Ch 34
The heavy supper I enjoyed with Madeline made me sleepy, but my stubborn nature would not allow me to retire early with her offering to stay a while longer.
"Tell me about the bassoonist," I insisted.
"Pietro?" Madeline asked. She seemed quite pleased by my interest in a member of the orchestra. "What would you like to know?"
"Anything," I answered.
"He is twenty-three, has been playing since he was six, and he is originally from Lyon. His father is Russian and his mother is French. Oddly enough his mother was in the Russian Royal ballet and his father played the flute for a different theater. Isn't that interesting?"
I licked gravy off my finger and nodded, despite half-listening to her description. I didn't much care what she said as long as she kept me company.
"Are you looking forward to meeting everyone?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied.
Madeline studied me for a dreadfully long moment. We were seated entirely too close together, and the way in which her eyes flitted from one side of my face to the other made my heart race.
"You look terrified," she said, frowning at me.
"I'm not," I said, lying again.
Madeline shook her head. "You don't need to be untruthful with me, Erik."
I looked away from her, studying the plate I had nearly cleaned. My belly was so full I felt as though I might burst open, yet there was a noticeable emptiness inside of me that had nothing to do with food.
"You're nervous," Madeline said. "Nervous to meet the musicians and actors."
I considered shaking my head, but I hated lying to Madeline. She was the only person I knew, and she deserved better from me. At last I nodded, keeping my eyes trained on the plate.
"They will like you," she assured me.
Goose flesh rose along my arms and I shook my head.
"Why do you disagree?" she asked.
"Because no one likes me," I answered. The words made me shiver. "No one but you and…."
"And?"
"I am not good at anything that truly matters. I am an oddity."
"Your music–"
"I am different," I said. "Music aside, I am an oddity. That is the only reason we know one another."
She remained silent for a long moment, which gave me the opportunity to berate myself internally: No one likes me. I am strange to look at and cannot hold a conversation. I will stutter my way through the evening until I flee, humiliated by my behavior. And then perhaps my only friend will cease speaking to me.
"Erik," she said gently. "Everyone in the theater is strange. That's why we are here; a mix of people pretending to be someone else for a living."
"You aren't strange," I pointed out.
"Well, that's quite frankly very insulting," Madeline said lightly. She smiled and placed her hand on my shoulder. "You truly have nothing to worry about."
"What if…?" I started to say before shaking my head.
Madeline waited patiently for me to collect my thoughts.
"What if they want to know where I am from? Where I live? Or how we know one another?" My hands instantly began to tremble as I envisioned all eyes cast upon me.
There had been dozens of times where men stalked up to the cage after a performance and questioned me. First and foremost they wanted to know if I could comprehend the words they shouted at me, as though the affliction to my face affected my ability to hear. Once they established that I was capable of understanding their words, they outright demanded I answer to them, threatening physical harm if I did not comply.
They always wanted to know if a whore had birthed me, or if I had been the product of some fantastical creature from the underworld. They asked where I came from, if I knew the town where I had been born and if I had been driven out, sold, or given away.
Garouche never allowed for many answers, but he stood back while strangers gripped the bars and threatened me, spitting onto my face and hair while I sat like a statue and waited for them to be led away. Those with longer arms were able to graze their fingernails against my bare flesh, but none had been able to physically grab hold of me. Still, each encounter was terrifying as I knew if these strangers had been able to reach me, undoubtedly they would have yanked me against the bars and pulled my arm from the socket without a second thought.
There would be no bars to hide behind at the salon amongst Madeline and her friends. I would be out in the open, subjected to unavoidable scrutiny. Perhaps I would not be physically harmed, but I worried they would want to know where I resided–and that if I knew I lived within the Opera House, they would know where to find me.
"What if they want to know more about you?" Madeline asked, raising a brow.
Her words felt as though she mocked my insecurities. I turned from her and balled my hands into fists, pressing my fingernails into my palms as if the discomfort would somehow lessen the aching inside.
