CH 66

Hugo's complexion paled and he inhaled sharply.

"Erik? Your brother?"

I nodded grimly.

"You're certain?"

"Positive. Beyond a shadow of a doubt."

Hugo leaned nearer to me, concern etched on his face as he softly asked, "Does anyone know? Have you spoken to the gendarmes? The managers?"

I shook my head, grateful for the turn in conversation and Hugo's ability to set aside his disappointment for the time being.

"I haven't even said a word to Val and I saw him before coming here. You are the only person I've spoken to in depth over his identity."

"Good, that's probably for the best that you've stayed silent, all things considered."

True as it may have been, the reality made me feel no better about the situation. Hugo pulled the service cart closer and poured me a steaming cup of tea.

"You know I prefer a good Earl Grey, but for you I've purchased some black tea as well," he said, handing me the cup, which I hesitated to accept. "Stay at least until you've finished your tea."

I glanced toward the foyer, eager to search for Erik again, but took the cup from his outstretched hands instead.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hugo asked.

Remaining silent threatened to tear me apart inside. I took a careful sip of tea and continued, needing to speak of what I had seen to someone whom I knew would listen without judgement.

"I couldn't find Erik after the fire started," I told Hugo. "The chandelier was already in flames well before it hit the ground, but the fire spread quickly once it hit the carpet and seats."

"He was on the stage, you said?"

"He was, but after the fire started to spread, he disappeared through a trap door in the center of the stage. I've never seen anything like that before in my life. I'm not certain anyone saw it besides me, but the door shut behind them."

"Them?"

"Erik took Christine with him."

Like a sack of potatoes slung over his shoulder, he dove through the opening with Christine in his arms. It didn't seem possible, like a scene out of an opioid-induced dream.

"Ah, so that's why you were heading toward the stage instead of away from it?"

"Yes, the moment I realized it was Erik, nothing else mattered."

I took another small sip of steaming hot tea before proceeding to explain the shots fired and the chandelier's chain snapping out of place before the whole thing crashed into the orchestra section. I mentioned Nadir, the vicomte, and the woman discussing where Erik had taken Christine, which again hardly seemed like reality.

"I made it behind the stage and had directions from the Daroga of which door to enter and where to head in order to reach the cellar."

"The cellar?"

"A hideout, I believe. I'm not entirely certain, but the Darago said it was a house by a lake."

"Do you think Erik was living there? Under the opera house?"

"I certainly hope not," I said.

He had lived in a cellar beneath our parents' home in Conforeit, and as far as I was concerned, that was too many years wasted in seclusion.

"My apologies for interrupting."

"Once I was down the stairs I was certain I could find him, but…" I sighed in frustration, still angered by my mistake made in a moment of desperation. "Then the lights flickered before they went out for good, I got turned around and disoriented, and ended up outside of the theater with no way to gain entrance again."

Hugo frowned at me, appearing unsurprised that I had looked for Erik. "Finding the exit may have saved your life."

"It doesn't feel that way at all. I was so close," I whispered. "So unbelievably close to him after almost thirty years. We were in the same building for the first time. Or at least the first time that I was aware of and I squandered my opportunity."

"It sounds to me as though you risked your life," Hugo replied.

I shrugged, lightly touching my left arm, which Hugo noticed immediately. He cleared his throat and I pulled my hand away despite having no desire to add to the injury.

"I would have given my life for the opportunity to see Erik again, if only for five minutes. I would have…"

I would have gone to my death to spare his life, to erase his wrongs, to clear his name. I would have done anything for him still. I valued him far more than I had ever found worth in myself.

"I understand how defeated you feel, Phelan, but please know that despite my disappointment and frustration this afternoon, I am relieved to see you here in my parlor. I would have been heartbroken if you had lost your life last night. You are a dear friend and a–" Hugo took another sip of tea and regarded me for a moment. "After everything that occurred last night, I will not go another moment without saying it aloud. You are like a son to me. I am not ashamed to admit my paternal affection for you."

He left me utterly speechless. I'd never had a relationship with anyone quite like Hugo; firm yet respectful, voicing his disapproval while never turning his back on me completely. There was not a single time in all the years I'd known him that he had stopped speaking to me as a form of punishment. No matter what, he always gave me another opportunity, even when I was less than deserving.

"You have always been more than a father to me," I admitted.

Hugo smiled back at me. "You know I have always felt particularly fond of you, Phelan."

My father had been nothing to me, just as I'd been nothing to him. Hugo deserved a better title than Bjorn as I didn't feel that the role of a father was significant enough.

