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A light dusting of snow had begun to fall across the streets of Paris as the man, known to most of the inhabitants of the Palais Garnier as The Perisan made his way past the grand entrance and dodging the steady stream of carriages now pulling up to the bottom of the steps, and headed in the direction of the Rue Scribe entrance.
He pulled his thick wool cloak about him, and shucked the strap of the cumbersome canvas satchel that hung over his shoulder beneath it. All around him patrons flocked in fancy furs and mufflers, their bright steps ringing on the pavements as they sprang from barouches and landaus, a flash of gloved hand and quick peep of ankle punctuating their movements. The air rang with halloos riding on a current of excited chatter. A few of them cast furtive glances his way, sharing sly whispers behind their hands. He pulled the collar of his cloak up further and pressed on.
They would soon all be thronging in the grand stairway of the Palais, expensive furs hastily discarded at the coat check to reveal the latest fashions, dripping in jewels, fans whirring frantically amongst the hubbub. Watching and being watched - that was the purpose of the thing wasn’t it? He wondered how many of them actually cared for the opera they were there to listen to, beyond the opportunity it afforded to see, be seen and to gossip with the great and good. Some nights he enjoyed it as much as the best of them, that circus of fashion and flesh, but tonight he was in the mood for less egregious company, and where he was going he would most likely need to keep his furs on.
‘The Persian has the evil eye’ - that’s what they said about him. He had heard it many times of course, the ballet girls gasping and tittering, and the stagehands touching whatever piece of iron they could find to ward it off. There were times when he cursed the day he came to this wretched country and missed his home with an ache that went deep into his core. It was especially so at this time of year, when all of Paris was taken up with celebrations for festivities which he felt he had no part in. The irony of the fact that these moods drove him to seek out the company of the very man who caused his exile was not lost on him. Still, if there was any man who understood the sensation of feeling desperately lonely and misunderstood, whilst simultaneously craving and loathing the company of one’s fellow man, it was Erik.
He reached the Rue Scribe entrance and kept walking, stopping instead a grate a short distance beyond and surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, before pulling it open and stepping inside. The air outside had been crisp and chill, but inside it felt dank and cool, and he was immediately grateful for his thick winter clothing. He rustled beneath his cloak, pulling a small brass lamp and an ornate box containing a strike light from the bag concealed there. With deft hands he lit it, sending a dim light bouncing off the mildew stained walls of the passageway. He did not take any pains to conceal his arrival from his friend. Erik would know of his presence by now anyway, he always knew. It was far better to arrive with as much clatter and fanfare as possible, any attempt at stealth might otherwise prompt some of his strange friends more twitchy reactions. Besides which, he had had enough run-ins with Erik’s traps and ‘doorbells’ to know that it would be beyond foolishness to traverse these passages blind.
The descent to the edge of the lake was slow and arduous, and not for the first time the Persian found himself marvelling at the strength and fortitude of the strange man who lived below. While he himself grew stouter and slower with every passing year, Erik, despite his emaciated frame and sickly pallor seemed to retain that strange spider-like grace and energy that he had possessed when they had first known each other in their youth. More than once he felt his foot skid from beneath him on the damp uneven passageway, and he had to fling out an arm to brace himself against the wall. He muttered a string of curses under his breath. He would never understand why the man insisted on holing himself away underground like this. With his skills he could easily have designed himself a dwelling above ground which was just as secretive and solitary as he desired, but he suspected that something in the inconvenience and squalor of this arrangement suited the man’s aesthetic.
At length, he came to the edge of the vast underground lake, and stopped, the sound of his heavy breaths echoing all about him. Before long he heard a rhythmic splashing, and at last a pair of glowing yellow eyes became visible, scowling at him through the gloom.
‘Daroga,’ came the voice, smooth and seductive, but with an air of danger and threat to it. ‘To what do I owe the honour of your presence tonight?
