“Well, I hope you are right, my dear. I won’t worry,” he lied.
Andrea smiled, but it quickly faded. “When I look at him, Richard, I still wish he’d find happiness. The man has suffered so much in his life. He’s despised his existence since the day of his birth, hid his face in shame, and only yearns for love. I believe he has the capacity to love if given the chance, but who would love a monster?”
“Yes, who would love a man who looks like a monster,” he agreed, separating the two. “Though I’ve never seen his true face, I can only imagine.” Richard released Andrea’s hand and rose to his feet. “I will admit the man is a genius. I’ll give him that much credit. I’ve never met anyone so musically brilliant and skilled. If there is a God, he’s given the Ghost the gift of intellect to make up for giving him half a face.”
Andrea stood to her feet and walked Richard to the door. “Yes, gifted indeed, but he lacks the greatest gift of all—to love and be loved.”
Richard saw a glimpse of tenderness from Andrea that touched his heart. Dare he? He dared, and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. He stood tall and looked into Andrea’s eyes. “I must be off. The Master calls.” He opened the door and left her alone, sulking over his own unrequited love.
* * *
Désirée nervously arrived at the manager’s office as instructed at 10 p.m., filled with anticipation over her next lesson. The staff had retreated to their quarters for the evening, and the opera house remained quiet.
Monsieur Mercier answered the door and invited her into his office. “Good evening.” He showed her to a chair in front of his desk. “Your teacher will be meeting you here in the next few minutes. They’ll be no lessons in the orchestra pit this evening. I believe he has other plans.”
“Oh,” she replied, swallowing hard when she watched him leave. He merely nodded his head goodbye, and she noted his furrowed brow that spoke of his displeasure. The arrangements were all quite strange, she had to admit. Perhaps he wondered what they did together.
The door closed, and she sat apprehensively thinking about being alone with her teacher again. Désirée nervously glanced around her surroundings and restlessly rearranged her skirt until she heard the doorknob turn. A thousand prickly needles ran up her spine, and she sat up straight in her chair sensing his presence enter the room.
“Mademoiselle.”
His soft, deep voice gave her a chill. She glanced over her shoulder, watched him lock the door, and walk toward the desk. In his hands were books and musical sheets. She realized this would be a night of study and no passionate caressing of a violin.
He sat down behind the desk and set the papers down. His eyes bore into hers, and she lifted her lashes to look at him in the face; the face of flesh on one side and a mysterious mask on the other.
“I trust you are well and ready to begin your studies. We must teach you to read music before I teach you the joys of bringing the bow across the strings to make music.”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice quivered in his presence. Just the nearness of his body put her nerves on edge. She studied him closely. His eyes were dark and intense. The exposed side of his face looked clean-shaven, and his jaw strong and square. His black hair appeared coarse, and she surmised it had to be a wig. Every strand lay in perfect order. She felt no desire to explore the horrors beneath the mask or wig.
“Bring your chair closer,” he instructed her, as he lay out a blank piece of paper with lines. “You must be able to see what I am about to show you if you are to understand.”
She obeyed and scooted her chair closer to the edge of the desk. Instantly, her nose picked up the scent of cologne. It surprised her. For some reason, she thought it odd for a man like him to wear, but perhaps he did so to cover an odor.
Her eyes scanned over his expensive clothing, from the perfectly stitched black velvet jacket to the white linen ruffled shirt and ascot around his neck. He always dressed neat, each button firmly closed, everything tucked where it should be, no creases in his coat, trousers, or shirt; impeccable in his style.
Désirée looked at his dark eyes and discovered he had been watching her observe him closely. Was he pleased or perturbed? She could not tell. Immediately, her eyes darted back to the paper on the desk. She looked at his hands holding the sheets of music between his long fingers. Erik returned to the lessons, and Désirée tried to follow his explanations.
“You will notice here five lines and four spaces; this is the staff. In each space and on a line, notes are placed. In addition, there are indications for timing, a clef sign, key signature, and other various marking that set the overall tone of the musical score.”
Désirée drowned in confusion over the strange marks. Erik continued his monologue over clefs, trebles, notes, and her eyes glazed over.
“You’re going too fast,” she exclaimed. He spouted everything as if it were second nature to him, while she remained ignorant. “I know I can learn,” she added, “but I just need you to slow down and realize that I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She raised her voice, letting her frustration spill out.
Erik pulled up one corner of his mouth and raised a brow, as if he were annoyed. She heard him sigh, clearly indicating his frustration with her inability to comprehend.
“What is it that you don’t understand?”
He glanced down at the musical language, which Désirée clearly saw he understood to perfection. “Just start once again, only slower this time. Don’t go so fast. I need time to comprehend.”
Erik started from the top, taking her cue, straining with every word to exhibit patience. “All right,” he began, pointing his fingers at the five lines. “These five lines are called a staff. The notes either sit on the line itself or in between the blank spaces.”
Finally, she thought, he had explained it in a more rudimentary manner. By the end of his long, detailed account of clefs and trebles, the light finally dawned in Désirée’s mind. As a result, she couldn’t contain her excitement. She reached out and grabbed his hand. “I understand it now!”
