ERIK

10.

I could not relax or enjoy my triumph until I had secured the secret of our passage. Once Christine was safely sleeping (I stood above her for a while, guarding her slumber like the angel she thought me) I extinguished the candles and left her to rest, nestling down in the covers like a child. I had to resist the urge to do more than stroke her smooth white forehead, reminding myself of the obscenity it would be to break her trust, even by performing so simple an action as stroking her hair while she was helpless, unaware. I must say that I was tempted. Christine was the first person that had ever touched me and not been visibly wracked by repugnance.

I took a much less protracted route to the secret stairway that led down to my lair, arriving in a fraction of the time that it took me to lead the girl here. I did not mind showing her the skeletons in my little earthen closet, no bones, dry or moist, could rise to harm her, but the more direct route contains a few fine traps of my own immaculate design that it would be difficult to lead a frightened woman through. This time, I was navigating alone.

When I reached the top of the stairs I uncovered the supplies I’d stocked earlier; the boards and bag of plaster. It would not do to erect a permanent barrier, I would have to leave here sometime, to go about my opera work, and while I had other exits they opened out on to the street and would not serve for every purpose. Instead, I laid the lathes across the entrance in such a way that they looked solidly mounted, but were really secured by a few flathead nails. Then I filled the gaps between the boards with quick-drying plaster, so that if the door were opened it would seem to lead nowhere but a solid wall.

That finished, the corridor hidden, the night well advanced, I returned to my rooms and changed into my travelling garments. It was a bittersweet moment for me, reducing myself to my terrible nakedness in a room without mirrors, knowing that if I were not to ruin everything that I had built and planned for I could never afford to be careless.

But then, neither would I ever be alone. The cost was worth it.

And no, I did not stop a single moment and consider the wreckage that I had made above in the theatre. I designed it, after all. It was mine to do with what I wished. And, in any case, none of the damage was irreparable. The six months it would take to bring the stage back up to scratch would simply provide time for Christine to continue her training, and that idiot Comte of hers to give up his grieving and start sniffing for a bride under other, more appropriate circumstances.

Fully dressed, mask and wig secured, I pulled on my gloves and sought the mirror I kept in the closet.

Mirrors! I loathe them like vermin, but it was necessary to keep one stored somewhere in order to gauge the effect of my disguises. My suit, cut in the style of the latest fashions (I sewed it myself, adding a few special features) fitted me well and lay against my body in clean, pinstriped lines. Pleased, I selected, tonight, the wide-brimmed fedora I’d bought from the mad but immaculately skilled haberdasher who operated in a shop near the Louvre. It is amazing how lifelike a well-made mask can look, when cast in deep shadow by the brim of a hat.

Pleased, I picked up my valise and made my way to the fine night-market that operates near the Seine. The stands stank of foul water, but the bins were filled with many grand treasures. There was nothing here that hadn’t been stolen, but the markdown was good, as was the quality, and the stall tenders made it their business to ask very few questions of the people perusing their wares.

I found a stall selling dresses and selected a few fine styles in a variety of colours. Christine could not wear that wedding dress forever, no matter how fetching she looked in it. The designs I chose were, admittedly, a little young for her. But then, I told myself, she is young, and she thinks of herself as my daughter. These frilled things would be totally appropriate to the role, and since she was slight, they would probably fit her.

Next, I procured a selection of fine foods; flesh, patisserie, fruit, a few exquisite truffles, a few fresh vegetables. I ensured that they were double wrapped in wax paper before placing them in the bag with the new dresses. I would not wish to stain the fabric.

Finally, I purchased a small silver bell, for the girl to carry with her to ring should she encounter any trouble, and three sheaves of barred composition paper. My current stock was running low, the foot pedals of my organ were surrounded by crumpled wads of paper and the music stand was weighed down with finished notes.

I spoke to no one on my travels. I do not make a habit of haggling with vendors, and with my wealth I have no need to. Pleased with myself, heavily laden, I returned to my subterranean home by another, longer road. Thieves were much more likely to pursue me once I’d stocked myself with goods that I’d bought from them mere moments before. Quick turnaround meant that they earned much more of a profit if they could keep my gold, recoup their material and sell it again in their store.

In my time trading here, I had only been attacked once, and I thrashed both of my attackers quite soundly, beating them about the skull with the knob of my stick. I would have slaughtered my foes, thrown their corpses into the river to be pecked at by gulls, but I knew that if I had done so I would never have been allowed back into the market. I liked to trade there, so I endured the mild dissatisfaction of allowing them to live. Manners, after all, might vary by context but they should never be ignored.

