"Noooo!" he screams, his body freezing on the keys of the organ. The touch of her hand on his shoulder might have been a lightning bolt.
"So the man who knows all and says much can feel pain?"
Biting his lower lip and focusing on the opera he was writing in his mind, Erik closed his eyes to dull the pain of the hot poker. The odor of his own scorched flesh strong enough to overcome his diminished sense of smell found the bile rising in his throat. Keep yourself under control, he whispered to himself.
This was not the first time someone took pleasure in reprimanding him when he would not comply with an order. The gypsy king who kidnapped him as a child was equally cruel to the boy with the deformed face. A whip was his weapon of choice.
Caught unawares, the cry escaped him before he could restrain himself. He learned early on his cries only prompted the attacker to do more. The sound a stimulant to the brutality.
Each strike would be followed by another to extract yet another cry. If history were to repeat itself, the tormentor would try at least one or two more times at his continued silence. Then becoming bored, he would abandon the torture; content a mere two or three lashes or burns or cuts would teach the young musician respect for his owner.
It did not matter. He would not kill any more and no amount of torture would convince his to lose his resolve. Once the idea took form in his mind, he refused to bend. If he stayed here, this scene would be repeated again the next night and the next eliciting either his compliance…or his death. The branding iron was quite the worst so far, but the burns would make whipping or scourging all the more painful. No, tonight he must free himself.
As he hoped and actually expected, the newest assassin brought in to take his place was arrogant and, in his arrogance, was careless and sloppy. After the second attempt to make him beg, he feigned fainting. With no more thrills to be had, the young man left him.
Once he knew he was alone in the barn where they tossed him after he allowed the latest "enemy" of the mayor to get away, he sat up. The farrier was a conscientious man. The tools of his trade kept in order and, as Erik knew, a trough full of clean water sat next to the still burning fire. The iron tossed carelessly to one side would certainly be greeted with annoyance in the morning, perhaps leading to the young bully to be punished. One could hope.
Erik struggled to his feet and stumbled to the tub and, after removing his boots and trousers, got in, sliding down to allow the cool liquid to bathe his scorched skin. It was only later when seeing the reflection of his back in a mirror did he see the five-pointed star on his left shoulder and another a few inches lower next to his spine.
Waiting until the household was quiet and the lights dark, he crept back to his room to gather his belongings, including a leather bag of coins – some earned, some stolen. Returning to the stable, he saddled the grey mare granted him for use during his employment and left. By the time anyone in the household awoke, he would be long gone. Punjab would soon be just a bad memory.
But the pressure on his shoulder is not a branding iron. It is Christine's hand.
The music must have summoned her. Music instead of being his nepenthe tonight, only reawakened the memories that kept him from sleep – nights when so exhausted he fell into deep stupor to be roused by nightmares of those days now long past.
However cautious he has been when returning to the organ and his opera – that she not hear this music…at least not yet – he failed. There was too much of his suffering and deep emotion…and passion in this work. Pouring out his life in music is what keeps him from killing himself. Twenty years writing an opera no one will likely ever hear, still gives him a reason to continue living – giving meaning to his life.
"Erik, oh my Lord, I am sorry…I did not mean…" Christine says, jerking her hand away as she stumbles backward.
Frantically feeling around for his mask on the organ, his voice a low growl. "What are you doing in here? I told you not to enter this room."
"I did not mean…"
"What?" he asks turning to her, exposing his uncovered face. "Did not mean what? To see this?"
Turning away from him, she shakes her head back and forth.
"Cannot bear to look at me, eh?"
"I…I can look at you."
"Really?"
"Y…yes." Lifting her head, she takes a deep breath and turns back. Eyes closed, she lifts her chin.
"Well? In order to look at someone, the eyes generally have to be open," he scoffs. Having found his barbee mask, he slips it over his face. "Never mind, you have been spared."
"Truly, I do not wish you to have to cover your face in your own home."
"Perhaps another time when you have not first been terrified by my screaming. I am not sure I could bear your screaming after my own. It would be too much like some of the horrible operas they have been producing here recently. You were the only thing saving Hannibal from being a challenge of screeching banshees."
"How can you joke?" she asks. "I cannot believe it was my touch alone that caused you to cry out in such a way."
"And you would be correct," he says, rising from the bench. "Now, shall we return to the sitting room…a place of peace and calm…at least I hope that is how you see it."
"That is what I came to speak with you about…"
"Your needs are not being met? What is it you are lacking?" A tightening in his chest causes him to falter as they make their way from the music room back into the main house.
"Are you alright?" She reaches out to take his arm, helping him keep his balance.
The amber eyes looking over the mask brim with tears. "Just a twinge of pain – indigestion, perhaps."
"But you ate nothing at dinner," she argues, helping him walk down the hallway. "More likely pain from an empty stomach."
"Perhaps…it will pass." Ill at ease, but having difficulty finding his legs, he allows her to direct him.
"Come, I shall prepare some tea," she says, "and you shall eat something in front of me. No arguments."
Warmth replaces the constant chill he is accustomed to feeling, no matter how hard he tries to overcome the cold – it is an internal sensation carried with him all his life. Living below ground does not help. However pleased he is at how dry the rooms were, the chill of the lake still crept in.
Instinctively, though, he knows the lack is more about his loneliness than any real physical discomfort. Only two…no three others…the boy…the daroga's boy was the first who cared for him. The daroga followed. Then Adele.
