Through the emotional wringer.
CH 67
La Carlotta's solicitation left me quite amused as I walked down the boulevard and around the side of the opera house where two officers stood guard with rifles over their shoulders and pistols holstered on their hips.
"Keep moving," one of them said to me when I slowed my pace as I approached what looked to have been the stable at the rear of the building. The wooden structure was in shambles, the singed wooden beams bowed and threatening to give way while the double doors were nailed shut with additional boards.
It was the side of the theater I should have been on when I became disoriented and turned around the previous evening, the entrance closest to the stairs leading to the cellars.
"May I ask why the building is so heavily guarded?" I questioned, assuming that since I didn't recognize either man they most likely were not aware of my lengthy record.
"No," the man on the left answered. "Keep moving."
"Did the horses survive?" I asked. "This was the stable, correct?"
"Leave," he ordered.
I raised a brow. "I do hope the city doesn't pay you per word. You're liable to starve to death on those wages," I dryly said.
"Keep walking," the man instructed. "Or you'll be walking down to the precinct."
I took a breath and continued on my way, hands in my pockets as I strolled back to the front of the opera house where one of the soldiers took the place of a gendarme standing guard. I waited for the gendarme to walk away before I continued toward the blocked off steps.
"An absolute shame," I said, shaking my head.
The soldier merely glanced at me. He was young, probably no older than twenty, with a sad excuse of a mustache and rounded jawline that made him look like a boy playing dress-up in his father's uniform.
"I was here last night," I continued. "The commotion was like nothing I've ever experienced. May God be with the citizens of this fine city in her greatest hour of need."
He issued a sympathetic look in my direction, but didn't comment.
"You wouldn't happen to know how many of the missing were found, would you?" I asked. "It would put my heavy heart at ease."
"No, Monsieur, I do not. My apologies," he replied.
"Hmm." I narrowed my eyes and continued to study the front of the building. "No sign of the ghost, I assume?"
The soldier looked directly at me. "No."
"They are searching for him, yes?"
"You'd have to go down to the precinct for that information. I am only here to make sure no one comes in or out."
"Out?" I questioned. "Are there people still inside? At this time of the night?"
The young soldier shrugged. "I cannot say."
"What about the house by the underground lake?" I asked.
He shifted his weight, his eyes widening just enough to indicate he knew exactly what I meant.
"Have the explosives been removed?" I asked.
Alarm flashed through his dark eyes. He looked from me to the street and back again. "The cottage beneath the opera house is empty from what I heard."
"But they expect he will return? That is why there are more than a dozen men surrounding the building?"
"I never said that."
"That seems fair to assume."
"It seems fair to assume you know more than most civilians, Monsieur. Perhaps I should call upon General Herold if you would like to discuss the cottage with him?"
His posture turned more erect and I assumed he wouldn't be more forthcoming on the details while I certainly had no desire to be taken in for questioning. I bid the young soldier a good night and turned away, heading down to the furthest part of the theater district and to the end of the street where it narrowed and curved. I turned and walked down the opposite side of the boulevard, examining every shadow and doorway as I briskly made my way past Neptune's Grotto, The People's Playhouse, Dream Voyage Theater, and Imperial Sphere, which were dwarfed by the larger theaters.
Those were the smaller theaters showing one-act performances and more modern theatrical productions by up and coming playwrights or shows that had smaller budgets and more niche audiences. Due to their lower ticket prices compared to the Opera Populaire and New Parisian, they were favorites for university students who could not afford even the seats furthest back in the balcony. I still saw shows in the smaller theaters from time to time, enjoying comedies with their budget costumes and set designs or one-act plays with sometimes risque subject matter that reminded me of the times where I had pinched every penny to afford seeing a show.
A few streets further from where I walked were public houses and brothels that served patrons coming from the smaller theaters that desired less polite entertainment after spending ten francs on an unknown play.
I considered at least venturing toward the nearest public house, but convinced myself it wasn't wise to step foot in that part of town and that my brother would not solicit sexual pleasure from prostitutes–let alone be thinking of amorous encounters in the aftermath of the theater fire.
