Two Weeks – Chapter 1
The pressure against his ears is so intense he can hardly hear her sing. The rush of blood at hearing his protégé forces him to his knees. The catwalk shakes slightly at his sudden movement, causing additional distress.
"Calm yourself." What an end that would be – the Opera Ghost, in truth a mere mortal falls to his death during a performance of Hannibal. Worse, he might not die and the persona so carefully crafted over the years will cease to exist. The ten-year-old boy inside him shudders at the thought.
Eyes closed, he breathes deeply, recovering control over his body, steadying his pulse. Singing along with her under his breath, he wills all his energy to support her.
The auditorium is so large, but the acoustics perfect for the most glorious voices to resonate even to the highest balcony. Whatever nerves she exhibited during their rehearsals before her performance found their way into him – her performance was near perfection.
Only near because one can always improve, but, Christine, my Christine, your gift to me tonight is more than I ever believed I might receive in this wretched life.
The audience is spellbound as he expected…except for a single fool in one of the boxes – Firmin's box. What else might those managers find to spoil his theater – now bringing in rude guests to disrupt the programs.
Sit down, idiot, an angel is singing. Have you no respect for brilliance? Ah, thank goodness, Firmin does appear to have some common sense. These patrons may help support the opera house, but seldom do they actually respect the art and hard work of those performing. Especially now. Especially tonight. The introduction of Christine Daae and Erik Saint-Rien, if only as her teacher, to the world
The world will never know his own gifts in such a way. When he did perform in his youth, it was as much to create shock and revulsion at his face as much to reveal the beauty of his voice or skill with the violin. How pleased the owner of the fair was when he discovered the boy with the deformed face was a prodigy. More money to be tossed into the buckets at the base of the wooden platforms set up in whatever town they visited throughout France.
His first visit to Paris was as a captive, much like the wild animals – a few monkeys and wildcats, along with one sorry old bear – offered as entertainment. People were enticed into throwing food at the oddities – another effort to save money for their captor. The only difference being, he was human.
Even now, in memory, he never complained about the food – it was often better than what was set inside the cage twice a day – usually some gruel or hard tack and salt pork when the owner was feeling generous. He would never forget the day. A girl, a few years older than he, pushed half a baguette with a sizable piece of cheese through the bars. The bit of chocolate and an apple were an extra surprise. The look on her face was so earnest and full of…not pity, but concern. Eyes and hair dark as night. Not beautiful, but a fine face – kind and wise.
"I wish it was more. I wish I could get you out."
"I do as well, but I thank you for the food and your good wishes," he said, hiding the food under his jacket.
"I enjoyed the violin."
"But my singing?"
"I heard some beautiful notes…"
"Perhaps next time."
With a sharp nod, she offered a sad smile and ran off.
A smile of his own, curves his mouth – the right side oddly formed, the lower lip larger on one side than the other. An understanding deep inside recognizing the odd shape of his face was responsible for the sounds he produces. Even during this period when he found himself unable to sing as he once had – his voice would break at most inopportune moments causing more laughter than awe during his performances – the occasional beautiful note would encourage him.
Not so the hair growing in under his arms and in his private area. The hair was the least of his concerns about the lower part of his body, however. While privacy was always a challenge, he found ways to satisfy his growing physical needs. Picking up any scrap of cloth left on the stage by another act or tearing strips from the sparse bedding given to him. Fighting through strange fantasies and dreams, his instinctive understanding this was all about becoming a man found confirmation in a rare act of kindness by his captor.
Tossing him some worn, but clean linen rags, the balding man with a missing front tooth said, "Just play the violin 'til ur voice calms down as it will. Happens to boys about ur age. Happened to me. Lose tha' high pitched tone you will. Best be larnin' some new tunes. The cloths be for wipin' yourself in the night. Canna be fittin' you with new clothes every time you pleasure yourself." With that he let out a roar of laughter and walked off scratching his own groin.
As promised, his voice smoothed out – the higher register now balanced with deeper tones…the gift he was expected to be thankful for. Or so he was told by the occasional righteous ladies and gentlemen who would stop to listen.
"What horrible sin did you commit to find yourself here?"
"You must offer praise to the Lord. That will free you."
The handful of slops landed dead center on the man's vest.
"There, you see," the man yelled. "A sinner through and through."
"Why God gave such a gift to a creature such as you is beyond understanding."
"Understand this," he cried, lofting another handful onto the woman's skirt.
Time would tell. At the moment, however, he would have much preferred an average voice with an average face than this configuration. He often watched the stable boy with envy. Both of them filthy and ill-fed – not to mention ill-treated. But that boy lived in a tent, not a cage. No one cared if he ran away. No one paid good money to look at his ordinary face or hear his ordinary voice.
The words "thank God" were offered for whatever bit of fortune allowing him exit during that first night in Paris after five years in captivity. A habit of watching and copying the strong man lifting his barbells in repetition day after day, month after month, year after year paid off. No longer a little boy – his adolescent body found him of modest height and build – neither short nor tall – certainly not heavy, but not thin, all things considered and muscular and incredibly strong and agile. Strong enough to finally break through the chain he had been worrying for months now, rubbing one link against another hour after hour.
