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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 38/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 4045
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: New arrivals prompt a revelation.
MAN’S BEST FRIEND
“There’s a gypsy fair in town,” Hortense announced gleefully. “I saw a poster on my way here. They have tumblers and magicians... even a man who breathes fire!”
Giselle clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Shall we go?”
“Of course!” The other ballerina tossed her hair, the white ribbon that held back the curls fluttering. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. There was a very good-looking man with the one handing out flyers and I had a little chat with him. He said he’s in charge and that if we come and find him when we arrive as a favour to me he’ll let us in for nothing!”
“And did he tell you what you’d have to do in return for this ‘favour’?” asked Meg, glancing up from the pointe shoe she was repairing. “No one like that ever does anything for free.”
Hortense scowled. “You’re so prim and proper, Meg. Don’t you ever have any fun?”
“Plenty. I just choose not to have it with unsavoury characters from travelling fairs,” Meg retorted, adding when her colleague’s expression darkened, “Come on, Hortense, this is the sort of thing Maman is always warning us against. If you are too free with people they will take advantage.”
“Oh, stop being so fusty. I think it’s a marvellous idea, Hortense,” said Dorothée, and the other ballet rats nodded in agreement. “When did you have in mind?”
Pleased to have a captive audience, Hortense sat down, shooting Meg a glare. “I was thinking tonight. There’s no performance and Grigore – that’s his name, you know – told me that they have a special show on. He said it’s delightfully gruesome: there’s a man with no eyes and two women joined at the head who sing and dance and a little boy who’s no more than eight inches tall!”
“What rubbish,” muttered Meg. Christine, who had been reading in the corner, drawn into the dancers’ lounge to keep her friend company, stared at Hortense in horror.
“How can you even think of attending such a show?” she demanded, images of Erik locked in a cage and forced to sing, enduring the jeers and abuse of the audience, flashing across her mind’s eye. “Think of those poor people; how must they feel, imprisoned in a sideshow just so that someone like you can find amusement in their plight?”
Hortense pulled a face, to the amusement of some of the other girls. “Since Christine became engaged to a freak she can’t help but feel sorry for them,” she said, drawing gasps from one or two, and turned to the outraged soprano. “Those people aren’t doing it against their will, you know. It’s their job.”
“How do you know that?” Meg asked before Christine could respond. “Did your new friend tell you?”
“As a matter of fact he did, but it’s common knowledge, Meg. Everyone knows that nobody but the fair owners would employ people like that,” Hortense replied scornfully.
Christine stared at the dark-haired ballerina and shook her head sadly. “Have you no pity for them, Hortense?” she asked.
“Why should I? They are lucky to have food in their mouths and a roof over their heads, after all; they could just as easily be begging on the streets or starving to death in the gutter,” Hortense declared, and was rewarded with nodding heads and murmurs of agreement from the other ballet rats. “It’s those of us who attend the fairs that keep them safe and warm with our money.”
Meg snorted. “And how much will you be contributing towards their welfare by sneaking in for nothing?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Christine said, her fingers clenching around her book so hard that she realised she’d made deep indentations in the leather binding with her nails. It was one of Erik’s, borrowed from his extensive library; she hoped he wouldn’t be cross with her for damaging the cover. With a great effort she relaxed her hold and drew in a wobbly breath. “I thought that we were more enlightened than this, especially here. To listen to you talk anyone would think we were back in the middle ages! Going to stare at people trapped in cages for amusement...!”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Christine.” Dorothée waved a dismissive hand. “Whoever heard of anyone locked in a cage? These are people, not animals, and they’re displaying themselves because they want to, not because they’re prisoners!”
Hortense snorted. “Maybe she thinks the fair owners have come for Monsieur Claudin.”
Christine hugged the book to her and looked round at them. It was as though she was seeing those she had once regarded as friends with completely fresh eyes, looking through them to lay their prejudices bare. She did not find it a pleasant experience. “I used to think I was naïve,” she said softly, “but you have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” Turning on her heel she left the room and the group of puzzled ballerinas behind.
________________________________________
“There are gypsies in town,” Christine said later as she and Erik were walking through the twilit streets towards her flat. She felt his hand tense in hers, gripping her fingers, but he said nothing. “The ballet rats are attending the fair. They have... human oddities on display.”
“That is hardly unusual,” he replied after a long pause, his voice tight. “If there was a paying audience for it they would probably bring back burning at the stake.”
“The girls seemed convinced that the people in those sideshows were there through choice, that it was how they earned their living. How could anyone take such a view?”