As soon as she touched him, she quickly retreated. He mentioned nothing about her movement and just lifted his eyes.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Dante,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” Erik interrupted her apology. “That’s quite all right. I would much rather see your enthusiasm over learning than watch you yawn, because I’m putting you to sleep.”
Désirée saw a pleasurable twinkle in his eyes, but no smile curled his lips. The remaining hour they spent together poring over the basic education of reading music. When they were through, Erik gathered up the papers and books and gave them to his student.
“Take these papers and study when you have time on your own,” he instructed her. “When we meet again, we’ll go over it one more time. I will bring one of my scores, a simple portion,” he clarified. “And you can tell me the notes as you read the music. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Yes, very,” she agreed, withholding a yawn from the late hour.
He rose to his feet. “Come with me, and I’ll escort you back to your quarters. The corridors are dark.”
Désirée saw his hand outstretched, and she took it as he lifted her from her seat. He let go, and then opened the door, escorting her down the hallway untouched without a word. As they arrived at the dormitory door, he merely looked at her with an expressionless face and said his goodbye.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” she replied. She entered her room and closed the door behind her, sighing in relief.
Chapter Twelve
Erik retreated to his quarters heading again for the decanter of cognac, ready and waiting on his side table. This time, he poured four fingers rather than two, walked over to a chair, and flopped down.
His free hand grabbed the ascot wrapped around his neck, which he tried to loosen without success. He let out a string of curses, fumbling at the knot that refused to releas
e. After finally pulling it off, he let out a chuckle at his inability to stand his neck coiled by anything that resembled a noose. His thought triggered memories, and the ghosts of those he had executed arrived to taunt him once more. To push away the tormented faces, he drank his cognac and thought about Désirée instead.
A feeling of irritation and intrigue returned while he pondered her engaging personality. She appeared eager to learn, slightly short-tempered but determined. He liked that. The trembling of her hands revealed her edginess when in his presence, which discouraged Erik. No doubt, she had conjured up stories in her mind about why he was so secretive about his existence. Possessing an overbearing demeanor, added with a half-masked face, might have something to do with her uneasiness, he mused.
Erik stifled urges of familiarity and demanded a strictly professional relationship. He wanted to speak of personal matters and inquire about her past, her likes and dislikes, but wondered why he should bother. Erik glanced down at his hand where she had touched him earlier in the night, remembering the warmth on his usually cold flesh. It had only been a quick glance of her fingers, but the graze had been enough to trigger a rush of desire in his body. Arousal for flesh arrived at the slightest touch.
He brought the glass to his lips, sipped, and his eyes narrowed as they stared blankly ahead, observing nothing in particular. Erik lost himself in thought, letting his mind wander to her gold tresses, her fair complexion, her gorgeous blue eyes. She dressed plainly with a high collar and long sleeves when they were together, too modest perhaps. Nevertheless, he could see enough of her beauty to wonder what it would be like to rest his lips upon hers, feel the warmth of her kiss, and peek at her bosom in a low-cut gown. He wondered how soft her breasts would feel in the palm of his hands.
Erik closed his eyes and felt his body respond to the forbidden, as he thought of what it would be like to fondle the beautiful naked body of a woman. In anger, he stood to his feet, threw his glass against the wall, and watched it shatter and fall to the fall. He clenched his teeth over the human needs his body demanded, but fate refused. Angry and needing a breath of fresh air, he grabbed his hooded cloak and headed out the side door.
As soon as he walked out onto Strada Vittoria, the chilly night air met his face. He flipped the hood over his head and lowered his gaze to the ground. The heels of his boots clicked against the stone pavement as he made his way through shadows. A misty wind swept inward off the harbor waters, and a cloudy night cloaked the streets in darkness.
After a few months living on the isle, Erik had started exploring the city late at night when sleep failed to give him rest. He discovered Valletta to be a fascinating capital steeped in history and filled with lavish architecture, which he found intriguing. Many of the streets were narrow pathways of stairs, which gave understanding to Lord Byron’s penned words after his visit to Valletta: “Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!” Erik found the stoned walkways exhilarating instead. It gave him an opportunity to broaden his world beyond the walls of the opera house, which kept him concealed from the world outside.
In his spare time, Erik read books about the isle of Malta. He discovered the fascinating history and legends of the Knights of Hospitaller, and read about the various empires that had occupied the small island. To his surprise, there were miles of underground catacombs in nearby communities, which he longed to traverse but could not. There were buildings and architecture to explore, but the reality of his life made it impossible. Instead, he crawled about at night, like a rat in the gutter, feeding upon small morsels of what Valletta had to offer in the darkness of night.
As Erik walked pensively down the street, he shoved his hand into his pocket fiddling with the card he had kept since the masquerade. Madame Sybelle Renard, Prophetess – Fortunes, Readings, and Séances. He pulled it out, stopped under a streetlight, and read the address, realizing he neared the location.
Curious, he found the residence and stopped to scrutinize the building. It looked unpretentious, with no visible sign of the woman’s business hanging over her door. He thought it strange that she did not advertise her services publicly, but not surprised since the Maltese were known to be superstitious, yet deeply religious.
