![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 45/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3266
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 little male bonding.
MAN TO MAN
“Good afternoon, Monsieur! How does it feel to have the man who may be the Phantom of the Opera under your roof?”
Gritting his teeth, James Patterson-Smythe turned to face the grinning hack in the loud checked suit who had been hanging around outside the house for the past few days. He had tried to accost Theodora, but she made her feelings quite plain, ending with a sharp stamp on his foot with her high heel when he would not let her pass. The man was still limping. “I thought I told you yesterday to clear off?” Jimmy asked as the journalist, whom Christine Daae had identified as one Francois Béringer, nonchalantly lit up a cigarette. “We have nothing to say to you.”
“I just thought you might like to know something about the fellow you’re harbouring,” Béringer said, his tone casual. “By all accounts the Phantom kidnapped Christine Daae, threatened the Vicomte de Chagny and several of those high up in the Opera Populaire, and was probably responsible for the falling chandelier that damaged the theatre and nearly killed several of the patrons. I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.”
“That is all just idiotic gossip,” Patterson-Smythe told him, straightening his cuffs. “You have a wonderful imagination; perhaps you should write fiction instead of reporting tittle-tattle.”
Béringer, suddenly angry, shoved his face into Jimmy’s. “It’s more than gossip, Monsieur! I’m going to prove it, I promise you!”
“Well, you’ll find nothing to aid you here! I’ll not have you causing distress to Miss Merriman and her guests.” The journalist looked slightly shifty as Jimmy reached into his coat for his pocket book. Licking the end of his pencil, he fixed Béringer with a steady glare. “Which editor do you report to? I’ll be sending my lawyers straight round.”
Béringer ignored the question. “Have you seen that devil’s face?”
“What if I have? You ever been near a battlefield, buddy? Plenty more to shock you there,” Patterson-Smythe said. “My old dad fought for the Union back in the Civil War and some of the things he saw would give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”
“The Phantom was said to have a disfigured face,” Béringer insisted. “Skin like parchment and a great black hole where his nose should have been. Eyes that glowed, in sockets that were nothing more than huge dark caverns.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You’ve been reading too many of Mr Poe’s stories, my friend. Have you seen Erik Claudin’s face? Because that does not sound like a description of the man I rescued last week. I think I might have noticed if he was missing a nose.”
“All stories have to start somewhere.” The journalist glanced up at one of the first floor windows, where a shadow could be seen behind the blinds. A calculating expression came over his rat-like face. “Just think of it, Monsieur: if you aid me I could finally publish the truth about that man. It would be the pinnacle of my career; every newspaper in Paris would clamour for the story! There would be bidding wars... we could make a fortune, you and I!”
“Huh.” Patterson-Smythe looked the other man up and down. Béringer had the crumpled aspect of a habitual drinker, coupled with the overweening arrogance of the confidence trickster. His gaze was almost too direct, his smile too sincere. In his years on the circuits in New York and its environs, promoting his clients and working his way up from the backstreet bars to the leading theatres of the city, Jimmy had come across many of the kind, and he would not trust any of them further than he could throw them. Though he might have had his own doubts about the man occupying one of Theodora’s bedrooms, he had no intention of listening to the tales spun by a hack to whom lying was apparently as natural as breathing. Christine Daae had been very vocal upon the subject of Monsieur Béringer, and Jimmy found himself inclined to believe her. He glanced down at his feet, chewing on his moustache for a moment, before straightening abruptly and grabbing the journalist by the lapels. “Listen, chum, do you really think I need to make a fortune? I’m doing quite nicely, thanks all the same. Now,” he added as Béringer began to protest, “how about you turn around and high-tail it out of here before I decide to report you to whomever I think appropriate for harassing my client? Miss Merriman is pretty well-known on the international stage and I really don’t think her admirers will be too pleased to discover that you’re trying to ruin her reputation by claiming that she consorts with madmen.”
“You... just you wait!” Béringer exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Jimmy’s chest. “I’ll uncover the truth and then you’ll all be sorry! You’ll wish you’d listened!”
