With hands that tremble slightly, I open the morning's copy of Époque, and search for the obituary columns listed towards the back of the newspaper. My fingers grow clumsy as I turn the pages, and it seems to take an inordinately long time to find the item I seek

Then suddenly, it leaps out at me from the page. In simple, stark black lettering and encased in a small printed box are the words - "Erik est mort".

My shoulders slump; my mouth feels dry and my heartbeat sluggish. This is what I have been expecting to see - have been waiting for since Erik's last visit to my flat three weeks ago - but it is still a massive, terrible shock to the system. I fumble for the coffee pot, pour out a cup and gulp down the scalding liquid, all the while staring at the small item of newsprint.

Erik est mort - he had told me exactly how it would be, but I simply cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes. I feel I have been dealt a sledgehammer blow, and I tremble like a palsied old man.

He is dead; Erik, my strange, eccentric, pitiful friend. Erudite and ingenious, he of the incisive intellect and extraordinarily brilliant mind; a genius in so many dimensions, yet unloved and unwanted by humankind. Forced to live in lonely isolation by the rejection of his fellow men only served to make him utterly fearless. He was audacious and contemptuous in his dealings with them, more so during his reign at the Opéra as the Phantom.

Now, the brave heart that was my incomparable Erik is no more.

My eyes fill with a sudden rush of tears. How sad and sorrowful I feel, how bereft. He whose life had been blighted by his horrifically deformed face has died a lonely, broken man, entombed in his bizarre home deep below the Paris Opéra. Having sent away Mademoiselle Christine Daaé to the arms of her young aristocrat, it seemed he had finally given up all hope, and simply waited for death to claim him.

He had told me how Christine, his adored Angel of Music, had kissed him - the only time in his life that he had ever been held close and kissed by anyone. He had wanted to die with the memory of that kiss fresh on his lips and in his heart.

I, Suram Mehmet al Kamil, was once a policeman at the top of my profession. Now I am an exile by choice, living on a modest pension in a small Parisian apartment. I have known Erik for many years, for we met as young men when he came to live in my country, Persia, at the invitation of the Shah. Our mighty ruler had been highly intrigued by tales of this fascinating character and of his strange gifts, colourful accounts brought and related to him by his courtiers, who had first heard of the stranger by way of itinerant travellers The Shah had issued a command that the man - Erik was the only name we had - should be sought out immediately and brought back to his court. A messenger had been despatched forthwith to fetch him to Persia.

After many weeks the servant had finally traced Erik to a small town in Russia, where he had pleaded with him to obey his Master's instructions, offering bags of gold and precious gems to tempt him. At first Erik had refused utterly, stating coldly that he could not be bought - but had suddenly changed his mind on a whim. He was ever capricious! Returning with the messenger, the tall stranger had been taken to the presence of His Imperial Highness, who was graciously pleased to give him several commissions.

Unfortunately I knew only too well that came the day when the Shah grew tired of his new agent - as he unfailingly did with most of his entourage - life could become very dangerous for Erik while he remained in Persia. Because of his position as a favourite of the Shah, Erik made many enemies at court, and the Shah himself was liable to turn against him at any time.

As indeed he did, for some years later I had helped Erik to flee from my country and certain death. Long, arduous years passed before I saw him again - for I was imprisoned following Erik's departure - escaping with my own life only because of my kinship with the Shah. On gaining my freedom I quit my country and spent the next few years travelling. I settled in Paris, finding a small apartment on the Rue de Rivoli where I have lived ever since, my faithful servant Darius overseeing all my needs.

I often thought of the tall stranger who became my friend and wondered what became of him. I did not know, of course, but he too had been living in the city. It was almost three years ago that I discovered he was here in Paris, and some while later I deduced him to be Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, the scourge of the management at the Paris Opéra. There is no question that I had been overjoyed to see him again after so many years, but horrified to learn that he had been living under the ground like some poor, lost creature.

My mind is in turmoil as I stumble over to the window and collapse on the seat, looking down on the familiar sight of Paris going about its daily business. There is a cold wind blowing, the sky is a leaden grey and bears more than a hint of snow as people hurry along, muffled up against the weather.

I decide to wait until the streets have cleared a little and then make my way to the Opéra. I - his own dear Cyrano - had promised Erik to do certain things once I had seen that paragraph, and I will keep that pledge if it is the last thing I do.

I sit back on the seat and stare bleakly at my highly polished shoes. Jumbled thoughts and memories dart in and out of my mind on the friendship that had started many years ago in Persia, the country of my birth....

It had been the Shah himself who had assigned me, his kinsman - the Daroga of Mazenderan - to guard his new employee, albeit in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. The man, known only as Erik, though brought to Court as an entertainer in magic and mystery, was also ingenious in many other fields. He was in fact an architect of some note, a gifted musician and composer who possessed a sublime tenor voice, a scholar, linguist, scientist and astronomer. The list of his talents seemed endless, but firstly he had been given the commission of designing yet another royal palace.

So the man is clever, I thought rather sourly, but why on earth it had been deemed necessary to protect an architect I had yet to discover.

