The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “Pick up the revolver,” Holmes said to me, then he crossed the room in three strides and took the other revolver from Erik’s hand. Erik hardly noticed. Victor had clasped his arms about him. He would have fallen, but the Phantom supported him. Toby barked loudly from the other room.

  “You have killed him!” Christine shrieked.

  “At last!” cried the Viscount.

  I picked up the revolver and thrust it in my coat pocket. “For God’s sake, try to stop the bleeding!”

  Erik and I laid Victor on the sofa. His face was yellowish white, his eyes nearly empty of life. Although I knew it was hopeless, I put a handkerchief over the wound. Almost at once it was soaked through with blood. Victor choked, then closed his eyes. For a few seconds still I felt the faint pulse under my palm, then it stopped. His eyes opened again, but nothing was there. I closed them.

  “He is gone,” I said. “The bullet pierced the jugular. He had no chance.” His black suit was wet with blood, as were my hands and the handkerchief. I stood up. The Phantom stood beside me, his white shirt and cravat stained bright scarlet, bloody hand prints on his coat. He did not move. I turned to the Viscount. “You damned murderer.”

  The Viscount let the dueling pistol drop from his hand. “It was an accident.”

  Erik sat down on the sofa beside the dead man and turned toward the wall, no doubt wishing to hide his grief from us. Christine took a step toward him, but the Viscount seized her wrist. “Who is that fellow?”

  “His servant,” she said.

  The Viscount sighed, then fumbled at a button on his shirt. He was a mess, his shirt damp with sweat, the collar gone, his reddish-brown hair in his eyes. The Persian was equally disheveled, but he appeared pleased.

  Holmes watched us all, revolver in hand, that bitter, ironic smile twisting at his lips. His face seemed grotesque, gargoylish, with its great nose, sloping forehead, oily black hair, and those furious eyes.

  “Monsieur Holmes, you have saved the day,” said the Viscount. “You will be well rewarded. The Phantom’s reign has ended at last. He will not find it so easy to play tricks behind prison bars.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, my dear Viscount.” He aimed the pistol at de Chagny’s breast. “If you or the Persian make any sudden movements, I shall, with very little regret, shoot you.”

  The Viscount was genuinely amazed. “You are jesting.”

  “I assure you I have never been more serious in my life.” He backed over toward the organ bench, then sat down. “Henry, the other revolver.” I walked over and handed it to him.

  “This is an outrage! You will be sorry for this, I swear it!”

  “No doubt, Monsieur. Kindly release Mademoiselle Daaé and go stand before the sofa. You, daroga, will stay where you are and not move a muscle. Both of you would be wise not to give me an excuse to shoot you. If I had not urged Erik to free you, that poor fellow would not be lying there dead.”

  Christine Daaé’s smooth brow wrinkled, her small mouth forming a moue. “Monsieur Holmes...” Her green eyes were confused.

  “Please remain silent, Mademoiselle. Erik, you have my sincere condolences. I blame myself for this death. I should have known the Viscount was capable of criminal stupidity.”

  “Monsieur Holmes!” Flushing, the Viscount took a step forward. Sherlock aimed the revolver at him and glared. After a few seconds the Viscount retreated a step. “By God, I shall pay you for this.”

  “Erik, would you please stand.”

  The Phantom drew in his breath unevenly because of the small slit in the mouth of the mask, then rose. His posture was very straight. His big white hands hung loosely at his side, half hidden in the blackness of the cloak. His eyes, staring out from the holes in the mask, were red rimmed.

  Holmes crossed his legs. “Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Daaé, you may choose between them.”

  “What?” said Christine and the Viscount simultaneously.

  “You heard me, Mademoiselle. Make your choice.”

  The Viscount smiled broadly and raised his hands. “Christine, my darling!” When she did not move, his smile slowly faded away.

  She put her lower lip between her teeth, stared at first one man, then the other.

  “Christine!”

  “Please keep silent, Monsieur. If she loves you, she should not require prompting.”

