Tempest

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when its alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.

William Shakespeare: Sonnet 116.

I lay the envelope squarely in the middle of the ink-stained blotter, ensuring it can be clearly observed. Casting a scornful eye over the large oak desk, I note that there doesn't seem to be much there with regard to paperwork pertaining to the business of running this Opéra House, but there certainly reposes upon it a silver tray containing two used glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Since Lefèvre retired and left my precious Opéra in the care of these two buffoons, my affairs do not run as smoothly as they should and now I find myself having to work doubly hard in overlooking the affairs of this house. However, I shall give them one more chance with this latest letter and hope for their sakes that my efforts are successful, else I shall be … shall we say … somewhat cross.

I have worded this missive in the most polite and civil of terms, yet stressing that I expect the immediate remittance of my unpaid salary. I have been most patient in allowing three days to pass since my last reminder, but I will not allow this blatant disregard to continue! If my request is not met within the next twenty-four hours, then the Opéra Ghost will express his displeasure in the strongest possible terms.

Thus it is that I have warned the so-dear gentlemen that if this letter is ignored, then it shall be at their peril, or tomorrow night's performance will bear the mark of the Phantom! I signed the document with my usual mocking, disdainful flourish as "O.G" in the blood-red ink that is the Ghost's personal seal.

Now I must return to my lair for it grows late. I turn to a particular panel in the wall and press a tiny feature in the wooden engravings to release a concealed catch, thus enabling the panel to slide silently to one side. I step through the panel into one of my many secret passages throughout the building and make my way home to my underground lair.

On the way back, I simply cannot resist giving the dreadful Carlotta woman a fright, as I have done on a number of occasions, for her voice is an affront to my nerves and she annoys me to the point of exasperation. I rap sharply on her dressing room door, then slip along the passage to hide in one of the many dimly-lit recesses. The Opera's leading soprano opens the door with her own fair hand, grumbling loudly at the interruption, and from my shadowy nook I use my gift of ventriloquism, throwing my voice so that it appears as if the Phantom is nearby, speaking in sepruchal tones. His ghostly voice, taunting and sardonic, informs her that she is no more than a tedious, bad-tempered old hag with a voice equalled only by that of the raucous screech of a demented crow.

From my hiding place, I see her hand go to her painted mouth as she emits a piercing shriek which almost raises the roof, followed by the sort of language one does not normally expect from a lady. My sarcasm is followed by a softly evil chuckle or two which echo eerily in her ear but I do not know how I manage to hold back my genuine laughter as she slams the door so hard that flakes of plaster fall off the wall. I continue on my way in a mood of mischievous satisfaction.

I am not without humour, despite my cadaverous countenance. Indeed, my highly developed sense of the ridiculous has seen me through many a black moment of utter despair. If I had not found it within me to laugh, then I surely would have cried myself into an early grave.

It is a delicious fact that since the aforementioned buffoons commenced their tenure here as managers, there have been many times when I have been doubled up with laughter at their asinine efforts to control their employees, and more to the point to coax and cajole the highly temperamental artistes out of their ill-humours. Then again, I have been reduced to fits of wild giggles at sight of a simpering Carlotta in the guise of the young and virginal heroine of some truly dreadful opera.

Amused at the success of my little prank, I decide that next time I pass her door, Madame la Diva shall see me in all my unmasked glory. I shall drop to one knee before her in leering homage, whereby she will receive the full benefit of my smile. Yes, a grinning death's head should finish her off, perhaps even send her away for ever. If she could be persuaded to leave my Opéra, never to return, we might have the good fortune to employ a prima donna who can actually sing!

I chortle to myself as I run down the stairs and passages that lead to my lair. Jumping into the boat I pole it merrily across the still waters of the lake, whistling and humming snatches of melody. By this time tomorrow, my salary should be in my pocket, and then I shall make some purchases. A pair of leather slippers, some new gloves and perhaps a diamond pin for my cravat. I do like to command the elegancies of life; therefore, I shall in all probability treat myself to a bottle of Monsieur Worth's new Eau de Cologne pour Gentilhommes, along with a further supply of his excellent soaps.

I enter my lair, tossing my hat aside as I close the door behind me. Music is flowing through me as I remove my long black cloak before seating myself at the organ on the comfortable leather-covered stool. I ease back my shoulders into an upright, yet relaxed stance, and place my expensively shod feet at the pedals. I flex my fingers and lay them lovingly on the glossy white keys. I toss a few chords to the ceiling, lower the bass controls. Melodies ring out from beneath my fingers; they swoop and dip and soar, then are hushed into the merest whisper of sound. I take my left hand over the right, improvising layer upon layer, and glory in the magnificence of sound.

