Chapter 18
Madeline was indeed correct in saying I could not approach the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo face-to-face as the risk was far too great. As much as I desired to speak with the soprano, it was unfortunately not feasible.
I could, however, contact her indirectly with the help of a note. The biggest obstacle was finding a way to deliver it to her.
The actors were two weeks into Fidelio and Madeline assured me the Opera House was still abuzz with news of the ghost, which of course I was aware of as I swam across the lake nearly every night to listen to the performance well beneath the stage.
From the youngest dancer to the oldest stagehand, there was much speculation as to where the ghost had come from and what he truly intended for the cast and in particular Cathedra di Carlo.
In my nightly eavesdropping I learned Cathedra spent her time before the performance in the chapel where she prayed for the voice of an angel and sat with a cloth over her head and a bowl of steaming water under her nose. After she sufficiently prayed, and steamed her vocal chords, she donned her makeup, costume, and a wig and took to the stage to entertain the masses.
By listening in on their conversations I had a general idea of where the dressing rooms and chapel were in relation to the stage, and one afternoon before anyone arrived in the theater, I made my way across the lake with several tools to pick the lock and discovered the padlock was merely dangling
The very act of clearing the doorway was somewhat cathartic, and as I unwrapped the iron chains from the bars and tossed them aside, I considered myself freed from my past. The theater lay before me and with it possibilities I had not ever considered.
The first time I stepped foot past the chained doorway, I found myself taken aback by the location. There was a trap door over my head and cogs the size of wagon wheels which turned parts of the theater floor. Further back was a ladder where actors who had disappeared on the stage could climb back up and behind the scenes. Nothing in the theater was quite as it seemed, and the magic of it all made my heart race.
Beneath the theater was a dark and mysterious world, a sort of playground I had exclusive access to whenever I pleased. Having seen the performance I knew the trap door was not used during Fidelio, which meant I was safe to wander about while the actors and dancers put on a show above me.
What fascinated me was how quiet the theater was before performances, so silent I could hear my joints crack and the beat of my own heart when I stood approximately under the chapel. To my delight I discovered the endless maze of servants' passages overlapped with the stagehand halls and tunnels beneath the stage. It took me little time at all to find the chapel and Senora di Carlo.
She prayed in Italian, her voice musical even when she spoke. I stood outside the chapel door in the servants' hall and closed my eyes as I listened to her ask for good health, the voice of an angel, and a place in heaven beside her sister and mother.
"Every day is a gift," she said. "Please protect me a while longer. I am not yet prepared to leave this body."
I furrowed my brow at her parting words, wondering how she was endangered. Once I heard the chapel doorway quietly open and close, I pushed open the servants' door and looked around the small room with its stained glass window and an alter filled with candles, dried flowers, and tokens to loved ones. The air was faintly scented with peppermint, and the pungent scent made me wrinkle my nose.
There were two new candles freshly lit behind a pencil drawing of a woman with a round, stern face. I assumed it was a drawing of Cathedra's mother. A draft seeped through the window and the candles flickered as I examined the paintings on the wall and a cushioned bench near the window.
Days earlier I had written a brief note to Cathedra praising her talent and assuring her no monetary gift was necessary. I pulled it from my coat pocket and tucked it beneath the drawing of the round-faced woman before I exited down the hallway and returned beneath the stage with nervous excitement buzzing through me.
The following day Madeline paid a visit and entered my apartments with her hands on her hips and a heavy sigh that signaled her entrance in quite dramatic fashion.
"You left her a note," Madeline stated.
I should have known Madeline would be fully aware of my actions, but I still found myself somewhat surprised. Reluctantly I nodded. Given that she offered no greeting, I suspected she was not pleased with me. Yet, still I attempted to make pleasantries.
"Good morning," I said, making every attempt to sound jovial.
She ignored my words and stormed toward me.
"You should know Cathedra fainted," Madeline said. "Her husband found her sprawled out on the chapel floor. They had to call a physician as it was unclear whether or not she would be able to perform."
Immediately I sobered. In my mind I imagined The Incomparable Cathedra plucking the note from beneath the drawing of her mother and unfolding the paper to read a message signed by the opera ghost. I turned away from Madeline, ashamed of causing the poor woman undue stress and bodily harm.
