Chapter 17
As the hour drew near, I was equal parts excited and nervous. My stomach was in knots, my mind racing as I paced the floor and checked my pocket watch every few steps, which seemed to make the minutes pass slower.
In the back of my mind I heard my uncle grumble for me to sit still and focus my time on something more productive. At last I conceded to the ghost in my thoughts and set my sights on the crates. Rather than decrease in numbers, I swore somehow the stack became more abundant by the day.
Since I had not yet dressed for the performance, I rolled up my sleeves and surveyed the endless collection. There were several smaller boxes marked lost and found on the side, all of which I had ignored. With an hour to spare, I fixed myself a plate of grapes and cheese to tide me over until a late supper before I opened one of the boxes and rummaged through the contents.
At best, it was odds and ends of mismatched cufflinks, brooches, and a silver ring with an obsidian gemstone that caught my eye. I placed the ring on my right hand and held it out, admiring how the polished stone gleamed in the candlelight. The only jewelry I had seen of this quality had belonged to the young woman I had met while passing through her village with my uncle, the Swan Princess Amelie Batiste.
I wondered what Amelie would have thought of the silver ring. The black stone with flecks of white seemed somewhat fitting to me as I thought of myself as the darkness and Amelie as the glimmer of light like stars in the night sky. I returned the rest of the jewelry to the box, placed the lid on top, and ate my meal while thumbing through Fidelio one last time.
At last I dressed and looked myself over in the mirror. Despite the fine clothing and addition of a ring, I felt naked without something to cover the deformity. With Madeline I had almost forgotten the scars existed, but when I stared at my reflection, every bit of insecurity fertilized with vitriol and loathing had blossomed into undeniable anxiety of leaving the cellar with my face uncovered.
No one would see me, I reasoned. I would slip unnoticed from the servants' hall into the unused box and back again. Not a soul would know I existed-as long as the plan was flawlessly executed.
The what-ifs knotted my stomach until I felt light-headed and sick.
Up until the point in which my uncle had saved me from my own parents, not a single day in my life had passed without a reminder of my ghastly visage. If I were seen, leaving the halls or ascending the stairs to the opera box, I feared not only being cornered, but taken alive and imprisoned as I awaited execution. I would be placed on display once more, the half-beast, half-human carcass the gendarmes had searched night and day to find.
My excitement for the opera turned into a frantic need to find a mask or hood with which to keep my appearance concealed. With trembling hands I tore into a crate of old costumes and wigs, flinging items behind me until I stumbled upon a collection of masquerade ball masks in a large drawstring bag.
Many were brightly colored or decorated with feathers and glossy paint, however, there were a handful of plain masks which I gathered and spread out on the table to examine.
There were plain white masks and black masks, two of which covered the entire face and a half dozen that covered the right side or the left side. The ones that only covered the eyes and nose I returned to the drawstring bag before taking a white half-mask to the mirror and trying it on.
With the scars concealed behind the white leather, I met my own gaze and felt my anxiety ease. I adjusted the wire holding it in place over my ears and swallowed, surprised at how comfortable and lightweight the mask felt, like a second skin. The cheekbone had a bit of paint added as a light blush while the brow was also quite elegantly noticeable and tinted brown. Instead of stark white and plain, the mask appeared somewhat natural, I thought to myself.
The first mask I had worn as a child was little more than a crude piece of wood tied to a string that covered my whole face. I could not have been much older than four years of age when my father had shoved the scrap of wood against my chest and told me I was a loathsome monster. I could not recall his exact words as he told me to cover my grotesque face, but he made it abundantly clear that I was a burden and the rest of the world would not show me an ounce of kindness. An evil, disgusting wretch, he would say time and again before he spit on me.
The words hurt far worse than I cared to admit. Every time I dared meet my own gaze in the mirror, I felt as though he stood behind me and criticized my every move. Nothing quite frightened me like his deep-set, penetrating glare.
My chest tightened at the thought of my father, but I refused to allow his memory to ruin my mood on such an important evening. This new mask was more comfortable than I expected and hid the scars in a way that allowed a new sense of freedom. My father had forced me to wear the first mask and Garouche had made me cover my face merely to entice the crowd, but this mask had been carefully crafted in a theater and stowed away with an impressive collection of costume pieces.
