Turning the gas of my night lamp on, I stared at my closet, unsure of what to wear. Where were we going? Were we both talking about the same thing? Did he know what my intentions with him were? And did I know?
Strangely, I felt incredibly calm, as if I was going out for an extremely ordinary program, something that belonged to my long-time routine.
I finally reached for one of my best dresses, a warm, teal-colored long outfit, all made of a bright and soft velvet. Was it too much for a little ride? What would my mother think when she saw me wearing that, and leaving the Opera at that time?
On the other hand, I couldn't think of a more special occasion for me, so I forgot all my concerns and quickly put the dress on.
I released my hair, allowing it to fall free to my back, and applied some make-up - which I never did, except for performances. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I spotted my sketching papers laying on the little table before it. I grabbed the one I had drawn, inspired by Erik, and took it with me, unsure of what I was going to do with it.
I never considered myself to be much of an artist, but I enjoyed drawing whatever fantasy came to my mind, from people to places, or whatever caused some impression on me. This one was not particularly beautiful, but it portrayed Erik as I first saw him, powerful and seductive, standing in the hidden door of my bedroom. I thought he might like to see it.
I opened the door of my room, and spotted my mother in a heavy sleep on her couch, still wearing her black old dress. People used to take her as a widow for always being dressed in black, but if there was a justification for that, it certainly was not my father's death - he had simply left us to join the English army, and one year after the date he was supposed to return, there was still no sight of him, though their office confirmed he was very alive. Perhaps she decided considering him dead, just as I did, but she never talked about it with me. I kissed her lightly on the forehead, avoiding to make any noise that would wake her up as I left the room.
It was a performance night, and I thought it was strange that my mother was not ushering. Maybe the managers finally conceded her a day off... She had been exausted since she began to split her days with two different jobs to compensate for my absense at work, and I hardly saw her during the week at all.
I ran through the corridors of the ground floor, bouncing into many subscribers, dressed in their fashionable outfits, ready for another night at the Opera. I left the building by its main entrance, and climbed down the stairs in a great rush, moved by the anxiety of meeting Erik. Did I give him enough time? He probably imagined that women took a lot longer than that to dress up!
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I met the Opera vigilant, who was just taking his turn.
"Meg Giry, is your mother aware that you are leaving the Opera at this time of night?"
He was half joking. Once he was charged by my mother, when I was younger, of taking care of me while she would be busy working. I laughed at him, "Of course she knows! How could she not?" and ran toward Rue Scribe.
As I turned the corner, I slowed my pace. I could see the carriage from far away, with its four beautiful horses, waiting for me. Where was Erik?
I approached the carriage, now uncertain whether he would be there or not. To answer my question, Erik opened the door of the carriage from inside, got out of it, and made a brief reverence for me to get in.
I felt a rebellious smile betraying me at his sight, and my first impulse was throwing myself against him in an embrance. Instead, I offered him my hand, humbly and devoted. He was absolutely enticing, in a gorgeous black tuxedo, the mask discretely appearant under the large brimmed hat.
Taking hold of my hand, which I had offered in thoughtless gesture, he looked at me, as if he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He seemed to be looking for a way of to avoid scaring me out of my wits in a grotesque attempt to kiss it. I hated myself for putting him in that situation, but I was so entranced by his magnetic presence that I didn't consider what I was doing when I offered my hand.
For one instant, I believed he was actually going to kiss it, and that idea, rather than displeasing me, caused me some thrill. But he disconsidered the act, restraining himself in helping me to border the carriage. He entered it after me.
It was dark and warm inside. And yet I felt a strong chill inside of me. I realized I was afraid, terribly afraid of something I didn't know how to explain. Avoiding his look, I inspected the carriage, which was comfortably decorated with gracious little curtains, soft benches, and no light at all but the street light penetrating through the windows.
"Allow me to say that you look very beautiful tonight," he said, both sincerely and slightly unsure if the situation fit the comment.
That sweet compliment took me completely off guard and I just smiled in reply, feeling my face blushing completely.
"Thank you. How did you hire such a beautiful carriage in such a small amount of time?" I inquired conversationally.
"I have my means." I could discern his grin under the mask.
"Where are we going? Do you have a place in mind?"
"I was considering going toward the Bois de Bologne, and maybe going for a walk there, as you suggested."
"That's a nice idea."
"No, yours was a nice idea. I like this lively soul you have, Meg Giry, it is a precious thing. I think you are a good influence for me."
Oh, I was in heaven! Had his beautiful and galant voice just said that to me? The idea that I could make him happier, even if it was just a little, made me exulted. I was not lying when I said he deserved much much more than what he had. I felt I was starting to seriously idolize him, and I didn't mind it.
And I felt the fear was gone. I had not been afraid of him, but of me: afraid that I could do something that might spoil that perfect moment. No, nothing would happen, the dream was finally happening, I assured myself.
