Chapter 19
Cathedra di Carlo's words were not meant as an insult, at least that was what Madeline attempted to convince me. I recalled little of our conversation before she left for the remainder of the day, though I did remember her giving me a forlorn look at the door as she took my hand in hers. I pulled away, finding the contact uncomfortable given my melancholy mood.
"You do not need to visit me tomorrow," I said blankly. "I wish to be alone."
Once I shut the cellar door, I imagined disappearing forever, my body sinking into the crevices in the stone, seeping bonelessly into the earth. A creature made of nothing should have been able to vanish at will and yet I was, apparently, still real and made to suffer.
Every time I glanced at the note on the side table between the armchairs, I felt exceedingly worse about my fate. As much as I wanted to summon every ounce of rage I could muster, Cathedra di Carlo's words conjured sadness.
If you were real.
My life did not exist. Four simple words in a brief note erased the notion that I was a human being. It was, of course, not the first time I had felt as though I was less than other men, though this time it was different. All of my life I was thought less of because of how I was seen and now...now I was insignificant because I could not be seen.
Frustrated, I stalked toward the small table, ripped the note from the envelope, and set it aflame with one of the candles until smoke filled my nostrils and the page turned black and disintegrated before my eyes. Ash fell to my feet, a Phoenix I hoped would never rise, and I held onto the very last corner until my fingertips hurt and I was forced to drop the last bit of paper, which burned at my feet.
Eventually I grew tired of my own miserable company and fell asleep on my bed staring at the ceiling. After days spent awake, I had every intention of sleeping like a bear in hibernation.
Madeline, however, had different designs for my day. Much to my utter annoyance, she did not listen to my words and arrived quite early in the morning.
She was silent as a cat, and I woke to her standing over me with her arms crossed. She was dressed in a simple pale yellow dress with white sleeves and trim, and before I fully woke, I swore a ghost stood watch over my sleeping form.
She frightened the holy hell out of me.
"What are you doing?" I blurted out in half-sleep as I wrestled with the bedsheets and nearly tumbled off the edge of the bed.
"I have been worried sick all night about you." She took a step back and shook her head as though somehow I were at fault. "Barely slept all night."
"Why?" I asked as I flopped onto my side and faced away from her. To accent my disgruntled mood, I pulled the coverlet over my head.
"You wish to have a conversation while you remain buried under your blankets?" she questioned.
Yes, I wanted to answer as I pressed my eyes shut and made every infantile effort to ignore her. If there was to be any conversation at all, let it be from beneath the comfort of my warm blankets. Once she began tapping her shoe against the natural stone flooring, I squirmed beneath the coverlet and let out a groan.
She was not about to leave any time soon, I realized.
"What hour is it?"
"When I left the dormitory it was five."
My eyes shot open and I pulled the blanket down. "In the morning?" I exclaimed.
Madeline raised a brow and nodded. "This was the earliest I could come."
Slowly the events from the previous night crept into my thoughts and I recalled how I had asked her not to visit me at all. Now that I had a moment to reflect, I felt quite foolish in my request.
"It is an unreasonable hour," I yawned.
"I seem to have misplaced my favorite gloves," Madeline stated, completely ignoring the fact that I remained in bed. "I thought I would look here first and see if I dropped them while checking on you at the same time."
"Did you find them?"
"I have not had a chance to search."
That seemed like a fabrication, but I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Why would you need your gloves at five in the morning?"
Once I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, Madeline offered a devious smile. "I do not need them. As I first said, I was worried about you. The gloves are secondary."
My mood instantly darkened, a sort of aftershock of anger surfacing after a night of quaking in frustration and self-hatred. My limitations became more evident with each passing hour and no outlet for my emotions seemed suitable. Anything I broke I would be forced to clean up later. If I left the Opera House altogether I feared being locked out once more. I was in no mood for swimming, which meant my options were very limited. Burning the note had turned out less than satisfying.
I sat hunched over, arms crossed over my chest as I faced away from her. Stewing, my uncle called the behavior. I was quite accustomed to stirring my own anger, a whirlwind roaring in my mind.
"What color are your gloves?"
"Purple."
I will leave your purple gloves outside of the door if I find them," I said. "There is no need for you to stay."
Madeline remained undeterred by my childish words. "I have a surprise for you."
She knew precisely what to say to garner my attention and I had no choice but to look up and meet her eye. My belly rumbled, which made Madeline's smile widen.
"What sort of surprise?" I asked, although I still made every attempt to convince myself that my misery had no end and I was not truly interested in her surprise.
