The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “But he is probably quite knowledgeable about gas and electric systems.”

  The Phantom stared at Holmes. The black mask hid his entire face; when he stopped speaking it was difficult to know anything of his true feelings. His eyes were expressive, but they could only tell you so much. At last he laughed.

  “Monsieur Holmes, you are one of the few men I have ever met who more than lived up to his reputation.”

  Holmes’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I might say exactly the same thing of you.”

  “What a pity you have left me no choice but to destroy you. Your death, however, will be brief and relatively painless.” I sat up rather stiffly. “I am sorry, Doctor Vernier, but you must have realized that this was a dangerous business.”

  “My cousin is no threat to you,” Holmes said. “You may let him go.”

  “I cannot take that risk.”

  “If you harm Sherlock, I swear I shall hunt you down if it is the last thing I ever do.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted my rashness.

  “Please, Doctor–spare me the melodramatic clichés. You see, Mr. Holmes, that I have no choice.”

  Christine was pale, but her eyes were angry. “And what will you do with Raoul?”

  The Phantom was briefly silent. “He and his companion will remain exactly where they are.”

  She clenched her fists. “You cannot do such a thing!”

  “Oh, no? Tonight your lover and that human scum with him set a trap for me. He, the Persian, and Monsieur Mifroid thought they could capture me.”

  Christine drew in her breath. “No, you are lying!”

  The Phantom turned to us. “Monsieur Holmes.”

  Sherlock nodded. “He speaks the truth.”

  “But why? We were going to run off together, yes, but it was not necessary to harm you! I did not know.”

  “I believe you, Christine.” Erik’s voice was soft as a caress. “I believe you, but that does not change matters. He must be punished, and the simple fact remains that I will never be safe so long as the Viscount or the Persian remain alive.”

  “You are not God, Monsieur! Only He can judge, only He can punish.”

  “You are wrong, Christine.” The beautiful voice changed, a quaver shaking it, a quake which threatened to destroy everything. “Here in my domain, in my kingdom, I am God, I am the law. I make the rules. I punish, I reward, and those creatures shall die.”

  “And do you think I shall care to live on after all these deaths?”

  “Yes. You are not the type of person to kill yourself. You could not commit such a sin.” The last word was faintly ironic.

  She closed her hand about the cross she wore. “We shall see–we shall see.”

  The two of them stared at one another, neither flinching. At last the Phantom turned away and set down his revolver. “Enough of such morbid talk. I thought we would have a musical interlude. I have at last completed my opera, Don Juan Triomphant, and I hoped it would interest you, Monsieur Holmes. Perhaps, too, we could play a duet on the violin.”

  Holmes crossed his legs. “May I smoke? Thank you.” He withdrew his cigarette case from his coat pocket. “Nothing would be more agreeable, but I do not think we shall have the time.”

  “And why not? We have all the time in the world.”

  “Alas, I fear not. Monsieur Mifroid by now knows the whereabouts of this house on the lake, as do the stagehands and carpenters. They will all soon be knocking at your door.”

  Eric stared at him, then he stood. “I shall drown them! I shall drown them both like the rats they are!”

  He started across the room, but Christine stepped before him. She was more than a foot shorter than he and seemed ludicrously small confronting him. “You shall not! I forbid it! Or will you destroy me as well? Am I not a vermin–a rat–as well?”

  “No, Christine.” His voice was quiet.

  “But I am! I have promised to be the wife of that little vermin. I too must be an insect. I, too, must die.”

  Erik drew himself up to his full height and raised his hands; when they began to shake, he let them drop. “No.” His voice was pained.

  “Why not? You must murder everyone else–why not me?”

  “You have not betrayed me–not yet, not as he has. You would not take even my home from me, my refuge, my universe. Please sit down. I must think about this.”

  “You must kill me, Monsieur. You must drown me or roast me or...”

  “Sit down!”

  Toby had risen. She whimpered, but Holmes bent over and petted her. Christine, her face flushed, returned to the chair.

  The Phantom sat again on the bench. “It was the Viscount, was it not? I cannot believe you would...”

