Chapter 2: Dreams That Turn Into Nightmares
It was not how she had imagined it.
Nervously clasping the folds of her dress, Christine sent another furtive glance towards the tall, dark-haired man who was skilfully steering their gondola to the other edge of the dark underground lake.
She had dreamed about meeting her teacher face to face for some time, but somehow she had never thought that he would so different from the vague fatherly figure she had half-unconsciously started to picture in her mind; the musician's rough contours and stiff posture were almost hard to connect with the gentleness that so often used to slip into the voice she had spoken to. In the dim light of a lantern hung on the prow, a white mask concealing the right part of his face stood out even more than before and, despite herself, Christine felt another pang of anxiety.
She had never paid much attention to Joseph Buquet's gruesome tales, yet now she couldn't help but recall that day, a few months ago, when he had run down from the flights in the middle of a rehearsal, claiming that he had seen a masked shadow lurking at the catwalk levels. Meg had always been firm in her belief that the Opera Ghost was just a creation of Monsieur Lefevre supported by a few stagehands and some coincidences feeding gossips, and it was usually easy enough to accept that. But now she was starting to wonder if her teacher had something to do with it too. And if so, how many of those more unsettling stories harboured a kernel of truth...
Her stomach knotted slightly.
When her tutor had emerged from the hidden passage behind the mirror, asking her to follow him, a part of her wanted to decline – to run and return to the safe world outside. Yet as he had been patiently waiting for her answer, not even daring to step into her dressing room, the other part had reminded her that it was still the same man who had been helping her for the past seven years. She felt a little bad about ignoring Meg, but it could be her only chance to finally get answers.
Besides, how could she not trust the person who had done so much for her?
She kept telling herself so, but the fact that her tutor had barely spoken a word to her through the whole journey really didn't help her feel any less nervous.
It was all a bit like a dream: the mirror; the spiral staircase with the flapping, faded theatre posters; the seemingly unending, meandering corridors lightened by the row of torches; the flooded tunnel with strange reliefs... And now, the underground atelier located at the bank of a misty lake...
Their boat slipped under an ominous-looking portcullis, and with astonishment Christine stared at the view that was revealed to them.
The walls of the cavern on the other side were decorated with the thick curtains in shades of subdued reds, browns, and beiges, and every corner of space between them was furnished with richly decorated furniture of dark wood.
On the small dais right in front of her reigned supreme an impressive pipe organ accompanied only by an elegant, upholstered bench, but in the niche on the left she could also see something that looked like a small model of the stage, surrounded by a swarm of different scenography sketches pinned to the material behind it. On its right spread a massive desk strewn with papers, winged by the three large bookcases all filled with bound folders. And all of that was completed by decorative kerosene lamps and dozens, dozens of candles in the brass candelabras, flooding everything with a warm, almost magical light.
A realm taken straight out of a dark but strangely mesmerising fairy tale...
The gondola rocked slightly as they reached the shore. Having taken the offered hand, Christine stepped onto the solid ground, glancing up at her guide.
"It's... amazing, teacher." A tiny though anxious smile touched her lips, and in response the man's tense features relaxed a bit too.
"I'm glad you like it, Christine. But there is something else I wanted to show you." The musician released her hand, taking a few steps farther into the cavern, and after a brief hesitation she followed a little behind him.
"I know that you can perceive the same beauty in music I see," he went on, approaching the desk, "so I thought you might enjoy seeing some compositions I have here. There is one piece I would particularly like you to look at..." The man gently picked up a thin bound folder lying atop the other documents on the desktop and turned back towards her. "I only hope it's a fitting gift for a talented singer."
His expression softened, adding some warmth to his face even despite his unsettling mask and, surprised, Christine took the folder from his extended gloved hands, glancing down at the swirling golden letters on the cover.
The Music of the Night.
Carefully untying the strings, she opened the folder and held her breath as she flipped through the first pages.