"Erik," Madeline said softly once she noticed the change in my demeanor. "I apologize if I have upset you. That wasn't my intention."
"You have no idea," I said under my breath.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You have no idea what it is like to look like this," I answered, facing her again, daring her to meet my eye and gaze upon the scars. It was the first instance I recalled feeling truly bitter for the life I had been forced to live. "You say that you are strange, but you have no idea what it is like to truly be an oddity."
Her expression changed from remorse to confusion. It angered me when she didn't look away from me as I had hoped.
"You don't know what it is like to sit at a distance and listen to others speak, to wonder what it would be like to be part of a conversation–to pretend that someone is speaking to me face-to-face as though I am…acceptable. You don't know what it is like to want to be invited into a circle while at the same time dreading that someone will look at me and ask why I am staring at them."
I felt as though my loneliness would at last succeed in swallowing me whole, devouring me as it should have long before my uncle approached me.
"You will not be scrutinized," Madeline said. "Nor will you be forced to answer anything that you don't desire to divulge about yourself."
"What if I am followed?"
Madeline's lips parted. "Followed?"
"Back here," I said, gesturing around where we sat.
"That will not happen. I will make certain of it."
"As will I because I do not wish to attend."
"Because you've convinced yourself that Pietro and the rest will reject you?" Madeline said.
"They will."
She shook her head. "You aren't giving them a chance."
"Why should I?" I challenged.
Madeline frowned. "Because it isn't fair to dismiss them so easily."
"I don't care," I childishly replied. My throat ached and I felt the sting of frustrated tears in my eyes. I gulped in a shaking breath and swallowed, pushing against unbidden emotion.
In the back of my mind I saw a half-dozen strangers at my heels, the blood lust in their collective eyes as they stalked me like hounds pursuing a fox desperate to return to its den.
"I will not…" Be beaten again. I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought aloud.
"You are lonely," she said. "You struggle being down here by yourself and yet you choose to remain alone despite an invitation to meet new people who have a common interest with you, people whom I truly believe will welcome you without judgment."
"You cannot speak for the actions of others."
"Erik–"
"I have made up my mind," I said.
Madeline conceded. "I don't understand your decision, but I will respect it."
I nodded once. Madeline stood and gave me one final look. "Before I leave, I want you to know that I would never put you into a position where you would be exploited or ridiculed. I hope you understand that."
Still I made no verbal reply and Madeline closed her eyes and bowed her head. She took my denial of her invitation personally, and despite knowing I disappointed her, I made no attempt to remedy the situation.
"I will not be visiting you tomorrow as I have several errands to run and a rehearsal before we are going to the salon," she said.
I had nothing more to say to her, no words that would make her departure more bearable. I collected the empty plates and placed them beside the bucket I used to wash dishes. The door hinges creaked open and the door softly closed as she exited without another word.
I counted to ten, then twenty, then one hundred before I finally allowed myself to release the emotions I had desperately held inside.
"I make things worse," I wept. "I always make things worse."
oOo
I didn't see Madeline for several days, but I made the most of my time spent alone. I wandered the theater at all hours, a forlorn entity that would have been resigned to its lonely fate if not for a note from Cathedra requesting a meeting with me Sunday evening.
The very thought delighted me. I wrote her back immediately, confirming the time of our meeting, and left the chapel grinning like a mad fool. Of course I wished to tell Madeline of the arrangement, but I refused to allow her absence to dampen my mood. I didn't need her or her friends; I had persevered through the darkest of days alone, carrying my grief. To allow hope was to also invite disappointment and I had no need for either.
I wandered outside of the theater as well, my excursions short- lived as it was bitterly cold and windy. Teeth chattering, I returned to my home, discarded my clothing, and wrapped myself in a wool blanket I hung on a hook that I had secured to the wall of the cave where the furnace was located.
The warmth was intoxicating. I exhaled and settled into my bed, naked aside from my wool stockings. I closed my eyes and allowed for the heaviness of sleep to fill me.
