Unmasked Read online

  He turned back towards me and drew near. Nervously, I clutched my gown to my bosom and took a step back. Towering over me, he stopped at arm’s length and held out a crystal goblet. Now that he was so near, I had hoped to see his face. Alas for me, I stood in shadow, and now so did he.

  “Drink this,” he said, that strange voice echoing in this vast chamber. With trembling fingers, I took the proffered glass.

  He remained there, that frightening white mask glowing even in this dark corner, looking down upon me. I brought the goblet to my lips and drank. The brandy burned as it went down, but it filled me with a suffused warmth that at once dispelled the preternatural chill and calmed my frayed nerves.

  I returned the glass and thanked him, but he merely turned and walked toward the tray.

  “Monsieur, if you please, what am I doing here?”

  Though he was turned away, I could see him tense. “That is the very question I should like to put to you, mademoiselle.”

  I blushed hotly, thankful he could not see me.

  “Draw near the light.” His commanding tone brooked no refusal, so I obeyed. “Tell me your name.”

  I did so. The mask, frozen in a perpetual scowl, covered almost his entire face, exposing only his mouth and chin.

  “Tell me, Mademoiselle de Sauvoigny, who sent you to spy upon me? And I warn you, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  I stared at the glowering face with growing panic. “No one, monsieur. I was lost. One moment I was in the theatre, and the next I was…here.”

  “You do not convince me, mademoiselle, for you are plainly leaving out a great deal. What brought you down here?”

  There was much I did not want to tell this man, particularly the information he sought. I was resolved not to confess the frightful ridiculing I underwent in the opera pit.

  “There is nothing to tell, monsieur. I was taking a stroll about the opera house, and before I knew it, I was in an unfamiliar wing. I could not find my way back, and so…”

  His voice boomed across the room like the roar of a lion. “Do not toy with me, young woman, or you shall find yourself lost forever!”

  I shook as his anger pulsed through me, and for the second time that day, I began to cry.

  Then the most extraordinary thing happened. He flew to my side and bent his head until his mask was but inches away from my face. Staring keenly into my eyes, he murmured with a hint of discovery, “Pain…not fear in your eyes…but pain…”

  “Please, monsieur, it is nothing,” I said as I wiped my face, uncomfortable he could read me so. My pain and my humiliation had always been unwelcome companions, but familiar ones. Even so, they were an intimate part of me, as much as my breasts or my thighs, and I never let others see them.

  “Share it with me,” he said.

  It was what I had longed for as long as I could remember – someone with whom to commiserate. A troubled spirit is a bane to anyone, but infinitely more so to one who must endure it alone. Now that I had an audience, however, I still could not unburden myself. Humiliation is an insidious torture. It is, by its nature, a solitary punishment. To share the pain is to divulge its source, and that is unthinkable.

  “I cannot.”

  “There is no need to hide your feelings here, mademoiselle. This underground kingdom is both a monument to pain and a sanctuary from it. I assure you, whatever troubles you will not plague you here.”

  At that moment, the stinging humiliation, the loneliness, and yes, the pain – all vanished. In that horrible, magical instant, a current of understanding passed between us. I felt as if some great chasm had been spanned, as another human soul reached out to touch mine.

  “It should be fairly obvious, monsieur,” I said with my well-practiced, self-deprecating laugh. “I am fat as a pig. I roll like an ale casket. I cause earthquakes when I walk to market…” Even as I spoke these words, taunts I had heard a million times, they rang hollow to me, and I realized that this was not at all what made me sad. In the candor of the moment, I felt foolish hiding underneath the epithets that others hurled at me. “And I find that I do not like people very much.”

  In the silence between us, the wind groaned through the catacombs, sounding for all the world like a suffering animal.

  “What have they done to you?” The tenderness in his voice reached out to me.

  I whispered my response.

  “They made me into a monster.”

  The Phantom arched slowly, as if someone had plunged a dagger into his back. His ragged breath fell from his lips. I hung my head, afraid to show my face. The confession of my ugliness stripped me of what little pride I had remaining, and I suddenly felt excruciatingly naked. I had given something away that I could never take back.

  His hand reached under my chin and tilted my face upwards. The sensation of his warm fingertips electrified me; no man had ever touched me, let alone in so familiar a fashion. He shook his head.

  “With each passing age, I become more amazed with humanity, and yet more horrified by humans. How callous they have become to demonize one so undeserving. You have said it, mademoiselle: monsters are not born, but made. By the scorn of others for faults unworthy of contempt. Pity those who look upon you with hatred.”

  Pity? I had heard many things about the nefarious Phantom of the Opera, but pity did not characterize any of them. Wasn’t this the person who murdered dozens of people over a possessive infatuation with a beautiful opera singer? Isn’t this the man who punished with death anyone who dared ridicule or even countermand him? And yet I keenly felt the absence of his fingertips on my face.

  “How can I have pity, monsieur, when they take such pleasure in hurting me?”

  He handed me a white kerchief from inside his sleeve, and I dutifully wiped my tears. “Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks. They take pleasure only in distracting others from noticing their own hideousness. Take pity, for their ugliness goes far deeper than the one for which they fault you.”

