The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes hesitated. “You will always have one friend so long as you live.”

  “Forgive me if I am amused. I do not mock your friendship, but only some seventeen minutes remain of my miserable existence. I would greatly value your friendship, but it would not suffice. There are men who can live alone without the society, the intimacy, of women, but I am not such a man. Knowing Christine has made it far worse. I thought, I truly thought, that she might love me. I can bear my dreadful solitude no longer. Even Victor, poor, dumb Victor, has been taken from me. The need is like a pain, a hunger. Perhaps I have committed many grave sins, perhaps I am damned, but was I not born that way? Did some monstrous God form me with this face as a jest? Why should a mere child be tortured so? Ah, but God only laughs at my questions and my pain. One thing I do know, men and women were made for one another, to love, to cherish each other, and I... But you cannot understand. I only want to die.”

  Holmes stubbed out his cigarette. “I understand only too well.”

  The two men stared silently at each other, the same terrible intensity in their eyes, their faces. For an instant I sensed that all-consuming loneliness, something dark and sorrowful at the very core of their being. I felt suddenly cold: I struggled to recall Michelle’s face, the touch of her hand, her lips. I glanced again at the clock.

  “Sherlock, we must go.”

  “No.”

  The Phantom shook his head. “Why must you be so stubborn? I do not want yet another death on my conscience.”

  “I shall not leave you alone, not now. Besides, I am not finished with you. I believe I can offer you a new beginning, a new life.”

  “Sherlock...” I moaned.

  “Take Toby and go–at once.”

  I could not speak. It was torture to keep still when every muscle in my body cried out for me to flee.

  “I shall not answer to Michelle for your death. Go. You owe it to her.”

  I leapt to my feet, tears in my eyes. “That is unfair of you–unworthy! How dare you use my affection for her?”

  Holmes also stood. “Will you be quiet and go! I do not want you to die with me.”

  “Both of you go,” Erik said.

  Holmes let out a great sigh. “Oh, very well. Come on, then.” He turned, went abruptly to the massive metal door and began throwing the huge bolts.

  I stared dumbly at him. “We are going?”

  “Yes! Now come on. Take the dark lantern and these matches.” He turned the latch, then used both hands to pull open the door.

  Relief washed over me. I stared at the Phantom. “Good-bye.” I put on my overcoat while walking to the doorway.

  “After you,” Sherlock said.

  I started forward, but something struck me between the shoulder blades, square in the back. I staggered out onto the slippery stones and fell to my knees, nearly dropping the dark lantern. Behind me, the door closed with a great clang that echoed across the subterranean lake. The gas lamp on the wall cast enough light that I could see the dark waters and the dreary stone of the vault. I rose at once, struck the door with my fist, then winced with pain.

  “Sherlock, come out here at once!”

  “No. Be gone. Remember, take the boat down seven arches’ distance, then turn to the left and continue on until you come to the stairway.”

  “I shall not leave!”

  “Will you stop behaving like a fool? I do not want your ridiculous sacrifice. I may yet persuade Erik, but you are only in my way. I cannot think clearly or speak freely while I am worrying about you. Wait for me by the steps. You and Michelle need one another, and you owe her far more than you owe me. I shall not speak to you again.”

  “Open this door!”

  There was no answer, only the vast, haunting silence of the black lake deep beneath the streets of Paris. With a final, futile blow that made me moan, I turned away. I managed to light the dark lantern and stepped warily into the boat. No doubt recalling my clumsiness with a punt, Holmes had asked for a boat with oars; he had known even then! Utterly alone, I wept as I rowed. The long night’s adventures had overwhelmed and exhausted me. I remembered Victor dying, red blood spouting from his throat; I wondered how beautiful Christine Daaé could have ever chosen so petty and vicious a man as the Viscount; and I thought about the senseless waste of two such geniuses as Erik and my cousin. What for? What for?

  I managed to quell my tears by the time I reached the stairway. I paced about the small stone landing, occasionally pausing to shine my light across the black waters. “Do come–please come, Sherlock.”