Erik shrugged. “In truth, the majority of them are indeed there because it keeps them fed and clothed. If a deformity is too severe the fairs are the only places that will take them; often their families will make a deal with the showman when the afflicted one is a child and the travelling community will take them in for a fee.” He looked down at his shoes, obviously uncomfortable. “There are very few working class parents who wish to have a disfigured child; they are a drain on the family finances when if they were whole and healthy they could contribute through finding employment.”
“Erik...” She hesitated, not sure whether asking the question was a good idea but feeling compelled to after all that had been said that afternoon. “When you were travelling with the fair... Madame Giry said something about a cage...”
“Ah.” Raising his gaze he met her eyes and she could see the shame lurking there, just below the surface. “I did wonder if she had mentioned our first encounter to you. I confess that I do not recall it but then there were so many faces... I did my best to forget them.”
They had stopped walking; realising that they were only a few blocks from her home Christine tugged on his hand, leading him round the corner and towards a little park. It wasn’t much, just a few trees and a handful of bushes laid out around a tiny fountain but it was secluded and empty. There was a bench set to one side and they took a seat; Erik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely between them. Now that the subject had been broached he seemed unable to look at her, concentrating his attention instead on the fountain and the stream of water as it trickled gently into a stone bowl.
“Why did they lock you up?” Christine asked gently.
“Because they had no other way of keeping me there,” he replied. “Most freaks are obtained as children; outside the fairs very few reach adulthood. They are either shunned by friends and family or are born weak and their ailments are left untreated because the doctors are too horrified to help. To find someone with a face like mine, fully grown and apparently sound in wind and limb, was too much of a temptation.”
She laid a hand on his arm, rubbing it in what she hoped was a comforting manner. “How did you..?”
“They came to me first. I was trying to earn a little extra money on my return from India and so I was singing for my supper on street corners in the evenings, taking advantage of the shadows to hide my mask. The owner of the fair, a great brute with a black beard called Dumitru, divining what I was concealing behind it, offered me a wage and a minimal share of the takings if I would join them and display my face. I refused.” Erik drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straight, about to get to his feet. “It’s late and I must get you home. You don’t want to hear this story.”
Christine held him back. “No, please, I do.”
“You really want to know how the man you are going to marry lived as an animal for almost two years?” His eyes flashed and he looked away again. “You will be disgusted with me.”
“I won’t.” She touched his unmasked cheek, stroking the delicate skin just below his eye socket with her thumb. “No matter what you tell me, I will never think any less of you. Please; I want to know who you are, what you did before we met.”
Erik sighed. “The story is not a pretty one. You will find no fairytales in my past, Christine.”
She frowned. “Do you really think me such a child still, that I cannot handle the truth?” she asked.
His mismatched gaze was hopelessly sad. “I don’t want to drive you away.”
“You won’t.” Christine took his hand again, interlacing her fingers with his. “Please tell me.”
His eyes darted from her and then back again as though he was fighting with himself. Eventually he nodded. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, the tone level. “Late one evening I repaired to a tavern at the low end of town. It was not exactly a salubrious establishment but it was dark and no one asked questions. I situated myself in a quiet corner with a drink and counted my takings, thinking about my next move; I had a little money saved but no home and no one was likely to offer me a job even though I had been working as an architect in Venice and then in Persia. I could have presented myself at the stage door of one of the less-prestigious theatres but I knew from experience that should I somehow manage to gain an audition I would be laughed off the stage. While I sat there I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I did not realise someone had switched my drink for another.”
“One of the gypsies?”
“If they were there when I entered I failed to notice them. On my travels from the East I picked up a nasty infection which became pneumonia and incapacitated me for quite some time; I was still weak when I reached Paris and so my senses were not working at full capacity. My thirst overcame me and I took a long draught from the glass, not realising until I had swallowed that the taste was wrong.” Erik’s free hand clenched into a fist on his knee and his face contorted at the memory. “Before I knew it my mind was fuddled and I could barely sit up straight. I smelt something sweet and sickly; a moment later a cloth was shoved over my face and I was falling into darkness. When I awoke I was lying in filthy straw on the floor of an iron cage; I could hear the squeaking of cartwheels and from the shuddering motion it was obvious I was moving but I could see nothing for the cage was covered with a tarpaulin. My belongings had been taken and there was no sign of my mask.”
“Oh, my... they abducted you?” Christine felt tears spring into her eyes and she flung an arm around his neck, pulling him close to her. “How could anyone treat a fellow human being in such a way?”
