NOTE: Hello! This story is not abandoned. Updates have been slow, and I apologize, but I will continue writing as time allows. I promise. This has been one of my favorite versions of the Phantom to write and I hope you stick with me and young Erik Kire. Appreciate everyone who takes the time to not only read, but to leave a review.
CH 33
It was utter foolishness on my part to think Cathedra di Carlo spoke to me, ignorance beyond comprehension that the Incomparable Soprano from the Opera Populaire had spotted me in the rain and reached out to tell me I would catch a cold.
I stood awkwardly at a distance, my heart in my throat, and listened to the exchange between the retired diva and her incoming cousin.
"Go inside," Carlotta ordered.
"I will not take commands from you," Cathedra seethed.
Carlotta placed one hand on her generous Italian hip and made a face. "Fine, then, dear cousin, stand in the rain. I suppose it doesn't matter for the quality of your voice as no one is coming to hear you sing any longer."
"How dare you," Cathedra seethed. "You ungrateful little–"
"I attempted niceties, Cathedra," Carlotta said. "But I will not waste precious breaths on you."
The younger woman sauntered through the door, leaving Cathedra to stand outside beneath her umbrella. Her head dipped, her bottom lip quivering as she fought to maintain her composure.
Despite the cold around me, I felt heat rise up the back of my neck and across my cheeks. I was furious on her behalf, outright incensed that anyone would have the gall to speak to The Incomparable Cathedra in such a manner.
I took a step forward, but Cathedra muttered a curse in Italian and closed her umbrella before she returned inside and slammed the door, unaware that she left me waiting mere steps away.
Quite frankly I had no idea what I intended to do or say once I approached her, and I knew it was probably for the best when the door closed, but I forced myself to wait a moment longer to see if she would return.
The heavy curtains nearest the door parted and a little dog with ears that reminded me of a butterfly's wings gazed out the window, its keen eyes tracking people walking down the street. It barked incessantly, its black nose hitting the glass with each ferocious warning.
"Maurice!" a feminine voice shouted. "Away from the window!"
Seconds later, a young maid threw back the curtain and swept up the barking dog. She glanced at me briefly, but didn't appear to acknowledge me standing in front of the building.
I started to turn away when the front door opened and the dog came flying out, its high-pitched yaps signaling that it ran directly toward me. Instinctively I froze, my breath held and hands tucked deep into my cloak sleeves to protect my flesh from an unprovoked bite.
The canine came to a sudden stop within arm's reach where it bounced back and forth, tail furiously wagging while it continued with its blood-curdling racket.
In the doorway, the maid stood with one hand on her hip and an expression of utter annoyance. She made no attempt to retrieve the dog, deciding instead to watch the excited animal continue to bound back and forth.
Slowly I relaxed, noting the little tricolor dog's behavior was more playful than menacing. It pranced around, sniffing the ground until it found a suitable place by an empty flower pot to lift its leg before bounding up to me once more.
I extended my arm, hand still carefully tucked into the sleeve, and the dog sniffed me.
"He bites," the maid commented.
The enthusiastic wag of his tail assured me that while he may have bitten others, he wasn't interested in biting me. With my head tilted down and shielded from the maid's view, I smiled at the dog.
"Good boy," I whispered.
"What do you want?" the maid asked. She whistled, but the dog didn't react, preferring instead to bounce on his hind legs as though he wished for me to pick him up.
I reached into my trouser pocket and felt the envelope with my note to Cathedra, deciding on whether I would hand it directly to the maid or leave it in the chapel as the soprano would have expected.
"Answer me at once or I shall have you removed from the premises," the maid threatened.
I kept my head bowed and marched swiftly toward the open door, the little dog dancing alongside me where it dashed into the house. Through the open door I caught a whiff of whatever was being made for supper.
"For Senora di Carlo," I said, hand extended with the note held out.
"From?" the maid snarled.
A friend, I wanted to say. An admirer.
"The Opera Ghost," I answered. "I deliver this note on his behalf."
"And who are you?"
"I am his humble servant," I answered.
"Give me your name."
"My name is Erik," I growled through my teeth.
I hoped she couldn't see my face as I was utterly terrified of her seeing my expression, which failed to match my confident tone.
"Now leave at once." The girl snatched the envelope from my hand and immediately stepped inside. She started to slam the door shut, but I wedged my boot inside before she could bar me from the residence. At once I felt more the master than the lowly servant, my back straightening as I stood to my full height and towered over her.
The girl inhaled sharply. "Listen here, I'll have you re–"
"Removed from the premises, as you have previously threatened," I finished boldly on her behalf, annoyed by her rude behavior and the rain continuing to chill me miserably to the bone. I feared she would toss my note into the fire or rip it to shreds if I did not make demands.
