The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  It was quiet in the lair, but Omid knew it was not empty. The boat was in dock, even if haphazardly tied. A black cloak was strewn carelessly over the settee. Dinner dishes still littered the table. Omid bent over and took a closer look at the remains of what appeared to be a very fine feast, including what looked like chocolate dessert of some kind. It seemed Erik and Jenna had had a lovely dinner indeed.

  A wicked smile spread across his mouth. Perhaps Erik had abandoned his insane notion that Jenna had to go back across time. Perhaps the dinner had been just so delectable, the dessert so sinful, that a moment of passion had once again ignited between them. Maybe this time, they had made it to the bedroom where Erik was making Jenna sing instead.

  Omid chuckled to himself a little, happy for his friend, when he realized that the lair was too quiet. He glanced toward Jenna's room and noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Hmmm, he thought. They're not in there. He rapped gently on Erik's bedroom door, but there was no answer.

  Still convinced that Erik would never leave his house in such a state of disarray, Omid once again walked down by the lake. It was then that he heard it—the sound of someone…weeping. Quickly, he followed the path before him, eager to find the source of the distressing sound. When he reached the far end of the cavern, the sight before him gave him pause. There was Erik, the Great Phantom of the Opera, down on his knees, heaving quiet, heart wrenching sobs, clutching his hands to his heart, a black ribbon trailing between his fingers.

  “Erik?” he asked, in alarm, “What the devil is going on?”

  “She's gone,” Erik answered, his voice thick with tears. “She's gone.” He dropped his head to his chest, as the sobs once again overtook him.

  “Whatever do you mean, my friend?” Omid moved forward and knelt beside Erik, his hand moving to rest on Erik's back. It was not often that Erik allowed someone to see him cry. He knew something must be dreadfully wrong.

  “Jenna found her way home,” his said miserably, as his eyes stared off into the darkness. “She is truly now a lifetime away.”

  “What?” Omid exclaimed in shock that Erik's theory had actually worked. “How?”

  “I told her I was in love with Christine,” Erik answered bitterly. “I lied to her to make her want to leave. Her mind must have done the rest—must have opened the door that led her home.”

  Omid stared for a moment at his friend. He found himself greatly saddened at Jenna's departure, but his sorrow did not compare to the sheer agony that was written on Erik's face. “Erik,” he began, speaking in gentle tones. “This is what you wanted,” he reminded him, hoping his words could provide some small comfort to his friend.

  “I did not want this!” Erik's voice was a visceral shout. “I wanted her. I loved her.” Growing quiet now, he added, “But I had to lie to her.” Erik looked directly into Omid's eyes. “I broke her heart.” Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he added, “You should have seen her eyes. They were filled with so much pain—and I put it there.” He let out a heavy sigh. “My love is poison.”

  “No, Erik!” Omid was not going to let him get away with going down this dark path alone once more. “Do not listen to Bernadette! Your love for Jenna was the opposite of poison,” he insisted fervently. “You loved Jenna, Erik. And she loved you too. But you sacrificed your own happiness for her life. Your love was not poison, Erik. She will live because of your love.”

  “I pray for that, Omid,” Erik nodded, calmly, “that she will live a long life filled with joy. For the happiness she gave me, she deserves that.”

  “That she does, Erik,” Omid agreed, for in the way she loved his friend, Jenna was truly an angel.

  Omid rose, and reached out a hand to help Erik off the ground. “Come on, Erik, let's go. The performance has already started. You would not wish to miss Christine's debut.”

  Erik made no move to take Omid's hand, simply saying, “I am not going,” as he stared at the murky waters of the lake.

  “What?” Omid asked, startled. “Of course you are going.”

  “No,” Erik said, matter-of-factly, “I am not.”

  Omid's eyes narrowed in confusion. “But Erik, why? You trained Christine.”

  “And I used her to break Jenna's heart,” he stated.

  “You used Christine's name,” Omid began, trying to make his friend see reason, “because you knew it was the only thing that would make Jenna want to leave you, Erik. You did it for her sake. Do not punish yourself for doing the right thing. You are already suffering enough.”

