Exiting the opera house from the delivery entrance, Raoul yanks his arm from Gilles' grip. A few lorries are parked alongside the building with the construction materials for the repairs to the stage. The workmen have gone for the day and the brick streets are damp with moisture from the light fog rolling in.
The manager looks up at the sky. "I hope we do not get any rain. The work is going slowly enough as it is. No one wants to work here because of the ghost," he says. "Perhaps, the article in the newspaper will solve that problem."
"Are you quite done reminding me of the issues surrounding the property?" Raoul's nostrils flare.
"For today," he chuckles, locking the heavy ironclad door.
"Then I shall be on my way." Turning abruptly, he runs into Nadir approaching from the Rue Scribe.
"We meet again," Nadir says, bending over to pick up the fishnet bag of groceries knocked from his hand in the collision.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Raoul demands.
"It seems you have lost whatever manners you once may have had, Vicomte," Gilles says, gathering up a random apple and handing it to Nadir. "This is Sheriff Nadir Khan, formerly of Persia, one of our generous patrons."
"Sheriff?"
"Only an honorary title here in your great country," Nadir says. "I am merely an opera lover and when I learned there were damages after the last opera performance, I asked Messrs. Andre and Firmin if I could be of any assistance with securing workmen – construction being my current line of work."
"Odd shift of employment," Raoul says, examining the man in front of him. A few inches shorter than he – the trimmed beard gray tinged, what seemed to be a perpetual smile on his face – mocking him? Most especially his unwavering eyes, an unlikely shade of green reminiscent of emeralds were unsettling.
Nadir's demeanor remains calm, accepting what he discovers Raoul's temperament to be – abrupt, rude and privileged – not much different from others in his position in life. Circumstances seem to matter little – they could be at a dinner party and the young noble would likely behave in a similar manner. "I had a very good instructor in architecture and building in my homeland. Paris was welcoming to my skills and…well, here I am."
"Well, I hope you do not charge exorbitant fees," Raoul says. "I doubt the damage is severe as I am being led to believe."
"You will be given a full accounting," M. Andre says. "Now, why not go home. Perhaps a hearty dinner and some rest will help your temper."
"My temper is just fine."
"Please, Vicomte, and I say this most sincerely because I know your brother would want me to be firm: go home. Tomorrow is another day."
Nadir quirks a thick dark eyebrow.
"I suppose you agree," Raoul says to him.
Nadir shrugs. "M. Vicomte, I have no idea as to why you are in a state, but having encountered you twice today, both times with you being in high temper, I would agree. A meal and a soft bed often bring clarity. Another day as M. Andre says."
Looking past the two men, Raoul stares at the building behind them, shoulders slumping. Nodding his head, he says, "I suppose you are right. Perhaps tomorrow she will have returned to her senses."
"Good thinking," Gilles says, patting the younger man on his back.
"Tomorrow then," Raoul says, tipping his hat to the two men.
Sighing deeply, the manager says, "Tomorrow."
Once he passes from sight, Nadir says, "The soprano?"
"As we say here in Paris – cherchez la femme."
"She is here, I take it, judging from the wistful look in his eyes."
"Indeed. Grieving the loss of her teacher," the manager says.
"The Opera Ghost."
"So we have come to learn. Madame Giry would be the one to ask about the particulars," Gilles says, "I shall never understand women. One would think a performer such as Mlle. Daae, would welcome the attentions of a nobleman – with the proposal of marriage – would be thrilled at his attentions, but she was quite rude in dismissing him just now."
"Is such a relationship not forbidden – performers being considered unworthy?"
"Frowned upon, but he boasted publicly about an engagement, so I suspect some words were exchanged with his brother about the affair," the manager confides. "His infatuation with the young woman more or less caused the mess you were engaged to help clean up."
"So all this happened because of a jealous fit of pique."
"I suppose not entirely – everyone was on edge because of the ongoing pranks of the Opera Ghost – then when he kidnapped her the first time – the Vicomte used that to make the attempt to capture, if not kill the man."
"A kidnapping tells me that the pranks escalated into actual acts that could be considered criminal."
"Our master of the flies was found hanging – some accused the ghost."
"Indeed."
"The police declared it a suicide," Gilles says. "Fellow was always looking for trouble – scaring the dancers – telling tales about the Phantom's face. Unnerving in any event."
"Yes, I would imagine that to be the case."
"The Vicomte insisted the Phantom be killed – otherwise the pranks or whatever you want to call them would never stop, but now he does not believe the man is dead."
"Curious…and she refuses to talk with him."
