“Yes?” I muttered. “ What the devil do you mean with ‘Yes’?!” I wanted to scream.
“Yes” had many hateful implications, and I believe I got all those assumptions at once, as a nauseating intoxication. It was so obvious, and still I didn’t want to accept it. I never wanted to.
Imagine Erik, with his sweet voice, singing to pure and naive Christine, teaching her how to sing as the Angel he pretended he was! That was the most infuriating thought that ever crossed my mind! From all the things I learned about this man, among them his ghost and murderer incarnations, it was the Angel that displeased me most.
I didn’t want further explanations, for it was all clear as daylight. I was, more and more every moment, considering forgetting this silly dreamy infatuation of mine. Maybe the Persian fellow was right, after all. Maybe everyone was right, as they had always been, and I, so wrong, as I always ended up being. Maybe things are exactly what they seem to be, there is not such a thing as idealistic and personal interpretations; one just can’t escape from what things appear to be.
But what was it that I was thinking? I felt tired, anxious, and hurt, all at the same time. I sighed with resignation, trying to inhale, with that blow of air, strength to disguise my distress.
“Erik, I don’t mean to be rude, but I feel very tired...and it is kind of late, too. Would you mind if we save this talk for another day?”
“Good night, Meg Giry,” he answered politely, and left.
I believed he was pretty confused after being dismissed so abruptly, but I was not concerned about being coherent. The pity I could have directed to him was all mine now, for finding myself lost in this situation with no solution.
Somehow he knew I would understand it with just one word, and he didn’t even bother to say more than a “yes”. He certainly knew Christine and I were good friends, and I would dare to guess that he have overheard some conversations of ours. “How understanding was Meg Giry,” I thought with irony.
Two days later, when I was in a sorry state of total preoccupation with all that followed that fall I took in the basement, I found a note on my bed. By then, I had learned how to forgive him over and over for his guiltless, yet hurtful actions towards me. It was a self-depreciatory, though good natured, sort of elasticity, a great ability of renewing my strengh as the moment required it from me; and I knew it was not the last time I would need to handle things like that.
I had guessed the letter was from him even before holding it in my hands, for the simple reason that I had grown used to expecting his little annoucements everywhere: every shadow in a darker corridor was a hint of his presence, every sound would become a whisper from him. This time he obliged himself to please me with a real sign: a note.
It was in a firm but extremely clumsy handwriting, with red ink:
do not attend tonight’s performance
under any circumstances.
O.G.“
The note left me extremely curious, of course, almost tempting me to go. But since I didn’t attend most of the performances anyway, and it wouldn’t be worth watching the whole play just to find out why I should stay away, I followed his instructions. I didn’t have a particular interest in Opera, it was always the same to me; the same music, lifeless and old, played and sang everywhere. “Perhaps if I’d had an Angel of Music introducing me to it, or at least a father, I would have had a different opinion,” I thought resentingly.
What happened that night, the night when I was amusingly “forbidden” to be in the auditorium, was the following. First, in one of the greatest scenes of the play, Carlotta Giudicelli, the lead singer in the Opera, had the most dreadful disaster of her career. Her voice, as if under some witchcraft, assumed the perfect croak of a toad, in the middle of a song, over and over, being heard clearly by the whole audiance. A bizarre and humiliating scene.
I felt sorry for her, for, though I had heard a lot about Carlotta’s arrogant attitude, she was a woman who had worked hard to get where she was. It was a consensus that she was a talented artist, with an admirable, strong attitude; and I held some sympathy for her. But still I couldn’t help laughing when I had Cecille drawing me the picture! The whole audience was driven insane by the bizarre phenomenon that took place!
Next, my so dear Phantom managed to spread his maniacal laughter all over the theater, just before finalizing this particular performance with the fall of an immense chandelier over the audience. Later I found out that the only person dead in the accident had been the woman designated to replace my mother as un usher. I don’t know how he did it, and I can’t really think he could have planned that previously...could he?
When my mother entered the room in panic, because of the disaster, and all the madness that was around the Theater, I couldn’t stand staying there any longer.
I couldn’t believe he was Christine’s damn angel! I couldn’t believe he destroyed a great singer’s career to clear the path for Christine’s success. I didn’t know how he did that, but I was certain it was him. So that was how Christine managed to get her first role?
And why? Well, that was obvious. Didn’t the “Angel” tell Christine that she was forbidden to see Raoul? Didn’t he visit her every day in her dressing room?
Ah, what a passionate admirer Erik was! It is not every day that you see someone dropping a few tons of glass over a thousand people to express their feelings.
And the worst was: Christine would never want him.
I wrapped myself in a cape and headed to the main foyer. There were policemen everywhere, coordinating the evacuation of the Theater, people in total panic. I shook my head and crossed the entrance, feeling the cold breeze of the night welcome me.