“Yeah, yeah... when there’s a chandelier hurtling towards my head as I cross the lobby you can say I told you so.” Jimmy threw the man away from him; Béringer stumbled and almost ended up in the gutter. Reflecting that it was probably the best place for him, he brushed off his sleeves and turned to Bonner the butler, who, upon evidently having observed the altercation, had approached on silent feet.
“Is this... person giving you trouble, Monsieur?” he enquired in the faintly bored tone which seemed to be his normal manner of speaking. “If so I will have him removed. He has already been told to leave more than once.”
“I think I can handle it, but thank you.” Jimmy glanced at Béringer from the corner of his eye; muttering, the journalist picked himself up, and, with a foul look in their direction, began to limp off down the street. His shabby suit was covered in mud. “Is Mademoiselle Merriman back yet?”
“I believe she is still at the theatre, sir. There was a rehearsal; Mademoiselle Daae went with her,” Bonner replied. “Mademoiselle Speedwell has also gone out.”
Movement at the window above caught Patterson-Smythe’s eye. He mentally counted the rooms and realised that it belonged to the one in which Teddy’s injured chorus master was staying. “Fine, fine.” He ascended the front steps, the butler following in his wake. “Send a bottle of brandy and two glasses up to Monsieur Claudin’s room, will you?”
“Of course, Monsieur. Oh, sir - ” Bonner called as Jimmy threw hat and gloves on the hall table and strode towards the stairs; when he turned the butler was holding a bottle of cognac which Jimmy’s trained eye could tell from ten paces was an excellent vintage. “This was left for Monsieur Claudin earlier. I was told that the gentleman was sleeping, and did not wish to disturb him, but if you...”
“Very well, I’ll take it.” Extending a hand, Jimmy took the proffered bottle. He examined the label, confirming his suspicions that it was a Courvoisier, and passed it back to Bonner. “On second thoughts, open this, will you, and send it up with the glasses? It will do nicely. Who’s it from?”
The butler inclined his head. “It was sent by the managers of the Opera, sir. I believe they are most anxious to know when Monsieur Claudin will be returning.”
________________________________________
Patterson-Smythe knocked once on the door and turned the handle without waiting for a reply.
Claudin was still standing by the window; Jimmy had been able to guess at his height when he and Georges carried the man into the house nearly two weeks earlier, but it was only now he was on his own two feet that it became clear exactly how tall Erik was. Jimmy always thought himself above the average but decided Claudin must top him by at least three inches. His lean frame was wrapped in an extravagantly embroidered oriental robe, a fire-breathing Chinese dragon snaking its way down his back. Upon hearing the door open he swung around, the speed at which he moved forcing Jimmy to take a step back as though faced with a serpent about to strike; the battered features were twisted in a snarl, teeth bared, as Claudin’s right hand flew up to cover his deformity. Confronted with such outright hostility, the eyes, even the one Jimmy could only just see as it peered at him through impossibly long fingers, blazing angrily, he could for a moment understand how a silly singer at the Opera might have believed this man to be a monster. He felt his jaw fall open, and all thought of confronting Claudin about Béringer’s accusations fled from his mind.
“Does no one in this house respect the privacy of others?” Erik demanded, his melodious voice practically vibrating with fury.
Recovering himself and glad that Theodora’s guest was still weak from his injuries, Jimmy shrugged. “If I’d waited would you have let me in? No, you would have told me to go away, just as you told Bonner and the doctor yesterday.”
“Can you blame me? I do not know you, Monsieur, and I am not in the habit of socialising.”
“Maybe it’s time you started,” Jimmy said, closing the door behind him. “You can stop hiding your face if you want; I’m not here to hurt you and I got an eyeful the night we brought you here.”
“If that is true, I would expect you to prefer me to cover it,” Claudin replied bitterly. “Virtually everyone else does.”
Jimmy shrugged again. “You’re one ugly son of a bitch but I’ve seen worse in my time.”