Enlightenment came two days later, and I began to understand the reason for the Emperor's instructions. There was an air of danger, a destructive contempt about this man. Yet I also sensed deeply suppressed emotions - a deadly anger, explosive frustrations, and yes, an almost unbearable sorrow.

Never would I forget that first meeting with Erik. I had been summoned to attend the Shah's apartments early one morning, and on entering the opulent chambers, my eyes had been instantly drawn to the tall, slim figure of a man standing at the open window. The sun had just risen on the new day, outlining the black-clad frame with a golden silhouette.

The Shah addressed the new member of his staff, bidding him meet the Chief of Police. The figure turned from the window and to my bewildered shock, I saw that the face beneath the debonair black fedora was covered almost entirely by a white mask. Only the mouth and chin were visible; the lips were disfigured above an almost skeletal jawline.

The man had been standing with his arms folded across his chest, regarding me thoughtfully. Then he held out a thin, yet elegant hand. I moved forward to take it, and was a little surprised at the warmth and strength in the long fingers. For some odd reason, I had imagined that hand would be unpleasantly cold to the touch. As I murmured words of welcome, I looked up at the masked features and met his gaze.

My eyes were locked with a pair of utterly brilliant and dazzlingly blue eyes. They seemed to hold the glow and iridescence of sparkling sapphires.

For a long moment I could only stare, mesmerised by those eyes. Time stood still. I forgot where I was; I certainly forgot completely the exalted presence of the Shah, Emperor of Persia and ruler of my land.

The jewel-like eyes gazed back at me with cool deliberation. The crooked lips parted in a smile, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. Their owner spoke for the first time. His voice, when it came, turned my heart over, momentarily causing me to think that I was in the presence of an angel; never had I heard such beauty in the spoken word and the timbre of a voice.

The words had been an ordinary, everyday greeting but to me, it was as if I had been enveloped in the softest velvet and the sweetest roses. As if liquid gold had been poured over me. As if the most tender colours of a rainbow had enshrined me in their precious hue.

That wondrous voice. The startling beauty of the eyes - and the mystery of the mask. Who was this man? Did he have this effect on everyone he met, or am I going slightly mad? Stunned, I questioned my mind which was in no little turmoil.

Erik seemed to understand; still clasped within his own, my hand was subjected to the slightest pressure and then released. There was another glimpse of those even white teeth, which seemed oddly at variance with the deformed mouth. A sudden gleam of humour appeared in the sapphire eyes; Erik had smiled, saying with gentle irony how greatly he looked forward to the Daroga's company.

I look up as my manservant enters the room. Darius sees at once that I have been weeping and quickly comes across to me.

"Master?" he queries in worried accents.

"Ah, Darius", I glance up at his anxious face and take his elbow in a light, sustaining clasp. "Do not be concerned - I am not ill, I assure you. I … I am somewhat shaken, for I have received notification of the death of ... of someone who meant ... a great deal to me."

"I am so sorry, Master. May I be of help?" Darius pours another cup of coffee and hands it to me.

"Yes, indeed you may. I have to go out later. Would you put out my overcoat, hat and gloves as necessary? I will also need a cab to take me to the Opéra - in about one hour's time."

"Assuredly, Master. If I might suggest a warm scarf for your throat, for it is very cold."

I nod distractedly in agreement, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my eyes.

"May I ask ... is it M'sieur Erik?" Darius ventures quietly.

"Yes", I murmur. "Erik is dead, Darius. That poor, tortured soul is at rest and we must praise Allah."

"He will be in my prayers, Master. Can I be of further assistance in your sad duties?"

"It is possible that I may need your help later, but first I must establish what is necessary to send Erik on his final journey. Now I must write a note, and then I will be on my way. Thank you, Darius."

The servant gathers up the breakfast tray and quietly leaves the room. I go to my writing desk and prepare to write a short letter to Mademoiselle Daaé.

Riding through the Parisian streets later that morning, I think further on my friendship with the deceased. I remember his architectural genius, his fantastical skills in the art of magic and ventriloquism. How absorbed he was in the sciences. How adept in languages - he spoke my own tongue as if born to it. And of course, the music that was his very soul.

I recall the fascination he held over my countrywomen and of his utter indifference to their charms. How they had been drawn inexorably by the mysterious allure of the mask and the challenge of what lay beneath it.

But for all their feminine wiles, the flirtatious messages flashed from dark eyes beneath fluttering lashes, the shape of a delectable figure outlined by soft, clinging materials, Erik remained aloof and seemed entirely oblivious of his own sensuality. For a man so incredibly gifted and intelligent, he appeared to be entirely unaware of his own particular appeal - the enigmatic mystery of his mere presence. If he was indeed attracted to the opposite sex, it was certainly not apparent from his demeanour. He was courteous and polite in all his dealings with any woman, but it went no further.

I had witnessed many of the facets which made up his character - charm, intelligence, patience, thoughtfulness, a wonderful sense of the comical. On the other side of the coin, however, his darker side was ever on the prowl, showing in a hostile intolerance, or venom uttered with an icy hauteur. He had a truly frightening temper that could erupt into violent anger or an explosive, lacerating contempt. I consider myself fortunate that I was never subjected to his rage but I had seen many men quake in terror at his merciless tongue.

