"Damn," Raoul curses. The momentary pride at finding himself back in the music room dampens. After a flash of bright yellow and brilliant red, the sharp bite of sulfur burning his nostrils, the burnt out match reveals not one of the myriad of candles he recalls from the night he nearly died at the hand of the so-called Phantom. Why had he not paid more attention when he had the lantern?
The organ was surrounded with candelabra of all shapes and sizes. How could one person manage to keep them supplied, much less burning? Was it some sort of gimmick? He would not be surprised if it was a trick of the eye, the man he now knows as Erik did work in a carnival after all. Throwing his voice in the theater. Disappearing into the mirror in Christine's dressing room.
Treading gently forward in the direction he senses where the organ was situated, he stumbles over some of the rubble left behind by the mob. Stooping down, he touches the piece…a metal cylinder…one of the pipes. Moving his hand slowly, he finds a scrap of wood and another pipe.
Despite his anger at his rival, the idea of the instrument being destroyed moves him. An idea of who this man was…changes the more time he spends here in the darkness. The absolute solitude. How does one survive? His own world is filled with more activity that he can bear at times and he might welcome more calm, yet, this absence of life is becoming unbearable.
All his senses are negated, not simply sight. Touching anything has to be tentative, everything is broken or shattered. Taste, ah, yes, taste. Touching his jacket, he finds his flask. Taking a swig of brandy, he laughs. "At least I have one sense not dimmed by this place." The air is dry with none of the odor one associates with underground spaces particularly with the so-called lake just outside the walls with the exception of the barest note of some sort of incense – churchlike. The absence of any other sounds makes him aware of his breathing in and out. It occurs to him the lake might be creating some sort of echoes he could follow in locating the door again.
After a few moments of holding his breath, he realizes the walls holding out the damp, also prevent any noise from coming in. Reluctantly, he gets down on his knees, praying silently to find a candle in what he can only imagine covers the carpeted floor. A piece of something sharp stings a finger. Touching it gently, he picks a shard of glass from the wound. Glass…mirrors. Of course, the candelabra reflected in mirrors creating the effect of a grandeur not truly present. Perhaps the number of candles are not as plentiful as he recalls.
Sucking on his bleeding finger, he takes a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap around his wound. Returning to his feet, he scrapes an area clean of debris with his foot, spreads the Hussar jacket on the floor and sits down. The strain of what he is now seeing as his folly is wearing on him. A moment's rest. Another drink. Regroup. Rethink.
Two matches. When using the next one, he must find a candle to light.
"What is this?" Nadir says to the two men, sitting across from one another at a small table just inside the stage door.
"Playing a game of Whist," the elder of the two men says, laying down his cards, standing up to greet his employer.
"Not Whist 'xactly…we each play two hands…the game is really for four people…but since there be two of us…we make do…still follow the rules…passes the time…no gambling though…just for fun," rattles the younger man, eyes wide at Nadir's appearance. In his effort to get up, he knocks over the table. "Never much going on…keeps us awake…in case something…you know…happens."
"Shut up, Jules," his co-worker says, righting the table. Both men attempt to gather the cards and their overturned mugs holding liquid having the pungent smell vinegar…cheap wine if Nadir were to guess. "Is there something you want us to do, M. Khan? Been quiet, as usual. Planning to do rounds once this hand was finished."
"When did you last do your so-called rounds?"
"Was just an hour ago, I think. Right, Earl?"
"You went together?"
"Yes," says Jules.
"No," insists Earl, elbowing the younger man.
"Which is it?"
"Usually, one stays here while t'other walks through the building, like we was taught – checking all the entrances."
"Usually?"
"Tonight there was a ruckus outside the entry where the coaches drop off the patrons," Earl says. "So, yes, we decided to go together in case there was trouble."
"And was there…trouble?"
"No." he says, not meeting Nadir's eyes.
"Just the Vicomte de Chagny arguing with his driver," Jules says.
Earl glares at Jules.
"Then what?" Nadir asks, narrowing his eyes.
"He wanted to come in. I told him no one was allowed in after hours," Earl replies.
"Yes, no one," Jules concurs.
"What did he do after that?"
"He left, got back in the carriage and drove off."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, Monsieur," says Earl, Jules bobbing his head in agreement.
"You did not let him in?"
"Oh no, sir," Jules says.
"He was insisting, said he was a patron, gave a lot of money to the managers," Earl continues. "But we told him no one was allowed…not without permission – just like we were taught."
"Yes, just as you were instructed to do rounds alone…did he offer you any money?"
