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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 2/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2607
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Living with a former Opera Ghost takes some adjustment.
HAPPY FAMILIES
It was rather like sharing your home with a wild animal, Meg mused, never knowing when it might bite or scratch. A stray dog, kicked and beaten, would regard a hand held out with confusion, misinterpreting your tentative attempts at kindness and friendship because it had no frame of reference and didn’t understand what you were trying to do. How could it, if the only reason a hand had been extended towards it before was to cause pain and humiliation?
The Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the Living Corpse, or simply Erik to those select few who knew him well, had been on the fringes of Meg’s life for more than a decade. Though she never met him face to face until very recently, she was always aware that there was another person taking her mother’s attention; inquisitive and perceptive, even as a child she did not miss Madame Giry’s frequent absences from their little apartment, had puzzled over the extra food which appeared on a regular basis in the wicker shopping basket. It was only after she joined the corps de ballet at the Opera and saw the way the management deferred to their ballet mistress as she delivered the notes and instructions from ‘the Phantom’ that Meg began to carefully put two and two together. The other dancers were targeted for pranks and frights from OG, but she never was. None of her belongings went missing, and if she caught a glimpse of a cloak disappearing around a corner or spotted the gleam of a white mask high up in the flies she felt no terror, only curiosity.
It was strange, therefore, to be within a few feet of the man she had wondered about for so long. A practical girl, unlike her superstitious fellows she had not believed that the Ghost was real, a wraith or spectre haunting the corridors of the theatre. Ghosts could not write letters, drop sandbags and backcloths or teach a chorus girl to sing like a nightingale, any more than they were capable of making Carlotta croak like a toad or send a chandelier plummeting into the auditorium. Meg had been fascinated by tales of the elusive Phantom, by the aura of power and fear that one man could wrap around the Opera and everyone in it; she longed to know exactly who he was, and why he should feel the need to hide behind such an elaborate deception.
Now she did. The charade had ended, the facade crumbled, and the Phantom was nothing more than human, sleeping in the bed she had given up for him, sitting in her late father’s armchair and filling the flat with his formidable presence. He did not intend to, she was sure, but he sometimes made her nervous. Tall and broad shouldered, though almost painfully thin, he dominated their tiny living space; he had to duck under lintels and when he sat before the fire his legs stretched across the rag rug almost to Meg’s own chair. Her mother, having no ballet rats to train at present, treated him almost as a project, trying to rectify his gauntness by piling food onto his plate and keeping up a constant stream of advice which eventually had Erik’s strong white fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Meg wanted to tell him to ignore the nagging, that Madame Giry spoke to everyone in the same way, but she didn’t quite dare. It was one thing to be bright and chatty when he was a convalescent confined to his bed, or had her best friend at his side; quite another if you were facing his brooding, masked countenance across the breakfast table. One wrong word could raise his hackles, could bring cold fury to the side of his face not hidden by the mask. Several times over the past few weeks apparently innocent conversations had ended with Erik retreating into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him so forcefully that the pictures on the wall swung madly back and forth.
He was missing his own home and the solitude it provided, of that she was certain though he never said as much. It was quite obvious that he had not lived in such close proximity to others in a very long time, if he ever had at all. To the outside world he was a cousin of Madame Giry’s, come to stay so that he might promote his work in Paris and try to find a publisher for his compositions, but behind the doors of the apartment it was hard to imagine a more awkward family group. Erik was used to pleasing himself, keeping his own irregular hours; fitting in with a household was something that he just did not understand. Sometimes he stayed up all night, and they would find him exactly as they had left him, still in his chair before the cold remains of a fire, a piece of paper covered with staves and hastily scribbled notes spread across his knee; at others he would go to bed early and sleep until noon, forcing the Girys to creep past his door lest they waken him and unleash his temper. On one occasion, when Christine was visiting, Meg had accidentally walked in on them when her friend was patiently explaining the need to think of others as well as one’s self. Not wishing to cause embarrassment, Meg tiptoed away before they realised she was there; when she mentioned the incident to her mother, Madame Giry gave a sigh of relief and declared that of anyone could tame Erik it would be Christine. “After all,” she said, “Christine is the only person he ever listens to!”