“They saw in me a money-spinner and had no intention of losing it. Of course, now that I was there against my will they had no obligation to pay me which made the deal even sweeter for them.” By now the even tone had been lost; his voice was low and hoarse and his body shook against hers. “For nearly two years I was forced to show my face, performing as the Living Corpse. They allowed me my violin when it became clear that the paying public were fascinated by my singing; at first I refused to do so but Dumitru and his henchmen made it clear that any dissention would not be tolerated when they beat me unconscious more than once. And if my performance did not meet their expectations there was always... well, you’ve seen my scars.”
She hardly wanted to voice the words that were on her tongue but they emerged by their own volition. “A whip...?”
He did not deny it. “You can see why I had to escape.”
“Oh, Erik.” Christine laid her head on his shoulder. “You have suffered so much. If only I could have been there - ”
“You were just a child, my dear, and far away in Sweden. What could you have done?” He stroked her hair tenderly. “But I thank you for your compassion.”
“How - ” Her voice caught in a hiccup as she tried to swallow the sob that threatened to break from her chest. “How did you escape that vile place?”
Erik seemed to have recovered some of his composure, and his expression was calm when he drew back slightly so that he could see her face. He wiped away the single tear which clung to her lashes with one long finger. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed the hour. “That is a story for another day. I have upset you quite enough.”
“Erik - ”
He shook his head. “Not now. Please, Christine, allow me a little time. I will tell you, but I need... I need to think.”
“Of course.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry; I did not mean to push you.”
“You are curious, and quite right to be so.” Erik smiled lopsidedly. “I cannot blame you. But, Christine, please promise me something.”
“Anything. You know that you may ask anything of me.”
His face became serious. “Promise me that you will go nowhere near that fair. I cannot bear the thought of you in close proximity to something so... so...” He struggled to find the words, trailing off in frustration.
“I promise,” Christine said and the smile returned. He nodded, getting to his feet; their hands were still entwined and so he helped her to stand, drawing her from her seat with his usual grace.
“Now, we really must go; I should have had you home an hour ago. We have a busy day tomorrow and you must be well rested.”
Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her from the garden, tucking her hand through his arm. They had only gone three paces, however, when a sudden noise made her stop, listening, forcing him to do the same. “Can you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what?” He listened, too, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he was humouring her. His lips twitched slightly in annoyance.
“There it is again!” It was a high-pitched whine, and as she strained to catch the sound she realised that it was coming from beneath the bench upon which they had just been sitting. Disentangling herself from Erik Christine jogged back to the seat and crouched, trying to see underneath. It was too dark; the sun was almost beneath the horizon and neither of them had brought a lamp. She waved her hand blindly into the space but found nothing.
Erik sighed, impatiently this time. “Christine, it is probably a child in a neighbouring street; there are bound to be plenty of them in this area and sound carries on nights such as these.”
“Whatever it is sounds as though it is in distress. Oh, Erik, come and help me look; we can’t leave it. It could be a child in trouble – would you leave them if you could do something to help?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t believe that,” she told him and he shook his head, returning to her side. Taking off his hat he knelt, grimacing at the dust and dirt he would be getting on his expensive trousers, and peered beneath the bench. His eyes were more attuned to dim light than Christine’s and she gave a little cry of joy when he reached into the shadows and withdrew a burlap sack with a knot tied in the top. It was old and muddy, wearing through in places, but what made her jump was the fact that the sack was wriggling, undulating as the creature inside tried desperately to fight its way out. The whining became a very definite barking as Erik put it carefully down on the stone paving and began to work on the knot, his musician’s fingers deftly loosening the fastening. The dog – for so it must be – evidently sensed its incipient freedom and began to writhe even more, its yapping getting louder and more excited.
Erik gave the sack a hard look. “Be quiet,” he commanded, and much to Christine’s surprise the dog fell silent and the bag ceased to move as though it were sitting there patiently awaiting its release. After a few more moments the knot came free and Erik opened the sack; a bedraggled ball of chocolate brown hair and sharp teeth all but flew out, hurling itself towards its saviour, tail wagging furiously. Erik, thrown off balance by this onslaught, had to fling out a hand to catch himself before he tumbled over backwards and got dust all over his posterior as well as his knees.
“It’s a spaniel!” Christine cried, recognising the distinctive long, curly ears amongst the animal’s matted and overgrown coat. Carefully, so as not to startle it, she reached out and rested a hand lightly on its back. When she was not thrown off, she gently stroked along its spine, feeling the muscles beneath the ragged hair, and the dog turned its untidy head, rough pink tongue licking her hand. She laughed. “Well, he’s certainly friendly! It is a boy, isn’t it?” she asked Erik, who smirked.
“Very definitely,” he replied, and she blushed.