The men exchange a look.
"How much?"
"Two hundred francs…each…but we refused."
"Empty your pockets," Nadir says.
"We did not take the money," Earl insists.
"Empty your pockets," Nadir orders them. "I shall not ask again."
Doing as they are instructed, the men each takes out two hundred franc coins.
"Where did he go?"
"Toward the theater."
"Have you seen him since?"
"No, monsieur," Earl says, chin jutting out. "He seemed to know where he was going."
"Get your things and get out."
"We did not know what else to do…"
"He is a patron..."
"Do you know why you had your jobs?" Nadir raises his hand before they can answer. "The building is under construction. There are areas particularly dangerous – areas you yourselves were told to avoid for safety reasons. One of those places is the theater. No one without special permission is allowed there."
"He seemed to know…"
"Yes, so you said," Nadir growls. "Well, he did not know the danger and now I must find him."
"Can we help?"
"No…just leave," Nadir says. "You can pick up your wages from the paymaster tomorrow."
"Erik said you would bring tea and almond cookies," Christine smiles at the man standing in the doorway.
"He is gone?"
"There were some problems at the opera house. M. Khan insisted we come here, but Erik did not wish for his friend to deal with it alone."
The barest of smiles curves the man's lips. "Of course." Setting a tray on the round table, he takes a seat on a pillow across from Christine. After pouring her a cup of tea from a small copper pot, he offers her the sugar bowl.
Shaking her head, no. "Black is fine," she says. "The last time I drank tea from a clear glass was when my father and I traveled through Poland. I forgot how beautiful the color of tea could be."
"M. Khan and I prefer a strong black tea – but with sugar. He more than I, but you might find you enjoy the way we drink it. Take a bite of a cube, then sip the tea. But best wait for the tea to cool a bit."
"Cookies as well."
"We do like our sweets." The dark eyes, a shade or two paler than Nadir's, smile at her.
"You are being most gracious to a stranger invading your home so late at night," she says, placing the linen napkin offered her on her lap, she takes a one of the treats from the plate. "They look quite delicious." Rather than take a bite, she just rubs her thumb over the garnish of crushed nuts.
"Erik is not a stranger and you are his friend."
"Nevertheless, I am certain you did not expect guests."
"True."
"You knew him in Persia?"
Darius nods. "Many years ago…we were all much younger then."
"Did you work together at the palace…I know very little of that time…or any time really about him, except for the past few months."
"And, yet, here you are…with him."
"You are laughing at me." A flush rises from her neck to her cheeks. Placing the napkin holding the cookie, now reduced to crumbs on the table, she unbuttons her coat and adjusts herself on the sofa.
"I am sorry, mademoiselle, I intended no insult." Rising from his pillow, he moves to the sofa, holding out a hand. "Here let me take your coat. The room is very warm," he notes, looking to the woodburning stove.
"I am afraid I am not dressed for society," she says, standing up to remove the heavy wool garment, handing it to him. "We…Erik and I were exploring the opera house and this costume made it easier to walk about."
"Il Muto!" he exclaims. "The night the chandelier fell. You sang wonderfully well…as the Countess…before the incident." His eyes widen. "I am sorry, that must have been quite a shock…Erik?"
The answering nod is curt, but she offers no explanation. Darius assumed too easily the cause of the chandelier falling. What is their relationship? She hardly understands Erik's relationship to Nadir. Whatever was in the note Nadir wrote, it was not an introduction. How little she knew of the man she only just moments ago bonded herself to.
"There are some dresses in the suitcase," she says, looking beyond him to the hallway. "I should change."
"No need," he says. "M. Khan would want me to treat you as our family – he is like a father to me, which makes you a sister of sorts."
Relieved of the coat, she removes her bonnet, tucking a few stray curls behind her ears . Picking up her cup, she takes a sip of tea. "You see Erik as a brother? What was he like then…I do not even know how long ago then might be. He knows me so well and I know so little."
"I was thirteen or so…Erik was in his nineteenth year according to his reckoning. I was a servant to the daroga then. Erik had already traveled much of the world making a kind of name for himself. So much so, Nadir…M. Khan was sent to find a magical violinist who could put the fear of the devil in the hearts of the strongest of men with one look."
"Even then."
"Always, Mlle. Christine, always, but people were drawn to him, nonetheless. Nadir would say, he had a big heart, large enough to embrace the entire world," he says, smiling. "Nadir's son, Reza, loved and trusted him, so we honored his instincts and did so as well."