  “It was the Persian.”

  “That vile maggot. I should have disposed of him long ago.”

  “Why did you not?”

  “The Sultana grew bored with us both at the same time. His warning saved my life, but he could never have escaped on his own. We were even, he and I. He has troubled me before here in Paris, and I warned him the next time he invaded my domain would be the last. Mercy is foolish with such as he. Humanity will be well served by his death. He has slaughtered literally hundreds. My crimes are nothing compared to his.”

  Holmes exhaled a cloud of smoke. “No? How much blood is on your hands?”

  Erik was silent, motionless, and I wished again that a mask did not hide his face. “The Sultana left me no choice. If I had not built the torture chambers, someone else would have–and I would be dead.”

  “And Joseph Buquet?”

  “He was another vermin. Ask any of the dancers. He came seeking trouble, and he found it. I did not directly kill him. He had an unfortunate encounter with one of my traps, a certain lasso.”

  Holmes smiled faintly. “We know about your traps.”

  “They are barbaric!” I exclaimed. “You are no better than the squire who sets a steel leg trap for poachers. A man can be maimed for life, an innocent man, or even a child.”

  “Innocent men and children do not frequent the lower cellars of the Paris Opera.” His voice was heavy with irony. “If vermin, filthy vermin or rats, invade a man’s sanctuary, may he not trap and kill them? But it is not I who am on trial. Here in my kingdom I need not justify myself to any man.”

  “As Mademoiselle Daaé has noted, you are not God,” I said. “Your genius does not raise you above common human decency. With your talents come greater obligations toward those less fortunate.”

  “What utter nonsense! All my life your common humanity has mocked and reviled me. My own mother could not bear to see my face. She made me wear a mask and sold me even as a child to a circus. My earliest memories are of people peering at me, their bloated white faces nearly as grotesque as my own. Fear and loathing, or contempt and amusement, are all my fellow men have ever offered me. Saints may return hatred with love, but I am no saint. Save your grand speeches for someone else, Doctor. My sins are not the issue here.”

  “But...”

  Abruptly he stood. “Silence!”

  Toby sat up and barked, but Holmes quieted her, then put his hand on my arm. “Leave him be, Henry.”

  Christine smiled coldly. “You see, Doctor. He does consider himself a god, the giver of life and death.”

  The Phantom stared at her, then he whirled about and sat before the organ. His fingers touched the keys; the majestic swell of the organ pipes filled the small room. He played a few scales with his fingers, then he used his feet. After a pause he began to play Bach, one of the toccatas and fugues. His playing was remarkable, the instrument a fine one, but I was hardly in the mood to appreciate the music. Christine Daaé shared my sentiments. Holmes, however, had closed his eyes and lost himself to everything but the music. His right hand tapped lightly at his knee, following the rhythm.

  When the Bach ended, with no transition, Erik played the strangest music I have ever heard, its rhythms and harmonies completely alien. Some of the
dissonant chords set my teeth on edge, but in spite of everything, it was beautiful–very sad–but beautiful. He made you feel his pain, the pain of being alone, of being born, and then he began to sing. No other man could have sung those melodies. Christine had said that his voice could encompass the range of tenor, baritone, and bass, and she had not exaggerated. One moment he would hit a low E or F, the bottom notes of the bass; then he would soar above high C, that bane of tenors. I do not think he was using falsetto; yet he sang impossibly high. The words were difficult to distinguish, something about the triumph of love, the triumph of Don Juan. At the end, the organ boomed out low notes while his voice became a cry at a still higher pitch, a shriek of agony. Not even a lyric soprano like Christine Daaé could have reached that height.

  The silence after he was finished was overwhelming. Here, far underground, it seemed to emanate from deep within the dark earth. I heard Christine Daaé breathing and the ticking of the massive pendulum clock in the corner of the room. It was twelve-forty.

  “Bravo.” Holmes clapped. “Bravo.” His face was flushed. Christine and I stared at him.

  Erik turned. “You approve, do you?” He was wary.