A hug, I told myself. This is what it would feel like to sleep with someone's arms wrapped around me. The imagery in my head was quite benign; a mother holding her child. I smiled to myself and curled up on my side, imagining that a woman I had seen once at a market was my mother.
She had been a robust woman, short and thick with wide hips and large legs. There had been a boy with her, a child perhaps a year or two younger than me, who hadn't been interested in his mother fawning over him as they walked through the market beside the temporary fairgrounds where I sat looking through a flap in the tent.
"Look at this! Isn't it beautiful?" the woman asked her disinterested son as she looked through a stall of cheap jewelry. "Guilles? You're not looking."
Despite him ignoring her, she still came up and put her arms around him, kissing his temple. The boy had groaned and walked away, leaving his mother to shake her head.
It had been an odd but fascinating exchange to me, the boy not wanting the affection of his mother, who was undeterred by his reaction. I couldn't understand how someone my age could shrug off freely offered love. I would have done anything asked of me for one moment of being held or kissed, to have had my mother call to me for her attention.
I shivered beneath the warmth of the blanket, imagining that woman bestowed her affection to me, not the son who didn't love her. I gripped the fabric and closed my eyes, longing to experience acceptance.
Wrapped in the blanket, I dozed off and on, thinking of the woman I had seen and how wonderfully warm and tight her embrace would have been. I woke when I was thirsty and drank from the underground lake with its cool, sweet water, the blanket fastened around my hips. Hours remained before I would see Cathedra di Carlo and I wanted to impress her with conversation.
"Good evening, Senora," I rehearsed aloud to the water lapping against the shores. I bowed deeply, then reconsidered my words and actions and cleared my throat. "How are you this evening, Senora?"
I am well, how are you?
"My evening has vastly improved in your presence, my dear."
Oh! You flatter me so!
"You are the very embodiment of song, Senora, a most worthy mistress."
I stood for a long moment staring out into the inky black water, unsure of how she would respond or what topics would fill our conversation. I needed the evening to go well, to restore the scraps of esteem I possessed.
"Would you sing for me?" I tried. "For your most adoring admirer?" I winced. Thousands upon thousands of people had heard Cathedra sing. Most certainly I was not her biggest admirer.
I also imagined that given the state of her health and the amount of time that had passed since she had used her voice, she wouldn't want to sing. Not only that, if someone heard her singing, our conversation would not be private and I feared being forced to dash to the safety of the cellars.
Sighing, I shifted my weight and started again.
My ghost, I didn't think you would appear tonight.
"I will always answer when you summon me, Senora. I am your humble servant."
Again the conversation lagged. I cleared my throat and straightened my spine.
"Thank you for the invitation."
You wrote to me first.
"I did indeed. How may I be of service to you, Senora?"
Quit boring me, you intolerably dull little bastard.
I annoyed myself in the midst of a pretend conversation, which deflated my already waning confidence. I nervously snapped my fingers and paced the length of the shoreline, berating myself for my inability to hold a conversation, including one that was not real.
Frustrated, I dressed myself and decided I was in need of clearing my head. I raced up the stairs and out of the theater's side door, checking for my set of keys only after I reached the end of the alley. Thankfully I had never removed them from my cloak pocket, and the bit of good luck lightened my footsteps as I traveled into the night.
Paris was alive at dusk. The smell of food, wine, and perfume filled the streets as I kept with the flow of foot traffic. There was music in all directions thanks to numerous street performers entertaining the crowds. Directly in front of the theater a woman sang while a man played the accordion. I looked past them at Cathedra's well-lit residence and wondered if she, too, rehearsed for our evening. I doubted she was nearly as nervous as I felt. Why would she be? Everyone in Paris adored her. I was little more than a rat scavenging in the shadows, hoping for a crumb.
Again, I annoyed myself.
While I stood staring at her home, a man and a woman scurried toward the entrance, knocking twice before they were greeted by the maid, who ushered them inside. A moment later, two other people approached and walked inside to the sound of laughter.
