~ by Stephanie Piro

What was happening to him? One day, years ago, he had inexplicably comforted a small girl by offering her his guidance as a voice tutor. He had surprised himself by this charitable act. He had been many things in his life, but never charitable.  He was an accomplished musician, singer, songwriter, architect, assassin…yes, that last item in his resume was one he would prefer to forget.

For years he had worked for the Shah of Mazanderan, designing and overseeing the construction of an exquisite palace. A palace to delight the eye and every sense with its beauty. Yet the Shah wanted more, a trick box which Erik created that held secret pathways and passages and…a torture chamber and a dungeon. At the Shah’s behest, Erik, who had during that time mastered the swift and deadly Punjab lasso, was pressed into duty dispatching various enemies of the state, so to speak.

And then, having made the acquaintance of Charles Garnier and assisting him in the Opera House’s construction, which took years and a war before its completion, Erik brought some of his previous skills to use by creating his palace underground in the Opera House’s fifth cellar. Here he built his pipe organ and over time, collected together the items from his travels and that he had found discarded around the Opera House. It was more than anything, his home. He could retire from the world here, create music, read and study the books from his great library, sip a glass of brandy and try not to think of how lonely he was.

He had his friends – Nadir, the Daroga from Persia who had risked everything to help him escape the wrath of the Shah who had decided he didn’t want Erik to share the details of his palace with any other ruler, and was planning to put an end to any doubt about his loyalties by having him killed. 

And then there was the charming Antoinette Giry, who had befriended him and kept his secrets. He looked out for her and her daughter, Meg, from his hidden passages and places around the Opera House, and often left them presents and surprises because to him they were as close to a family as he had known. Although Meg never saw him. He preferred her not to. And Antoinette respected his wishes and just told her the Opera Ghost had left them, which was true in its way, so she wasn’t deceiving her daughter. Meg, when she was small, believed what she was told. But as she had grown, she suspected otherwise.

So, then Christine came into his life and she became an all-consuming hobby at first, and then a delight he looked forward to every day. As Antoinette’s ward, she lived in a dressing room/bedroom on her own and not in the dormitories, so it was here he was able to give her private lessons through the huge mirror that covered the wall at one end of her room. In fact, it was a two-way mirror, one of several he had designed to keep tabs on the comings and goings of the Opera House. He could see her, but she saw only her reflection. 

And it was during one of these lessons, recently, that he became aware of something. As Christine had grown and blossomed under the guidance of her Angel of Music, as she called him, her angel, he realized he had fallen in love with this young woman. How could he let this happen? He gazed at her as she regaled him, her tutor, with gossip from the chorus members, and how her old friend Raoul would be taking her to dinner, so she had to get ready. And he turned away – he was not a voyeur, after all – so she could change, and pondered the darkness that surrounded him, save for his lantern.

He found that he was unaccountably jealous of Raoul, someone she had known since childhood and who had come back into her life, as his family were Patrons of the Opera and had box seats for every event.

He had never given Raoul a second thought, but now he seethed inwardly at the thought of that handsome, entitled boy taking Christine’s arm and enjoying the things that he could never hope to do, like dine out with her in public. His disfigurement saw to that. His cursed face! It was something he’d been born with and had no control over, but that didn’t prevent the fear and hatred he’d experienced over it from his mother, or how the gypsies had capitalized on it. When he’d finally escaped, he wore the masks he designed to protect himself from the cruelties of others. And became a master of cruelty, himself. 

He was conscious that Christine was still chattering away. He sighed and turned back to the glass and saw she was dressed, beautifully, in a lilac lace dress with purple kid boots. He, himself, had paid for this ensemble, he scowled, just so she could wear it out with another man. 

“Stop that,” he scolded himself. He possessed quite a large fortune, and it was nothing to keep an account open for these necessities as they cropped up. He could rely on Antoinette telling him when anything was needed. He gave her carte blanche to choose any outfits she saw that would complement Christine’s beauty, though he didn’t phrase it like that. “Would enhance her stage presence,” was what he thought he’d said.

No, he shouldn’t have feelings for someone he’d known as a child. He was so much older than she was, making it doubly unseemly. She and Raoul were closer in age. He was maybe four or five years older. But what could he say to his heart to make it stop its yearning? What could he say to his mind to prevent the images of her that came to him in his dreams? His every waking hour was consumed by her existence. Christine, Christine, Christine!

He hadn’t noticed her leaving. He sighed. “You must stop this absurd delusion,” he said aloud to himself. She is a child. Forget her.” “No,” he replied, “she is a woman.” “One whom I love with all my heart and soul,” he cried out.

“What? Did you say something, Angel?” It was Christine. She had returned. 

He blanched at the thought she might have overheard him. “Um,” he stammered, “were you not going out for the evening?”

“Oh! Yes, Raoul is waiting. I forgot my purse. I am so glad you are still here. You never said goodnight to me after our lesson. I cannot sleep if I do not hear you say those words to me. I would pine for you all tomorrow until our lesson, again,” she said so sweetly, he just stared, relieved she hadn’t heard him. 

“You would pine for me?” he asked, softly.

“You are the most important presence in my life, Angel. Did you not know that? I pray at night that maybe one day you will appear to me. That I will know you in real life.”

“And why is that?” he spoke quietly, hardly a whisper, and yet she could hear his beautiful voice so clearly.

“Because I love you. With all my heart.” She blushed.

He leaned away from the glass to catch his breath. Then stood, as close to the glass as he dared. “Goodnight, Christine,” he murmured.

“Thank you!” She smiled at the glass, as if she could see him. “Goodnight, my angel,” she said, grabbed her purse from her dresser, and was gone.

Any doubts he entertained, had vanished. He felt lighter, suddenly. And a melody seemed to come to him that he needed to write down. Turning once more from the mirror, he took his lantern and made his way back to the fifth cellar. No matter what shape or form her love for him took, she had told him she loved him. And for now, that was enough.