Yes, that's good, quite wonderful in fact - write it all down as it forms in your head - quickly now!

I pick up my quill pen and record the notes, and then I conduct the newly-written music with my left hand, my pen poised over the thick paper in order to continue writing, arranging, amending. I sit back to view all that I have done, and as I stare at the bars of music swiftly filling the page, the notes begin to dance and prance before my eyes. Suddenly, and for no reason, my inspired mood and high spirits evaporate as rapidly as a mist over the lake. I slump forward against the organ and dash the paper to one side, uncaring now about my composition.

Damned opera - who will ever hear it, anyway? This Don Juan of mine will die with me, likewise unknown and unloved.

Pointless to continue, really. Nobody would want to meet and fête this composer, except perhaps those of unsound mind, salivating in their desire to see the great musician with the face from Hades. Or of course, the hundreds of my fellow men and women who would come to jeer and ridicule the freak of nature posing as a human being, daring to think that IT could ever be accepted as a master of music. A monster of music, belike.

Play us your great concerto, M'sieur Grotesque! Conduct your idiot's symphony, Beast, and let Beauty sing your devil's dirge!

Morons! Craven, doltish fools! They know nothing of me - nothing, and yet they condemn me to live in darkness and solitude. How I loathe and despise them all. I hate them for their ignorance and blind stupidity far more than they abhor the sight of my grievously twisted features.

But there, I must not lose my temper thus for they are not worth my spit. Slowly I exhale a pent-up breath as I endeavour to regain the usual cool, contemptuous hauteur with which I regard mankind, for in truth, they are as insects beneath my feet

I rise swiftly from the organ stool, almost knocking it over in my haste. I pace the room, curling my hands around various ornaments, not knowing whether to caress them or throw them across the floor. This odd restlessness grows with each step I take across my rare Persian carpet, one of the lavish gifts pressed upon me by the Shah during my sojourn in his country many years ago. My mind is a jumbled mess, so unlike the usual clear, swift and intelligent comprehension, which is ever mine.

I fling myself into an armchair, legs spread-eagled inelegantly, one hand over my eyes. I count slowly to ten in an effort to rid my brain of its turbulence.

I remove my mask as a bead of sweat breaks out upon my brow, normally so cool to the touch. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and hope that I am not sickening for a fever. My blood is running hot, but then I shiver. An expletive rips from my distorted lips as I heave myself from the chair and make for the small storage room where I keep my glass phials of herbal medicaments, along with a few bottles of good cognac and my racks of wine. I choose a phial, remove the top and put a few drops of the bitter-tasting liquid upon my tongue. Replacing the little bottle neatly back in its niche, I head for the pantry in order to make some of my favourite lemon tea.

The tea is hot and refreshing, and after two cups I feel a little better. The herbal concoction has cleared my head somewhat, but I cannot rid myself of my unsettled spirit. I find it impossible to sit still and know it is no use returning to the organ; my music has deserted me completely and it is pointless to try to regain my muse. Music is ever in my mind and in my soul, but tonight it seems that even my treasured art has abandoned me, leaving me despondent and on edge.

I drift aimlessly around the room, finally stopping in front of my beautiful Louis Philippe cabinet. I reach down to open a drawer from which I extract and unwrap a piece of half-sculpted beechwood. I run my hands over it, enjoying the velvety smoothness of the wood under my fingers. I seat myself once more and set to work with my fine carving tools.

I am fashioning the figure of a young girl, and in a moment of whimsy, decide to carve her some wings. She will be my angel of music. When she is completed, I will polish her until she gleams, and she will stand upon my grand piano, or perhaps beside the organ, where she will inspire me to even greater musical heights. Perhaps she will help me get the accursed Don Juan Triumphant to something near culmination.

I chip away at the face of this little wooden figure, creating a visage in wood of the pure and innocent looks of a young virgin. I work on the sculpture for no more than ten minutes when I feel my concentration begin to slip and that inexplicable confusion again takes me into its strange grip.

What the hell's wrong with you, fool? Are you finally losing your mind ?

Exasperated, I curse myself roundly and beat my forehead with a clenched fist, but I know it would be foolish to continue working on the figure or I will ruin it with a careless slip of the knife. I place the sculpture in its cloth wrap and put it back in the drawer.

