The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  They watched her walk over to the chaise, and sit down next to the box, quickly untying the black ribbon and lifting the lid. All at once, several frogs jumped up and out at her, releasing loud croaks as they did so. Carlotta screamed, dropping the lid of the box. She immediately jumped up and ran out of the room, sputtering in Italian the entire time. She slammed the door behind her, and they could hear her stumbling down the hall, calling for the managers.

  Erik quickly motioned for Jenna to remain quiet. He speedily re-entered the dressing room, scooping up the harmless frogs that had jumped out of the box. He placed them back in, closed the lid and tucked the box under his arm. In its place, he left a handwritten note, which said,

  Perhaps you will no longer mistake poor seamstresses with toads, now that you have met a few of the latter in person.—O.G.

  He then rejoined Jenna, closing the mirror and the wall behind it, and grabbing her hand, as they began their sojourn back down toward the lake.

  Jenna did not make a sound until they were safely within the boat, sailing toward Erik's home. Once they were, their eyes met, and they finally let loose the guffaws they had been strangling since the diva had opened the box.

  “Erik, did you see her face?” Jenna howled with laughter.

  “Unfortunately,” he responded, chuckling. “I was afraid, for a moment, that I might see much more.”

  Jenna snorted. “Oh yes! You looked terrified!”

  “I was!” Erik agreed, “I had never seen a cow undress before, and I did not want to start today.”

  Jenna giggled, as she gazed at him. Pure amusement lit up his unmasked features, and she realized at that moment that what she could see of his face was really quite handsome. Without thinking, she said, “I like your smile.”

  The smile in question immediately faded from Erik's face, as he coughed in a start at her statement. “You um…” he began, his voice obviously flustered, “probably shouldn't grow accustomed to it.” He coughed again, his throat suddenly very dry. “It doesn't appear very often.”

  Jenna once again wanted to ask him why, but realized she had already said something wrong, as Erik would no longer look at her. Instead, they made the rest of their way back to the lair in an uncomfortable silence, the mirth from just moments before completely gone. It was almost a relief when Erik noticed the arrogant form of the Daroga sprawled once again in his reading chair.

  “This is becoming a habit, Daroga.” Erik called to him once they were ashore. He helped Jenna out of the boat, still not meeting her eyes, and immediately walked up to the Persian. “Did I not tell you yesterday that I was going to start charging you rent if you kept occupying my domain while I was out?”

  Omid rolled his eyes, “Yes, yes, Erik. You always do your utmost to make me feel welcome.”

  “I must attempt to remedy that.” Erik quipped.

  “Mademoiselle,” Omid smiled and extended a hand to Jenna as she approached. “How has our friend been treating you?”

  Jenna smiled, glancing quickly at Erik. “Very well, Monsieur,” she answered as she took Omid's proffered hand.

  “Please, Mademoiselle,” Omid spoke, giving her hand a gentlemanly kiss, “you may call me Omid.”

  She nodded, “And you may call me Jenna. In fact I would prefer it.”

  “Well, now that you two are on a first name basis,” Erik interrupted, looking as if her were about to jump out of his own skin, “I am reminded that the cupboard is nearly bare.”

  “But, Erik, you just…” Omid began, before Erik cut him off.

  “Why don't you two…friends…catch up, while I go out to gather some more supplies and let the frogs loose.” He turned back to the boat, without waiting for reply.

  “But Erik, I thought I would accompany you to release them.” Jenna objected.

  “I see no need for that, Mademoiselle.” Erik continued to the lake, without turning back.

  “Erik, it's daylight.” Omid began to protest.

  “I am wearing my hat, Daroga. It shields my mask. I shall be fine.” He was in his boat, pushing off shore before calling, “Enjoy your visit, Persian! Do make it a short one. I would not mind you being gone before I return.”

  12 ANGEL OF MUSIC

  Omid and Jenna watched helplessly as Erik sailed away in his boat, not two minutes after their initial return. When he was out of view, they turned their heads to look at one another. At the same time, they each blurted, “What just happened?”—“What's with him?”