________________________________________
Time was passing, disturbingly quickly.
Meg hummed to herself as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She had discovered a note pinned to her pillow when she awoke that morning, her mother’s neat handwriting informing her that she had gone to speak to an old friend about some possible employment. Meg knew which old friend she meant: Madame d’Herblay, a former ballerina who had retired after an injury which left her unable to dance en pointe and now ran a select academy for the daughters of the aspiring and wealthy middle classes, teaching them deportment and the correct way to waltz. Privately, Meg thought that she would rather walk over red hot coals than deal with a crowd of giggling schoolgirls, but she knew as well as Madame Giry that grateful as they were for Erik’s financial assistance they could not live upon his charity forever. With the Opera Populaire still closed, they would have no choice but to seek a situation elsewhere.
It was a depressing thought, and Meg sighed, wistfully remembering the opulent interior of the theatre, the fantastic set pieces and the boxes full of the fashionable cream of society. Almost unconsciously she stood upon her toes, moving across the kitchen in time to the tune in her head as she prepared crockery and jars of jam and marmalade on the battered table that was barely big enough for three people. She had been dancing for almost as long as she could remember, her body falling into routines and rhythms that were as natural to her as breathing in and out; even with no rehearsals to attend, no performance that evening she kept up her exercises, as much for herself as for her mother, who would expect nothing less. Waiting for the kettle to boil and holding the back of a chair in lieu of a barre, she executed a grand plie, followed by an eleve and tendu and ending with a rond de jambe. The latter was a movement which earned the ballet chorus much scolding from Madame Giry when they were tired or sloppy and they all dreaded the extra rehearsals she would inflict upon them.
As she straightened, she felt eyes upon her and was startled to see Erik standing in the doorway. He had approached without making a sound, and she pulled her wrap closer around herself, self-conscious even though she was wearing a very thick nightgown and the former Phantom himself was in a similar state of undress, his hair ruffled by sleep and his richly coloured oriental robe covering his bedclothes. Seeing this, Meg relaxed slightly; he looked less the commanding Opera Ghost and more like the wounded man she had helped Christine in nursing five storeys below the Opera House.
“My apologies,” he said as the kettle whistled. Before she could move he picked up a cloth and swiftly removed it from the heat, placing it on the table with a hopeful little smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Relieved, Meg smiled back, fetching cups and tea leaves. “You didn’t. I was just... surprised to see you up so early.”
Erik ran a hand over the visible side of his face and tried to contain a yawn. “That woman selling mackerel on the corner woke me. Then the milkman arrived, and the coalman with his appallingly tuneless whistling...”
“I should have warned you.” She splashed milk into a cup, and offered the sugar bowl; he shook his head, and so she busied herself with the kettle and teapot. “It is a little noisy first thing. I’m always tired after a performance so I don’t really notice it any more.”
Ever the gentleman, he waited for her to sit before taking the seat opposite. Meg wondered idly where he had learnt his impeccable manners; he could certainly teach the so-called nobles who waited with flowers and promises at the stage door and seemed to think that the ballet rats were their property a thing or two. “I should have expected it,” he said, uneven lips twisting ruefully. “After the quiet of my cellars, anywhere would seem cacophonous in comparison.”
They sat in not-quite-companionable silence for a few minutes, Meg nursing her cup and Erik drinking his tea with a practised tilt to avoid knocking the rim against his mask. He was looking much better, she thought, but held his still-healing left arm stiffly even though he had abandoned the sling as soon as the doctor permitted it. Meg knew he was frustrated that the injury to his shoulder caused by a marksman’s bullet prevented him from playing any of his beloved instruments; he had brought his violin from his underground home and cast longing glances towards the ancient upright piano which stood in the corner of the sitting room when he thought no one was looking. She could understand, missing the orchestra and the sound of the beating of her mother’s cane on the boards as she called out her criticism and directions, missing losing herself in the music and the dance. Being a ballerina was not just a job, it was her life; the closure of the Opera Populaire had taken away the reason for her existence.