"Just now, yes. It seems she was at his home and left when she discovered the ghost was dead."
"You are letting her stay here?"
"Why not? What harm can it do and we do need a new Prima Donna," M. Andre says, checking his pocket watch. "If you would excuse me, my wife is expecting me home for my own dinner. Was there something you wished to discuss with me?'
Nadir shakes his head. "No, I was actually just doing some marketing and was walking by building before returning to my lodgings. It was quite by happenstance we met just now. Enlightening meeting, I must say."
"Well, then, I shall be on my way," Gilles tips his hat. "I am hoping Richard will be up and about tomorrow. The knowledge of the Phantom's death will likely ease his concerns and encourage his good health."
The couple, still new in the understanding of their commitment to one another fall into a stilted silence.
Erik returns to the chaise, sitting stiffly pressing his body as close to the arm as possible. Every dream he had about Christine loving him and wanting to be with him was coming true, but the idea of staying here with her performing seems out of sync with his fantasies of what life might be with her. The Palais became a prison and almost a grave.
The home he built was gone and good riddance in some measure. To know she chose him brought a sense of relief – he could leave this place. Whatever he had done, whoever he was no longer mattered. Letting her go was his redemption and he wanted to experience a new life. The offer Gilles Andre made left him confused. Now what? No normal life in the sun – how could there be?
"Erik?" Christine sits next to him, close, but not touching. she tucks her still shoeless feet under her, rests her arm on the back of the sofa and props her chin on her fist.
"Hmmm." Gardenias. Such a suitable fragrance for her. Heady and romantic – the flower itself seeming so delicate, but resilient. Keeping his face forward as much as possible so she will only see the normal side, he side-eyes her. Where was her bustle? The skirt of her frock was decidedly less full. Glancing toward the dressing table he saw the absent elements of the dress draped across the bench.
"Are you annoyed with me?"
His brow furrows. "Annoyed. Hardly annoyed. Why would you think that?"
"You have not said a word beyond having to talk to the Girys."
"You wanted to know our plans. I suppose speaking of any new plans before all the parties involved are given their options would be unproductive."
"Were you excited about leaving Paris? Is that why you are so silent?"
"I was excited about leaving the cloistered life I created for myself," he says, softly. "If I gave you freedom, you also freed me."
"And now you believe you are once again being imprisoned?"
Taken aback – he turns toward her. She knows. What had she said? Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? Swallowing hard, he says, "Throughout my life, I have left one situation in search of freedom, then found myself entrapped from when I first left my parent's house and was kidnapped by the Romany. When traveling about Russia I was enjoined to visit Persia to entertain the Shah and became a slave of sorts."
"You spoke of a jailer being your friend."
"Yes, oddly enough."
"Do you see me as someone who might entrap you?"
"Ah, but that is already a fait accompli, my dear," he manages a chuckle. "I am completely in your thrall."
"And that makes you unhappy," she says, moving closer to him, risking touching him lightly on the shoulder.
"Happiness is quite a unique experience for me. This particular entrapment is quite appealing," he says, lifting his hand to place it against hers.
"I do so hope you see my being here as a means to joy and not more pain," she says, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "I would leave immediately if you told me to go again. If you feel I am threatening your freedom."
"No. Of course not. Perhaps I am simply stunned at my good fortune."
"Kiss me," she says. "I believe if you kiss me, you will believe me and trust me."
"I am still cannot believe you want to touch this wretch of a man, much less kiss him."
"You stir my heart, Erik…and my body," she says, pressing her lips to his.
He allows the kiss, offering nothing in return.
Pulling back, she asks, "Do you not like it?"
"More than you know, but this is not the place – this shabby room. What a horrible man I would be. You must be courted. We are not wed."
"I do not care."
"But I do – for you and your sake," he says, taking her face in his hands he presses his deformed lips to her forehead.
"Erik."
"I am right. You will see."
"اریک تو اونجایی"* A male voice calls, accompanied by a few sharp knocks on the door.
Christine looks at Erik in alarm. "Hide," she whispers.
Erik shakes his head. "Still tracking down thieves and traveling minstrels are you, Daroga?" he replies, kissing her forehead again before rising from the chaise to open the door.
"Daroga?" Christine asks.
"Come in before the malcontent of a vicomte returns and finds I did not succumb to the waters of the Seine."
"I hoped you were still alive," Nadir says, passing quickly into the room, allowing Erik to lock the door. "You will forgive me, Mlle. Daae, but when I heard the story surrounding the events at the most amazing opera event I have ever attended here, I had to find out if the mythical Phantom was indeed my old friend."