  “Yes,” Holmes said,

  “Christine–Christine, what was that din! Are you unharmed?” It was the Viscount.

  Holmes laughed. “The Viscount does not appreciate the fine arts.”

  Christine clenched her fists. “You are burning him up, I know it.”

  “Nonsense!” The Phantom raised one hand and clutched at his forehead. When he felt the mask, his hand jerked away. “Enough of this. As Mr. Holmes pointed out, we have little time left.”

  A loud bang, only partially muffled, came from behind the wall to the torture chamber. Victor stood up and gazed at his master, but his revolver remained aimed at us.

  “That fool.” The Phantom laughed. “Does he think he can shoot his way out? My torture chambers have thick walls, as the daroga surely knows. He brought along his antique dueling pistols, which are each good for one shot, hardly a match for a revolver such as this.”

  “Erik–please.” Christine rose, took a hesitant step, then rushed forward, fell on her knees, and grasped his legs. “I beg of you–let them go. In God’s name, let them go.” She wept.

  The Phantom did not move. “Damnation,” he whispered. “Oh God, how I am weary of life.” He pointed with the revolver. “Would you like to have a look, gentlemen? You can see them through that small window. Do not forget that Victor or I shall surely shoot you if you try any trickery.”

  Holmes and I went to the window. Holmes looked first. “Very ingenious.”

  The floor of the torture chamber appeared to be an octagon. Mirrors lined the walls, casting the same desert scene all about. One of the sides must have been the original of the image, but I could not tell which one. A brilliant yellow-white light flooded the chamber, no doubt provided by hidden electric bulbs. The Persian and the Viscount had removed their coats and opened their shirts, to no avail; they were drenched with sweat. The Persian was down on his knees, feeling at the wooden planks, his astrakhan hat beside him. The Viscount appeared half delirious; he wandered about, striking at the walls and howling. I raised my hand to touch the glass; it felt very warm.

  “Please sit down again, gentlemen. I assume the Persian is still searching the floor while the Viscount stumbles about?”

  Holmes nodded. “And will the Persian find the mechanism he seeks?”

  Erik laughed. “Perhaps. Your dog is making me nervous, Monsieur Holmes. Please take him to my bedroom there, Doctor Vernier.” Toby gave us a desolate look. I grasped her collar and led her to the door. I saw red drapery hanging from the walls and an ebony coffin with red lining and a red pillow.

  “You need go no further, Doctor, merely close the door. Thank you. Please sit down. Now, Christine, you may let go of my leg. This theatrical display is trite and annoys me.” She stood and clenched her fists. “Ah, that is much better. Now you show me your true self, the flame of your anger. You are no whimpering, sobbing baby like your Viscount.”

  “Insults are cheap, Monsieur.”

  He crossed his legs, then pointed with the pistol barrel at the mantel over the fireplace. “I have a proposition for you. Do you see those two small black caskets? Open them up and tell me what you find.”

  Christine ran her hands up along her face, brushing her long blonde hair off her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and one could see how exhausted she was. She had, after all, sung an entire opera, then been hauled about the Opera House over Erik’s shoulder. Still, she was very beautiful, her arms white and slender, her feet and hands delicate. If Erik had been a decent man, he would have given her a coat or blanket; the prison shift resembled a flimsy nightgown. She went to the mantel and opened one of the small black boxes.

  “In the left one is a golden grasshopper; in the other, a black scorpion.”

  “Very good. Now tell me, would you do anything to save your precious Viscount?”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she raised her hands. “Anything!”

  He was silent for a moment. “Would you consent to become my wife?”

  Her face twisted, and she slowly lowered her hands.

  The Phantom gave a laugh which reminded me of Holmes’s short staccato sounds. “I see that ‘anything’ does not really mean ‘anything.’”

  “You are cruel,” she whispered.

  “I give you a simple choice. Turn the grasshopper on the left, and you will become my bride. I shall release the Viscount and these two men. Only the Persian need die. Turn the scorpion on the right, and we shall all perish, quickly and painlessly. The choice is yours.”