Tonight I had no problems. I returned in time to check on Christine, she was still sleeping, of course. The dose I’d prepared for her was strong enough to grant her eighteen hours’ worth of the slumber of the angels. God knew she needed it, after the last several weeks. Already the natural glow in her cheeks was being restored. Her breath came sweet and with gentle regularity, like the pulse under music. I left her after I placed her new clothes in the wardrobe, before her beauty made me weak.

I would sleep myself, now, for a few hours at least. When she woke she would be very hungry, possibly disoriented. I must be ready with a meal for her, and at least a few kind words, before expecting her to settle down to work.

11.

When Christine had sufficiently recovered we settled into our work, using my own part-finished music instead of the usual canonical scores. In some ways our work continued much as it had before. My student was as dedicated as ever and her long sleep had done wonders for her voice; she sang my score with a richness of tone, that was as clear and weighty as leaded crystal, but it was strange to have her stand so close to me as I pushed the pedals and manipulated the keys of my small chamber organ.

I was dissatisfied with the sound that my instrument produced; it was quite in the shadow of my student’s miraculous voice, but I could do nothing about it. It was difficult enough for me to shift this five-hundred kilo cabinet down into this cavern, even with aid of the pulley system I designed. When I composed the songs I heard every instrument in the full orchestral score, including the wonderful sixty-four pipe organ built into the walls of the theatre above. Compared to that, this small cabinet was a bugle, good for granting the listener an idea of the sound without the full measure of power. I must be satisfied that Christine consented to assist me in my composition and try my hardest to wait to experience the full flower of my music when she returned to the surface world, bringing it with her into the light.

If I could never stand to live in the world again; if I nconsigned myself to shadows like the grave, at least this part of me (by far the better part) would meet with resurrection. I smiled beneath my mask to know that my greatest work would live on in her voice.

This room that we rehearsed in had once been a part of a cave system; the limestone walls were rough – I had left them unfinished, as they naturally formed, in order to preserve the rich acoustics. The cavern was situated a few yards from my quarters, a location that approximated to the orchestra pit in the theatre ten metres above our heads. As I said, the sound in this chamber was astonishingly good, the dry air reverberated with song; the sand-textured walls were golden in the light from our torches. We were far enough beneath the surface for the sound to be muffled. I could commit a murder here, something long and drawn out, involving much screaming, and no one would be any wiser.

I ran my hands across the yellowish ivory keyboard, cursing my gloves for the difficulty they gave me, but I was unwilling to play bare-handed, exposing my mottled flesh to her sight. I struck a foul chord and the girl stopped short, halting mid-phrase. I turned to her and asked, ‘Christine, could you start again at bar fifteen? I am uncertain of the phrasing. My gifts are as composer, not librettist.’

She laughed, tossing her dark hair, ‘Of course, Erik. But I was wondering, if the emotion you’re trying to convey is a sort of ominous fear, mingled with hope, shouldn’t you change that note,’ she pointed, to my copy of the manuscript, ‘to A flat so that the strings will really leap when I sing, “Why have you brought me here, to the edge of the earth, where devils dance and angels tremble?”’

I stared at the text, considering. It just might work. I made the change, blotted the paper, then closed it back inside its book. We had been hard at work for five hours. Christine was ready for a rest, though she would never say so. Her sweat had soaked through the fibres of her rose-silk shirtwaist, her curls were damp against her forehead.

She had been with me nine days and it was remarkable to me how profoundly our relationship had changed.

She used my name so frequently, always with a slight smile on her lips, as though the sound of it filled her with some secret pleasure. For my part, I found myself confiding in her more than I ever thought possible. We talked together while she ate, lingering over her meals to draw the conversation out.

I found myself revealing things to her that I had planned to take to my grave.

That very morning we sat together over her breakfast, Christine had two slices of toast coated with honey and a carnelian apple that I cut for her, arranging the slices on a plate in a pattern that alternated deep red and stark white.

I have hated the smell of apples since my days in the carnival, but she asked for the fruit and so of course I provided it. I watched as she lifted the wedge to her mouth, watched her lips close around the bite, and I nearly shuddered. I would have thought that the mask I wore, the careful way I held my body, would have blocked her from perceiving my disgust.

Instead, she gave me a look so blatant in its perplexity that her face might as well have been a question mark. ‘Erik, what is it? Is something wrong?’ She looked at her plate, ‘Is it the fruit?’

I held my hands in my lap, ‘It is true, they are offensive. I despise them.’