She must have sighed again for Erik glanced at her, eyebrow raised quizzically. “Is something the matter, Little Meg?” he asked with surprising gentleness.
“No,” she told him, and his brow lifted higher. There was a pause and then, taking a gulp of her cooling tea, she blurted, “Do you think we’ll ever be able to go back to the Opera?”
He leaned back in his chair, apparently very interested in the damp patch in the corner of the ceiling, and said eventually, “I don’t know.”
“You seemed certain a month ago.”
“Then I was sure that those in the Ministry of Arts with a grain of intelligence would not wish to let such an ornament as the Populaire go.” Erik’s fingers tightened around the handle of his tea cup. “Until those idiots Andre and Firmin arrived, we were riding high in public estimation. Do you remember the reaction we received for Robert le Diable?”
Meg did. She had been one of the youngest of the corps then, quite new to the stage. Mathilde, the prima donna before Carlotta’s tumultuous arrival, brought the house down with her soaring soprano voice and lavish costumes as the Princess Isabelle. It was the first time that Meg had seen an audience give a unanimous standing ovation; the production was so popular that the run was extended for another month, and the following season they gave another of Meyerbeer’s operas, Margherita d’Anjou, with similar results. “It was wonderful, exhilarating. I loved it. All I ever wanted to do was dance,” she admitted. “Maman said that I was dancing before I could even talk. Out on that stage, the music flowing through me, I always felt like... like someone else. Someone amazing. Does that sound ridiculous?”
Erik’s expression, which had begun to contort in impotent fury towards the recently-departed managers, softened. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“When you sang with Christine in Don Juan...” Meg hesitated, but he said nothing and so she continued, emboldened, “I knew you were her Angel of Music, but I had no idea your voice was so beautiful. Did you want to perform? When you were younger, that is?”
Still he did not speak, and she began to fear that she had angered him, but at last he released a slow breath and said, “Of course. For a while, just like you it was all I wanted, and I tried hard to convince theatre managers and impresarios that I could. But I quickly learned that no one wants to hear a monster sing, or if they do, it is not grand opera that they wish to hear. Drunken carnival revellers would rather listen to mucky ballads or tales of romantic yearning; if presented with something not to their taste they are quick to express their disapproval.”
Curious to a fault, Meg could not help asking, “What did they do?”
“It is not fit for a lady’s ears.” Erik’s mouth became a thin line, and she mentally kicked herself for being so tactless. “Let us say that I still bear the scars and leave it at that.”
Silence fell between them once more, punctuated by the ticking of the sitting room clock and the cries of the traders in the street. Meg looked down at her empty teacup. “I’m sorry, Erik,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
For a very long time he did not move, and then, much to her surprise, his large, long-fingered hand reached across the table to brush hers. He withdrew it almost immediately, as if afraid that his touch might offend her, but when she raised her head there was a strange lop-sided smile on his face. “You have done nothing which needs my forgiveness, Meg,” he told her. “In fact, you have been very kind to me, and I am grateful.”
Blushing, she shook her head. “I need no thanks.”
“You are too modest, Little Giry. Hold your head up high, or you will never become a prima ballerina.”
Now it was Meg’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “That is a dream I can hardly afford to entertain when I am unemployed, and likely to remain so,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.
Abruptly, Erik stood, sweeping the cups from the table and setting them upon the drainer. “If there is one thing I have learned over the last few weeks, it is to never give up hope.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, his mismatched gaze piercing. “The future has yet to be written; anything can happen.”
Meg watched him as he began to wash the dishes, an extraordinary man doing the most mundane of tasks, and unaccountably found that she believed him.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2607
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Living with a former Opera Ghost takes some adjustment.