With women, I can only think he was afraid of showing any emotion. Too fearful to trust a woman with his heart for he was essentially a proud man, and the thought of rejection and fear of his deformity would mortify him. Certainly I know that he did fall deeply in love with Mademoiselle Daaé, but that was many years later.

And so the ladies of the court were disappointed. Erik spent all his working hours at the building site, and his leisure time in his private apartment. I was the only person allowed access to his rooms.

I recall with a wry smile his mischievous name for me - Cyrano!

For the first few weeks of our acquaintance he had addressed me formally in the French manner, as Monsieur le Daroga. I had asked him to use my given name, but he had merely bowed and looked at me with a quizzical glint in those blue eyes behind the mask.

Then came the day - oh, shall I ever forget the shame! I had taken an ignominious tumble from my horse. Riding into the stableyard at no more than a gentle trot, the animal had suddenly slipped on a wet cobblestone and lurched forward. Before I could gain control the reins had slipped from my grasp and I had gone sailing over his lowered head.

Stable lads had come running to my assistance. There was blood everywhere! Luckily, my injuries were not serious. Rather, my dignity was impaired more so than any limb. What had happened, as I discovered a little later, was that I had broken my nose.

I was being assisted to my feet, feeling dazed and quite shaken when Erik came striding into the stableyard to call for his own horse. When he saw me in all my dusty, dishevelled glory where my riding breeches were ripped at the knees, my hat all askew and my rapidly swelling nose streaming blood, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened behind the mask. He gave a sort of strangled cough and turned away, but I could see his shoulders shaking. Then the wretched fiend burst out laughing!

I glared at his back. "Sir!" I spluttered, " have you no pity for my wounds? Are you so -- so heartless?"

He turned to face me, one gloved hand hovering as if to hide the grin that played about his distorted mouth.

"Oh come now- don't be such a baby! I see but the merest scratch, M'sieur - and methinks your pride is hurt more!" He sighed gustily. "What a sorry sight, oh, a very sorry sight, to be sure. It is too bad!" Another choked chuckle followed.

I stamped my booted foot in frustrated ire. "It hurts!" My voice rose on a somewhat unmanly shriek as I hunted frantically in my pockets for a handkerchief.

He handed me his own, patting my hand as if I were a small boy.

"There now, my poor old chap - you had better come with me and I will clean you up. Let me attend to your poor old proboscis!" Again he roared with laughter. Then slyly - "By Heavens - you look just like that fellow in the story - Cyrano de Bergerac, he of the - ahem! large nose. Now here's a thought, M'sieur ... such is your present appearance you almost become he. So come, good Cyrano, my hapless horseman, and let me attend to your hurts!"

Holding the handkerchief to my throbbing nose, I reluctantly began to smile. His laughter was not cruelly intended, I knew that, and was so infectious that even the stablelads had to turn away in order to hide their own grinning faces.

I followed him to his apartments where, after removing my muddied clothing he made me lie upon his couch. Clad in one of his own robes, which bore the faint scent of his cologne, I made myself comfortable against the cushions. Erik's administrations were deft, yet gentle. He cleansed my face of dried blood and debris with a liquid that smelled quite deliciously of aromatic herbs, yet was astringent and purifying. He applied a cool, soothing ointment to the area around my nose, which instantly provided a welcome relief to the throbbing pain in my face.

Then he mixed up what looked to be a stiff paste, and after cautiously probing the area, applied the paste on and around my nose from the bridge downwards, taking care to avoid the nostrils. He told me the paste would harden, and in so doing would protect my nose as the broken bone healed. I was to keep the shield on for a few days.

"Your nose may heal to its former state; I am quite hopeful of this, but there is the possibility of the bone reforming in the shape of the break and will therefore be somewhat crooked. But - I doubt it will detract from your good looks, my friend." Erik paused, and then added, "… and at least you have a nose."

Something in the tone of his voice made me look up at him. "Why do you say that, Erik? Everyone has a nose, surely! Or don't you?" I asked, half-jokingly as I gingerly touched my sore forehead.

"No", he said baldly.

I shot upright from my prone position. "Wh--what?" I gasped. "Erik - what do you mean ... no?"

He pushed me gently back onto the velvet cushions.

"Why, exactly what I say. Whereas you have a fine specimen, Daroga - although perhaps Cyrano is a more apt name at present - do you mind the sobriquet? - I unfortunately do not have a nose and never have. I was born that way."

I could not help staring. "Then ... is that why you wear ... the mask?" I ventured somewhat timidly.

"That is correct", he said, gathering up his articles of medication.

"But surely you do not need to ... I mean, could you not fashion a false nose? Something like this, perhaps?" I pointed to the paste he had spread on my own nose.

"I could ... if there was something to which it would adhere."

"Erik - I do not understand what you are saying." Puzzled, I looked up at him.

"My dear Daroga, not only do I not have a nose ... I do not even have a face ... only the semblance of a face. Hence the mask. Now do you understand?"

"I ... I ... Erik, I do not ...", I stammered helplessly.