A brief shiver ran across the Persian’s skin. It was one of the cruelest ironies that his strange friends should possess such a beautiful voice. A bird of paradise trapped within a hideous, rusted cage. It had been one of his most potent weapons in their time in Persia. It’s silken tones hypnotising and subduing before the masked assassin made his mark. In another world, or another time that voice, and the brilliant mind that went with it could have achieved great things. Perhaps they already had achieved great things, terrible, but great, and yet nobody now but himself was alive to know it.
‘Good evening Erik,’ he replied, trying to keep his tone bright, cheerful and unthreatening. ‘A social call, nothing more.’
‘Hrmph’ hissed Erik from the gloom, the lamp like eyes squinting suspiciously. ‘So you have come to check up on me, have you Daroga? To ease your conscience and make sure that Erik has not gotten himself into any mischief, I presume?’
‘Come, come now,’ the Persian replied brusquely. ‘May I not pay a simple social call to an old friend during the festive season?’
The splashing ceased, and the boat bumped against the rough stone quayside of the passageway. The Persian raised his lamp, and its dim light revealed to him the strange figure of a man, tall and thin, to the point of looking stretched, leaning almost jauntily on the pole at it’s bow, his head cocked to one side. As always he was impeccably dressed, in full evening attire, with his best opera cloak on, the jeweled shoulders twinkled in the lamplight. His face was covered in a black mask, a thin wisp of silk covering the mouth area. Not for the first time, the Persian wondered whether the man dressed in such a state of formal readiness all year round, or if, despite his frequent protests, he too anticipated and looked forward to these visits in his own way.
‘You know I do not celebrate, Daroga,’ the man said dryly.
Carefully stepping into the boat the Persian pulled his cloak aside, revealing the bag concealed beneath, from which with a quick rummage he pulled the neck of a bottle of spiced cognac.
‘Nor I,’ he said smiling, ‘neither, as you well know, am I supposed to drink. And yet here we both are…’
The masked man inclined his head, the fabric in front of his mouth fluttering briefly as if he had released a silent chuckle, and with a lithe movement and strength that was belied by his wispy frame, he punted the boat away from the quay and back across the lake.
They reached the opposite shore in silence and the masked man sprang out, leaving the Persian to stand wobbily as the boat bobbed in its moorings.
‘Careful there Daroga,’ his companion chuckled. ‘We would not want you to damage your venerable knees, old man.’
‘You are the very picture of consideration, Erik,’ he replied, reluctantly taking the proffered hand and pulling every so slightly harder than required as he stepped out. If he hoped that it would unbalance his slender friend he was sadly disappointed however. Instead he seemed to stick to the slick rock with the dexterity of a spider, immediately dropping his hand as soon as the Persian’s feet made contact with solid ground, and stalking away on long limbs toward the door of his lair.
He threw the door to the house on the lake open with a theatrical flourish, ushering the Persian over the threshold before divesting himself of his own cloak with a dramatic flick. The Persian removed his own wrappings at a more leisurely pace, shivering slightly as the cold air of the room seeped into his clothing.
The sitting room before him was as it always appeared. Fastidiously neat except for a desk in the corner which was piled high with sheaves of paper which always threatened to topple at the slightest movement or breeze and yet somehow never did. A low fire burned in an ornate fireplace, and beside it two well stuffed easy chairs were arranged beside a set chess board. The Persian smiled and strolled toward the fireplace, rubbing his hands in front of it, before idly bending to select two large logs from the basket beside it and throwing them on the fire, stirring it vigorously. The masked man simply settled in one of the chairs with a slow and deliberate movement, watching his every move with a sardonic eye.
‘This room never gets any cheerier Erik,’ he commented. ‘I shall never understand why you chose to lock yourself away in this damp and miserable hole when you could have designed yourself the most comfortable rooms in the whole of the city with your talents.’
‘My dear Daroga,’ Erik replied wearily. ‘We have covered this before, and I have already informed you that this is perfectly adequate for my needs. It is quiet, and private, and,’ he continued with emphasis, ‘Erik likes to be left alone.’
At this the Persian simply smiled and strolled over to the two crystal cut glasses carefully set out on the sideboard. He withdrew the bottle of cognac from his bag, uncorking it and pouring two generous measures, before lifting his own glass and swirling the liquid within it by way of salute.