  “You were with him, Jenna,” Omid pressed. “What got him into such a foul temperament?”

  Jenna thought for a moment. She shook her head, at a loss, and answered, “I don't know.”

  Omid rolled his eyes and sighed. “Ahh. I see our friend is being crystal clear about his inner thoughts once again.”

  Jenna sighed too. “I just don't understand. We were laughing, and having such a good time, and then he just…” She shook her head and shrugged.

  “Well, my dear,” Omid said, “that explains it. He has always had an aversion to good humor.”

  Still exasperated, Jenna suddenly remembered her manners. “Um, would you like some tea…or …something?” she asked, figuring that despite what Erik said, she could probably find some items with which to be hospitable in Erik's kitchen.

  “Oh don't trouble yourself, Jenna,” Omid waved her off. “I'll take the or something.” He proceeded to walk to Erik's liquor cabinet and pour himself some cognac. “Would you care for some, Jenna?” He asked, holding the bottle out to her.

  “Oh, no thank you, Omid.” Jenna shook her head and went to sit down on the settee.

  Omid replaced the stopper on the bottle and returned it to the cabinet. “You know,” he said amiably, taking his seat on Erik's reading chair once again, “I have never seen Erik actually drink any of his own brandy. I think he keeps it here especially for me.”

  Jenna smiled at that thought. For all of Erik's bluster, she could tell he enjoyed Omid's company. At the very least, it gave him someone to complain about.

  “So,” Omid began, conversationally, “what have you two been doing to occupy your time since I last saw you?”

  Jenna thought back on the events that had happened since dinner time last night and was overwhelmed with how much had happened. “So much…” she said out loud, as she remembered the frog hunt, the near miss with the carriage which led to Erik's terrible display of temper, and then their talk last night when they realized she had slipped backward in time, not to mention their adventure in Carlotta's dressing room. How could she ever hope to explain all of that to Omid?

  “Well, where were you returning from just now? Obviously you had not gone to stock the cupboards, and did Erik say something about frogs?”

  “Oh, yes, “Jenna began. “We had been to Carlotta's dressing room.”

  Omid's eyes widened, “Carlotta's…” He abandoned his words, suddenly feeling the urge to take a long drink from his brandy. “What on earth were you doing there?” he asked in a choked voice, after swallowing hard, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it passed down his throat.

  “Oh, Erik wanted to spook her with some frogs we had caught last night,” she said nonchalantly. “It worked great, too,” she smiled, remembering the startled look on the rude singer's face. “She ran out of there, screaming in Italian. It was so funny. We laughed so much once we were back at the boat.”

  “Erik laughed?” Omid asked in wonder. It had been ages since he had seen his friend laugh—truly laugh. It had to have been before his sweet Aziz passed. When his little boy had died, so had Erik's laughter—or so Omid had thought.

  “Yes,” Jenna exclaimed, “he laughed so hard.” Omid saw her eyes go far away. “And his smile…He looked so happy, Omid.” Suddenly, she looked right at him. “Does mischief always make him that way?”

  “He does tend to enjoy it,” Omid confirmed, “but I confess that I do not think I have ever seen him quite as elated by it as you've described. What happened to sour
his mood?”

  Jenna's face looked troubled. “Like I said, I don't know.” Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to remember. “It all seemed to turn when I said I liked his smile.”

  “Ooooh yeah,” Omid finished his drink and placed the glass noisily down on the side table. “That'd do it.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

  “His smile is part of his face, Jenna.” Omid replied. “And Erik never likes there to be any attention paid to his face.”

  Jenna considered that quietly for a moment. His face. He was sensitive about his face. That must be why he constantly wore that mask. He did seem a little perturbed the other day, when she told him she was looking at it. But why does he wear it? What was he hiding? Gathering her courage, she looked Omid in the eye and asked, “Why does he wear the mask?”

  Omid looked at her silently for a long moment. “Jenna,” he reached for his glass to take another sip, before remembering that the liquor was gone. “Are you sure you don't want any cognac?” he asked, going back to the cabinet for a refill of his own drink. She shook her head again, and when Omid was once again seated, drink in hand, he began.

