"We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come."
― Milan Kundera
Doctor Stitch sipped at his coffee as he went through his morning routine of rifling through the morning's edition of Le Journal. His patient was already out and about the grounds, possibly exercising in the yard or repairing some recently procured musical instruments. Whatever it was that he did in the daylight hours, Erik was completely untraceable and unseen as long as he wished it to be so. The last few days had been pleasant as they got to know one another through games of chess, discussions of books, and Erik even revealing more piecemeal snippets of his dark history. The good doctor found himself always rapt in the words and tales of the genius, this outcast, this man of blood-soaked hands. Over the course of time spent in Erik's company, Stitch had come to arrive at the conclusion that his guest was perhaps the most fascinating human to have ever walked this cruel planet. He also believed had his men not found this phantom bleeding out in the gutter, then the world would have lost a treasure its people did not know it held.
"All because of a face, a damn shame" Stitch muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he read the headlines of the day. He liked to take his time with the daily edition, savoring each little morsel of news and gossip. He never missed a single section, not even the classified and personal ads, or the postings seeking workers. The largest prints and artists' renderings told of the latest marriages and dalliances of the elite, the city fires that had overcome portions of the slums, and the latest political upheavals. Doctor Stitch sipped his dark brew as he skimmed them and moved on to the next pages. It was only when his learned, clever eye caught sight of an advertisement in the classified listings that his interest had peaked.
He set his coffee mug down upon the adjoining table to his right, lifted his glasses further up his bulbous nose and began to read.
"To the Renowned Physician Dr. OG:
I have heard accounts of your expertise in the manner of treating the incurable disease known as the Red Death, a plague both devastating and alienating. My friend, a performer in the ballet, has recently been overcome by this horrible disease, as she encountered it while traveling to damp and cold locations during her latest tour. I find myself in desperate need of a treatment for her ailments. If you are in Paris or the surrounding areas, please respond to this ad at your earliest convenience. My friend is in great distress. - With all do respect, N. K"
The swarthy physician nearly spat out his coffee, for something in the advertisement had spiked his curiosity, ringing a deafening and shrill bell of discovery within his mind. Could it possibly be? Was this the woman searching for Erik, under an assumed name, no less? The papers had spoken of the Masquerade Ball and the Red Death plaguing the gala. . .but most of Paris had forgotten that small detail. His doctor's mind, however, had not forgotten. He had the uncanny talent of recollecting the specifics of every article he'd perused, each conversation he'd held. For Stitch, it was not difficult to remember every slight nuance of Erik's remarkable and mellifluous voice as it unraveled each detail he'd shared in recounting the events of his tragic life. Well, at least the memories his guest had chosen to reveal. For Stitch was certain there existed so many other layers of pain, chaos, and even beauty in the sordid history of the mysterious and disfigured shadow of a man that had come to his home first as a dying patient, then as his boarder, and finally his friend. And if anyone needed a friend in these dark times, it most certainly was Erik. Stitch was more than pleased to take on that role and smiled at the thought as he reread the notice in the paper.
Yes,the fascinating and magnificent enigma of the man known as the Phantom of the Opera was now his friend. His roommate? The doctor was very glad of it and also thrilled by the fact that it seemed Erik's beloved was as desperate to find him as he was now to locate her.
Doctor Stitch could barely continue to read or sip his coffee, such was his excitement to share the notice in Le Journal with his new roommate. Where was Erik now? Stitch knew he'd been busy, always running about the shuttered place, drafting music on torn-down and rotting pieces of board, sending the staff out for fitted clothing, precise measurements in hand, and other various items with pockets full of coin for each of them. Far more money than what was required. But Erik never asked for the remainder of the coin. He simply took the requested items in hand and offered each person a sincere and gentle thanks in his beautiful baritone. Where did the money come from? Stitch would not ask. A gift was not to be questioned. Money should never be a matter for the jury, as long as it was sent and spent without the spilling of blood. And Erik had guaranteed all that. It was all proper then.
As Stitch had been observing him in his interactions with the staff, as he overpaid and over-thanked them, he observed that Erik seemed to effuse a great amount of quiet gratitude simply to be treated with kindness, to be regarded as any other normal man by others.
By God, what had this man endured that a single greeting in a gentle tone would bring about an astonished light in his mismatched eyes?
He chose not to ponder such morose thoughts when he was to be the bearer of such excellent news.
The doctor, paper in hand, went in search of his guest, enthusiastic to regale him with the news. "Erik! Monsieur Le Fantôme! I have something that might pique your interest!." Stitch hurriedly stumbled through the house and the adjoining courtyard, tripping over broken boards and medicinal supplies laid to waste, in search of his unexpected roommate. But Stitch's houseguest existed in his own space, one that had most likely become a sanctuary after a lifetime of alienation. A genius born of captivity. And currently, that genius' space was in the back shed.
Erik's stark, lean form was turned away from the kind doctor as he approached. The abnormally long fingers of his left hand curled around the bow of a broken violin, those of his right held a number of tiny screws. He wore no jacket, cravat, or waistcoat, nor a mask. Erik's appearance was unguarded, possibly for one of the first times in his life in the company of others, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal long lines of scars intertwined with wiry muscle. His head bent in earnest focus, he did not meet Stitch's eyes before uttering a soft. "Good morning, doctor." Erik need not look to know that he had company, such was the strength of his senses.