"Step back," she ordered.
Instead, I pushed the door further open. "See to it that Senora di Carlo receives this at once, maid, or I'll make the Opera Ghost aware of your insolence. Is that understood?"
The girl gasped. "I said leave," she commanded. "Or I'll scream."
"Go ahead. Scream," I dared her, keeping my tone even. I leaned forward and she recoiled. "Scream loud enough for the ghost to hear you in his chambers."
She stiffened, but didn't make a sound and I couldn't tell if she was livid, frightened, or both. I stepped back and she slammed the door shut, locking it behind her.
"Senora!" I heard her shout. "Senora!"
I smiled to myself, feeling somewhat satisfied in the exchange and how I had stood my ground while still somewhat ashamed for the way I had treated the girl who had come to the door investigating a stranger. She had been rude to me first, I reasoned, and I owed her nothing.
Before I crossed the street, I glanced over my shoulder and noticed the rustle of curtains from the second floor. I paused, waiting to see if the person would show themselves again, but no one appeared. Part of me hoped Cathedra watched me cross the street, the messenger boy employed by the Phantom. I liked the idea of the ghost residing in his home, awaiting word that his bidding was done.
Satisfied with my excursion, I returned to the Opera House and straight to the kitchen, drawn to the smell of freshly baked goods. Normally I stocked my pantry late in the night when no one was around, but I was ravenous and dared to slink into the back storage room where a table of pies cooled.
Voices from the adjoining room where the food was prepared forced me into swift action, and I grabbed the nearest pie with a flour-covered cloth, realizing a moment too late that the item I stole was far hotter than I had anticipated.
Still, I sucked in a breath and scampered from the room, leaving a trail of rain water in my wake as I darted down the hall, attempting to fold the cloth beneath the tin so that I didn't burn myself.
I wound my way down the hall and to the stairs to my lakeside abode, drenched from the downpour and dismayed by the storm that would most likely keep me confined underground and alone for the evening.
My boots were dry enough, but my cloak dripped a substantial amount of rainwater onto the hallway stone floor, leaving behind a trail like a giant snail had passed through.
The thought amused me, such was the extent of my boredom, and I purposely flung the length of it back and forth, slapping the fabric against the walls as I trudged down the stairs through the cellars with the pie I intended to eat for supper. I felt like an octopus in the deep, smacking the stone walls with my tentacles.
Once I returned to my home, I left my wet cloak on the coat rack by the door, and kicked off my boots. The furnace, which made up a good portion of the wall nearest the door, would thankfully aid in drying my cloak and boots, but not before I had hoped to leave once more and play my violin in the rain.
Disappointed and ravenous, I made my way to the table I'd left covered in music, bottles of ink, and a surprising amount of mugs and plates with half-eaten breads and cheeses. The plates I piled on the edge of the table while the mugs I simply shoved to one side in order to make room for the pie I intended to indulge in while I wallowed in self-pity.
I perused my half-written music, some sheets bearing oil stains or rings from both greasy food and mugs that had tea run down the sides. There were enough crumbs scattered across the table to feed a family of hungry mice, and I swept them into a pile with the side of my hand and onto a dirty plate to be emptied later..
"You really should clean up one mess before you make another," Madeline said with a sigh and a shake of her head as she slipped through the doorway and traipsed across the length of the room. "And please tell me you've had a proper meal this evening."
"Three slices of cherry pie," I answered. "Fresh from the oven."
She appeared less than amused. "How on earth are you thin as a reed with all of that pie in your belly?"
I shrugged without looking at her directly. My gauntness had been a source of embarrassment for me, one of many. Other young men my age had developed broad shoulders and sculpted muscles to their arms, and while toiling away through the rubbish in the cellar had added definition to my frame, I was still thin and boyish in appearance when I desired to look and feel masculine.
Madeline sat beside me on the long bench and plucked the fork from my hand.
"That's mine," I argued.
She didn't seem to notice the cherry fall off the tines and land with an explosion of juice onto the table between us. "You need real, nourishing food," she said sternly.
"There isn't any," I replied, taking my fork back.
"Not down here. There are piping hot meals elsewhere, however…"
Her words immediately caught my undivided attention. "It's raining still," I said, cautious of getting my hopes up.
"As the trail of water all the way down the stairs suggests, you've been out already and for a significant amount of time."
I couldn't tell if her words were meant to reprimand me or simply an observation. At last Madeline smiled, her nose wrinkling as she sat forward, her face inches from mine. The closeness was still foreign to me, the way in which she seemed oblivious to my hideous visage, an unexpected relief. I was less of a monster when she was near. I had forgotten what it felt like to simply be a person, not a thing on display or a beast in a cellar.