  “I'm not going.” Erik said again, his gaze unwavering.

  Omid glanced at him a moment longer while realization sunk in. “You mean to hide.”

  “That world is not for me Daroga…” Erik began calmly.

  “Of course it is, Erik!” Omid insisted with growing irritation. “You're just being a coward!” Omid saw Erik's jaw tighten against the cruel words, but he made no attempt to defend himself. “You pushed Jenna away—broke her heart, as you say—forced her to live a life without you, because you knew that if you let her stay with you—which was what she wanted more than anything—she would die. Yet you sit here in your sorrow, and once again you hide from the world.”

  “I don't want to go!” Erik seethed through clenched teeth.

  “You have no right, Erik!” Omid spat angrily. “You cannot choose to shun the world after you forced Jenna to live in it! No matter how well-intentioned your actions were, Erik, you didn't give Jenna a choice! What makes you think you deserve one? You forced Jenna to live, Erik. Now you need to force yourself to live for her!”

  Erik's voice was brittle and raw. “Without her, I don't know how to live,” he met his friend's gaze with eyes full of pain. “Jenna taught me how to live, Omid. She taught me how to laugh, and how to hope. She showed me I could share this miserable existence with another and make it…better. She looked at me and she didn't see a monster. I didn't have to be an angel for her, or…or a ghost. With Jenna, I could always be myself—the man she made me want to be. How do I go on, Omid, now that she is gone?”

  Omid knelt again beside his friend, his tone softening at Erik's obvious vulnerability. “You do it one step at a time, Erik. You remember everything that she taught you, and you take a chance. You start by going tonight to that gala performance. Do it for Jenna. She loved you, Erik. She wouldn't want you to be alone in the darkness. Do it for Christine. She has worked so hard just to make you proud, Erik. You promised her that you would be there. Don't break your promise. Go to Box 5, Erik. Listen to her sing. Then go see her afterward and tell her how wonderful she was. Not as an angel, not as a ghost, but as the man that you are—the one you say Jenna made you want to be. You have to begin again, Erik. You have to—for Jenna. You are alive, Erik. Now live!”

  With one final attempt at resistance, Erik countered, “What do you know of beginning again, Daroga? Of living? You have never again taken a chance at love after you lost your beloved wife. How can you tell me I must move on, when it has been years and you still have not managed?”

  “Oh, Erik, my friend,” Omid chuckled quietly, “the world has not stood still while you have been hiding from it. I do indeed have a special woman of my own. You have just never seen fit to look beyond your own secret existence long enough to notice.” Erik looked up at Omid with surprise. “I had invited her to join us for the show tonight, but she has other duties to perform during that time.”

  Erik's eyes narrowed in annoyance. “You invited someone to join us in Box 5!? Daroga, what were you thinking?”

  “She has been there before…” Omid let his voice trail off, giving Erik a sly wink as he stood up.

  Erik stared at him a moment before asking “Antoinette Giry?”

  “We have both experienced the loss of love, Erik, and are ready to try again. Besides,” Omid raised an eyebrow and gave a brief smirk. “She is a formidable woman, Erik.”

  “I am aware, Daroga,” Erik said dryly, rising to brush the dust off his slacks.
“I find that I approve of this match,” he added as they began to make their way toward the boat. “At least I know she will have no trouble cuffing your ears if you get out of line.”

  “It's one of my favorite things about her!” Omid agreed.

  “Obviously, you give her cause often enough.”

  The two continued to banter as they ambled along the lakeshore. Erik was first to enter the boat, and as Omid was climbing in behind him, Erik opened his fingers and took one last, longing look at the cameo in his hand. He lifted his hand to his lips and whispered the words he never had the chance to say—“I love you Jenna,”—and placed the cameo in his breast pocket, so as to hold it close to his heart. Then, just barely giving Omid enough time to settle himself, he picked up the oar and they pushed off across the lake.