"Hugo, I don't know if I can properly put into words how much your friendship has meant to me. I definitely don't deserve your–"

"Phelan," Hugo whispered. "No disparaging words. I will not entertain such thoughts."

I took a long, deep breath and nodded, attempting to eradicate my own self deprecation.

"What happened once you exited the theater?" he asked.

"After that there was nothing else I could do. I returned home briefly in the middle of the night with the help of one of my students. Once he was on his way back to his dormitory, I went out searching for Erik again until I was so exhausted I could no longer function."

It was quite the abridged tale, but everything I told Hugo was the truth as far as I could recall with confidence.

"I have every intention of continuing that search until he's found," I vowed. "As soon as I leave here, I will walk back to the theater district."

"And then what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What will you do when you find him?" Hugo asked.

"My plan thus far is to ask what in the hell is wrong with him and potentially grab his shoulders and shake him. Other than that, I have no idea."

"Have you considered what your brother might say to you?"

I stroked my beard, twisting the hairs between my thumb and index finger. "For years I've imagined every possible scenario, aside from this one. I truly have no idea what to make of my brother being the infamous Phantom of the Opera. Quite frankly I am beyond horrified and a bit ashamed."

"Ashamed? What on earth do you have to be ashamed for, Phelan?"

"This never would have happened if I'd not lost track of my brother when we were children."

Hugo furrowed his brow and huffed. "If I robbed a bank yesterday, would that be your doing because you didn't pay a visit and stop me?"

"That's not the same," I argued.

"You hold the same responsibility for me as you do for your brother. Erik's actions are his own, plain and simple."

I wanted to prove Hugo wrong, but he would hear nothing of it and silenced me before I started to speak. "Phelan, do not act as though you are responsible for the decisions of another adult, particularly one you haven't seen in nearly thirty years. These lives lost are not your doing."

"He didn't kill anyone," I said firmly. "He wasn't armed, he wasn't…" The night continued to blur in my mind. Nothing from the opera house seemed to make sense the more I attempted to think about what had happened. "He wasn't trying to hurt anyone."

Hugo lifted a brow. "No?"

"No."

"What do you believe he was doing?"

Briefly I collected my thoughts, visualizing Erik on the stage moments before the night took a disastrous turn. "I honestly believe his intention was not to create mayhem, but to secure Christine's hand in marriage."

Hugo furrowed his brow. "Marriage? Is she not engaged to the vicomte de Chagny?"

"Yes, she is engaged to the vicomte, although after last night I have no idea if the events brought them closer or drove a wedge between them."

"And your brother's relation to Mademoiselle Daae is what, precisely? A suitor from the past? Former lover wanting her back?" Hugo asked. "Or could he be an old friend who longed for more than she wished to allow?"

I ran my hand over my hair, thinking of the rose-covered headboard I'd seen at the flower shop and tried to imagine what had gone through my brother's mind. Raoul de Chagny was head over heels enthralled with his fiance and I had no doubt Christine was in love with him as well. Erik's actions seemed far from noble, but without speaking to him directly, I couldn't say for certain what had transpired between my brother and the young soprano.

"I have no idea what Erik is to Christine. Perhaps they previously courted? Your guess is as good as mine."

"How old is Mademoiselle Daae?" Hugo asked.

"Young," I answered. "Vicomte de Chagny and his betrothed are around the same age as the second year students."

As far as I was concerned, Christine was far too young for my brother. The longer I had taught, the more evident it became that every single first and second year student was of similar maturity levels to Elizabeth than anyone in their thirties. Outside of looks, I couldn't imagine what he saw in her. They clearly had a love and appreciation of music in common, but that hardly seemed like enough to go through the trouble of writing an entire opera for her to be the lead.

"She's still an adult. Nothing lascivious about his interest," Hugo pointed out. "Hell, if I were able to woah a woman half my age, you had better believe I would be shooting off fireworks that spelled her name."

"There should be different tiers to what is considered an adult and I am certain they are on two very different levels," I firmly said.

"I will not argue with your observation," Hugo said. "And despite your affection for Erik, you are two different people. You cannot fault him for having interests that don't align with your own."

"All I know for certain is I heard Erik profess his love for Christine on the stage, in front of the audience, and he apparently wrote the part of the female lead for her." I tapped the tips of my fingers together, my stomach in knots. "This must have been his plan for a proposal."

"Do you think they were having an affair, perhaps? Secret lovers?"