Madeline placed her hand over mine, her palm warm against my flesh. I welcomed her gentle touch, the way it soothed me in a way that I had longed for all of my life.
"Beef Bourguignon," she said. "That should warm you up."
Despite the sweets I had indulged in for the better part of an hour, I salivated at the thought of a savory meal, a dish that would most definitely stick to my ribs and fill the emptiness that had not been chased away by delectable cherries and flaky crust.
"My cloak is still drenched," I said as I stood and glanced at where it hung with a steady stream of water forming a lake of its own near the door.
"If you don't desire another excursion in this weather, I'll bring supper to you," she offered.
"No, I don't mind," I quickly responded despite dreading the feel of wet, heavy fabric against my clothing and flesh. It felt as though ice flowed through my veins, delivered by a block of ice that had taken up residence in my gut.
Madeline looked me over. "Are you certain?"
"I…I don't want to sit alone," I answered.
I wasn't sure if it was the words or the cold that made me shiver. Madeline frowned and searched my eyes, her expression forlorn.
"Don't look at me like that," I snapped.
Her eyebrows shot up. "Like what?" she asked.
"With pity," I said. "With remorse for someone such as myself."
She folded her arms. "There is a very small gathering tomorrow evening, since we have no performances yet," she told me. "A few of the dancers and a couple of the musicians are walking down to the salon on Isle de Paloma near St. Germaine Church to look at the art and enjoy some pastries and far too much wine."
My heart thudded. Madeline would be gone again and I would remain alone for another evening, a night that I had hoped she would visit with me for a few hours on a day with no rehearsals or performances.
I forced myself to nod and donned my wet cloak, feeling the weight of the water soaked garment.
"You should come with us," she offered. "Introduce yourself and talk to the musicians and dancers."
The very notion immediately gave me goose flesh. I imagined a small group of people staring at me as I stood beside Madeline, their gazes collectively drawn to the mask I would inevitably wear in their presence. I saw the trepidation and unspoken questions flit through their gazes, the concern for the young dancer who had befriended a monster.
They would whisper long after the gathering came to an end, their hushed voices filling the night with questions regarding where I had come from and what afflictions plagued me. They would think of me as strange, an oddity who had earned the pity of the young ballerina.
Immediately I shook my head and Madeline exhaled. "Would you rather stay down here alone?" she asked.
No, I wanted to tell her. No, I would rather you sit with me and not them. I'd rather you stay with me for twenty minutes than be subjected to the scrutinizing gazes of strangers for even a minute. I would always choose your company over anyone else's. Always. You are the only person I have in my life, the only one who will ever befriend me.
"Erik?" she questioned when I chose silence over an answer. "Please, come with me."
I shook my head again. I had lost count of how many hours, how many days, I had longed to be invited into a circle. From afar I had watched the gypsies sit around their fires and tell stories. Men and women laughed around the popping embers, smoke rising from the blaze they surrounded. They held hands, shared meals, and smiled at one another in ways that were impossibly foreign to me. I fantasized about being invited to sit with them, wrapped in a blanket with a plate of food balanced on my knee. I didn't need to partake in conversation or be asked about myself; I simply wanted to be included. To learn how to mimic their expressions, to memorize their stories and gestures.
Once in a while Garouche would catch me staring at his family and he would stalk toward the wagon where I had been chained and make certain I knew my place–even from a distance—was not with them. I couldn't look at his sons and daughters let alone speak to them. Forced to turn away, I would sit and stare into the darkness, longing for a connection that I had been denied.
I knew why I was not permitted in their lives aside from the moments that financially benefited their fair. I knew the strangeness that separated me from the gypsies and the crowds that came to view me. My longing was dangerous.
"Why will you not come with me?" Madeline asked.
"You know why."
Madeline shook her head. "Tell me."
"I am grotesque," I answered, my voice shamefully cracking.
She searched my unmasked face for a long and silent moment. "You're a gifted musician and composer," she said. "As talented as anyone else within this building."
I barely heard her words. My mind flooded with a thousand cruel words, descriptions that stung with harsh truths. They barred me from the life I desired, the existence that would never belong to me because I was unfit to live it.
"I've had too much pie," I blurted out, similar to my father when he stumbled back upstairs from the cellar with a bottle in his hand, teetering up the uneven stairs after releasing his drunken rage. His indulgence was far worse than mine, but I regretted my consumption of sweets, fearing the sugar had put me into a surly mood, much like the bottle fueled him. "I think I will stay here for the remainder of the evening."