During the ride to the Bois de Boulogne, we talked about many things, and I couldn't help but question everything about him. Or mostly. He took my curiousity in a good-natured way for once, although his answers constantly showed a touch of enigma, of unclarity on them.
I learned, among other things, that he had travelled throughout numerous countries, such as Italy, Germany, Persia and India. He didn't specify why, or what made him decide for settling down in Paris - if one could call living in the undergrounds of the Opera "settling down"- but he stressed that he had no country or people to which he belonged or related.
Practically speaking, I could guess he was French, not only because of his astonishing familiarity with all the French geography and history, but also for his flawless way of speaking the language.
However, I couldn't be absolutely sure of it - one couldn't be sure of anything about Erik.
We talked some in German, too, a language which I'd learned from my grandmother, a german immigrant who moved to France when she was a little older than me; and I admired that, besides the light accent, he could speak it almost as perfectly as he spoke his French.
The more we talked, the more impressed I was with the extent of his knowledge, and his sharp intelligence. He had very peculiar takes on some general issues, such as politics, and sometimes his cleverness was well blended with some cruelty, some genuine lack of care for moralities or ethics. We had talked many times before, granted he had never shared so much about his life with me, like he was doing now. Had he finally agreed in permitting me to know him more than as a ghost?
For some reason, I felt very restless that night. Maybe it was the intimacy we were acquiring, or maybe it was the realization that I didn't think much of his deformity anymore. I opened and closed the window of the brougham repeatedly, at times disposed to breathe the cold night air, at times just willing to forget the world outside and lose myself in Erik's stories.
And what a story teller he was! He described places and episodes in an incredibly illustrative way, mentioning the right details that would make me sincerely believe in what he was saying - it didn't matter how absurd it could be. It was something about his way of speaking, about his voice, that just like him, seemed to be found of creating illusions.
Erik had quite a sense of humor, too, which would lead me to long laughing fits, or sometimes, to pure amusement at his sardonic touches. Swung by laughs, little confidences and shared memories, we spent the night like two old friends, and I noticed I had never felt so secure in someone's presence, no matter how absurd it sounded.
We entered the large green areas of the Bois, which looked dark and quiet at this time. The carriage slowed down, moving through the tortuous paths that led to the Bois lake. The moon was very bright, and it's reflection on the water forged an exquisite sight. He politely ordered the coachman to stop the carriage, and asked if I still cared for going for a walk.
I got off the carriage feeling the freezing air welcoming me. I was glad I had chosen the warm clothes I did, not only because of the cold, but also because it gained me his lovable compliment.
Erik offered me his arm, which I gladly accepted. For some time we walked in silence, enjoying the fresh air. His arms were thin but firm under the smooth cloth, and I had to restrain myself from wandering in thoughts of what his whole body would feel and look like.
"The Bois is so different at night. It's so dark, so deserted... Have you ever come here during daylight?"
He shook his head, confirming my suspicion.
"I only go out on daylight when I can't avoid it. I'm a creature of the night, I suppose..."
As he didn't seem to mind my question, and his answer sounded light, I ventured going a little further.
"Don't you ever fear darkness?"
"Darkness has been my assiduous company for far too long, Meg, I can't help but welcome it. The day I start to fear it, I'd better worry about it, for something will be terribly wrong with me," he added with an invisible smile.
We walked to the edges of the lake, watching the peaceful water which reflected our blurred image. I felt a disturbing need of mentioning his mask, for it was an unavoidable question that always seemed to be floating in the air. But I forcefully prohibited myself, once I also had the impression that one question, one misplaced or misjudged word, could shatter everything we had until now.
Sitting on a bench by the lake, I took a good look at the park, so different from what I would have pictured it! There couldn't have been a night more perfect than this one. Erik was silent, also contemplating the view before us.
"You know, Meg, there's a lake where I live, too." He unexpectedly said. I naturally glanced at the lake, thinking of what to respond.
"But it's nothing like this one. It's terribly distinct, I would say, considering that we call both things 'lakes.'"
He sounded strange, a mixing of bitterness and perplexion.
"My lake is dark, misty and gelid. Yes, its waters are extremely dark and gelid. You wouldn't like that lake... It's very much like Avernus Lake..."
His words were moving toward an almost nonsensical talk, and I tried to retrieve some meaning out of these abstract words.
"Avernus? Like the mythological lake at the entrance to the underworld?"
"You like mythology, hum?" Again there was sarcasm in his words. "Yes...very much like that...an entrance to hell, where once you plunge, you can't leave anymore..."
I didn't want to encourage him to those dark wanderings.
"Are we talking about the lake beneath the Opera?"
I was aware that there was a lake at the very bottom of the Opera since its construction. It was said that the builders of the Theater met with a huge puddle of water once they reached the deepest levels of the theater, and to mend this miscalculation they were forced to pump water out of the dent for months. Still it was not possible to remove it all, so they left a lake there, protecting the rest of the construction with reinforced walls and supports.