The make-shift stage turned out to be the literal final key to his escape. A random wood bolt left behind by the workmen. Pocketing the piece of metal, he was able to pick the lock on both the shackle encircling his ankle and the lock his cage. After that he unlocked the cages of the other zoo animals. Gathering what food he could in addition to the gift from the girl, he started running toward a grassy area filled with trees.
In a brief moment of looking back, he saw the smaller animals taking the opportunity given to them. The bear, however, just lay watching him with rheumy eyes as he had for the years they slept next to one another. Erik would sing softly to calm the animal after a day of teasing by unruly children. Of course, the bear wore a similar iron band on his leg as he had. Walking quickly back to their side-by-side cages, he released the binding, gathered up the rope around the bear's neck and guided him away from the fairgrounds through the darkened city streets into what he assumed was a small woods.
Delighted for the companionship, Erik could nevertheless tell the animal was old and had spent too many years being mistreated to be able to travel very far for very long. After a quick surveillance of the area, he realized they were in a graveyard. A gardener's hut covered with cobwebs provided shelter from the foggy night. Sharing the food the young woman gave him. Too exhausted to think about what to do next, especially travelling with a bear, he leaned against the bulky body of his friend and fell asleep. When dawn came, Erik found the bear did not survive the night.
The gardener's tools and what appeared to be a fresh grave allowed the bear the decency of a burial. "Person's dead, doubt he will care much about sharing the hole. Rest in peace," he said, returning the last shovelful of dirt onto the slightly higher mound.
Upon his return, over twenty years later, he located the grave. A small marker had been placed now covered with moss – the name of the person sharing the grave with the bear unreadable.
The beginning notes of cadenza return his focus to the young woman dominating the stage – the entire theater – soon to be the entire world. "The C will be jewel of your performance. Everyone will remember this debut. The managers must be made to know they can never bring back a mediocre Prima Donna again. Christine Daae is the only soprano worthy of that title," he whispered earlier as she did her warm-up scales.
"Brava. Brava, Bravissima," he would whisper in her ear now, using his skill at throwing his voice to let her know his approval.
The applause receded. Where is she? What is the delay? Pacing back and forth behind the mirror, he wrings his hands. How did she feel singing on the glorious stage? Was the audience as rapt as he listening from the flies. Blast that nosy body Buquet. Fortunately the vile creature turned away before seeing in the shadows so he could listen to her undisturbed. What faith he once had in God was lost years ago and yet, tonight there was definitely a presence of grace. His Angel of Music. If he was her Angel, she was certainly his.
"Christine."
At last. The Giry girl shares his excitement. What is this talk of fear? No, do not be frightened. I shall never hurt you. Adele's daughter knows. He only wishes she would leave. This is his moment…their moment. Good. Good. Adele take her away.
What is that? A note. Who would be sending notes? His stomach roils and a wave of nausea rushes to his throat. The distress his own body was creating this night was as bad as any torture of his youth. A ghost would not suffer so.
Of course, one of the greedy old fellows who ogle the girls back stage, he did not consider that possibility...did not warn his student lecherous men would approach her…want her attention. Adele could no longer be counted on to afford her that protection. Stars like Carlotta, La Sorelli and, now, Christine Daae must deal with an entirely different class of predator. The seduction more refined…but seduction, nonetheless.
This one was not old. Still wet behind the ears if his scant mustache was any indication. The boy would be better served shaving the fuzz from his upper lip than walk around looking so childish.
She knows him. A childhood acquaintance. What sort of joke is this? The girl is an orphan – how often has she told him about her mother's death? The years travelling with her father…his death. The pain so deep she lost her love of music. Called him…him the Angel of Music. The angel her father said would come when he died. No one ever suggested he was an angel – demon more likely, otherwise why would he be cursed with his face?
Yet, she honored him with the title and how could he refuse. If she never saw his face…saw him for the broken human being he was…a mere mortal, certainly she would leave him. Leave…now he was just beginning to heal.
Never a mention of a young man. Now someone from the past shows up to offer her friendship. What does that mean for him? Teaching her, listening to her sing…but more importantly, becoming her friend is his life. All that would be destroyed by this…this rake. Fear of losing her grew into rage at the man…
Raoul. Yes, the one who was so rude during her performance.
Go. Good he was leaving. He must let her know how horrible this person was.
Insolent boy!
This slave of fashion
Basking in your glory!
Ignorant fool!
This brave young suitor
Sharing in my triumph!
Angel! I hear you!
Speak, I listen
Stay by my side, guide me!
Angel, my soul was weak
Forgive me
Enter at last, Master!
His temper cools measurably at her response. Your voice. Your voice. If you panic, then so will she and all will be lost. Nevertheless, no matter what he says, he recognizes the moment he feared would come. A decision he hoped he would never have to make, is upon him. The Angel must become a man…with a face. Oh, God, if You exist, help me. I cannot lose her.
Flattering child, you shall know me.
See why in shadow I hide.
Look at your face in the mirror.
I am there inside!
Angel of Music!
Guide and guardian!
Grant to me your glory!
Angel of Music!
Hide no longer!
Come to me, strange angel.
I am your Angel of Music
Come to me: Angel of Music
I am your Angel of Music
Come to me: Angel of Music