"Old friend?" Christine's eyes widen. "You are the jailer?"
Nadir guffaws. "So that is how you refer to me."
"Other words may have been more apt, but Mlle. Daae is a lady." Addressing Christine he says, "Nadir Khan, the daroga…sheriff of Mazandaran province Persia."
"M. Khan." Eyeing him quizzically. "I have seen you here, in the audience."
"Indeed?"
"The hat, I recognize your hat."
"Thank, Allah, I have a personal reference besides this fellow here."
"I let you in here, that should count for something," Erik says noticing Christine's garments on the vanity bench. Turning his back on the daroga, he gathers them up and tosses them behind the dressing screen. Returning to the chaise, he sits down. "Why are you here…and, more importantly, how did you get in?"
"May I sit?" Nadir cocks his head, looking around the room, settling his sight on the now empty bench.
"Of course," Christine says. "I am forgetting my manners, this day has been very unusual. The room does not offer much in the way of hospitality, I am afraid."
"The bench is fine," Erik says, "unless you prefer the floor – there are some pillows around here somewhere."
"The bench is quite suitable, now that it has been cleared," Nadir snickers.
Erik grunts and Christine giggles, covering her mouth.
"I am here, as I said, to confirm your former existence and you were actually still alive," Nadir replies. "I have access to the building because I have been contracted to repair the damages made when they were trying to kill you."
"What a wonderful turn of events," Christine enthuses, squeezing Erik's hand. "That means you are working for Mr. Khan."
"You are?"
"Under your nose, it would seem," Erik sniffs. "As for this being a wonderful turn of events – I am not so sure."
"I must say the beard and wig are an admirable disguise – I trust you have been watching your tongue as well, otherwise I am certain one of my overseers would have mentioned a laborer who was giving him directions," Nadir says.
"The plans are actually quite adequate, not much to criticize."
"Thank you."
"So you did learn something in Teheran."
"Something."
"In any event I am ever the gentleman these days."
"Now that would be something to see," Nadir laughs.
"Mostly I just work and keep my mouth shut."
"A most intelligent decision." Nadir shifts his attention to Christine for a moment. "As you are likely aware, Erik has a quick mind with a tongue to match which has often created problems for him when none existed before."
"I love listening to him talk," she says, "he makes me laugh."
"Well, there, Erik, you seem to have overcome your ability to immediate alienate people with a few well-placed pithy comments."
"Perhaps if people were as loving and kind as Christine, I might be more considerate. Present company included."
"Harrumph." Taking in the makeup of the small room, Nadir says, "So this is where you have been hiding?"
"Yes. The haunted dressing room as they call it."
"And you found him here?" he asks Christine.
"Yes."
"Has he offered you a meal?"
"Excuse me?" Christine frowns.
"He does not eat you know – at least not in the manner others have meals."
"I should like for Christine to learn about me from me, not from intrusive strangers," Erik says. "No, I have not offered her a meal. Do you see anything here that would accommodate storing food?"
"Fortunate then I happened to be purchasing my own dinner before coming here," Nadir says, holding up the net bag. "I see no harm in sharing a meal and discussing what to do next."
"The three of us?"
"Eating or discussing?"
"Both."
"How perfectly lovely," Christine says, clapping her hands. "I am hungry. It was not until you mentioned food, that I remembered I have not eaten anything since petit dejeuner and, even then, I did not eat very much."
"Christine, I am sorry," Erik says, glaring at Nadir, "He is correct…about my eating habits. Food is something I have little interest in – except as a necessity for my continued existence."
"No, that is fine. I was thinking of other things," she says, blushing. "But now, in talking about eating, I find I am famished and I am happy we have an ally."
"Do we?" Erik looks to Nadir, who is pulling a baguette and some apples from his bag laying the food out on the vanity, a large linen handkerchief he pulls from his pocket acting as a tablecloth.
"Need you ask?" the Persian says, his eyes bright. "Life was becoming quite dull."
"So I am once again to become entertainment?"
"Erik, I do not believe that is what he means," Christine says, taking his arm.
"Precisely…thank you, Mademoiselle," Nadir says. "Besides, being here with you again, I find I have missed you."
"There you see, Erik. He is happy you are alive." Taking his chin, she turns his face toward her, continuing, "Just as I am."
"Who would have thought?" The words come after looking deeply into her eyes, then shifts his focus to the man who both stole his life then returned it to him. "Very well, then. What are we having for dinner?"
*Erik, are you in there? arik tho oonjaee (Farsi)