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Chapter 30

Madeline relayed all of the Opera House gossip-most of which I had already overheard-when she delivered my new cloak, winter gloves, and a pair of boots so sturdy and warm I hesitated to accept them as I feared damaging such fine craftsmanship.

"This must have cost a fortune," I said as I ran my hand along the woolen cloak Madeline had draped over the back of my chair.

The garment was dark green in color with a gray lining that looked almost silver in the light. Thick and heavy, I could hardly wait for a cold evening to envelope myself in its warmth on the rooftop.

"Try it on," Madeline suggested. She clasped her hands and rose on the balls of her feet in shared anticipation.

I did as she requested and spun in a circle, causing the end of the cloak to swirl around me.

"Perfect." Madeline grinned. "Go look in the mirror."

I could not deny her request. With my new boots and luxurious cloak, I made my way to the mirror and looked myself over.

"What do you think?" Madeline asked as she sidled up beside me. As we stood side-by-side, I could not tell who was more excited.

"I look forward to the cold," I answered.

Madeline brushed her hands over my shoulders and straightened the fabric. "Do you know what you need now?" she asked. "You need a haircut."

I turned my head from side to side and ran my fingers through my hair. The longer strands were nearly to my shoulders, which I had not noticed, while the hair growing in was considerably shorter tufts filling in the bald spots.

"Sit and I will cut it for you."

"I could do it."

"When was it last cut?"she asked.

I shrugged in response. My hair had been pulled out in clumps many times, my scalp tender and bruised from fistfuls yanked out by my father and Garouche, but never cut.

"Never," I answered. "Is it...uncomfortable?"

Madeline returned to the table and I followed. She pulled out a pair of scissors in a leather sheath and trimmed the end of her braid while I looked on.

"Not at all,"she answered. "Sit. This will only take a moment."

I removed my new cloak and hung it by the door, then turned and walked solemnly back to the table like a man condemned. I sat very straight and still on the bench with my hands on my knees and breath held in anticipation, which amused Madeline. She cut a single hair and showed it to me before she combed out the tangles and did her best to make my hair one length.

The languorous sensation of fingers against my scalp made me exhale and relax. I stared straight ahead at the flowers Madeline had brought weeks ago that were now dried out, and I found my thoughts pulled to the weeds crowded around the headstone behind my parents' house.

My mother had placed flowers against the grave-my grave-only once that I could recall. I had seen her toss down the bouquet held together with twine where it landed unceremoniously in the grass before she returned inside. I recalled how I waited for her to look at me as I stared out from the cellar, how I considered calling to her, but I feared my words would be upsetting.

I wondered if my mother had ever ran her fingers through my hair when I was an infant, if she had ever shown me a moment of tenderness that I was far too young to recall. I wanted desperately to believe there had been a moment when she had loved me and lulled me to sleep. Perhaps she had caressed my hair and told stories one night as she rocked me in her lap. Perhaps once-only once-she had loved me.

"Erik?" Madeline said. She nudged my shoulder and I inhaled sharply once I realized I had been lost in daydreams.

"I apologize," I mumbled.

"I thought you were about to fall asleep."

"No," I answered. "I was thinking of my mother."

Madeline handed me a small, round mirror and continued to push my hair around until she apparently found it suitable. "Good thoughts, I hope."

I stared at my reflection and Madeline peeking over my shoulder at my uncovered face. "I cannot think of a single moment where my mother treated me like her son," I said. "Sometimes I wish I knew what I could have done to earn her affection."

Madeline returned the scissors to the sheath and placed them into her bag before she found a broom and dustpan near the crates. She swept up the hair and dumped it into a trash receptacle in need of being emptied, then took a seat across from me. She sat for a long moment staring at a knot in the wood without saying a word.

"It is not a child's duty to earn a mother's affection," she said at last.

"I made it my duty,"I replied. "I used to listen to my mother from the top of the cellar stairs. I would sit for hours on the other side of the door and listen to her voice. Most of the time I could not understand what she said, but I did not care. I would imagine she spoke to me."

Several times I fell asleep against the door, lulled to sleep by her repetitive murmur of nonsensical words, only to be jolted awake by my father's heavy footsteps. No matter how I attempted to scurry down and out of sight, he always spotted me.