The other man’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “America must be far more tolerant of such things than we are here in France. This face once caused a dozen women to faint in concert, and three grown men to vomit into their hats. I was told that there was a case of an apoplectic stroke, but it may just have been a story.”
“Impressive.” Jimmy gave a low whistle. “Sounds like you should have started a circus act. You could have made a mint.”
Erik glared at him through his fingers. “I did,” he snapped, “but all the money went to line someone else’s pockets.”
“Bad promoter. I would have offered you thirty-five percent, plus a bonus at the end of the season. Couldn’t say fairer than that.”
“Indeed not!” A harsh, humourless laugh came from behind that long white hand. “I prefer to think of him as my jailer. The term ‘promoter’ tends to give the impression that the act is performing through personal choice rather than coercion.”
Jimmy’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. He was aware of the freak shows in New York, had even visited a couple on Coney Island, but it never really occurred to him to look into the treatment and conditions of those working there. He always assumed, from right back when his grandfather had taken him to see Barnum’s circus and the tiny boy called General Tom Thumb, that such people used their deformities to give themselves an income. It seemed he had been wrong. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he said, “I’ve sent for some cognac. Will you have a drink with me, Monsieur?”
After a slight pause Claudin nodded. He lowered his hand fractionally but did not remove it. Turning properly into the room he stumbled, catching himself on the nearby chest of drawers; Jimmy moved forwards to offer assistance but was waved away. Carefully, one arm crossed protectively over his torso to guard his bruised ribs, Erik staggered back towards the bed. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly as he sat down heavily on the mattress; head turned away so that the distorted side would be cast into shadow, he finally let his hand drop. “Christine has told me how you helped me after the attack,” he said after a deep sigh that made him wince. He gave Jimmy a sidelong glance. “You must forgive me; I am not used to being beholden to others.”
“No one likes to be a debtor, Mister Claudin.”
“True. But you have my gratitude nonetheless. I have no doubt that had you and Mademoiselle Merriman not arrived when you did my assailants would have finished me off and dumped my body in the river.” Erik offered a hand. When Jimmy, not expecting this rapid change of heart, made no move to take it Claudin’s face fell, the expression making him look like a lost little boy. “Is there something wrong?” he asked, his tone now almost plaintive. “I understood that this was the kind of gesture to make under such circumstances.”
It was incredible how someone could change from belligerent fury to bewildered child in such a short space of time. Hurriedly, Jimmy clasped the proffered hand, startled by how cold it was. Claudin shook his twice, quickly, before withdrawing as though the touch of another person was distasteful. Or perhaps because he thought his own might be unwanted, Jimmy realised. Thankfully he was excused a response as there was a light tap at the door and he opened it to reveal Chloe standing there with a tray, upon which stood the managers’ brandy and two crystal snifters. With a whispered thank you he took it from her and retreated, pushing the door closed with his foot.
Erik had reclined against the pillows, though he remained in a sitting position, doubtless reluctant to show weakness before another man. Jimmy could sympathise with that. His hand was back over his face; on the table beside the bed lay a white porcelain mask, an elegant thing, perfectly sculpted so that it would cover the ravaged side. It was obvious, however, that though the swelling around Claudin’s right eye had almost gone down it would be several more days before he could stand to wear something so constricting over his abused flesh. He looked up in surprise when Jimmy flourished the bottle of Courvoisier, label outwards.
“Where did that come from?” he asked.
“Your bosses. Remind me at our next meeting to compliment them on their excellent taste.”
Claudin’s mouth twitched, the closest he had come to a smile since Jimmy entered the room. “Monsieur Fontaine’s cellar will be empty if he keeps this up. That is the second bottle of brandy he has sent me this month.”
“Sounds like they’re desperate to have you back,” Jimmy remarked, busying himself with the drinks.
“I am not happy about my enforced absence.” Erik sounded frustrated. His fist pounded the mattress. “It is my intention to return to work on Monday.”
“Monday? I admire your optimism, my friend; you can barely stand unaided.”