HAPPY FAMILIES
It was rather like sharing your home with a wild animal, Meg mused, never knowing when it might bite or scratch. A stray dog, kicked and beaten, would regard a hand held out with confusion, misinterpreting your tentative attempts at kindness and friendship because it had no frame of reference and didn’t understand what you were trying to do. How could it, if the only reason a hand had been extended towards it before was to cause pain and humiliation?
The Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the Living Corpse, or simply Erik to those select few who knew him well, had been on the fringes of Meg’s life for more than a decade. Though she never met him face to face until very recently, she was always aware that there was another person taking her mother’s attention; inquisitive and perceptive, even as a child she did not miss Madame Giry’s frequent absences from their little apartment, had puzzled over the extra food which appeared on a regular basis in the wicker shopping basket. It was only after she joined the corps de ballet at the Opera and saw the way the management deferred to their ballet mistress as she delivered the notes and instructions from ‘the Phantom’ that Meg began to carefully put two and two together. The other dancers were targeted for pranks and frights from OG, but she never was. None of her belongings went missing, and if she caught a glimpse of a cloak disappearing around a corner or spotted the gleam of a white mask high up in the flies she felt no terror, only curiosity.
It was strange, therefore, to be within a few feet of the man she had wondered about for so long. A practical girl, unlike her superstitious fellows she had not believed that the Ghost was real, a wraith or spectre haunting the corridors of the theatre. Ghosts could not write letters, drop sandbags and backcloths or teach a chorus girl to sing like a nightingale, any more than they were capable of making Carlotta croak like a toad or send a chandelier plummeting into the auditorium. Meg had been fascinated by tales of the elusive Phantom, by the aura of power and fear that one man could wrap around the Opera and everyone in it; she longed to know exactly who he was, and why he should feel the need to hide behind such an elaborate deception.
Now she did. The charade had ended, the facade crumbled, and the Phantom was nothing more than human, sleeping in the bed she had given up for him, sitting in her late father’s armchair and filling the flat with his formidable presence. He did not intend to, she was sure, but he sometimes made her nervous. Tall and broad shouldered, though almost painfully thin, he dominated their tiny living space; he had to duck under lintels and when he sat before the fire his legs stretched across the rag rug almost to Meg’s own chair. Her mother, having no ballet rats to train at present, treated him almost as a project, trying to rectify his gauntness by piling food onto his plate and keeping up a constant stream of advice which eventually had Erik’s strong white fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Meg wanted to tell him to ignore the nagging, that Madame Giry spoke to everyone in the same way, but she didn’t quite dare. It was one thing to be bright and chatty when he was a convalescent confined to his bed, or had her best friend at his side; quite another if you were facing his brooding, masked countenance across the breakfast table. One wrong word could raise his hackles, could bring cold fury to the side of his face not hidden by the mask. Several times over the past few weeks apparently innocent conversations had ended with Erik retreating into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him so forcefully that the pictures on the wall swung madly back and forth.
He was missing his own home and the solitude it provided, of that she was certain though he never said as much. It was quite obvious that he had not lived in such close proximity to others in a very long time, if he ever had at all. To the outside world he was a cousin of Madame Giry’s, come to stay so that he might promote his work in Paris and try to find a publisher for his compositions, but behind the doors of the apartment it was hard to imagine a more awkward family group. Erik was used to pleasing himself, keeping his own irregular hours; fitting in with a household was something that he just did not understand. Sometimes he stayed up all night, and they would find him exactly as they had left him, still in his chair before the cold remains of a fire, a piece of paper covered with staves and hastily scribbled notes spread across his knee; at others he would go to bed early and sleep until noon, forcing the Girys to creep past his door lest they waken him and unleash his temper. On one occasion, when Christine was visiting, Meg had accidentally walked in on them when her friend was patiently explaining the need to think of others as well as one’s self. Not wishing to cause embarrassment, Meg tiptoed away before they realised she was there; when she mentioned the incident to her mother, Madame Giry gave a sigh of relief and declared that of anyone could tame Erik it would be Christine. “After all,” she said, “Christine is the only person he ever listens to!”
