Across the Bridge – Chapter 12
"The man is insane," Nadir mutters to himself. Why did he return again to the Giry's. What sort of magic does the young soprano have to turn two men completely mindless and self-destructive?
Erik he can understand to some extent. Even with his deformity, there were women in the palace who were fascinated by him, including the Shah's sister. Once in his company, his face, though his wit and intelligence shown through. That he made beautiful music was no small gift either. Erik, however, never really understood his magnetism. Preferring to deride his other qualities, refusing to believe he might make a suitable match.
Persia never was the answer for him, however, the shah too jealous a sort. At first he was happy enough for Erik to be an entertainer…later, when discovering his skills at building…an architect with such gifts requiring no fees…or rather no fees that would be paid. Later, however, seeing the respect those in the court developed for the "ugly one" began to concern him.
As he learns more about Raoul de Chagny, he understands how the young vicomte cannot understand Erik's charms either. Young, handsome, wealthy – although Erik's wealth likely surpasses that of the young man – spoiled, most definitely spoiled. Otherwise, why feel the right to interfere with the lives of not only the Girys, but the young Mademoiselle Daae.
There were many men in his home country who were similar – the Shah for one – with his harem. Who needs more than one wife – his Mitra was a precious jewel, fulfilling all his needs and desires. The young man likely felt a sense of ownership over her…this most special young woman. Does he love her – likely he believes so – and yet his ego is bruised – she left him for a dead man.
And so, Raoul is dangerous. Abandoning his plan to return home, he waves down a hansom cab.
"Take me to the Palais Garnier…Rue Scribe entrance," he directs the driver.
The decision relieves him of some of the nervous energy built up during the last meeting with de Chagny and continuing to build, the more he considers the young man and what he might be capable of doing to achieve his will.
The same will that convinced the magistrate to stage the ambush at the Palais to capture the Opera Ghost without thought to the possible damage to not only the building, but potentially injuring two thousand audience members.
A larger question for him was: where had all these people come from? Rabble from the streets? Cast and crew members? Had the music stirred them to such a rage? Raoul's determination to destroy the man he now realizes was Erik, turned into nothing short of a riot. This country always seemed to be at war, if his study of history was truthful. Perhaps, this was just a spontaneous reaction. A built up frustration finally given the opportunity to explode in mindless rage. As it turned out, no one died, but there were any number of injuries to those who joined the police in the search for the Phantom.
That Erik survived was nothing short of a miracle. But, as he was aware, his friend had the ability to survive against the greatest odds.
Leaving his imaginings about the two men, his thoughts turn to Christine. What sort of magic does she have? A most charming young woman, bold and brave – not many would leave an engagement with a nobleman. Still, if for only a short period of time, the entirety of a major opera house was overturned because she was loved by two very different, yet obstinate men.
Was it all due to a lovely voice? He could hear Erik's influence – their scene together held the audience spellbound. Two singing as one.
His own ear was finely tuned toward voices and the interpretation of music. When he arrived in Paris and one of his new acquaintances invited him to hear Faust, he was not certain he would enjoy western music, but he found himself entranced by the skill of the singers to tell a story, even though he had no understanding of the language the opera was written in. Instead he simply allowed the music to take him on a journey.
The night of the fiasco, he, like many others in the audience were looking forward to this new opera by an unknown composer. Rumor had it the work was like nothing any of them ever heard before. Don Juan Triumphant. Even the title was enticing. No doubt wanton behavior would be center to the story.
Those expectations were certainly met, with more to come in the final act if the prelude with the Don Juan and Passarino was any indication. When the lead actor came out in the shroud and began singing, he knew this was not the same man who went behind the curtain. Not that the man who sang earlier was bad – he was simply inferior to this new performer. An understudy, perhaps. Unusual that the understudy was not the primary vocalist, but who knows what politics might be involved.
The girl did not appear to notice the change…or perhaps she did but was unconcerned or was just a superb actress. Maybe this new Don Juan was the true lead and the other was just filling in. Odd, certainly, but another mystery about how these artists can step in at the last minute and take over. Acting…interesting profession. Of course, as a police officer, he, too, has had to pretend to be someone other than himself under many circumstances.
In any event, this new disguised man had a thrilling voice – hypnotic. In hindsight, also vaguely familiar. The beauty of his singing with hers captured the audience's attention, which had been wandering – the material of the opera being perhaps too modern for them – garish. He, himself, found much of the music to be uncomfortable to listen to – harsh, with few soft melodies. Discordant, but deliberately so. Suiting the story, he guessed. Perhaps that was the intent of the composer. Not satisfied with troubling lyrics, the music must be challenging as well. Unpleasant, nonetheless.
This song, however, was beautifully written, intense and passionate…the lyrics sensual, making more than one person adjust himself in his red velvet seat. The couple on stage was completely engaged in this dance of love or seduction – both, perhaps. In any event, the audience was as enthralled as the pair.
The first indication something was amiss had the girl…Christine…Aminta trying to leave the stage but both drawn back by the cloaked man and coaxed, if that was the correct word, to stay by the police. What were the police doing there? A battle of wills – faux or real – matched their voices in the climax of the song – the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn, after which she lifted the hood from his face, revealing a man with a mask. A disguise within a disguise. Then a gentle plea…a proposal by Don Juan…an actor…was this still the opera?