“Nevertheless, I will be there if I have to use a cane and sit in a chair for the entire rehearsal. We should be past the read-through stage by now – so much time wasted!” A noise, akin to a growl, rumbled in Erik’s thin chest. “I can continue to rehearse Christine and Theodora here but the situation is far from ideal; I have a reputation to maintain.”
“And journalists to placate. That Francois Béringer was outside when I arrived,” Jimmy added, holding out a glass. His companion’s head snapped round, the ravaged features locked in a scowl. “Dreadful little man; he tried to write some nonsense about Teddy before we arrived but I jumped on him pretty hard, threatened legal action. He’s quite crazy: thinks you’re the Opera Ghost, you know.”
Once again, Erik Claudin moved faster than any wounded man should have been rightly able. He grabbed Jimmy by the lapels, eyes searching his face, making Patterson-Smythe slosh cognac over the floor. “Béringer? How long has he been hanging around?”
“No idea; the last few days, maybe? Hey, there’s no need to get physical,” Jimmy told him, looking down to where those long fingers were crushing the nap of his jacket. “This is my second best suit, and you’re strangling it.”
Realising how tightly he was holding the fabric, Erik slowly released his grip, sinking back against the pillows. He gave a half-hearted attempt at smoothing down one of the wrinkled lapels. “My apologies. That man’s name has a less-than dignified effect upon me. I would quite like to wring his neck; he has been harassing Christine for weeks.”
“I saw him off. If he gives you any more trouble just let me know; I’ll get my lawyers involved on your behalf. Why does he have it in for you and the lovely Miss Daae, and who is this Augustine Albert who was screaming hysterically all over the papers?” Jimmy enquired, pulling up a chair close to the bed and sitting down. He never could resist gossip. “An old flame?”
“Hardly. You think women have been queuing up over the years to cover this with kisses?” Erik threw up a hand towards his face. He took a gulp of his brandy. “She is a mediocre singer who thought to inveigle her way into my bed, I assume to gain advancement; my mask attracted her curiosity but she did not like what she found beneath it. Her lurid tales, which she apparently sold to Monsieur Béringer, have only fanned the flames of his wild theories.”
Jimmy regarded him over the rim of his glass. “Are you the Phantom?”
“Would I tell you if I were?” Claudin countered, meeting his host’s gaze with a steady one of his own.
“Probably not.” Jimmy broke into a laugh. “I did wonder, though, when we picked you up. Teddy was telling me about the rumours that are still flying around the Populaire.”
“Rumours will always fly if people give them wings. Because Erik is ugly he must therefore naturally be the spectre described by drunken stagehands with overblown imaginations.”
“The papers said that the Phantom was real; he abducted Christine Daae, after all. And the chandelier - ” Jimmy broke off when Claudin wagged a long finger at him, shaking his head. “No?”
“Béringer said that. He has no proof of anything. The chains supporting the chandelier were rusted; maintenance workers gave a report to the managers a few days before the premiere of Il Muto but were ignored. It is true that a man - an... admirer - became obsessed with Christine, but she was never abducted.” Erik drained his glass and set it carefully down on the bedside table next to his mask. “She came to me, her teacher, after her debut, needing reassurance. The ‘Phantom’ had little to do with it.”
“You seem to know a lot about it for a man with no role in the theatre at the time,” Jimmy remarked.
Again, that slight smile touched the misshapen lips. “My cousin is the ballet mistress, Monsieur. There is little that escapes Madame Giry’s attention.”
“I can believe that.” Jimmy had met the stern woman in black two days before, when he nearly bumped into her on the stairs. Though she had been perfectly polite, the look that she had given him almost made him quiver in expectation of a reprimand for sins unknown. He had not realised that she was related to Erik, but now that he knew he couldn’t help wondering why he had not guessed before. They both had a distinctly unnerving quality about them. He got up and poured another measure for them both, raising his glass. “I would like to propose a toast: to the wonderful women in our lives, and the downfall of all journalists. May they rot in hell!”
