by Bethany Pope
‘My gift to you.’ He turned to leave, paused, and faced me again so that he could look at me. I saw his yellow eyes glowing through the holes in his mask. ‘I think that from now on, you had better call me Erik.’
I thought of this while he was gone, fetching my meal. It was, in a strange and vital way, the most that he had ever said to me about himself. His hints of the carnival, his time with the Shah, could have happened to anyone. They might have come from a book. There is something deeply intimate about a name. Giving it grants power, implies submission. I thought of the way that men can be so free with the name of a woman while she must show respect by using his title. This gift struck an odd balance.
But this man was and still remained my master, far advanced in art. Could I therefore think of him as a human, as my equal?
I tried the taste of his name on my tongue. ‘Erik.’ It seems that I could. I so looked forward to our work.
The meal he’d made must have been ready, or nearly, by the time that I woke. He was only gone for a few minutes. He returned, wheeling a gurney that must have begun its life in one of the city’s better hotels; a construct of immaculate mahogany and brass, well-polished and covered with a gleaming silver warming tray, a selection of fine flatware, a champagne bottle, and a bud-vase bearing a single blood-red rose.
Erik left for a moment, and immediately returned with two cushioned folding chairs which he placed on either side of the gurney, so that it became, in an instant, a small table.
It was not strictly necessary for him to help me from bed to chair, but the gesture was kindly meant and I thanked him for it. He sat me before the single china place setting, taking his place across the table, in a position to serve.
It was deeply uncomfortable, for a girl of my upbringing, to be served before a gentleman, much less eat a good meal while he had nothing. When I asked him if he would do me the honour of partaking with me, he shook his head.
‘No, my dear. Forgive me. I have eaten already.’ He lifted the lid of the steam tray, revealing a plate of warm pastries, fruit compote, thin slices of ham. ‘Besides, it is incredibly difficult to force food through a mask. Your plate, please.’
I handed it to him, watched as he loaded it with half the contents of the table. Obviously, he’d planned on me consuming seconds.
I took it from him, full. I said, ‘You could always take it off, Erik.’
He shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was low and sorrowful. ‘It is unspeakably sweet, Christine, to hear my name from your lips. While you reside with me you may wander wherever you wish, trusting your reason. My home is your home, my life is yours also. You may ask me anything you think of, with one exception. You may never seek to look beneath my mask, and since occasionally I must remove it, you must always announce your presence to me when you enter a room, so that you never surprise me without it.’
I laid down my fork, reached across the table to touch his gloved hand. The smell in my nostrils was the scent of the rose.
‘Are you so terrible, then, that I would hate you?’
Erik withdrew as though burnt.
He rose, turned from me, shaking. We were silent for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was as usual, perfectly controlled. ‘Will you do what I ask of you, Christine, my angel?’
What could I tell him but ‘Yes’?
He looked at me again, straightened a nearly invisible crease in his jacket. ‘Good.’
His hat was resting on the music stand, beside a tiny silver bell. He placed it on his head. ‘Finish your meal, child. I must go prepare for our lesson. I will return for you in an hour. The washing room is behind that curtain, there is fresh water; the wardrobe is full of new clothes. If you find yourself in need of occupation while you wait there are books on the shelf in the corner. Until then, Christine.’
I smiled at him, baffled by his sudden shifts in mood and deeply sorry for the pain I caused, although I in no way understood it. ‘Goodbye, Erik. I will see you in an hour.’
He left and I engaged myself with the remainder of my breakfast, stuffing myself with bacon and the stories in a book. The Arabian Nights were beautiful in French.
When he returned we set hard to work. He was right about the gift that he had made me. It was beautiful, and a challenge for my voice. The study time required would be enormous.
ERIK
10.
I could not relax or enjoy my triumph until I had secured the secret of our passage. Once Christine was safely sleeping (I stood above her for a while, guarding her slumber like the angel she thought me) I extinguished the candles and left her to rest, nestling down in the covers like a child. I had to resist the urge to do more than stroke her smooth white forehead, reminding myself of the obscenity it would be to break her trust, even by performing so simple an action as stroking her hair while she was helpless, unaware. I must say that I was tempted. Christine was the first person that had ever touched me and not been visibly wracked by repugnance.
I took a much less protracted route to the secret stairway that led down to my lair, arriving in a fraction of the time that it took me to lead the girl here. I did not mind showing her the skeletons in my little earthen closet, no bones, dry or moist, could rise to harm her, but the more direct route contains a few fine traps of my own immaculate design that it would be difficult to lead a frightened woman through. This time, I was navigating alone.
When I reached the top of the stairs I uncovered the supplies I’d stocked earlier; the boards and bag of plaster. It would not do to erect a permanent barrier, I would have to leave here sometime, to go about my opera work, and while I had other exits they opened out on to the street and would not serve for every purpose. Instead, I laid the lathes across the entrance in such a way that they looked solidly mounted, but were really secured by a few flathead nails. Then I filled the gaps between the boards with quick-drying plaster, so that if the door were opened it would seem to lead nowhere but a solid wall.