With one last look in the mirror, I felt less concealed and more complete. At last I turned away, clenched my fists at my sides, and took a deep breath as I exited the cavern and made my way up through the cellar and toward the dark halls to the theater. I turned down the lantern before exiting into the hall and left it on a hook for my return, then took a breath and forced myself through the doorway.
My heart thudded with each step, my senses alert as I became keenly aware of my surroundings. With sweating palms I grabbed hold of the railing in the servants' hall and jogged up the steps two at a time until I reached Box Five.
Once inside, a sense of relief washed over me and I perched on the very edge of my seat. To my surprise, on the empty chair beside me was a program with a note card on top with my name handwritten in large, fancy lettering.
The first of many performances, it said.
Madeline's note made me grin in the darkness of the box. I parted the curtain with great care, afraid one of the maids dusting the chairs one last time would notice a rustle of fabric. The orchestra pit had started to fill with musicians who stood around chatting and warming up. Behind them, the red velvet curtain with gold trim was still closed, but a man walked the length of the stage and made certain the stage was properly lit.
"Buquet!" I heard a man shout.
"Aye!"
The drunken louse's voice came from the box beside mine. At once I rose to my feet, fully prepared to dart out of the theater and sprint back to the cellar.
"What are you doing up there?"
A woman giggled and Buquet told her to hush.
"On my way to the catwalk," he answered.
"Damn you, get down here at once!" the man ordered. "I've spent twenty minutes looking for you."
Buquet cursed under his breath, which was followed by the clatter of glass, which I assumed was bottles of wine.
"Yes, Monsieur, right away."
"I'll wait for you," the woman whispered.
"No," Buquet said sharply. "There's a ghost haunting these boxes, my dear. Go to the dressing room and I will find you once I see what the stage manager wants with me."
"Make haste," the woman replied.
At last I heard their footfalls on the carpeting outside of the boxes and the creak of their steps as they both ran down the stairway. Several moments later, a visibly frustrated Buquet appeared on the stage before a short, gray-haired man with his hands on his hips. They argued a moment, their voices hushed but still audible thanks to the acoustics in the theater.
The theater manager threatened to fire Buquet if he made one more asinine mistake, although his words clearly had no effect on the stagehand. They stormed off in opposite directions as the orchestra began tuning their instruments and several ballet dancers sat cross-legged on the stage giggling.
They were younger than Madeline, all of them dressed in a light shade of green. One of the men in the orchestra pit stood on a chair and made a noise to frighten them, and after they collectively shrieked, the gaggle of young dancers laughed, which drew the attention of a more experienced dancer.
Hands on hips, she walked onto the stage and paused, shaking her head in dismay. "Behind the curtain, all of you. Jean Louis, you will be the death of these girls."
I did not need to see her face to recognize Madeline's stern voice and matching demeanor. She pointed off stage and the younger ballet girls hung their heads as they walked single file out of view.
"Yes, Mother," the girls said in unison, their collective, condescending tone gone unchecked by their self-appointed caretaker.
Madeline turned and briefly glanced up to the box where I sat. She nodded once and I did the same, although I was certain she could not see me in the shadows. Our secret acknowledgment of one another made me smile.
While I browsed through the program for the performance, the orchestra pit filled with musicians, various stage hands and other people presumably employed by the Opera House flitted on and off the stage, and the audience slowly poured into their seats behind ushers.
The box became noticeably warmer with the theater filled and stage lit. I drew back the heavy curtain just enough to peer at the world before me and sat forward with my knees pressed against the balcony wall. With the stagnant, hot air settling in around me, I used my program as a fan and considered removing my cravat and overcoat.
Once the seats were filled, I scanned the crowd below and wondered if my cousin was amongst the people patiently awaiting the performance. Part of me wondered if I would recognize my own family. In truth I looked for my uncle's face and gaunt frame, and after several fruitless moments of searching, I gave up and and turned my attention back to the orchestra pit.
The same man I had seen arguing with Buquet walked out onto the stage and made a few unnecessary remarks. He took a full three minutes to thank the patrons and remind the crowd of an upcoming gala. At last he walked off stage, the first overture started, and the curtain parted at last, revealing the set design.