Claudin’s smile widened, and he clinked his glass against Jimmy’s. “Now that is a sentiment with which I can most wholeheartedly agree.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3266
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 little male bonding.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur! How does it feel to have the man who may be the Phantom of the Opera under your roof?”
Gritting his teeth, James Patterson-Smythe turned to face the grinning hack in the loud checked suit who had been hanging around outside the house for the past few days. He had tried to accost Theodora, but she made her feelings quite plain, ending with a sharp stamp on his foot with her high heel when he would not let her pass. The man was still limping. “I thought I told you yesterday to clear off?” Jimmy asked as the journalist, whom Christine Daae had identified as one Francois Béringer, nonchalantly lit up a cigarette. “We have nothing to say to you.”
“I just thought you might like to know something about the fellow you’re harbouring,” Béringer said, his tone casual. “By all accounts the Phantom kidnapped Christine Daae, threatened the Vicomte de Chagny and several of those high up in the Opera Populaire, and was probably responsible for the falling chandelier that damaged the theatre and nearly killed several of the patrons. I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.”
“That is all just idiotic gossip,” Patterson-Smythe told him, straightening his cuffs. “You have a wonderful imagination; perhaps you should write fiction instead of reporting tittle-tattle.”
Béringer, suddenly angry, shoved his face into Jimmy’s. “It’s more than gossip, Monsieur! I’m going to prove it, I promise you!”
“Well, you’ll find nothing to aid you here! I’ll not have you causing distress to Miss Merriman and her guests.” The journalist looked slightly shifty as Jimmy reached into his coat for his pocket book. Licking the end of his pencil, he fixed Béringer with a steady glare. “Which editor do you report to? I’ll be sending my lawyers straight round.”
Béringer ignored the question. “Have you seen that devil’s face?”
“What if I have? You ever been near a battlefield, buddy? Plenty more to shock you there,” Patterson-Smythe said. “My old dad fought for the Union back in the Civil War and some of the things he saw would give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”
“The Phantom was said to have a disfigured face,” Béringer insisted. “Skin like parchment and a great black hole where his nose should have been. Eyes that glowed, in sockets that were nothing more than huge dark caverns.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You’ve been reading too many of Mr Poe’s stories, my friend. Have you seen Erik Claudin’s face? Because that does not sound like a description of the man I rescued last week. I think I might have noticed if he was missing a nose.”
“All stories have to start somewhere.” The journalist glanced up at one of the first floor windows, where a shadow could be seen behind the blinds. A calculating expression came over his rat-like face. “Just think of it, Monsieur: if you aid me I could finally publish the truth about that man. It would be the pinnacle of my career; every newspaper in Paris would clamour for the story! There would be bidding wars... we could make a fortune, you and I!”
“Huh.” Patterson-Smythe looked the other man up and down. Béringer had the crumpled aspect of a habitual drinker, coupled with the overweening arrogance of the confidence trickster. His gaze was almost too direct, his smile too sincere. In his years on the circuits in New York and its environs, promoting his clients and working his way up from the backstreet bars to the leading theatres of the city, Jimmy had come across many of the kind, and he would not trust any of them further than he could throw them. Though he might have had his own doubts about the man occupying one of Theodora’s bedrooms, he had no intention of listening to the tales spun by a hack to whom lying was apparently as natural as breathing. Christine Daae had been very vocal upon the subject of Monsieur Béringer, and Jimmy found himself inclined to believe her. He glanced down at his feet, chewing on his moustache for a moment, before straightening abruptly and grabbing the journalist by the lapels. “Listen, chum, do you really think I need to make a fortune? I’m doing quite nicely, thanks all the same. Now,” he added as Béringer began to protest, “how about you turn around and high-tail it out of here before I decide to report you to whomever I think appropriate for harassing my client? Miss Merriman is pretty well-known on the international stage and I really don’t think her admirers will be too pleased to discover that you’re trying to ruin her reputation by claiming that she consorts with madmen.”
“You... just you wait!” Béringer exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Jimmy’s chest. “I’ll uncover the truth and then you’ll all be sorry! You’ll wish you’d listened!”