  “You are bluffing!” I exclaimed. “How could you kill us all so quickly?”

  Christine smiled at me, but Holmes shook his head. “He is not bluffing, Henry.”

  Silently I cursed the Phantom’s mask for hiding him, for hiding everything but those desolate, unwavering eyes.

  “Monsieur Holmes is correct, Christine. I do not bluff. Do not think that Mifroid or the others will save you. No one can enter or leave this room without my consent. The choice is yours–the grasshopper means life, the scorpion universal death.”

  Christine stared at the two caskets. “This is no choice. You offer me true death or, far worse, a living death.”

  “All the same, the choice is yours. Turn one and you will see.”

  Christine stared at the caskets, her eyes moving back and forth. Tears seeped from her eyes. She swallowed, and the muscles along her slender throat rippled. “I am so tired.”

  “Are you?” the Phantom murmured. “Ah, Christine, if only you knew how much I love you–how much I would treasure you.” His voice spun her about as if she were a marionette on a string, and they stared at each other, neither one moving.

  At last we heard a cry from the torture chamber, then the jarring voice of the Viscount. “Christine, there is black powder below us, barrels and barrels full, enough to blow us all to kingdom come!”

  “My God,” I whispered. Again I thought of Michelle, and although I was an agnostic, I prayed that somehow we might be spared.

  “The Persian has found the trap door in the floor,” the Phantom said. “The Viscount is correct. There is more than enough powder to end our miserable lives and to destroy Garnier’s wonderful palace. Choose, Christine.”

  She stared at the two boxes, then raised one trembling hand and brought it closer and closer to the box on the right, the one containing the black scorpion. I bit at my lips to keep from crying out, then clasped Holmes by the arm. “Good-bye.”

  “I am sorry, Henry.”

  Christine had her hand in the box, but she jerked it away as if she had been burned. “Oh, I cannot–I will not! It is not fair! You are indeed a monster. I shall not choose.” She went to the chair and collapsed into it, hiding her face from him

  “Shall I choose for you?” Erik asked.

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “T
hen it would hardly be much of a choice, would it? I am always amazed at how men of great ability can be reduced to idiocy by women.”

  The Phantom turned his smooth black mask toward us. The mask itself had a placid expression upon it, a thin slit in the insipid smile of the mouth. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you actually believe you can force a woman like Christine Daaé to be your bride? Earlier you spoke of melodramatic clichés. How long do you think you could keep her? Coercion and threats are not a stable foundation for a marriage, no more than riches and handsome features. Would you make her your slave? For bondage is what you offer. Marry me or die–what a choice! Give her a real choice, once and for all.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Release the Viscount. Put him alongside yourself, then let her choose.”

  Christine stared at Holmes in horror. “No.”

  “This ridiculous business has gone on long enough. You are too brilliant a man to wallow forever in the mire of love. Finish this thing, for her sake as well as your own. You say that you love her?”

  “I do!”

  “Then give her the choice and live with the results. None of us in this room wishes you dead. I can take care of the Viscount and the Persian. You will be safe from them.”

  The Phantom laughed. “They are the least of my worries.”

  “I guessed as much. Mifroid and his men will be here in a moment. Let us finish this scene. It is late, and we are all fatigued.”

  “Very well. Victor, you may open the door to the torture chamber.”

  Christine’s eyes were wide open, fixed upon the Phantom. “What are you saying?”

  “Open the door, Victor.”

  Victor must have been well past thirty, yet his face had a certain childish aura, a disturbing innocence blended as it was with madness. He shook his head and went “Uhh.” That sharp, garbled vowel was very far from the mellifluous voice of his master.

  “Open it.”

  Christine was up on her feet. “Raoul, he has spared you!”

  Victor turned the doorknob, and we heard the grinding of hidden gears. A few seconds later, the oaken door swung open. A loud boom made me want to clap my hands to my ears. Christine screamed, while Victor whirled about, red blood spouting from a hole in his throat. He threw open his arms, dropping the revolver, and staggered toward Erik. The acrid smell of powder filled the room.