My every sense seemed more alive as I took in the illuminated stage and of course the music. The audience erupted in applause as The Incomparable Catherda portrayed Leonore, the heroine of the story.
I could not recall bearing witness to anything more spectacular in my life, and as each line was sung and act one came to an end, I wanted the night to stand still for a moment so I could savor each detail.
During intermission I wondered what changes Beethoven had made to his only opera from its first performance to what appeared on the stage this night. There had been brief mention in the program of how the opera had been revised and revised again. True genius was never satisfied, and when I began composing my own music, I felt certain I would be like Beethoven, arranging and rearranging music in search of the perfect melody.
I found kinship in the story of the imprisoned Florestan, a man who languished in chains, forgotten by society. Instead of a faithful wife, however, I had been freed by my uncle. I imagined what he would have thought of box seats and the crowded theater with wealthy patrons seated in the first five rows. In the box below me, a theater critic loudly explained to his counterparts how Beethoven was in over his head with an opera and should have stayed with symphonies and sonatas.
The lights dimmed, and the theater critic fell silent at last as the remainder of the show unfolded on stage. Despite his scathing remarks, the opera was well received by the audience. Applause filled the theater and roses for the star of the show flooded the stage.
I stood on my feet at curtain call and watched for a fleeting moment before I took my leave and sprinted down the stairs. Against my better judgment I paused at the entrance leading to the stage and peered through the cracked door for one last look at the performers taking a bow. I pressed my fingers to the double-jointed door and pushed it open for a better look just as Cathedra di Carlo turned to walk off toward the wings with dozens of red rose bouquets in her arms.
She glowed without the assistance of the spotlights, beamed like a woman who not only belonged on the stage, but who clearly enjoyed every moment she stood before the adoring crowd.
Instead of scurrying into the shadows, I lingered still, my heart racing and head swimming with elation I had rarely experienced. This moment of joy outweighed the fear of being discovered. Foolishly I waited to see her up close, to take in her bright eyes and wide smile. Our eyes met for half a second and the soprano came to a sudden halt. I offered a nervous grin and she returned a closed-lipped smile. Shifting the flowers in her grasp, she curtised and I knew I had to leave at once.
Now that she had seen me, I fled, my heart racing as I reached the long hall leading to the cellars and whipped around the corner where I nearly lost my footing. Voices seemed to trail behind me, each one filled with excitement.
"Where did he go?" a woman shouted.
Once I reached the first cellar I grabbed a lantern from the wall, slipped through the doorway, and stopped to catch my breath.
The woman with the more extraordinary voice I had ever heard had not only seen me, but she had smiled. I should have been more concerned about being noticed, but my emotions were running high and I was still drunk on music. While men who overindulged on their whiskey stumbled and slurred their words, music allowed me a sense of elation I had never experienced. Every man, woman, and child should have experienced such exhilarating pleasure at least once in their lifetime. I could not think of anything more pleasurable than a night at the opera.
I took the stairs two at a time, my steps light and heart still racing as I attempted to remember each detail of the night. Once I reached the fifth cellar, I lit a dozen candles, pulled up a chair at the table, and removed my mask. With trembling hands I began scribbling notes and sketches to match the description of how the opera made me feel. My stomach rumbled, my mouth dry, yet I ignored physical discomfort and continued with my notes until I had a sizeable stack of paper before me.
Once the ink dried, I thumbed through the documents and frowned. The initial excitement had faded, and although I could recall the smallest detail, reading through my notes left me dissatisfied at best. Writing about the opera I had seen did little to convey how seeing the performance made me feel.
"Erik?"
Madeline knocked on the door, which startled me from my concentration.
"Come in," I said, though I did not look up from the leafs of paper scattered across the table.
"You are still dressed from last night?" she questioned.
"I have not yet had the opportunity to change," I muttered.
"Pardon me?"
At last I looked up and found Madeline in a long, blue skirt with her hair in a braid. "What time is it?" I asked as I fumbled for my watch. "Eleven," I said, answering my own question.
"Eleven in the morning," she clarified. "Have you been awake all night? You look exhausted."