To her amazement, the score contained not only the text and music notation of the full composition, but also some detailed sketches of costumes and scenography along with technical tips. Astounded, she read the next few lines, feeling her awe only growing. What was more, all of that seemed to be written in the already familiar sloping script...
Her eyes widened as it finally dawned on her.
"You have written it, haven't you, Maestro? And you even based the score partially on some traditional Swedish songs I've once told you about!" Christine raised her head to look back at her teacher, not hiding her admiration, and in response the man nodded slightly, glancing a little aside. His hand rose to furtively straighten the back of his collar and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was almost a bit embarrassed.
"It's a short play that probably would never be staged, but... well, I hoped it might interest you..." His surprisingly gentle gaze moved back to meet her own, and a warm feeling filled her chest.
It was perhaps a bit silly, yet a part of her couldn't help but think about the songs her father used to write for her. A soft smile brightened her face.
"Thank you, my Angel of Music. It's an amazing present."
It was a bit strange to call him that now, when she stood right in front of him, but having finally seen her tutor's creation she couldn't deny that he probably deserved that title more than anyone she knew. She hugged the script closer to her breast, and then, not sure what else to say, glanced again towards the bookcases.
"Are some of these your works too, Maestro?"
"Just a few of them." The man made a slight gesture, stepping a little closer to the shelves. "The majority are other authors' compositions and the operas which I merely helped to adapt to our stage. I had been advising the former opera manager for years, so it became quite a collection." A tiny, barely perceptible note of hesitation slipped into his voice. "I suppose you can already guess under which name I did it..." These last words were filled with a strange sadness, and Christine needed most of her willpower to chase away the lump forming in her throat.
"You are him, aren't you? The Opera Ghost..." Her statement sounded pathetically quiet in the spacious cavern, but when the man spoke, his response wasn't much louder.
"Yes."
Christine's fingers shifted a little in her hold around the score. "But why? Why keep all these pretences for so long? Is this because you didn't want your job here to interfere with your life outside the opera?" It seemed to be the most probable, rational explanation, but as she gazed up at her teacher again, the way he looked at her made her stomach knot.
"I'm afraid that's not the case, Christine." The man averted his gaze, a strange hoarseness slipping into his tone. "I do not wish to burden you with things you don't need to know, but I don't want to lie to you either. I have never been a person fit for the limelight, but there is one main reason why the anonymity was forced on me..." His Adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed, and then his steel eyes slowly turned back towards her. "About eighteen years ago, I was accused of a crime."
His words hung in the deafening silence and suddenly Christine felt as if all the air had left the room.
The musician took a step forwards. "I was being kept in… a rather poor situation. All I wanted was to get free, but during my escape I injured the man keeping me there. I never meant any harm, and yet before I had a chance to explain, I had been sentenced and branded a criminal." His jaw muscles tensed, and his hands clenched into fists. "I did the only thing I could: I hid both from the investigators and my oppressor. And when the opportunity presented itself to me years later, I also became the Opera Ghost – the Phantom living among the shadows below the theatre..."
His shoulders stiffly pulled back as he straightened. On another day, Christine might have paid attention to the emotions hidden behind that guarded posture, but that night as her tutor looked down at her, awaiting her reaction, all she could think about was the cold fear seeping into her veins.
Despite his secretiveness, so far she had always assumed that her teacher led a normal life outside the opera. And now he was telling her that he was actually a convict living and hiding in the catacombs beneath the opera house? A shiver ran down her spine.
"But what about my father?" By now, she knew well that the ethereal man she had imagined was far from reality, but she couldn't help but desparingly cling to the remaining shards of the dream. "You had to get to know him somehow at least briefly, didn't you, teacher?" Her hopeful gaze rose to her tutor, but instead of confirmation she was met with a look of a genuine surprise.