________________________________________
Time was passing, disturbingly quickly.
Meg hummed to herself as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She had discovered a note pinned to her pillow when she awoke that morning, her mother’s neat handwriting informing her that she had gone to speak to an old friend about some possible employment. Meg knew which old friend she meant: Madame d’Herblay, a former ballerina who had retired after an injury which left her unable to dance en pointe and now ran a select academy for the daughters of the aspiring and wealthy middle classes, teaching them deportment and the correct way to waltz. Privately, Meg thought that she would rather walk over red hot coals than deal with a crowd of giggling schoolgirls, but she knew as well as Madame Giry that grateful as they were for Erik’s financial assistance they could not live upon his charity forever. With the Opera Populaire still closed, they would have no choice but to seek a situation elsewhere.
It was a depressing thought, and Meg sighed, wistfully remembering the opulent interior of the theatre, the fantastic set pieces and the boxes full of the fashionable cream of society. Almost unconsciously she stood upon her toes, moving across the kitchen in time to the tune in her head as she prepared crockery and jars of jam and marmalade on the battered table that was barely big enough for three people. She had been dancing for almost as long as she could remember, her body falling into routines and rhythms that were as natural to her as breathing in and out; even with no rehearsals to attend, no performance that evening she kept up her exercises, as much for herself as for her mother, who would expect nothing less. Waiting for the kettle to boil and holding the back of a chair in lieu of a barre, she executed a grand plie, followed by an eleve and tendu and ending with a rond de jambe. The latter was a movement which earned the ballet chorus much scolding from Madame Giry when they were tired or sloppy and they all dreaded the extra rehearsals she would inflict upon them.
As she straightened, she felt eyes upon her and was startled to see Erik standing in the doorway. He had approached without making a sound, and she pulled her wrap closer around herself, self-conscious even though she was wearing a very thick nightgown and the former Phantom himself was in a similar state of undress, his hair ruffled by sleep and his richly coloured oriental robe covering his bedclothes. Seeing this, Meg relaxed slightly; he looked less the commanding Opera Ghost and more like the wounded man she had helped Christine in nursing five storeys below the Opera House.
“My apologies,” he said as the kettle whistled. Before she could move he picked up a cloth and swiftly removed it from the heat, placing it on the table with a hopeful little smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Relieved, Meg smiled back, fetching cups and tea leaves. “You didn’t. I was just... surprised to see you up so early.”
Erik ran a hand over the visible side of his face and tried to contain a yawn. “That woman selling mackerel on the corner woke me. Then the milkman arrived, and the coalman with his appallingly tuneless whistling...”
“I should have warned you.” She splashed milk into a cup, and offered the sugar bowl; he shook his head, and so she busied herself with the kettle and teapot. “It is a little noisy first thing. I’m always tired after a performance so I don’t really notice it any more.”
Ever the gentleman, he waited for her to sit before taking the seat opposite. Meg wondered idly where he had learnt his impeccable manners; he could certainly teach the so-called nobles who waited with flowers and promises at the stage door and seemed to think that the ballet rats were their property a thing or two. “I should have expected it,” he said, uneven lips twisting ruefully. “After the quiet of my cellars, anywhere would seem cacophonous in comparison.”
They sat in not-quite-companionable silence for a few minutes, Meg nursing her cup and Erik drinking his tea with a practised tilt to avoid knocking the rim against his mask. He was looking much better, she thought, but held his still-healing left arm stiffly even though he had abandoned the sling as soon as the doctor permitted it. Meg knew he was frustrated that the injury to his shoulder caused by a marksman’s bullet prevented him from playing any of his beloved instruments; he had brought his violin from his underground home and cast longing glances towards the ancient upright piano which stood in the corner of the sitting room when he thought no one was looking. She could understand, missing the orchestra and the sound of the beating of her mother’s cane on the boards as she called out her criticism and directions, missing losing herself in the music and the dance. Being a ballerina was not just a job, it was her life; the closure of the Opera Populaire had taken away the reason for her existence.