  Opening night was a grand success. The sets and the costumes were breathtaking, and skillfully managed by the new stagehand. Herriot had made certain the orchestra sorted out their pitch issues, and their playing was truly inspired. Ballet Mistress Giry had finally whipped the ballet rats into shape, and her daughter Meg danced masterfully as prima ballerina. But of course, the shining star of the evening was Christine.

  As Erik stood there leaning against the back wall of the box, slightly behind the curtain so as not to be seen, he could not help but feel his spirit lift a bit at the sound of her voice. She sang with the purity of the angels and the strength of a storm. She was glorious. She was wonderful. She was everything he had trained her to be, and so much more. She was perfect.

  Despite the ache he still felt in his heart, his chest swelled with pride at the curtain call, when he saw the roses pile up at her feet. He had done it! The Angel of Music had lifted a poor seamstress from the depths and raised her to her proper place among the stars. Now the name Christine Da'ae would be the on the lips of all of Paris. With her magnificent performance tonight, her role as first lady of the stage would be secured.

  When the applause had died down, all left the stage but Christine. Erik's eyes narrowed, this behavior being highly unusual. Christine walked forward and Erik's breath caught in his chest at the sound of her words, “The Maestro has indulged me to sing one final song for you tonight. It was a song taught to me by my teacher, who I think of as my Angel of Music. This is for him.”

  When Erik heard the lone piano begin to play the simple tune that Jenna had hummed to him, he felt his heart begin to pound. He had worked on this song with Christine only once—at their last lesson together—before Jenna's seizure had changed everything. He had scolded the young soprano that night, yelling at her out of his own feelings of fear and frustration, accusing her wrongly of not understanding the emotions in the song. When he had realized he'd been out of line, he promised her he would come back, that things would return to normal, but it was a promise he never kept. He'd felt that monitoring Jenna's health was more important than lessons with Christine. Though he would never regret spending his every remaining moment with Jenna, he did feel somewhat remiss that he had abandoned his pupil—and he never expected to hear her performing his song that night. When she opened her mouth to sing, he was unprepared for the flood of emotions that filled his soul.

  She sang of happy days spent whiling away in love’s embrace—but days that were long since over. She sang of longing and dreams of a lover’s kiss—yet hopes that could never come to pass. She sang of a love that was never meant to be—yet one which had changed the lovers completely, irrevocably, and forever after. Her song was a goodbye, tempered with a memory that would forever tie, forever link two souls that never belonged together, but would never again be apart.

  As the crowd erupted in applause after the final cadenza, Erik just stood there, staring, his face wet with tears. He would never stop thinking of Jenna, and her spirit would always be with him. He had to hope—he had to believe—that somewhere, across the years, she was thinking of him too, and realizing that what he did, he did for her. He prayed she somehow knew that he did love her and that he would always hold her dearly in his heart as the first woman who accepted him, the first woman who loved him, the first woman who taught him it was alright to be himself. And though they were from different worlds, never meant to spend forever together, he hoped she somehow knew that he would live because of her—not as an angel, not as a ghost, but as the man she made him see that he was—the man she made him want to be.

  “Daroga,” Erik said, still staring at the stage. “I need you to procure something for me.”

  Erik waited in Christine's dressing room, pacing a bit back and forth. He knew that there were throngs of people who would wish to congratulate her on such a triumphant performance, still he could not help but wonder what could possibly be taking her so long to return to her dressing room. She had a ball to change for, after all. She should really make haste.

  Erik heard voices outside the door, and the door handle began to turn. He cloaked himself in the shadows, watching her enter, still smiling and nodding the whole time she was shutting the door. When she had accomplished the act, she leaned back against it, letting out a deep sigh, and Erik saw her glance quickly at the dressing table where he was accustomed to leaving her rose. When she did not see it, he saw her head drop in disappointment.