Stitch smiled again and walked into the shed, observing that Erik had made it into a workshop for instrument salvage, a musical hospital of sorts. It definitely seemed fitting. "Good morning, Erik! I'm glad to see you've made yourself quite at home. I admit, it's very refreshing to see some productive use of this space." His eyes took in the changes to the dilapidated tiny shed. Stringed instruments of all kinds hung on makeshift hooks in various stages of repair, and a side table was littered with all sorts of wrenches, pliers, wires and other items Stitch failed to make sense of. Still, the sight brought him a small amount of joy. For, wasn't there something always simply marvelous about watching a genius, a creator at work. making something of beauty?
Erik placed his project down on the table with a silent reverence to its fragile wooden beauty, and stood, turning his bare face towards his host. There was a faint hint of a grin from those misshapen lips, and the pale flesh of his cheeks seemed to have taken on a healthy warmth . "How are you this warm morning," he eyes darting to the newspaper being waved and splayed in his direction. "What has brought you to such a state of excitement at this early hour? I dare say, the sun has barely broken the horizon." Erik chuckled, his voice laced with curiosity.
Stitch cleared his throat, outstretched his hand, the latest edition of Le Journal clutched in his fingertips. "Erik, I believe that I have some news. You may wish to join me in the kitchen for tea before perusing the paper, hmm?"
Erik took the proffered newspaper, but did not yet open it, instead tucking it under his arm and following Stitch into the house. "I hope the news is favorable and not cause for alarm?"
"Sit, sit, Erik! I think we may actually have cause for joy this fine morning!" Stitch hit his open palms to the table in a vibrant drum rhythm as Erik, dumbfounded, took his seat, eyes agog at his host.
"For God's sake, man, what is it? Has the bounty been lifted from my head? Is that blasted De Chagny line dead and buried?" Erik reached for his tea and began to sip, only to be interrupted by. . .
"Erik, it's your girl, I think. She's trying to find you. Please open that paper and read the ads. I can see no reason it would not be Christine. Though, the initials N. K. are a bit of a conundrum to me."
No sooner had Stitch offered those initials than had Erik splayed the issue out on the dining room table in a violent wave of eagerness. "My girl? N.K? Show me exactly what I should be seeing! Now, Stitch!" He bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table. "NOW!"
Doctor Stitch, a bit frightened by his roommate's passionate display, shuffled forwards, and with a wavering hand, gestured to the post. He was silent as Erik read it, watching for any reaction in the movements of his distorted features. And true to form, the man's expressions and passions shown through in every movement and gesture of his body. Erik's voice carried the writing of the ad in a repeat, his tone barely a whisper, a shiver of disbelief coursing through every syllable each time he read it, before he finally set down the paper. He'd spent minute after minute reading and rereading the notice, scrutinizing each word, each line over and over again, until he could no longer do so. Stitch sat and watched the ticking of Erik's marvelous brain piece things together, until his guest's eyes finally left the issue.
There was a long pause of silence, in which neither man knew what to say or how to react to the other. They simply stared into their teacups, swirling the liquid about inside, as if the tea leaves might give an answer. Until, finally, Erik steepled his fingers under his chin and sat fully erect, his tall frame commanding and confident even in his obvious distress.
"Stitch," he muttered, barely above a whisper, pushing the issue of Le Journal in his host's direction, "It's my Christine. I am certain of it. And those initials, N. K. Those are the letters of a friend. One of the only friends I have ever known." He paused in that moment and lifted his head, correcting himself, "And you, Stitch, you are my friend. Thank you. And although I have asked so much of you, taken so much from you in these last several days, I seek your help once more."
Stitch, clearly moved, reached his hand across the table to place it squarely on Erik's trembling shoulder. "Anything you need, my friend. All you must do is ask." He gave the Phantom's arm a reassuring squeeze.
Erik's gaze turned up to him then, a fragile hope pooling in his bicolored, sunken eyes. "I've spent my life as an outcast, a monster, an assassin, something to be feared and reviled. Not a person, not a man that could ever expect more than a stolen meal or a dark cellar to shelter within. . .And now that every dream I've ever dared to want is within my grasp, I do not know how to grasp it. I do not know how to come to Christine as a normal man. To deserve her and claim her as my own."
Doctor Stitch rose from his seat at the table and moved to stand behind Erik's chair, giving him a reassuring pat to the back. "My boy, I don't care what manner of man you are, matters of love are never simple for any of us. But, if you're genuinely asking for my advice, and you are certain of this correspondence and the loyalty of your friend, the devotion of your lady. . ."
"I am, yes," Erik stammered, an uncharacteristic nervousness revealing itself in his voice and the fidgeting of his beautiful fingers. To see the Phantom of the Opera in such a vulnerable state was endearing to Stitch. The rarity of this threatening and powerful man reduced to a lovesick schoolboy was not lost to him. But Stitch would not tease Erik in his state of confusion.
As a good friend, he chose, instead, to offer advice. "Erik, my good man, I suppose it's time for us to draft a response. And if you're as fine a doctor as I," he chuckled, "I would suggest that you let N.K. know that you will be paying a house call soon. Hmm? Provided you know where he lives?"
Erik rose then, his fingers gripping the paper like talons as he waved it in front of the doctor's face. "Yes, yes! I know where he is! Stitch, could Christine be there, too?"
"You love-sick fool, sit down! Of course, she is! It's time for Doctor O.G. -Opera Ghost, I assume-"
Erik nodded and resumed his seat at the dining room table, hands still trembling, eyes wide as they searched Stitch for answers. "Yes?"
"To grab a pen and tell N.K. to expect a house call after dark tomorrow evening."
Erik's pen began to fly.