By now, my mind is once more in turmoil and I cannot think straight. I pace the room in an effort to calm my thoughts. Perhaps the restive, jittery feeling comes about because there is a storm brewing over the city. Even this far under the ground, I feel the electricity in the atmosphere. Pausing in my demented circuits of the room I tilt my head slightly as though listening for I do not know quite what, when suddenly I experience the oddest feeling of being pulled by an invisible hand around my wrist.

I head straight for the door. I must get out of the house for a while, must get some air or I will suffocate under the blanketing confusion that is clogging my brain. Rather than hide in the shadows of the streets, I resolve to go to the roof where the air will be fresher and cooler so high above the ground.

The feeling of urgency overwhelms me, the unseen hand is pulling me hither.

Go now - go. Leave here and go quickly - go to the roof.

Glancing at the clock, I see that it is a little after ten o'clock. I place the mask over my grisly features, fling the cloak around my shoulders and cram on my hat. I lock the door behind me and stride down to the edge of the lake, where I untether the boat from its mooring ring with clumsy fingers. I step in, breathing in the dank air, and swiftly send the craft across the still waters of the lake.

Reaching the far edge of the lake, I hastily tie up the boat and douse the lantern to the merest flicker of light. My head has started to ache slightly, and I am suddenly aware of my heartbeat.

Dieu, don't let me be ill, I beg you.

I commence the long ascent up the passages and the hundreds of stairs from the fifth cellar to the roof of the Opéra. Onwards and upwards I climb, past the auditorium where tonight's performance of Robert le Diable is heading for its finale.

Eventually I reach the dome of this great edifice. There are no ill-effects from my exertions, but as I open the door onto the roof I feel great relief as I climb out under the covering of the night sky. I stand for a moment and inhale long and deeply of the cool bracing air, then wend my way along the narrow channels towards the statue of Apollo.

In the near distance, I hear the rumble of thunder as the storm clouds form menacingly above the city, hiding the stars. I look down from my perch on the mighty foot of Apollo and gaze out at the fairyland of lights over Paris, spreading out as far as my eyes can see. A strong breeze whips my cloak around me, and I revel in the clean sharpness of it upon my face, the absolute freedom of my solitude atop my kingdom.

The streets are busy with teeming life, despite the approaching storm. I can hear faintly the odd raised voice, and laughter carried high on the night air; the clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbles as carriages gather around the Opéra, ready to collect their elite occupants and carry them safely home.

The first fork of lightning rips through the sullen sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I marvel at the great forces of nature, the strength and power of each thunderous crash of noise, the dynamic brilliance of the lightning flashes. What a fantastic symphony of light and sound it is!

The dark clouds gather and hang heavily above me. They look so grim and foreboding that I shiver but then, as so often in the past, the philosopher Nizami's words come to mind to comfort and inspire me.

In the hour of adversity, be not without hope.
For crystal rains fall from black clouds.

For me, it is the truth. The clouds are dark and glowering, and have oft filled my soul as such, but I know without doubt that the pure, clean waters will fall from these clouds and cleanse away my black despair as unfailingly as those same waters cleanse and refresh the earth. The words play through my head, and a sudden, mystical presentiment of destiny lifts my spirits and touches my heart.

A song begins to take shape in my head as I gaze at the city below. The melody is haunting, evocative night music, intensely powerful in part, then floating, feather-soft whispers of compellingly lovely sound. The sweet, plaintive notes fill my mind with poignant yearning for that which surely lies forever beyond my grasp.

My song - my Music of the Night - conveys enchantment, tenderness and the power of love. It is beautiful, but not yet perfect. There must be a vision in my mind's eye of charm and grace to inspire its completion. I think again of the delicately sculpted lines of my little wooden angel, which is also nearing perfection, and ponder on these subjects as I turn my head and look in all directions from my elevated viewpoint. Next moment I draw in a sharp, incredulous breath - for suddenly I catch a glimpse of something white moving just below me, to my left.

Instantly, I am on guard, every hackle raised. I make my way by stealth down from the statue to edge silently along the channel towards the object. Now I can see a slight, hooded figure just ahead of me, and I observe that the face is raised to the sky, the eyes closed as if in prayer. Approaching carefully, I am astounded to discover it is a young girl, wearing a dark cloak over a white gown.

My God, she is just a child! What the hell is she doing up here?

Concerned, for I have no wish to shock her into danger, I make a small sound by way of a slight cough in order to give warning of my presence, my arm poised in readiness to catch her if she should lose her footing in panic.

Her eyes snap open, and she takes a frightened step backwards at the sight of my dark silhouette. I hear her involuntary gasp of alarm and immediately speak reassuringly to her in a calm, gentle voice.