“Yeah, yeah... when there’s a chandelier hurtling towards my head as I cross the lobby you can say I told you so.” Jimmy threw the man away from him; Béringer stumbled and almost ended up in the gutter. Reflecting that it was probably the best place for him, he brushed off his sleeves and turned to Bonner the butler, who, upon evidently having observed the altercation, had approached on silent feet.
“Is this... person giving you trouble, Monsieur?” he enquired in the faintly bored tone which seemed to be his normal manner of speaking. “If so I will have him removed. He has already been told to leave more than once.”
“I think I can handle it, but thank you.” Jimmy glanced at Béringer from the corner of his eye; muttering, the journalist picked himself up, and, with a foul look in their direction, began to limp off down the street. His shabby suit was covered in mud. “Is Mademoiselle Merriman back yet?”
“I believe she is still at the theatre, sir. There was a rehearsal; Mademoiselle Daae went with her,” Bonner replied. “Mademoiselle Speedwell has also gone out.”
Movement at the window above caught Patterson-Smythe’s eye. He mentally counted the rooms and realised that it belonged to the one in which Teddy’s injured chorus master was staying. “Fine, fine.” He ascended the front steps, the butler following in his wake. “Send a bottle of brandy and two glasses up to Monsieur Claudin’s room, will you?”
“Of course, Monsieur. Oh, sir - ” Bonner called as Jimmy threw hat and gloves on the hall table and strode towards the stairs; when he turned the butler was holding a bottle of cognac which Jimmy’s trained eye could tell from ten paces was an excellent vintage. “This was left for Monsieur Claudin earlier. I was told that the gentleman was sleeping, and did not wish to disturb him, but if you...”
“Very well, I’ll take it.” Extending a hand, Jimmy took the proffered bottle. He examined the label, confirming his suspicions that it was a Courvoisier, and passed it back to Bonner. “On second thoughts, open this, will you, and send it up with the glasses? It will do nicely. Who’s it from?”
The butler inclined his head. “It was sent by the managers of the Opera, sir. I believe they are most anxious to know when Monsieur Claudin will be returning.”
________________________________________
Patterson-Smythe knocked once on the door and turned the handle without waiting for a reply.
Claudin was still standing by the window; Jimmy had been able to guess at his height when he and Georges carried the man into the house nearly two weeks earlier, but it was only now he was on his own two feet that it became clear exactly how tall Erik was. Jimmy always thought himself above the average but decided Claudin must top him by at least three inches. His lean frame was wrapped in an extravagantly embroidered oriental robe, a fire-breathing Chinese dragon snaking its way down his back. Upon hearing the door open he swung around, the speed at which he moved forcing Jimmy to take a step back as though faced with a serpent about to strike; the battered features were twisted in a snarl, teeth bared, as Claudin’s right hand flew up to cover his deformity. Confronted with such outright hostility, the eyes, even the one Jimmy could only just see as it peered at him through impossibly long fingers, blazing angrily, he could for a moment understand how a silly singer at the Opera might have believed this man to be a monster. He felt his jaw fall open, and all thought of confronting Claudin about Béringer’s accusations fled from his mind.
“Does no one in this house respect the privacy of others?” Erik demanded, his melodious voice practically vibrating with fury.
Recovering himself and glad that Theodora’s guest was still weak from his injuries, Jimmy shrugged. “If I’d waited would you have let me in? No, you would have told me to go away, just as you told Bonner and the doctor yesterday.”
“Can you blame me? I do not know you, Monsieur, and I am not in the habit of socialising.”
“Maybe it’s time you started,” Jimmy said, closing the door behind him. “You can stop hiding your face if you want; I’m not here to hurt you and I got an eyeful the night we brought you here.”
“If that is true, I would expect you to prefer me to cover it,” Claudin replied bitterly. “Virtually everyone else does.”
Jimmy shrugged again. “You’re one ugly son of a bitch but I’ve seen worse in my time.”