A warm smile graced her lips. "A private performance tonight."
My heart stuttered. "In the theater?" I asked obtusely.
"For our fifty greatest patrons."
I bowed my head. "But the box-"
"The de Chagnys have not yet returned from holiday," Madeline assured me. "You may sit in Box Five undisturbed for a special performance." She shrugged and picked at her nails. "Unless of course you prefer staying here."
She was treating me as I deserved, like an insolent child pouting.
As to not give her the satisfaction, I nodded slowly and pretended to weigh my options in silence when really there was no decision to be made. I discovered I had grown quite fond of the seats the de Chagny fortune inadvertently allowed me as well as their long absence. With any luck, perhaps they would never return and the box seats would forever be mine.
"Is it the entire opera?" I asked.
Madeline shook her head as she stepped away from me and walked clear around the table in search of her gloves. Her moves seemed somewhat theatrical, which made me wonder if her gloves were misplaced at all.
"Special selections from Monsieur Reyer," she answered over her shoulder while skimming over a stack of music. "He is the director."
I nodded even though she did not face me.
"And there is something more." She eyed me briefly, her voice filled with excitement. "No ballet tonight."
"You can watch the performance." I suspected it was a rarity for Madeline and the rest of the ballet dancers to be part of the audience. My attempts at appearing casual were foiled by my own smile.
Madeline rolled onto the balls of her feet. "From any seat I choose." She grunted. "Well, aside from the patron seats, although some of the men would prefer a woman seated on their laps." She rolled her eyes in disgust.
My mirth faltered. I pictured myself alone in the opera box while Madeline sat with the other dancers in the orchestra section. From afar I would watch as they giggled and whispered amongst themselves until the ballet mistress silenced them as the lights dimmed and the curtain parted.
"Have you decided where you will sit this evening?" I asked as I stared at my bare feet. Misery most certainly preferred my company, I thought to myself.
Madeline abandoned her search for her gloves and walked toward me. From the corner of my eye I saw her approach with her hands on her hips, each step executed with grace and determination. She extended her hand and nudged me in the shoulder.
"You know precisely where I will be." Her eyes met mine and she shook her head. "Enough sulking, Erik. I do not want to see you like this for a moment longer."
I started to protest, but she would not hear it and at last I stood and stretched.
"Help me look for my gloves and then we shall have breakfast."
I yawned again. "Remind me, what color are your gloves?"
"Blue," she answered. She caught herself all too late and started to correct herself but merely offered a sheepish grin.
"Blue indeed," I said under my breath, glad for her fabrication.
Breakfast and coffee, which I still did not much care for, turned my sullen mood tolerable. Since there was no regular performance for the evening thanks to the special event, Madeline had the majority of the day to herself.
"There is a festival today, which means in a few hours most of the performers will be out for the day," she said.
"You are not going with them?" I asked.
"The festival takes place over three days. I can go tomorrow if I choose, though honestly I do not wish to spend a single franc after my visit to London."
She explained briefly that part of her funds for the month of June went to her parents in order to pay for her brother's funeral expenses. Her father had been out of work recently due to declining health and Madeline passed a considerable amount of her funds to her mother in secret.
"That was very kind of you," I commented. Deep inside, however, I could not help but feel a sense of concern for Madeline and her family. I worried about her being unable to feed herself or-worse yet-leaving the Opera House if she was unable to pay for her room and board. I was not certain if I could remain within the Opera House if she returned to London permanently. Perhaps selfishly on my part I worried how her life wout impact mine.
"I do not have the means to pay for my breakfast," I said as I looked from my nearly empty plate to her face. The fact that my food came from her hard-earned wages had not crossed my mind.
"Believe me, no one notices a bit of food missing from the kitchen," she said. I couldn't tell if she was being truthful.
"But if you are sending money to your parents, you will not have enough to feed yourself. You should not go hungry."
"I should not have said a word. Trust me, I am in no danger of starving." Madeline shrugged.
"But… I do not mind going hungry," I blurted out. "I am accustomed to smaller meals."
Truthfully I was accustomed to rarely eating at all. Days would pass without so much as a chicken bone or apple core tossed my way. The emptiness was familiar, I wanted to tell her, but feared she would be upset by my words.
Madeline turned her head to the side and frowned. "They do not keep track of every item we put on our plates. The only time I spend money outside of the theater is when I want to eat at a cafe, which isn't often, believe me. Besides, my parents have sent me money and gifts every few months for years. It is the least I could do in return." She took a gulp of her coffee and sat back. "Eat, Erik. I will not see you starved."