"Hush child, be at ease. I will not harm you."

She says nothing, but continues to gaze at me like a startled fawn, her eyes wide and dark in the pale face beneath the hood of her cloak.

"May I ask what you are doing up here - especially in weather such as this? It is quite dangerous if you do not know your way across this roof. There are no handrails, nothing on which to hold for security of passage. Please, will you not take my hand and let me lead you to safety?"

The girl expels a held breath and seems to relax at the sound of my voice, although she cannot help but gaze with slight trepidation at my masked features. Then a loud clap of thunder overhead makes her jump and she pulls her cloak closer around her.

I hold out an authoritative hand, and to my secret astonishment she places her own in mine without a moment's hesitation.

I look down at her exquisite little face, and then at her small gloved hand nestling in my own.

The storm that is beginning to rage in the skies is nothing to the tempest that tears full-tilt through my heart, crushing it into a thousand tiny pieces. So great is the emotion that engulfs me that I almost stop breathing.

This beautiful young girl standing before me has, with that single trustingly innocent, sweet gesture, captured my soul and taken it within her keeping for all eternity.

Now I know the reason for my strange and inexplicable disquiet; why I could not settle; why my cool contentment was replaced by a surging heat of blood to my brain. It was not caused by the storm in the heavens, but by the storm in my heart. The compelling force within my body and soul which had driven me from my lair to the top of my world.

Here on this roof I have at last found my destiny, the fulfilment of my dream, the reason for my being on this earth.

The seemingly endless silence between us is almost tangible and somehow intensely poignant as I fight to regain control of my senses; in reality, of course, it is but a few short moments. She is the first to speak.

"I thank you for your concern, M'sieur", she says, her voice soft and shy, "but I come to the roof often to be near the sky. I know my way quite well now."

Her voice has a music all its own; dulcet, clear, pitched slightly lower than others of her generation, those of her contemporaries whose high, girlish chatter and shrieking giggles around the Opéra can unwittingly annoy this ageing recluse.

I can discern in her voice the nuance of an attractive accent. It is not that of a native Frenchwoman, or indeed a Parisienne. It is however so slight as to be unnoticeable, but my hearing is acutely attuned, as are all my senses.

I gather my scattered wits and try to ignore the fact that my heart is pounding against my ribs. I pass my tongue quickly over my dry lips, fingering the cravat away from my pulsating throat.

"Then obviously you have been with the Opéra for some little while, Mademoiselle?"

I manage to utter the words in a voice which proves a thin travesty of its normally rich, dark timbre.

Pull yourself together, drivelling fool!

I castigate myself silently, then clear my throat with a nervous little growl as she replies to my question.

"Yes M'sieur. I have been with the company since February."

It is now October – meaning eight months or more. Why have I not seen her before? I am enlightened as she continues, a soft little laugh escaping her as the first drops of rain touch her face.

"I am a member of the chorus, M'sieur - a very minor member at the moment."

Again she laughs a little, but I detect a note of wistfulness in her voice.

"It is my dream to become a great singer, you see. My father worked so hard to send me to the Conservatoire. I want to succeed for him, as well as for myself."

Her head droops and her voice falls to a whisper with her next words.

"Papa is dead now, and I miss him terribly. I... I come up here to be near him, in... in Heaven. He was so dear to me, and I long for his loving guidance."

She sounds so lost and helpless that my heart is filled with a great rush of tenderness. I long to take her in my arms and comfort her. If only I could… but I dare not! I resolve then and there to help her in any way I can, providing she will accept me of course - as her mentor, friend or guardian, howsoever she should choose.

I cannot replace her father - no, certainly I cannot - although the wry thought flashes through my mind that I am old enough to be so. If she will accept my guidance in his stead, I will do my utmost to help her realise her dreams.

I glance upwards as another flash of lightning lights up the sky, and the rain begins to fall heavily. In a moment we will both be utterly drenched. Tightening my grasp on her hand I urge her forward, and she obediently follows my lead along the roof to shelter from the storm. I pull her quickly inside the door and close it behind us just in time, for the rain starts to lash down in torrents.

Inside, I retrieve my lantern and pull back the slide so that there is just enough light for us to see our way across the ramps. We make no sound as we tread across and down the metal catwalks and stairways, for she has the light and graceful step of a ballet dancer, and I have ever been catlike in my stride.

We continue on down until we are at ground level. We hear the sounds of the sceneshifters at work, their raucous voices calling to each other, and old Buquet trying to make himself heard over the noise. The cast are in their respective dressing-rooms, no doubt hurrying their dressers to get them ready to go home, or on to a bistro for some supper.