‘Nobody ought to be alone this season,’ was his simple reply.
‘This season, and every season,’ came the brusque reply. ‘The less time I have to spend entertaining meddlesome boobies like yourself, Daroga, the more I can spend on my great work.’
‘Ah, yes!’ cried the Persian clapping his hands together and settling into his own chair, ‘The Opera! How is it coming along?’
‘It would come along much better without interruption,’ he harrumphed in reply, pushing a pawn across the board with a long, thin finger
The Persian threw him a sidelong glance, but from the way Erik’s hands now twisted together he knew that the man had something praying on his mind. He did not require any encouragement to unburden himself.
‘Did you know that those fools of managers are considering retirement?’ he barked.
The Persian simply inclined his head and continued to consider his own move. He had heard rumours of Debienne and Polongy’s intended departure for some time now, and who could blame them. Managing an Opera House was, of itself, no mean feat, but he suspected that the task was not made any easier by the constant attention and interference of the fabled Opera Ghost.
‘Indeed?’ was his only reply. He lifted his own piece and moved it onto the board deliberately.
‘Indeed!’ cried Erik, leaping to his feet and pacing. ‘It is most inconvenient. It has taken me some years to train him in running my theatre in the proper way, and now I am to be forced to begin the process anew again. No doubt with some bumbling fool with money to burn who cannot tell an overture from an aria!’
He flung himself down again in the armchair, pushing another piece across the board with unnecessary force and the Persian smiled quietly to himself.
‘Perhaps this might be the perfect opportunity for you to adopt a more honest system of dealing with the opera house management?’ he suggested tentatively.
The subject of Erik’s so called arrangement with the opera management had long been a bone of contention between the two of them. It was extortion on the most spectacular level, and the fact that the management had chosen to pay it was testament to both the success of the Palais Garnier, and to Erik’s not inconsiderable talents as a troublemaker. He could not fathom what the man did with the money. Nothing about the appearance of the house on the lake had changed in the years since had been visiting it. The furniture remained the same, as did the structure, and his friend hardly kept a sumptuous table. Indeed the man’s appetites were so small that the Daroga had long since taken to bringing his own refreshments with him during his visits for fear of otherwise going unfed. He was not sure if it made the act more deplorable, or impressive that he seemed to rely very little upon his gains, seemingly only drawing them as a point of principle rather than necessity.
The reaction to this question therefore came as no surprise.
‘I warn you Daroga,’ the masked man growled, ‘do not interfere! Erik’s business must remain Erik’s business, or it will be a good deal to pay for you and them, I tell you! I will not tolerate any meddling.’
The Persian merely inclined his head again, and steepling his fingers, waited for this strange companion to make his next move.
For a time the two men sat in silence, idly moving pieces about the board and sipping at their cognac, until at last, the silence was broken by a loud rumbling from the Persian’s stomach. From across the board the masked man rolled his eyes dramatically, not lifting his gaze from the board.
‘Apologies my friend, if my digestive processes inconvenience you.’ The Persian bent and rummaged in the bag at his feet, pulling out two tightly wrapped and sweet smelling parcels. ‘However, I have taken pains to ensure I supply the remedy. If you would be so kind?’
Erik rose with a fluid motion and took the parcels from his hands, crossing the room in the direction of the kitchen. Despite his studied indifference, the Persian knew that his companion had a sweet tooth, and never turned down the chance to partake of the Halva and Zoolbia that he brought with each visit. A memento of their time together in Persia. It was another part of their strange rituals together. Never acknowledged, and never requested, yet always there.
To his surprise, the masked man came back bearing a tray laden not only with the sweets he had supplied, but also a supply of Macarons, and a rather liberal selection of biscuits and cheeses. The bottom fringe of his mask was removed, revealing his thin lips, set among yellowing skin and stretched across a toothy jaw.
‘You eat too many sweets, Daroga,’ was his only explanation. The Persian simply smiled.
