumbs as well as her wrists, shifting her weight nervously. How in the world did my thoughts turn from M. Erik to marriage so quickly? A snowflake landed on her maestro's mask, and she followed its path to his eyes. They reflected the white snow, almost appearing as transparent as ice. He was saying something…
"Mlle. Daae? I repeat: rehearsal is not over." He smirked as she seemed to wake out of her daze for a second time, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "You would not prefer the indoors over this bleak environment?" Her clear laughter surprised him, and he looked at her closely. So she isn't only fair… She is beautiful. Unreachable.
"The indoors over winter's first little bits of snow? I do not know where you come from, M. Erik, but snow is nature's way of giving us the most beautiful playthings!" This tore his eyes from hers for a moment as he glanced at the thin layer of powder on the stone columns around them. She said 'us'. And she is speaking with me, as opposed to complaining…
"I hardly think there is enough snow now to pack into balls of ice and pitch at unsuspecting passersby." Christine smiled as a mischievous thought struck her, and before she could decide not to act on it, she did. Who cared about the consequence?
"No, there isn't, but there's enough to do…this!" she called, scooping some of the frozen dust into her mitten-covered hands and tossing it at her teacher (and perhaps new friend). Erik shook himself out of his casually leaning pose as the ice crystals hit and melted against his cheek. He felt his face shift towards something that might have resembled a genuine smile were it not for the numerous, puckered and toughened scars behind his mask. Lenience took the place of his normally perfectionist attitude.
"Well, if you wish to amuse yourself as such…I will do as you will!" A joyous shriek followed as bits of congealed snow flew from the ground back into the air, rejoining their drifting companions. The man's half-smile widened, to his surprise, as the spirited girl retaliated by flinging frost from the twisted iron railings at his chest.
"Surely you can do better than that, Erik!" His ears warmed at the sound of his first name, and he decided that he quite liked it… Especially from her lips. Well…my insanity progresses. Why wonder whether I am mad or not when this state is the most enjoyable one I've ever been in? He flicked some of the cold particles from his shoulders.
"Of course I can do better," he said, coolly spraying his student with an explosion of gold glitter from up his sleeve. Her gleeful shouts rang out in the frigid air as the snow around her was painted gold and her skin and clothes sparkled. Christine threw the glitter-spangled dust back up and marveled as another spray of the sparkling grains, this time in red, colored the grey stone and white ice.
"How do you do that?" she breathed, looking in awe from her shimmering clothes and hair to Erik. He blinked and saw that strange look on her face again, the one she'd had after seeing his duel with Eter. Iseal said she is…attracted…to me. Now…it isn't so unbelievable. I remember, Christine, your eyes were so bright, just as they are now. He shot a plume of drifting, glassy green into the air above him and crossed his arms.
"A magician never gives away his secrets, especially not to little girls who might be in the audience the next time he performs…" he answered, a sly, crooked grin flashing over his visible face. The 'girl' before him shed her outermost layer and shocked him to the core. Her curves were fully exposed as her black dress pressed to her skin. Not 'girl'…woman.
"In that case," the young lady said, pulling her gloved hands from the sleeves of her coat, "I shall have to find out myself." This spawned a hundred thoughts swirling about Erik's head, all involving the removal of his cloak, jacket, and shirt (simply because the small air pump that propelled the glitter was nestled against his side, and not because his brain had decided to take a turn into some unknown land…no, definitely not). He shoved his somewhat sexual thoughts into a dark corner and found his feet approaching Christine. She didn't seem to mind his getting closer. "Though I must say, you have hidden your sparkle-launching powers quite well until now."
He lifted her chin with his thumb, his leather-encased fingers almost stinging from her body heat. His eyes looked almost reverent as her gently examined his girl's- ahem, student's face. Her cheeks looked even redder because of the mess of shiny 'snow' that coated her…or was she simply blushing? His long, thin fingers brushed against her throat, and for once, he did not feel the urge to throttle someone when his hands touched their neck. He was occupied in absorbing every detail of the sight before him. The shimmery substance had caught in her arched eyebrows and lashes, and colored her eyes a brighter blue than ever.
Christine did her best not to let her nervousness show. He's not going to kiss you, silly girl. Stop thinking that! You don't even know how old he is! But his face grew closer still, eyes locked with hers. She became aware of a hand at her waist, but was strangely comfortable.
"M. Erik?" Marcus' serious, calm voice was heard from the doorway leading down to the theatre supply rooms just below. "I apologize for interrupting you in your…" He paused and awkwardly cleared his throat. "…But there has been an announcement made by Mme. Giry." Erik reluctantly pulled away from the beautiful young lady before him and scowled in the baritone's direction.
"What does she say?" He waited for an answer, watching from the corner of his eye as Christine's face took on an interested cast.
"She says the opera is cancelled. Her daughter has been kidnapped."
…
Marcus ate his lunch of hot, rich stew in silence, much as most of the crews and cast had chosen to do. The opera had seen abortions, scandals and celebrated, wealthy lovers with wives, even murder once or twice, but a kidnapping was different. One could hope that the victim was still alive, and that hope was more painful than the despair over a death.
