CH 157
I woke to the sound of the wind whistling through the open suite windows, the smell of fresh rain, and Phelan standing on his head against the wall, grunting like an upside down pig.
"What in God's name are you doing?" I groaned as I yanked the blanket up to my neck and made myself a cocoon.
"Push ups," he panted, his face covered in a sheen of perspiration and cheeks puffed out.
"Can you do this in your own suite?"
"I am in my own suite, Kire."
With a groan, I tossed the blanket down, sat up and looked around the room, noticing there was not an article of clothing out of the trunk, which indicated that my brother was correct. Apparently I had fallen asleep in his room yet again.
"What hour is it?" I asked.
"Five," Phelan answered, lowering practically to his head before he used his arms to push himself back up.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Four," he said through clenched teeth.
His left hand was wrapped in a towel to keep the pressure from his damaged flesh, but not even the old injury could keep him from displaying his physical strength. He grunted again, teeth gritted and legs held straight up in the air as he did another pushup.
"That looks dreadful," I commented, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
"Yes. I'm sure it does." He took several labored breaths, face contorted in a grimace. "And I am certain you could not do a single one."
Normally I would have accepted a challenge, but I had no desire to crack my head open or snap my own neck doing something so ridiculous, so instead I nodded in agreement.
"Nor would I desire to do anything of the sort."
My brother gracefully leaned forward and landed on his bare feet like a dancer, chest heaving from exertion and hair in his face, which he tossed back.
"Pity," he said between labored breaths. "Are you well rested, Kire?"
I stretched out in bed, my toes pointed down, my arms above my head, feeling very much like Aria. By my estimation, I'd managed a full nine hours of sleep without the disruption of Bessie kicking me in the side or a nightmare invading my thoughts.
"I am fully rested," I warily said, assuming he had something in mind that would be physically challenging.
"Good," Lan said jovially, unwrapping the towel from his left hand.
"Why do you ask?"
He blotted the perspiration from his face. "Because you flop around in bed like a dying fish."
I furrowed my brow. "I most certainly do not."
"Indeed you do. I gave up sleeping beside you around midnight and spent the rest of the night in your room until four. I must say, you haven't changed since you were three in at least one respect. You're like a boxer flailing about."
I made a face and instantly regretted it, as my brother smiled at once, chuckling to himself.
"Make that two ways in which you have not changed."
"How can you possibly be this intolerable at five in the morning?"
"It's a gift," Lan answered. "Get up and get dressed. We're already late for breakfast."
It was difficult to believe that we were already at the start of our third day visiting our grandparents. As much as I missed my family back in Paris, I had enjoyed meeting the family I had not known existed and wished for more time spent with them.
Once I returned to my own suite to prepare for our day, I discovered Lan had not simply slept in my room. The lid to my trunk was closed and the contents were no longer hanging out. When I opened my trunk, all of my clothes were folded and separated with trousers on one side, shirts on the other, and everything else neatly aligned in the middle. He had even gone so far as to organize my clothing with darker items on the bottom and lighter on the top.
"Lan, did you organize my—"
"You already know I did," he said from the opposite room.
I shook my head. "Why?"
"Because you were asleep and I was awake."
I started to unbutton my shirt and realized that my clothing from the previous days that needed to be cleaned were not piled in a heap on the floor where I had left them.
"Where are my dirty–"
"In here. The laundress will take them tomorrow night and have everything returned by Friday afternoon."
Brow furrowed, I walked back into my brother's suite, still dressed in my pajamas. "Our clothing is being laundered?" I asked.
"Would you rather bring an entire trunk of clothing that smells like a barnyard back to your poor wife, who has been caring for Claude, three children, and a dog, all while suffering from morning sickness?"
"Julia is going to send me to Brussels and ask that you remain in Paris."
"Trust me, Kire, after a handful of hours, Julia will place me on the first train heading in any direction and beg you to return."
"Perhaps, but forgive me for telling Julia that laundering our clothing was my idea."
Phelan grunted. "Whatever is necessary to keep your wife content."
The wind whistled through the open window behind me, and a splatter of rain hit the back of my neck, causing me to shiver.
"How long has it been raining?"
"An hour or so?" Phelan guessed. "It seems to be letting up."
No sooner had he finished speaking when a rumble of thunder shook the hotel room.
"I don't suppose you packed an umbrella?" Lan asked as he stood with his shirt draped over his shoulders. A flash of lightning illuminated the suite, followed by another rumble.