Anyone who knew a little about the Palais Garnier, or was related to it somehow, knew of the existence of the lake underneath it. I never understoood how Christine was so surprised when she found it.
He nodded, and then added, "In a way..."
"Well, I guess I never had the opportunity of going so low in the cellars," I answered him, though I knew he was not running some trivial talk.
"I would advise you to not do so. Because, Meg, the underground lake is very dangerous for people who try its waters. And you wouldn't like that other lake, I assure you."
I could barely recognize the amusing man who was talking about artist's intrigues half an hour earlier.
"No... you, like the other ladies of your world... Oh, I know you like lakes, lakes like this one," he indicated the waters in front of us with his long fingers. "Clear blue waters, swans cruising throughout it, and preferably a strong ray of sun reflecting on it, rather than the moonbeam.
His words came out offensive and accusing, as if I was guilty of preferring light to cold darkness. I began to feel uncomfortable with this weird conversation.
"You assume you know too much about me," I said vaguely, crossing my arms on my chest, defensively.
"Oh, I didn't mean to imply that. It's just that I'm versed in some of the most basic and simplest rules of this world," he answered, feigning modesty and innocence.
"You must think that this Phantom joke gave you godlike powers of knowing and predicting people's acts most of the time, Monsieur Erik?" I remembered him mentioning he didn't like to be called Phantom.
"Oh, yes, most of the time," he answered sarcastically. "Practically always."
"It's in the exceptions that the devil lives." I quoted a saying I used to hear in my childhood. "Don't try to convince me that the Phantom always strikes right, for I know it's not true."
I couldn't help showing a slightly cruel grin of satisfaction, remembering that Christine had gone away. Obviously not because of the pain she gave him, for even when Erik was being extremely unnerving I couln't possibly wish him bad. The grin came to my face when I remembered that now I didn't have to compete with the little singer anymore. A competition which I never wanted, but nevertheless wouldn't abandon, if necessary.
"But fortunately, sometimes the Phantom only makes a mistake because he fails in seeing the positive things that are so evident before him." I looked intentively to him, hoping he would consider me a positive thing, in case he understood what I was trying to say.
He sighed in prostation, without a prompt reply. I smiled, knowing I had won the first part.
After that, he went back to his calm and pleasant behavior. The carriage made the return trip a lot faster than it came to the Bois, the coachman possibly longing for his meal and a warm night of rest.
We got off the carriage in front of the Opera this time, and he escorted me to the deserted subscriber's entrance. I climbed the first stairs, and stopped to talk with him, facing his eyes at the same level as mine for a change, for he was a lot taller than me.
I noticed that his eyes, in the complete darkness, had an uncanny glow: yellowish, like a cat hiding in wait for its prey.
"Thank you for such a pleasant night, Erik. I enjoyed it a lot," I said sincerely.
"Meg?.." He glanced back, then continued, "If you are not doing something tomorrow night, it would please me a great deal to take you out again."
I was ready to nod my head in excitement, but I remembered, as cold water spilling down on me, that it would be Saturday, and I had promised to attend a party given for Cecille's birthday. Disappointed and regretful of accepting her invitation, I told him about it.
"Oh, Erik! I would love it, but there is this friend of mine's party, and I like her a lot and it's her birthday...and..." "I understand," he answered shortly, as if not totally convinced that I was attending a real appointment.
"But..." I looked at him with my shining eyes for the idea I just had, "You could come with me! It's just a meeting for closer friends, it's not a big party or anything...and I would love to take you along with me!" I could barely restrain my enthusiasm.
"I don't attend parties, Meg. But thank you." While his answer was cold, he sounded pleased that I'd invited him.
Obviously I didn't ask why. "What a silly idea," I told myself, but I hadn't thought of the little complications. Imagine "Little James'" reaction when I said, "Cecille, I have the pleasure of introducing you the Phantom of the Opera!" I amused myself.
"What about Sunday? Do you think we could set it up on Sunday?" I asked with hopeful eyes.
"Absolutely. I will be waiting for you in the same place Sunday, Mademoiselle.
I laughed, "I thought you had given up calling me that a long time ago, Erik!"
He smiled under the mask, "At the same time as today, Meg."
We said goodbye and I offered him my hand again. I wanted to punch myself for that stupid habit, that constantly put him in such an awkward situation. Before he could reach for my hand and decide what to do with it, I retrieved it and leaned in his direction, placing a light and brief kiss on the cheek of his mask.
I was extremely careful to not misplace or move the mask in any way, and to keep smiling even after the strange feeling of its hard material on my lips. I didn't want that first contact to hinder the considerable freedom we had acquired with each other.
"Good night, Erik."
I left him standing on the stairs, and as I turned back I felt something strange about him. It was not contentment or displeasure with my kiss, but rather a tormented and frustrated aura around him.
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