“He’s adorable. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Erik said, sounding less than enthusiastic. He raised an eyebrow as the spaniel, forepaws resting on the Phantom’s knee and struggling for purchase on the fabric of his trouser leg, wobbled. It barked sharply, stretching up and trying to lick his face. Amused, Christine scooped the dog up, holding it close and rubbing it behind the ears.
“Why should anyone want to dump something so helpless?” she wondered.
Frowning, Erik touched the dog’s wet pink nose with the tip of his finger. “Presumably his owner either couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of him. Perhaps they intended to throw the bag into the river but were unable to go through with it.”
The spaniel gave a yap, which Christine took to be agreement. “That’s appalling!”
“Life is not pleasant,” Erik said, his tone clipped. He climbed to his feet, brushing dirt and dog hair from his knees. “Put him down now; we really must be going.”
“Erik, we can’t leave him!” she exclaimed. “Where will he go? Where will he sleep tonight?”
“We can hardly check him into a hotel! He will be fine; dogs instinctively know how to fend for themselves.”
“You’re thinking of cats. Dogs are pack animals; they need someone to tell them what to do,” Christine said, standing up with the spaniel still in her arms. It was wriggling again, trying to jump out into empty space to get to Erik; she grabbed it clumsily before it could fall. “I won’t leave him here all alone. Should we take him to a police station?”
“I doubt if the person who abandoned him will be anxious to have him back. If you are insisting upon finding him a new home perhaps someone at the Opera - ” Erik began to suggest but she cut him off, eyes shining with a sudden idea.
“Erik, you could take him!” she cried, beaming at the thought. He needed companionship beneath the theatre when she could not be there and all those tunnels would give plenty of exercise. It was a perfect solution!
Erik backed away, horror writ large upon the unmasked side of his face. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It would be perfect,” Christine insisted. The spaniel barked again, lunging towards him once more. “See how he already likes you!”
“If you are so set on the idea, you take him,” he said folding his arms.
“Don’t be so ridiculous. You know perfectly well that Madame Lafarge does not allow pets. Oh, come on, Erik, can you not see the sense of it?” She nuzzled the dog, rubbing her nose against the silky waves of its ear, and looked up at him with her most soulful expression. Erik stared at her and she fluttered her eyelashes for good measure. “You know what it is like to be abandoned; would you make him suffer the same fate?”
His mouth twitched. “That is verging on emotional blackmail, my dear. Where did you learn such tricks?”
“I had instruction from a master. Will you take him?”
Erik threw up his hands in defeat. “Oh, very well. But only temporarily,” he added firmly. “You must find him a proper home as soon as possible.”
“Of course. Thank you, Erik.” Christine leaned up and kissed him, then lifted the spaniel so that it could lick his cheek, which it did enthusiastically, running its tongue over his mask as well. “What shall we call him?”
“He has a collar,” Erik pointed out, looking slightly uncomfortable with such unbridled affection, even if it was from a dog. “Perhaps he already has a name.”
Christine felt rather silly. She lifted the little brass tag between her forefinger and thumb, squinting at the copperplate engraving. “His name is Bruno,” she announced, and looked down into the spaniel’s liquid brown eyes. “Bon Soir, Bruno.”
“Bon Nuit would be more appropriate. It must be nearly eleven o’clock.” Erik took her gently by the arm, steering her out of the garden. Without seeming to he hurried her through the few streets remaining until they were suddenly standing in front of her apartment building. A net curtain twitched on the ground floor and Christine knew it would be her landlady; Madame Lafarge was a nosy woman who liked to keep a sharp eye on all her tenants. On the steps she passed Bruno to her fiancé, making sure that he had a firm hold on the dog.
“You will look after him, won’t you?” she asked, moving his hand so that it cradled the spaniel’s hindquarters. Almost unconsciously the fingers of his other hand scratched Bruno’s shaggy head and the dog gave a contented growl.
“I shall treat him like royalty, I promise. And after this I expect to see you bright and early for your lesson before rehearsal begins,” Erik said sternly. “We have barely started work on Rosalinde.”
Christine curtsied. “But of course, maestro. And we must not neglect the role I am actually to play.” Smiling she kissed him on the nose and then did the same to Bruno. “Goodnight, boys. Sleep well!”
As she climbed the steps and opened the door she turned to see them both watching her with identical surprised expressions. Stuffing a hand into her mouth to hide the giggles that welled up she headed inside and towards the four flights of stairs that led to her flat. She tried to hold on to the image; perhaps it would banish those dreams she sometimes had of the man she loved battered and broken behind impenetrable bars.
She certainly hoped so.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 4045
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: New arrivals prompt a revelation.