  I was still pacing when the great thunderclap came. The stones beneath me trembled, the very walls groaning in agony, and I thought Erik had miscalculated. I would be buried under tons of gray stone, my body lost forever. Then it was over, and the awesome silence returned.

  I went to the steps and collapsed, burying my face in my hands. At last I sat up. There was no use staying any longer, but I was so tired, so heartsick, I could not move. An immense wave of water swept with a roar up over the stone floor, wetting my feet and legs, then withdrawing almost as quickly as it had come.

  A few minutes later, I heard a regular splashing sound. I wondered what it might be, but I still could not bring myself to move. A figure clambered up out of the water, the top half white, the bottom black. I seized the lantern and raised it. His hair was wet and plastered back, but there was no mistaking the large nose, the ironic smile.

  “Sherlock!” I cried, and I embraced my cousin as I had not done for many years.

  “Why so surprised, Henry? I told you to wait for me.”

  Something else came out of the lake, then shook itself wildly, sending water flying everywhere.

  “Toby!” I cried.

  “You did not think I would abandon Toby?”

  “And Erik?”

  The joy went out of his eyes. “I have failed. Come on, let us get to the surface. I am freezing. The waters are cold and rather dirty.”

  “Take my overcoat.”

  “You are cold, too.”

  “Not now, and I have my sweater.”

  “Very well. Thank you Henry.”

  It was a good thing he had appeared, for I doubt I could have ever found my way alone through that maze of the cellars. The Opera House was empty. We walked alone down the grand staircase. The gas lights burned brightly, and the marble seemed warm and alive after the dead gray stone of the depths. When we stepped out into the night air and I saw the stars overhead, my heart swelled with exultation. I felt as Aeneas must have after returning from the underworld. I was alive, Michelle and all my life still before me.

  A cry came from the crowd that had formed, then Mifroid and his men rushed toward us.

  “Monsieur Holmes, we felt the explosion, and yet...”

  “You need not worry, Monsieur Mifroid. This business has ended.”

  The streetlights of the Place de l’Opéra provided abundant light. I recognized most of the faces in the crowd: the managers, Montcharmin with the monocle swelling one eye, red-faced Richard towering over him; Monsieur Gris in his soiled work clothes, a cigarette drooping from his lips; stout Madame Giry with her little Meg–Meg who resolutely kept her mouth shut, hiding her bad teeth; Christine and the Viscount, her face pale and troubled, his arm wrapped protectively about her; the Persian, his astrakhan hat gone forever, buried in the rubble of Erik’s home; the youthful Bossuet in evening dress; the aged du Bœuf wearing his soiled leather apron, the precious limes in the pocket; and all the other carpenters, stagehands, gas men, and dancers whom Holmes and I had come to know during the weeks spent exploring the Palais Garnier.

  “But le Fantôme...” Mifroid began.

  “Le Fantôme n’est plus,” Holmes said. “He will trouble you no more.”

  Christine’s face twisted, but the Viscount, relieved and triumphant, led her away. The crowd murmured, then grew strangely silent.

  Madame Giry began to cry. As usual, she was dressed all in black, an outlandish black feathe
red thing on her head. “Poor Ghost, poor Ghost. He was a good fellow and always looked after me and my Meg.” She blew her nose loudly, then drew in her breath, her great bosom swelling. “I do not believe you, Monsieur Holmes! How can a ghost die? Le Fantôme lives, I know it. Even as the Opera lives on, so does the Phantom. He may hide for a time, but he can never die!”

  Afterword

  The breeze coming through the tall stone windows was a spring wind, warm and fragrant. The light of the longer, clearer days had transformed the castle in Wales. It was difficult to believe this was the same gloomy chamber where Holmes had confronted Major Lowell only a few weeks before. Gone was the statue of Kali, the Black Mother, which had so dominated the room.

  The violinist played at a tempo which was simply impossible; it seemed beyond the bounds of a mere mortal. Surely the great virtuosi like Paganini and Liszt had no greater technical skill. The final movement of the Kreuzer was supposed to be presto, but this was a presto to end all prestos. Somehow Miss Lowell managed to keep up with him, her own playing clearly inspired by the challenge.