"You've just been through my trunk. You are aware that I did not."
With his hand on his hip, my brother exhaled and frowned. He peered outside at the dark gray skies before closing and latching the window.
"Perhaps I spoke too soon. I don't particularly feel like being struck by lightning today, so I'd prefer to wait out the storm."
It was too early for the hotel staff to be tending the desk yet, but the smell of confections from the attached bakery added the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla to the air.
Lan took a deep breath. "I believe they're brewing coffee and I for one cannot go another day without a full bodied, rich, delicious cup of roasted beans in hot water."
"That sounds disgusting."
"You sound disgusting," he retorted.
I rolled my eyes at his childish response. "Bring me back something with powdered sugar," I requested as I wandered back to my own bed and I sighed as I slid beneath the cool sheets. A moment later, I heard his door open and shut as he ventured off to the adjacent bakery for coffee and sweets.
The rain pelted the windows, lightning flashing every few seconds to illuminate the otherwise dark room. I closed my eyes and listened to the storm surge outside.
Storms had not always been relaxing or comfortable. I recalled being terror-stricken as a child curled up beneath the cellar stairs, my back to the wall and legs drawn up to my chest. The thunder in particular frightened me, and as I pressed my hands over my ears, I shook and held my breath, afraid that my father would hear me sobbing in fear.
The traveling fair had been worse as I was not permitted inside the tents. Instead I waited out storms beneath the wagons, shackled by the ankle to keep me from escaping. Sometimes one of the little dogs that performed with Garouche's daughters would sneak out of the tents and keep me company, finding its way into my arms where we would lay together beneath a tarp or frayed blanket.
Beneath the opera house, where nothing could reach me, I began to find an appreciation for the power of nature. The rainwater would spill into the underground lake from the other side, the sound like a waterfall cascading unseen in the darkness.
Eventually the storms I feared became tolerable, and by the time I moved into the only real home I'd ever known, I found myself sitting at my desk watching the rain bead on the windows, often with Alex on my lap babbling in his own language before he learned French.
He would gasp at the sight of lightning and bury head against my chest when the booms of thunder became too overwhelming. Often he would grab my arm and pull it around his small frame, requesting my protection from the phenomena he didn't understand.
The storms I had faced alone, the terror I had suffered through as a child, became something I could keep my own son safe from experiencing. I would sit with my chin resting on the top of Alex's head, my arms wrapped around him, shielding him in the way I had never known at his age.
Eventually he grew out of his apprehension and the storms held no significance.
Lan returned a while later with coffee and sweet bread, the sound of the door shutting in his room rousing me from sleep I hadn't realized I drifted into again. I inhaled and sat up as my brother walked into the room.
"I'm afraid they didn't have tea yet," he said, turning up one of the lamps. "But I have an extra coffee and there's plenty of sugar and cream if you want to drown out the taste."
I thanked him but declined. With the storm overhead, we relaxed in my suite where we both looked over our telegrams from the previous day.
Claude had written to me in Danish, addressing me as 'First and Favorite Student'. He stated that Raoul had sent him the curriculum for the home and that Charles would provide him with insight on how to best approach each area of study.
Madeline promised she would keep an eye on anything pertaining to my conducted performances and would intervene as needed if Antonio attempted to make unnecessary changes over the week.
Lisette told me all about a boy named Walter, who was visiting from somewhere in England and whose extended family lived around the corner. Walter had invited her to the candy shop where he bought her a caramel and a butterscotch because it reminded him of her lovely hair. Since the boy would be leaving before I returned, Lisette made certain I was aware that he was 'very kind and also extremely handsome.' I thought to myself that Walter was quite fortunate to be leaving Paris before I returned as it sounded as though Lisette fancied him far too much.
Alex, on the other hand, complained that Walter was rather dull and didn't want to play the games that Alex insisted everyone should enjoy, which meant he was stuck playing alone as both Lisette and Apolline abandoned him for Walter, who let the girls pick the games. Girls don't know how to choose good games. Will you write to Lissy and tell her she has to play with me?
Beside me, Lan turned the lamp up and chuckled as he read through his telegrams. I glanced up at him.
"What's so amusing?" I asked.
"Apolline," he said, shaking his head. "Writing to me about a boy."
"Would that boy be named Walter?"
Lan met my eye and nodded. "Did Lisette mention him as well?"