"I'm sorry, Christine, but I never had a chance to get to know your father in person." The man's visible eyebrow furrowed slightly in confusion. "I have told you I heard him play both times he was performing at the previous opera house and that I admired his skills, but I have never claimed to know him..."
Christine felt an icy emptiness creep into her chest. "But... but you have chosen me as your student. I've thought that–" The words stuck in her throat, and she turned away, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling the barely restrained tears welling up under her eyelids.
He was probably right – he had never implied anything, but despite that, all this time she had let herself believe he was somehow a link connecting her to her deceased father. And now she was finding out that it was merely another futile wish. Just as all the other of her assumptions and hopes about her tutor. Her eyes stung.
"Christine..."
A sound of quiet footsteps approached her, and through wet eyelashes Christine saw her teacher stopping an arm-length from her. His hand twitched as if he considered reaching out to her, but then it fell back to his side, curling slightly.
"I apologise that I have brought you disappointment." His quiet words were tinged with deep regret, and as she looked back up at him she couldn't miss the almost tormented expression etched into his mostly guarded features. "It was never my intention to hurt or deceive you in any way. And that's exactly why I've led you here; I don't want you to know me as the Phantom of the Opera or even as your Angel of Music, but as a person you have been talking to for the past years. A man who once bore the name Erik..." A strange, hoarse note slipped into his voice again and the man paused, swallowing hard.
"I'm aware, I don't have a lot to offer you in this dark place," he took up anew, "but you still can come here for your further lessons. And if you ever consider continuing your career abroad, I... well, I suppose I could support you there, too, in a more open way..." His eyes met hers again, and despite herself Christine felt a tiny lump forming in her throat.
Was that what he expected of her?
Coming here wouldn't be much different from her lessons in a secluded storage room next to the chapel, but somehow she couldn't fully quench the uneasiness that started to fill her stomach.
She had trusted her Angel. Even more than that – she needed his guidance and support. But now, as the curtain had finally fallen and the spell was gone, she had found that the one standing before her was not the perfect guardian she yearned for but a complex, unfamiliar man, enshrouded in shadows, sending pangs of worry up her spine.
And the truth was that she had no longer any idea what to think of it all.
Christine lowered her gaze. The tips of her fingers nervously grazed the strings of the bound folder she still was still holding.
"I'm... I'm honoured by the offer of your further help, teacher," she uttered quietly, "but... the truth is that I still know almost nothing about you nor your past, so how can I make any decisions? You haven't even let me see your face..." Even to her own ears, it sounded like a poor excuse. And, though she hadn't looked up, she could not fail to notice how the man stiffened at her words.
For a moment they just stood in silence, and then her tutor spoke again, his tone almost forcefully even.
"I'm sorry, Christine, but my past is something I would rather forget than share. And, as for my face..." he paused for a moment. "Well, I'm afraid it is not a sight anyone should ever see." Bitterness tinged his voice and, surprised by its intensity, Christine glanced back up, feeling an instant pang of guilt.
The man no longer looked at her. His left hand clenched into a tight fist while the right one rose to rest on his mask. And although she could only see the masked part of his countenance, she could not miss how hard his jaw was compressed. Her heart constricted at that sight.
She might have no longer been sure what to believe right now, but she certainly did not want to make him suffer. Her hands flexed on the score.
"I... I'm sorry if I've offended you, teacher..." Her anxious whisper hung between them but brought no reaction. What else could she do? A wave of guilty conscience pierced her again, and she uncertainly closed the distance between them.
"Teacher, I..." After a short hesitation, she slowly raised her palm. A moment later her fingers delicately touched the leather of her tutor's glove in what she hoped to be a comforting gesture, but the same second panic flashed in the musician's eyes.
"NO!"
His hand shot forwards, pushing her away, and with a muffled gasp, she was flying to the ground in a whirl of pages.
Her hip painfully collided with a floor and in the next fraction of second a bone-white item clattered against the stones just next to her. In her shocked state she somehow registered it must have been her tutor's mask – its inner side and the wires holding it in place and supporting its shape, now exposed like the belly and legs of some gruesome beetle – but her eyes had already moved up before she could stop herself.