I make my way to a dimly lit corridor and lead my young companion along it until we reach a dressing-room at the far end, one that I know is unused at present. I note with gratified wonder that she still comes willingly where my hand guides her.

I open the door of the room and usher her in, closing it quietly behind us. I pull back the slide of my lantern until it is on full beam, whereupon I set it down upon a dressing table. Taking some small tapers from my pocket, I proceed to light the gaslamps affixed to the walls. The room is brightly lit now and shows a fine layer of dust everywhere, but it is fully furnished with all that a member of the company could require.

I know full well that one wall is almost completely taken up by a huge mirror, for I constructed it as yet another of my many exits to my underground world. I catch a glimpse of my becloaked figure in the glass, the white mask in shadow beneath my black fedora. I turn hastily from my reflection to face the young girl who has come with me so trustingly to this unfrequented room.

She has pushed the hood away from her head and is looking somewhat shyly at me, her eyes wide and slightly dazzled by the bright light after emerging from the darkness. I see those eyes are the blue of a summer sky, fringed with thick, dark lashes and set beneath finely arched brows. Her skin is like ivory although her cheeks are flushed a rosy pink as she gazes up at me. Her face is exquisite, fine-boned and delicate, surrounded by the most wonderfully lush waterfall of dark hair that cascades down her back, the curls on her forehead dampened by the rain.

She is indeed the loveliest creature I have ever seen in my life and I, who have always worshipped beauty, am utterly spellbound. I find that my hitherto stone-cold heart has melted with love, my spirit aflame with adoration.

But there is more, so much more to her than her lovely appearance. Her beauty is not just skin-deep, for I can see directly into her soul through those clear eyes, and I feel secure in the belief that she will never knowingly hurt me or cause me pain.

Hers is a compassionate heart, a loving heart, which once given is forever. Ah, if only it could be for me.... but already she trusts me, and for the present I am content with that. Perhaps in time, she will look beyond the mask and see into my soul. She will look into my eyes, and in their dark depths she will discover the strength of the love I bear her.

For she is my love. I love her, oh God, how I love her!

With sudden clarity I think of the little wooden carving – that which under my skilful fingers is taking the exquisite form of a wingèd angel. Could I not therefore take this beautiful child under my benevolent guidance and help her, teach her, work with her to create in her the great singer she yearns to be? I can teach her everything there is to know about music, singing, the health and control of the voice … and the sublime art that is opera.

Could I not therefore bring forth in her my living, breathing, and - dare I think - loving Angel of Music?

She is speaking, and I catch myself from falling deeper into my own senses to hear her shy question.

"Are you going to a masked ball, M'sieur?" she asks, a querying little smile in those limpid blue eyes. "You look very fine indeed. So distinguished, like a... an English milord."

My heart cracks at her disarmingly innocent remark. If she knew the true reason why I wear this mask ... if she actually looked upon the gruesome face that lies beneath it, then she would surely die from shock at the hideous sight which met her eyes. Her heart would stop beating as sheer, stark horror coursed through her fragile body. I would catch her up in my arms, for sure, but what I would hold so close and dear to me would be her small, lifeless body.

Ah! mon Dieu, what shall I do? Is she too young to understand, pure and innocent as she is? She is a child of the sun and the clear light of day, never one such as I, a macabre creature of the grim shadows of the night.

I take a long, deep breath and answer her ingenuous question in calm, unruffled tones.

"No child, I am not dressed for a ball. This is my habitual attire. It pleases me to know that you admire my appearance, for the cloak is a little vanity of mine. It gives me a certain ... dignity, I think."

"Oh yes, M'sieur", she breathes, "I have never seen such an elegant gentleman. Oh! and I can see there are rhinestones scattered across the cloak - how wonderfully they catch the light! I think you look very handsome - so tall and graceful."

I almost have to choke back a sob at this observation.

Handsome - oh God! If I were simply and wholesomely plain I would be so happy! But my face is not plain nor even ill-favoured. It is repulsive … ghastly. My face … oh, my vile and loathsome face will never make me anything but the ugliest creature on this earth. But oh! this sweet child - she is adorable to say such things. I love her more with every moment that passes.

My demeanour is grave as I thank her for her kind comments.

"Thank you, my dear," I say quietly. "However … I must tell you that I … you see, it is not quite as you imagine."

I indicate the mask with a brief touch.

"This … is something I must wear at all times. None must see what lies behind the mask. It is too terrible. You see, child, the truth is that I … was unfortunately born with a ... a deformed face. It is ... I am … quite hideously ugly. Some have even likened me to a ... a living corpse."