"Quite." His gaze was steady but that one mocking little word could not hide the sudden flash of pain in his eyes.

"Do not be concerned, Cyrano. It is something I have to live with - something I have lived with since the day I was born. I have no doubt my poor mother had a beautiful layette of baby clothes lovingly gathered for me, her first - and understandably only – child. However, it seems my first item of clothing was … a mask, for she could not bear to think of people running in mortal fear from her infant son's incredible ugliness."

He paused for a moment, lost in thought. A brief smile appeared beneath the mask. He tapped it lightly.

"I would imagine something like this was fashioned as quickly as her trembling fingers would allow in order to hide my hideously incomplete little face."

"Erik, I beg you will forgive my ignorance", I gasped. "I did not mean to pry, believe me. Please do not speak of it - I can see it is upsetting for you to speak of these … things."

I clutched his hand, willing him to see I understood his inner anguish.

He returned the grip of my fingers with slight pressure. "You are a good man, Daroga. A kind man. Unusual in a policeman, I think?" He drew forth a chair, speaking equably in an effort to lessen my anxiety and his own disquiet.

"Don't try to sit up, there's a good fellow", he urged as he seated himself. "You've had a nasty tumble and should rest."

"Erik, I am fine, save for my wounded dignity. My nose should soon heal because of your excellent administrations. I do not even have a headache."

He took my wrist between his long fingers to assure himself of my even pulse, nodding his acknowledgement of my eager assertion.

I looked at him, saying a little diffidently, "Erik, as a policeman, I have seen many dreadful injuries, many savagely wounded casualties of thieves and murderers. Why, there have been times when some poor wretch has been so badly disfigured by thugs that he's hardly been recognisable."

My hesitant remark hung in the air between us. After a long moment, he answered quietly.

"You are asking, are you not, to see my face? To see what I must keep hidden behind this mask?"

"Erik, I am your friend. I can only ask you to trust me when I say that your face would hold no more dismay for me than any murder victim I have looked upon."

"You are so sure of that, M'sieur? You are so hardened to horror that you could look upon a living corpse and stay calm; stay sane, even?"

"Please trust me, Erik." I gripped his hand again. "Please."

He looked at me steadily, his blue gaze never leaving my face. Then he reached for the cords of the mask at the back of his head, his hands fumbling the dark, reddish-brown hair. Releasing the mask, he bent forward to place it on the floor, then slowly sat up again to face me, his shoulders braced as if in readiness to bear my gasp of fear.

I looked upon that face and my heart bled for him. It was like nothing I could ever have imagined. The hollow eye sockets, so deeply etched that they could have been black holes. The parchment colour of the skin stretched tight over the bony skull. The distorted mouth pulled into a snarl by the gaping nostrils of the half-formed nose. The gaunt bones which stood out over sunken cheeks. Only his teeth were fine, evenly shaped and white as pearls.

It was a dead face … skeletal … emaciated … the features deformed … and yet the eyes within those tragic features blazed with an inner fire. Deeply blue and truly beautiful, his eyes were the mirrors of his soul.

"Have you gazed your fill, Cyrano?"

The tone was bitter, the words were harsh, yet his pain was only too evident.

Again I reached for his hand and took it between my own. More than anything in this world I longed to ease his distress, to prove to him that his face meant nothing other than it was a part of him … and he was my friend, no matter how or why his features differed from my own or that of anyone else in this world.

"Erik … for your great trust in me, I thank you with all my heart."

My words were simple but spoken with deep warmth and honesty. He sensed the sincerity of my statement and his shoulders sagged a little, his fingers within my own still tense.

"You are not repulsed? Shocked or horrified? I cannot believe there is no reaction of fear, or affront to your senses."

"No!" My voice shook with the intensity of my emotion. " It does not matter to me how your face is fashioned. You have my friendship, for what it is worth, for as long as you so choose. I hope it will be for life."

Silence. Then poignantly, he began to weep.

"Oh Daroga … Daroga."

Tears filled his eyes and began to flow down his cheeks. He fell to his knees in front of me, groping for the mask. He held it with trembling hands, staring at the white leather covering.

"This has been my only friend through life. My shield and protector - a cold, inanimate object." He choked on a sob, whispering, "… and Nature and her animal kingdom have always been kind to me. She has given me shelter and kept me from harm. But now it seems ... the impossible dream ... it seems ... I ... I have a living, human friend. Thank you, Daroga, thank you."

I got to my feet somewhat unsteadily, and reached down to pull him from his knees. "Erik", I murmured from a throat that was choked with tears. "Erik - I am proud to have you as my friend, believe me".

He rose, towering above me. I am not a short individual, but Erik was tall and broad-shouldered. He made other men seem as dwarfs. Almost shyly, he proffered his hand, the long supple fingers shaking slightly.

I grasped that hand warmly between both my own. I could see he was as deeply moved as I was myself.

In the hope of making him smile, I uttered a sentence in my truly abominable French.

"Friends for life, Erik?"

He replied straight of face, "Friends for life, my Cyrano!" in absolutely faultless Persian. Then, "… I rather think we should resume your French lessons, my friend. I'd say the sooner, most certainly the better!"