And there stared at her the face of a demon…
A choked cry ripped out of her throat, and the man howled, flinging his palm up to cover the right side of his face, but it was already too late for that.
She had seen the monstrosity beneath. And knew she would never forget it.
For several heartbeats her teacher just stood there looking at her, his chest heaving. And then his distorted face, glimpsed from among his splayed fingers, contorted even more in a grimace of pure anger.
"Why have you done this? After all I have done for you, this is how you repay me?" His low hiss, so different from her Angel's usually gentle voice, sent the cold tentacles of fear into her stomach.
Christine opened her mouth trying to find some answers, but no words managed to pass through the lump in her throat. And somehow that only increased her tutor's rage. His jaw clenched even harder.
"You wanted to see what's hidden beneath my mask, didn't you?" he drawled through the gritted teeth, his tone turning venomous. "Well then, be my guest... LOOK AS MUCH AS YOU WANT!" With a roar the man tore his hand from his face, knocking over one of the standing candelabras. "ARE YOU SATISFIED NOW?! OR DO YOU WANT YET TO HAVE A CLOSER LOOK?!" he bellowed, starting towards her. With a whimper of fear she in vain tried to crawl out of his reach.
"TELL ME, IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED TO SEE?! IS IT!?" The musician bent over her, violently pointing at his disfigured face, and Christine closed her eyes tight, covering her head with her hands and curling up in terror. But the blow she had half-expected never came.
For a moment all she could hear was a loud breath just above her, and then the man spoke again, his voice strangely quiet.
"I see the answer is 'no'..." His hoarse whisper filled the darkness surrounding her, and a moment later she finally heard the sound of his receding footsteps.
And then there was only silence.
When she had at last mustered enough courage to open her eyes and look up, she saw him standing motionless a few metres from her. The man was half turned away, but despite that she could still catch a glimpse of his face. It was as cold and deprived of emotions as the mask that was back on its place.
Fear once again seized her heart, and for the first time she realised with full force how little she knew about the one she had called her Angel of Music.
The Opera Ghost's cold, steely eyes met hers for a second, and then he looked away as if he couldn't bear her gaze. His gravelly words broke the stillness.
"I'm afraid we must return now. Those fools who run the theatre will be looking for you." In his hollow, almost mechanical tone, there was not even a trace of warmth. Not waiting for her response, the man turned his back to her, heading back towards the gondola and making the knot in her stomach constrict even harder. He knew that she had no other choice than to follow him.
Christine felt the wetness coming to her eyes.
Angels, what had she got herself into? She and Meg had often scoffed at the naivety and reckless decision of the heroines in novels, and yet, given the occasion, she herself had acted as thoughtlessly as them. Had her teacher ever really been her friend? Or maybe all along had he only cared about her voice? She was no longer sure...
Two tears rolled down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her mouth, desperately trying to get a hold of herself as she forced herself to rise to her feet and approach the waiting Phantom. After all, what other choice did she have?
The soprano obediently stepped into the boat and soon she and her tutor once again plunged into the corridors of the underground labyrinth.
And only the pages of The Music of the Night remained scattered and forgotten on the ground...
Author's notes:
1) I'm probably a bit spoiling the atmosphere with my rambling, but speaking (or maybe rather writing/reading) about the kerosene lamps: have you known that the first modern version was invented by Polish inventor and pharmacist Ignacy Łukasiewicz in 1853 in Lviv? He was also a pioneer in distilling kerosene from crude oil. Yay for 19th-century Polish technical thought! :) (Sorry, I couldn't resist)
2) Limelight was a type of stage lighting used in 19th century in theatres and music halls. The source of intense light was the calcium oxide cylinder (quicklime, CaO) heated to high temperature by oxygen-hydrogen burner.