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He was quietly staring at her when she awoke and she couldn't describe the emotions she saw there in his peculiar light amber eyes, but there was something far-away and heartbreaking there. Once in school, while studying the World Wars, she saw a photo of a shell shocked man who had what they called "the mile long stare". This is similar to what she saw in the eyes of her mysterious guest now. His eyes were so intense that it distracted from the incomplete features of his face, but she took a moment to think that he resembled a man, half resurrected, before God gave up on the miracle and failed to restore him fully once life was running through him.
"Who was he?" she finally asked softly, "You said you lost him twice."
He didn't answer her for a long time, but his thin lips turned down in contemplation.
"Nadir Khan," he eventually replied and the name came out like the remaining wisps of a prayer.
She picked at a little piece of skin that had begun to peel at the cuticle of her thumb. In the morning light coming through the dirty window of the apartment, the man's face was fully illuminated. Her eyes began to play a game of musical chairs on it, stopping every few seconds on a different part of its macabre features before they darted away from it again. She was worried staring at him would offend him but also fearful that not looking at him would be rude too.
"He was," she paused cautiously, "Your friend?"
"My only one," he replied.
"You loved him," she surmised softly. "But he was more than a friend."
His eyes drew together and he suddenly looked like a cat who had his stomach scratched against its will.
"How insightful of you," he dryly replied. His lip curled up in a gentle sneer. "You should take up occupation as a scam fortune teller."
She inwardly recoiled from his cold response.
"You aren't very nice," she softly yet bravely replied.
As though her timid words were a pin, they deflated his ballooning animous. With a slow, agonizing sigh that dropped his shoulders like the leaves of an under-watered plant, he uncurled his long legs like a deadly spider waking for the day. He sat there, his unusually long legs sprawled out on the floor, and finally took her in fully with eyes that had softened.
"I seem to be getting that alot these days, Iris said something to that effect just the other day…though, I admit, she used much more flowery language." At this, his lips attempted to lift in a smile. It seemed as if his muscles were too weak to accomplish the task, for the smile presented was a weak, barely there little thing,
"She's the one I can't see?" she asked, to which he nodded.
"There are infinitely many of them, but she seems to be one that I have been encountering lately–with some inconvenient regularity," his tone was one of irritated endearment.
"What's she like?" she couldn't help but ask, the curiosity got the better of her.
It took him quite a while to respond. He sat there tapping his sharp, flesh deficient chin with one fingertip.
Finally he said, "Sad. She tries to cover it with this outrageous persona of hers, but it peeks out every now and again," he suddenly seemed a bit distracted by some thought playing behind his eyes. "I'm afraid I may have greatly insulted her when we last spoke."
"Maybe you will see her again and you can apologize," she replied with encouragement.
"I never apologize," he said with the bluntness of a butterknife.
"It's never too late to start," she murmured.
The summer heat was already beginning to warm up the small space of the apartment, even at such an early hour. Looking down at her wrinkled t-shirt and denim shorts, she knew she needed to change into something clean to feel a bit more human, but the grief was still weighing her down from the inside. Where did she even start with unraveling the inky tendrils of it. It had only been one day since she discovered the truth. Laying back down onto her deflating bed, she closed her eyes in grim contemplation.
Dying.
The finality of it was overwhelming. It didn't feel real. Her father was supposed to live as long as her. He was supposed to remain in her life forever.
"Can he be saved?" she tremulously asked. "Is his death set in stone?"
"All death is set in stone," he replied coldly, but took a slow thoughtful breath before adding, "I've no doubt his death could be delayed again. The advancements they have made in medicine have been astounding–certainly better than when I was alive."
She frowned, despite the sliver of hope that found itself in her heart.
"You're really dead?" she asked.
At this he gave a somewhat ghoulish, toothy grin. His teeth were somewhat crooked with just slightly elongated canines. The smile itself wasn't unpleasant, but there was resentment in his eyes which gave the whole look an air of malice.