Outside, carriages were arriving in a constant flow, more policemen giving orders loudly. A fine rain began to come down as I paced through the streets.
“All those artists are crazy, the Phantom is no different from anyone else,” I thought in disanimation. I was tired of so much competition, people destroying each other for the sake of their egos...gossip, endless gossip...I hated that Opera House! My hair fell over my shoulders, the cold rain running inside my dress. I stared at the pavement, the shining pattern of stones, illuminated by the moonlight. It passed through the clouds and the trees, reaching the grass in the fields of the Park I had entered. It gave a beautiful gothic atmosphere to that night. Unfortunately, it was very contrasting with the misery that everyone seemed to be wallowing in.
And I was thinking about Erik. What kind of existence did he lead? How much had been denied to him because of his deformity? What did Christine represent to him? So the similarity of the capes was not my mind raving, but a real proof. As if I needed any...
And I had to wonder: had he ever been with a lady? I thought so. He was a very distinguishable man, and wearing his mask he could pass for a dashing gentleman. Couldn’t he?
I forced my thoughts to change, for this was none of my business. Not yet, I thought with a malicious grin.
I sat down on a bench, feeling the wet wood against my back. I was surprised that the weather wasn’t colder, for it was not spring yet. People walked through the park, their shoes tapping loudly on the stone sidewalk with each step, first a tall man with a large dog, followed by an old couple, some young boys...people, people everywhere. I wanted to be alone!
And the Phantom just emerged behind me. “Meg? Is it you?”
I startled at his sad and rich voice, turning around quickly. There was just darkness.
“Is it...? What are you doing here?”
“Perhaps you are not aware, Mademoiselle, but I have the same right of walking on the streets as anyone else.” He sounded extremely offended by my question.
“In that case, come out of the shadow and sit by my side, as anyone else would,” I demanded, though not sure if I truly wanted him to. There was an irrational fear of the possibility of having to look at his face again.
He hesitated for some time, finally sitting on the opposite end of the bench. His tall figure was only a spectre in that night, covered by a fashionable hat and his black cape - or Christine’s, I thought bitterly. So was it a new one, or was she able to give it back to him? Before saying anything, he coughed hard, and it was then that I noticed he was completely soaked.
I leaned in his direction, friendly caressing his shoulder, fears left behind. “Oh, God, Erik, aren’t you cold?”
He pushed me away somewhat strongly, in a defensive gesture.
“I’m sorry.” I faced the other direction with distress. I didn’t know if he did that because he didn’t want me close to him, or if he was just not used to being touched. The two options made me angry.
“I heard you presented quite a show tonight, Monsieur Le Fantome.”
He didn’t answer me, his gaze lost somewhere before him. I felt jealous, wondering what he could be thinking about.
“I wonder how many people you managed to kill this time...” I provoked.
“As many as it takes to get the govern of my theater back...and anything else I demand, including the box attendent,” he said emotionlessly.
I felt furious at this cynical answer. I laughed sarcastically and loudly, “Ah! Sure, how could I have not thought of that! Of course you did all that for me and my mother! Thank you for, unknowingly, having given my friend Christine Daae the greatest opportunity of her career. I truly thank you!”
He turned his head to me slowly, his mask glowing under the moonlight. I could feel his empty look on me. Suddenly I was taking back all the kindness I had offered him. But it seemed like he didn’t want it anyway.
I hissed, “For she will never bother to thank you herself!”
I knew I had hurt him, and that made me more irritated than regretful. That was the goal of the Phantom of the Opera: Christine. Furious, with tears running down my face, I threw my cape on him, standing up, “I think you might another one, since you gave yours away. Unless you can get it back in one of your mysterious visits to her dressing room!”
I was ready to walk away, when I realized he hadn’t said one word in return, nor tried to harm me physically, as one might have expected. He was quiet, his head bent foward, sunk in his arms. I think he was crying.
I regreted each word I had said. I wished desperately I could take them back, and that we could pretend none of that had just happened. But I couldn’t.
For some time I stood there, without a movement, my arms falling dead alongside my body, my heart burning in guilt and pity.
That man, so powerful and proud, so gracious and so hideous, didn’t belong to that aura of suffering. I wished there was something I could do.
I approached him, my head bent as well, and said softly, “Forgive me.”
His breath was intense, and I could hear him sobbing almost imperceptibly.
“Erik, I didn’t mean...I was angry...”
His sobs became more audible, and I felt an overpowering urge of hugging him. I knelt by his side, facing him. “Please talk to me. Say you forgive me!”
He stood up in a dignified movement and walked away with steady steps. I tried to follow him, but he said with finality, suddenly no hint of sadness on his voice, “Go home, Meg Giry. You don’t know what you are messing with.”
But I thought I did...
Get your own Free Homepage