"Both Lisette and Alex, with opposing impressions of the same individual."
"It appears this English chap is quite the commodity when it comes to the ladies." Lan smiled to himself. "Apparently Apolline drew a picture of him so that we can see how truly handsome Walter is in the eyes of nine-year-old girls."
I inhaled and pinched the bridge of my nose, certain that little girls would absolutely be the death of me.
"What is the matter with you?" my brother asked.
"Nothing."
"Clearly."
"What on earth do girls that age find attractive about boys?" I groused.
"I've never been a nine-year-old girl, therefore I cannot speak of the matter with any level of expertise. However, I can tell you that at that age, I was barefoot, covered in mud and bug bites, and most likely pretending to be a warrior. Walter must be quite refined for his age to have two girls fawning over him in telegrams."
I wrinkled my nose and scoffed in disgust.
"Well, if it's any consolation to you, Alex has described him as being 'dull aside from sounding like the Leaches'." He turned one of the telegrams over and chuckled. "These girls and their poetic musings. I would wager this poor boy has no idea that these girls are swooning over him like he's the future king of England."
"There shall be no swooning when I return."
Lan lifted a brow. "What are you going to do? Write him one of your infamous opera ghost notes and threaten him?"
My head snapped up and I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
My brother's expression sobered. "What?"
"The notes," I tersely said. "What did you say about the notes?"
"Nothing–"
"You said a threat?" I impatiently asked.
Phelan exhaled. "Wasn't that the intention of your notes to the theater staff?"
I blinked at him. "How did you know about them?"
My brother briefly searched my face. He sat up, and I thought he would swing his legs over the edge of the mattress and walk out of the room, but instead he adjusted the pillows behind his back.
"I was in attendance when a few of the envelopes fell from the catwalks. It seemed as though the sight of one put the actors and staff in a panic."
I stared at him for a long moment, feeling absolutely certain I had not once dropped a note onto the stage during a performance. Of course, in the last few months of operation, I had done much worse…
"When?" I asked, feeling increasingly agitated. "What performance did you attend?"
Phelan shuffled through his telegrams instead of maintaining eye contact, his jaw working in silence. I dreaded what he would say.
"Not a performance. It was rehearsals," he answered, his voice strangely calm.
"Rehearsals?"
"For Don Juan."
I continued to stare at him while thoughts flitted through my mind. The weeks leading up to the opening night were little more than a blur, one I admittedly didn't want to remember.
I had not slept well in months at that point, waking frequently to nightmare after nightmare that made me sick to my stomach.
Every inch of my body from my scalp to my toes ached as though my father had somehow managed to beat me from beyond the grave, and I dreaded closing my eyes, knowing he would be there waiting for me, to punish me for wanting someone to simply love me after decades of being denied a most basic need.
My head pounded from dehydration and lack of rest, my frame skeletal from barely eating enough to keep me alive. Food had no taste and it was difficult to force myself to consume anything of substance, but I choked down what I could once my trousers no longer fit and my hands looked like flesh stretched over bones.
I found myself wearing the same clothes for days on end, my ability to function dwindling as I became more and more consumed with winning Christine's affection.
Night and day, I felt tossed around from the storm brewing within me, drowning in the relentless downpour.
Weeks before the show was to open, my only focus had been the music, the re-writes that I insisted upon up until practically the moment the curtain rose. I wanted everything to be absolutely perfect, the most flawless production to ever grace a stage. My opera was to be the most enthralling love letter ever penned–the longings of a man born a monster to his precious angel.
"Why were you at the rehearsal for Don Juan?" I asked.
Phelan continued to shuffle through the telegrams. "Surely you recall the set designers all quit weeks before the opening," he answered.
Vaguely I remembered hearing that a large number of workers walked out after the stagehand who had been employed by the theater the longest was found dead. He was a despicable man, no loss to the theater or the world, but his demise led to about two dozen people–both set designers and tailors alike–leaving the theater indefinitely.
Still, Phelan hadn't answered my question.
"What did the set designers walking out have to do with you?" I asked.
"Well," he said slowly, "some of my students volunteered when the opportunity arose to design the backdrops," Phelan answered. "They spent six or seven days painting sets. And unfortunately because there wasn't much time to complete such a labor intensive task, they had me on my hands and knees beside them in order to complete the work."