I hear her sharp intake of breath, and turn my head away. My heart is thumping with misery, my throat tight with distress.

"I'm sorry, child. I should not have told you. My misfortune is not your concern. Now I have frightened you, and I would not upset you for the world."

"Do not say so, dear, dear M'sieur!"

Her hand involuntarily comes up to hover near my elbow. Her eyes are wide with sympathy - something I do not remember ever having before experienced. I feel a sudden mist of tears on my eyes, and it is hard to speak.

"Oh M'sieur, I am so sorry... I thought only of balls and masquerades, and you ..." Her lovely eyes fill with tears as she whispers … "please forgive my silly tongue. I did not mean to ... to hurt you."

Always somewhat crooked, my answering smile goes completely awry.

"Dear child, you are unutterably sweet, but don't waste your tears on me. I am not worthy of them. You see, I am not ... a good person. I do not live by the rules, as decent people should. I spend my time here demanding money by extortion; I enjoy making those people I most dislike quake and quiver in fright, to see them scared witless by my outlandish threats to their lives and liberty."

I take a deep breath, then ask in a low voice … "you have heard of the Opéra Ghost, yes? Well, I ... am he."

Oh good grief, now I sound like some third-rate actor in a laughably stupid melodrama. Fool! Oh, you damned silly fool!

A little gasp escapes her and my heart sinks, but then I discover with thankful relief that it is not an indication of horror, as I had thought, for her eyes are wide and sparkling with anticipation, her demeanour eagerly expectant. I await her next words with a little more encouragement.

"Then ... then you are ... can you really be ... le Fantôme de l'Opéra, M'sieur?", the breathless little voice ends on an upward note of thrilled interrogation.

I sweep her a graceful bow, and murmur assent.

"He stands before you, Mademoiselle."

"Oh!" she claps her hands excitedly, "M'sieur le Fantôme, I have so long wished I could meet you!".

"You have?" I ask, somewhat startled.

"Yes, yes! The Phantom is so romantic! I have imagined many, many times his strange and mystical house that lies under the ground - beneath our very feet. I have longed to see him, for I love this place - his Opéra House. It is such a magnificent building; so vastly splendid, and yet it has a welcoming heart. A heart ... and a soul ... he is its soul."

As I listen to her sweet voice extolling the Phantom’s domain and watch her lovely little face alight with animation, the tiny flicker of hope which had been lit within me when she had not run away in terror at the description of my face burns higher and brighter

"I have heard tales, silly tales which are the exaggeration of the corps de ballet, and poor old Joseph Buquet is forever claiming that he has seen a horrid spectre – a flaming head with no body – imagine! I do not believe any of them."

Then her eyes flash blue fire, and she stamps her little foot as she exclaims, "… and as for Madame Carlotta - why, she is the silliest of them all. She screams, and rants, and makes the most dreadful noise."

My gentle girl has passion and spirit within her - brava!!

"And every time that her voice fails, or she forgets her lines, she blames the Opéra Ghost! Sometimes, M'sieur, I wish the Ghost would frighten her so much that she would go away! Is that wicked of me? I try to be pleasant to Madame, but she is truly hateful to me, and to my friends in the chorus."

"My little one, I believe it to be the case that our squawking diva will be gone from here very soon, for the managers grow tired of her tantrums. The Phantom has exciting plans for a new young prima donna, she who will sing like an angel!"

A thrilled little gurgle of laughter escapes her. She clasps her hands beneath her chin and dreams of her future as an opera singer. Then she laughs again, throwing out her arms as she exclaims in her lilting voice.

"This is the Phantom's domain, his kingdom, and I feel him everywhere I go within this wondrous building. I have heard tell of his beautiful voice, and oh, how I long to hear him sing!"

Then somewhat shyly yet with an engaging assurance, she comes towards me and looks full into my eyes. Her azure gaze glows with a light from deep within.

"Your mask is an enchanted mask. I look at you and my heart is full. Being with you, I feel safe, protected. Your voice fills my spirit with glorious music. Will you sing for me, M'sieur le Fantôme? Will you teach me to sing? Will you be my Angel of Music?"

I stare dazedly at her lovely features as the artless questions tumble from her lips and again, my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. For long moments I have difficulty in speaking, but then somehow manage to stammer an answer.

"Do you really wish these things, little one? Do you indeed wish me to be your Angel of Music, to teach you all that I know of opera?"

"Oh, M'sieur, I should be so honoured, so privileged and proud to be your pupil."