“There’s a gypsy fair in town,” Hortense announced gleefully. “I saw a poster on my way here. They have tumblers and magicians... even a man who breathes fire!”
Giselle clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Shall we go?”
“Of course!” The other ballerina tossed her hair, the white ribbon that held back the curls fluttering. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. There was a very good-looking man with the one handing out flyers and I had a little chat with him. He said he’s in charge and that if we come and find him when we arrive as a favour to me he’ll let us in for nothing!”
“And did he tell you what you’d have to do in return for this ‘favour’?” asked Meg, glancing up from the pointe shoe she was repairing. “No one like that ever does anything for free.”
Hortense scowled. “You’re so prim and proper, Meg. Don’t you ever have any fun?”
“Plenty. I just choose not to have it with unsavoury characters from travelling fairs,” Meg retorted, adding when her colleague’s expression darkened, “Come on, Hortense, this is the sort of thing Maman is always warning us against. If you are too free with people they will take advantage.”
“Oh, stop being so fusty. I think it’s a marvellous idea, Hortense,” said Dorothée, and the other ballet rats nodded in agreement. “When did you have in mind?”
Pleased to have a captive audience, Hortense sat down, shooting Meg a glare. “I was thinking tonight. There’s no performance and Grigore – that’s his name, you know – told me that they have a special show on. He said it’s delightfully gruesome: there’s a man with no eyes and two women joined at the head who sing and dance and a little boy who’s no more than eight inches tall!”
“What rubbish,” muttered Meg. Christine, who had been reading in the corner, drawn into the dancers’ lounge to keep her friend company, stared at Hortense in horror.
“How can you even think of attending such a show?” she demanded, images of Erik locked in a cage and forced to sing, enduring the jeers and abuse of the audience, flashing across her mind’s eye. “Think of those poor people; how must they feel, imprisoned in a sideshow just so that someone like you can find amusement in their plight?”
Hortense pulled a face, to the amusement of some of the other girls. “Since Christine became engaged to a freak she can’t help but feel sorry for them,” she said, drawing gasps from one or two, and turned to the outraged soprano. “Those people aren’t doing it against their will, you know. It’s their job.”
“How do you know that?” Meg asked before Christine could respond. “Did your new friend tell you?”
“As a matter of fact he did, but it’s common knowledge, Meg. Everyone knows that nobody but the fair owners would employ people like that,” Hortense replied scornfully.
Christine stared at the dark-haired ballerina and shook her head sadly. “Have you no pity for them, Hortense?” she asked.
“Why should I? They are lucky to have food in their mouths and a roof over their heads, after all; they could just as easily be begging on the streets or starving to death in the gutter,” Hortense declared, and was rewarded with nodding heads and murmurs of agreement from the other ballet rats. “It’s those of us who attend the fairs that keep them safe and warm with our money.”
Meg snorted. “And how much will you be contributing towards their welfare by sneaking in for nothing?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Christine said, her fingers clenching around her book so hard that she realised she’d made deep indentations in the leather binding with her nails. It was one of Erik’s, borrowed from his extensive library; she hoped he wouldn’t be cross with her for damaging the cover. With a great effort she relaxed her hold and drew in a wobbly breath. “I thought that we were more enlightened than this, especially here. To listen to you talk anyone would think we were back in the middle ages! Going to stare at people trapped in cages for amusement...!”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Christine.” Dorothée waved a dismissive hand. “Whoever heard of anyone locked in a cage? These are people, not animals, and they’re displaying themselves because they want to, not because they’re prisoners!”
Hortense snorted. “Maybe she thinks the fair owners have come for Monsieur Claudin.”
Christine hugged the book to her and looked round at them. It was as though she was seeing those she had once regarded as friends with completely fresh eyes, looking through them to lay their prejudices bare. She did not find it a pleasant experience. “I used to think I was naïve,” she said softly, “but you have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” Turning on her heel she left the room and the group of puzzled ballerinas behind.
________________________________________
“There are gypsies in town,” Christine said later as she and Erik were walking through the twilit streets towards her flat. She felt his hand tense in hers, gripping her fingers, but he said nothing. “The ballet rats are attending the fair. They have... human oddities on display.”
“That is hardly unusual,” he replied after a long pause, his voice tight. “If there was a paying audience for it they would probably bring back burning at the stake.”
“The girls seemed convinced that the people in those sideshows were there through choice, that it was how they earned their living. How could anyone take such a view?”