Madeline picked at the knot in the wood with her fingernail and frowned. "That sounds very lonely," she replied.

"There were worse thing than loneliness," I quietly answered.

Madeline shivered at my words and ran her hand along her forearm. She sat up a little straighter and looked me over. "We will not speak of such things," she said firmly.

"Are you leaving?" I asked, dreading the thought of being alone after sharing an intimate detail of my past.

"No." She smiled, and the sense of relief I felt in her staying a while longer made me smile as well. "I have news."

As it turned out, Cathedra di Carlo did not die as everyone expected. She improved enough to be able to leave her apartments across the street from the Opera House, but not enough where she would be able to perform.

With the change in her health, rehearsals resumed and the manager announced that the next scheduled performance would be in three days, on a Friday night, with Carlotta as the new lead.

"Cathedra is returning to the Opera House before the show on Friday," Madeline said. She gave a long and somewhat dramatic pause. "And she sent this."

With a wave of her hand, she placed an envelope on the table with a rose stamped into the red wax seal. When I turned the envelope over, it was marked with the words "Opera Ghost."

"How did you obtain this?" I asked.

"Her husband left it in the chapel. It sat there for a few hours before I took it." Madeline offered a close-lipped smile. "It is better in my hands than a scoundrel like Buquet."

With giddy excitement, I broke open the seal and devoured the contents.

"What did she say?" Madeline asked after several moments.

"She thanked me-the Opera Ghost, I should say-for returning her rings and said they have been missing for nearly three months. She also wants to thank the Opera Ghost in person before the performance on Friday night at six."

Madeline raised a brow. "Ciampa said no one is permitted in the halls from five-thirty until seven. Cathedra must have told him she wanted a private audience."

My heart raced as I scanned the note once more. "Do you think it is permissible to speak with her?" I asked as I met Madeline's eye.

With a smile, she nodded. "As the retired diva commands."

oOo

I looked forward to the performance Friday evening and the opportunity to speak with Cathedra di Carlo for what I assumed would be a final time. Despite our limited interactions, I still thought of her as mine. She had looked directly at me after the first performance I attended. She spoke to me alone in the chapel and thanked me for returning her rings. She was dear to me, and I assumed with the note she had written to her ghost, I was dear to her as well.

With three days before the next performance, my restlessness became unmanageable. I slipped out of the Opera House, keys strapped to my belt, and wandered around the streets in my new winter cloak and boots, desperate for a distraction from the ticking clock.

I stayed near the theater and walked briskly through the streets illuminated with gas lamps, stopping to slip apples to carriage horses as they waited for the drivers to return. The heat of their breaths rolled through the night air, their ears flicking back as I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. While the large beasts of burden ate from my open hand, I listened to street performers braving the chilly night air and watched people casually pass me.

No one seemed to notice I existed. After months of being placed on display for my hideous appearance, I was surprised how easily people walked past me without sparing a glance in my direction now that I had the hood of a cloak covering my features.

Once my apples were gone, I gave the two carriage horses a pat on the neck and slid my hands into my gloves. With my cloak pulled tight around my body and flesh colored mask obscured by a long, thick scarf, I allowed the sound of music to draw me further down the streets. From women singing as they stood on empty wooden crates to men with flutes, accordions, and violins, melodies surrounded me.

I walked until I found myself nearing a particularly large crowd blocking the street at an intersection with three musicians playing together. One man had a violin, another a drum, and the third a trumpet.

I dared to stand on the same side of the street as the rest of the crowd. My gloved fingers moving in time with the music, my head gently bobbing as I anticipated each note. A man beside me turned to a young woman and offered his hand, and the two of them danced to a waltz on the corner of the street. The crowd clapped in time with the music before several other couples joined in dancing. Soon enough, the street was alive with music and dancing.

Halfway through the song I found myself grinning beneath my mask, scarf and hood. No one realized I was the son of the devil or a living corpse. No one would have suspected I was scarred from birth with such a hideous visage that women fainted and children screamed.

I casually surveyed my surroundings, marveling at how I fit as an ordinary piece to a plain puzzle. With each passing second I relaxed and found myself nearly shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the spectators. Not a single person gave me more than a passing glance, and for the first time in my life, I felt as though I belonged in public.