  I sat with my hands clutching the chair arms, absorbed in the music to an extent which was rare for me. Unlike my cousin I am easily distracted. During concerts my mind inevitably wanders, losing itself amidst the oddest reveries. I end up reflecting upon the pudding I had for dinner or the peculiar sensation in my big toe. However, even the dullest clod must have been moved by this performance.

  The bow made the final, lightning dance across the strings, and Susan Lowell’s fingers struck the closing chord. For an instant the music was there, the majestic echo of Beethoven’s living genius, holding us fixed in our seats, and then there was only silence, or rather, the lazy murmur of the afternoon breeze wafting in through the windows along with golden light.

  “Bravo!” I cried. “Bravo.” I had leapt to my feet.

  “Bravo indeed!” Michelle stood beside me, applauding.

  My cousin sat in his chair, his mouth half open, his eyes still closed. Our bravos made him wince. Slowly, unwillingly, he opened his eyes. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face with it.

  Susan Lowell stood up, groped at where she knew the violinist to be. Her hand found his shoulder, slid down and gripped his wrist. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur Noir. Thank you.”

  The eyes in the white mask seemed strangely lost, hovering somewhere between the celestial realm of the music and this corporeal chamber in Wales. One could see the pull between the two worlds, but at last he gave a great sigh, the sound muffled by his mask. His eyes settled upon Miss Lowell and did not move.

  “You did not tell me you were a genius, Monsieur. Dear God, I have never heard such music! I did not think it was possible.”

  “You were very good, Miss Lowell.” His voice, that full baritone, was tremulous.

  “Will you not call me, Susan, Monsieur. You have been here for over a week now, and after that I feel I know you to the depths of your soul.”

  “Very well.” He spoke so softly his voice was difficult to distinguish behind the mask.

  “And will you do me one other favor?”

  “Anything you wish.”

  Her face was still flushed. “Would you remove your mask?”

  Erik stiffened, then did not move.

  “Forgive me, I am being terribly presumptuous. It is only that... You do not sound... right... through that mask. Your voice is so resonant. Someone who could see might not notice, but every time you speak I am aware of that mask between us. I sense its presence–I can hear that it is there. I do not think... Oh, forget my foolish request.”

  Holmes’s fingers drummed at the arm of his chair, playing out some unheard, inner rhythm. “It seems a reasonable enough request to me.”

  The mask hid Erik’s face, but now his eyes showed confusion and fear. He glanced at me, then at Michelle.

  “I am a physician, Monsieur Noir.” Michelle’s voice relished the irony as she spoke his name. “I have seen many distressing sights, many grave wounds, injuries, and sicknesses. While in India I visited a leprosarium and saw even children afflicted. Lepers, mercifully, feel little pain, physical pain anyway, and they can hurt themselves dreadfully without even realizing it. Remove your mask, if you wish. It will certainly not disturb me. The weather is ideal, the touch of the breeze on one’s face warm and comforting.”

  “You need not hide yourself from us,” Susan Lowell said. She let go of his wrist.

  Erik said nothing. He and Sherlock stared at each other. At last he raised his hands, slipped off his mask, then held it very tightly, as if he were afraid he might lose it. I glanced at Michelle, but true to her word, her face showed no trace of dismay. I was not surprised. I knew from experience that she was less squeamish than I. She would have made an excellent army surgeon. Perhaps it was familiarity, perhaps the altered setting, but Erik’s face no longer seemed so frightful to me. Again he and Holmes regarded one another, then he turned to Susan Lowell.

  “You have removed it.” Her voice was hushed. She smiled at him, her face radiant. I wondered again that such a beautiful woman could have led so solitary a life. Her dark skin and black hair added to her beauty, making her exotic and exceptional here in Wales. Erik must have reached a similar conclusion. He took a step forward.

  Susan Lowell raised her hand, and it touched his face. He twisted away from her, and she took a step back. “I am sorry. I only... I can see nothing but light, no shapes or forms or faces. I was only curious. I... You are not angry with me?”