They continued on in silence, until the board was played, and their glasses and plates were empty, and at last, the Persian made to stand.
‘I must thank you for your hospitality again, Erik,’ he said. His companion merely harrumphed in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps one of these days you will see fit to visit me? You are always welcome.’
‘Erik is far too busy for social frivolities.’ He replied brusquely.
Once again, the Persian nodded, and collecting his bag from the floor, rummaged in it once again. From within it he withdrew a series of small figurines, a baby, a crib, a donkey… He placed each one carefully on the mantelpiece, ignoring the growing look of incredulity which radiated from his companion, despite the mask which covered his face. When at last he had finished, he stepped back and admired them.
‘What, please tell, is that? ’ spat Erik.
‘It is a creche,’ he replied simply.
‘I can see that. What on earth possessed you to bring such a thing into my home and place it upon my mantel?’
‘It is a gift, Erik,’ the Persian replied wearily. ‘If you must know, I was accosted by a precocious young child whilst shopping at the market, who informed me that they were quite the thing, and that they were the ideal gift for a loved one for the festivities. I did my level best to explain that I did not traditionally partake in festive celebrations, and had no friends of relatives who did. She was, however quite insistent, and somehow I came away having purchased one for my ‘nearest and dearest’, which, it turns out with no small measure of irony, appears to be you. ’
The masked man made no answer to this, and instead moved in the direction of the mantel with a strange urgency. For a moment the Persian thought with a sinking of his stomach that the man was making to cast the figurines into the fire, but he simply reached out and seized one of them, a white cloaked angel playing a lyre, and held it appraisingly between his long fingers.
‘You are a sentimental fool Daroga,’ was his only reply.
‘It would seem so.’
He gathered his cloak and hat, slipping them back on as he made his way towards the front door.
‘And I mean it when I say you are welcome to visit. Truly Erik, it does you no good to always be so alone.’
The masked man smiled, and still considering the wooden angel between his fingers, followed him to the doorway, neglecting to put on his own cloak.
‘Would it please you to know that I am considering an honest occupation to fill my time, Daroga?’ the man asked, an unusual note of excitement in his voice.
‘If it were truly honest, then yes, it would please me greatly.’
The two of them stepped into the boat, and the masked man slipped the wooden angel into the pocket of his trousers, before taking the pole and punting them away from the shore. He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting the Persian's for almost the first time that night, a strange glint lurking within their glowing depths.
‘I am considering taking up teaching,’ he declared, almost grandly. ‘So you see, I shall not be so much alone.’
‘Teaching?’ asked the Persian incredulously.
‘There is a singer. She has much potential, but she lacks refinement. Under Erik’s guidance she could become something brilliant.’
There was a spark of life in his face that the Persian had not seen for many years, not since the man had been absorbed in his architecture, or possibly even since he was so absorbed with his activities from the before times. He did not care to think too carefully about what that meant.
‘And this student, how did you meet her?’ he asked cautiously.
The masked man muttered and hunched over the pole, withdrawing his eyes and refusing to meet his gaze.
The Persian sighed, the boat bumped into the opposite shore, and he prepared to step out. As he stepped onto the rough quayside and shouldered his bag, he turned and looked at his trange friend with a stern eye.
‘Do not do anything rash, Erik. I shall be watching you.’
The masked man let out a soft chuckle. ‘I would not expect anything less, my dear Daroga. Until next time…’ and with that, he pushed off from the pontoon, gliding back into the gloom of the lake like a ghost.
The Persian shivered and pulled his cloak about him. He groped blindly for his lamp, finding it still resting where he left it on his arrival, and pulling out his strike he lit it once more. As he began the ascent to the word above he tried to quell the rising sense of unease which was building in his stomach. Perhaps this new student would do his strange, melancholy friend some good. Perhaps this time he truly did intend to go about things in the right way. He could only hope, but, as he stepped out into the cold snowy streets that surrounded the Palais Garnier and began his way back across town, he could not help suspecting that he was going to be spending much more of his time at the opera in the new year than he had previously.