Only when she tore the mask from his face did Nadir realize this was Erik. What a horror for him. How had he allowed himself to be so exposed? The girl, of course. Christine. So, she was aware of the entrapment. My poor besotted friend finally met his match.
In his recollections, he begins to understand her magic. Presence, charisma, the commitment to the role. Fearless, she is absolutely fearless – she obviously knew the police were there. Why had she exposed him? Love? Whatever happened after, she chose Erik, even thinking he was dead.
When meeting with them he felt the dynamic…the bond. Christine Daae was quite simply a delightful young woman, her French tinted with a delicate lilt, she explained was from her Swedish background. Those people of the north known for their incredible will. Who would not be enthralled?
As someone from a warmer homeland, he still shivers during the colder nights of Paris, what must it be like living in a land of snow and darkness for much of the year? What might her story be – to bring her here now with this damaged man claiming to love him?
Hardly more than a boy when he met him, this Erik sitting across from him on a narrow chaise was once again youthful, lighthearted even, if the word could be honestly used to describe him in such a way. Despite the seriousness of their situation, the pair were hopeful, giddy at times.
The vicomte must not be allowed to interfere. Was the plan with Adele workable? He did not know. For the moment, however, he needs to reassure himself that the couple is not in harm's way from Raoul de Chagny.
"Cabby, pull over just ahead, behind that carriage, there. Wait here." Holding out a thousand franc note, he tears it in half. "You will receive the other half when I return."
Christine puts down her carpet bag and turns toward the wall. Pulling her hat's veil over her face, she huddles behind Erik as much as possible, bracing herself for the arrival of the man calling out to them. The fog lifted somewhat and a carriage was visible through the mist. It is hardly possible the man calling them was Raoul, but the thought crosses her mind. Fog has a tendency to distort sound as much as vision. While her knowledge of horses is minimal, the pair a few feet away might be from Raoul's stable. The carriage is similar.
Someone definitely tried to follow them through the gate they recently exited but was unsuccessful. Erik would have known had he made it through. Likewise, an intruder attempted to enter the lake door. Both of them assumed it was Raoul in both instances. Who else could it be? M. Khan? No, he would come to the dressing room. That was their plan.
Surely Raoul was now in the little house.
"Who could it be?" she whispers.
"Something harmless, I am sure," Erik murmurs over his shoulder. "Or, at very least, something possibly related to us, but not the two people he is calling out to. If that makes sense."
Nodding, she says, "Yes, I understand."
"Hush, now, here he is." Adjusting his position once more, keeping his left side forward, he pulls his fedora further down over his right cheek, grateful for the thick blond wig – the combination covering as much of his face as possible. Christine is almost entirely blocked from the man's view. "What is it, Monsieur? My wife and I are rather in a rush."
The man stops, bending over to catch his breath, pressing his hands on his knees. A rough cough and a clearing of his throat, finally has his face visible. A man of fifty, perhaps, a top hat pressed down to his ears, a plaid scarf around his neck, he holds the small whip used by carriage drivers all over the city.
"My apologies, Monsieur, I saw you on the street and hoped you might have seen my master."
"I…we have seen no one. However, the night is not amenable for seeing much beyond one's nose, is it?"
"No, I suppose not, I just hoped…"
"Who is your master that he is walking the streets when he has such a caring driver and such fine horses to serve him might I ask?" Erik asks, looking beyond the man to the stately carriage.
"The vicomte de Chagny. He got out of the carriage and dismissed me, but I did not feel it right to simply leave him. He believed he saw someone he knew entering one of the gates but could not find them."
"Not unusual, there are a number of gates, getting them confused is quite easy if someone is not familiar with the building. You saw no one?"
"No…well, perhaps I saw two men – one short, one tall…riff raff…beggars…I told him as much – not worth his attention."
"The fog can be very deceptive. Perhaps he saw no one. Just an illusion."
"He was certain said they were Mlle. Christine and the devil man. He was quite sure."
"Christine Daae and a devil man?" Erik chuckles. "Did she not escape? I seem to recall reading today the man who kidnapped her was dead."
"Yes. Mlle. Christine…and the man was a true monster according to the vicomte. All he ever talked about. Then the mademoiselle goes missing…again…today after the Phantom was supposed to be dead like you said. He was quite upset."
"Where did you leave him?"
"At the Pavillon des Abonnés, as always." Stepping back he examines Erik, looking him up and down. Glancing down at the luggage, he attempts to catch a glimpse of Christine. "Are you employed here?"
"You could say that," Erik smirks.
"What I thought," the man says, pointing at the violin case. "Were you there?"
"During the attack?" Erik muses. "Yes. Yes, we were. Horrible event, quite unsettling."
Nodding his head vigorously, the driver says, "He was looking for his lady…she sang here…there was a big upset over her being kidnapped. The Opera Ghost they called him. You probably already know all this. Anyway, she… Mlle. Christine…went out earlier in the day and did not return home when expected. The vicomte was quite upset…had me driving around and around the building until the horses were worn out."