  I watched her green eyes shift between the two men. She was very pale. Worried now, the Viscount could not keep silent. Perhaps he realized how small and immature he appeared alongside Erik. Moreover, having suffered in the desert of the torture chamber for over an hour, he certainly did not look his best.

  “This is unfair. Make him remove his mask–then let her choose.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No.”

  Christine clenched her fists. She seemed as perturbed as earlier when choosing between the grasshopper and the scorpion. Tired as she was, her arms and the shift soiled from her journey through the Opera, she was still remarkably beautiful. I realized that her spirit had always appealed to me–a certain fire–a wildness which augmented her beauty.

  She turned to Holmes and me. “What am I to do?”

  “Christine!” moaned the Viscount.

  I glanced at Holmes. “Surely...”

  He put down the pistol in his left hand, then grasped my arm and shook his head. “No, Henry. She is not a child. She is a woman. She and she alone must choose. She knows them only too well. We need not comment upon their merits and demerits. Much as we would like to choose for her, we cannot.”

  Christine stared at him without moving, her face very pale. I could not bear to look at her and glanced instead at the statue of Apollo.

  “Mademoiselle Daaé, you have dallied long enough. Put an end to this farce.” Holmes’s voice had an edge to it. Although I understood his anger, a part of me still wanted to protect Christine.

  Finally she lowered her eyes and went to the Viscount. He embraced her, but she hardly responded. “You will never regret it, Christine–I swear it!”

  Holmes reached inside his coat for his cigarette case. “A happy ending at last.” He did not bother to hide his sarcasm. He thrust a cigarette between his lips, then dropped a box of matches on the bench beside him. “Would you light my cigarette, Henry?”

  Erik turned away slowly; hence he could not see Christine’s anguished look.

  I struck the match. Holmes inhaled, then took the cigarette in his left hand. “Erik, how much time shall we have to make our escape? We can let these three out by the lake, and then Henry and I shall help carry away your most precious belongings.”

  “I do not wish to live. This is my home, my world, and I prefer to die here.”

  Holmes drew in on his cigarette. “Blast it all,” he muttered. “I wish I had never come to the wretched Paris Opera, never heard of its wretched Ghost, never...”

  The Persian eyed him uneasily. “Mifroid is late, but he must be here soon. Perhaps he is busy commandeering boats. Set us free.”

  Holmes stood up. “Gladly.”

  Erik whirled about, his black cape billowing out, then drew himself up to his full height, his eyes raging. “No, do not bother–you may as well die here with me.”

  We all stared at him. “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I mean that I am not so easily vanquished. This is my kingdom, and here I rule. It is not absolutely necessary that one turns the scorpion.” He raised his long arm and pointed at the mantel.

  “No, indeed.” The high little voice came from one of the ebony caskets.

  “We may turn ourselves,” said a different voice from the other casket.

  “Good Lord!” I exclaimed, and the Viscount crossed himself.

  Holmes gave an impatient frown. “Henry, need I remind you that he is a skilled ventriloquist? Small scorpions and grasshoppers cannot talk.”

  “Can we not?” said the tiny voice.

  “No. Your tricks will not put me off my guard.”

  The Phantom
laughed. “My friends may not be real, but a few minutes ago, as a precaution, I started a timer connected to the detonator for the barrels of powder. Even without Christine turning the scorpion, we shall all be blown to pieces. You can run, if you wish, but you will never reach the surface in time. Tons of falling bricks and stone will crush you. Here it should be more immediate and painless, a brief black roar, then nothing. We have perhaps five minutes left.”

  His remarkable calm frightened me more than anything. I glanced at the clock. It was twenty-five past one.

  “You are lying!” shouted the Viscount.

  Holmes laughed. “How stupid of me not to realize it was all too easy.”

  I leaned against the piano, thinking again of Michelle and wishing I had not been so slow, so cautious, about my love for her.

  “I do not want to die!” the Viscount said. “Christine, I...”

  “Oh, keep silent for once,” she said.