At least I hoped he was not one to exchange bank notes for an hour with some woman who would give a false name as she traveled from one bed to another, pleasuring man after man, heedless of whether he had lice or some other more serious illness that could be passed on from one session to the next.
Erk was supposed to be happily married with a dozen children, not lurking around in brothels or public houses.
Or hiding beneath an opera house…
Why? I wondered. Why on earth would he choose to live beneath the opera house? It could not have been his sole residence. Surely he had a lovely home in some other part of the city and this was his studio, the place he retreated to as a cathedral to his music, a place where his muse came to him and he created his most beautiful compositions.
Or where he penned an entire opera that could have been plucked from the perverse mind of a teenage boy who had erupted with acne, a single hair on his chin, and the insatiable urges of someone who had just discovered himself from the waist down.
The lyrics left very little to the imagination with its talk of desires unlocking doors, sweet seduction, beyond thresholds, and unspoken secrets. There were bodies entwining, bud bursting into bloom, and something about becoming one.
My God, he was not one to speak subtly. He may as well have dragged the rose headboard out onto the stage with a sign over it that read, 'Christine, would you allow me to ravish you right here on this stage?'
As I crossed the street at the end of the theater district, I realized I was disgusted with Erik for his actions and angry with him for his decisions. He was not supposed to be this way, which I understood was quite judgemental on my part as I was certain if we had met a year after he was expected to arrive in Paris with our uncle that he would have been shocked by my bloodied knuckles and bruised face.
Perhaps we both would have been disappointed in each other, at least at first, until we both realized that we could make each other better men through our brotherhood.
For years I had held fast to the same ideal situation: I would take care of my brother and in turn, he would smooth over the rough patches and I would find solace in being of use.
Taking care of Erik seemed so much easier when I thought of him as a toddler needing to be held or a flourishing adult who merely needed me to bring him a sandwich and insist he take a break from his music and eat something before he passed out from hunger.
Now I felt far less confident in our ability to heal one another. Erik's needs were more complex than I was prepared to address, and given my broken state, I wasn't certain of my abilities to provide what he needed.
"What do I do?" I whispered to myself as I continued down the vacant street, unnerved by my troubled thoughts and the lack of people on the street. I scanned the alleyways and dark corners of each building, spotting a person here or there crouched against brick walls or dozing off on the steps.
Two young boys ran up and asked me for spare change and I emptied my pocket, finding I had less than a franc. They accepted the coins and trudged away, seeming disappointed in the amount.
There was more searching to be done, but not in the vicinity of the Opera Populaire, which appeared too heavily guarded for Erik to risk entering the building.
With my options exhausted, I briskly walked out of the theater district and into the row of restaurants and pubs that were not as busy as usual for a Saturday night due to the unexpected theater closures.
"Looking for entertainment?"
I paused as I passed by one of the favorite eateries for pre-show meals: The Bountiful Basket. It was one of the few restaurants near the theaters that didn't have an animal or color in the name and served small plates for quick service before a performance at reasonable prices.
Guin stood on the steps outside of the restaurant, hand resting on one of the gargoyles keeping watch, long straight hair cascading over her shoulders.
"Not tonight, I'm afraid," I answered.
"Oh?" She arched her brow.
"Everything is closed."
Her gaze briefly left mine as she glanced down the street. "Yes, so I heard. All of the theaters are closed until Thursday."
This I had not heard. "Who told you that?" I asked.
"There was an article in the evening newspaper," she said.
I wanted to read the paper for the eye-witness account of the event that had taken place the previous night, but didn't want to see what was written about my brother. Undoubtedly he would be made to sound like the devil himself had crawled out of hell to destroy the city, slandered for events that had not been his doing.
"Care to join me for a plate?" she asked, nodding at the restaurant entrance. "I have a table waiting."
"I'm actually on my way to an appointment," I answered.
Guin regarded me for a brief moment. "You needn't lie to me, Kimmer. If you aren't interested, say you are not interested."
"As I originally stated, I have an appointment," I replied. "Perhaps another time."
"Do you think there will be another time?"
I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or attempting to be playful, but I decided to take her tone as being on the lighter side.
