Chapter Text
Erik restrains himself from slamming the fallboard down on the grand piano. Through the skylights in the Eyrie, the gray sky portends a storm signifying the true end of summer. Phantasma has been closed for a few weeks and the crew is battening down the rides and outbuildings, doing repairs as they go along. The major upgrades they did three years earlier after the fire that took Dreamland, make the maintenance simpler and Nadir is happy to oversee things.
When they were designing new attractions, Erik was intimately involved with everything. Gustave actually came to love architecture as much as he did – convincing Erik, it was indeed hereditary. Many of the additions had his fingerprint – a youthful view Erik no longer had, if he ever did. The darker rides and automatons were Erik’s creations – the more playful, brightly colored adventures bore Gustave’s stamp. Somehow it all worked out and the venue, if not as large as the surviving Luna and Steeplechase parks, holds its own with the public.
Now, however, the park was pretty much a fait accompli and both of them wanted to design more than rides and carnival attractions. Even young Henry seemed to love the idea of creating new buildings, the midget, now ten years old, has a gift for drawing and a vivid imagination, so the three of them spend much of their time, when the boys are not in school, designing houses.
So far the war in Europe is not affecting them, nevertheless the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand sent rumbles throughout the United States. For his part, Erik never became very involved in politics, it seemed there was always some sort of war going on in Europe and he had little interest in places he had no plan of returning to.
Nadir is always tossing newspapers under his nose demanding he read this or that. Despite his efforts to indicate his lack of interest, such as tossing the rags, as he calls them, into the trash or simply sweeping them onto the floor, the daroga keeps insisting Erik keep apprised of what was happening in Europe. Money, he would say. Think about the money. Fiscally, they could not have been in better shape, so the constant harping fell on deaf ears.
This morning was different. Erik’s attention is drawn to an article in the paper he left sitting on the music desk of the piano. A photograph is removed from his wallet. A photograph that haunts him – a girl, perhaps three years old, bound by ropes, on display with the monkeys and lizards brought to the United States from the Philippines.
The photograph drew him to Luna to see for himself if this was a reality. He knew of the human zoos and abhorred the practice. It was one thing to give people work, enabling them to use their deformities to earn them a living – quite another to exploit people captured or bribed to live as animals. The memories the photo evokes are more than painful – they enrage him.
The Village of Little People at Dreamland was not quite at that level – at least the residents were treated as human beings, not animals. The fire brought a number of dwarfs and midgets to Phantasma. Some moved on to Luna, others left to find work in with other amusement operations – Erik gave work to as many as he could. In the case of Henry and Margaret, twins who only just arrived at Dreamland, having been abandoned at a nearby orphanage, they were adopted by Erik and Christine. Their parents nowhere to be found despite their efforts. The twins were legally adopted and found their place in the Saint-Rien household. At ten years, they filled the age gap between the sixteen-year-old Gustave or Goose, as he is called, and the kidlets – Emilie six and Joshua, now three.
The Filipino Zoo Girl disturbed him more than the others in the zoo – most were adults and he suspected they were here because they had been recruited in some way – their treatment was loathsome, but her plight was all too reminiscent of what he suffered at the hands of the gypsies forty years ago. This baby did not understand wages or being on display as some sort of animal.
Sure enough, the visitors threw her peanuts to eat. Speaking to the management of the park got him nowhere. She was their property. She was being cared for. Why would they let any harm come to her, she made money for them?
The news in today’s paper heartened him – the Philippines passed a comprehensive anti-slavery law that prohibited taking their tribesmen for these kinds of exhibits and ending the practice permanently, which shut down all the human zoos in the United States. Erik knew well enough how these things worked - the Filipino government was actually implicit in this practice and in fact made money off of these zoos. Still it was over – all of the inhabitants of the “zoo” were to be returned to their homeland. The little girl gone with them.
And, so it was, neither the affairs of the world nor Phantasma need of his attention. Free time – precious free time that has been lacking over these past few years. Time enough now to write his music – not the simple notes and rhythms the shows demand – but another opera, perhaps, even a new aria for Christine.
The destruction of the Dreamland Ballroom gave Erik another venue – not as large, but still popular and a place for Christine to perform with Rudolph – keeping the conductor and orchestra employed. Still, her voice was not being utilized as it should – he missed the soaring notes of her coloratura.
Did she?
His gaze returns to the piano. Lifting the fallboard again, he places his long fingers against the ebony and ivory keys and waits for those ten digits to grace the keyboard with speed and passion or with gentle strokes and intricate movements creating new melodies – expressions of his heart and soul – but nothing comes. His hands are frozen in space.
All his life he wished to be an ordinary man and now he was…successful, even admired, loving and beloved husband and father, friend to many, no known enemies, the pain of his youth and early years left in a past he seldom even dreams about anymore.
Tears flood his eyes to the point, he removes his mask to dry the thin, fine plastic he found to cover his face without the weight and chafing he experienced in the past. So much good. So much happiness – joy. What more could he want? Why did he feel such emptiness? Such pain?
Closing the fallboard again, he allows himself the sobs tugging at his heart and cries. “My music. Where is my music?”
"Where is your father?" Christine asks Gustave, entering the conservatory. With the exception of her hair, still hanging loosely over her shoulders, she is garbed for the day in a pale green day dress that enhances the color of her clear eyes. A smile curves her lips as she takes in the sight of her children. With the exception of Joshua, who is being tended to by Helen in the kitchen, the other four sit around the Sun room table, eating their breakfasts.