  She stared at Erik. The Persian and the Viscount were terrified, but not she. She took a step forward, then another. She was so pale in the white smock that she seemed a ghost already. At last she reached Erik. His sad eyes stared down at her. Slowly she raised her hand, then pushed aside the mask. The black porcelain broke when it struck the floor.

  She sobbed but did not look away. At that instant, I think all of us felt the cruelty, the injustice, of fate: that such a man should be afflicted with that face, that white, noseless, rotting visage! But was not that face also a mask? Its ugliness hid the true man, the splendid inner man, even more than the porcelain mask had. All of us were similarly trapped behind our masks. Mask that face might be, but one made of living flesh. I saw his pain in the grimace that bared his yellow teeth and in the shadows beneath those lonely eyes.

  She put her hand on his shoulder, then slipped it around behind his neck and drew him down to her. Her face was hidden from us, his partly so, but I could see one of his eyes. As she kissed him, his eye closed, and he put his arms about her and lifted her up off the ground as if she were a child. The kiss went on, and I looked away.

  The Viscount stared. “Christine!”

  “Oh, Christine.” The Phantom almost sang her name. He held her in his arms, clasped her to him, but she had gone limp. Her arms hung loosely, her head and blonde tresses sagging to the side.

  “What have you done to her!” cried the Viscount.

  Holmes put out his cigarette in a large crystal ashtray. “She has only fainted.”

  Erik picked up Christine, cradling her in his arms, then set her down in the purple velvet chair. “I could never have hurt her, do you understand? I do love her. How could I possibly harm her?”

  He ran his fingers along her cheek, his horrible face showing a pathetic tenderness. She opened her eyes, saw him, and moaned. She whispered, “No.” He stroked her cheek a last time, then walked over to the keyboard of the organ. His back was to us, the black cloak hiding him, then he turned.

  “Take her and go. I have reset the detonator. You will have just time enough before the Palais Garnier tumbles down, its foundation blown away. Go to the closet in my room there. Inside the closet is a door opening upon a passageway. It leads to the surface near the Rue Scribe. Hurry now.”

  The Viscount and the Persian were only too eager to follow this suggested course of action. Christine slowly stood, and the Viscount pulled at her arm. “Come on.” She was staring at Erik, a faint flush on her cheek, and she did not move.

  He unfastened his cloak, whirled it about and threw it to her. The black cloth undulated like a sea creature swimming through dark waters. “The passageway is very cold, and you are hardly dressed. My cape will keep you warm.” Even as he spoke he kept his face turned from her.

  “Hurry, Christine!”

  She wrapped the cloak about herself, hiding her lovely white shoulders in its black folds. “Good-bye. Good-bye, my Angel of Music. Adieu.” She could not bring herself to look at him, but her voice broke on the last word.

  “Christine!” She let the Viscount pull her away, but I saw the tears glisten in her eyes. The Persian had opened the bedroom door, and Toby bounded happily into the room with a loud bark. Sherlock had sat in the purple velvet chair, and she went to him.

  “Come,” I said to Holmes.

  He had set down both revolvers on the end table. He petted Toby and shook his head. “No, I prefer to stay. You go with them.”

  “But you will be killed!”

  He shrugged. “I wish to speak with Erik.”

  The Phantom sat on the organ bench, the bottom of his black frock coat nearly touching the floor. Again he began to play that strange, disturbing music, his back swaying in time to the rhythm. Toby whimpered softly.

  “Sherlock, this is madness!”

  A loud rapping was heard at the door to the lake, the clang of metal upon metal. “Open up!” a voice cried.

  Erik slumped, the organ music dying away, and he sighed. “Deal with them, would you?” he said over his shoulder.

  Again came the high, jarring clang of metal upon metal. “Open up, I say!”

  Holmes stood and went to the door. “This is Sherlock Holmes. Is Monsieur Mifroid at hand?”

  “He is. Un instant.”

  I gazed at the clock, watching the pendulum behind the glass swing back and forth. “Sherlock...”

  “Monsieur Holmes?”