  “I am not angry with you.”

  “Oh, good. I only... I would not hurt you.”

  They stood motionless, as if paralyzed, and we watched them silently. Finally Michelle strode past me, her skirts rustling. She grasped Erik’s arm, then raised Susan’s hand and set it against his cheek. This time he did not flinch. Michelle waited a minute, then stepped back.

  Susan’s fingertips explored Erik’s face, tracing a line along his cheek down to his jaw. She came to the cavity where his nose should have been. “You are hurt,” she murmured. At last she let her hand fall and lowered her head. “Forgive me, Monsieur, if I have... It is only because I... I like you that... Your music has unsettled me! I had no right to force my wishes upon you, to intrude upon your secrets. I have behaved most rudely. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Are you certain of that? You are not merely being polite?”

  “No.”

  She smiled again. “Oh, I am glad to hear that. You do understand, do you not? Your face means nothing to us in this room, nothing at all. I think–I hope–that even if I had my sight I would feel the same way, but obviously I cannot be certain.”

  “I can.” Michelle stood beside me again. “It would not matter to you, Susan. You are too noble a person to be constrained by appearances.”

  Erik stared at Michelle, then exhaled slowly. He breathed more freely without the mask.

  “Michelle, you are a very good sort of person yourself,” Susan Lowell said.

  Michelle smiled. “It is time Henry and I took our afternoon stroll. The music was wonderful, but most invigorating indeed. Perhaps walking will calm my spirits and return me to the earthly plain.” She glanced at me, and I saw the conspiratorial gleam in her eyes.

  I stood up. “Yes, a walk is the very thing.”

  Holmes rose and took out his cigarette case. His face was pale, and he appeared weary. He glanced at Erik, then turned and started for the hallway.

  He had not gone five paces when Miss Lowell turned to him, no doubt locating him by his footsteps. “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  He shrugged. “For what?”

  “You must play again with me soon.”

  “I fear that I am hardly in Erik’s league.”

  “Neither am I. It would be better to have a more equal partner. That presto has nearly finished me. Besides, you are too modest. You are a very good vi
olinist. Your Kreutzer was also inspired; I remember it well.”

  “I am competent on the violin, Miss Lowell, little more. My playing is cerebral rather than passionate.” He lit his cigarette, then resumed walking.

  “Sherlock,” Erik said.

  Holmes glanced briefly at him, said nothing, then continued walking.

  Michelle squeezed my hand, and we left Erik and Susan Lowell alone together. Soon we were outside following the mossy stone path across the grounds. The grass had that heavy, dark green lushness of spring, the blades still wet from an earlier shower. These spring days when the sun shone between the rains, cutting through the gray clouds, the light had a special brilliance, a unique clarity. A bank of daffodils glowed with yellow fire, and everything was sharp and fresh. A hot summer day could not compare.

  “I can hardly believe it,” I said.

  Michelle’s hands were clasped loosely about my left arm just above the elbow. Her skin was very fair, and already our walks had given her a few freckles across her nose and cheeks. Four tiny creases radiated out from the corner of her eye. “Believe what?” she asked.

  “Any of this. That the world is so beautiful, those daffodils so yellow. That we are truly married; that we are here together. It was only some three weeks ago that Sherlock and I were wandering about in those cold, dark cellars beneath the Opera. I thought I should never see you again. How I cursed my foolish hesitations. I have told you what a debt we owe to Erik and my cousin. They made me understand my own stupidity.”

  “You would have come round eventually, Henry.”

  “All the same, I feel somehow rather... stupid, or ashamed, or... It took me so long. I cannot help but fault my character, pompous as that sounds.”

  “You have more character than most men, and you were worth the wait, my dearest. Ours may not be the first wild infatuation of youth, but it is real enough all the same.” She stopped walking and touched my cheek with her fingertips.

  We were still at that stage of love when we longed for each other continually, when the day dragged on until night finally came, when her every touch made me desire her. I kissed her. Her lips were very warm. She slipped her arms about me and drew me close. She was a tall woman and very strong.