With that, we both started to laugh. I record here and now that to me, his ravaged face was transformed by his smile into what I can only describe as the very essence of humanity.

Erik released my hand only to place his own upon my shoulders, looking at me with almost grateful acknowledgement. He then lowered me gently back upon the couch. Replacing the mask, he smoothed back his hair before sitting down on his chair beside me and telling me to lie back and rest.

"Are you going to stay with me a while? Good! Tell me of your adventures before you came to Persia", I invited.

For the next hour or so he regaled me with tales of his travels, of the places he had seen and the work he had completed on various projects in different countries. He possessed a wry, self-deprecating sense of humour, a well-developed sense of the absurd and a devastating wit, which had me laughing over and over again.

There were a few long pauses in his narrative where I sensed that his memories were too painful. He did not say anything, but I knew by the clenching and unclenching of his hands that his mind carried many mental scars.

I was aware that his body bore the scars of old wounds caused by the viciously cruel beatings he had received from his hated gypsy masters. One day I noticed some faint pink marks down his arms and asked him how they came about. He replied sardonically that he had once or twice displeased a former employer. I was further horrified to learn how often he had been lashed and whipped by the barbarous thugs.

Then early one morning I had gone to his apartment to share a pot of coffee with him. He had entrusted me with a key to the main door, and so after his call bade me enter, I went inside to find him sitting on the marble balcony, clad only in a towel draped around his lower body. The balcony was entirely private and not overlooked in any way, so Erik had taken to sitting there in the early morning sun after he had bathed.

His lean, muscular body had gained a healthy glow from the sun, but I could see the faint scars criss-crossing his back. I had been consumed with silent anger by what he must have suffered when little more than a child, but I tried not to let it show, biting back my rage at sight of those dreadful legacies of past tortures.

Erik had greeted me cheerily, his sapphire eyes sparkling behind the mask His newly washed coppery hair gleamed in the sunshine as he drew rapidly on a large sheet of thick paper. I looked over his shoulder at the very fine drawing and asked him about it. He replied dreamily that one day, he wanted to build something utterly beautiful and dedicate it to music. An opera house, perhaps.

Again and again I wondered why the fates had decreed that this unique and fascinating man should have been born with such a heavy burden to bear. I had grown to know with genuine affection the man behind the mask, but it seemed I was in a majority of one. Why was I alone in the ability to discern the real man beyond the unreal face?

Perhaps honesty forces me to admit that many would flinch or shrink at sight of Erik's poor travesty of a face, but if only they had only paused a moment longer. Long enough to experience his smile, to learn of his wonderful abilities, to reach out for and touch his great heart.

I could only hope that one day, he would meet an equally singular young woman who would also see beyond the mask, and love him for himself.

He made me some of the thick, sweet coffee he knew I liked. He drank lemon tea. I asked him about his own country, France, and begged to know more about Paris. He answered in patient detail, and I built up a word picture of that beautiful city. One day, I told him, I would visit Paris. It was my dream to see Rome, Madrid, Lisbon, Copenhagen, London and all the capital cities of Europe.

Erik had already lived in many of these places and told me something of them. How he had loved Rome, The Eternal City. The art treasures of Madrid and Lisbon and all the great monuments of other cities. London was very dear to his heart. He told me how, early one misty morning, he had stood upon Westminster Bridge and viewed the majestic panorama as the River Thames flowed through the heart of the city. He had thought on the words of the poet Wordsworth.

I listened, absorbed in all he had to say. He smiled at my intent face - I was oblivious to the fact that my bruises had begun to turn purple and black. He said that he hoped my wishes would all come true. I told him that when I retired, I intended to leave Persia and travel. Perhaps I could visit him at his home in France one day?

"I am sure that we will meet again one day, Cyrano."

He finished his second lemon tea and set down the cup. I studied him for a moment; he moved with a grace that was entirely masculine. His sleek hair shone like a polished chestnut. The suit he was wearing was his usual elegant black, cut by the hand of a master tailor. The white mask came back to full view as he sensed my scrutiny. His azure gaze held mine. Almost shyly, I asked him if he had any hopes and dreams to fulfil, aside from his ambition of seeing all the beautiful places in the world.

"To be loved," he said simply.

With that honest little statement, I began to understand how lonely, how desolate his life must have been without any kind of close companionship. The more I knew of him, the more I thought on the crass stupidity of my fellow men. I grew to love him as a brother, and I know that my friendship meant a great deal to him. I think - I hope - that he grew as fond of me.

I remember how his outrageously scathing comments about the Shah's courtiers used to make me laugh. How he would mimic the foppish dandies and the brainless fools who would bow and scrape to the Emperor, hanging on to his every word with fatuous deference in the hope of currying favour. Erik viewed this behaviour with barely concealed derision; he spoke to the Shah in exactly the same way that he spoke to everyone else, with Gallic charm and innate courtesy.

Of course he was well aware of his many enemies at court. Those who feared him and wished him harm; who were jealous of his high position and the Shah's favour. Who were sick with envy of the acclaim he received by way of his fantastic performances of magic and mystery before the court, and of his enchanting singing voice. All who attended the Shah's soirees at which Erik sang were held in a hypnotic spell by the richness and beauty of that voice.