With her eyes narrowed, she gave me a stern nod and made sure I continued to eat. Inwardly I smiled, appreciating her concern for me. I enjoyed the way she looked after me.
"And just because I do not buy anything at the festival doesn't mean I will not enjoy it. The best view of all the vendors and the performances is from the rooftop."
With a bite of breakfast sausage hanging out of my mouth I froze, startled by her words. Realizing how ridiculous I must have appeared, I hastily chewed and swallowed my food before blinking at her.
"The rooftop?" I echoed.
"Fresh air would be nice, wouldn't it?"
I nodded readily. Out of all the details I missed while staying underground in the caverns, I longed for the smell of fresh cut grass and the air before a storm. I wondered how often I had taken those scents for granted.
"I have a few small errands to run, but I figured I would come down here at noon."
"I will meet you at the top of the stairs," I offered.
My eagerness seemed to please Madeline, who nodded at my offer. "Lunch on the rooftop and then the performance begins at eight sharp."
That was practically a full day spent out of the cellar. I looked at my pocket watch and saw it was not even six in the morning.
"You could sleep a while longer," Madeline suggested, apparently sensing my dismay.
More than likely the anticipation would slowly kill me. I shrugged and continued eating in silence.
"Oh," Madeline said as she bent and reached under the table. "I almost forgot I have sugar for your coffee. I noticed you do not seem to like it black."
She produced a small porcelain bowl wrapped in a cloth bag with a drawstring to keep the lid from falling off.
"Thank you," I said as I dumped the entire contents into my cup of coffee.
Madeline inhaled sharply and I froze, overturned sugar bowl still in hand. I had no idea what I had done to earn such a response.
"One cube at a time," she said. "That is why there is a little spoon attached to the handle.
I hadn't noticed the matching spoon until she mentioned it. Sheepishly I handed her the empty bowl and stirred my coffee. One I took a careful sip while Madeline looked on, I nodded at the sweetened taste.
"Much improved."
Her eyes widened. "You may as well have drank pure sugar." She took another sip of her coffee. "I prefer mine black."
Involuntarily I wrinkled my nose. The only reason I even drank coffee was to not hurt her feelings. Without an entire container of sugar dumped into the cup I found the taste far too bitter.
Madeline returned the bowl and empty plates into her basket and stood. "We will have a beautiful picnic with Apollo," she stated. "The best rooftop view in all of Paris."
My dismal mood from the previous evening had all but vanished at the promise of fresh air and sunlight. Each time I thought of the warmth of the sun, my uncle was in the forefront of my memory. The ache in my chest became more noticeable, almost shoved to the forefront of my thoughts.
"What day is it?" I asked.
"Day of the week?"
"Day of what month."
She gave me a peculiar look. "The twenty-third of September."
The anniversary of my uncle's death drew near, I knew, but I was not entirely certain of the date. Early November, I thought, but I was not one to keep track of the passing days. For the most part one day blended into the other and nothing stood out as particularly significant. I did not know the day-much less the month-of my own birth. The headstone in the back garden of my parents' home merely stated Infant Son and the year of my birth, 1850. My given name was blocked out by weeds and moss, such was its worth.
"It is already September?"
"It's almost October," Madeline said with a chuckle.
As far as I could recall, the traveling fair made its way into Paris sometime in June, which meant I had been at the Opera House three months now. That did not seem possible as I still felt as though I had been in hiding for mere weeks.
"What month did you think it was?" she asked over her shoulder as she arranged my stack of books in a manner she apparently found more appealing.
"I had no idea," I answered.
Once she finished straightening a pile of sketches, she looked at me. "When is your birthday?"
Ashamed, I looked away from her and shrugged. Perhaps a birth date was etched beneath moss and tall weeds on my headstone, but I did not recall ever seeing a date. The horror I had felt once I discovered the empty grave haunted me for quite some time as I realized my father made frequent attempts to place me beneath the ground.
Without missing a beat, Madeline clasped her hands. "June," she said. "The very best people are born in June."
I had a feeling I knew her answer, but I asked all the same. "When is your birthday?"
She giggled. "June."
I appreciated her willingness to share her birth month with me and nodded. It seemed appropriate to claim June as my birth month when that is when I arrived in Paris and stumbled into my rebirth.
"I will see you at noon at the top of the stairs," Madeline confirmed as she made her way to the door.
"Did you find your gloves?" I asked.
Madeline paused at the door, her lips parted as she considered my inquiry. Knowing I had caught her in a white lie, she did nothing to contain her smile. "I do believe I left them in the dormitory after all."