  As I considered the truth of his words, I marveled at the man who was speaking them. I would never have ascribed this resigned demeanor and benevolent wisdom to the Phantom of the Opera. Even though it had been some time since any acts of savagery had been reported – ten years, in fact, since I had learned about the infamous incident of the opera house chandelier, which he sent crashing down upon the audience, shredding dozens in a bloody rage – this man’s reputation remained a menacing one. And yet, if he were capable of doing the things described in those stories, why would he have saved my life?

  “I have prepared a bath for you in the alcove, through that doorway. I will find something dry for you to wear. We will take dinner in an hour.”

  Bath. Dinner. After the events I had endured, my mind found it difficult to wrap itself around such ordinary words. Numbly, I let him lead me to the alcove. Its door was thick and locked from the inside. Thankful now for the darkness, I undressed and stepped into the rose-scented bath, and eagerly washed the noxious water out of my hair.

  The Phantom had laid out a dress of rich green velvet, which fit me well enough though there were no mirrors to judge my appearance. When I was ready, he led me into a small salon with two chairs and an ornate mahogany dining table. Although the ancient stone walls were still heavy with the stench of the lagoon, the furnishings bespoke taste and a flair for elegant design.

  I wondered where all the food had come from, but I did not ask. There were platters filled with many different kinds of dishes, and my mouth watered at the aromas. He seated me at one end of the table and himself at the other. I found to my consternation that he had an irritating habit of choosing the darkest corners, so now I was surrounded by light, but again he was hidden from view.

  “There are no servants here, so you must serve yourself.”

  I looked around the table. There were salvers of shrimp in cream sauce, roast duck, vegetables in cheese, venison stew, and several other dishes that I could not identify but which smelled heavenly. All were fo
ods my Grand-mère had forbidden me, warning that heavy foods made heavy people. Now that I was dressed so beautifully, I was ashamed of what he would think of me as I took dinner. Despite my gnawing hunger, I was too embarrassed to take any.

  “Is the food not to your liking?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, monsieur. It is very well. But…I don’t seem to be very hungry.” I said this with an apologetic smile on my lips.

  My words fell uselessly before him. He drove his fist onto the table. “I told you before and I will not say it again – never lie to me again or you will suffer the sting of my wrath!”

  A streak of fear shot through me, but his message was clear. I was loath to tell him the truth, but I stammered it out. “Forgive me, monsieur. It humiliates me to eat in front of others, for people always regard me with a mixture of curiosity and disgust when I do.”

  Never had I spoken this to anyone. The honesty of this moment was too much for me, and fresh tears threatened to spill from my eyes. He looked away, and I wondered what he thought of me now.

  “Forgive me, I did not consider it.”

  His words stabbed at me, not just because I embarrassed him, but because his apology meant that he agreed with me. I felt a tear run down my cheek.

  “Your appearance does not matter here, chérie. There is no need for shame in these depths. Darkness hides what the eye beholds.” He reached over, and with the bowl of a spoon, extinguished the candles around me.

  We ate our meal in silence. I found the darkness very comforting, though I could not see what I was eating. Still, the Phantom could not see me, and right now, that was all that mattered.

  Her

  When we had finished our meal, he led me back to the outer room. He seated me on a comfortable chair near the fireplace, and then poured us some port wine.

  “What is your name, monsieur?” I asked him as he took the wide settee across from me. His breach of conduct at dinner had empowered me to ask him anything.

  He took several moments to respond.

  “Erik.”

  He spoke his name as if it were new to him, and I surmised it was probably the first occasion he had mouthed this word in a long, long time.

  "Erik," I repeated, liking the way it felt on my tongue. "How is it you came to live here?"

  "It is a long story, chérie. One filled with much pain and anguish."

  "Share it with me," I said, more out of pity than curiosity. "Please."

  He studied my expression. He was ever vigilant for a hint of dishonest or patronizing sentiments, I think, so I quickly learned to speak from the heart.

  "I was commissioned to help build this opera house about twenty years ago. I was but twenty-one at the time, and my patron desired to establish the most beautiful, most elegant theatre in the world."

  "You...created this magnificent building?" I asked, a childish wonder betrayed in my voice.

  He nodded slowly, patiently, though evidently pleased by my compliment. "I designed the palace of the Shah of Persia, you see, and Monsieur Garnier knew I had a talent for creating splendor. What he didn't know was that I had also designed an intricate maze of hidden rooms and secret tunnels through which the Shah could maneuver at will, and escape from his many enemies."

  "You apparently did the same for the opera.”

  "It was an ideal location for my own secret palace. Only I know the way around it. Though I admit I was a fool to leave unlocked that panel through which you came and found me."

  The one with the cobwebs, I thought. "Don't you ever leave this dungeon?"

  He chuckled, and it gave me much pleasure to see him do so. "I suppose you are right: my palace is nothing more than a 'dungeon,' after all.” He stared deeply into the glittering etching in the crystal goblet. "I used to go out and explore the city. Late at night, when the moon was tired, I would walk the streets of Paris and take care of my business affairs."

  "You do not go out anymore?"

  "No. Not since..."