In her charming eagerness, she has rested her little hands on my arms, and then tightens her hold around my elbows. My blood is singing through my veins; my senses are thrilling to her touch; never have I felt so vibrantly aware of being alive. Yet I feel tears sting the back of my eyes, and to hide the fact that I am so near to breaking down before her, I sweep my hat from my head and bow deeply in deference before her, at the same time uttering a jesting remark.

"Then, my little Persephone, M'sieur Underworld invites you to be his guest! Will you be so gracious as to accompany me to my underground world of night and shadows? I would indeed be pleased to serve you tea, coffee, wine... you shall but name your choice and I will set it before you! And would perhaps my goddess enjoy partaking of some fine, fresh pastries?"

I laugh as she claps her hands with glee. In return I hear her own enchanting laughter, a peal of bell-like sound which makes me feel I could reach for the stars, pluck them from the heavens and scatter them in her glorious hair.

"Dear M'sieur Angel-Phantom, I would love some tea, and the offer of delicious cakes is very appealing to one who is exceedingly hungry. Let us go at once!"

"By all means, my famished young sprite! We will go through my magic mirror, and all will be revealed! Now, there is just one thing more I must know before we are to start our lessons".

I smile at her, and see my smile reflected in her blue eyes.

"What is that, my Angel of Music?" she dimples at me.

"Why, child, your name! I do not know your name, although I am sure it is as charming as you are."

My smile deepens; her hold on my arms tightens convulsively as she reads the look of love in my eyes.

She holds my gaze, and a sweet rose-colour suffuses her pretty cheeks.

"I am a Swedish girl, M'sieur, and my name is Christine Daaé". With her answer the reason is established for that slight accent. She moves closer, saying shyly … "May I know the name of my own dearest Angel?"

I pull her gently into my arms, and cradle her head against my shoulder. I hear her soft sigh of contentment as she nestles in my embrace. I bring my lips down to her cheek, and whisper against her mouth.

"I am Erik."

All my life, for as far back as I can remember, I have followed a dream.

A dream that has kept me sane throughout my life, from the time when, in my childish understanding of why my mother could not love me, I ran away from her so that she could live a normal life by no longer feeling shame at my presence.

A dream that kept my spirit intact when I was abducted by cruel gypsies, and the terrible years of captivity which followed when those callous brutes kept me in a cage and exhibited me as a freak of nature.

A dream that accompanied me through the ensuing freedom, gained by the death at my hands of the barbarian who had treated me so cruelly. To this day I bear the marks of his lash across my back, and there are still faint weals around my wrists and ankles – marks of the iron cuffs in which he had me constantly locked. I killed him as he tried to assault me in the most bestial way a man could inflict upon a child. In desperate defence of my life, I had with all my strength flung the iron ball attached to my wrist-chains directly at his head. As he fell, I had snatched up his knife and driven it as deep as it would sink into his fat, dirty white neck. Trembling and shivering with shock and sick terror, I had managed to wrest the keys from his pocket to unlock my chains, and escape to freedom.

A dream that had strengthened day by day deep within my soul during the years of my young manhood and my restless wanderings across continents - years that were fraught with horror at the unrelenting inhumanity shown towards me. More kindness had been shown to a mad dog with slavering jaws than ever I could have expected.

A dream that has seen me through my long, lonely years of solitude and despair, wretchedness and endless weeping and raving against my dark fate.

A dream of beauty, and of love.

My dream is now my beautiful reality.

Sometimes it is hard for me to comprehend the joy that is mine, but then I only have to look at my beloved wife, my Christine, to know that it is all true.

The pure crystal rains of her gentle spirit fell upon the black clouds of my dark soul and freed me to face the light.

She knows my face as intimately as she knows the rest of my body. She has loved me from the moment we came together up on the roof of the Opéra House, when my voice gave her such blessed reassurance, security and the greatest joy her wounded heart had held since her father’s death; her belief and trust in me were absolute from the beginning. It was the same for her as it was for me. The meeting and fusing of our two hearts there on the roof of the Opéra high over the Parisian streets on that memorable, storm-tossed night.

And when the moment came for her to look upon my unmasked face for the first time, there was no scream of terror, no flinching or fainting away. She had taken my face between her two warm and loving little hands and told me she had loved me from the moment she had been born, that she had searched for me ever since and realised her destiny was close at hand only when she had stepped inside the Opéra House and sensed my presence all around her.

My face was a part of me, and she loved me as I was, and as I always will be. Then she had kissed me full on the lips and held me close as I trembled in her arms, my emotions overwhelming me as I wept into her soft hair.