I had warned my masked friend of the very real dangers to his life. He was certainly conscious of the fact that the Emperor or any of those in high places at the court could, on the slightest pretext, have him thrown in prison to rot the rest of his life away. Even worse was the threat of assassination because the Shah might suddenly begin to distrust him, or suspect that he knew too much.

We had talked of this. I assured him that when - and it would surely be when rather than if - such time came, I would arrange his escape to freedom. I would make every effort to ensure that his life was spared, that I myself would ride with him and show him a safe route out of the country. Erik argued that my own life would be in jeopardy, and would not hear of this.

He said there had been so many instances in the past when he had been forced to flee that it would be nothing new to him. He would be well able to deal with the Shah's thugs, he stated, contempt obvious in his voice.

I said nothing further, but my resolution remained unchanged.

Recalling the name he had bestowed upon me at the time I sported a hugely swollen nose, I chuckle to myself. The nickname had stuck. Forever after I was known as Cyrano to my mischievous friend, or even Rano. Sometimes, in one of his more skittish moods, he would fall on one knee and dramatically recite a stanza from one of Shakespeare's plays, substituting the name Cyrano for that of whichever hero's name happened to be in the text.

On a number of occasions, he would sing an aria from some Italian opera, and then I would become Cyranello. What made this even more comical was the way he would sing it completely out of tune. His voice would rise to the highest falsetto and swoop down to the lowest and most booming bass, hitting with impeccable ease every hilariously wrong note. Tears of mirth would run down my cheeks and I would be helpless with laughter.

With deep and humble gratitude, I remember how he had helped me through the terrible time of mourning the early death of my young wife. We had been married for only two short years when she died in childbirth. My infant son was born dead. Erik had been my rock and my salvation. I had prayed to Allah for the souls of my loved ones, but it was Erik to whom I turned when my grief became too much to bear alone. These were such times when he would sing to me with all the glorious beauty of his lyrical voice, and I would gain comfort, solace and peace from the music that was his soul.

It is only when I look back that I think of how deeply he had buried his own pain. Beneath his cool façade of detachment, his apparent indifference to life in general, I know how he yearned for the grace of human kindness. How silently and with what aching despair he had implored for tolerance from the world. A little compassion, some small sign of acceptance, of trust, would have given him hope of a better life. Oh, I appreciate that his behaviour had been infamous at times, especially during his tenure at the Opéra, but I know that the basis of his mutiny and provocation had been his truly piteous cry for help, for compassion, and the desperate need for love.

Arriving at the Opéra, I enter the magnificent building and make my way up the Grand Staircase. No-one bothers me or tries to stop me wandering where I choose. The staff know me as a slightly odd but harmless character, always prowling around the Opéra. I am known to them only as The Persian.

When I am certain that I am unobserved, I slip down a back stair and thence make my way to the cellars.

Little Christine Daaé has received my note and is there before me, sitting beside the still, serene figure on the bed. The reflection from the crimson silk draperies around the magnificent bed bestows a soft and kindly glow upon the skeletal features, eradicating the waxen pallor. The beautiful girl looks up at the sound of my footstep, her glowing eyes that same deep blue as Erik's. Now they are red-rimmed from weeping, but she possesses a tranquil composure, a new maturity. Her lovely face is that of a woman, rather than a shy young girl.

She is holding a red rose in her small hands, around the stem of which she has tied a white ribbon. As I watch, she tucks the rose into Erik's long musician's fingers. Her lustrous hair falls forward as she bends over him. I hear her whisper words of love.

She kisses his forehead and then lays her lips tenderly against his misshapen mouth.

"Goodbye, my own dear love, my darling Angel of Music ... until we meet again ... rest in peace, my beloved. Sleep with the angels to guard you. Until we meet ... again. I love you so much."

Between each murmured little sentence, she kisses him - oh, so many times.

She straightens, slips lightly to her feet and stands for a long moment gazing down at him, then turns and smiles tremulously at me.

"Dear M'sieur le Daroga, thank you for your letter. I am so glad you are here. My Angel told me how much your friendship meant to him."

She looks at me full square, so slender and pretty in her dress of soft blue velvet.

"There is something I would like you to hear. Something that only you and I must know. I want you to stand as my witness for what I am about to tell my Angel, which I do now before you, and before God."

Again she looks at Erik, then reaches out and puts her hand over his.

"My darling, it is true. I am to bear our child." Her voice is soft, yet clear and strong and proud.

She turns towards me as I take a glad step towards her.

"Yes, M'sieur. I am carrying Erik's child. A child conceived of love - here in this labyrinth. I have been here every night for the past three weeks. Raoul does not know, nor will he ever."

Her face lights with a radiant smile. Still with her hand resting on that of the dead Erik, she tells me of her feelings.

"I loved him, you see. It was only when I ran away from him, with Raoul, that I began to understand the truth of the bond I shared with Erik. To know my own heart and the love that lay therein - for him."