I pulled off my cloak and missed the hook when I attempted to hang it back up. The garment fell to the ground in a heap atop my boots and I left it on the ground, far too frustrated to spend a moment correcting my mistake. Rage threatened to consume me, but I forced myself to walk away, fearing my actions.
"You would feel better if you ate something more hearty tonight," Madeline suggested. "And if you tidied up your table and made your bed."
"Nothing will make me feel better," I muttered under my breath.
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Because nothing will change the way I look."
"I suppose that is true," she agreed.
I grunted. Part of me wished she had argued with me. Yet another similarity to the man I feared I would become: the desire to fight with someone who had not sought an argument.
"But," she added. "You should accept my invitation."
"Why?" I glumly asked.
"Because I want you to be there with me." Before I could plunge further into my self-induced misery, she hung up my cloak and moved my boots out from beneath the coat rack. "Because you are my friend and I would like to spend time with you." She whirled around to face me and smiled. "And also because I said so and I have no desire to argue with you."
"I will consider it," I said.
Madeline seemed less than satisfied, but she didn't insist on a more firm commitment. "If you have finished your note for Cathedra, I will deliver it to the chapel before I bring back supper."
"The note is already delivered," I answered.
"I suppose your street performance is canceled for this evening?" she asked.
I nodded. "There will be other opportunities," I said, more to myself than to her as I needed convincing that my chance to play on the streets of Paris was not lost.
"Plenty of opportunities," she said. "And who knows? Perhaps at some point you will be in the orchestra playing instead of the street. You should talk to Pietro about auditions," she suggested. "He is one of the youngest members in the orchestra."
"What does he play?"
"Bassoon. You two would get on well, I think."
"I've never played bassoon before."
"Well, neither have I and he doesn't hold it against me."
I chuckled at her words.
"Why don't you walk up to the hall with me?" she suggested. "I'll bring us back a warm meal and you can see if the note is still inside the chapel."
With nothing else to do, I shrugged.
"Such enthusiasm," she dryly retorted.
I held open the door and turned up the lantern I left in the hall, following Madeline up the first set of stairs. They were terribly slick from the rain I had managed to splash everywhere.
"How long were you outside for?" she asked as we walked up the steps.
"Twenty minutes?" I guessed.
"Ah."
"I met Cathedra's dog," I blurted out.
Madeline immediately whirled around to face me. "I beg your pardon?"
"I…" I felt foolish to admit something unbidden. "I was in front of her apartments."
She furrowed her brow. "You are familiar with where she lives?"
"I saw her walk inside a building across from the Opera House."
"Did she see you?"
I couldn't tell if Madeline was concerned or simply curious. She was quite masterful at keeping her tone even and unreadable, which made me want to confess everything.
"I don't think so."
Madeline eyed me wordlessly.
"The maid saw me," I said when she made no remark. Inwardly I winced at how forthcoming I was when in her presence, like a child unable to keep secrets from his mother. "She let the dog out the front door."
"On purpose?" she gasped.
"Yes, I believe she thought the dog would bite me."
"Did he?"
"No."
"Well, you are quite fortunate. I believe his name is Marcus. A papillon, yes? A little tricolored dog with large, silky ears?"
The name made sense, given that he had ears like the wings of a butterfly, but I wasn't an expert on dog breeds. "I believe so."
"The theater managers banned that little devil from occupying the dressing room for a few years now. He is positively vicious with strangers."
"His name is Maurice and he was quite friendly toward me. I think he wanted me to pick him up."
Madeline chuckled to herself. "Naturally Cathedra's hellhound fancies you."
I smiled to myself. Most evenings while traveling throughout Europe, I woke to the five little bichons happily curled up beside me. Their presence was truly the only part of the fair I enjoyed, whether it was watching them practice their routine with Garouche's daughter Roxanna or sitting with my back to the wagon wheel, tossing them a rag tied in a knot that served as their favorite toy.
"I like dogs," I said.
Madeline smiled back at me. "You know, that dog is from the underworld and would not hesitate to bite. It truly says something about your character that he took a liking to you, and quite frankly I'm not surprised he reacted to you in such a manner."
Inwardly I smiled as we approached the top of the stairs. I doubted Madeline knew what her words meant to me, how much I needed to hear her praise.
"I'll return in a moment," she promised. "Are you staying here or returning to the lake?"
"Staying," I answered. "To help you carry the food."
Madeline nodded and gently touched my shoulder. "I'll be as swift as I can."
I nodded, wondering if perhaps I could accompany her the following night with the others from the theater, if perhaps others would indeed see my character past my masked face.
I had hope still. Foolish, youthful hope.