Masque (14 page)

There was a lever behind me that I was supposed to flip when the time came for my ascension. It was a pulley connecting my harness to a counterbalancing weight high up in the rafters. He held me up, flipped the switch, and up we went. It was weighted for my body and although he was very thin, the weight was more than doubled. He must have added something to it. As we rose to the rafters I thought I saw another body falling, like a shadow, to the stage.

I found out later that it was Monsieur Jordan. Hung by his neck and then tied to the counterweight.

We landed on the scaffold where I'd had so many lessons at nearly the same moment that the other bombs detonated, casting the stage into splinters and slaughtering more innocents than I care to consider. The force of the explosion threw me to the floor and while I was struggling to stand I saw my master, lithe as a cat, his mask gleaming and expressionless, tossing a white-and-red bundle over the rail. A few seconds later it landed with a thump that I heard, in my mind if nowhere else, as the sound of meat chopped by a cleaver.

Before the fire was extinguished, before I had fully got my bearings, he had taken my hand and led me down, down through a series of ladders and secret corridors, to his dark kingdom in the massive, sprawling basement.

11.

Seen from the street, the Palais Garnier is absolutely massive. It stands on twelve thousand metres of land and rises, a marble mountain crowned with copper, a full five storeys tall. And yet this is nothing compared to the caverns which sprawl beneath the building, terrible tunnels containing chambers; some are black, muddy pits, others immaculately furnished. I never thought that such flawless beauty as in the room that he gave me could exist side by side with a mud-floored cave that reeked of the char-pit. And yet it did.

My mind was still reeling from the chaos up above, our rushed flight. It was as though I had become drunk on so much sudden fire and death. My master led me through the labyrinth, his hand gripping mine, alternately singing and laughing loudly enough to keep my eyes focused on him. The space back-stage was totally empty; the rehearsal rooms we passed looked utterly abandoned, as though they were haunted. Every living body save for ours was occupied with the rescue going on in front. I could not leave a thread behind me, or a trail of breadcrumbs to mark my passage. His voice sank into my brain, a hook to draw me forward, saving me from committing the sin of looking backwards, longing for the light.

Once, he slid aside a panel in the wall behind the manager's office (I had mistaken it for a slab of solid marble) revealing a secret passage and a narrow flight of stairs fashioned from the same substance as the enormous Y shaped staircase in the front foyer. I thought, as the doorway shut, that this building was, in a strange way, much like my mind; a splendid surface containing strange depths, hidden even from the people who inhabit it.

I remember my father telling me something similar about music. That the audience cannot possibly comprehend the full extent of the score, for the most part they listen to the melody, but the timpani beats away anyway, underneath it, setting tone, the vital pulse, and even without understanding what is happening around them, they feel its effect.

I have no idea how long we ran round those winding corridors. I know, now, that there are many ways much more direct that the path we took. Apparently part of my master's plan to ‘keep me safe' meant keeping me with him, even if I ceased to wish his company.

I know it sounds foolish to say so, but it took me a surprisingly long time to understand that the explosions, all that needless violence and death, were part of his plan for effecting my rescue. I assumed that he would merely steal me after my assumption, possibly by bribing the new flie-master whose job it was to catch me as I rose. I knew, very well, that he favoured drama. I blame my dismissal of his motives on combined trauma and shock.

Certainly, by the time we emerged into my rooms (it would be some time before I saw his) leaving behind the unfinished well and the filth-floored room littered with stinking, reddish skeletons, I was utterly exhausted. Too spent to see that the walls were lined with images of Hindu idols engaged in acts of obscene play, though I did notice the enormous marble bed, like a giant egg, all padded with silk, the music stand, and all of those uncomfortably childish toys he'd brought to scatter round me.

My master bowed me through the doorway into that rich golden light, guiding me by hand to settle on the sumptuous bed amidst the cushions and the silk-embroidered sheets. I was suddenly very aware of the dress that I wore. The unspoken context.

He stood before me and I saw him whole for the first time since the night that we met. Every surface of his body was covered by cassock, gloves, his glistening mask.

When he spoke, his voice was smiling, as it should be considering how very well his plans went, ‘Well, my dear, here you are. All safe and settled.' He retreated to a tall dresser in the corner, returning with a tray, a bottle, a small, golden glass. ‘I need to work; I must clear our back trail, and you must by now be utterly exhausted.'

‘Yes,' I said, it was true, ‘but I am too excited to sleep.'

‘Ah, but you must, if you wish to preserve your voice for our training.' His tone maintained its cheerfulness. He was utterly jocular. ‘And I intend for us to use the time we have before your marvellous resurrection very well indeed.'

He poured something red and very thick from the carafe. It smelled delicious.

‘In the service of that noble goal, I have concocted something good to help you sleep.' He handed me the cup.

I felt the true weight of gold, pure, unadulterated. It was heavy in my hand.

There was no question. I drank it. The smell was as good as the taste – like liquefied roses.

I was overtaken with dizziness. My master gently caught my head in his hand (he caught the precious cup in his other) and guided me to the pile of pillows.

My last memory, before sleep overtook me, was the feel of his leather-gloved fingers trailing across my forehead in a motion that was tentative and shy.

‘Sleep well, my angel. You are safe and secure.'

And in that instant, I fell from the world.

12.

I have no way of knowing how long I slept. I know that whatever drug he gave me was very gentle; my head did not ache, my thoughts were clear when I woke. I slept very deeply, and my rest was sweeter than it had been since I was a child. I was ravenous, of course, though that told me nothing. I had sung for four hours before my rescue, and singing is hungry work indeed. I need a good meal after every performance. With such an appetite it is no wonder that older divas are often enormous!

I lay there, perfectly still, for a few moments. My eyes were closed, but the light glowed through my lids. I had either not been sleeping long (something I doubted) or the candles had long since guttered themselves out and been replaced, the new ones lit.

‘Good morning, Christine.'

My master's voice surprised me, coming so suddenly. Of course, I had no reason to believe that I was lying here alone. I sat up, opened my eyes.

‘Morning?' I was taken by a sudden urge to yawn, and did so, blushing at my unavoidable rudeness.

He laughed. It was beautiful to hear, though eerie, emerging as it did from the closed, painted lips of the mask.

‘Morning indeed, but only just. You slept the whole night through, as I knew you would.' He was wearing a very fine morning suit: a dove-grey vest, and an improbable top hat. He drew a gold watch from his pocket, opened the lid to examine the face of the clock. ‘In half an hour the early birds who twitter up above us will be having their lunch.'

The watch vanished, ‘You will be enjoying your breakfast.'

I motioned to rise and he waved me backwards, playfully saluting me with his hat, ‘No, no, my lady. Remain where you lie. The dining room will come to you. I expect that you are more than ready for a good meal. After your brunch, we will set down to work.'

I smiled at the suggestion, glad to have something to focus on besides horror and death. ‘And what will we be working on, Master?'

‘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.