I wanted to lie to her as she seemed quite concerned, but I merely shrugged.
"What have you been doing?"
Words failed to express my endeavor. My feverish scribbles, the way I listened to each melody over and over again in my head until the songs practically overlapped, could not be properly described.
"Thinking," I said at last.
Madeline eyed the papers strewn out before me and plucked a sheet from the table, which she examined. She looked it over for a long time, which made me increasingly uncomfortable as the silence drew out from seconds to a full minute.
"You spent the whole night writing this?" she asked as she turned the paper over.
I nodded and avoided her gaze. She clearly thought my actions were peculiar, perhaps fueled by madness.
Madeline gathered several more sheets of paper before I could protest and furrowed her brow. She absently took a seat beside me, and after reading through each page, she looked up at me.
"You wrote this all from memory?"
Again I nodded, and to my surprise Madeline offered a wide smile. "After weeks of rehearsal, I could not put each scene into pictures or words as you have done. Your mind is truly remarkable."
Her words were the opposite of what I expected to hear. For the better part of a year I had been labeled an oddity, a creature sired by evil. People looked upon me as though I were a brainless animal, and after endless nights of taunting and degradation their words became my truth. Madeline's kind words caught me off guard and I looked away, overwhelmed by the praise I did not deserve.
"I would ask how you enjoyed the opera, but I think your bloodshot eyes and all of your sketches and notes are proof enough of your enjoyment."
As I expected, she admonished me in her motherly tone for staying up all night but clearly she remained more impressed than upset.
"If I died this instant, I would die satisfied that I had witnessed the most amazing musical performance ever," I said.
Madeline laughed. "You sound like me."
"I would like to see another performance."
"It would be best if you waited a week or two," she suggested. Her words were followed by a long pause, and I followed her gaze to the mask I had left on the table. "The white face of a ghost," she commented as she tapped the leather covering with her index finger.
Our eyes met briefly. Breath held, I felt my body stiffen.
"You were spotted," she said, though her tone was impossible to gage, which made it difficult for me to decide whether or not I should apologize.
"Cathedra," I said under my breath, my gaze trained on the mask.
"Yes,she told everyone after the performance that she saw a figure watching from the shadow, however, I saw you as well."
Eyes wide, I looked across the table and saw Madeline return a half-hearted smile.
"And apparently so did half a dozen other performers as well as the stage manager," she told me. "The whole theater was in an uproar after the performance."
"I do not know why I stopped," I said at last. Despite feeling as though my actions were in no way malicious or done with defiant intent, I had made a grave mistake and hung my head in shame.
"You stopped because the door was open and you wanted one last look," Madeline replied. "I would have done the same thing."
"For you it is permissible," I mumbled.
No one would have given Madeline a second look if she had been in my place. There would have been nothing out of the ordinary if she had walked past the side of the stage and peered through the doorway. Even in the mask-or perhaps because of it-I was a spectacle to be seen.
Before I was fully engulfed in self loathing and despair, Madeline sat forward and tilted her head to the side. "Cathedra thinks she saw a spirit bearing good fortune. She was quite pleased to have seen a ghost following the performance."
An unexpected smile played at the corners of my mouth. I wished I had shouted out a word of praise, but in the moment I had been too shocked to have met her eye for one fleeting moment.
"You jest."
Madeline shook her head. "The theater managers wanted to call a priest, but Cathedra threatened to walk out if any harm came to her spirit."
My heart thudded. I very much wanted to be in her favor, despite realizing I would forever remain a ghost to her.
"She was not afraid?" I questioned.
"On the contrary." Madeline reached into a bag I had not seen her carry inside and pushed a plate of sausage toward me. "She told Enoch, our stage manager, she was not feeling well before the performance when a cool breeze grazed along her shoulders. She has credited her swift healing to the opera ghost."
The story was absurd, but I grunted nonetheless.
"She has even offered payment to keep the spirit within the Opera House."
"Payment?" my eyes narrowed.
"Ten thousand francs," Madeline said casually.
My lips parted. "This cannot be true."
"Unfortunately Buquet will pocket it once he discovers where Senora di Carlo leaves the offering."
