charleygirl | Fic | Phantom of the Opera | The Garish Light of Day 32/?

Title: The Garish Light of Day 32/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2109
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: 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: A summons...

ON THE CARPET

Erik stood outside the managers’ office, staring almost transfixed at the wooden panelling of the door. He’d never actually entered the room this way; all his previous visits had been through a secret entrance behind the bookcase, flitting in to leave his notes or remove scores he deemed inappropriate for performance. Once he’d even rummaged through Lefevre’s waste paper basket in search of the damning reviews of a particular show that the man had just discarded; when Lefevre returned he found the journalist’s remarks scrawled across his blotter in red ink, Erik’s own opinions, largely in agreement, beside them. No review had been ignored after that, however bad.

One of the runners had come to him with the summons as he made his way down the corridor towards the wings. The note was short and to the point and he could not have refused if he valued his position within the theatre; had he not a life to make and a future wife to support he might have vanished there and then and left the Opera to its own devices, but much as he detested the thought he had need of the job Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine were offering and he could not afford to ignore their request that he attend them in their office at his earliest convenience. At least, he reflected, slowly climbing the stairs to the administrative wing, speaking with them would hold off the moment when he had to face the rest of the company in the wake of Saturday’s disaster.

“Enter.” The response to his knock was curt; Erik opened the door to find both managers within, Marigny seated behind the desk and Fontaine standing by the window, cigar in hand. The latter turned slightly, offering an encouraging smile. There was a newspaper on the desk, folded to highlight a particular report; as Marigny waved him to a chair Erik was able to read, upside down, the headline at the top of the column and his fingers clenched involuntarily, his jaw stiffening. So Augustine Albert had gone to the press...

“I am sorry to have had to ask you here for reasons contrary than those we originally intended,” Marigny said. He deliberately turned the newspaper to that Erik could see it properly. “This morning’s Figaro. I assume from your expression that you had not seen it.”

“No, Monsieur, I had not. Saturday night was rather... distressing for me.” Erik hesitated, disinclined to elaborate unless he had no choice. “I did not leave my home until I came to the theatre half an hour ago.”

“Can you throw any light on Mademoiselle Albert’s allegations? She claims that... well, not to put too fine a point on it she says that you attacked her, forced her to look upon your face, which she found – forgive me – hideous to behold.” Marigny cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Fontaine moved from the window, coming to stand behind his colleague. “Claudin, we are in no way ready to believe this without hearing your own account of the situation,” he said, for once entirely serious.

“I am grateful for that, Monsieur.” Erik found himself unable to look at either of them, ashamed of the compassion he could read in Fontaine’s eyes and the suspicion that lurked in Marigny’s. He turned his gaze towards his shoes, noticing the scuff marks in the polish from his trek through the tunnels and resisting the urge to dust them off with his handkerchief. He took a deep breath. “The truth is, Messieurs, that Mademoiselle Albert forced herself upon me. Like many woman I have encountered over the years she was curious about my mask; when I tried to repulse her, she pulled it off. She was... unprepared for what she found beneath.”

The room was suddenly unbearably hot, he wanted to tug at his collar for respite but his fingers trembled; he had never spoken to anyone about his face but Christine and Antoinette. When a hand gently landed upon his shoulder he almost shot from the chair to grab its owner by the throat but stopped himself just in time; glancing up in surprise he found that he was looking straight at Olivier Fontaine. The man’s nose had the rosy hue of the heavy drinker, and there were broken veins in his cheeks, but his expression was sympathetic.

“It is not our intention to judge you, Claudin,” he said quietly, throwing a pointed look towards his partner. “We were aware that there must be a very good reason why you wear the mask; until now we had no thought of asking what that reason was. Unfortunately, in view of this story in the newspaper - ”

Erik gritted his teeth. “I understand, Monsieur. You need to know that you were not intending to place a monster on your payroll.”

“There was no question of that. My dear fellow, many men have been maimed or disfigured by accident or in battle. You have nothing to be ashamed of. My own dear brother was a cripple with a twisted spine, but he made his way in the world upon his own merits. There is no reason why you should not do the same.”

“I thank you for your sentiments, sir, but I doubt if your brother was shunned and vilified by society because of his appearance,” Erik said, his tone harsh. “Augustine Albert reacted to my face no differently to any other who has had the misfortune to see it.”

“Monsieur Claudin.” Marigny coughed again, and it was obvious that he would rather someone else made the request that had fallen to him. “I am afraid that we must ask you to remove your mask. Until we know the truth for ourselves, it is impossible for us to decide upon the issue one way or another.”

“It would not be an issue if we had faith in the integrity of our staff,” Fontaine muttered, and had the situation been different Erik would have smiled.

“That would not be a good idea, Monsieur,” he told Marigny. “My face is not a pretty one. Grown men have been known to faint at the sight.”

The manager paled slightly, but he said, “Even so, we must insist. We cannot have accusations like this thrown around.”