  I waited patiently for an answer, but none was forthcoming. He was lost in memories. Deep within the holes in the mask, his eyes closed tightly, shutting out the painful remembrance of whatever made him seal himself up in this tomb of his own creation.

  "Not since her." The word barely made it out of his lips before the great Phantom of the Opera crumpled like an autumn leaf.

  At that moment, I forgot all the frightened, warning voices in my head. Instinct, compassion, or perhaps something more profound compelled me to go to him. I sat beside him on the settee and wrapped my arms around his trembling shoulders.

  At first, he recoiled at my touch, unexpected as it was. But then, he embraced me, too, more tightly and more desperately. In that instant, I became aware of a deep and powerful urge to protect this man who trembled in my arms, whose tears were unseen behind his mask. Something maternal sprang up within me, an urge to protect and nurture, a deep instinctual violent coil that grew angry at the threatening, imaginary presence known only as her. Still, there was something else, more private and more disturbing, a vague realization that I held a man in my arms, a feeling that was quite new and very, very pleasant...

  I felt the cold mask upon my cheek. He loosened his embrace and drew back. He looked into my face, and for the first time that night, I could see the features the mask did not hide. Tears still misted his eyes, which were the transparent blue of the sky in summer. His mouth was wide and perfect, and his masculine lip trembled slightly.

  "Why are you being so kind to me?" he asked, incredulous eyes searching mine for an answer.

  I looked into those amazing eyes, now strangely vulnerable and pleading. "Because you let me."

  Of a sudden, his expression changed. He blinked, as if a veil had been lifted and he could see clearly for the first time. Something was being born in him, and he looked at me through eyes that were filled with both wonder and surprise.

  "Thank you," he said, and I have never since heard those words spoken with such heartfelt gratitude.

  My thoughts turned to that woman, the woman he now referred to only as her, and I was infected with a viral curiosity to learn what power she had to wound a man so. I asked him to tell me about her.

  Her name was Christine Daaé, he said, and she was a young singer whose voice and aspect he had found mesmerizing. He became her teacher, training her voice until she was elevated from chorus girl to lead soprano. His mentorship had blossomed into something more intense, but she did not reciprocate his affections. One day, she ripped off his mask, and then recoiled in horror at the sight of his naked face.

  It was difficult for him to speak on this, the feature that drove him to living behind a mask. Though I would hear more of his deformity, he did not speak it.

  After that, she shrank back from him, and sought refuge in the arms of a childhood sweetheart, a vicomte. Despite her betrayals, he harbored a love for her that nothing she did could alter.

  "That is why," he said with a sigh, "I never caused her any harm. I visited my rage on those around her, but never her."

  His puzzling statement brought to mind the rumor I had heard. "Do you mean the chandelier?"

  He nodded. "When I saw her kiss de Chagny, I became enraged that she could give of herself so freely to that pampered fop. And I, who had nurtured her voice until the applause shook the opera foundations, was an object of disgust from whom she cringed." He began to tremble with rage.

  "What did you do?" I asked, an unshakable apprehension gnawing at my belly.

  His voice, customarily deep and full, became so cold and detached that I hardly recognized it. "I...cut the cable that suspended the chandelier. It fell, crashing into the seats below. The sounds of shattering glass seemed to last an eternity. Then the screams came, loud and long. Screams of fear, of anguish, floated up to me like prayers from hell. I heard them, but all of them together could not drown out the screaming in my own head."

  To see him thus, and hear his confession, chilled me to my marrow. What kind of man murders
for love?

  He turned to me, and seeing the expression on my face, grinned jadedly. "I have learned much since those days, chérie. I was unwilling to feel shame at my face, unable to accept the powerlessness of it. Hate, anger…those are empowering emotions. But they can be cruel masters, and when the blaze of the moment is extinguished, you find that they have consumed everything in their wake, even the things you care about. I shall have to live with those anguished cries in my ears for the rest of my life. I have no desire to add any more to my grief.”

  And yet this woman still grieves him. “And what of Christine? Do you love her still?”

  He looked away, and I could sense, rather than see, his discouragement. “Unrequited love is no love at all. One might as well love the cold, stone walls.”

  Legends diminish in grandeur when you get up close, and so, it seems, do monsters. Despite the blackness of his past, I could not see a monster now. This was only a man, consumed by grief for what he has lost and for what he never shall have. Clearly he was at one point a man full of love to give, though no one has ever accepted it of him. This, if nothing else, is the one element he and I had in common.

  Instinctively, I leaned over and placed a soft kiss on the cheek of his mask. The fact that I had done so surprised even me. Perhaps it was the darkness that emboldened me, or perhaps it was his shared confidence. But his desperation to be loved touched something within me. The kiss was mine to give, and I chose to give it to him.

  He blinked at me, amazement swimming in his eyes. His fingertips touched the spot that I had kissed, as if it had been his real cheek that had sensed it.

  I looked into the eyes behind the mask. “There are none so capable of loving as we who are never loved.”

  He tried to respond, but no sound came out. He took my hand in his, and bowing his head, placed a tender kiss upon it. He turned away slowly, and disappeared into the darkness.