Opérâ Ghost

And so it was that I put the next stage of my plan into action.

I arranged a liaison with the widow Giry in box 5 on the grande tier. It was out of hours, and the auditorium was in darkness, save for a few lamps flickering. There was no one around at this hour, even so I ensured I remained hidden behind the velvet curtain that hung down along the front of the box.

I sat patiently awaiting Madam Giry and turned down the flame in my lantern. I soaked in the silence of the theatre. Places like this have a palpable air of expectant waiting. The excitement of a performance... My musings were interrupted by Madam Giry, quietly entering the box.

She hesitated as she carefully closed the door, and then she turned and scanned the shadows of the boxes interior. I was dressed from head to foot in black, and it became at once obvious that she could not see me.

"Monsieur?" She hissed quietly.

"Bonjour, Madame," I replied quietly, and I saw her jump slightly. I turned up the light on my lantern slightly. "You came."

"As you instructed Monsieur," She said and stepped a little closer. "Was it you?" She asked.

"Was what me?" I replied, knowing full well she was referring to my notes to Carlotta, Debienne, and Poligny.

"The notes...All the theatre is talking about them." She said.

"Ah!...those," I replied, "Yes, they were mine."

She looked at me, and suspicion flickered in her dark brown eyes. "I have served you faithfully for many years, Monsieur. Why would you risk exposing yourself...and me?"

"Do not panic," I retorted in a dismissive tone. "Our managers will never bother trying to uncover the mystery." I stood up and approached her. She stepped back as she saw me reach inside my cloak. "Madame, surely you do not think I would do you harm?" I said in a wounded tone as I produced a number of envelopes from a pocket within the folds of my cloak. "Be so kind as to deliver these."

She took the envelopes from me and nodded. "As you wish, Monsieur," She said and slowly backed towards the door.

It seems that my missive to la Carlotta caused something of a stir. I merely warned to be ill and do not sing. The diva seemed to take quite a dislike to my gentle note.

She marched herself to the Opera managers office and actually accused them of sending it. Poor old Debienne and Poligny were already trying to fathom notes I had sent to them. They were quite unprepared for typhoon Carlotta to rip through their salon.

Its no wonder tropical storms are named after women, I daresay the offices of the Academie Nationale de Musique have ever bore witness to such a tirade. I found the whole thing quite delicious as I listened in from behind the walls.

The problem I now encounter is that my plan appears to have had quite the opposite effect than the outcome I had hoped for. Carlotta is more determined than ever to continue her run at the Opérâ and the managers tore up my notes and said they were "poppycock!".

Well, if that is the game they want to play, I am afraid that they may well have bitten off far more than they can chew....and judging by Calotta's girth I should think that is rather a substantial amount....

But I must know I’m acquainted with your habits and I know you do not eat much or go outside much. It would seem you might suffer from nutritional deficiency which could impact your work and well being. If this is false how do you get the nutrients you need to stay healthy?

I have never truly had much interest in food. I confess that probably makes one somewhat of an oddity amongst the French as we are renowned for our gastronomy.

Many years ago on my travels, one found oneself in Tibet at a monastery. The monks taught me how to make a very nutritious porridge that they took before entering long periods of meditation. I find this concoction to adequately satisfy me for many days at a time.

It would be unwise of anyone to assume that I hated la Carlotta. If I were to be brutally honest I rather admire her in my own fashion. She had accomplished much in her career and had managed to be the star of the Paris Opera for fifteen seasons, which is no mean feat...however....

Ah!...that word, however....somehow whatever one says before that word, no matter how complimentary it may be, suddenly loses its lustre....however, she had to go.

I am a gentleman, and the idea of harming a woman is abhorrent to me, so I need to think of a way to remove Carlotta from the scene without actually causing any physical damage to her. I knew, of course, that, like all theatrical types, the diva was monumentally superstitious, and that my dear readers is exactly the weapon I will use.

A cryptic letter should be enough to begin her downfall. I shall deliver it myself under the cover of darkness to her flat in the Rue Auber. I shall use red ink as it always makes people nervous, and as an extra flair, I shall use black edged paper, the type one uses to send a sympathy letter when someone has died. I shall seal the envelope with red sealing wax and use my special stamp O.G.

How absolutely delicious. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when her maid brings her the morning post with her breakfast in bed!

Several weeks had gone by since my run in with the Persian on the Rue de Rivoli. Through discreet enquiries via my agent, the widow Giry, I had learned that the former daroga of Mezanderan now resided in somewhat modest rooms above a hatters on the very same Rue de Rivoli. He lived quietly and respectably on an imperial pension with his servant Darius. Nadir attended prayers at the home of a devout Muslim businessman on the Rue Sebastian. Other than this it seemed he did very little, except to my horror, attend the Opérâ every month.

How on earth had I missed him? He hardly blended into the background in his astrakhan hat. I must be utterly blind to have missed him about the building. This shook me to the very core and I instructed Madame Giry to monitor his movements. The last thing I needed was him upsetting the proverbial apple cart so to speak, especially as my plans were ripening to perfection with Mademoiselle Daaé.