Erik shrugged. “In truth, the majority of them are indeed there because it keeps them fed and clothed. If a deformity is too severe the fairs are the only places that will take them; often their families will make a deal with the showman when the afflicted one is a child and the travelling community will take them in for a fee.” He looked down at his shoes, obviously uncomfortable. “There are very few working class parents who wish to have a disfigured child; they are a drain on the family finances when if they were whole and healthy they could contribute through finding employment.”
“Erik...” She hesitated, not sure whether asking the question was a good idea but feeling compelled to after all that had been said that afternoon. “When you were travelling with the fair... Madame Giry said something about a cage...”
“Ah.” Raising his gaze he met her eyes and she could see the shame lurking there, just below the surface. “I did wonder if she had mentioned our first encounter to you. I confess that I do not recall it but then there were so many faces... I did my best to forget them.”
They had stopped walking; realising that they were only a few blocks from her home Christine tugged on his hand, leading him round the corner and towards a little park. It wasn’t much, just a few trees and a handful of bushes laid out around a tiny fountain but it was secluded and empty. There was a bench set to one side and they took a seat; Erik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely between them. Now that the subject had been broached he seemed unable to look at her, concentrating his attention instead on the fountain and the stream of water as it trickled gently into a stone bowl.
“Why did they lock you up?” Christine asked gently.
“Because they had no other way of keeping me there,” he replied. “Most freaks are obtained as children; outside the fairs very few reach adulthood. They are either shunned by friends and family or are born weak and their ailments are left untreated because the doctors are too horrified to help. To find someone with a face like mine, fully grown and apparently sound in wind and limb, was too much of a temptation.”
She laid a hand on his arm, rubbing it in what she hoped was a comforting manner. “How did you..?”
“They came to me first. I was trying to earn a little extra money on my return from India and so I was singing for my supper on street corners in the evenings, taking advantage of the shadows to hide my mask. The owner of the fair, a great brute with a black beard called Dumitru, divining what I was concealing behind it, offered me a wage and a minimal share of the takings if I would join them and display my face. I refused.” Erik drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straight, about to get to his feet. “It’s late and I must get you home. You don’t want to hear this story.”
Christine held him back. “No, please, I do.”
“You really want to know how the man you are going to marry lived as an animal for almost two years?” His eyes flashed and he looked away again. “You will be disgusted with me.”
“I won’t.” She touched his unmasked cheek, stroking the delicate skin just below his eye socket with her thumb. “No matter what you tell me, I will never think any less of you. Please; I want to know who you are, what you did before we met.”
Erik sighed. “The story is not a pretty one. You will find no fairytales in my past, Christine.”
She frowned. “Do you really think me such a child still, that I cannot handle the truth?” she asked.
His mismatched gaze was hopelessly sad. “I don’t want to drive you away.”
“You won’t.” Christine took his hand again, interlacing her fingers with his. “Please tell me.”
His eyes darted from her and then back again as though he was fighting with himself. Eventually he nodded. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, the tone level. “Late one evening I repaired to a tavern at the low end of town. It was not exactly a salubrious establishment but it was dark and no one asked questions. I situated myself in a quiet corner with a drink and counted my takings, thinking about my next move; I had a little money saved but no home and no one was likely to offer me a job even though I had been working as an architect in Venice and then in Persia. I could have presented myself at the stage door of one of the less-prestigious theatres but I knew from experience that should I somehow manage to gain an audition I would be laughed off the stage. While I sat there I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I did not realise someone had switched my drink for another.”
“One of the gypsies?”
“If they were there when I entered I failed to notice them. On my travels from the East I picked up a nasty infection which became pneumonia and incapacitated me for quite some time; I was still weak when I reached Paris and so my senses were not working at full capacity. My thirst overcame me and I took a long draught from the glass, not realising until I had swallowed that the taste was wrong.” Erik’s free hand clenched into a fist on his knee and his face contorted at the memory. “Before I knew it my mind was fuddled and I could barely sit up straight. I smelt something sweet and sickly; a moment later a cloth was shoved over my face and I was falling into darkness. When I awoke I was lying in filthy straw on the floor of an iron cage; I could hear the squeaking of cartwheels and from the shuddering motion it was obvious I was moving but I could see nothing for the cage was covered with a tarpaulin. My belongings had been taken and there was no sign of my mask.”
“Oh, my... they abducted you?” Christine felt tears spring into her eyes and she flung an arm around his neck, pulling him close to her. “How could anyone treat a fellow human being in such a way?”
“They saw in me a money-spinner and had no intention of losing it. Of course, now that I was there against my will they had no obligation to pay me which made the deal even sweeter for them.” By now the even tone had been lost; his voice was low and hoarse and his body shook against hers. “For nearly two years I was forced to show my face, performing as the Living Corpse. They allowed me my violin when it became clear that the paying public were fascinated by my singing; at first I refused to do so but Dumitru and his henchmen made it clear that any dissention would not be tolerated when they beat me unconscious more than once. And if my performance did not meet their expectations there was always... well, you’ve seen my scars.”