Erik looked the man in the eye. “Is this a condition of my continued employment?” he asked bluntly.

Marigny exchanged a glance with his colleague. Fontaine shook his head; after a beat Marigny turned back to Erik and nodded. “I am afraid that it is. If you will not trust us, it becomes impossible for us to trust you.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I am sure that you must understand that.”

“Oh, I understand, Monsieur.” Erik struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice. Reaching up slowly he found the almost invisible cord that secured the mask; for a moment the knot refused to budge, his bandaged fingers clumsy, but in all too short a time it gave and the mask fell forwards into his waiting hand. Sitting up straight and holding his head high, he waited, eyes closed, for their reaction. He had seen too many appalled faces over the years; he could not bear to watch as they regarded him with horror and disgust.

Where mere seconds ago time had seemed to move too fast, now it slowed as though its passage had the consistency of treacle. Erik sat there for what felt like an eternity, the air of the warm spring day on his distorted flesh, hearing only the breathing of the managers and the thumping of his own heart in his ears. At last there was another touch upon his shoulder and Fontaine was telling him softly that he might hide his face once more. Gratefully he replaced the mask, opening his eyes to see Marigny, shock visible upon his own countenance, holding a glass of cognac in one shaking hand. Beside him Fontaine was pouring another, which he passed to Erik; gratefully Erik drank, the fiery trail of the liquid as it ran down his throat a distraction from the shame that welled up inside him once more. He had thought his days as a sideshow, being gawped at by all and sundry, were long gone; it was almost terrifying how easily those shades could be summoned from the past.

“If I may enquire,” Fontaine said carefully, “How did you... that is, I mean - ”

“A birth defect.” Erik drained the last of the brandy. “This poor excuse for a face has been with me my entire life.”

The manager shook his head, his ruddy features creased in sorrow. Erik had to look away; he couldn’t stand pity. A heavy silence fell, its presence almost tangible in the room. The ticking of the ridiculously ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece seemed deafening; he fixed his gaze upon the pendulum, watching it swing back and forth, back and forth, until he was almost mesmerised.

There was the solid clink of a glass being put down, drawing his attention abruptly back towards the desk. Marigny seemed to have regained some of his composure, aided by the alcohol. He regarded Erik steadily, hands clasped before him. “You must accept our apologies, Claudin,” he said. “It was not our wish to put you through any form of trial, and I hope that you do not feel we have made unreasonable demands of you. There has been considerable support from within the company, many have come to your defence, but we had to know the truth for ourselves. I am sure you can appreciate that.”

Erik barely heard the entire sentence, his mind latching onto the words which caused surprise and confusion to bubble up within him. “My defence? Who has been defending me?” he asked incredulously.

“Half the chorus,” Fontaine told him with a smile. “Not to mention Madame Giry, and of course Mademoiselle Daae, who was quick enough with her actions on Saturday night.” He winked, but Erik stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean?”

Fontaine glanced at Marigny, who was wearing a distinctly disapproving expression. The younger man scratched his head, pulling a face. “I think perhaps it might be best if you asked her about that,” he said, and then added with a glee that had Marigny rolling his eyes, “I definitely wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of her, that’s all I’ll say!”

“We can make a complaint to the editors of Le Figaro on your behalf, if that is what you wish.” Marigny thankfully seemed determined to draw the conversation back onto professional lines. “In printing such accusations they are guilty of defamation of character; it may be possible to sue them.”

“I thank you, Monsieur, but I would rather retain my privacy as far as possible,” Erik replied, a little voice in the back of his mind asking him precisely what Christine could have done to gain Fontaine’s amused approval. “I have no desire to become a public spectacle.” Again, he added silently.

“Of course, of course. That is perfectly understandable. But this incident cannot be allowed to pass without some action on our behalf.” When Marigny frowned, the skin on his bald pate wrinkled along with his brow. “It seems that Mademoiselle Albert has chosen not to show her face today, but I can assure you that we will speak to her as soon as she returns. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated; even had she not caused so much distress, it is a requirement of all members of staff that they do not approach the press upon any matter without approval of the management. She has broken the terms of her contract and as such can be dismissed.”

Though he would have welcomed such just desserts for the woman who had exposed his secret in public, Erik found himself shaking his head. “If you are willing to agree, Messieurs, I would prefer to deal with Mademoiselle Albert myself. She is after all under my jurisdiction; that is, if you still wish to employ me as chorus master after this... debacle.”

Before either of the managers could answer there was a knock at the door. With a muttered curse Marigny called, “Come in!”

Jean-Paul, the runner who had brought Erik the summons earlier, stuck his tousled head around the frame. “Begging your pardon, Monsieur, but I’ve a message for Monsieur Claudin from Madame Giry. It’s urgent.”

“What is it, Jean-Paul?” Erik asked as Marigny waved a hand in assent.

The boy’s freckled face was crumpled in concern. “Madame said you should come at once, sir. Mademoiselle Daae’s been taken ill.”