Chapter 3 The City
Big cities are so dirty, and none are bigger or dirtier than NYC. There's no place you can go to escape it. Even along the sandy beaches of Coney Island and the rocky shores of Long Island the refuse from the city was always washing up. Bodies, trash, but every now and then something interesting would appear. Gustav couldn't swim, but he would venture down to the water's edge most mornings and peruse the flotsam left behind by the tide. It's the closest he dared get to the murky depths. He wouldn't step foot on the long pier that jutted out into the shallows either, as much due to fear as to the pain of memories.
It was on the pier that a mad woman had tried to drown him, and where his mother had breathed her last. His father had battled for the gun, but it went off in the struggle striking his beautiful mother. He relived those moments so often it was like a picture show in his head. In his dreams the melodic sound of his mother's singing would morph grotesquely into that final scream.
Even amidst the painful recollections and the urban grime the call of the city was its own music. When Gustave had first arrived in the bustling metropolis it was all dancing lights and alien noises, a world so different from any he had ever known that every sense was excited and his curiosity was peeked to an all-time high. His enthusiasm for taking in every sight was more than his parents could handle, and it wasn't long into their voyage across the Atlantic before his father's annoyance reached its zenith.
"Damn it Gustave! Can't you keep quiet and still for 1 minute." bellowed the red-eyed man from across the small table in their small cabin. Gustave had no shortage of questions, and even though he knew the end result would be the backlash of his father's frustration the boy couldn't help but ask every one that popped into his brain. For him, any attention from his father was better than being utterly ignored.
In contrast his mother showed endless patience, though the lines on her face and puffiness of her eyes betrayed her own worried and anxious mind. Even through strenuous times such as these, Gustave always felt her love as a palpable aura that exuded from her. It allowed him to feel safe and warm in her presence. His father on the other hand gave none of that affection, but there were times, strange moments, where the man would look at his son with curious eyes. He'd stare for a long moment into the deep eyes that were so foreign, taking in the boy's pale skin, his raven hair and shape of the face. The man was looking for something, but what it was the boy never knew though he was sure his father hadn't found it by the disappointed way he'd break contact.
His mother would often sweep in to rescue both of them from these awkward moments. She always seemed to be hovering like a fly on the wall whenever Gustave and his father interacted so that they were never alone together. His parents had argued so much on the ship, aggravated by the close quarters and nowhere to escape each other. Money was the main topic for debate, but his father's arrogance about having his wife perform for strangers was a strangling grip on his ego.
It amazed him how much he remembered from those times, especially that last crossing. Had he known the terrible climax of their journey would rob him of his beloved mother he would have gladly stayed in France, but such thoughts didn't gain anything for him.
Gustave had his father to think of now. Not the angry and bitter man who'd raised him for the first decade of life under the façade of father, but the man who now was his only living relative in all the world. The man who had become the kind of friend and confidant that Gustave always knew a father should be. He might have lost the blissful cocoon of his mother's love, but the love and adoration his true father bestowed on him was enough to keep despair at bay, mostly. If only his father could feel the same comfort from the boy that worshiped him.
Before that fateful trip to NYC, Gustave lived in the French countryside with his mother Christine Daae and the man he'd thought was his father, Raoul Vicomte De Chagny. Although they'd been married it was still his mother's habit to use her maiden name, but it often annoyed his father. Despite the increasing neglect from the Vicomte, Gustav's mother was affectionate and doting. She'd taught him how to read music and play the piano. She'd sing to him in the angelic voice that had made her the greatest leading soprano to grace the Paris stage.
Gustave had never seen her perform at the Opera Populaire. His mother retired after having married the Vicomte, but when she'd sing for him he'd imagine an audience of hundreds applauding her talent. Her eyes would sparkle with the memory of those long lost days, as well as something dark and sad. He hadn't understood then the deep well of sorrow that mixed was with her euphoric singing, but now he knew a lot more of the story. His father, his real father, had been her great teacher from when she was a small child and came to live at the Opera house. He'd led the progress of her career until the Vicomte had come to sweep her away. It had been a tragic love affair between teacher and student, whose end he'd witnessed here on Coney Island.
Since then he'd said good bye to the Vicomte and with his blessing gone to live with his true father. Gustav loved his father and together they shared so much in thought and attitude that he always felt at home with him. At first the simpatico relationship they shared was enough to soften the blow of loss for both of them, but in time grief and loneliness began to widen a gap between them. His father no longer composed, and only listened halfheartedly to those melodies Gustav produced. Every day he became more withdrawn, giving the little bit of energy he had left to encouraging Gustav's study's and spending time together.
It had been 3 years since his mother died, and he'd even begun to neglect Phantasma, the amusement park his father operated on NY's infamous Coney Island. If his time wasn't taken up with Gustav, it was mostly spent writing in his journals or holed up in their Long Island home at the sanctuary he'd built for Christine. A gloom had settled into their lives as a result of grief. He would sometimes spend long hours alone replaying his unfinished compositions, without rest or food until finally collapsing from exhaustion. Having no hope of ever hearing his angel sing again his father had lost all inspiration.
Gustav was now 13 years old and filled with the excited disquiet that was expected of boys approaching the dawn of manhood. The draw of the city often led him to wander its streets. His father didn't like him to be away from home long, but he was gone more and more. He'd been taught the basics of self-defense, how to wield a sword and handle a gun, he even kept a dagger hidden on his person. Sebastian, the sword swallowing, knife throwing aficionado that had become a star act of Phantasma had taught Gustav. As was nearly always the case, the boy proved to be quite adept, even learning to juggle sharp instruments 5 at a time.
Despite its constant grime Gustav found the city enchanting. Its symmetry and artistry could be seen in every concrete balustrade and soaring edifice. Very little of the cities Dutch history remained and over the last century it had become a mecca of art, industry, invention, crime and debauchery. April was coming to a quick close, and Gustav adored seeing the stark contrasts in NY's richness and poverty as activity in the city picked up with the mild temperatures.
He would walk from street to street without regard for the criminal element, absorbing the experience of being a part of the great town. But unbeknownst to him several undesirables had begun to take notice of his movements. Not far from the Brooklyn borough he walked a street in a derelict and run-down neighborhood that had once been wealthy. Dusk was about to fall and he needed to hurry if he was to make it home before the sun disappeared behind the horizon.
It should have set off his senses when he noticed that the lane was empty of the homeless you expected to see in such a place. The entirety of the block on the west side was covered by a high stone wall edged by a thin broken sidewalk. The neglected stone work had ivy creeping out of every crack and the tops of trees had begun to overflow from the bulwark.