The song ended and another one began, which kept the crowd dancing and entertained. The music was nothing elegant or particularly difficult to play, but laughter and clapping accompanied the trio huddled under a gas lamp.

In the back of my mind I pompously told myself I could have played my own violin much better than the performer who had started to walk through the crowd. A small boy with a mess of straw-like blond hair poking out from a hat followed behind him with the violin case. Several people readily dropped coins into the case as they weaved their way through, and, seeing the generosity of the spectators, I removed my glove and found a bank note. When the boy made his way to me, I folded the bill and added into the case. Instantly the boy looked down at the bank note, his eyes wide and mouth wide open. Before he could acknowledge me, I turned on my heel and darted toward the back of the crowd, deciding it was for the best not to draw attention to myself.

The moment I reached the middle of the street, I noticed a slender figure looming at the mouth of the alleyway where the street lamps did not reach. At first I thought it was a tall man, but once the child hopped down from the steps leading up to narrow doorway, I realized the individual was quite small. I could not tell if the child was a girl or a boy as there was nothing distinguishing about his or her silhouette. Still, the child moved its head in time with my movement and I knew the street urchin watched me.

I considered returning to the Opera House, but truthfully I had no desire for my night to come to a swift end, and I assumed no harm could come from a scrawny beggar.

Slowly I turned my attention back to the musicians while I watched the child scurry like a rat from the corner of my eye. After several moments, the child crouched down and jutted out a bare hand toward the crowds walking past, but no one offered a second glance, much less a coin to feed an empty belly.

Despite all I had endured in my fourteen years, not once had I begged for anything. On the nights I escaped from my parents' cellar, I rummaged through alleyways in search of discarded food alongside stray dogs, cats, raccoons and mice. I wasn't sure which was less dignified; finding my own half-eaten meals or begging for a merciful handout on a busy street.

"You got more to spare?" a tiny voice questioned.

I looked down and found a boy no older than six or seven standing before me. I glanced at him, then toward the alley and realized it was the same child. His eyes appeared too large for his small face, his lips dried and cracked from the cold. Something about him reminded me of a doll carved from wood with sharp features.

"Pardon me," the boy said. He tugged on my cloak and I took a step back. I would like to think I took a step back because I wanted a better look at him, but in all honesty, I moved away because his hands, face and hair were filthy and he had sores on his scalp from picking at lice. He also smelled worse than horse waste whereas I was freshly bathed.

The boy wiped his running nose with the back of his tattered sleeve and skittered from me to the next person, who also ignored him. Undeterred by rejection, he made his rounds to several more people before he returned to his place in the shadows and tucked his knees up to his chest.

I watched him for a moment, ashamed of myself for not acknowledging his presence. I wondered if he had ran away from home or if perhaps he had loving parents who had tragically died and left him an orphan. Regardless of how he had come to begging for spare change, he was alone and obviously hungry and cold.

On the opposite corner, an older, robust man hawked warm nuts that smelled like cinnamon. A crooked line of people had formed, and I joined them at a careful distance.

"Two, please," I said once I approached the front of the line.

The robust man never bothered to look up from his paper bags. He plucked the bank note from my hand, replaced it with change, and impatiently waited for me to take my food so that he could serve the next person.

My mouth watered at the scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon. Granules of sugar sparkled in the lamp light, and I gathered several nuts from one bag and stuffed them into my mouth. I surveyed the alley and street and found the same boy approaching another person who quickly discarded him by raising his cane over his head in an unnecessary and threatening manner.

The boy dashed back to the safety of the sidewalk. He saw me as I approached and started to turn to walk away, but I jogged toward him.

"Wait!" I called out.

He eyed me from a distance, his small frame stiff and owlish eyes wide with trepidation. He looked ready to bolt, but once I held out the paper bag, he took a step forward.

"Here," I said.

He did not bother with pleasantries. Quick as could be, he grabbed the paper bag and scooped out a fistful of nuts, which he stuffed so far into his mouth I was surprised he did not choke. He took several handfuls and chewed like a ravenous dog as he lingered a moment longer. I attempted to eat mine slowly, taking great care to not expose my mask.