She hardly wanted to voice the words that were on her tongue but they emerged by their own volition. “A whip...?”
He did not deny it. “You can see why I had to escape.”
“Oh, Erik.” Christine laid her head on his shoulder. “You have suffered so much. If only I could have been there - ”
“You were just a child, my dear, and far away in Sweden. What could you have done?” He stroked her hair tenderly. “But I thank you for your compassion.”
“How - ” Her voice caught in a hiccup as she tried to swallow the sob that threatened to break from her chest. “How did you escape that vile place?”
Erik seemed to have recovered some of his composure, and his expression was calm when he drew back slightly so that he could see her face. He wiped away the single tear which clung to her lashes with one long finger. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed the hour. “That is a story for another day. I have upset you quite enough.”
“Erik - ”
He shook his head. “Not now. Please, Christine, allow me a little time. I will tell you, but I need... I need to think.”
“Of course.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry; I did not mean to push you.”
“You are curious, and quite right to be so.” Erik smiled lopsidedly. “I cannot blame you. But, Christine, please promise me something.”
“Anything. You know that you may ask anything of me.”
His face became serious. “Promise me that you will go nowhere near that fair. I cannot bear the thought of you in close proximity to something so... so...” He struggled to find the words, trailing off in frustration.
“I promise,” Christine said and the smile returned. He nodded, getting to his feet; their hands were still entwined and so he helped her to stand, drawing her from her seat with his usual grace.
“Now, we really must go; I should have had you home an hour ago. We have a busy day tomorrow and you must be well rested.”
Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her from the garden, tucking her hand through his arm. They had only gone three paces, however, when a sudden noise made her stop, listening, forcing him to do the same. “Can you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what?” He listened, too, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he was humouring her. His lips twitched slightly in annoyance.
“There it is again!” It was a high-pitched whine, and as she strained to catch the sound she realised that it was coming from beneath the bench upon which they had just been sitting. Disentangling herself from Erik Christine jogged back to the seat and crouched, trying to see underneath. It was too dark; the sun was almost beneath the horizon and neither of them had brought a lamp. She waved her hand blindly into the space but found nothing.
Erik sighed, impatiently this time. “Christine, it is probably a child in a neighbouring street; there are bound to be plenty of them in this area and sound carries on nights such as these.”
“Whatever it is sounds as though it is in distress. Oh, Erik, come and help me look; we can’t leave it. It could be a child in trouble – would you leave them if you could do something to help?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t believe that,” she told him and he shook his head, returning to her side. Taking off his hat he knelt, grimacing at the dust and dirt he would be getting on his expensive trousers, and peered beneath the bench. His eyes were more attuned to dim light than Christine’s and she gave a little cry of joy when he reached into the shadows and withdrew a burlap sack with a knot tied in the top. It was old and muddy, wearing through in places, but what made her jump was the fact that the sack was wriggling, undulating as the creature inside tried desperately to fight its way out. The whining became a very definite barking as Erik put it carefully down on the stone paving and began to work on the knot, his musician’s fingers deftly loosening the fastening. The dog – for so it must be – evidently sensed its incipient freedom and began to writhe even more, its yapping getting louder and more excited.
Erik gave the sack a hard look. “Be quiet,” he commanded, and much to Christine’s surprise the dog fell silent and the bag ceased to move as though it were sitting there patiently awaiting its release. After a few more moments the knot came free and Erik opened the sack; a bedraggled ball of chocolate brown hair and sharp teeth all but flew out, hurling itself towards its saviour, tail wagging furiously. Erik, thrown off balance by this onslaught, had to fling out a hand to catch himself before he tumbled over backwards and got dust all over his posterior as well as his knees.
“It’s a spaniel!” Christine cried, recognising the distinctive long, curly ears amongst the animal’s matted and overgrown coat. Carefully, so as not to startle it, she reached out and rested a hand lightly on its back. When she was not thrown off, she gently stroked along its spine, feeling the muscles beneath the ragged hair, and the dog turned its untidy head, rough pink tongue licking her hand. She laughed. “Well, he’s certainly friendly! It is a boy, isn’t it?” she asked Erik, who smirked.
“Very definitely,” he replied, and she blushed.
“He’s adorable. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Erik said, sounding less than enthusiastic. He raised an eyebrow as the spaniel, forepaws resting on the Phantom’s knee and struggling for purchase on the fabric of his trouser leg, wobbled. It barked sharply, stretching up and trying to lick his face. Amused, Christine scooped the dog up, holding it close and rubbing it behind the ears.