  “Oui, Monsieur Mifroid. Le Fantôme has set a timer which will trigger a tremendous explosion. You and your men must return to the surface at once. Clear everyone out of the Opera House.”

  “My God–are you serious?”

  “Yes. Go. There is not a second to waste. Christine Daaé is safe. She and the Viscount de Chagny have already departed.”

  “But you, Monsieur Holmes–can you not come out?”

  “Never mind me. I have other business, but I may yet escape. Leave a boat, please, one with oars. Go at once.”

  “Very well. You are a brave man, Monsieur Holmes. Adieu.”

  I grabbed Holmes’s arm and squeezed it hard. “Now can we go?”

  He gave me a withering glance, and I released him. “I wish to speak to the Phantom. Take Toby and go. Use the same route as the Viscount.”

  I hesitated; swallowing was difficult with so dry a mouth. “I cannot leave you.”

  “I command you to go.”

  “No.”

  “The doctor is quite rational in wishing to leave,” Erik said. “I suggest you both depart.”

  Holmes returned to the purple chair, sat down, and crossed his legs. “This is a remarkably comfortable chair, one constructed in Versailles during the early eighteenth century. Pardon the digression. I have been wishing to chat with you for some time. You will not frighten me away now.”

  “I am not bluffing.”

  “I realize that. You need not hide your face from me. I do not find it particularly frightful.”

  Erik played a quick scale, then turned upon the bench to face us. His eyes probed ours and saw that we were not repulsed. I had observed cases of leprosy in the Orient which caused far worse afflictions. At least his limbs, his hands and feet, had been spared. The disturbing thing was the incongruity between his face and the rest of him, especially that remarkable voice.

  Holmes lit a cigarette. “The Palais Garnier is a remarkable edifice, perhaps a trifle ostentatious, but remarkable all the same. The paintings and the sculpture suffer from a general sameness and an overblown grandeur, but a structure such as the grand stairway is truly magnificent. I have always had a fondness for marble. It seems almost alive, rather like living skin, the same delicate flushes and subtle variations of color. Would you destroy all of this? Would you deprive future generations of so splendid a monument? I appeal to you as an artist. Even if you must kill yourself, spare the Opera House.”

  The Phantom was silent for a long while. “Very well. As you say, what would be the point? Things of beauty are rare.” He turned his back to us, again working some hidden mechanism. “There. The powde
r chamber is divided into separate compartments. Half the barrels will be flooded with water. Those remaining will only annihilate the cellars directly above us. The Palais Garnier itself will be spared. This also gives you additional time to make your escape.” He glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to two. “If you leave within the next five minutes, you will still live. The police have left you a boat, and you know the way to the landing by the staircase. That is far enough away that you will be safe from the explosion.”

  The torture chamber door was still open, and even as he finished speaking, we heard the roar of the flooding waters. I wiped the sweat from my brow and collapsed into an empty chair, immensely relieved. Perhaps I would yet live to see Michelle.

  Holmes absentmindedly stroked Toby. “Tell me, Erik, have you read Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And have you consciously modeled yourself after Quasimodo?”

  The Phantom grimaced. “No.”

  “Perhaps it was unconscious. Quasimodo was the very soul of the Cathedral even as you are the soul of the Opera. It will be a far poorer place without you.”

  “Monsieur Holmes, I have quite decided to end my life, and you will not persuade me otherwise.”

  “Why must you die?”

  “What have I to live for?”

  “Your art–your music.”

  The Phantom laughed. “One cannot hold one’s art. I would trade it all for another kiss from Christine Daaé.”

  “As I told you once before, she is only a child. She was unworthy of you. By the way, I have the ring you gave her.”

  Erik stood. “I shall not allow you to insult her!”

  Holmes smiled. “Now you sound like the Viscount.”

  The Phantom stared at him. His mouth twisted. “I do, don’t I? How wretched of you to point out the resemblance.”

  “Do sit down. I also told you that there were other women.”

  Erik laughed, but we heard only pain. “Please do not say such things. Do not try to make me hope. My face condemns me to perpetual solitude.”