  “Erik was born with a deformity. The right side of his face, Jenna—the side he keeps masked—it's…hideous. Some have described it as looking more like a corpse than a man.”

  “Oh, please, Omid,” Jenna began to protest, “I hardly believe it could be that bad.”

  “Well, whether you believe it or not,” he replied, “it's true. His own mother could never look at him, and she forced him to wear a mask from birth—that was after she came to terms with the fact that she had to keep him alive, since killing him would condemn her soul to eternal torment.”

  Jenna gasped in shock at Omid's words. “No, surely his own mother…”

  “She was horrible to him,” he drank another sip of his brandy, trying to wash the image of his friend's pain away. “She never touched him, except to beat him if he ever sought affection. She told him his face was a poison, and that he would destroy anything he ever touched. She told him he would never be loved because his face made it impossible.”

  “What an evil woman,” Jenna said in outrage. “To treat her own child so cruelly.”

  “She was the first to treat him cruelly, it's true,” Omid agreed, “But she was not the last. Erik's life has been full of people who beat him, mocked him, and treated him like some kind of freak because of his face. He has known more than his share of savagery in his life. That's why he lives here, beneath the opera. He no longer wanted to be in the world because…”

  “The world did not want him,” Jenna quietly finished Omid's sentence, which was an echo of Erik's earlier words.

  “Yes. That's right,” he nodded, taking another long drink from his glass. “The truth is,” Omid continued, “it's the world's great loss. Erik is a genius. He built this opera house, did you know that?”

  “He told me,” she nodded.

  “He apprenticed with a master mason in Italy—quickly surpassing him in skill.” Omid began to list Erik's many areas of expertise. “He is a master architect and artist. He speaks several languages fluently. He has a solid grasp on the science of medicine. Hell, he's even a magician! And have you heard his music?”

  “I have heard him play…a little.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle,” he said, falling back to the formal greeting, as his voice took on a tone of awe. “You should hear him play a lot. And you should hear him sing. He could make Allah himself weep at the beauty of the sound.”

  Omid's expression darkened once more, and he finished his tale, “And yet he lives here—hiding his many talents—because humanity cannot handle his face. They seek to destroy him because they do not understand him. He plays at being a Phantom, bullying the opera managers with pranks and threats into doing things his way, when by rights, they should simply obey him because he is their intellectual better.”

  Jenna was deeply troubled by the Persian's words. It saddened her to hear that the man she had come to know as gentle and witty had been treated with such barbarism by others around him. “But Omid,” she said, still confused about one thing. “I was not cruel to him. I joined in on his game. I laughed with him. I complimented him.”

  “You accepted him, Jenna,” Omid corrected her. “And that terrified him, because he has never truly known acceptance.” At the look of bewilderment in her eyes, Omid added, “But you did nothing wrong. Erik will come around. He just needs time.”

  Jenna nodded. Well, she thought to herself. He's got all the time in the world. It wasn't like she was going anywhere anytime soon.

  As soon as he had finished his morning rounds, the doctor hurried to Jenna's room. He had purposely left her as his last patient, wishing to spend a bit more time with her, but that had not been his smartest idea. He had found himself distracted while tending his other patients. He could not wait to get to her room to see how she was doing. Perhaps she had awakened? Tomorrow, he told himself, he would have to come in early, so he could check on her first thing.

  When he approached her door he found that she was not alone. Jake Trudeau was there, and the scoundrel was holding her hand! The doctor felt the wind being knocked out of him. Had Trudeau finally realized what an imbecile he had been? Had he finally realized what his disgusting behavior was doing to the beautiful woman that loved him? Had he returned to her side to once again claim her as his own?

  The doctor knew he should be happy. Isn't this exactly what he had encouraged the buffoon to do from the beginning? Visit Jenna? Spend time with her? Coax her back to consciousness? This was good. Obviously, his own attentions had not been enough. Finally Jenna had the support of someone she loved. So why did he feel like he was being punched in the gut?