  This was it—the moment for which he had been waiting ever since the Persian had returned from his little mission. She was finally here, and she had come alone. It was exactly as he had hoped. Yet why was he so afraid? This was what you wanted me to do, Jenna, he said in his mind, wishing he could somehow throw his voice across the ages so she could hear him. You always told me I should be a man to Christine—not a ghost or an angel, but a man. I truly don't know if I'm ready for this, Jenna, but I have to try. You taught me to be brave—to be myself. This is for you…my Jenna.

  Erik reached into his breast pocket and squeezed the cameo, drawing strength from its presence. He took a deep breath to steel himself and made his way out of the shadows. “Excuse me, Mademoiselle.” Christine's head shot up, and she jumped a bit in fright, startled to find a man hiding in her dressing room. But Erik continued in that soft tone of voice that was so familiar to her, and when she heard him, her eyes lit up with joy. “Tonight I thought to deliver your rose in person. And to tell you myself, that you were magnificent!” As you wanted, Jenna. Just as you wanted.

  “Angel?” she asked, as she took a tentative step toward him.

  Erik smiled sadly, and shook his head. “No, Christine. That is not my name. I must admit I did deceive you when I let you refer to me as your Angel of Music. But I am not a heavenly being—I am only a man.” Oh, Jenna, I am not sure I can do this, he thought, as he fought the urge to recede back into the darkness.

  She moved a little closer to him, her hands trembling with excitement and trepidation as she carefully accepted the rose that the mysterious man offered her. It was exactly like the others she had received, a perfect red rose with a black velvet ribbon 'round its stem, proving to her that this was, indeed, her beloved angel. She found that she quite favored his new method of delivery. Looking down at the rose in her hand, she murmured, “I have missed you.”

  Feeling horribly guilty, Erik responded stiffly. “I am sorry. I…have been detained.” He closed his eyes and looked down, remembering just what had detained him, and he began to feel to pull of Jenna's loss tugging at his heart once more.

  “I find then,” she whispered, shyly, “that I am very lucky you are here now—very lucky indeed.”

  Erik cocked his head to one side to regard her face, as he asked her, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well,” she continued, her smile growing bright. “Apparently, my teacher is both man and angel, and as such, I see no reason why he cannot take me to the ball. For as an angel only has wings with which to take flight, a man,” Christine looked down briefly as she said this, and Erik noticed a slight blush come to her cheek, “has arms that can guide me in a dance. And as it appears you are already dressed for the occasion,” she reached forwar
d with a shaky hand and gently caressed his mask, earning only the slightest of dumbfounded flinches from the man standing before her, “all that is left is for me to get ready.”

  Erik stared at her, eyes wide in disbelief. He stood before her, a man shrouded in mystery, face concealed by a mask, and she made no mention of it? He had just admitted to her that he had been lying—deceiving her about his true identity—and she responded by asking him to the ball? Jenna had begged him, had urged him to go with Christine to the ball. Was this real? Could this possibly be happening? Jenna had accepted him—could Christine be accepting him too?

  “Yet, before we go,” he heard her ask, “there is still one thing I need to know.”

  Ahhh, here it was, he thought to himself. The moment when his hopes would be dashed and he would be reminded that no woman would ever again accept him as his dear, sweet Jenna had. I tried, my Jenna. For you, I tried. But it was not to be. “And what would that be, Christine?” he asked, bracing himself to hear her answer.

  “Your name. What shall I call you,” she asked, light shining in her eyes, “If I can no longer call you my Angel?”

  He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and thinking of Jenna, finally answered, “I…I am Erik, Mademoiselle.”

  “Erik,” she said warmly, reaching out and taking his hand. “It is so good to finally see you.”

  Absolutely dumbfounded, he warned, “Christine, though you have now seen me, there is still so very much that you do not know about me.”

  “Well, then,” she smiled, squeezing his hand, “I shall be delighted to learn, my Maestro!”

  Just then, a loud rapping sounded, and without further delay, her door swung open. In walked a tall, handsome man, formally dressed, with blond hair that reached to his shoulders and eyes that were a piercing blue. “Little Lotte, it is you!” he said, his voice a bit breathless.