"I believe our paths will cross again," I said.
She smiled tightly and turned, walking back into the restaurant without another word, which made me more certain that she was not pleased I decided to keep walking.
I shook my head, unwilling to dwell on how we parted ways. Unlike the interaction with La Carlotta, my brief exchange with Celeste Guin was not amusing in the least.
Of course, I'd had two propositions in less than an hour and I was still on the streets alone, trudging in the direction of my apartment with no particular route to follow, only lots of ground to cover in a densely populated city of over two million people.
I paused at the end of the street as the restaurants and cafes gave way to hotels, shops, galleries and the start of residential buildings. Far from exhausted after sleeping my entire day away, I turned right instead of left, toward Abigail's shop and away from my apartment.
I knew the hour was the end of supper time, and I expected if Abigail were home, she would be dining with her children and probably her brother, whom I was assuming had a few days left in town before he returned across the Atlantic to his homeland with bears and moose to make into rugs and light fixtures.
If I assumed correctly and they were finishing their meal, the lights in the dining room and kitchen would be on and that was all of the confirmation I needed that Abigail was well. As planned, I would speak to her Sunday or Monday if she was available for conversation.
Her apartment was not far from Hugo's home and I could easily see the upstairs windows well before I approached. Unlike the rest of the apartments above dental offices and various shops, Abigail's home was dark.
I proceeded down the street, toward the shop below, which I didn't expect to find occupied on a Saturday evening. The interior was dark, and when I peered inside, the ceramic container and flowers remained unmoved on the floor, which seemed unusual.
Without thinking I pushed on the door handle, which to my surprise swung open, the bell attached to the door jingling overhead.
For a brief moment I stood on the threshold, feeling a stream of air that I assumed came from the back of the shop and the door leading into the alley.
"Abigail?" I called, reaching up to ring the bell again, harder and louder than the first time. Silently I waited, breath held so that I was able to hear the slightest sound from upstairs.
When I heard no response, I closed the door behind me and walked the length of the shop to the back where the alley door was ajar. I peered out, seeing no one around and nothing out of the ordinary aside from a full bin of fabric scraps and the boxes I had discarded previously. With nothing else of interest, I slammed the door shut, locking it from inside to prevent thieves from wandering inside.
The shop was eerily vacant. I knelt to pick up the flowers and broken ceramic container, noticing the ledger was also on the floor as was the box of receipts, which was splintered as if it had been thrown or fallen off the counter.
When I looked up, I saw the cash box tucked well beneath the counter with the key inserted in the lock. I peered inside, surprised to find the cash box still contained around a hundred francs in bank notes as well as checks from purchases. I shuffled through the checks, noting that there was nothing dated for Saturday, which I assumed meant the shop had not been open at all. Closing the lid, I locked the box and placed the key into the ledger, which I hid beneath several long pieces of cloth strewn out on her work table.
"Abi?" I called yet again, feeling more and more alarmed that she was not at home two nights in a row. "Madame Soward, are you here?"
There was no answer. I took a pair of scissors I found hidden beneath a felt basket that contained buttons and walked up the stairs to her family's apartment. Armed with the sheers, I thrust the door open, prepared to fight off an intruder if need be.
To my relief the apartment appeared empty, and once the blood was no longer thrumming through my veins, I took a deep breath to calm myself and turned on the light. I still held fast to the scissors as I walked the length of the hallway to her bedroom where nothing appeared out of place.
It felt quite voyeuristic to stand in her bedroom alone, amongst her personal belongings. The bed was made, her perfume bottles and lotions lined up in front of the dresser mirror along with a pocket watch I assumed had belonged to Clarence that was covered in dust and tarnished along the edges. Her wardrobe was stuffed with various articles of clothing, blouses, dresses and skirts of all colors. I opened one of the drawers, but quickly shut it as I had no desire to rummage through her nightgowns and shifts.
Leaving the room untouched, I turned off the light and walked down the hall to the room that was shared by her sons. The wardrobe door was open, the interior empty aside from a shirt. I furrowed my brow, finding the room oddly cleared of their belongings.