"Unfortunately not fully," he replied sardonically. "I did die. It was quite a drawn out affair, in fact. My heart was quite a stubborn little thing carrying on beating the way it did. Then Lucius appeared before the damn muscle decided to fail and he announced my glorious new occupation."
"But you died," she said, while fidgeting with the fabric of her haphazardly arranged bedsheet.
"My body failed, yes,only to be restored–though as you can see," he gestured half-heartedly to himself, "I was never truly complete to begin with, both mind and body."
She climbed out of her bed— though 'bed' was a stretch because she was nearly sitting on the floor for how much it had deflated—and began to rummage through a cardboard box holding her clothes which were folded somewhat sloppily. Selecting a baby blue tank top, a breezy floral print skirt and a pair of cotton underwear, the last of which she quickly tucked between the layers to avoid being seen, she then turned to the man who was watching her with interest.
"I need to…shower," she gestured shyly to the bathroom just feet away.
He nodded. His eyes seemed to glow just momentarily, a trick of the morning light and the slight widening of his eyes. He then softly said, "Have you been to Paris, Christine?" When she opened her mouth to reply, he chuckled a bit warmly and said, "That was a rhetorical question, I know you haven't."
She froze in her place, "How do you know so much about me?"
"I read your soul" He simply replied, but there was a weight to his words. The world soul was delivered with some solemn reverence.
"My soul," she repeated quietly, "What did you see there?"
"So many sad and beautiful things," then he broke eye contact as though he could not bear to look at her anymore before saying, "Take your time getting ready, my dear. I would like to take you to Paris today."
He found herself silently laughing in the shower despite herself. Paris? This had to be living in a fever dream. She imagined herself in a silly instagram photo pose beneath the Eiffel Tower with the skeleton being in the other room. What were they going to do there? Surely not sightseeing–he seemed to deliver the news as though there was a task he had in mind, like they were simply going to hop across an ocean as easily as one walks through a door for the express purpose of fetching a carton of milk.
It took her a while to get ready, because she was so nervous. She rung out her long, pale hair with a faded towel and scrunched a generic brand cream to prevent frizzing of her curls. Makeup had never really been her thing, but she did wear mascara religiously, because she had experimented with it once and garnered a very flattering comment from Raoul about how big and beautiful her eyes were. His compliments on her appearance were so few, that she had taken that moment and preserved it in her mind.
When the time at last came for them to depart, she took one last glance around her apartment while collecting the yellow backpack which had been serving as her purse for the last year. With a very elegant wave and an unfurling of his strangely beautiful hand, the air and matter before them began to flutter and warp and shimmer like the surface of a turbulent pool of water. It shifted from the daylit colors of the space in which it stood to an opaque silver before shifting to the dark colors of some other space just beyond the ripples.
"Why are we going to Paris?" she asked, feeling a bit silly that she had not thought to ask earlier.
"I've a couple of things to do there and I feel your presence will make things…" he paused before softly finishing, "bearable."
He stepped through the mutated space first, into what looked like a pitch black room, lit only by the light from her side of the portal. His hand materialized upon her side, thrust out and open in an inviting manner, asking her to take it. The fingers were ice cold when she placed her hand in his, but she didn't pull away. His hand closed around hers tenderly as he guided her through to the other space. As the portal closed in her wake, the place they stood was pitch dark.
"Apologies," He murmured. His voice came so close to her ear that she was certain he was standing closer to her than she had anticipated. "Give me a few moments to illuminate the space." His voice moved away from her as he progressed somewhere deeper into the darkness. "I must admit, I've not returned here since my very timely demise that I hope–" she heard him make a little huff as he walked into something solid, "I forgot about that chaise–I never liked it…As I said, I hope the wiring is still intact."