"Is she badly injured?" I asked with my back to Madeline.
"Thankfully no more than a bump to the head and candle wax in her hair," Madeline answered. "She swears the opera ghost broke her fall."
I turned on my heel and faced Madeline once more. "I was not present, this I swear to you. I left the note once she exited the chapel and did not linger."
Part of me wished I had been there as I would not have allowed her to fall and hit her head. Remorse knifed through me, although I felt a sense of relief that she had not been injured worse.
"You found her in the chapel?"
"I stayed in the servants' hall while she prayed."
Her eyes narrowed. "How did you find your way there?"
"The door is marked," I answered vaguely. My words felt like the start of a tremendous lie, but at the same time I feared telling her the truth and how I waded into the water and across the underground lake.
Madeline dismissed my words with a flick of her wrist. "You should not contact her further." You have done irreversible damage, you insolent child.
We stood in silence for a long moment as I waited for Madeline to berate my foolish actions. I knew she would not physically strike me, and so I waited for her tongue lashing. Punishment had always followed wrong doings and without a harsh word-strange as it seemed-I felt as though I were left dangling.
"I have frightened her," I said under my breath. Even without her seeing my wretched face, I had terrified Cathedra and there was no way for me to make amends or offer an apology. "Does she wish to call a priest now?"
Madeline was slow to answer. She rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and crossed her arms over her chest. "Remarkably she does not."
My eyes widened. "What does she wish to do then?" I asked.
"I have no idea," Madeline answered tightly.
The way she stood rigid with her eyes refusing to meet mine left me wondering what had transpired. Undoubtedly there was more than what Madeline had divulged.
"Was her husband upset?"
"Of course," Madeline said. "He made it quite clear he would strangle the ghost with his bare hands if the spirit were flesh and blood."
The threat did not bother me, which seemed to annoy Madeline as she shifted her weight and rolled her eyes.
"He is a very large man," she added as though this would somehow make me less inclined to contact Cathedra. "If he discovered there was no ghost he would see you tortured and hanged, I have no doubt."
"Will she sing tonight?"
"I suppose we shall find out."
"What will happen if she does not take the stage?"
Madeline shrugged. "I do not know."
"Is there an understudy?"
She replied with a humorless laugh. "For Cathedra?"
Her curt answers bewildered me. Despite the dozens of questions flooding my thoughts, I held my tongue.
"I did not intend to cause trouble," I said at last, feeling like a scalded dog bellying up to its master in search of forgiveness.
"And yet it has been caused."
Madeline' words cut deeper than any insult I had received in my lifetime, and the sensation was amplified when she turned her back on me and started toward the door.
"Tell me what I must do to make amends," I blurted out.
"I wish I knew," she said over her shoulder.
Following our exchange, I was certain I had never experienced true agony until that moment when the door closed and Madeline left. I had difficulty understanding the depths of her anger as she seemed somewhat indifferent toward me. Not knowing what to do or say ate away at my nerves and twisted my stomach in knots.
For hours I sat listless in my armchair and stared at the empty place where Madeline usually sat. Her time had been cut short lately due to the performances, and for the most part I didn't mind because I could stand beneath the stage at night and listen to the opera.
And yet it has been caused.
Six simple words spoken flatly felt like a splinter embedded in my heart. I did not know what to say or do to make amends with Madeline. Moreover, I was not certain when she would return, which fueled my already raging anxiety.
My father as well as Garouche, and his oldest sons had shown me pure rage and violence when they were angry. There was an unspoken understanding that if my father was kicked out of the tavern, he would return home and unleash his frustrations on me. With Garouche I was well aware if anything was missing-be it bread or funds from ticket sales, his sons would point their dirty, fat fingers at me. It did not matter if they ransacked my few belongings and found nothing of interest. Guilt had nothing to do with the punishment.
I was all too familiar with rage, however, Madeline's reaction reminded me more of my uncle and less of my father. No matter how much I frustrated him, my uncle had never struck or humiliated me, not even when I deserved punishment.
Repeatedly I had disappointed him, repaid his kindness with acts of utter stupidity and arrogance. Yet for every foolish misstep, my uncle forgave me, often times before I would forgive myself for being an insolent boy. With my thoughts consumed by self-destruction, I wondered if my uncle would have still been alive if he would have eventually abandoned me somewhere and returned home.