"I went back to the Opéra the next evening, when Raoul had gone out with his brother. I ran and ran down the corridors and passages. I could not wait to see him, to tell him of my love and to beg his forgiveness. I thought he would hate me for what I did, but he loved me still."

Tears glimmer in her eyes as she says softly, "… I found him lying on the floor, next to the monkey music box. Still murmuring brokenly the monkey's song. Oh, but my heart broke at the sight."

"He must have heard my footstep. He became very still. I whispered his name. Slowly, he turned his head and saw me. The look on his face was of such incredulous joy... and hope... that I started to cry. I flung myself down on the floor beside him, weeping and pleading with him to forgive me."

"Ah, M'sieur le Daroga, if you could have seen his dear face. He looked as if suddenly he had found Paradise and could not believe his eyes and ears. He tried to speak but the words would not come. Then ... then he pushed himself up on one elbow, reached out and with gentle fingers slowly, oh so slowly, touched my cheek. I turned my head to kiss those fingers, and ... and he s..said again - 'Christine, I love you'."

"My tears came afresh. They streamed down my face. I could not stop them. He touched my tears with wondering fingers, for he knew then how deeply I loved him in return. He sat up, and gathered me in his arms, letting me cry out my grief and anguish."

Christine stops for a moment, the memory of that time of reconciliation so fresh and poignant to her.

I hold out my hand to steady her, placing it under her elbow. Instantly, she lays her own small hand over mine. With a pretty lace handkerchief she wipes away two large tears which have spilled onto her cheeks.

"When my crying was spent and my body exhausted with emotional turmoil, Erik took me to my room. He laid me on the bed with such touching care, covering me with the quilt. He turned to go, but I begged him not to leave me. I wanted him to stay with me all that night. I wanted him close to me, as close as any two people in love could be. And he did, M'sieur le Daroga. He held me while I slept, and when I woke, he held me while we loved."

"Oh, how we loved. Never have I known such tenderness, such bliss, such joy in giving. For the rest of that wondrous night we loved each other in mind, body and soul. I conceived his child in the beauty of our love."

"I wanted to stay with him forever, M'sieur. I did not want to leave him, for I loved him so much. I went back every night until he sent me away, back to Raoul. M'sieur, Erik knew he was dying, knew he had not much longer for this world - maybe only a matter of days, even hours - and he did not want me to be there when ....", her voice falters.

"But how could I stay away? We were so happy together for that short, sweet time. I could not leave him to d..die alone. And so I went back to my Angel. I lay with him on his bed, my arms around him as he breathed his last. I am so glad I was with him. I told him then that I was sure we were to have a child. The expression on his dear, dear face was so very beautiful at my words. He whispered that he was the most blessed man in the world, and then he died. My darling Erik died with my name on his lips, M'sieur, and I kissed those lips as his last breath issued from them."

She smiles lovingly down at Erik. "Our child - it is a son, of that I am certain - will inherit your gift of music, my darling. He will bring so much pleasure to the world with the talent you have bestowed upon him. I will name him for you, his father - André."

She sways a little and I tighten my hold on her arm.

"Will you not sit down and rest for a little while, Mademoiselle Christine? The delicacy of your condition ...?"

"Thank you, yes. But M'sieur le Daroga, you may address me as Madame."

"As you wish, Mademoiselle. I understand."

"No ... no. Truly, I am now Madame von Weber. I am his true wife. We were married, you see."

I gasp. Married! My face lights up with such a joyous beam of delight that she laughs. We sit on the comfortable couch in Erik's drawing room and she tells me of this wonderful development.

"When I awoke after the time of our first beautiful union, Erik was sitting on the bed beside me. He handed me the most exquisite bouquet of roses. Roses of every colour, whose perfume filled the air around us. He had slipped out very early to purchase them for me at the flower market. When I had buried my face in them time and time again, laughing and crying at the same time for his dear thoughtfulness, he gently put them to one side. Then he drew me out of the bed and gathered me in his arms. We embraced and I told him that I loved him so much. He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of my robe, then took my hands in his and said, 'Christine, my Angel, I love you more than life itself. Will you marry me?'"

"Oh, M'sieur le Daroga, you can imagine how happy I was! I flung my arms around his neck and told him that I wanted to be his wife more than anything in this world. Later, I took Erik to see the priest of the little church where I worship. Father Dominic is a very kind, benevolent man, a true man of God. We were with him for three hours, where we discussed many things, especially he and Erik. My Angel spoke of you often, M'sieur. He wished so much that you could have been with us as our witness and at his side. The priest told us that our love was a joy to behold, and agreed to marry us that very night!"

Christine smiles, her eyes misty. "We were married at midnight, M'sieur le Daroga. Father Dominic brought his trusted secretary and his housekeeper to be our witnesses. I became Madame von Weber and vowed to love and cherish my adored Erik for as long as we both shall live. Ah, M'sieur, if only we could have had more time to share ... but God was good in letting me have my beloved husband for that precious time together."

She opens her reticule and draws forth a folded piece of paper. As she hands it to me, I see the golden wedding band on her finger. I open the paper to see that it is indeed a marriage certificate, recording the nuptials between Mademoiselle Christine Anetha Daaé and Monsieur André Lluc von Weber.