She heard the momentary scraping of metal as if a latch of some kind was flipped and two lights flickered several times before burning fully with light. Blinking a couple times with the sudden brightness of the incredibly old bulbs, she looked about herself. It appeared to be a very old living room of sorts. There was an elegant white marble fireplace with antique chairs and sofa beside it. The walls were lined with a bright green and black wallpaper, the green was so vibrant that it drew her attention immediately. A chaise was pushed against the far wall where Erik stood. The space was completed by a very thick rug adorned in an ornate pattern from the Orient. Every surface was covered in at least a century of dust.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"This was my home," he replied. "Mind not to touch the wallpaper. It appears to be crumbling and they used Arsenic when they made Scheele's Green." His lips quirked up in warm fondness, "It was always my favorite color. But then, I always did love beautiful and deadly things. We should go to the next room, I'll not risk exposing you too much to this dust. It would not do for you to grow ill on account of my decor."
He led her through a door into an adjacent room which was an explosion of musical instruments. There was more light in this room, but one of the bulbs flickered like it was dying. It was decorated with rich tapestries and a similar rug. This room had also been blanketed by a thick coating of gloom and dust. She glanced in the corner and saw the skeleton and fur of some rodent laying there. It was chilly in his home, so she folded her bare arms over herself.
"You didn't have any windows," she thought aloud.
"We're underground," he smoothly replied with no shortness of pride. "I built my home in the lowest cellar of the Palais Garnier, but nobody knows of its existence…remarkable really with the technology they have these days."
"You…built this?" She asked with blooming admiration.
"I helped build the whole Garnier," he replied with a noncommittal shrug that did not hide his swelling pride. "Don't tell anyone, but I also designed it too. I allowed Garnier to take the credit because I loathe public speculation more than I desire praise."
"But why would you live so deeply underground?" she asked somewhat aghast at the thought.
He stood surveying the wall full of stringed instruments hanging in a haphazard order on their hooks, but he turned to her with a somber expression on his unfortunate face. Gesturing to that unfinished and crude visage, he replied, "I had lived a life that showed me I was not welcome among it." Then he shrugged weakly and added, "Besides, five cellars below I could play my music and not corrupt the world with it."
She laughed a bit.
"Music can't really corrupt, can it?" she asked with a small measure of amusement, thinking this was just another example of his self-deprecating humor.
"My music can, Chrisitne. I assure you," his eyes dimmed a bit at a distant memory, "I once played a tune on my violin that influenced a man to end his life by jumping in the Seine. I can inspire a great deal with song."
Her stomach flipped over itself at his words.
"Why would you do that?" she softly asked as her heart fluttered in her chest.
"I watched him kick a mange covered dog," he softly replied. "He was cruel to the beast simply because he found it unappealing."
"You can do kind things, though," she insisted. "Like what you did with my father, whatever song you played, it made him happy."
"Melodies can serve as keys," he explained, "Their shapes hold profound meaning. Just like other keys, they can only unlock what they are meant to. The song I play for your father is a key which unlocks his greatest joy."
She shook her head, not quite understanding his meaning.
"How could it do that?" she asked with brows pinched together in frustrated thought.
He tilted his head at her thoughtfully, like a curious little bird seeing something it had never seen before. There was an expression on his face that made her heart flutter in an entirely different way. There was a softness to his features and his lips held a humble smile.
"You heard some of it that night we first truly spoke," he replied with bright curiosity. "What did you hear?"
It took her a few moments to collect her response, but he stood patient as the words came to her.
"It seemed familiar," she said, "I can't place it, but I thought it was really lovely in a striking kind of way."
This gave him a uniquely genuine smile.
"The song, Christine," he quietly admitted, "It's shaped like you."
She was too surprised to speak, but she did not have the time to respond because he was moving through another set of doors and down a long hallway which she felt obliged to follow.
The room she emerged in, only moments after him, was very haunting. Large swaths of black and red fabrics adorned the walls and gave it the impression of entering into an infected womb. An entire wall was engulfed in a massive instrument of brass pipes and keys–a pipe organ–which resembled a great gothic monster that could swallow them whole. Beneath a deflating and moth eaten red brocade canopy was an open coffin, its silk lining infested with long dead insects. She suddenly became aware that she stood in a dilapidated tomb. There was less light in here, which came from a single lamp with a highly decorative shade.