The curtains were closed, but a light lit the inside. Once again, he flipped the card and read his fortune.
“You wish for beauty and love. Love you will find but without beauty, and it shall pierce your heart like a dagger. In the end, it will be your undoing and death.”
Irritated, but unable to shake her words that had somehow branded on his psyche, he strode down the street in the shadows, making his way back to his quarters. Since the strange fortuneteller had not attempted to contact him since that night, Erik forgot about her foolish omen.
He pulled the card from his pocket, scrunched it up into a little ball, and tossed it down a nearby sewer grate. There would be no beauty, no love, no undoing, and no death. Death would only come when Erik allowed it, and though there were days he wished the grim reaper would finally take his life, he somehow knew it would not be any time soon.
* * *
“So how are the lessons going?” Andrea examined the dark circles underneath Erik’s eyes. “You’re not sleeping again, are you?”
“She’s a slow learner,” he replied cynically. “And I don’t need sleep.”
“Well, you look like hell,” she told him, flinging her unwanted opinion at him. “Honestly, you should stop wandering the city by yourself at night.”
“Observant as usual,” he retorted. “I enjoy the night. You know that I love the dark, Andrea. Let me amuse myself in the shadows as I see fit.”
Andrea watched his face sneer resentment knowing the next few moments between the two of them would undoubtedly be unpleasant.
“I have no cellars to crawl about here in Valletta, though I’ve heard there are some rather fascinating catacombs, not many miles away. Perhaps I will go there and live among the skulls and bones of the dead. It would suit me more than my fancy quarters here, don’t you think?”
Andrea ignored his rather gruesome remark and pulled her eyes away from his glare. She poured herself another cup of tea and sipped it, wondering what had set off Erik’s foul mood this time. He had been happy for months since the opera house reopened. Now, since he had started tutoring Désirée, his personality had taken a dark turn back toward depression.
She felt powerless, because she did not possess the miracle Erik needed to find an ounce of happiness in his life. He needed to be healed from the pain of his past, but Andrea had long ago accepted the fact she could not be his healer or spiritual guide. The man had a mind of his own. He loved to wallow in his own crabby misery. Apparently, the new relationship of student and tutor had resurrected buried emotions of former days, which concerned Andrea even further.
“Well, I must say, the performances are going well, don’t you think?” Andrea attempted to pull him out of the pit.
Erik huffed with disgust. “I need to speak with Richard about Mademoiselle Cardona’s pitch. Did you hear her last night? She’s beginning to sound like La Carlotta.”
“She sounded brilliant to me. Of course, I don’t have your ear for music.”
Andrea momentarily pondered the wisdom of prying, but her curiosity nudged her to ask. “So tell me about Désirée. You say she is a slow learner. Will you continue your lessons?”
Erik picked up his cup of coffee, took a sip, and then put down the morning paper. “Yes, she is determined. I give her that much recognition, but I’m afraid teaching her the violin is no easy matter. She can’t read music. I need to focus on that problem first. I’m hoping by the time she learns the placement of notes, she’ll be able to follow along while I play.”
Andrea smiled feeling somewhat relieved he joined in the conversation. She thought of Richard’s concerns. Erik, however, as if he could read her thoughts spoke suddenly.
“You needn’t worry,” he declared, glaring at her. “I won’t lose my sanity over this one,
if that’s what you’re apprehensive about.”
Andrea pulled her eyes away from his gaze. She never could stare at him for long when he gave that narrowed-eye dark look of displeasure.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Erik,” she replied defensively.
“Like hell you didn’t,” he flung back. “I’m no fool. I suppose you and Richard talk about me all the time and discuss my stability, as it were.” A spiteful sneer curled his lip. “You know, Andrea, there’s only one woman for me. Do you think another could capture my heart? I think not.” Erik drove the point home like a nail into a wooden coffin. He continued to gaze angrily into her eyes.
“Tell me, Andrea, is Richard still the only one for you? Have you two lovers finally mended your ways or do you still argue over your loyalty to me? I wouldn’t wish you to be unhappy,” he concluded, with a snide drawl aimed to hurt.
Andrea stood to her feet and threw her napkin down on the table. “After all I do for you, Erik, you can still be the most monstrous bastard I’ve ever known,” she retorted, heaving her words like knives. “Frankly, I’m at the point where I don’t give a damn if you ever find love!”
She exited the room, slamming the door behind her while wondering if Erik felt an ounce of remorse over his cruel behavior. She had served him for years, but there were times he crossed the boundaries of her life she never wished him to enter. No one could tell him how to love, how to feel, how to live his life, but he always stuck his nose in everyone else’s business.
Angry, she huffed all the way down the hall, intent on ignoring him until his foul mood went back to hell. The man remained insufferable, but she loved him like a mother and cried over his unhappiness.
Chapter Thirteen
Désirée arrived at Monsieur Mercier’s office as instructed with her notebooks tucked underneath her arm. She had spent the entire afternoon studying. Hopefully, her tutor would be pleased with her progress.
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