The notion made me shudder. I would not have thought less of him if he had pushed me away or quietly slipped into the night while I slept. He had freed me from my father's underground hell and owed me nothing.
Likewise I would not have blamed Madeline if she asked me to leave the Opera House after the unexpected disturbance I had caused. The gypsies were no longer in Paris and I doubted the search for me continued.
And yet it has been caused.
My body went numb as I thought of Cathedra being injured and Madeline caught aiding me in my escape. Senora di Carlo would have been unscathed and perhaps Madeline would have stayed longer in England with her family if not for me.
Lips pressed tightly together, I held back a sob and closed my eyes. There was not a single corner of the entire world where I would ever find acceptance, and yet I craved it all the same. No matter how well I learned to play the violin, despite the melodies in my head begging to be committed to paper, I would be nothing.
A genius, Madeline had said to me, however, I was well aware it did not matter what she saw in me; the rest of the world had made certain I knew my fate. Instead of applause, I would forever hear the shrieks of women and children. Rather than remembered for my symphonies and operas, I would only be known as a monster-if I were remembered at all.
The cellar door creaked open and I sprang out of my chair, startled by the sound and half-expecting Cathedra's husband had come to strangle me.
Instead I found Madeline in her ballet costume, her face still painted brightly from the performance. I had no idea what time it was, but I realized I had been sitting in the same spot for hours on end.
I held my arms still at my side and averted my gaze, terrified to confront her. I inhaled sharply and watched from the corner of my eye as she stepped closer.
"You are upset?" Madeline questioned. She did not wait for me to respond. "From last night, I suppose."
My eyes met hers. "Last night?" I questioned.
Madeline's lips parted. "My God, you have not slept, have you?" She stepped closer and looked me over. "Your eyes are bloodshot. It is not healthy for you to stay awake for days on end like this."
I offered no reply as I did not much care about the detrimental effects on my health.
"Erik," Madeline said under her breath. "Please, I am concerned about you."
"Is Senora di Carlo unwell?" I asked, ignoring her words.
Madeline furrowed her brow. "She has made a full recovery and has been permitted to perform this evening," she answered.
"Good." I gave a single nod and turned away from Madeline.
Long moments passed, but I could not bring myself to face my only friend. Heaviness weighed upon me, and my chest ached as though an invisible hand gripped tight around my heart.
"You do not wish to see me?" Madeline asked at last.
I shivered at her sullen words. "Quite the opposite, Mademoiselle."
"I do not understand why you will not speak to me."
Because I do not deserve a single second of your company, I wanted to tell her. Because I was accustomed to being treated and viewed as a beast and her kindness was foreign. Because I wanted desperately to be someone else and I knew my fate had been sealed at birth. Because she was truly an angel and I was the devil's son and her kindness would never change my place in life.
"Because you should not spend so much time down here," I said at last. As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted speaking them and yet I made no effort to retract my statement.
"Why not?" Madeline persisted. "And when you answer, have the gall to look me in the eye," she said through her teeth.
I turned on my heel and faced her at last, my hands balled into fists and body rigid, prepared for an exchange of harsh words. I expected pure anger, but instead found tear-filled eyes meeting mine. Her expression caught me off-guard, and I stood several feet away with my lips parted and tongue unable to form words.
I had not expected nor intended to hurt her, and yet pain had been caused. The monster within me stirred, a beast created from years of harsh treatment and no escape. My chest tightened and I felt as though I would suffocate despite each breath coming hard and fast. Rage spread like fire, the hatred and confusion I felt inside smothering any rational thoughts.
"What do you have to say?" Madeline asked, her tone stern despite her melancholy expression.
"Nothing," I mumbled. Numbness slowly replaced the anger. I had no desire to confront her a moment longer as I feared the irreversible damage of my words.
"You have nothing to say to me?"
"No words I would dare speak would be the truth."
Madeline's lower lip quivered. "Why would you not tell me the truth?"
"I cannot bear it."
"I do not understand."
Confusion set in as the beast within my mind stalked back and forth restlessly. Every thought racing through my muddled head contradicted the previous one as I considered lashing out verbally, then falling to my knees as I begged for forgiveness, and finally I grappled with the idea of disappearing. No matter what I chose, I would not win. Frustration threatened to rip me apart.