My heart stuttered. My brother had been in the theater, my theater, on the stage I had commanded. And I had no idea we were in such close proximity almost a decade earlier.
"You were painting sets in the theater?"
He nodded once, staring at his hands instead of looking at me. "We had very limited time as the ballet needed the stage for their rehearsals. And then whoever was in charge of the costumes continuously left the racks on the stage, so that was an inconvenience.
"But my students were nonetheless thrilled to be involved despite doing the work for the compensation of watching a few early rehearsals, if they could be called such. It was mostly a song here or there performed and a few ballet dancers twirling about the stage."
I didn't know what to say to him as I had no recollection of anything he described. I remembered walking through the rear of the upper level, along the opera boxes, surveying the darkened theater while rehearsals went on all afternoon. I remembered Madeline's voice, the way the acoustics played with her words as she ordered her dancers to continue.
"No, no, no! Again!" She would hit the stage with her cane, causing everyone to cringe. "Start from the beginning! And pay attention or you will remain on this stage until midnight!"
I remembered the heaviness of exhaustion and the sensation of feeling as though someone was always behind me, trailing at my heels. Every time I turned around I was alone, but the feeling continued and I was certain sleepless delirium had turned to outright madness.
Still, I kept myself occupied, not knowing what else to do besides wander aimlessly to keep the nightmares at bay.
"There was an afternoon when I was speaking to someone who was in charge. Charlot, I believe?" Phelan continued.
He looked to me for confirmation. The name was not familiar to me and I merely shook my head.
"At any rate, after insisting that I not mention the ghost, a note dropped down between us in the midst of conversation and the whole theater seemed to be bombilating with the curse of the phantom. Consequently, the notes falling from the ceiling happened several more times if I recall correctly. I said it was the phantom's personal postal service and no one found it amusing."
Involuntarily I shuddered at his description of the days that seemed so distant. Meg of course never said a word to me about anything, least of all the final weeks spent in the theater, but Madeline had also been silent and I had not brought it up as I didn't want to know what had transpired.
I had no desire to be reminded of all of my mistakes, particularly since Madeline had cautioned me from the moment I submitted my finished score and demanded my first opera be added to the spring season.
Once the opening was set and the banners hung to advertise the show, Madeline–who had not said a word to me in what seemed like years– came to my apartments and begged me to stop.
The dancers were afraid, Madeline said. The cast was uneasy. And Christine? Madline had clutched my hand and urged me to forget my pursuit of the chorus girl she had thought of us as her second daughter.
I'd pulled away and stood with my back to Madeline, certain she had betrayed me, that she wanted me out of her sight, left to languish in the pits of darkness beneath the theater.
And when Madeline softly disagreed and asked how I could possibly feel that way, I turned on my heel and stalked toward her. I had been her family first, I told her. I had relied solely on her and where had it gotten me? How swiftly she had forgotten our past. How easily she had forgotten me, the boy she had sworn to save.
Gooseflesh rose along my arms and I shivered thinking back to the moment when I was certain our friendship had come to an end.
I could still see the terror etched into her features, the way her complexion went sallow and eyes wide. It was the first time she had looked at me and I saw nothing but fear.
"You must have thought me mad," I said under my breath to my brother. "Fit for an asylum."
"Well, I didn't know it was you and I honestly didn't believe any of the rumors of this ghost," Phelan said. He made a face. "I obviously knew there was someone, but I doubted the validity of the claims that a spirit roamed the theaters, wrote an opera, ultimately demoted the famed soprano to a chorus girl and…other various activities."
All at once it felt as though every nerve in my body was aflame while my lungs could not hold a full breath. It was the same feeling I'd experienced in the moment when Christine made her choice and humiliated me in front of thousands of people–including my own brother.
"What other activities?" I asked.
"Ones that do not need to be discussed. Quite frankly, I don't know why we're discussing this in the first place."
"Because you were at the rehearsals and you didn't tell me."
Phelan poked his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. "Forgive me, but I didn't think it was necessary to bring up."
I scoffed. You didn't think I would want to know what you witnessed, what I did…how I…"
I didn't know what to call my behavior. A freefall into madness was possibly the most correct description. I had completely lost all sense of time and reasoning, the passing of seasons, and most of all a sense of myself.
My brother sighed. "Truthfully, I didn't know what to think at the time."
I shook my head, feeling both agitated and ashamed. "Why would you have ever wanted to find me after that?" I asked. "After you knew everything?"
He eyed me briefly and ran his hand over his hair. "I can't believe I'm admitting this, Kire, but I don't know everything, particularly about you."
"You knew more than enough. More than I would have ever guessed if you hadn't mentioned the notes."
"I knew nothing," he said. "I still don't know what you went through. And at any rate, it wasn't my place to judge you."
My throat unexpectedly tightened, gooseflesh spreading over my arms.
"I was alone," I said. "Every moment of every day."
The thought made me shudder. In hindsight, I had no idea how I had managed to survive the solitude I had endured.
If I recalled nothing else of those days, I was acutely aware of the misery I'd experienced, the feelings of absolute hopelessness. I had convinced myself that if I could not persuade Christine to stay with me, to swallow back her trepidation and fears and accept her fate as my wife, that I would spend an eternity alone, retreating into the hell I'd created.
"And I saw no end in sight," I admitted. "There would never be anyone else. I was too...different. Too ugly. Too...too much myself."
The loneliness became an unbearable cage, worse than the one from the traveling fair. The days and nights of knowing that no matter what, no one would knock on the door to visit me, not even Madeline as I had made certain to drive her away for good.
"I was sick of it," I told him. "Sick to death of my own terrible company. Sick of being rejected for something I could not control."
No one would ever look at me with the slightest bit of affection or kindness because of my appearance. The realization of what I had always been, what I would never be able to escape, left me devastated and desperate.
"I thought I could convince Christine that we were meant to be together. Without her…I was nothing. My very existence was dependent on her and her alone."
She would be the face representing my voice, the angel thrust before the devil himself.
"You were looking for someone who didn't exist," I said under my breath. "Who couldn't exist."
"Erik," Phelan said softly. "No matter what, you were still my brother and that was reason enough for me to find you. You were the first person I truly cared for. Possibly the only person."
His voice jarred me from my thoughts. I risked a glance in his direction and saw acceptance when I expected dread.
"And as I've said previously, I want to know you for you, not rumors or heresay. Quite honestly, I can't imagine what you would have thought if you'd heard about me ten or even twenty years ago." He lifted a mischievous brow. "It will be difficult for you to believe, however, I was…a bit of a bastard back then."
I scrubbed my hand over my face. "Back then? That seems preposterous."
"Inconceivable, I know." Lan said lightly. "I'm such a delight these days."
We sat in silence for a long moment, both of us lost in thought.
"We were so close," I said quietly. "So close to seeing one another again."
My heart ached for all of the years we had spent apart, our paths following in the same direction, but never intersecting until the night of Don Juan Triumphant's opening and even then, we had not been face-to-face.
Lan nodded. "I don't remember if I told you previously, but I placed an ad in the theater program looking for you," he said. "I suppose you didn't answer it because they spelled your name incorrectly." When I looked at him again, he smiled. "With a 'C', not a 'K'. The manager had quite an earful, but I suppose in the end it all worked out."
I shrugged. "It could have worked out better," I said under my breath.
"You know, there is one thing I still wonder about," he said.
"What would that be?"
Phelan inhaled. "I would have loved to have gotten your opinion on the backdrop designs. I suppose you don't remember the details from the sets."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Unfortunately the sets were the least of my concerns. If I had known you were involved–"
I paused, noticing my brother grinning to himself in the most devious fashion.
"Why are you smiling like that?" I asked.
"No reason."
"Lan–" I warned. "What is it?"
He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I may or may not have added a personalized touch on the last day of painting."
I eyed him with growing suspicion. "What does that mean?"
He picked at his fingernails. "The final scene had quite a few flowers along a stone wall. I may or may not have added…anatomy," he casually answered.
My lips parted, brow furrowed. "Anatomy?"
My brother snorted. "A few breasts of different shapes and sizes, some stems that resembled both erect and–"
"My God," I said under my breath. "Did you really?"
"I did. And I would have liked to have seen your reaction if you'd made an appearance at rehearsals, although I suppose it would have been the same as the look on your face now. I must say, the shock and undertones of complete horror are quite satisfying."
"You are…" I shook my head.
"Juvenile, childish, immature…?" he guessed.
"You are highly irritating," I replied, unable to keep myself from smiling back at him. "In the most enjoyable way possible, and I cannot imagine the trouble we would have gotten into together."
My brother lifted a brow. "I certainly can. I would have handed you a brush, Kire, and compared our artistic talents."