I furrowed my brow, wondering if Cathedra entertained guests prior to our meeting. Disappointment thrummed through me as I considered her day filled with food, drinks, and endless company while mine was spent pacing in solitude.
Perhaps she had forgotten all about me, her loyal ghost. Perhaps she would arrive late to our meeting–or not at all. My heart sank as I considered the latter.
Surely Cathedra was not so cruel as to leave me waiting. My heart hammered, my mood plummeting as I considered what I would do if I waited alone outside of the chapel for a half hour. Or an hour. Or until dawn.
No, I told myself. Stop this. She will be there as promised.
At last I turned away and trudged back toward the Opera House where I slipped through the side door and went first to the kitchen, drawn to the smell of fresh bread. I heard two women gossiping as they went about their work and waited for them to wash dishes before I grabbed an onion loaf from the long table where they cooled breads and pastries. With my supper in hand, I scampered off down the hall and toward the chapel.
I bit off a piece of bread far too large to swallow whole and furiously chewed, breathing past my teeth as I felt the searing heat of the glazed onions against my tongue and roof of my mouth.
"Ghost?" a voice said. "Is that you?"
My heart stuttered and I came to an abrupt stop. I peered ahead at the chapel door, which was closed. I swallowed down my half-chewed food and held my breath, every muscle tense as I heard soft footsteps behind me.
"Ghost?" Cathedra whispered.
I bowed my head and glanced over my shoulder.
oOo
I thought first of my father and the dozens of times he had stalked me from behind, grabbed me by my shirt or my hair, and dragged me home.
The very notion gave me goose flesh. I never understood how someone who could not walk in a straight line was able to achieve such stealth when he found me clinging to the shadows.
Every time he wrenched me from my feet and forced me to return to the cellar, I closed my eyes and willingly went with him. There hadn't been a choice; if I had fought, I had no doubt he would have killed me. As it was, he had spent many late nights beating me into submission so severely that I often wished he would finish what he started.
"That is you, isn't it?" she asked.
I didn't know what to say, and so I said nothing at all.
"Please don't run," Cathedra said when I took a step back. Her voice was low and soft, a gentle call that I could not deny.
I wanted to dash down the hall and through the nearest doorway, far from her sight and away from the disappointment I knew would be in her eyes when she saw that I was no ghost.
"Don't come any closer," I warned.
She paused, fingers skimming the stone wall. "Will you harm me if I do?"
I swallowed, grateful for my heavy cloak and deep hood. It was far too dark in the hallway for her to see my features or the fear I knew widened my eyes.
"Would you pin me to this very wall and make passionate love to me?" she asked.
"No," I said quickly. "I am a gentleman and would do no such thing."
She took another step forward. "Then you must think I would harm you, my beloved ghost?"
I couldn't tell if she was sincere or mocked me, but I assumed the latter.
"May we sit?" she asked.
"I–"
"Please, my dear spector, I am weary," she said with a heavy sigh. "My health declines with each heartbeat."
"I will walk further down the hall so that you may sit comfortably within the chapel," I offered.
She walked toward me and I walked backward, our steps keeping in perfect time as if we had rehearsed each movement. She leaned against the wall, her breaths labored, and I hated myself for lacking the bravery to come to her side and allow her to lean upon me.
Once she walked into the chapel and I heard her seat herself, I approached the doorway and cleared my throat.
"Come inside," she beckoned.
"I prefer standing here."
"In the hall?"
"Yes."
Cathedra grunted. "Why?"
"Because I do."
She fell silent for a moment. I worried that my denial had insulted her and that our conversation had come to an end before it began.
"My ghost doesn't trust me," she said at last. "Why is this?"
"It is best that I keep my distance," I said.
Again she went silent and I felt my heart sink. What I would have given to be seated at her side, to engage in a conversation face-to-face with the Incomparable Cathedra.
"I…I do not mean it as an insult," I stammered.