I looked past her and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My shoulders were hunched, hands balled into tight fists and head tilted down in shame. I did not bother to look at my own face as there was no need. The beast was there; a terrible and disgusting animal mocking my turmoil.
Madeline, however, would not accept my silence. She followed my gaze, and I saw her staring back at me through the mirror. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away.
"You are not upset with me, are you?" she questioned.
Defeated by my own lack of worth, I pressed my eyes shut and shook my head. Once I gave my silent admission, lack of sleep and my growling stomach left me utterly exhausted and trembling. I took a deep breath, glad I had not spoken harshly to Madeline as I had done many times to my uncle, and trudged toward one of the armchairs.
My body felt heavy as lead, my mind still swimming-or rather drowning-with overwhelming hatred for myself. I barely registered Madeline's presence as she took her seat across from me and sat with her hands folded in her lap and lips pressed together. I should have acknowledged her, but my senses were dulled as though I had been issued a tremendous blow to the head.
"I suppose this is not perhaps the best time, but Senora di Carlo left a note for you in the chapel," Madeline said.
I blinked, my eyes dry and barely able to stay open. "What did it say?"
Madeline reached across the chairs and held out an off-white envelope. "I have not opened it."
I stared at the envelope pinched between her thumb and forefinger, unsure of whether I wished to read the contents. At last I accepted the note and briefly glanced at the perfectly scrawled lettering on the front:
My Dearest Opera Ghost
The soprano's fond greeting intrigued me, and as I turned the envelope over in my grasp, I caught a whiff of strong, floral perfume.
"She likes to smell like a garden," Madeline remarked as I wrinkled my nose.
"You took this?" I questioned.
"Before anyone else saw."
"Why? Why would you bring this to me?"
Madeline sat back. "Let this be the end of it," she said. "Read what she has to say and know she is grateful."
I set the envelope aside. "I would rather burn it."
Madeline looked at me pointedly. "You are being quite infantile."
She was correct, and to accentuate her point, I slouched in the chair and crossed my arms over my chest. My protest, however, lasted only a moment as my gaze was drawn back to the envelope on the table between our chairs.
My curiosity had always been insatiable, even as a very small child kept in seclusion, when I managed to escape-either out of the house entirely or sneaking into the main level when my parents were away-I looked through books and letters and whatever else I assumed they would not notice had gone missing. With materials tucked beneath my arm, I scurried back into the darkness and hid my treasures beneath the bins of onions and potatoes. Remarkably, despite how often my father grabbed root vegetables from the wooden bins, he never once looked beneath the containers. I wondered if my collection was still there in the cellar, rotting away in my absence.
I glanced at the unopened envelope and rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek. Patience was not my strong suit, and judging by the way Madeline sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and eyes fixed on me, she knew I was unable to contain myself.
"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered as I grabbed the envelope and stood. For a half a moment I considered foolishly lighting it on fire, but the thought was fleeting. I wanted to know what Cathedra di Carlo had written to me, to her dearest and yet undeserving Opera Ghost.
Madeline stood as well, her frame rigid and lips parted. I turned from her, slid my finger beneath the wax seal, and tore open the envelope. My palms felt damp, my hands shaking as I pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read the famous soprano's words.
"What did she say?" Madeline asked as I read it a second time.
"She said… she wishes I were real," I said under my breath. My heart ached as I scanned the letter again and again, hoping somehow the words would rearrange themselves and the message would change. How quickly my elation abandoned me.
Perhaps it was the initial excitement or the throbbing in my chest that felt as though my rib cage would crack open, but I felt light-headed and cold in my bones. I sat heavily in my chair and continued the torment by reading her words again.
If you were real, if you were a man of flesh and bone, I would very much like to embrace you in a show of gratitude for your guidance and love. You are the light in my heart, Dearest Phantom, the spirit guiding my voice. You have truly made me appreciate my gift, and I hope to share it with all of Paris a while longer.
At last I folded the note and placed it back inside the envelope, which I held for a long moment. In silence I questioned who I was; a young man, the Devil's Son, a Living Corpse, or a Phantom.