In her daughter's room I found the wardrobe empty aside from clothing that looked as if it belonged to a doll. There was a single boot at the end of the bed and a doll with a missing arm that was on its side.
Closing the door, I walked out of the apartment, finding nothing that indicated someone had forced entry. There was nothing broken and valuables as far as I was aware were not stolen, including a dusty watch that probably could have been sold and several necklaces that could have been valuable to someone.
I wasn't sure what to think of the situation. It appeared as if the entire family had vanished into thin air.
With my mind wandering, I found myself standing in front of the green dress that Abigail had intended to wear to the opera. It was in the exact place she had left it: the clothing rack beside the counter.
I frowned at the dress, dismayed by my initial reaction to her disappearance. She had gone through the trouble of altering a suit for me that would complement her own dress. We had a lovely time at the art gallery and planned dinner together. Nothing about her absence made sense to me.
Bewildered by the empty shop and apartments, I found myself not only concerned about Abigail's safety, but the rest of her family.
With everything left as I found it, I walked out of the shop, secured the door behind me as best I could, and continued home for the night.
First thing in the morning, I would head to the nearest precinct and inform Chief Alonzo directly of my concerns.
oOo
I purchased a newspaper at one of the periodical stands moments before it closed and made it home to discover I hadn't secured Elvira to her usual post in front of the window.
To my dismay, she had knocked down around a dozen canvases in my studio and scattered brushes all over my apartment. A few of the plants looked as though they'd been preened, but considering the length of time she had to herself, it could have been much worse.
"You are an angel," I praised as she casually walked out of my studio. "Sent directly from heaven to fill my life with joy, you precious girl."
She was less interested in my words and more interested in the newspaper I set on the table beside my chair. While I fixed myself a plate of food and filled a glass with lemonade, I watched her strut across the floor, tail swinging back and forth with each step.
"Elvira," I warned as she drew nearer to my chair, yellow eyes focussed on the newspaper.
"I said give me that," she said in my voice.
"I haven't even sat yet," I protested. "You have to wait your turn before you can go around destroying things."
"Oh, aren't you a naughty one tonight," she said, again using my voice.
It made me wonder what the neighbors thought if they could overhear the conversations coming from my apartment, especially when Elvira imitated me and it sounded as though I spoke to myself.
She made her way onto the back of my chair and reached out with both her foot and her beak until I turned to face her and requested that she wait.
"Shame on you! Why are you so naughty?" she screeched.
"Elvira," I admonished.
"Careful! She bites!"
I was surprised Elvira wasn't exhausted after having hours to herself to explore the apartment unchecked. After several times of attempting to grab the paper and being verbally asked to stop each time, she relented and stood on the back of my chair, pulling at a thread to sate her desire for destruction.
Once I sat, she hopped on my shoulder and opened her beak, requesting a grape from my plate.
"Haven't you already eaten?" I groused while she continued to pester me for a snack. "Stealing Papa's food isn't very nice of you, my dear."
"My dear," she cooed.
Unable to resist her charm, I gave her two grapes and pinched off a piece of buttered bread for myself before I sat back and unfolded the paper, dreading what I would find.
There was really no surprise at the headline in bold, black letters across the top of the Epoch: Disaster Consumes Opera Populaire.
My eyes greedily read each word, but my mind had trouble keeping up. Every inch of the front page was a riveting tale of destruction, terror, and death as told by witnesses and survivors.
I took another bite of bread and closed my eyes, forcing myself to take several deep breaths and clear my mind. Once I felt more settled, I opened my eyes and read through with greater care.
The article first said that the Opera Populaire had been 'haunted' by a mischievous entity for many years, a fact that was well-known amongst the theater employees ranging from ticket takers and maids to chorus girls, all of whom wished to remain anonymous.
One usher who had been employed by the theater for over a decade said that the ghost had inhabited the theater well before she was part of the staff, and that she had often 'taken care of the spector' when he was in his private box.
The article went on to say that the space in question, Box Five, was actually paid for by the de Chagny estate and had been since the theater's opening, but for an unknown amount of time was utilized by the Opera Ghost, who had told the managers that the perfect space for viewing the latest shows would be reserved for him without further notice.