Her head tilted to the side, as though she could see more of me by shifting her angle, ‘Then why did you bring them?’

‘Because you asked, and I would deny you nothing.’

‘And so you cut them up for me, doing something that I could easily have done for myself, and then resented me for causing you to do it.’ She suddenly seemed to find something interesting in the shining convex surface of her spoon.

I looked down at my hands, as though I could see the flesh, the blood beneath the kid-skin gloves. ‘I do not resent you, Christine. The stench of the fruit seems to pull me backwards through time, to a place that I do not wish to revisit.’

‘How could something so sweet, so natural, hurt you so?’ She shook her head, then looked up and said, ‘But then, the smell of the sea is like that for me, now. I used to smell it and think of the holidays that I spent with my father. Now I smell it and the memories are the same, but the context has changed. There is no sense of anticipation, only the ache of permanent loss.’

She reached across the table and laid her hand on the cloth so that her curled palm faced upward. I hesitated a moment, then placed my hand in hers. It took all of my courage not to withdraw when she squeezed it. This was the second time that we had done this. I must grow used to being touched.

She said, ‘Tell me what happened.’

And so I did. God help me, I never expected to. I never wanted to burden her with it. The shame, the nakedness, the taunts. I told her what it was like to be on display, raw and filthy, to eat only what puerile people chose to pelt me with so that every meal came from, was formed from, my own humiliation. I told her what it was like to have my body splattered with the cores of apples that bounced from my skin and landed in a floor strewn with my own leavings which I could never clean because I was given enough water to wash myself or drink but never both. I told her about how I had to survive eating that fruit, filthy, crusted with bitterness.

I said, ‘And all of this came about in payment for the crime of being born deformed.’

‘You are deformed. That is no crime. You know that I will never run from you.’ Her thumb tightened against the back of my hand, ‘Let me ask you once more. Can you trust me enough to take off your mask?’

I tried to draw away from her, but could not. She refused to let go. Instead, she leaned across the table, looking through my eyeholes, trying hard to see behind them. I felt terror twining in my guts and my skin was suddenly drenched in foul-smelling sweat.

‘Let me know what you are, Erik, let me see you. I love you, my teacher. Do not be afraid. I will not be frightened.’

I ran from her then, tearing my hand from hers and thrusting back against the hotel trolley so that it rolled into the wall, just missing her hip. She kept hold of the glove, peeled it from my hand so that my scarred white claw was exposed. Her face blanched when she saw it, that dead white thing, all the colour drained out of her soft cheeks. The expression on her face hit me like a blow to the chest; I had to get away from her. I had to make myself secure, get back to my rooms where I could breathe properly, and wait for the black edges of the world to regain their light.

I cannot forget the stricken look on her face as I left her, standing there in the middle of her bright room, holding my empty glove.

By the time that I returned that afternoon she had cleaned up the mess I’d made of her breakfast, washed the plates in her small sink and reordered the chairs around the trolley. My glove was lying on my seat, as though it were waiting for me. And as for Christine, she was waiting for me. She had changed into the shirtwaist that I had expressed a preference for and when I entered, bearing her lunch tray, she rose and apologised, ‘for being so forward’.

I forgave her, of course. She could not help her reaction. After a few moments of awkwardness she ate the meal I served her, helped me clear away the dishes, then we both resumed our work.

12.

I have never been so close to happiness as I was then, that brief time twenty years ago when I lived with a woman who loved me and who shared in both my genius and the adoration of our work. We had three weeks together; a far cry from the six months that I had originally intended. Luckily the work moved very quickly – Don Juan was written by the time that we ended. She made her ascension after all, her glorious resurrection from the pit of the damned. It is not her fault if it did not go exactly as we planned.

Sitting here now, in the rooms that I have inhabited for nearly a third of a century, a chamber that might be a macrocosm of myself, among my papers, my books, and my new imported gramophone (I can listen to her voice whenever I wish, singing my songs. It’s like having a captive ghost) it’s almost possible to pretend that the past is really over, and that I have survived it.

As I get older I find myself turning for comfort to the stories of my childhood. Fairy tales that my mother never read to me, but which I consoled myself with over the long cold evenings in the cellar of the granite house my father built. I had a tattered copy of La Belle et la Bête my mother found in one of the rooms, left behind by a tenant. She had considered selling it, but in the end gave it to me in a gesture of strained love, or guilt. It was, for a time, my greatest treasure. I found hope inside its pages.