"Yes, I can imagine being so distraught when a loved one goes missing." Although his words continue to be cordial, Erik's amber eyes are hard.
"Monsieur Saint-Rien!" Nadir calls running down the street toward them.
Startled by yet another voice calling him from the mist, despite recognizing the owner, Erik jerks his head to the left. "No need to run. We have been trying to assist this gentleman locate his master."
With a sharp intake of breath, the driver backs away, "I apologize, it was foolish of me to assume you would know anything…I just hoped you might have seen him."
Aware his action revealed more of his face to the driver, Erik slowly returns to his former position. No doubt the older man saw more of his face – his reaction was not subtle – one Erik was used to. The garrot rests comfortably against his fingers, but to what end? Murdering someone for no reason beyond a possibility he was recognized. Christine is at his side. Nadir soon to join them. A matter of concern, certainly, one they must discuss, but not here and not now. "Our pleasure, I assure you." Erik's voice remains calm.
"I am sorry I am late," Nadir says between breaths as he reaches them.
"Not at all," Erik says, taking up the violin case. "The bags were a bit cumbersome, especially for Madame, but now you are here, all is well."
"Of course, of course," Nadir says, taking up their duffels. Turning to the coachman, he says, "Is there something you need from my master and mistress – the night is cold and damp and the hour is late."
"No, nothing more. He has been more than generous with his time," the man says quickly, glancing once again at Erik. "Good night." Turning on his heel, he runs back to his coach.
"What was that all about?" Nadir asks, leading them back to his cab.
"I can take one of those, you are no longer a young man," Erik chides him, trying to retrieve his bag. "Neither are you a servant, although you played your part very well."
"I am fine, thank you," he responds. "Although I might ask what you have packed in these bags…bricks."
"As much as we could reasonably fit from what was left below," Erik says.
"Well, thinking in those terms, not much."
"No…not much in terms of volume…value is quite another thing."
"That was Samuel, the de Chagny senior coachman," Christine breaks her silence, struggling to keep up with the two men. "Do you think he recognized us?"
"Not initially," Erik says, taking her arm. "I am sorry, I am rushing again. Slow down, daroga. We are not being chased…for the moment."
"But when he left? He seemed frightened…or so I thought."
"Probably just seeing my hat, people are always taken aback by the astrakhan hat," Nadir jokes.
"Or your ugly face," Erik smirks. "Actually it was my ugly face."
"Erik, no. You were most careful, I even lowered my veil," she says. "He would most definitely have recognized me."
"I turned away for a moment at Nadir's voice," he says. "While mostly covered and in the dark, just the small movement revealed more than I might have liked for him to see."
"My calling you?"
Erik nods. "I forgot myself for a moment…not your fault…he was pressing, so likely suspected the lady here was his former mistress – not quite sure who I might be."
"What now?" Christine asks.
Reaching the cab, Nadir calls out, "Help us load these bags, would you?"
The cabby jumps down, and puts the bags in the boot, then holds the door for his fare.
"As promised." Nadir hands him the other half of the franc note, adding two hundred franc coins. "Rue de Rivoli."
"Not the opera house?" Christine asks, wrapping her coat around, covering her satin pants before sitting down. Erik swings himself into the carriage and sits next to her.
"Since the vicomte seems to be prowling around – it is best you stay away for now," Nadir says, taking his own seat, tapping the window to let the cabby know they are settled and ready to go.
"He is in Erik's house," Christine says.
"He was breaking in as we were leaving," Erik adds. "Not wandering around out here."
"You left him there?"
"What was I supposed to do?"
"Can you help him?" Christine asks, a plea in her voice, watching Erik from the corner of her eye.
"Did you plan to just leave him there?"
"No. I would have asked you to help…in the morning," Erik says. "Fool deserves to suffer for all the mischief he has caused. Nothing like spending time in a dark pit to find out the stuff you are made of."
"I am inclined to agree with you," Nadir says, "this has been a very long day. Was it just this morning you were declared dead?"
"It was," Christine answers before Erik can speak. Pressing a small hand on his thigh, she looks at him while speaking to the daroga. "Is there nothing can be done tonight?"
Erik looks down at her hand, shifting slightly in his seat, and clears his throat. His amber eyes connect with Nadir's jade green. Noting Nadir's smirk, he looks away and out the window.
Tapping on the glass again, Nadir lifts the communicator. "Take us to the rear of the theater." Turning back to the couple, he says, "There are two watchmen supposed to be on duty. If he got in, he somehow got past them."
"Thank you," Christine says, smiling, relaxing into the leather seat, taking one of his long-fingered hands resting in his lap onto hers.
"I see you have finally met your match," Nadir laughs, stroking his beard.
A low snort is Erik's response, his gaze still fixed on the emptiness of the street.
Christine covers her mouth to stifle her giggles, glancing up at Erik from under her long lashes.
"Well, if I must lose an argument, I can hardly complain because the winner is this dear lady." Turning back from the window, looking first to one then the other, Erik says, "Now I suppose I must hope he is alive and well, too."