That finished, the corridor hidden, the night well advanced, I returned to my rooms and changed into my travelling garments. It was a bittersweet moment for me, reducing myself to my terrible nakedness in a room without mirrors, knowing that if I were not to ruin everything that I had built and planned for I could never afford to be careless.
But then, neither would I ever be alone. The cost was worth it.
And no, I did not stop a single moment and consider the wreckage that I had made above in the theatre. I designed it, after all. It was mine to do with what I wished. And, in any case, none of the damage was irreparable. The six months it would take to bring the stage back up to scratch would simply provide time for Christine to continue her training, and that idiot Comte of hers to give up his grieving and start sniffing for a bride under other, more appropriate circumstances.
Fully dressed, mask and wig secured, I pulled on my gloves and sought the mirror I kept in the closet.
Mirrors! I loathe them like vermin, but it was necessary to keep one stored somewhere in order to gauge the effect of my disguises. My suit, cut in the style of the latest fashions (I sewed it myself, adding a few special features) fitted me well and lay against my body in clean, pinstriped lines. Pleased, I selected, tonight, the wide-brimmed fedora I’d bought from the mad but immaculately skilled haberdasher who operated in a shop near the Louvre. It is amazing how lifelike a well-made mask can look, when cast in deep shadow by the brim of a hat.
Pleased, I picked up my valise and made my way to the fine night-market that operates near the Seine. The stands stank of foul water, but the bins were filled with many grand treasures. There was nothing here that hadn’t been stolen, but the markdown was good, as was the quality, and the stall tenders made it their business to ask very few questions of the people perusing their wares.
I found a stall selling dresses and selected a few fine styles in a variety of colours. Christine could not wear that wedding dress forever, no matter how fetching she looked in it. The designs I chose were
, admittedly, a little young for her. But then, I told myself, she is young, and she thinks of herself as my daughter. These frilled things would be totally appropriate to the role, and since she was slight, they would probably fit her.
Next, I procured a selection of fine foods; flesh, patisserie, fruit, a few exquisite truffles, a few fresh vegetables. I ensured that they were double wrapped in wax paper before placing them in the bag with the new dresses. I would not wish to stain the fabric.
Finally, I purchased a small silver bell, for the girl to carry with her to ring should she encounter any trouble, and three sheaves of barred composition paper. My current stock was running low, the foot pedals of my organ were surrounded by crumpled wads of paper and the music stand was weighed down with finished notes.
I spoke to no one on my travels. I do not make a habit of haggling with vendors, and with my wealth I have no need to. Pleased with myself, heavily laden, I returned to my subterranean home by another, longer road. Thieves were much more likely to pursue me once I’d stocked myself with goods that I’d bought from them mere moments before. Quick turnaround meant that they earned much more of a profit if they could keep my gold, recoup their material and sell it again in their store.
In my time trading here, I had only been attacked once, and I thrashed both of my attackers quite soundly, beating them about the skull with the knob of my stick. I would have slaughtered my foes, thrown their corpses into the river to be pecked at by gulls, but I knew that if I had done so I would never have been allowed back into the market. I liked to trade there, so I endured the mild dissatisfaction of allowing them to live. Manners, after all, might vary by context but they should never be ignored.
Tonight I had no problems. I returned in time to check on Christine, she was still sleeping, of course. The dose I’d prepared for her was strong enough to grant her eighteen hours’ worth of the slumber of the angels. God knew she needed it, after the last several weeks. Already the natural glow in her cheeks was being restored. Her breath came sweet and with gentle regularity, like the pulse under music. I left her after I placed her new clothes in the wardrobe, before her beauty made me weak.
I would sleep myself, now, for a few hours at least. When she woke she would be very hungry, possibly disoriented. I must be ready with a meal for her, and at least a few kind words, before expecting her to settle down to work.
11.
When Christine had sufficiently recovered we settled into our work, using my own part-finished music instead of the usual canonical scores. In some ways our work continued much as it had before. My student was as dedicated as ever and her long sleep had done wonders for her voice; she sang my score with a richness of tone, that was as clear and weighty as leaded crystal, but it was strange to have her stand so close to me as I pushed the pedals and manipulated the keys of my small chamber organ.
I was dissatisfied with the sound that my instrument produced; it was quite in the shadow of my student’s miraculous voice, but I could do nothing about it. It was difficult enough for me to shift this five-hundred kilo cabinet down into this cavern, even with aid of the pulley system I designed. When I composed the songs I heard every instrument in the full orchestral score, including the wonderful sixty-four pipe organ built into the walls of the theatre above. Compared to that, this small cabinet was a bugle, good for granting the listener an idea of the sound without the full measure of power. I must be satisfied that Christine consented to assist me in my composition and try my hardest to wait to experience the full flower of my music when she returned to the surface world, bringing it with her into the light.
If I could never stand to live in the world again; if I nconsigned myself to shadows like the grave, at least this part of me (by far the better part) would meet with resurrection. I smiled beneath my mask to know that my greatest work would live on in her voice.