Reading it again now, a newer edition in buttery green-leather binding, I am struck by the way the myth reflects my story. All those nights that the Beast spent sitting across from the maiden, asking his questions and being rebuffed, only to win through in the end. I chose the word reflection carefully. Mirrors invert. His story is my story, subtly reversed.

We had our table with one place setting. The monster was there, and so was the maiden: the single red rose. But it was the maiden who asked for intimacy, over and over again, even when I begged her to cease. It was the Beast who refused transformation. It was the monster who, though strong enough to murder, turned and ran as fast as he could from the possibility of romance.

And so here I am, settled in the same leather armchair, growing older while my organ stands with the cover closed, the keys slowly shifting out of true as the wood decomposes, shrouded in a muslin tarpaulin. I rise, as thin as ever, maskless (I never bother with wearing it now) and set my recording of Don Juan Triumphant on the turntable.

Christine’s voice rises up from the black wax grooves, her miraculous voice singing, ‘Love is vanity, selfish in its beginning as its end, except where ’tis a mere insanity.’ And I see her again, as fresh as the summer, a beautiful girl who sat by my side in her white dress, helping me to fit the music to the form.

We had been working in my rooms all morning; I had brought a second chair to place beside my desk. Christine was wearing Marguerite’s white dress; the costume had become a part of her wardrobe, and in truth it was exceptionally fetching, revealing the soft tops of her breasts and pale, gently muscled lengths of forearm. Books of poetry were open all around us. We were finishing the libretto for the final scene – the libertine who seduced Doña Ana was about to be dragged into Hell by the vengeful ghost of the poor maid’s father.

Christine had developed a taste for the English poet Byron and she wanted to invert lines from the satire to serve our more serious purposes.

‘What do you think of this?’ she asked, tilting her head so that her curls spilled from her shoulders into her soft cleavage, ‘“The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil’s in the moon for mischief”, I was thinking that the servant Gato could sing that to the maid before the meal begins. It fits in well with the rhythm of the piece, and the image is certainly ominous enough.’

I nodded, ‘Yes. And it foreshadows the ending of the story.’ I sang the line, adopting a baritone based on the voice of the actor I hanged on her last night on the surface. Monsieur Jordan.

She laughed, clapping her hands like a child, and copied the words on to the composition paper. If you ever get a chance to examine the original score, I believe that it is currently housed in the Musée de la Musique, you will see a strange thing. The score seems to have been written in two different hands. One elegantly sets down the actual musical notation (the orders for Timpani, or Allegretto are rather spidery) the other, a strong, almost masculine calligraphy, transcribed the words. The styles are very different, and yet they exist in a state of absolute sympathy. To read the score for this Don Juan is to observe the perfect mingling of twinned spirits. It is beautiful to see.

Unfortunately the bound reproduction I have displays none of that. Printed, the genius of the piece, its passion, its experimental nature, shines through clearly, but it reads as though it were the product of one mind only; the twinned parts merge. Our wonderful unity is utterly masked.

We had only one full scene left to write; the aria that Doña Ana sings professing her love to the Don before he murders her father in the final act. We were having some difficulty capturing the spirit of the piece, transcribing the sense of what she felt, hopelessly waiting for the libertine to return her love. We read for a while, paging through my books in silence, when suddenly Christine’s eyes lit up as though her spirit and her brain were blazing.

She stood before my chair, her hands clasped before her, and opened her mouth, singing, ‘Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you.’

For a moment I could not speak. It was so right for the scene. ‘What was that?’

She looked at me, triumphant, her cheeks flushed, ‘I found it in Ovid. The Metamorphosis.’

I stood on my uncertain feet, quite badly shaken. I took her hand. ‘Close your eyes, Christine.’

Her body stiffened when I took hold of her arm, her fine face paled, but she did what I asked. ‘Didn’t you like it?’

I lifted my mask and kissed her, once, on her downy cheek. The pale flesh flared crimson where I had touched her, her full lips smiled. That is a sight that I will treasure for the rest of my life. Against every desire of my body, I drew back from her, once more lowering my false waxen face over the true. ‘It was absolutely perfect.’

She opened her eyes; her look was languid, the pupils dilated, so that she seemed like a woman waking from a deep, sweet slumber. She stepped close to me and took both of my hands. Her voice had found a lower register, ‘Erik…

And that was when we heard the crashing, the brittle crack of splintered wood and powdered plaster, the shouting of ten men battering through my false wall and clamouring down the narrow corridor towards the traps I’d set up between there and here. In that moment any possibility of our future happiness was shattered.