I furrowed my brow, feeling somewhat impressed that my brother had achieved such clout.
The article went on to say that it was well-known the Opera Ghost made many demands, all of which were met by the previous manager, who had left a year earlier to pursue other options. The most current managers, who were not available for interviews, were compliant in the Phantom's request to continue his salary of twenty thousand francs.
I nearly missed the part where the article said he was paid on the first of every month, and if the payment was delayed for any other reason than a federal holiday, there was a ten percent fee added to the total.
"I suppose you may as well add extortion to the list of your activities," I muttered.
The second part of the article continued on a different page and became far darker in content. The original actor playing the role of Don Juan was found deceased behind the backdrop on the stage, bound and gagged. The cause of death seemed to be smoke inhalation as he was unable to escape the fire and was not immediately located until the following morning.
Two members of the orchestra were found deceased in the pit, both injured by the debris from the falling chandelier, while two others were missing. The names of the missing and deceased had not yet been released by the Chief of Police, which left me wondering if Carlos was one of the four dead or injured.
Another six employees from the theater were trapped in a vestibule between exits and found deceased in the balcony, unable to escape as the stairway filled with smoke once they ushered patrons out to safety. It was assumed they did a final sweep through the boxes and found themselves trapped.
Several people in the orchestra section had been trampled in the confusion and terror, leaving three dead and four wounded.
At least one hundred people in total were injured and another sixty-three were missing as of Saturday morning. The number of confirmed deaths was at fifty-nine, including eight employees, but the total was expected to rise by Sunday morning.
Chief Alonzo has a composite sketch to be printed tomorrow of the suspect, the Phantom of the Opera, whose real identity is not yet known at this time.
The next article had a title that read: Was the Murderer Living Inside the Opera House?
The three paragraphs quoted Raoul de Chagny as saying he and his fiance were leaving Paris first thing in the morning where they planned to be wed by the weekend at his family residence in the Swiss Alps. There were no details about the living arrangements beneath the opera house, but speculation of the Opera Ghost having full access to every inch of the building from the basements to the rooftop. There was confusion on whether he had his own set of keys or if he could walk through the walls, as many had speculated over the years.
The lack of details regarding the underground home disappointed me as I was quite interested in what the supposed lakeside cottage looked like according to the interview.
Beneath that article, another short piece titled 'Chrstine Daae Speaks!' contained the sordid details in which the young soprano was quoted as saying it was a night of terror she would not soon forget, and that the faceless creature had stalked her in dreams for years, entering into the chapel and her chambers via mirrors undetected.
Like a whisper of smoke, he appeared and disappeared at will, leaving no trace of his visits.
"What?" I asked aloud. "Through the mirrors?"
'It was not until I was abducted over the winter that anyone took my concerns seriously,' Mademoiselle Daae tearfully revealed. 'And even then, the opera managers thought I was mad.'
I lowered the paper and stuffed several grapes in my mouth, needing a moment to mull over the accusations. My brother was considered a vile abductor of young women, a voyeur sneaking into chambers, and a ruthless murderer–on top of extorting some two hundred and forty thousand francs per year. I'd handled accounts at the bank with half of that fortune Erik had accumulated. My own account was a fraction of what Erik would have acquired in six months.
Surely the articles sensationalized the incidents and people involved in order to sell more copies and keep people clamoring for more in the days that followed.
He was not like that, I assured myself. Erik was being portrayed in the most unflattering way imaginable for the sake of monetary gain and nothing more.
I placed the newspaper between my leg and the inside of the chair and sat back, unable to read another word. I ate another piece of bread followed by a hard slice of sausage and reached for my sketchbook.
For a long moment I stared at the image of my brother as a toddler, at the innocent little boy so full of love and laughter who had clung to me.
The child I remembered with such clarity and fondness no longer existed.
The person I searched for now bore little resemblance to the person I had loved with all of my heart.
For the first time since Erik had wandered off, I had reservations about finding him again. My lifelong quest seemed to have encountered a wall I had no desire to scale for fear that the dream I had always wanted would be a nightmare on the other side.