"Very well," she said. "Tell me about yourself, my phantom."
I leaned against the wall and folded my arms, considering my reply. Whatever script I had thought we would adhere to no longer existed, and I felt my insides tighten with unbidden trepidation.
"I…"
She waited for me to say something, anything of interest.
"I apologize," I whispered awkwardly.
Cathedra chuckled. "You are nervous," she observed. "Uncertain in the presence of someone as celebrated as myself."
"I suppose I am."
"Am I correct to assume that ghosts don't hold many conversations?"
Even though she could not see me, I offered a wan smile. "You are."
"Is your existence lonely?"
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. "It can be."
"I don't mind loneliness," she said. I heard the rustle of fabric and assumed she adjusted her skirts. "Truly, I believe I would like to spend my days alone, at least for a little while."
"You tire of the spectacle?" I asked.
"I have been on the stage and entertaining crowds since I was two years of age," she said. "Do you know how old I am now?"
"Twenty," I guessed, even though I knew she was much older.
"Ah, you flatter me, my ghost. I am fifty-six. My uncle owned a little shop that sold jewelry in Barcelona and I sang there every Saturday, on a wooden box in front of the door, in order to draw people into his establishment. Rain, heat… it didn't matter. I was there, on that box, from the time I was two until I was eight. And then do you know what happened?"
I shook my head. "No, Senora."
"And then I fell ill, incredibly, deathly ill, and I turned as pale as the moon. I lost all of my hair and my career singing on a box." She chuckled to herself. "Everyone was certain I would die. Do you know what that is like, to have everyone stare at you as you lie in bed, people coming and going and all of them saying their good-byes? It was terrible. I felt as though I was already committed to the earth before taking my final breath."
"At least they cared enough to tend to you," I pointed out.
"You are quite the optimist."
It was my turn to chuckle. "Hardly."
"Oh?"
"I…I didn't have anyone who cared for me," I admitted.
Cathedra sniffed. "Were you an orphan?"
I grappled with what to call myself. "I would have preferred being an orphan," I confessed. "I was not wanted."
"What made you feel that way?" she asked.
I felt the sting of tears in my eyes and the painful tightness of my throat as I stood with my right shoulder against the wall and my head leaning against the cold, damp stones.
"My father made certain I was aware of my shortcomings," I said. "Of how much he disliked me."
"Did you have other siblings?"
"No. I was the only child."
"Is your father the reason you are a ghost?" she asked.
My lips parted, and I found myself uncertain of how to answer her inquiry. "I…I'm not certain."
"Perhaps that is too personal a question," Cathedra said. "I apologize for the intrusion."
"Were you frightened?" I asked. "When you were ill as a child, I mean to ask?"
"At first, yes," she said. "My mother and her sisters prayed and wept at all hours of the day and night. Candles were lit and vigils were held. I have no idea how long everyone kept up such things, but after a while the fear subsided and I merely stayed in bed, bored with my illness. I wanted to improve so that my family would cease their fussing."
She laughed out loud, sweet and musical. I smiled to myself, imagining a determined young girl willing herself to survive merely to save herself from boredom.
"I am glad that you improved and regained your strength to sing again."
"My voice has given me many opportunities over the years," she said. "I met my husband here in this very theater. Were you aware of this, my ghost?"
"I was not."
"How long have you resided in the theater?"
"A brief time, Senora."
Are there others like you here?"
"No," I answered. "There are none others like me."
"Strange," she said, inhaling. "There was another ghost before you, one that was called Gus. You have never seen him?"
The hairs on my arms raised. "Our paths have not crossed."
"Ah, perhaps like you, he ventures from the theater," Cathedra said. "To the best of my knowledge, however, Maurice never encountered Gus as he did with you in my garden."
I held my breath and drew back from the doorway where I stood, fully prepared to bolt down the hall and disappear into the safety of my underground home.
"That was you, wasn't it?" she asked. "The figure who tamed my ferocious papillon?"