Do not reprint or copy
without permission of the author
Erik haunted the shadows of the
L’Opéra Populaire as he gazed
down from box five at the splendor of the stage beneath. All of the
surrounding
boxes were dressed in
red velvet and trimmed with antique gold drapes and various statues.
Three
years had passed since the last masked ball, when Christine Daae left
with
Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny. Many painful memories flooded his mind as
he
thought of how he had loved her, lived for her, maybe he would have
died for
her, only to taste young diva’s pity, not her love. It felt
as if he had been
hit by a train. All feelings for her died,
as did his lust for life. After all, an
Opera Ghost should have no emotions. He
merely existed, that’s all.
The shadowy figure of the Opera Ghost swept through the
corridors silently and majestically, surveying his kingdom. Tonight he
wore his
white half-mask, so he’d have to take extra care that light
didn’t reflect on
it to give him away. The sound of his twirling
cloak, floated through the empty halls as he again vowed he would never
love
any woman the way he had Christine. Once
more he circled the theatre to take one last look at the stage before
retreating to his lair. Morbid memories
haunted him as he visualized himself and Christine when the two of them
performed their duet in Don Juan Triumphant just prior to the
humiliating
unmaking before a packed audience.
Tonight the annual Masquerade Ball would be held, just like
the one years ago. So, like a specter, Erik
merged silently and unseen into the ballroom. A low chatter of voices
filled
the air. He only wanted one peek, just
to see what went on at the moment. After
all, he had to make sure he approved. Nothing amiss. At a glance, all
seemed normal. The young ballerinas, or ballet rats as some called
them, chatted in various corners of the vast room. Madame Giry gave
quiet
directions to a
handful in one corner and La Carlotta, along with some other singers
listened
tentatively to managers Gil André and Richard Firmin.
As the Opera Ghost started to leave, something caught his
eye and surprised him. He gasped when he saw the most beautiful young
woman
he’d ever seen; her wavy hair twisted to one side like a
sheet of long, coffee
colored silk that spilt down her shoulders, with a blood red rose
nestled in
the ribbon. The bodice of her dress showed deep scarlet, with black
Spanish
style skirts. The black mask she wore bothered him greatly. He longed
to see
her face, but the blasted mask covered it. Suddenly she slipped away,
unnoticed
by her peers. In spite of promising himself not to be attracted by a
woman
again, he couldn't ignore the urge to follow her.
********************
Alonia Varella quietly glided into her dark dressing room. As she gazed
dreamily at
the moon through the
window she removed her mask and placed it on the table. The coolness
surrounded
her womanly form, which seemed completely exhausted from the lively
activity
going on in the ballroom. Unlike most young women of her age, she
really didn’t
care for balls; hated them on the most part, for they appeared noisy,
crowded,
and irrational. Honestly she couldn’t
understand why her father made her go to the blasted things. The quiet
solitude
that she found in the library or in the woods with her black Andalusia,
Amadeus she rather preferred. She had always loved animals, especially
horses
and dogs. Alonia, the eldest of eight children, belonged to Senior
Diego de Varella, and
Signora Giselle Bouveia de Varella. What a mix; she being half Spanish
and half
French!
Upon moving to the mirror on the far side of the wall, she studied
her reflection. In some way she looked like her mother, only her skin
seemed
paler, and her eyes, unlike her mother’s stale blue ones,
were a dark,
mysterious blue, like the night sky, with dove gray circles tracing the
outside
of the wondrous blue. Her long, silky hair appeared as though someone
had spilt
black coffee on her head. Her face had a few freckles, which her mother
despised, but she quite admired them, because they gave her an
adorable,
innocent look. As much as she hated to admit, her plump, rose-coloured
lips
almost never smiled in public. Shyness made her prefer being the quiet
wallflower. Occasionally, she would give a sweet smile to those who
greeted
her, to be polite. She didn’t really like to open up to
others, and so kept to
herself.
On the other hand, she could be very bold in contradicting
someone or resisting a thought or idea. A very passionate disposition
she had
inherited from her father, but she also acted very sweet, and
compassionate
towards others. Although only fifteen, her figure looked full-formed,
her
ball gown accenting her curves. If only she had a drawing pad and some
charcoal. Besides reading, music, and being with animals, drawing
counted as
another of her favourite pastimes. If she had any paper, and something
to write
with, she would draw just about anything. She left the mirror, and sat
upon a
chair by a lighted candle, and began to read the book she had brought
with her.
**************************
Erik quietly stole into the room, taking the greatest care not to make
his
existence known. The shadows enveloped him as he watched the young girl
standing before the mirror. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight,
with the
candlelight flickering next to her. Quietly, she left the mirror, and
sat down to read her book.
How pretty she looked, sitting there peacefully, humming softly to
herself. The
melodious tune sounded vaguely familiar to him. It teased his memory,
as he
tried to remember where he heard it before. It sounded like the Flower
Duet in
Delibes, “Lakme.” It transfixed him. He decided to
get closer, but while doing
so, he stepped on a creaking floorboard, startling the young woman,
causing her
to jump up and wheel around in search of her intruder. Erik tried to
hide, but he tripped, falling flat on his
behind. She had caught him. Her eyes went wide, and her face paled.
Softly she
asked, “Who are you?”
Actually, Alonia panicked. Who was this man in the room with
her? She didn’t know what he would do. She did the first
thing that popped into
her head. “Who are you?” she asked softly.
The masked man began to stammer, “Uh…
I…um… I’m obviously
not going to get out of this. My name is Erik.” he replied.
“Well, Monsieur Erik,
I should like to know your business in this room, scaring the living
daylights
out of me.”