  He was about to turn away when he saw Trudeau release Jenna's hand and place it on her chest. He pulled back her bed sheet, and touched her bare calf, giving it a squeeze, and drawing his fingers up and down the length of it. When Trudeau's hand moved up to her thigh, the doctor had had enough.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Trudeau,” he interrupted in outrage, taking long strides to arrive at Jenna's bedside, his lab coat flaring out behind him. “But what the hell are you doing?”

  The smaller man looked up, startled, “Uh, my job. You ordered physical therapy to prevent muscle atrophy, remember, Doc?”

  He had ordered physical therapy, and now he felt like a moron. “Oh…um…yes,” he coughed a little to cover up his mortification, wishing that he was not, at this moment, feeling his face turn bright red. “That's right. I…um…had forgotten you worked here.”

  “That's uh,” Jake started, looking at the doctor like he was a madman, but then remembering that he had been hoping to talk to him. “That's alright, Doc. Listen…I've been meaning to ask you about Jenna's condition.”

  “Well,” the doctor hedged, wondering if perhaps some of Trudeau's feelings for Jenna were returning after all. Still, there were privacy laws… “I do not know how much I can tell you. You aren't her husband, and since you two are no longer…involved,” he watched Trudeau's face for any sign of rebuttal, but he found none. “HIPPA prevents me from …”

  “No, no,” Jake said, waving his hands in front of him and shaking his head, “I don't need any major details or anything. I just was wondering how long you thought she might be out?”

  “Out, Mr. Trudeau?” he asked, questioningly.

  “Yeah, out,” he said, emotionlessly. “You think she's going to wake up any time soon?”

  “Mr. Trudeau,” he began calmly. This was a fair question, even if it was delivered in an irritatingly odd manner. “It's very difficult to predict when or even if coma patients will emerge from unconsciousness.” As he heard himself saying the words, he felt his heart sink as he recognized the truth in his own statement. She might not wake up. And the thought filled him with dread. “At this point, all we can do is spend time with her and hope for the best.” When Trudeau continued to look at him expectantly, he added,
“and wait.”

  A look of disappointment came over Trudeau's face—or was it discomfort? “You see, Doc…when Jenna left that night, she left her cat with me. Now, normally, I don't mind taking care of the cat,” he insisted in a whiny tone of voice, “but, you see, I'm about to leave on vacation in a couple of days, and…” The doctor was once again incredulous. “You're leaving on vacation?”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled a little, “Mindy has to go to Paris for her job, and I figured I'd tag along. I got a cousin, Lucas, who lives there. I figure I could hang out with him while she's working. Take in the sights with her at night. I mean, I've been through so much lately, I could really use a getaway.”

  “Obviously.” the doctor answered, dryly.

  “But I don't know what to do with the cat. I don't really want to pay for a pet sitter—since that's expensive and he's not mine—but I don't know what to do. Should I take him to a pound or something? I mean if she's not waking up …”

  “You are a fool!” the doctor snarled.

  “Huh?” Trudeau was taken aback. He looked at the doctor with squinted eyes.

  “Never mind,” he huffed. “Bring me the cat.”

  “You serious, Doc?” Trudeau looked surprised.

  “Yes. I don't have any pets at the moment and the cat may bring her comfort.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Trudeau smiled, “that's a great idea, Doc! Why didn't I think of that?”

  “I guess her comfort just wasn't on your mind,” he raised an eyebrow at him. “What, with, Mindy and the trip to France and all.”

  “Yeah, you know how it is,” he smirked. “Relationships. They do kind of take over.”

  The doctor smiled tightly and nodded. In truth, he didn't have a lot of experience with relationships. He had always been too busy with studies to spend much time dating. The one woman he’d dated in medical school had been little more than a glorified study partner. Even now, he often couldn't find the nerve to ask a woman out—as evidenced by his shyness around Jenna before her accident. It irritated him to no end to realize that this idiot in front of him had not only been with Jenna, but had had no trouble moving on to another girl, and would probably move on from that one too.