"That was where I slept," he calmly remarked as she took in the ugly symbol of death laid out before her.
"Why?" She was aghast.
He walked to an enormous wardrobe and opened it, the sudden light frightened a few moths which fled past him in different directions. He shifted some articles of clothing that were hung inside and tutted to himself.
"They haven't been in style for dozens of decades, but still—it is a shame the moths and carpet beetles got to them," he said a bit disheartenedly. He dropped to his knees and reached deeply into the wardrobe, past the curtain of old suits, to retrieve a small trunk. It was made of a lustrous metal and locked with a beautifully ornate latch and lock that resembled a lion roaring. "The coffin, Christine, is just another example of my dark amusement and my constant need for being prepared."
He performed a quick succession of places on the lion and the latch opened.
"That's an impressive lock," she said admiringly.
"I'm an amateur metalsmith, but this was always my favorite piece," he muttered while pulling items from the now openchest.
, velvet-lined chest, carelessly dropping them onto the rug they stood upon. A few wax sealed envelopes and papers emerged first and then he produced a strange looking bladed object. It looked like an odd pair of brass knuckles, but it contained blades on all three sides as well as a pair of sharp claws above the knuckles. He didn't even look at it before tossing it aside.
"Is there anything you can't do?" she asked as her curiosity prompted her to pick up the golden bladed object to inspect it more closely.
"Nothing I don't set my mind to," he replied while he continued to rifle through the chest. He soon produced a leather pouch, which had heavy contents inside that shifted with a satisfying sound as he hoisted his out of the box.
"What are these?" she asked, entranced by the fine craftsmanship of the object she held.
He had opened the pouch and was looking into it with a look of satisfaction on his face. He stopped his examination of whatever contents it contained and looked at the item she held.
"Vajra-mushti," he replied, "A weapon that hails from India. I was quite skilled with it–so skilled that I made my living for quite a time by defeating men in hand to hand combat with it. That blade has quite a body count, Christine."
She dropped the weapon and one of the longer blades stuck firmly into the plush carpet.
"I'm sorry," she muttered.
"Don't be," he said dismissively, "I should have done the same when I was first presented with the damned thing, but you need to understand, Christine, I was so angry. I thought it to be in my right to lash out at humanity and I put myself into occupations that allowed me the opportunity to do thus without repercussions–though, I did not let that stop me on many an occasion. My impudence and contempt for humanity made me quite the thorn in the world's side. But if you are concerned about the rug, I'm sure the rats have done far more damage than you." At this last he gave her a smile that lit his features with an authentic humor and for the briefest of moments she could see the ghost of the man he was probably meant to have been.
"You didn't meet anyone who was kind to you?" she asked with dismay. "I have a very difficult time thinking that all of the world was so terrible to you."
He sighed heavily as he stood with the pouch in hand. He left the chest open with its items scattered about.
"There were many who were kind, but I was too blind by my own vitriol and pride to have recognized it," he quietly replied, " As blind as I was to kindness, I was even more imperceptive to love. I often wonder how many moments it appeared in my own life, there before my face, yet obscured. There is a great deal I have to regret, Chrisitne." The sorrow that crept upon his face was so potent that she found her own throat tightening with sadness.
"I'm sorry," she softly said, "I'm sorry you were never given the chance to know it."
He looked at her with a sharpness, his eyes glowing bright despite the gloom in the room.
"It may not be too late for me," he murmured as he put the pouch in his suit pocket which he gave a pat. Looking around the weird bedroom, he announced. "I believe our time here is done." "I'm not sure I'd like to see how well the kitchen has fared–or my wife's bedroom, for that matter."