The very thought disgusted me. If that were the case, then Erik was really no better than Val and me and my brother had become entirely different people over the years. My moral compass may not have always pointed north, but I was at least not one to take interest in a woman who was married or engaged to another man.

"She certainly didn't treat him like someone she had an ounce of affection for, but I dare not speculate on whatever they did or did not share. Actually, I don't want to think of my brother in that way at all if I'm being perfectly honest."

"Hmmm."

I pressed my palm to my forehead, feeling the start of a headache behind my eyes. "I don't know what to make of any of this and the more I try, the less clear it seems."

"Rather than roam the streets again, I would highly suggest you get a bit of rest. You look exhausted."

"I slept the entire day," I replied.

"Forgive me for my observation, but you don't look well rested."

"I don't know what's wrong with me. I went to sleep at six or seven in the morning and woke at four in the afternoon. That should be plenty of rest."

"Then perhaps it isn't exhaustion but the amount of pressure you put on yourself that has pinched your features and made you almost unrecognizable," Hugo suggested.

"I am always stressed," I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to quell the pain forming behind my eyes.

"You should not be proud of that, Phelan."

"I'm not proud of it. I'm stating a fact."

"It's unfortunate Bernard is no longer in Paris," Hugo said. "You could use a bit of guided meditation."

There were multiple reasons I would have liked Bernard to extend his stay in Paris. I would have welcomed sitting in silence with him to clear my mind.

"I would most certainly fail at meditation," I grumbled under my breath as I finished my tea and set the cup aside.

Hugo immediately filled it for me and sat back, smiling to himself, appearing quite pleased with his ploy to have me stay until I was done indulging in a cup of black tea.

"I have had plenty of tea and must be on my way."

"Nonsense. There is no such thing as 'plenty of tea'."

"Hugo–"

"Stay a moment longer, Phelan. Please."

"You are a clever one, I will give you that," I replied, easing back into my seat.

Hugo folded his hands and inhaled, doing nothing more than sit with me. He meant well, but sitting with him was nothing like being in Bernard's company where the silence was meaningful conversation.

With nothing else to do, I studied the blank canvas in front of me, the one that should have at least been started that very morning in the company of Hugo and Marco. They had both started to paint the same portrait from a smaller drawing of a woman I didn't recognize, interpreting the image in their own styles.

I wanted to see Marco. I wanted to have a relationship with my only child. I wanted to be part of my son's life, to offer him guidance and suggestions on his art and know more about his life…didn't I?

Instead, the untouched canvas represented all I had given him. The realization left me feeling increasingly anxious and disappointed.

"Do you think I'm being foolish?" I asked when I could not tolerate my own thoughts a moment longer. "Chasing a literal ghost?"

Hugo adjusted his amputated leg on the pillow. "If I told you yes, this is complete insanity and advised you to forgo your search, would you stop looking for Erik and be satisfied that he is alive?"

"No," I answered without giving his inquiry a moment of consideration. 'Alive' was no longer good enough. In fact, seeing Erik from a distance made everything worse as I knew of him, but not the real version of my brother. ''I would not voluntarily stop until we were face-to-face or if…"

He was shot on sight and killed instantly, I cynically thought. I never entertained the idea of Erik dead. I couldn't bear the thought of him not existing–or rather myself existing in a world without him.

"I beg your pardon?" Hugo questioned.

"If he were no longer alive," I said. "If something were to happen to Erik–"

My stomach turned into a jumbled knot. I thought of his portrait ripped in half and everything that followed and found myself immediately on my feet, every nerve sizzling with desperation.

"I must go," I said, returning my half-finished cup of tea to the service cart. "Hugo, my sincerest apologies–"

Phelan–"

Hugo didn't argue or ask me to stay longer, but he regarded me with a sorrowful gaze that made me certain he didn't approve of my actions but would not say so directly.

"Take care of yourself, Phelan," he said. "If you must keep Erik in the forefront of your mind, spare a thought in the back that there are people who care deeply for you."

oOo

It was dusk by the time I exited Hugo's home and briskly made my way down the street and toward the theater district. The air was damp and chilly, but tolerable, the ground wet but no longer covered in snow. I paused at the corner, waiting for several carriages and wagons to pass by, as well as two gendarmes on horseback, and glanced in the direction where Abigail lived.

She had barely crossed my mind since the second act of Don Juan Triumphant. Of course, no one else had been more than a passing thought after I'd seen Erik.