Now Christine. Perhaps, there was promise here. Perhaps it was not so terrible to share more of himself with her. Even his rage seems not to affect her.
"I suppose I could do with some tea…bread and cheese would do no harm either."
Watching her move about the small kitchen helps erase the memory of his branding – the wounds long healed, the star-shaped scars blending in with those from the other abuses. Leaning against the back of the wooden chair, he crosses his long legs and watches as she puts a small meal together for him.
"The bread is in that box on the counter," he tells her. "I think a croissant would suit me best."
"I need to spend more time in here," she says. "I am not much of a chef."
"Bread and cheese do not require much skill. I can teach you some simple dishes if you like."
"I cannot believe how much I am learning from you," she laughs, setting down a plate with the croissant, several chunks of cheese and a few pickles. Just then the kettle whistles and she pours the water into the teapot, covers it with one of the cozies she knitted, and brings it to the small table. Taking the seat across from him, she folds her hands in her lap, nodding at him to eat.
Erik pushes the food around the plate with his fingers.
"You do not want me to watch," she says, starting to rise. "I am sorry. I shall wait in the sitting room."
"No! No…please stay. Please." Tearing off a piece of the pastry, he lifts the barbee mask away from his face and places the bread carefully into his mouth. "I think this would be less awkward if you joined me."
"Of course, how silly of me," she says, getting up for her own plate. Returning to the table, she mimics his tearing small pieces of the bread, adding a small piece of cheese to each bite.
"I must apologize," he says, after dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "I did not think how you must have felt eating your meals with my not joining you. This is much more companionable."
"Yes. It is."
As they continue their small meal, Erik becomes more comfortable eating, finding some of his anxiety over exposing himself to her criticism and possible ridicule. The act of eating is never comfortable for him, even in private. The distorted lips do not always serve to keep the food he eats in his mouth, so he keeps his fingers close until he swallows. Watching Christine imitate the small bites he takes is both endearing and embarrassing. Does she suspect, he wonders? There is no suggestion she is mocking him, only wanting to put him at ease.
How much has she really seen of his face? Most, having seen him for the first time, reacted anywhere from screaming to fainting to becoming physically ill. In moments of pure self-hatred, he would often make small bets with himself as to what affect the unveiling would bring. That foolish game came to an end in Persia.
The full moon was so bright he did bother to light any lamps when he entered his room. Completely familiar with the small room assigned him by the Shah, there was no concern about stumbling over the minimal furnishings or falling off the small balcony where he walked to look at the clear night sky.
The day had been particularly satisfying. Work on the palace was nearing an end and seeing his carefully drawn plans come to life heartened him. With the exception of the times he spent with the daroga at his home before the boy died, the building site was the only good thing about being in this place.
After grabbing a few grapes from the bowl of fruit provided to him by the servants, he removed the cloth head covering. Much like the ones his mother made for him, only better crafted in his hands, with finer, softer material, it was a simple bag with openings created for his eyes, nose, mouth and ears. While still unwieldy, there was no chance of the simple mask falling off when working. However often he was instructed to remove the mask by the Shah while not working, the work site was safe – no one wanted any of the workmen to come to harm…at least not before the building was completed. Afterwards…
The sound of a sharp intake of breath startled him.
"Who is there?"
"I am called Darya." A soft voice said from behind a pillar.
"What are you doing here? Who let you in?" Tossing the uneaten grapes aside, he looked frantically around for the discarded mask.
"I was summoned by the master of the house…he told me to be here."
"Why?"
"As a gift."
"You must leave." Unable to locate the mask, he turned his back from the direction of the voice.
"I will be punished if you refuse me."
"Very well…then stay for an hour's time…out here, I shall stay inside. I have no desire for any company."
"Please, they will know…I am a virgin." Coming up behind him, she took him by the shoulder to turn him around. "You must."
"No," he cried, pulling away from her. "Do not look at me."
"Please!" Raising a hand to cover her eyes, she stumbled back. "Oh. Oh."
The sudden movement caught her off balance. Even as he reached out for her, the railing was too low to stop her fall.
Every so often, in one of his nightmares, her would find her deep brown eyes full of horror staring up at him. His face the last thing she would see before her death.
"There was something you wished to discuss."
Nodding, she took in a deep breath. "I must go outside," she said, averting her eyes.
"No."
"Please." Shifting her eyes to meet his. "However lively this place is, I cannot live without feeling and breathing fresh air. Hearing birds sing. Being free of walls surrounding me all the time."
Erik studies her. Blue eyes not brown. Pleading, yes, but not horrified. Refusing her would not serve him. "Very well, but only at night."
"Yes, please. Night is fine."
"You might wish to change your outfit – the gray wool, I think…and the blue cape, of course. The night air carries a chill. I should not wish you to become ill and harm your voice."
"Now?"
"Now."
Jumping up from her chair, she smiles at him, pressing her small hand on his shoulder as she rushes to her room.
His hand finds the place she touched, not once but twice tonight, without knowing about the star forever imbedded on his flesh. Finally, a healing of sorts to an old wound. Rousing himself, he clears the dishes and realizes he, too, must dress appropriately. The new hat he purchased on a whim, the one with the raven's feather would be festive. A carriage could always be secured outside the Garnier. A ride along the Bois de Boulogne, even at dusk would be enjoyable. This was something normal couples do. Was it not?
"Oh, Christine, how good you are for me."