The feared and dreaded Opéra Ghost is no more.

He has served his purpose as my revenge upon the despised human race. He was my retaliation, the reflection of my deep contempt for my fellow men, and I had taken much grim pleasure in the crass stupidity of those who crossed the path of the Opéra Ghost. As for the money I had extracted from the management – heavens, I'd no need of it, but it had been all too easy to do so. They had been foolish enough to provide it in their quaking dread of the Ghost's threats, and so I had taken it!

The Opéra Ghost will no longer haunt the Opéra House in his obsession for retribution. He has been laid to rest forever. Now, I am my Angel's gallant and romantic Phantom who makes all her dreams come true. My Angel insists that the legendary name of the Phantom of the Opéra will be enduring in the annals of the Paris Opéra. Well, should that be so, then she will accompany me into immortality as my beloved Angel of Music.

My Angel of Music is now the star of the Paris Opéra; her name is on everyone's lips and they flock to hear her, to listen to her angelically lovely soprano voice and to marvel at her glowing, incandescent beauty.

But when she has taken her bows and, with sweet acceptance, the homage of her worshipping audience, she leaves the stage with her arms full of flowers and flies to her dressing-room, where she knows I am waiting behind the magic mirror.

How well I remember the first time I appeared to her in the mirror! She had stood absolutely spellbound as she listened to my song, watching my reflection in the glass with such wonder and delight in her great blue eyes. Since then she has asked me always to come to her in this fashion. My little one is caught up in the enchantment of the mirror, and it seems I have the power to utterly beguile her in this way.

Now, as I watch from behind the glass I see her come into the room. Her eyes are sparkling like sapphires, her face is flushed and beautiful as she hurriedly locks the door behind her and runs over to where I am waiting. In her haste she drops some of her flowers so that there is a rainbow-coloured trail in her wake. She whispers my name, and I appear before her in the mirror, singing softly and enticingly as she watches and listens, entranced.

My song echoes into the night as I cause the mirror to swing aside and stand before her with my arms open wide; she runs into my embrace as I wing my cloak around her.

I carry her from the boat into the house where I lay flowers at her feet and kiss her fingers. She pulls my head down to hers and kisses my closed lids, my cheeks, her lips caress my jawline and my neck, and then my own eager mouth. With racing heart, I sweep her up in my arms and carry her to the bedroom.

Our passion is a tempest, whirling, spinning and sweeping us higher and higher to the very pinnacle of ecstasy as we love, and love again. And then there is a deep, warm calm as we sleep contented in each other's arms.

Soon I shall take my Christine away from the gloomy halls of my underground lair to a house of quiet distinction, befitting well the lady who will become its graceful chatelaine. Together we will furnish our house anew and I shall give my dark, cumbersome furniture to the Sisters of Mercy. I long to see my wife in rooms which are light and airy, the décor and furnishings combining charm and comfort with the pastel colours of dawn on the walls, and the blanched wood that reflects her Swedish upbringing.

We will settle with delightful ease into our new life, my wife and I. Christine will continue to sing as long as she wishes to do so, but it seems she is happy simply to be with me - and I love her more than my life.

As for me, I go gladly about the business of living a normal life as a normal man, and I walk proud and tall with my wife upon my arm. People look at me because of my height and my catlike elegance, and although the mask is as it ever was, covering most of my face, there is no longer the fear or the horror in their glances. Now they nod and smile and wish us good day, and it is all because of Christine. There is an aura of joy about her, a serene contentment glowing in her lovely eyes as she clasps her small hands lovingly around my arm and looks up at me with such love etched across her beautiful face. They cannot help but smile at our obvious happiness, and I know I am truly the most blessed man on this Earth.

Now in our underground domain I waken slowly and am instantly aware of the sleeping angel at my side. I look upon the lovely face of my wife and I remember, as I do constantly, how fate - and assuredly the hand of God - had sent me from my lair to the roof of the Opéra on that stormy night. The memory of her trusting little hand in mine is etched forever in my mind and heart.

She stirs in her sleep; gently, I finger the dark tendrils of hair away from her forehead. She opens her eyes and her smile illuminates their blue depths. She moves closer in my embrace, aligning her slender, beautiful body to that of my own, her hands an insistent pressure on my back. She raises her face for my kiss and once more we are in the heavenly rhythm of love.

Long after, we lie close in our embrace; happiness and contentment fill my soul. My Christine, my adored wife, my own Angel of Music, is here with me. Forever and a day.

I am loved.

END

© Jeanette Birt 2002