I stepped into the street and pulled my scarf up over my mouth and nose as several more gendarmes on patrol came into view. I didn't see Boucher, but had no desire to take chances that he was prowling about the streets.

A typical Saturday evening in the theater district meant crowded streets with both heavy foot traffic and plenty of hired cabs and private carriages. The restaurant, cafes and fancy establishments serving liquor had patrons spilling out from the doorways no matter the season. Music and laughter filled the streets, livening an already robust city with plentiful nightlife.

In the summers it was one of my favorite walks to take with Elvira, one that took almost two hours to complete as we made our way through the park to watch the artists pack up for the evening, then strolled past the dozens of musicians playing for a handful of bank notes and appreciation from people who paused to listen.

Elvira would dance on my shoulder, stepping back and forth as she bobbed her head and occasionally whistled, drawing looks from people on the street who enjoyed her reaction to the music.

Once we returned for the evening, both of us were ready to settle down for the night, satisfied with the sights and music of the night.

This night, however, was eerily silent. All of the playhouses and theaters were dark, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach grew ever more foreboding as I continued down the street and toward the rubble of what had been the Opera Populaire.

The building had long since been one of my favorites, with construction starting not long before Val and I had arrived in Paris.

I still remembered wandering late in the night not long after we were living with Val's aunt. My favorite time to explore Paris in my teens and early twenties was ironically the time I normally now woke: four in the morning.

The theater district in particular was quiet at that time of the morning, the lights out and the buildings looking like magnificent fortresses lined up in a row to my imaginative eyes.

There were three opera houses and another dozen or so playhouses and smaller theaters that shared the same long boulevard in the ninth arrondissement. Some of the theaters were nicer than others by the light of day, but at four in the morning, they all looked the same, like giant palaces of great kings, the likes of which I'd never seen coming from a village in the middle of nowhere.

From the moment I'd wandered toward the Opera Populaire, I had been quite smitten. Knowing nothing more than single-story cabins, I was fond of the symmetry and took an interest in the Beaux-Arts style with its decorative columns, arches, and impressive statues keeping watch over the city. I would stand across the street and take in the gilded statues on the rooftop and all of the smaller ones tucked in between the columns, unable to believe the sheer beauty of work commissioned. I had vowed that at some point in my life, I would take up sculpting as I wanted to know what it would feel like to chisel a block of marble, smoothing the rough edges as I transformed it into the shape of a warrior or maiden.

Commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III, I had learned from a presentation at the university by Garnier himself that construction of the Opera Populaire took thirteen years and hundreds of workers to complete. It was truly a testament to what Paris had to offer in terms of art, the building exterior expertly crafted from stone and a marvel of wood, glass, and marble for the interior.

"Thirteen years to construct and only a matter of hours to leave a pile of stone behind," I said under my breath as I stood across the street in front of La Carlotta's home, the only residential building in the theater district.

Where the Opera Populaire had once proudly stood was completely barricaded with temporary fencing and rope while a dozen gendarmes stood guard all around the rubble for as far as I could see. It appeared the building windows had all exploded from the heat, while the banners for Don Juan Triumphant were left ragged and burnt clear through in spots.

I assumed that the roof's collapse had brought down the balcony and opera boxes, tearing down the interior of the building, which caused the outside to partially collapse as well beneath the weight of the dome and rooftop gardens I heard hosted many private parties.

"My home, my home, my beautiful second home," I heard someone behind me wailing in an Italian accent.

The few people who had stopped to gawk at the ruined building swiftly scattered, leaving me searching for the source of the disembodied voice.

Almost immediately I realized why everyone else had trotted away: La Carlotta, the dethroned diva herself, made an appearance.

She was wrapped in a silk gown and a fur coat, with a half-dozen small dogs prancing around her as she strutted out from her home directly across from the opera house.

Heaven only knew how had managed to obtain the only home in the theater district, a grand building in its own right with columns and climbing roses that fit the rest of the surrounding buildings with its architecture. There were two statues at front; a male and female nude that had been painted in flesh tones.

La Carlotta's curly-coated dogs were free-roaming once they exited the front door. They were a pack of tiny canines yipping and yapping like guards protecting their beloved master, all of them running in separate directions and seemingly without their owner aware.

While the dogs explored, La Carlotta dramatically paused no more than ten feet away from me and extended both of her arms toward the opera house as she burst into tears that seemed far too dramatic to be real.

"Do you see that?" she asked.