The other man’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “America must be far more tolerant of such things than we are here in France. This face once caused a dozen women to faint in concert, and three grown men to vomit into their hats. I was told that there was a case of an apoplectic stroke, but it may just have been a story.”
“Impressive.” Jimmy gave a low whistle. “Sounds like you should have started a circus act. You could have made a mint.”
Erik glared at him through his fingers. “I did,” he snapped, “but all the money went to line someone else’s pockets.”
“Bad promoter. I would have offered you thirty-five percent, plus a bonus at the end of the season. Couldn’t say fairer than that.”
“Indeed not!” A harsh, humourless laugh came from behind that long white hand. “I prefer to think of him as my jailer. The term ‘promoter’ tends to give the impression that the act is performing through personal choice rather than coercion.”
Jimmy’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. He was aware of the freak shows in New York, had even visited a couple on Coney Island, but it never really occurred to him to look into the treatment and conditions of those working there. He always assumed, from right back when his grandfather had taken him to see Barnum’s circus and the tiny boy called General Tom Thumb, that such people used their deformities to give themselves an income. It seemed he had been wrong. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he said, “I’ve sent for some cognac. Will you have a drink with me, Monsieur?”
After a slight pause Claudin nodded. He lowered his hand fractionally but did not remove it. Turning properly into the room he stumbled, catching himself on the nearby chest of drawers; Jimmy moved forwards to offer assistance but was waved away. Carefully, one arm crossed protectively over his torso to guard his bruised ribs, Erik staggered back towards the bed. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly as he sat down heavily on the mattress; head turned away so that the distorted side would be cast into shadow, he finally let his hand drop. “Christine has told me how you helped me after the attack,” he said after a deep sigh that made him wince. He gave Jimmy a sidelong glance. “You must forgive me; I am not used to being beholden to others.”
“No one likes to be a debtor, Mister Claudin.”
“True. But you have my gratitude nonetheless. I have no doubt that had you and Mademoiselle Merriman not arrived when you did my assailants would have finished me off and dumped my body in the river.” Erik offered a hand. When Jimmy, not expecting this rapid change of heart, made no move to take it Claudin’s face fell, the expression making him look like a lost little boy. “Is there something wrong?” he asked, his tone now almost plaintive. “I understood that this was the kind of gesture to make under such circumstances.”
It was incredible how someone could change from belligerent fury to bewildered child in such a short space of time. Hurriedly, Jimmy clasped the proffered hand, startled by how cold it was. Claudin shook his twice, quickly, before withdrawing as though the touch of another person was distasteful. Or perhaps because he thought his own might be unwanted, Jimmy realised. Thankfully he was excused a response as there was a light tap at the door and he opened it to reveal Chloe standing there with a tray, upon which stood the managers’ brandy and two crystal snifters. With a whispered thank you he took it from her and retreated, pushing the door closed with his foot.
Erik had reclined against the pillows, though he remained in a sitting position, doubtless reluctant to show weakness before another man. Jimmy could sympathise with that. His hand was back over his face; on the table beside the bed lay a white porcelain mask, an elegant thing, perfectly sculpted so that it would cover the ravaged side. It was obvious, however, that though the swelling around Claudin’s right eye had almost gone down it would be several more days before he could stand to wear something so constricting over his abused flesh. He looked up in surprise when Jimmy flourished the bottle of Courvoisier, label outwards.
“Where did that come from?” he asked.
“Your bosses. Remind me at our next meeting to compliment them on their excellent taste.”
Claudin’s mouth twitched, the closest he had come to a smile since Jimmy entered the room. “Monsieur Fontaine’s cellar will be empty if he keeps this up. That is the second bottle of brandy he has sent me this month.”
“Sounds like they’re desperate to have you back,” Jimmy remarked, busying himself with the drinks.
“I am not happy about my enforced absence.” Erik sounded frustrated. His fist pounded the mattress. “It is my intention to return to work on Monday.”
“Monday? I admire your optimism, my friend; you can barely stand unaided.”