"You said–"
"My hypothetical wife, Christine. I had grown quite mad in my later years, but at least I ensured that my wife who never existed had a comfortable place to lay her head."
"What's in that," she asked abruptly to change the subject. "That bag you just put in your pocket."
"A small fortune," he grinned. "Gold and a large number of priceless gems–though priceless is a bit of an overstatement since we aim to sell them."
"We?"
"They would turn me away, Christine," he gestured to himself. "I'll need you to serve as a proxy."
He waved his hand to open another door through space while the other hand retrieved his fabric Covid mask from its pocket. When they stepped through, he had the mask upon his face. They stood on the darkness of a curtained platform and it took her a few moments to realize they stood on the opera stage itself. Most of the house lights were shut off, but there were enough to light up the seats and the boxes that spanned out before them. He pointed up to a box and said, "That was mine. The view wasn't the best, but it put me in a great position to overhear a lot of gossip and I used that for the express purposes of extortion. I used to haunt the place. I'm sure there are references to me in some records–I called myself the Opera Ghost–it was all so terribly gothic and dramatic–but I suppose I was as well."
She found herself giggling, as this seemed the least of his crimes.
"What sort of gossip would make people pay to keep a secret?"
"The silliest sort, Christine. Affairs, backhanded business deals, financial secrets–I once convinced a patron to pay me five hundred francs to keep all of Paris from learning that he wore a toupee." He leaned into her ear as if to tell her a great secret, "Though, I'm sure the whole city already knew. It was the worst little hairpiece you had ever seen. He may as well have taken a rat from one of the cellars and placed it upon his scalp."
The laughter bubbled from her. The image of a rat upon a man's head undid her. A refreshing wave of laughter ran from her and into the theater while Erik looked at her like he had won a prize.
"If I knew a rodent toupee was all it took to garner a laugh, I would have told you that story the first night we spoke." He warmly said, "Come, let me give you a tour of the opera. I'm sure we won't have too many visitors as we find ourselves in the middle of a pandemic."
He took her through the enormous building for over an hour, each room was breathtaking and adorned in ornate stone or woodwork. The grand staircase held her in thrall and he explained how the entire length of the stairway would be crowded with drunk revelers during the opera's historic masquerade balls. As they went through the building, he explained the trials that had to be overcome to build it and he included a handful of amusing stories of his time constructing it and living there. He was quite the storyteller once he got a tale started.
They eventually stood on the roof, overseeing all of Paris and she took in a breath as the wind cut through the hot and humid weather.
"It's much warmer than it ever was," he muttered as he gazed out upon the city he said was once his kingdom, "There are many more ugly buildings as well–though there is no structure uglier than that iron phallus Eiffel put up. I was sure they would tear that monstrosity of engineering down after the exposition and repurpose it for more useful projects, but it's still erect like the emblematic dick that it is."
"I like it," she argued softly, "Raoul said it's helped him when he's been lost in the city a few times."
He looked over at her but became immediately distracted by something on the far end of the roof. Ignoring her fully, he sauntered far across the space to look at the back of a large corner of some rectangular feature of the building. A portal was produced immediately and he gestured for her to follow.
They were on the sidewalk before the building in seconds. Their sudden appearance made one pedestrian hurrying by stop and do a double take before shaking his head and walking off, presumably telling himself that he just needed a good night's sleep.
"They massacred it!" Erik growled while he looked up at the enormous advertisement that had been mounted to the side of the building. "Fucking capitalists!"
"It's an odd place for a perfume ad," Christine agreed, she turned to the enraged man and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, they did that to your building Erik," she gently said. Whatever she did, whether with tone or gesture, seemed to work, for the man looked to the hand on his shoulder and gave a sad shrug.
"It's just a building, some things are more important," he cryptically said, then he gave a heavy sigh and announced. "We must go to the cemetery now, Chrisintine."
"The cemetery?" she asked with surprise.
"I have to visit someone," he said grimly while opening his hand to produce a gateway which they both walked through.