This room that we rehearsed in had once been a part of a cave system; the limestone walls were rough – I had left them unfinished, as they naturally formed, in order to preserve the rich acoustics. The cavern was situated a few yards from my quarters, a location that approximated to the orchestra pit in the theatre ten metres above our heads. As I said, the sound in this chamber was astonishingly good, the dry air reverberated with song; the sand-textured walls were golden in the light from our torches. We were far enough beneath the surface for the sound to be muffled. I could commit a murder here, something long and drawn out, involving much screaming, and no one would be any wiser.
I ran my hands across the yellowish ivory keyboard, cursing my gloves for the difficulty they gave me, but I was unwilling to play bare-handed, exposing my mottled flesh to her sight. I struck a foul chord and the girl stopped short, halting mid-phrase. I turned to her and asked, ‘Christine, could you start again at bar fifteen? I am uncertain of the phrasing. My gifts are as composer, not librettist.’
She laughed, tossing her dark hair, ‘Of course, Erik. But I was wondering, if the emotion you’re trying to convey is a sort of ominous fear, mingled with hope, shouldn’t you change that note,’ she pointed, to my copy of the manuscript, ‘to A flat so that the strings will really leap when I sing, “Why have you brought me here, to the edge of the earth, where devils dance and angels tremble?”’
I stared at the text, considering. It just might work. I made the change, blotted the paper, then closed it back inside its book. We had been hard at work for five hours. Christine was ready for a rest, though she would never say so. Her sweat had soaked through the fibres of her rose-silk shirtwaist, her curls were damp against her forehead.
She had been with me nine days and it was remarkable to me how profoundly our relationship had changed.
She used my name so frequently, always with a slight smile on her lips, as though the sound of it filled her with some secret pleasure. For my part, I found myself confiding in her more than I ever thought possible. We talked together while she ate, lingering over her meals to draw the conversation out.
I found myself revealing things to her that I had planned to take to my grave.
That very morning we sat together over her breakfast, Christine had two slices of toast coated with honey and a carnelian apple that I cut for her, arranging the slices on a plate in a pattern that alternated deep red and stark white.
I have hated the smell of apples since my days in the carnival, but she asked for the fruit and so of course I provided it. I watched as she lifted the wedge to her mouth, watched her lips close around the bite, and I nearly shuddered. I would have thought that the mask I wore, the careful way I held my body, would have blocked her from perceiving my disgust.
Instead, she gave me a look so blatant in its perplexity that her face might as well have been a question mark. ‘Erik, what is it? Is something wrong?’ She looked at her plate, ‘Is it the fruit?’
I held my hands in my lap, ‘It is true, they are offensive. I despise them.’
Her head tilted to the side, as though she could see more of me by shifting her angle, ‘Then why did you bring them?’
‘Because you asked, and I would deny you nothing.’
‘And so you cut them up for me, doing something that I could easily have done for myself, and then resented me for causing you to do it.’ She suddenly seemed to find something interesting in the shining convex surface of her spoon.
I looked down at my hands, as though I could see the flesh, the blood beneath the kid-skin gloves. ‘I do not resent you, Christine. The stench of the fruit seems to pull me backwards through time, to a place that I do not wish to revisit.’
‘How could something so sweet, so natural, hurt you so?’ She shook her head, then looked up and said, ‘But then, the smell of the sea is like that for me, now. I used to smell it and think of the holidays that I spent with my father. Now I smell it and the memories are the same, but the context has changed. There is no sense of anticipation, only the ache of permanent loss.’
She reached across the table and laid her hand on the clot
h so that her curled palm faced upward. I hesitated a moment, then placed my hand in hers. It took all of my courage not to withdraw when she squeezed it. This was the second time that we had done this. I must grow used to being touched.
She said, ‘Tell me what happened.’
And so I did. God help me, I never expected to. I never wanted to burden her with it. The shame, the nakedness, the taunts. I told her what it was like to be on display, raw and filthy, to eat only what puerile people chose to pelt me with so that every meal came from, was formed from, my own humiliation. I told her what it was like to have my body splattered with the cores of apples that bounced from my skin and landed in a floor strewn with my own leavings which I could never clean because I was given enough water to wash myself or drink but never both. I told her about how I had to survive eating that fruit, filthy, crusted with bitterness.
I said, ‘And all of this came about in payment for the crime of being born deformed.’
‘You are deformed. That is no crime. You know that I will never run from you.’ Her thumb tightened against the back of my hand, ‘Let me ask you once more. Can you trust me enough to take off your mask?’
I tried to draw away from her, but could not. She refused to let go. Instead, she leaned across the table, looking through my eyeholes, trying hard to see behind them. I felt terror twining in my guts and my skin was suddenly drenched in foul-smelling sweat.
‘Let me know what you are, Erik, let me see you. I love you, my teacher. Do not be afraid. I will not be frightened.’
I ran from her then, tearing my hand from hers and thrusting back against the hotel trolley so that it rolled into the wall, just missing her hip. She kept hold of the glove, peeled it from my hand so that my scarred white claw was exposed. Her face blanched when she saw it, that dead white thing, all the colour drained out of her soft cheeks. The expression on her face hit me like a blow to the chest; I had to get away from her. I had to make myself secure, get back to my rooms where I could breathe properly, and wait for the black edges of the world to regain their light.