“Why should anyone want to dump something so helpless?” she wondered.
Frowning, Erik touched the dog’s wet pink nose with the tip of his finger. “Presumably his owner either couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of him. Perhaps they intended to throw the bag into the river but were unable to go through with it.”
The spaniel gave a yap, which Christine took to be agreement. “That’s appalling!”
“Life is not pleasant,” Erik said, his tone clipped. He climbed to his feet, brushing dirt and dog hair from his knees. “Put him down now; we really must be going.”
“Erik, we can’t leave him!” she exclaimed. “Where will he go? Where will he sleep tonight?”
“We can hardly check him into a hotel! He will be fine; dogs instinctively know how to fend for themselves.”
“You’re thinking of cats. Dogs are pack animals; they need someone to tell them what to do,” Christine said, standing up with the spaniel still in her arms. It was wriggling again, trying to jump out into empty space to get to Erik; she grabbed it clumsily before it could fall. “I won’t leave him here all alone. Should we take him to a police station?”
“I doubt if the person who abandoned him will be anxious to have him back. If you are insisting upon finding him a new home perhaps someone at the Opera - ” Erik began to suggest but she cut him off, eyes shining with a sudden idea.
“Erik, you could take him!” she cried, beaming at the thought. He needed companionship beneath the theatre when she could not be there and all those tunnels would give plenty of exercise. It was a perfect solution!
Erik backed away, horror writ large upon the unmasked side of his face. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It would be perfect,” Christine insisted. The spaniel barked again, lunging towards him once more. “See how he already likes you!”
“If you are so set on the idea, you take him,” he said folding his arms.
“Don’t be so ridiculous. You know perfectly well that Madame Lafarge does not allow pets. Oh, come on, Erik, can you not see the sense of it?” She nuzzled the dog, rubbing her nose against the silky waves of its ear, and looked up at him with her most soulful expression. Erik stared at her and she fluttered her eyelashes for good measure. “You know what it is like to be abandoned; would you make him suffer the same fate?”
His mouth twitched. “That is verging on emotional blackmail, my dear. Where did you learn such tricks?”
“I had instruction from a master. Will you take him?”
Erik threw up his hands in defeat. “Oh, very well. But only temporarily,” he added firmly. “You must find him a proper home as soon as possible.”
“Of course. Thank you, Erik.” Christine leaned up and kissed him, then lifted the spaniel so that it could lick his cheek, which it did enthusiastically, running its tongue over his mask as well. “What shall we call him?”
“He has a collar,” Erik pointed out, looking slightly uncomfortable with such unbridled affection, even if it was from a dog. “Perhaps he already has a name.”
Christine felt rather silly. She lifted the little brass tag between her forefinger and thumb, squinting at the copperplate engraving. “His name is Bruno,” she announced, and looked down into the spaniel’s liquid brown eyes. “Bon Soir, Bruno.”
“Bon Nuit would be more appropriate. It must be nearly eleven o’clock.” Erik took her gently by the arm, steering her out of the garden. Without seeming to he hurried her through the few streets remaining until they were suddenly standing in front of her apartment building. A net curtain twitched on the ground floor and Christine knew it would be her landlady; Madame Lafarge was a nosy woman who liked to keep a sharp eye on all her tenants. On the steps she passed Bruno to her fiancé, making sure that he had a firm hold on the dog.
“You will look after him, won’t you?” she asked, moving his hand so that it cradled the spaniel’s hindquarters. Almost unconsciously the fingers of his other hand scratched Bruno’s shaggy head and the dog gave a contented growl.
“I shall treat him like royalty, I promise. And after this I expect to see you bright and early for your lesson before rehearsal begins,” Erik said sternly. “We have barely started work on Rosalinde.”
Christine curtsied. “But of course, maestro. And we must not neglect the role I am actually to play.” Smiling she kissed him on the nose and then did the same to Bruno. “Goodnight, boys. Sleep well!”
As she climbed the steps and opened the door she turned to see them both watching her with identical surprised expressions. Stuffing a hand into her mouth to hide the giggles that welled up she headed inside and towards the four flights of stairs that led to her flat. She tried to hold on to the image; perhaps it would banish those dreams she sometimes had of the man she loved battered and broken behind impenetrable bars.
She certainly hoped so.
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Date: 2013-03-11 05:01 pm (UTC)(And a nice little uplifting twist at the end. Poor Erik in a whole different way. :-) )
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Date: 2013-03-11 05:38 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed!