Ch. 6— When God Closes a Door, He Opens a Window
Language Disclaimer: Ummkay, so I know I said the story is rated 'M' for Limoney content forthcoming, but it's also rated 'M' for language as well.
PFP
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Where the hell is it? God in heaven, where is it?
Erik groped around the table in front of him, searching—his fingers encountered the pen he was grasping for and sent it rolling to the floor. Erik roared, "GODDAMNED MOTHER FUCKING COCK SUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" He brought his fist down on the table splintering it to pieces and rose abruptly from the stool, sending it toppling as well.
"Like fucking Beethoven," he muttered. "Well, thank God I still have my hearing." Arms stretched wide, he stared sightlessly up at the ceiling cursing the heavens.
Three months.
It had been a little over three months since he'd left that accursed hospital, and in that time, his life had spiraled into something from a Tourneur horror film.
Before the war, he'd had a life, a future, a woman, and now… now, he was a broken, blind wreck of a man without even his music to sustain him. Why, in all that time spent in hospital hadn't he realized the consequences of his injuries?
During the three years, eight months he'd spent fighting in The French Resistance, he'd faced the prospect of his death many times over protecting his country, his city, his Opera. But, in all honesty, it had never occurred to him that he could be permanently, lastingly injured.
In hindsight, it was utter foolishness.
Death, for him, was a certainty he had accepted should fate will it. Living maimed? The thought had never even crossed his mind. He closed his sightless eyes and hung his head, breathing hard as he remembered.
Xxx::XXX::xxX
The morter shell had come out of nowhere, a blinding white flash, exploding metal, ripping flesh, throwing them all back.
Groaning, Erik had returned to consciousness, screaming, "Jacques!" He yelled for his Sergeant. "JACQUES!"
He could see nothing, only smell the smells of smoke and the stench of burning, singeing flesh. "JACQUES!"
"Lieutenant!" a voice to his left groaned.
"Sansone," Erik turned to the man, groping for him. "Where's Jacques! I can't see. Are we buried beneath debris?" Erik blinked into the darkness before him, trying to make his way over to the corporal in the almost complete darkness.
It was gray. Monochrome. Why was everything gray?
"Ah, dear God! Ah, Christ!" he heard the man beside him groan.
Erik grit, "Tell me what you see, Sansone! That's an order."
"Ah, it's my leg! My goddamned leg, Lieutenant. Ah, Christ! MEDIC!"
"MEDIC!" Erik had yelled, piercing through the hail of gunfire exploding around them.
Xxx::XXX::xxX
"MEDIC!"
Coming back to himself with a start to the rafters' ringing, Erik realized he'd yelled aloud in the small cottage.
Drawing a deep, tremulous breath, Erik's every nerve was wire-taut with the memory of that moment. As time passed, instead of the memories fading, more and more episodes like this were occurring.
He had come to Nadir's cottage in Le Havre to find solitude, to 'run from the business of living' as Fermin had put it when Erik informed the man of his decision to postpone the opening of the Opera until after reconstruction had been completed and a replacement Diva found.
Fermin still did not know of his blindness or his scars. The only other privy to such information besides Nadir, the hospital staff, and his ex-fiancé, was his valet, and Erik had sworn the man to secrecy.
Since the cottage was not wired for a telephone, he was communicating with Fermin by post that he would send when his valet Andre arrived each week with Erik's care package: mostly consisting of various bottles of alcohol and the type of cigarette he favored.
He knew it was a horrid habit, and was god-awful for the voice, but he had picked it up during the war and found nicotine had a steadying effect on his nerves when nothing else, not even drink, would do.
In the early days of his injury, he had been on morphine; in an out in a haze of unconsciousness—flitting between nightmarish pain and the nightmares the drug induced. He had gotten off the morphine as soon as possible, but the craving for nicotine had stayed.
And since he'd moved to the little cottage, that was all he seemed to do—smoke, drink, and pluck chords from the little sideboard piano in the parlor—chords he transcribed onto pieces of paper and then misplaced.
And these were the times he sorely regretted refusing Nadir's offer of help—of a maid—someone to clean up after him.
But by God, he didn't need one!
He winced as he tripped over the leg of a spindly little side table he had smashed earlier in the week. By God, the cottage had more spindly little tables than he could shake a stick at!
But Erik didn't have a stick.
And he wasn't going to use one either—not as a bloody cane. The thought made him snort and reach for the bottle he had kept on the piano. He didn't need a cane! And definitely not to navigate through this tiny cottage he knew like the back of his hand. He was doing just fine without it!
Stepping back, he stubbed his bared foot on one of the piano's clawed edge and heard a bottle—the very bottle he was reaching for— topple over, ricocheting off his bad foot, and shattering onto the wooden floor before him.
"FUUUUUUUUUCK!"
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The city of Le Havre had seen much fighting during the four years France had been occupied.
From Christine's brief reading, she knew the city had served as the seat of the Belgian government while the fighting was still going on in their own country, and the Belgian government had only just, as of last month, relocated back to Brussels.
Although the railways remained passable, many of the buildings, including the post and stationmaster's quarters had been bombarded with gunfire. Others had been burned, bombed, or razed to the ground by tanks.
In fact, as she looked around, most of the city's buildings had been destroyed in some way. Her eyes searched for one that was wholly intact, but it was a fruitless endeavor.
The city was decimated.
This was probably the closest she had ever been to the realities of war on such a grand scale.
Her father had steered clear of it, siding with Sweden's position of neutrality in the face of such turmoil and unrest in the rest of the world. But there were friends of her father's—other professors— who had learned of the plight of the Jews and offered up their homes and all they had for the displaced immigrants and war camp refugees that had escaped.
Her father and she had boarded a ship to Perros-Geirec, and though the small town was occupied by German Soldiers at the time, as Swedes, they were treated with civility and respect. Her father was looked on as a great man of learning since he was a professor, and he would entertain the German soldiers of an evening with tales of his days spent travelling abroad and the people he had met, the things he had seen.
And yet, even in Paris, the fighting had not been as bad as this.
When her father's health had worsened, Christine had moved them to Paris and began working at the hospital in order to pay for his treatment a scant two months before her father had died and two weeks later, Paris liberated. Because of the war, there had been a scarcity of nurses, and Christine was immediately given a job and set to work.
She now had a comprehensive knowledge of injuries caused from war: gun shots, burns, broken, severed, or amputated limbs. But she'd never been this close to the wreckage, destruction, or absolute chaos of it all.
The city of Le Havre was so quiet as if it were in shock, and unbidden, the words to a Dickenson poem flitted through Christine's mind: 'After great pain a formal feeling comes…'
Le Havre's denizens scampered to and fro' quickly, never staying in one place too long, and many stayed out of sight altogether, hiding behind drawn curtains and boarded up windows.
And this was the place Mr. D'Anton had chosen to confine himself?!
She found the stationmaster's temporary office, and true to Darius's telegrammed word, there were detailed instructions for navigating her way to the cottage and a letter addressed to Mr. D'Anton that she was to read to him upon her arrival. Dr. Khan had ended his instructions by writing he was now the proud grandfather of one healthy, if impatient, baby boy, and again thanked her profusely for her bravery in travelling to such a place alone, her willingness to help care for someone else's wellbeing, and a promise that should she ever want for anything, anything at all, she need only ask.
Christine kept his letter, folding it carefully, having a feeling she would need to read his words of encouragement often if she was going to see this through.
The stationmaster hired a cab for her, and passing the cabbie the instructions she was given, Christine watched as her small amount of luggage was loaded into a vehicle that had once been part of the German military. If she squinted, she could still see the outline of a swastika under the blue, white, and red vertical stripes of the French flag.
And then they were off, journeying down the twisty, winding war-torn city streets, drawing ever-closer to the countryside and the sea. The smells of salt and sea began to permeate the air, supplanting the smells of smoke, rubble, and soot. And too, if Christine listened, she could just make out the susurrations of the sea in the distance.
Much too soon for her liking, the cab pulled down a little lane that took them almost straight to a house perched perilously close to the cliff face, the sea crashing stories below it. Although dramatic, and very picturesque, the safety of the house, and the sightless occupant within, were precarious at best.
Unloading her bags by the stoop, the cabby had just driven away when she heard something shatter and then an explosively yelled obscenity that had her blushing pink even as she moved to action.
Christine bound up the stairs two at a time, reaching for the knob, frustrated when it wouldn't turn. Instead, she beat on the door. "Mr. D'Anton? Mr. D'Anton, sir? Are you alright? Please! Open the door, sir."
As she was speaking, there was more obscene swearing that seemed to stop mid-tirade, and then an incredulous voice rang out, "Nurse Daae?!"
Again, she tried the knob. "Yes, sir! Please, can you come open the door? I'm worried you've hurt yourself."
The only reply was a choked guffaw. She went over to the window at the side of the little garden, and peaking through a slit in the curtains, gasped, her mouth opening in shock.
The man looked wild!
Inky black hair fell in stringy streaks down to his shoulders and nape. He had on a wrinkled shirt with several days worth of sweat—and God knows what else—stains built up, black pants barely covered him for there was neither belt nor suspenders to hold them up, and he had obviously lost a great deal of weight since his leaving the hospital. And then she saw his predicament: his feet were currently bare, and he was surrounded by a sea of broken glass.
"Don't move!" she ordered him.
His head snapped to the window where she stood, his gaze unfocused, but his expression morphing from pain to anger in an instant.
Reaching, she tried the window casement, finding it, too, was locked.
"Is every window and door to the cottage locked, sir?" she asked.
"Yes, Ms. Daae, they are," he answered dryly, "Paris might be liberated, but parts of France are still under siege. Bands of roving, marauding German soldiers have been spotted for quite some time now going up and down the coast of Le Havre, looking for a way out of the country and any vulnerable possessions to loot. So pardon me," he gave her a mocking bow, "if in my condition, I've chosen precaution over expediency."
She bit her lip and pushing her forehead against the window, tried to see further into the room. "I'm sorry. It's just… Alright, if I can't get in, and you can't move because of the glass— I can see your foot's already cut on top as it is— you must let me in somehow."
She saw him raise a skeptical brow. "Must I really?"
She aimed for her most beguiling, soothing voice, "No. You don't have to, Mr. D'Anton, but it would be in your best interest if you did so. Your foot is bleeding, and you are surrounded by broken glass." She squinted, if she looked just right, she could see a spot to his right where there was no glass. "If you took a small step to your right… about six inches and then stepped forward another of about eighteen, you should avoid the majority of the glass. At least, I think you should. I can't really see well because of the curtains.
She watched him cross his arms. "I will not move even one inch from this spot, Ms. Daae."
"You'll have to move eventually, sir. The human body needs water and nourishment to thrive." She sighed. "You're just going to have to trust me."
Again, he gave another of those choked laughs, and Christine considered her options.
She could walk back to town and see if a locksmith could be found. She could break a window pane, but that seemed a last resort as it would compromise the security of the cottage and a glazier would be hard to come by to fix it in such a war-ravaged place as this… no, the best option still remained what she had told him. He was going to have to do this himself. "You could take off your over shirt, sir, and wrapping your cut foot with it, sweep some of the glass away… but I don't think—"
"If I cut my foot again because of you, Ms. Daae…" she heard him say, and then he was following her instructions to the inch, moving exactly as she'd told him.
Watching carefully with her one eye peeled to the curtains' crack, she paid attention to his expression, looking for a tell-tale wince to tell her that he had encountered a shard of glass. So far, so good.
"Well, now what?" he asked her tersely.
"Step one foot to your left, sir, and three steps ahead, you'll be at the window. Errm, mind the broken furniture… it's well… it's in pieces."
Again following her instructions, she saw him grimace as he stepped on one of the splintered wooden bits, and she winced in sympathy. Why the man was barefoot, she had no idea?
He flung open the curtains, groping for the latch, unlocked it, and then with a shove, pulled the window open. It gave with a reluctant shriek.
Immediately, the smell of him assaulted her: alcohol, cigarette smoke, and unkempt male.
She pursed her lips.
"Please do come in, Ms. Daae." He again bowed to the waist before the window.
Biting her lip, Christine looked down at the starched pencil skirt and pressed jacket she was wearing. Although fine for winter travel, neither were too conducive in allowing her to climb unaided across a window ledge. She tried raising her leg up to straddle the casement, but with the restricting calf-length skirt, it just wouldn't do.
In exasperation, she looked around, and making certain no one—besides her sightless charge— was there to witness, she hiked up her skirt to mid-thigh and straddling the window, climbed through. She stumbled only slightly on the broken bits of furniture at her feet.
Still, upon hearing this, Mr. D'Anton's arms shot out to catch her, and Christine blushed as she felt his fingers grab at her bared thighs and garters, for her stockings only went up mid-thigh.
Her heart beating fast, she quickly disentangled herself and backed away from him, pulling and smoothing her skirt modestly around her legs once more.
He raised a solitary eyebrow, and smiled crookedly, the drooping side of his face unmoving. "And here I thought all women had begun painting lines on the backs of their knees to denote the wearing of stockings due to the shortage of nylon thread." He smiled again, wolfishly, and that was when Christine realized he was well on his way to being nearly pickled with drink.
Although she had been fine when he needed her help—when he'd been in actual danger—her nerves suddenly returned full force as she was standing before him, looking up at him.
His honey-gold eyes looked sightlessly down and to the left of her as he continued to smile, and as Christine watched, he inhaled deeply, whatever he smelled causing him to smile more—this time a dopey, lopsided grin.
"Mr. D'Anton, have you been drinking?"
He nodded his head in a precise manner as only someone drunk would do, "Yes, nurse, I have, for about nigh on three months now. Oh, but where are my manners? Welcome to 'The Enchanted Cottage'; Nadir's little retreat by the sea." Again sniffing the air, he stepped forward, and Christine took a step back, putting her back against the wall. "And what, Nurse Daae, brings you here?"
He took another step towards her, and wincing as he stepped on another wooden splinter, he reached out until he found the wall with his fingertips, and then braced himself on it, his arm inches from her head.
Sniffing the air once more, he lowered his face until it was almost touching her own as he whispered, "I take it you are not here as Nadir's guest to take in the stunning seascape and enjoy the invigorating salt air? It is November after all, and tourist season is long past."
She gulped and mumbled, "N-no, sir. Not quite."
"Speak up, Ms. Daae, a dog couldn't hear you."
"I—" Christine took a steadying breath and then blurted, "Dr. Khan gave me a l-letter to read to you upon my arrival, s-sir."
"Ah. Of course he did." He gave her a bitter smile, lowering his head until his mouth was inches from her own, and she could smell the sour tang of whisky on his breath.
Looking up at him, she gave an involuntary grimace at the damage his injuries had wrought. Some of the scars looked to be infected, others still had stitches that needed to be taken out, and still more looked like he had been scratching at them: mostly the scabbed over burns.
It was not a pretty sight.
"And the letter, Ms. Daae," he whispered, his rancid, warm breath teasing her lips. "What does it say?"
She realized she was trapped, pinned in by his arms to either side of her head and the wall. "I—"
"Answer me quick, dammit!" Spittle flew from his mouth, "I'll tolerate none of your stammering!" She turned her face away biting her lip hard to stop herself from crying.
Drawing deep from some untapped reserve of courage she never knew she possessed, Christine lifted her head high and turning back, faced him. "Mr. D'Anton, you need to take a step away from the wall and release me this instant."
He smiled that lopsided, vicious grin of his again. "Oh, is that right, Nurse Daae? As you can see, I have no hold over you. None at all." He waggled his fingers beside her to show that he wasn't touching her, just leaning his elbows up against the wall, trapping her in.
She ducked down, trying to dodge away, underneath his arms, but his hand flew until he was once more blocking her path, though he had never touched her. "Nuh, uh, uh… we'll have none of that. You are trespassing, mademoiselle. And do you know what the punishment is for trespassing in these parts with a war still raging on across most of Europe?"
"You're drunk, sir," she said, trying to make him to see reason.
"Death, mademoiselle" he continued on unfazed. "The crime of trespassing is punishable by death."
Again, he lowered his face until it was scant inches away from her own, and Christine held her breath, not knowing what he was going to say or do next.
"Now the letter, Ms. Daae. READ IT!"
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A/N: Good Grief, Erik! You should be ashamed o' yo'self!
And what could the letter say, dear readers?
More soon! Keep Watch.