Chapter 5:
Madame Doucet possessed equal measures of stamina and commitment, arriving at the Opera in the early hours of the morning and departing usually with the first notes of the evening's performance. Her initial absence was all but forgotten now and Erik couldn't help but feel flattered knowing that this change was due to him. In his opinion, she could have easily distanced herself from the whole affair since Monsieur Moreau seemed eager enough to handle it in his own way. But she had chosen to become and to remain involved which clearly meant she had deemed him intriguing.
Well, the feeling was mutual. Amusement mingled with determination and sometimes annoyance which, all combined, made for a glorious mixture. Every day, he drank his fill of it, then spent the few hours of night-time in satiated sleep, knowing that by the time his body awoke, she would be back again for more.
Today was no exception.
He had stolen to the cavity beneath the manager's office and waited for her arrival which had been timely as always.
How intoxicating a power struggle could be! The back and forth, the delicious promise of defeat!
Why he had ever stopped testing the management he couldn't remember and frankly, it was also irrelevant. The present had so much more to offer, including a selection of unladylike curse words out of Madame Doucet's mouth that were uncharacteristic enough to make him abandon his position beneath the floorboards and sneak up a ramp to an elevated platform behind a painting that awarded him a glimpse of her.
This, he enjoyed, too; a game of hide and seek in which he possessed the upper hand.
From this new vantage point he could see that she had taken refuge behind the desk in the middle of the room. A letter in her hand appeared to be the reason behind the choice words she had previously uttered and he willingly admitted to himself that it was rather a shame it wasn't due to one of his notes. He watched her eyes flying over the few lines of writing again, watched her brows furrow, her posture grow more hunched.
What a strange contradiction she was, full of resignation and defiance. Always carrying a tension in her body that exposed her vulnerability yet expressed her strength.
"Arrogant prig…my best interest indeed…" she now muttered darkly, folding up the piece of paper and tossing it aside.
Behind the painting, Erik had begun to smirk. Temptation compelled him to put his hands together in mock-applause when a sudden change came over her. Her arms shielding her head, she folded in on herself while a violent sob broke from her throat. The moment was so intimate, her grief so raw, that he wished to avert his eyes. She did not utter another word, nor did she produce a sound quite like that one again, but even when her tears had subsided and she had regained control of herself, he found himself staring in fascination at the scaffolding of her grief. Even when he blinked he could not unsee it, that skeleton, that construct of pain hidden beneath thin layers of appearance and spirit. It touched an ache within him that angrily recoiled for it hadn't been meant to see the light of day again.
His fingertips slid off the wall as if he had been burnt and as the helplessness began to swell within him he fled from the room, cursing her. His frantic flight took him down the makeshift corridor that led into the tunnel by the lake where he collided with a body.
Filled with anguish, he grabbed the intruder in an attempt of pushing him against the wall and disarming him, but the pain in his chest stole his strength and paralysed his muscles.
"Allah, what's gotten into you now?" The Persian exclaimed, righting his karakul with trembling hands.
"How many times do I have to warn you not to trespass?" Erik hissed in response, clutching his own hands against his chest.
Narrowing his eyes, Nadir took a step closer to examine his friend. "Have you been burnt yet again?"
"No need to sound so delighted, Daroga," Erik replied, straightening his shoulders.
"In that case, permit me to say that your recent conduct has been appalling. Oh don't look so surprised, of course I have been following you. You know very well that your insinuations the other day were cause for concern. Well, imagine my horror when I watched you stalk after that poor woman time and time again. Must I really remind you yet again where such behaviour has led to in the past?"
"Unfortunately, you appear adamant on doing so," Erik muttered under his breath and directed his steps towards his boat.
"You give me no other choice!" Nadir exclaimed angrily, following suit. "You owe your life to me, remember? And yet I am forced to watch over you as if you were nothing more than an unruly child!"
Incensed, Erik refused to dignify him with an answer and furiously went to work untying his boat.