He stood up, straightened his clothes and walked over to
her, the tension in his body increasing. “Mademoiselle,
forgive me for
startling you, but I noticed that you left the room, and I came to see
if you
were well.” Hearing this, she stopped a moment.
“This man noticed me?
I have never met a man that would do this,
except…” She pondered this for a moment,
and shook the
thought away. Instead, she decided to observe his appearance. He was
very tall.
Six foot two to be exact. He towered over her by about seven inches. He
had
splendidly dark brown hair that grew from the widow’s peak at
the top centre of
his forehead. Dark arches for eyebrows accented the icy blue eyes that
sent a
chilling sensation down her spine, which was not in the least
unpleasant. From
what she could see, he was probably one of the most attractive men she
had ever
met. She didn’t question the mask on the right side of his
face, because after
all, they were at a masquerade. His nose was straight, and his jaw line
was
firm, forming out to a strong cleft chin.
“Monsieur,” she said, “You are forgiven.
I appreciate your
concern for me, and am obliged to inform you that I am quite well,
thank you.”
His beautifully formed mouth curled up in a smile, bearing
an untamed flash of white. “Shall I escort you back to the
ballroom, then
mademoiselle?”
He asked, holding out his hand for her.
“Yes, thank you.” She
replied, accepting his hand.
********************************
Erik had asked if he could take Alonia back to the ballroom. He
decided; why
not take a chance in society once again? He felt grateful she politely
accepted
his offer. Accepting his hand, she allowed him to escort her back to
the
ballroom. For some reason, he had no fear of being out of the
shadows. Being in public generally had
no appeal to him, but tonight, being with this lovely creature, seemed
to make
all the difference. “I’m not sure if I have had the
honour of knowing your name, mademoiselle,” he
simply stated.
“Oh, forgive me. My name is Alonia
Varella.”
“Well then, Mlle[1]
Varella,
it has been a pleasure to be acquainted with you.” He took
her to where she
said her father stood.
“Father,” she said
sweetly.
The man to whom she spoke turned around, and replied, “Ah,
yes my dear girl. What is it?” The old fellow, a tall,
attractive man in his mid
fifties asked, and his looks and his accent verified he hailed from
Spain.
“I would like you to meet a new acquaintance of mine. May I
introduce Monsieur Erik…?"
“Garnier,” Erik quickly lied.
“Yes, Monsieur Erik Garnier. Monsieur Garnier, this is my
father, Señior Don Diego Varella.” Her father eyed
him for a moment, and
finally bowed and said, “A pleasure to meet you,
monsieur.” At that moment, a
waltz began to play.
Erik returned his bow and said, “Likewise. Señior,
I was wondering if I could have the
honour of dancing with your most beautiful daughter.”
Señior Varella
replied, “Yes you may, that is, if she wishes.
He looked at his daughter as she answered, “Yes, monsieur, I
would like that very much.” She took his hand, and he
gracefully swept her onto
the dance floor. .”
The old man watched the two carefully as they moved to the music. He
was very
particular with whom his daughter
had as a friend. Even though he had
plans for her to wed another, his heart seemed to go out to this man.
His mind
flooded with questions, for he’d
never seen this him before or had he? Something about the way he spoke,
carried
himself, twirled his cape, and
the way he looked at his daughter made him take notice. But sensed
something
foreboding as well. What it could this mean?
Erik decided to start the conversation. “So tell me, do you
know what your father was talking to the managers about?”
“Yes. He’s trying to get me into the
L’Opéra Populaire as a singer,” she
replied disgustedly. “He says I’m a marvelous
singer, but I’m not that good.”
“Really?” he answered with concern. “Do
you take interest in music?”
“Yes, I do. I play violin and piano, and also my pathetic
excuse for singing.
What about you?” Alonia asked coolly. Bursting
to know absolutely everything about him, she acted nonchalant so as not
to show
it.
“I sing as well and compose. And I’ve mastered the
piano, organ, violin, cello,
viola, clarinet, and flute as well.”
The astonished look she had as he spoke amused him, but she
quickly shook it off and asked, “You compose?”
“Yes.”
“Have I heard any of your music?”
“You may have. How long have you been here?”
“Three years. My father took me to an opera for my twelfth
birthday.”
“What opera was it?”
“Don Juan Triumphant. Throughout my childhood, father has
told me many stories
about the legendary Spaniard. It’s one of my favourite
legends, and when father
heard that they were making a production of it in the Opera he took me
to see
it. I loved it, except, that it stopped right in the middle of a
particularly marvelous
song, because the young diva removed the lead tenor’s mask,
and everyone
started screaming for some reason. Then the two singers disappeared,
and the
chandelier crashed on to the stage. All I can remember from that was my
father
picking me up and running out the door. I woke up in my room two days
afterward. This is the first time I have been to the Opera house since
then.”
Erik paled at this, but glad nothing had happened to her. What a small
world! Who
would have known she attended the opera
that ill-fated night, the one which haunted him even now?
“Is something troubling you, monsieur?”
Alonia’s sweet voice brought him back to
reality.
“No, no, not at all. I wrote Don Juan Triumphant.”
“You did? It was very well done. If I heard all of it,
I’m sure it would be my
favourite opera,” she puzzled a moment. He wrote the opera?
Rumor had it that the
resident Opera Ghost composed
it; the same known as the Phantom of the Opera. Could this be the
legendary
spectre? He didn’t look like a ghost. Except for icy cold
hands, he felt pretty
solid and had an enchanting voice.
Erik smiled at hearing her compliments. “Well, if you do sing
at the L’Opéra
Populaire, you may get a chance to see the rest of it.
“I’ll need some serious voice lessons for
that,” she replied dully.
Erik chuckled. “I think I can help you there.” One
more chance for love. That’s
all he wanted. Perhaps this time would
be different.
**********************************