Christine was proving to be a truly gifted student and her voice was beyond that which I had imagined. It was a testament to my genius that I could craft this quiet country mouse into a singer that would truly turn the heads of the social elite of Paris. My triumph would mock their over fed, self indulgent satisfaction. As they applauded and adored Christine they would indeed be applauding me, the creature shunned to live like a mountebank in the sewers of the city. It was so ironic that it appealed to me immensely.

My encounter with Nadir Khan had shaken me badly. To run into this figure from my past was both unexpected and alarming. The daroga had the most annoying way of worming his way passed my defences and being able to make me feel ashamed of my more nefarious personality traits. He was just so...honourable. Curse him for unsettling me in such a way.

What was perhaps as equally unsettling is that I had been so absorbed by Christine that I had blundered into Nadir in the street. I was becoming obsessed with the girl and I knew it. I had always had a personality given over to rather obsessive behaviour although I prefer to think of it as a side effect of my unadulterated genius, but it did result in somewhat blinkered thinking at times.

I needed to ensure that my defences were in order. I have no doubt that after our brief meeting, the daroga will have pondered where I was residing these days. It is unlikely that his mind will have even thought that my home was beneath the streets of Paris, but nonetheless I would have to be far more circumspect about my comings and goings. There were few in the city who had not heard of the legend of the Phantom of the Opera and I had carefully crafted the superstition for many years for my own amusement and financial gain. It had my name written all over it and it wouldn't take Nadir long to put the pieces of the puzzle together if he ever came snooping about the theatre.

The Daroga of Mezanderan!...What in blood and thunder was he doing here in Paris? When last we had crossed paths I was escaping from the Shah of Persia to save my skin. The Daroga had aided me in my escape which I had assumed had cost him his life and yet here he was on the Rue de Rivoli before my very eyes.

"Daroga?...What are you doing here?" I exclaimed in shock. Over the darogas shoulder I saw Christine disappear from view into a shop. I did not want the daroga poking his nose into my affairs so I decided that today I would not draw attention to my interest in her.

The daroga straightened his hat and glared at me. "So, Erik" He said, "Why are you in such a hurry this morning?" Once a policeman always a policeman.

"I might ask you the same thing" I retorted, "Can a gentleman not stroll about his home city taking in the air?"

He narrowed his jade green eyes, "Any gentleman may do so Erik, yet I have never known you to be a lover of simply taking a stroll without reason...You always were so purposeful"

"Well I have a purpose" I replied, "I am going into this shop if you must know." I gestured to the storefront next to us. The daroga looked and raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed?" He said.

I turned and realised we were stood outside a ladies lingerie shop...Damn it!!!...Damn and blast!!! "Yes,...for my wife...a gift!" I responded.

"Your wife eh?" Replied the daroga, "What joy is this. Married at last?"

How stupid can I be sometimes? This situation was becoming a disaster. I knew what he was like with his suspicious policeman's brain ticking away. I knew he would be at once suspicious of anything I did...He knew me too well.

"Well it has been nice to see you Nadir however duty calls...Best get back to the old ball and chain and all that" I said in a dismissive tone and turned on my heel.

"I would very much like to call on you at some point, Erik", The daroga said, "After all we have so much to catch up on and I should love to meet your wife too and pay my respects."

"No!" I said rather too quickly, "She is of a very delicate constitution and visitors exhaust her so." I saw the suspicion suddenly flicker behind his eyes but the daroga said nothing and simply smiled and bowed.

"Another time perhaps?" He said sternly, "Good day monsieur"

The weeks passed quickly and under my expert tuition, Christine's voice flourished. We would meet in her dressing room each morning at 6 O'clock. The theatre was virtually deserted at that hour and there was little or no chance of us being overhead.

Each morning, Christine made her way to the theatre from the flat she shared with her benefactress Mme Valerius, the rather eccentric widow of professor Valerius, a friend of Christine's father. I ensured the side door of the theatre on the Rue Scribe was unlocked and Claude the doorkeeper was always asleep at his post thanks to a sleeping cordial in his coffee.

She would enter the theatre and make her way to the dressing room where I would be waiting, hidden behind the large mirror. I had been very strict with myself at first ensuring that my interest in Christine was purely about her voice, but over time I found myself following her home or to church or the park.

She would go to confession early every Saturday evening and Mass on Sunday morning with Mme Valerius. She was a devout and chaste girl, kind and virtuous. A perfect example of a good Catholic...unlike myself who spent my days cursing God and wishing ill on humanity. I had dabbled in faith as a small boy and our local priest was the man to whom I owed my name. He had been eager to see that my mother fed and clothed me and had forbade her to just let me die as an infant even though she despised me. I was such a disappointment to her especially after my father's death before I was born.

Fr Erik Mansart had encouraged my love of music and the arts but we parted ways after poor Sasha...Never mind...Where was I?...It doesn't help to drag up the past. I had taken to following Christine and today was no different. She left the theatre on the Rue Scribe and made her way in the direction of the Rue Marie Claire. I kept well behind and pulled the hood of my cloak down to hide my carefully masked face.