I sat upright, my back rigid at the sound of his name. How I loathed that drunken, ignorant fool. Everything about him reminded me of my father and Garouche.
"No," I said firmly.
Madeline looked surprised.
"He will not take a single coin from her," I said between my teeth.
"You will take it then?" she asked incredulously.
"To keep Buquet from profiting? Yes."
Madeline made a face. "I do not think it is wise."
Neither did I, but I despised the thought of Buquet squandering funds from the Incomparable Cathedra.
"When does she intend to leave such a gift to the spirit?"
Madeline shrugged and shot me a warning look. "She has not yet told anyone as far as I know. Perhaps it is a secret between the soprano and her ghost."
"Then I will ask her myself."
Madeline issued a sideways glance as her lips formed a tight, thin line. "I beg your pardon?"
"The ghost will ask her," I replied as I cut off a piece of sausage with my fork and took a bite. I felt quite proud of my answer and self-assured.
"You would put yourself at risk."
I shrugged off her words. "Making certain Buquet does not benefit from Senora di Carlo's kindness would be worth it."
"What precisely would you do with ten thousand francs?" she asked.
"I do not care about the sum of money."
"Why not?"
"Why would I?" I looked around the cavern and shrugged.
Madeline stuck out her lower lip and thought a moment. "If I had that amount of money, I would have a cottage by the ocean with nothing around as far as I could see. Or a flat all to myself in the heart of London and the city at my feet."
Her words struck me as odd. "You still wish for solitude?"
"Some days."
"Then I would give the funds to you so that you would be able to do as you wish."
Her expression immediately sobered. "I would never ask you for such a thing."
"I would offer it to you freely."
"There is no need."
For a long moment we sat in silence as I contemplated what I would truly do with such a hefty sum of money. I thought of the jewelry I had stolen back for the Batiste family and how it had never crossed my mind to keep a single piece as payment for myself.
"You must understand I have no family that would claim me, no friends other than you." I stared at the mask on the table and suppressed a shiver. My feelings of loneliness went through cycles of acceptance and bitterness at my place in the world. With Madeline it was easy to forget I was different, however, reminders were never far. Each moment of bliss was always closely followed by an abyss of sadness. There was no escape from my emotions; only a valiant attempt to hold on and survive the turmoil.
"Do not say such things," Madeline admonished.
"If nothing else I am realistic, Madeline. I will have no wife and no children as heirs. You may very well be the only person I ever speak to for the rest of my life. I would consider it a modest payment for your kindness."
Madeline quickly shook her head at my words, her face drawn and pale as she considered what I had said. "I would not accept. Kindness should not be done with the intention of seeking reward."
"A gift then? To the only person I know."
"You are far too pessimistic for your age. I will hear no more of it."
"Look at me," I whispered, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. "I am an oddity."
Madeline quickly shook her head. "Not to me."
"To the rest of the world, then, from my parents and to nearly every single person I have ever encountered."
The sadness in her eyes was more than I could bear. Her heartbreak echoed the throbbing, undeniable pain I had always felt inside. Even in the midst of the opera when I could not have felt more alive, it weighed upon me.
"You know what I say is true. I have your friendship and music. I value both greatly."
She sighed heavily and wiped her eyes. "I do not know what to say."
"Say you would accept my gift."
Her gaze remained trained on the table and she offered no answer to my question. "Where did the mask come from?" she asked, effectively changing the subject.
"One of the boxes," I replied.
"It suits you well," she said at last. "My words were not intended as an insult."
"I did not think so."
Madeline met my eye. "There is more to you than what is behind the mask," she said. "I mean that sincerely."
No matter her sincerity, deep inside I found it impossible to believe her words. I did not need to see my reflection to know the limit of my worth. For my entire life, not a single day went by that there was not a harsh word or an act of violence made against me, at least not until I was under my uncle's protection briefly and now hidden away beneath the Opera House.
"What do you see?" I asked. I lowered my gaze, fearful of her reply and yet yearning for acceptance. One kind word was all I desired, and for so long I had been denied what others considered trivial.
"A genius," Madeline said without a second thought. I looked up and saw her smile warmly at me as she slid her hand over mine. "An incredible genius."