"Thank you," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I nodded in return and watched the performers finish another song. Eventually the boy dashed away and the man with the violin announced they had one more song left for the night.

Although they clearly played for crumpled bank notes and dull coins thrown into a violin case, I watched and wondered if I could perform in similar fashion merely to entertain. I wasn't sure if I truly wished to entertain myself or the crowd, but I thought back to the tavern where my uncle had introduced me to the house band. They had been awestruck by my ability to play the violin. The streets of Paris would be equally under the spell of my violin. People would reach into their pockets and apologize for not being able to provide more and I would wave off their concerns. I played for the joy the instrument provided. I played for the release of melody deep in my bones. I played for others to experience what I felt quaking in my heart.

My thoughts were disrupted by the muffled sound of a struggle and the scrape of wood against stone. I turned my attention from the performers to the alleyway where two larger figures had pinned the small boy up against the brick. Two young men poked the boy in the chest and one hit him hard in the temple with a closed fist. The boy crumpled to the ground while one of the older boys took the paper bag from his hand. They stood over him, eating handfuls of nuts while the boy writhed beneath them.

Breath held, I stood at a distance and watched in silent horror as the two teens continued to strike the boy, who made no effort to fight back.

My uncle would have had both young men flat on their backs and begging for mercy. Madeline would have run over, given them a stern warning and chased them off. I thought of everything I should have done for the child who was now curled up on his side and whimpering while one of the older boys lifted his closed fist above his head and threatened to strike the young boy again.

The tormentors took their stolen bag of peanuts and walked away, their brutal actions unhindered by anyone who glanced in their direction-including me. The young boy managed to sit upright and eventually climb to his feet, and within minutes he disappeared down the alley and out of sight.

I wondered if the boy had seen me watch the attack. I wondered how many times he had been roughed up and robbed by older boys or strangers in the presence of people perfectly capable yet unwilling to intervene.

The final song ended, and I realized how easy it was to simply stand by and watch one person threaten or hurt another. Month after month with the traveling fair there had been consistently many more bystanders who watched Garouche club me to the ground. Out of roughly thirty people in attendance per show, perhaps two stepped forward to throw rotten vegetables or rocks, but the rest merely spectated.

They blended into the background, a sea of faces lacking expression. Once in a while I would see a woman gasp and cover her mouth or an older man grimace and shake his head, but no one spoke out-no one until Madeline. Six times a day, six days a week, for ten months, people filed into the tents, craned their necks for a better look at the devil's son, and quietly departed without a second thought as I crawled into the corner and covered my face. Thousands upon thousands of people walked past me without saying a word in protest.

And now I was no different than any of them.

I trudged back toward the Opera House, my roasted peanuts largely uneaten and tucked into my cloak. The scent of cinnamon and sugar no longer seemed appealing, and my stomach churned.

My hands trembled as I unlocked the side door and rushed into the theater, through the hall, and down the cellar steps. Once I was in my own apartments, I pulled off my outer garments, unlaced and removed my boots, and reached for my mask.

"Where were you?"

Madeline's voice startled me. I fumbled with and nearly dropped my mask as I pulled it up, wiped my forehead, and watched her rise from the armchair she usually sat in when she visited.

"Why did you help me?" I asked.

Madeline stretched her arms above her head and paused at my question, her mouth open at the start of a yawn. "I beg your pardon?"

"That night at the fair," I said. "Why did you do it?"

She pursed her lips and thought a moment. I wasn't sure what I wanted her to say; perhaps validation of worth that I lacked in my own eyes or perhaps I sought reasons why both Madeline and my uncle were far superior to me.

"I suppose I don't know," she said at last. "Why do you ask?"

Despite being disappointed by Madeline's answer, I merely shrugged.

Madeline took a deep breath. "You smell like cinnamon," she commented.

I turned, grabbed the paper bag from the inside pocket of my new cloak, and handed the package to her.

"You were out for some time," she said before popping a handful of nuts into her mouth.

"I apologize if I kept you waiting."

Madeline gave a wave of her hand and shook her head. "Quite frankly waiting down here prevented me from attending a soiree for Carlotta."