Across the narrow wooden table, Christine sat and stirred the stew around her shallow bowl. She had eaten even less than usual, and was staring off into space with a rather happy, sleepy look, much like the one seen on morphine or opium addicts. He waved a spoon in front of her face. "You seem blissful today. Have you been smoking something?" he asked, mouth curling into a dry, near-emotionless mask. It's either that, or she has fallen in love, most likely with M. Erik.
She didn't respond, only sighed quietly and twisted her left index finger into her hair, knotting it even more severely than usual. She is clearly in love, and her gaze is directed at someone behind me… He looked, and, sure enough, there was M. Erik leaning against the wall next to the cast iron stove. I thought so.
The heavy wooden door of the kitchen/mess hall creaked open, and everyone looked up, including Christine. Duke Philippe had returned. His flawless dress and tall figure filled the large, warm room with his presence. Then people stopped looking at his clothes and shape, and turned their eyes to his face. It was shadowed over with concern and accents of sorrow.
"Mme. Giry has reported to me this tragedy, and you all have my sympathies." Marcus narrowed his eyes. The drooping tone in the duke's voice was too exaggerated…fake. "I am willing to donate enough money to hire another ballerina, but I leave that decision to your new manager. I have no doubt she will make a wise choice." Murmurs of agreement floated about the ceiling's corners, and the young Greek watcher saw the noble's lips curl at the side, fighting a smug look. He is lying. He's taking advantage of the situation…but for what? "I want you all to know that the dancer I choose will never replace your dear Meg, but she will be the best in all of Europe." He speaks as if the decision were already made; a dangerous implication in the ears of all these gossiping sparrows.
As the Philippe of Orleans bowed gallantly (causing several of the more daring girls to fake swoons) and exited, new whispers rose up. Were the police looking for Meg? Had the duke already chosen the new dancer? What if it had been a plan to get rid of Meg and replace her for some devious crime? This last rumor piqued Marcus' curiosity. A spy inside the opera, particularly in the ballet, could achieve nearly anything almost at will. What does he want?
He stood without excusing himself and left the kitchen, and followed a route back to the front of the theatre. If he is doing something important here, he will stop and talk with Mme. Giry, and try to sway her some way… He left the dim halls and watched from just behind a corner.
The duc d'Orleans was conversing seriously with a stagehand that Marcus had never seen before. He gestured, but his hands never moved far enough from his body for him to be talking about lighting or props. Perhaps this individual is his spy. Would the ballet mistress truly have revealed the kidnapping of her daughter in anything other than a bitter comment? He memorized the stagehand's appearance and face and slipped back to the mess hall.
…
Eter was, for once, not at all timid in accompanying Artur to his room. Normally, she would've blushed at the looks that the various staff of the opera gave them, and told them to stop staring and mind their own business. Today, however, after several hours of doing almost nothing but chat with her large (and well-built) companion, she felt nearly shameless. So what if onlookers thought they were a couple? It wasn't as if they really were…yet.
They reached the door of Artur's room, and he held the door open for her, saying, "I thought you were quite good in the duel. If he won, it was simply because he was quiet and had a rope." The sound of his compliment caused Eter to turn with indignation.
"It was a fair fight! And I lost because he's obviously had more training than I ever had." The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of muscle as the male sat and rested his hand on his knee. "In fact, he seems too good to have just met an ordinary soldier…" She frowned, obviously thinking hard.
"And your concern is that…?" Eter sat next to him on the ground, fearing that any more of a load, and the bed would break.
"Well, there was a rumor going around in my country…" The big man chuckled deep in his chest and she made a note to herself that she should make him laugh more often. He sounded nice.
"Is this going to be your turn telling a story to me?" She craned her neck to look up at her tall friend. His eyes were lit with humor.
"Perhaps," she replied, a small smile lingering about her lips. "But you have to be good and keep it a secret." He felt her small fingers touch his shoulder. "And you must also let me sit on the bed. I cannot tell a good story while on the floor and unable to reach your eyes." Much to her pleasure, Artur laughed again and stood, stretching to touch the ceiling. His eyes stayed on hers as if to make a point that they could indeed be reached.
As she took her place on the now warm blankets, she crossed her legs and took a deep breath, pretending to prepare herself for a great ordeal. She waited for the mountain of a man to take a seat, letting her gaze linger at his shoulders and chest. I wonder what he did in Russia to be so strong… She pulled her long, dark hair back and flicked it off her shoulder, pulling her mind back to the urban legend Hayvan had told her but a few years before.
"My teacher Hayvan told this story, and it is quite- gruesome," she warned. "Are you sure you wish to hear it?" Artur smiled.
"It cannot be more gruesome than Baba Yaga," he teased, and she laughed along with him. "I am sure I want to hear your story. Besides, you must repay me for all of my stories." Eter launched into the tale without further hesitation.
"The Dark Angel- no one knows where he came from, but many people think he was from somewhere in the south of Europe, perhaps even Italy, because he spoke Italian. The sultan found him, I think, standing in a circle of dead ten bodies after a street brawl. Every one of them was choked to death, still warm, and blood dripped from their mouths." She paused dramatically, watching her audience's expression.