"Erik told you of his family history, Christine?" I asked, giving the certificate back to her.

"Yes, M'sieur. He told me everything of his past life. Of his childhood, hidden away from those of his aristocratic family who might have sought his committal to an institution in order not to sully the family name. He told me that his great-grandfather had been an Austrian Count - one Johannes von Weber. Herr von Weber had travelled to France as a young man and settled there, after his marriage to a French girl whom his family considered unworthy. Thereafter, his descendants remained in France."

"The great-grandfather had lost his inheritance when he married, and so when Erik was born, there was not a great deal of money in the family. His own father was a master mason who tragically died shortly before Erik's birth. Because of my Angel's deformity, his mother thought it best to move to a small and rather isolated village in the French countryside, where the little boy could at least have a peaceful childhood, away from prying eyes. His mother made him wear a mask if there were people around so that the child Erik would not suffer the jeers and taunts of ignorant folk. You know Erik's story, do you not, M'sieur?"

"Yes, child. He told me how he was kidnapped by a gang of brutal gypsies and thereafter lived as a caged freak until he managed to escape. He had a dreadful existence during those years - we cannot begin to imagine how dreadful. And even after gaining his freedom, his life was difficult enough. He told me how he took the name of Erik - no more, no less - in order to protect his family. I am so glad that I met him; he became my dearest friend and brother."

I wipe moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand. Christine smiles tremulously in agreement.

"He will live in my heart forever. I will cherish always the time we had together."

"As I will also." I agreed fervently. "And now, child, what will you do? All that Erik had is yours. I will see that his possessions are sent to you. There was also a good deal of money, and precious gems, honestly come by from his work in the past. I would also like to help you in any way that I can, if you will allow me to do so."

Christine nods her thanks. "You are very good. I would so much appreciate your help, M'sieur. One thing - I will certainly not marry Raoul, you know. Not now. Not ever. Even though he could give me everything that money can buy. I do not want his wealth, and the Comte de Chagny will at least be pleased with my decision! He did not approve of Raoul's impetuosity in becoming engaged to me."

She looks at her wedding ring and gently twists it on her finger.

"I was at fault also. I played too much upon our childhood friendship, thinking that my fondness for the young boy was love for the grown man. I was flattered by his charm and dashing good looks, and my head was turned by his declarations of love. But there! I was a young and foolish girl and did not recognise that we were only playing at love. I did not know what love is until I realised how much I loved Erik."

Her wide blue gaze is once more directed at me. "M'sieur, I have decided to go to London. I will bring up my son with the guidance of my beloved Angel of Music - from his starry opera house in Heaven!"

She laughs through her tears, and I smile fondly and say that Erik would have approved of her decision.

"Yes, as my teacher his approval meant everything to me. Now he is the father of my child and the memory of his love is all I need to guide and guard me through life. And one day, we shall be together again. Until then, well, I am no longer a silly little girl. I am a woman and I am strong because of my Angel's love."

"I am sure of it, my dear. And bless your sweet, good heart for loving my Erik, for giving him such true happiness. I cannot tell you how glad I am that he was not alone at his end. I have said - he was my dearest friend and brother. I loved him, too. I shall miss him with every day that passes."

She reaches up and kisses my cheek. I tell her that I will escort her to the Rotunda entrance, where I will call a cab to take her home, and that I will return tonight to carry out Erik's last instructions. We look once more upon that macabre, ravaged but beloved visage, and we whisper our goodbyes.

Christine tucks his mask safely into her fur muff and smiles at me as we leave the Phantom's domain together.

I help Christine into a cab and tell her that I will call upon her the following day. She acknowledges with a wave of her hand and the horse-drawn vehicle pulls away. She has also promised to keep in touch when she moves from Paris.

I cross the road and head for the Avenue de l'Opéra. Turning back, I look at the magnificent building that Erik loved so much. I think of his home, far below the Opéra, which is now his tomb. I will ask Christine's kindly Father Dominic to return later with Darius and myself, where we will give my friend a Christian burial far underneath the Opéra, and no-one else will ever know.

The Phantom of the Opéra! Perhaps he will truly haunt the building now. I think of his time there as the Opéra Ghost and I chuckle to myself at his brazenly mocking escapades.

My gaze travels up to the roof. A weak sun has penetrated the grey clouds. Suddenly, my heart leaps and turns a somersault my breast. There is a figure up there on the statue of Apollo.

No, it cannot be!

My imagination is playing tricks. I blink several times and shake my head a little before I look again. This time, a hand is raised in recognition. Next, an impudent kiss is blown in my direction! The cloak blows in the breeze. The hat is lifted off and waved several times before being put back at a rakish tilt on that sleek head.

Oh Erik, my ghostly friend, my dear Phantom! Your mortal remains may lie underneath your beloved Opéra, but as long as that great house stands, you will be there, your very essence, your soul undimmed. Your indomitable, invincible spirit and your mighty heart will live on forever.

Erik, you taught me everything and more about life. I was so proud to have you as my friend. My dearest companion, I - your Cyrano - salute you!