“Nevertheless, I will be there if I have to use a cane and sit in a chair for the entire rehearsal. We should be past the read-through stage by now – so much time wasted!” A noise, akin to a growl, rumbled in Erik’s thin chest. “I can continue to rehearse Christine and Theodora here but the situation is far from ideal; I have a reputation to maintain.”
“And journalists to placate. That Francois Béringer was outside when I arrived,” Jimmy added, holding out a glass. His companion’s head snapped round, the ravaged features locked in a scowl. “Dreadful little man; he tried to write some nonsense about Teddy before we arrived but I jumped on him pretty hard, threatened legal action. He’s quite crazy: thinks you’re the Opera Ghost, you know.”
Once again, Erik Claudin moved faster than any wounded man should have been rightly able. He grabbed Jimmy by the lapels, eyes searching his face, making Patterson-Smythe slosh cognac over the floor. “Béringer? How long has he been hanging around?”
“No idea; the last few days, maybe? Hey, there’s no need to get physical,” Jimmy told him, looking down to where those long fingers were crushing the nap of his jacket. “This is my second best suit, and you’re strangling it.”
Realising how tightly he was holding the fabric, Erik slowly released his grip, sinking back against the pillows. He gave a half-hearted attempt at smoothing down one of the wrinkled lapels. “My apologies. That man’s name has a less-than dignified effect upon me. I would quite like to wring his neck; he has been harassing Christine for weeks.”
“I saw him off. If he gives you any more trouble just let me know; I’ll get my lawyers involved on your behalf. Why does he have it in for you and the lovely Miss Daae, and who is this Augustine Albert who was screaming hysterically all over the papers?” Jimmy enquired, pulling up a chair close to the bed and sitting down. He never could resist gossip. “An old flame?”
“Hardly. You think women have been queuing up over the years to cover this with kisses?” Erik threw up a hand towards his face. He took a gulp of his brandy. “She is a mediocre singer who thought to inveigle her way into my bed, I assume to gain advancement; my mask attracted her curiosity but she did not like what she found beneath it. Her lurid tales, which she apparently sold to Monsieur Béringer, have only fanned the flames of his wild theories.”
Jimmy regarded him over the rim of his glass. “Are you the Phantom?”
“Would I tell you if I were?” Claudin countered, meeting his host’s gaze with a steady one of his own.
“Probably not.” Jimmy broke into a laugh. “I did wonder, though, when we picked you up. Teddy was telling me about the rumours that are still flying around the Populaire.”
“Rumours will always fly if people give them wings. Because Erik is ugly he must therefore naturally be the spectre described by drunken stagehands with overblown imaginations.”
“The papers said that the Phantom was real; he abducted Christine Daae, after all. And the chandelier - ” Jimmy broke off when Claudin wagged a long finger at him, shaking his head. “No?”
“Béringer said that. He has no proof of anything. The chains supporting the chandelier were rusted; maintenance workers gave a report to the managers a few days before the premiere of Il Muto but were ignored. It is true that a man - an... admirer - became obsessed with Christine, but she was never abducted.” Erik drained his glass and set it carefully down on the bedside table next to his mask. “She came to me, her teacher, after her debut, needing reassurance. The ‘Phantom’ had little to do with it.”
“You seem to know a lot about it for a man with no role in the theatre at the time,” Jimmy remarked.
Again, that slight smile touched the misshapen lips. “My cousin is the ballet mistress, Monsieur. There is little that escapes Madame Giry’s attention.”
“I can believe that.” Jimmy had met the stern woman in black two days before, when he nearly bumped into her on the stairs. Though she had been perfectly polite, the look that she had given him almost made him quiver in expectation of a reprimand for sins unknown. He had not realised that she was related to Erik, but now that he knew he couldn’t help wondering why he had not guessed before. They both had a distinctly unnerving quality about them. He got up and poured another measure for them both, raising his glass. “I would like to propose a toast: to the wonderful women in our lives, and the downfall of all journalists. May they rot in hell!”
Claudin’s smile widened, and he clinked his glass against Jimmy’s. “Now that is a sentiment with which I can most wholeheartedly agree.”