She must have sighed again for Erik glanced at her, eyebrow raised quizzically. “Is something the matter, Little Meg?” he asked with surprising gentleness.
“No,” she told him, and his brow lifted higher. There was a pause and then, taking a gulp of her cooling tea, she blurted, “Do you think we’ll ever be able to go back to the Opera?”
He leaned back in his chair, apparently very interested in the damp patch in the corner of the ceiling, and said eventually, “I don’t know.”
“You seemed certain a month ago.”
“Then I was sure that those in the Ministry of Arts with a grain of intelligence would not wish to let such an ornament as the Populaire go.” Erik’s fingers tightened around the handle of his tea cup. “Until those idiots Andre and Firmin arrived, we were riding high in public estimation. Do you remember the reaction we received for Robert le Diable?”
Meg did. She had been one of the youngest of the corps then, quite new to the stage. Mathilde, the prima donna before Carlotta’s tumultuous arrival, brought the house down with her soaring soprano voice and lavish costumes as the Princess Isabelle. It was the first time that Meg had seen an audience give a unanimous standing ovation; the production was so popular that the run was extended for another month, and the following season they gave another of Meyerbeer’s operas, Margherita d’Anjou, with similar results. “It was wonderful, exhilarating. I loved it. All I ever wanted to do was dance,” she admitted. “Maman said that I was dancing before I could even talk. Out on that stage, the music flowing through me, I always felt like... like someone else. Someone amazing. Does that sound ridiculous?”
Erik’s expression, which had begun to contort in impotent fury towards the recently-departed managers, softened. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“When you sang with Christine in Don Juan...” Meg hesitated, but he said nothing and so she continued, emboldened, “I knew you were her Angel of Music, but I had no idea your voice was so beautiful. Did you want to perform? When you were younger, that is?”
Still he did not speak, and she began to fear that she had angered him, but at last he released a slow breath and said, “Of course. For a while, just like you it was all I wanted, and I tried hard to convince theatre managers and impresarios that I could. But I quickly learned that no one wants to hear a monster sing, or if they do, it is not grand opera that they wish to hear. Drunken carnival revellers would rather listen to mucky ballads or tales of romantic yearning; if presented with something not to their taste they are quick to express their disapproval.”
Curious to a fault, Meg could not help asking, “What did they do?”
“It is not fit for a lady’s ears.” Erik’s mouth became a thin line, and she mentally kicked herself for being so tactless. “Let us say that I still bear the scars and leave it at that.”
Silence fell between them once more, punctuated by the ticking of the sitting room clock and the cries of the traders in the street. Meg looked down at her empty teacup. “I’m sorry, Erik,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
For a very long time he did not move, and then, much to her surprise, his large, long-fingered hand reached across the table to brush hers. He withdrew it almost immediately, as if afraid that his touch might offend her, but when she raised her head there was a strange lop-sided smile on his face. “You have done nothing which needs my forgiveness, Meg,” he told her. “In fact, you have been very kind to me, and I am grateful.”
Blushing, she shook her head. “I need no thanks.”
“You are too modest, Little Giry. Hold your head up high, or you will never become a prima ballerina.”
Now it was Meg’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “That is a dream I can hardly afford to entertain when I am unemployed, and likely to remain so,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.
Abruptly, Erik stood, sweeping the cups from the table and setting them upon the drainer. “If there is one thing I have learned over the last few weeks, it is to never give up hope.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, his mismatched gaze piercing. “The future has yet to be written; anything can happen.”
Meg watched him as he began to wash the dishes, an extraordinary man doing the most mundane of tasks, and unaccountably found that she believed him.
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Date: 2012-06-29 12:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-29 02:20 pm (UTC)