"And," she continued, "…there was no sign of a weapon. The sultan knew all these men had been killed at once, strangled or necks snapped, but the foreign man seemed to have no weapon at all. He was dressed all in black, and covered his whole head with a black hood. He was tall, and his eyes changed color, night or day, some say. This foreigner was thin, dreadfully thin, like one starving, and nothing of his skin showed." By this time, Artur was rapt at attention, unconsciously tapping his fingers against the rug he'd laid out.
"The sultan took advantage of the situation, not wanting to be killed himself, and hired the Dark Angel for the Janissaries, to teach them how to kill as he killed. He smartly rid himself of a threat and bought an ally," she said, drawing another tense pause. "But that is not the end. The strange man was so adept with his career that he often killed the soldiers during their practice.
"Many people say that he has made a deal with a devil, for he is a sorcerer and extremely talented in every topic and task. And because he made that deal, he wears the mask. He has no face, not even a nose that you could see in profile." The Russian before her held up his hand.
"What else? Surely having no face was not a terrible enough punishment for a devil to give."
"There was something else…" answered, eyes flashing with a hint of fear even though she herself was telling the legend. "At times he would rage, for an evil spirit took control of him and used him to kill everything in his path. Even then, though, he could be stopped."
"But…there was something more?" Artur bit his lip for a moment to remind his brain that this was probably just a tale made up by a drunk in a dark alley.
"Yes. He was terrible while possessed, but far worse while in his right mind- if one could say he was sane at all. He trained a team of killers, and though no one ever witnessed a murder, numerous enemies of the sultan would be found dead in their beds, stabbed, asphyxiated, or poisoned. Sometimes they were simply dead, with no marks, but always eyes wide with fear."
"So they died of fright?" Eter shifted to a more comfortable position
"It was his lack of a face that killed them. The no-face was cursed. Anyone who looked at him directly would be killed."
Outside, Erik listened with a morbid sort of interest as the description of all his doings in the Ottoman Empire became bloodier and more fantastic. The worst thing was that most of it was true. As Eter stood and opened to return to her room, he stole away, guilty and almost sick at his actions for the first time in his life.
…
Salim had visited his distant cousin Philippe under the pretenses of 'catching up' and 'an interesting deal.' This had surprised the duke, but he had accepted, wanting to see how his blood relation was managing, especially since he knew that the boy's fragile health had kept him locked away in his rooms for months.
The young man himself, of course, had an alternate motive. He needed to turn the conversation away from large corporations to cheap labor, and somehow buy Meg and whoever else his cousin had locked away. He would hire them, and set them free with his own money, not his family's bank account. I need to do something on my own for once, without a crutch or a splint or some doctor's concoction.
As it happened, he needed no more doctors' concoctions. The sticky black fluid that he'd ingested just the night before had burned, and he had immediately fallen unconscious. In the morning, he did not recognize himself. And tonight he had breathed the harsh, cold air without having to wear a scarf about his mouth and nose.
As he sat in his carriage, he pulled the blinds down and examined himself. He was a skinny as ever, but his skin had acquired a color other than the yellow of fever or the spots of a malicious pox. He was colored healthy and felt it at well. His grip was not weak, and his whole body itched for activity or some sort, something strenuous and not the usual writing and sitting. I have been changed. I must reach this good doctor and repay him for my healing somehow.
His ride jolted to a stop, and for once, he stepped out without help from the footman or the driver. The mansion of the Orleans family loomed before him. The footman, who had always been a close friend of his, closed the cab's door and stood beside him a moment.
"Are you going to be able to persuade him tonight, do you think, sir?"
"No. But he is holding someone I want to rescue."
"Why go tonight, then, young master?" The older man tipped his hat respectfully, but shook his head in doubt.
"It's politics, hiring people in bulk like this. It's wrong, it's like slavery, but I must free her from that prison Philippe calls a warehouse." Salim's determination showed on his face. With that, he marched up to the enormous double doors and knocked. He was received immediately and disappeared into the darkened, sleeping building.
"'Her'? Crazy young fool… He'll get himself killed trying to do business with that serpent."
Elsewhere in the city, a train clanked and creaked to a halt, spitting sparks and spewing steam into the night atmosphere. A man stepped off before it stopped completely, and straightened his expensive-looking, appropriately distinguished suit. Years of combat on the streets ensured that he never stumbled. A hat covered much of his face, and his gloved hands glowed white in the yellow light of the station's lamps.
He stepped walked calmly, quietly into the stationmaster's office and did not remove the hat. He set a slightly crumpled envelope on the desk. "I need a letter sent to this address," he told the secretary, who only pushed his glasses up his nose and accepted the paper, pretending not to notice the man's strange appearance. "Tell the recipient that I am here to repay my debts and I will meet him at his workplace tomorrow."
He waited while the seasoned old secretary scribbled the message out and handed it back to be signed. "Will that be all, Monsieur?" The man slid a handful of coins onto the worn, knotted surface of the desk. The old worker took a glance at the strange name- and the well-dressed man with white gloves was gone. He sniffed suspiciously and read the name again, working the pronunciation around in his mind before pronouncing it carefully aloud: "Nadir Khan."