I wasn't certain to whom she spoke, but I was fairly certain it was to her pack of dogs, who had started to spread out and roam further away. Two immediately ran to me and began sniffing around my legs, causing me to freeze in place as I wasn't entirely certain if they viewed me as a threat and I had no desire for them to latch onto my leg.
"You don't answer? Are you a mute? I asked if you saw that?" she said, waving both of her arms at me.

I blinked at her. "My apologies, I wasn't aware you were addressing me."

"Who else would I be talking to, eh? Luigi, do you hear this man? Vittoria, Zita, Alaya, Angelo," she said, clapping her hands. "Perla and Pia! Get away from him!"

The dogs didn't appear to react to her voice, causing La Carlotta to stamp her feet, which also failed to garner their attention, but certainly caught mine.

"Listen to Mama!" she yelled. "Ugh! You will be made into fur wraps if you do not come here at once!"

"Go," I said, taking a small step away from the dogs, who followed me.

La Carlotta shrieked in feigned agony. "You are their master now, Mute Stranger!" she dramatically cried. "I do not have my precious second home and now you command my puppies. Oh! What madness is this? I commanded this theater for years! Years! And now?" Her lip wobbled. "What is there to command?"

I thought for certain she would collapse on the street and begin kicking and screaming as Elizabeth had done as a small child whenever she wanted to ride a pony in the park and I told her no.

"My life is over! Over! O-E-V-R!"

"Oh for God' sake," I said under my breath. I walked toward her, small dogs following at my heels. "Madame, if you would cease your intolerable wailing, I am certain the dogs would welcome your company. Quite frankly, I think you've scared them off just as you've managed to make everyone else scatter."

At once she sucked in a breath, stopped crying, and stared at me with the most murderous gaze I'd ever received from anyone–aside from possibly Florine.

"Intolerable?" she whispered. "You think I am being intolerable? No!" She pointed at the opera house. "That is being intolerable."

I could scarcely disagree with her observation and nodded.

"Christine," she hissed. "Christine Daae. You know that name, yes?"

I nodded once.

"Of course you do. I should have been the lead cast in the production. I should have been the one strutting around the stage," she said, twirling in a circle. "I should have been the one he adored."

It was a shame she wasn't the one abducted, I thought to myself. If only Erik had made certain La Carlotta was never seen again.

Difficult as it was, I kept my thoughts to myself.

"Did you know him?" I asked, uncertain of why I proceeded to hold a conversation with her. "The Phantom?"

La Carlotta rolled her eyes. "Did I know him?" she asked in a nasally, condescending tone. "Did I know him? Are you asking if I knew him?"

I took a deep breath and considered simply walking away without another word.

"Nobody knows the ghost, except for Mother," La Carlotta said, rolling her eyes. "Ugh, she is the one they should be talking to right this moment, little viper in the grass. She is the one who befriended that–that monster in the shadows."

"Mother?" I questioned.

"Yes, the self-appointed little mother of the theater, always sheltering the filthy orphans and wayward children under her wing. Ugh, we all should have known she was on his side."

My heart stuttered. "I beg your pardon, Madame, but who is this woman?"

"An accomplice. A sympathizer. A mad fool." Again she broke down in theatrical tears in what was probably her greatest performance. "Do you know what I think? I think she birthed him and hid him away in the cellars, feeding him lies and wine to keep him alive until it was time for this…" She inhaled, head tilted back. "This lewd production he dares to call opera. The whole theater burned down because of his sins. And now where are they, hmm? The ghost and his beloved mother."

"Does this woman you call 'mother' have a name?" I impatiently asked.

"Zita! Alaya! Where are you going?" she yelled as two of the dogs took off across the street and ran beneath the barrier, much to the horror of the gendarmes keeping watch.

Rather than give chase, La Carlotta collapsed on the curb and began pounding her fists on the cobblestone while screaming into the heavens as the dogs investigated the opera house steps before being chased away by one of the men standing guard.

"Madame, your poodles–"

"They are bichon frise, you imbecile!" she screamed.

Given that she was in no mood to continue the conversation and I doubted how much she truly knew of the situation, I muttered an insincere 'good evening' and turned away.

"Wait!" she said.

Against my better judgment, I turned to face La Carlotta one last time.

"Forgive me," she said as she climbed to her feet and adjusted her fur wrap. "My dogs seem to fancy you. Perhaps, Monsieur, you would care to come inside for a moment?" she suggested, looking me up and down. "Does that interest you?"

"That does not interest me in the least," I said, fighting the urge to laugh at her proposition. "Good night, Madame."