"Madame Doucet, Erik," Nadir continued, raising his voice. "I demand to know. What's your obsession with her? What plans do you have? Can't you see that the poor woman is grieving? Can't you see that she's been through enough? Do you think it just to subject her to-"
"To what, Daroga?" Erik bellowed, yanking the rope loose so harshly that it left a groove of raw flesh behind in the palm of his stiff hand. "To this monster? To this world of shadows?"
Nadir turned his back to him and heaved a deep sigh. "There is no sense talking to you when you're gripped by such mood…"
"Indeed there is not," Erik agreed darkly and climbed onto the boat, "and for the last time, Daroga, I did not ask for a chaperone."
He pushed away from the shore and as the boat glided further into the dark water of the lake, Nadir's parting words echoed through the cave, "I will not stand by and let you do to her what you did to Christine Daaé. You gave me your word!"
The pole he used to propel the boat forward, ground into his wound time and time again, creating a fresh surge of pain he relished in. Throbbing, burning, predictable in its steady rhythm, solely capable of blocking out his mental torment. By the end of the journey, the pole was wet with blood but he did not possess the strength to wash it now.
Instead, he staggered into his house and collapsed on the floor amidst a mass of broken objects. A howl of agony tore his throat in two, then there was silence and strangled, difficult intakes of air.
The Siamese cat appeared from the bedroom and padded light-footedly towards her master. His body was rocking back and forth as trembles passed through him but he did not object to the soft, warm body that climbed into his lap. The vast and all-consuming emptiness before him fed his mind with cruel, hopeful scenarios he had entertained in the past.
Peace, companionship, love. Man-made concepts he would never be worthy of, created solely to ridicule him.
With a scream of rage he tore his mask off and flung it into a far-away corner of the room. Then he shifted and curled up, pressing his bare face against the soft fur of the feline. Ayesha, who had at first reacted startled to his outburst, relaxed when sensing no danger and began to purr but the sounds only managed to partially calm her master. Tears rolled down his waxen cheeks or disappeared in the hole where his nose should have been.
His grief had a name, one that he daren't speak but one that wrapped itself around him nonetheless, like the tantalising body of the woman it belonged to. Pale and cold but oh so beautiful, beckoning him with its angelic voice. He knew it was an illusion, he knew that she wasn't here in his arms on the damp stone floor. But he was prepared to follow that siren until he drowned at last in the brilliance of her voice, in the frailty of her embrace.
He had possessed her once…an eternity ago, now she was possessing him.
Music, that hateful, remarkable tool that had first made their connection possible, welled up in him without warning. It gripped him, sent him scrambling through the remains of his house in search of one instrument that hadn't been broken. Torn images, dusty volumes and peculiar objects lined his path under which he at last found his violin. The dark wood of its body bore deep cuts, the bridge was no longer firmly set in a horizontal line but as by miracle, all the strings were intact. He lifted it up, corrected what could be corrected and pulled the hair on the bow firmer.
The first sound they birthed together was a screech, a manifestation of his pain. He turned the pegs on the violin's neck haphazardly to tune it. There was no need wasting valuable time on its accuracy for he knew what he was about to produce would not contain beauty. The strings beckoned for his touch and as the music flooded out of him, he complied.
It wasn't by choice or free will. The notes were angry, ruthless and pained. There was no clarity, just dissonance as his fingers struggled to comply with the force of emotion. The bow swung forwards, dancing and grinding over the strings until the wound on his hand began to weep anew. There was no grace to his movement, just an ugly, mechanical drive that did not allow for a single moment of respite. He was creating a monster, a beast that represented all of him, that was feeding on him until he fell to his knees, exhausted.
But even in the silence that followed, that despicable music continued to sing. Covering his ears, he groaned and shrank against the couch. Wherever there was music, there she was. And he couldn't bear it, and he couldn't stop it. Even in these grotesque notes she walked with him.
But how could he survive? Craving her presence while suffering through the agonising memories of music? Or facing the punishing hush of her absence?