"You did not want to attend?"

"There are six different events planned." She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I will attend one."

"Six?"

"All planned by the new soprano. I dare say she is not humble."

I smiled at Madeline's words. She rarely showed her wicked side, but when she did, it was carefully measured.

"What did you do tonight?" Madeline asked.

I saw an innocent child be beaten down and robbed, I wanted to say.

"There was music on a street corner," I answered simply.

"Quite possibly the last night for outdoor performances," Madeline said. "But there will be plenty of performances here."

"I would like to perform," I blurted out.

Madeline blinked at me. "You want to perform?"

"Outside," I clarified. "With my violin."

She remained silent for a long moment and brought another handful of nuts to her lips. "You would be very good, especially since you have the winter to practice."

I nodded slowly, unsure of whether or not she would ultimately caution against my intention of performing. While the trio had entertained, I imagined myself closer to the Opera House, perhaps across the square and beneath the lamp light where the city bustled with crowds late into the night. Hundreds of people would hear and appreciate the music I played.

"I have a case for my violin. I found one earlier today," I said as though somehow this would justify my plans.

Again Madeline nodded. She walked toward the table and I followed behind her. "Where would you play?" she casually asked.

"Across the street."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

When she went silent, I felt my elation falter. I was fully aware that I had not thought out much of my plan other than I wanted to play.

"I will keep my mask on," I reasoned. "And the scarf wrapped around my head and the hood low so no one will see me. I will-I will not be seen."

As much as I wanted to believe I had a new sense of confidence I knew that even nestled beneath the scarf and mask I was no different. Yet still I wanted this opportunity, needed this moment for the world to hear me, to know what I was capable of doing. I didn't not care that I had no concrete plan; I wanted what I wanted and nothing would stop me.

"What would you play?" Madeline asked.

I could not tell if she was being overly pleasant or condescending, but I was becoming agitated and assumed it was the latter. She did not believe in me. She thought I was a weak, sniveling brat that needed rescued. Frustration left me almost trembling in anger.

"I would play whatever I wanted," I answered.

Madeline folded the top of the paper bag and placed it onto the table. "You should make a list of songs you wish to play."

"I will."

"Would you like me to help you?" she asked.

"No," I answered sharply. "No, I do not need your assistance."

Madeline tilted her head to the side and looked at me for a long moment. "What is wrong?" she gently asked. She took a step forward and I took a step away, which made her stop. "Erik, what happened? Why are you upset?"

"I am not upset," I argued.

"Then please tell me what happened when you were out."

I turned away from her, unable to rid my thoughts of the boy I had seen and my own violent, nightmarish past. I should have done something, anything at all.

"What should you have done?" Madeline asked.

I hadn't realized I spoke my regrets aloud until she placed her hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the armchairs. There she asked me to sit, pulled her chair closer, and looked me over.

"He was young," I said. "Six or seven years of age, I would guess."

I mumbled through what I had witnessed, haunted by the tangled images of what I had seen and what I had experienced. I realized I could barely distinguish one thought from the next.

"How terrible," Madeline agreed.

Her words did nothing to calm what I felt inside. "I should have done something."

"You could have been hurt."

"You would have done something," I blurted out. "Without being prompted, without a second thought, you would have stopped them."

Madeline pursed her lips. "I do not know what I would have done."

We remained silent for an uncomfortable moment, and the longer we went without speaking, the more I realized how hard I was breathing.

"I am glad you are safe," Madeline offered. "And if you choose to play tomorrow night, I will look for this boy you saw. I have extra gloves and a hat he could have as well."

I sat up straighter in my chair and gripped the armrests,surprised by her words. "You would accompany me?"

Madeline appeared amused by my question. "Of course. I will come down at eight to go over your musical selections and we will walk out together and find a good spot."

A chance to play in public, to perform before passing strangers on the bustling streets of Paris. I was not sure if I should have felt elated or frightened half to death, but the darkness inside of me slowly ebbed. I had another opportunity to make certain the nameless boy was fed and safe. Perhaps I could offer him shelter for the night and the safety of the Opera House.

"Thank you," I said, my mind racing with the possibilities. "Thank, Madeline, thank you."