"Yes, yes, exactly that, I loved him and questioned how I could love someone with such a distorted face."
"And so it was with everyone at the palace, even the shah's sister. Her fascination both saved him from death a number of times and was ultimately the reason she encouraged her brother to kill him."
"I do not understand."
"Perhaps it is better if Erik told you about his life in the palace," Darius says, pouring another cup of tea.
"Please…something…a morsel."
Sighing deeply, he looks once again to the stove, taking a long time before responding to her plea. "He would not have her…after the rejection, she would incite him to use his imagination to create punishments."
"So he was not an architect…or an entertainer as I was beginning to believe?"
"He was all those things."
The deep blue eyes tear at the realization of what Darius is suggesting. The word comes from her mouth, almost beyond her will. "Executioner."
"Not precisely," he says, measuring his words. "Never directly. Although he talent with the Punjab lasso was part of the reputation he brought with him, he never killed anyone directly." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "Imaginings. She encouraged his imaginings – with the help of the hookah." The hooded eyes closely observe her response.
"Hookah?"
"An instrument to heat and smoke opium – quite common in my country."
A frown wrinkles her brow.
"There were times when he was, shall we say, less that cooperative and was punished quite severely. Scourged to the point where the skin was torn from his flesh."
"No. Why?" she cries, waving her hands in front of her face, gone pale at his words, trying to erase the images they are evoking.
"Nadir called it her peevishness," Darius explains quietly. "Then she would offer him the drug to ease the pain from his wounds."
"These drugs…"
"Often created delusions. One's thinking is not clear. A most pleasant experience when meditating or wishing to relax. When suffering, offering relief. The pain was so great, he did not refuse. When in the thrall of the opium, she would ask him how to punish the person who wounded him and he would create fantasies of different tortures."
"And they would be carried out?"
"Yes. Not simply against other slaves, but towards others she perceived to be hers or her brother's enemies." His voice is hard. "Then she would make him watch, telling him how he created the horrors transpiring in front of him."
"Dear God, his life is worse than I could ever imagine," she says, crossing herself. "Thank you for telling me."
"I fear he will not be pleased," Darius admits. "An absence of twenty odd years and his former companion reveals something I am certain he would prefer remain a secret."
"He need not know you told me anything."
"You are different now." Darius mouth curves down. "He will know."
Full lips draw into a hard line, her voice turns cold. "This knowledge does not seem to bother you…or Nadir."
"We were there, such punishments were not unusual. It has been a long time tending to dull the memory of how terrible things were. Perhaps I misjudged you – I was concerned you might run from the room at what I was telling you."
"You…you judged me?"
"Mademoiselle, you are very young," Darius says. "Forgive me, I realize I am speaking above my station, but you seem innocent, not knowing the world."
"Perhaps you are correct in some ways, but I love Erik."
"Even if he killed."
"He was accused of killing two men just since I have known him. The police said one was a suicide, the other man survived, but I suppose he may have wished to kill him." She shrugs. "I do not know. However, I saw him choose not to kill when he might have quite easily done otherwise." Rising to her feet, she says, "I do not wish to be rude – this is your home, but I should like some time to myself. I find I am quite weary from the day."
"Of course," Darius says, standing to join her. "I apologize for causing you more stress."
Shaking her head, she gives him a weak smile. "I suspect he knew you would speak to me as you did. I am different as you suggest, as yet, I am not sure how different."
"Come, there is a small room at the rear of the flat – quiet with a small bed. I placed your cases there. The bathroom is just next door."
"If you do not mind, what did the note say?" she asks pressing her hand against his arm.
"They love each other."
A warning or encouragement? "Thank you."
"Where to" The cabby asks, the glimmer of a smile wiping away some of the wear of a hard life off his face.
"Back to the Palais Garnier…the alley," Erik says. "This has been quite a successful night for you, I suspect,"
"It has, I must admit," the man agrees. "My wife will be very happy when I return home with my fares for today's work."
"Then, you must absolutely wait once we reach our destination – we will be returning here," Erik chuckles lightly as he climbs into the carriage. "The smile of a woman is a great gift."
"It is indeed."
As the driver encourages the horses to move again, Erik looks back at the Rue Rivoli seeking the doorway he just left. Removing a small brown bottle from his waistcoat pocket, he takes a small sip. Closing his eyes as the laudanum takes effect, the thin shoulders visibly relax. Touching his fingertips to his lips, he murmurs softly to himself, "I hope my own lady will have a smile for me as well when I return."