“Phantasma,” Emilie offers, determinedly cutting her French toast into neat squares. “He made breakfast.” Dressed in her favorite lavender voile dress, black curls tied into pony tails on either side of her head, she holds up a square to show her mother.
“Perfectly done, dear…as always.” If Gustave reflected the artistic and deliberative side of Erik, Emilie was miniature version of the man who allowed himself no margin of error – the perfectionist, even to the extent of precisely cut breakfast food. “No eggs?”
“Maman, you know eggs are in the batter,” her daughter says, tsking for good measure. Six years old going on forty. If Adele visited more often, she would suspect Emilie was taking life lessons from her Godmother. It was through Emilie Christine could see how Erik and Madame Giry were able to maintain a relationship over decades – they thought so much alike, even if the manner in which they carried out their ideas might be different.
“He made some for you, too, Mam Christine,” Margaret says, pointing to a plate with a domed cover. Her thick dark blonde hair, tinged with highlights of red is pulled back, tied with a satin ribbon at the back of her neck. Like Emilie, she chose a favorite dress – hers a pale yellow.
“That was quite thoughtful,” Christine answers, walking around the table to take her seat between Gustave and Henry. “This looks like a party…nothing like our usual breakfasts. Is there some occasion of which I am unaware?”
“Papa said he treasures us and we deserve the best,” Emilie says, pouring more maple syrup on her already soaked slices of fried bread.
“He did say that,” Henry says, swallowing the bite he just took. “I never had bread like this before, so being a treasure is okay with me.” His always infectious smile, made more charming by a missing front tooth, inspires a laugh from the entire group.
“And did he help all of you dress as well?”
Henry shakes his head, he is wearing the new sailor suit he received for his birthday. Despite now having an armoire of his own for the new clothing acquired over the past three years, the sailor suit is his favorite. “No, Mam Christine, I picked this out.”
“You always wear that outfit,” Gustave laughs. “The only time you wear something else is when it is in the wash or when you go to bed.”
“I like it,” Henry sticks out his tongue at the older boy. Since he is older and considerably taller, Gustave now wears clothing more suited to grown men – having left short pants and tunics behind. Conservative, like his father, his is understated in gray pants and a white cotton club collar shirt.
When Christine looks at all of them, she sees family – everyone fits. Henry and Margaret’s coloring favors her – even if the twins’ hair is a bit lighter and their skin more florid. Emilie is the one set apart at this gathering, although Joshua shares the black hair – if not the golden eyes. Those belong only to Erik and his natural born daughter.
“He told us he wanted us to look nice for our Maman,” Gustave tells her. “Said we should take more care in the morning – that messy hair and ill-matched garments have no place at the breakfast table.”
“Goodness, I wonder what brought all this about.”
“He is acting funny,” Emilie says, continuing to focus on her food. While the other children tend to wear bright and cheerful looks, even when they are sitting still – Emilie eyes everyone with a skepticism unusual in a six-year-old.
“She is an old soul,” Madame Larushka, the fortune teller at Phantasma told Christine she first saw the child as an infant. “She knows things and you must always trust her judgment about other people. She can read their intentions.”
Christine is not so certain of that – the little girl has been spoiled by both her and Erik. Partly because of her beauty and her wiles – neither of them deny she is gifted at manipulating both of them – but Christine’s miscarriage, the loss of Belle, make her all the more precious to them. Her daughter does come up with some amazing statements on occasion, so perhaps, Madame L is not far wrong.
After so many years traveling with Pappa across Europe, Christine is wise enough to not question the words of the gypsies and other fortune tellers. Truth be told, her father turned out to a bit of a mystic himself when he told her about an Angel of Music. She doubts he would have suspected Erik to be an angel any more than she did, but Pappa was very trusting of universal good and would never believe his daughter could be harmed by an angel he sent for her. Oh, Pappa, what you did not know about your angel. What would you think of your granddaughter?
Gustave, for all his attempts to discipline his little sister, is also under her spell. After so many years of being referred to as Master Gustave or young sir or simply Gustave – the pronouncement that his name was really Goose won him over. Gus might have saved him some ribbing from the other boys at school, Gus being a more acceptable nickname, but Goose was preferable to the very formal and European sounding Gustave. Introduced to Gustave as Goose by Emilie, with young Joshua now joining in, Gustave relished his nickname and even introduced himself as Goose Saint-Rien as often as not.
When the twins joined the family – they brought a down-to-earth quality to the family, grounding them all with their plain-spokenness. What Erik, Christine and Miss Fleck could determine was their parents were farmers who lost their land. They left the children at the orphanage not out of upset for the fact the twins were midgets, but because they could no longer care for them.
Over time, the twins revealed the conditions they lived in…the lack of food and the systematic sale of the farm animals and furniture from the house. One day before dawn, their mam and pap handed each of them a sack with a set of clothing, a toy…Margaret’s doll and Henry’s ball…and a Bible, then loaded them in the wooden cart. Their goat sold left their father to pull while Mam and the children rode to a large house they never saw before. They were told good people would be taking care of them and to not be afraid. “We love you both so much and we want you to be happy and well cared for.” The last words spoken before the couple drove off.
The boy and girl had none of the fears of children who had been criticized or punished in any way for who they were, if anything they were exceptionally well adjusted and loving children. They were just poor.
Despite the efforts to search for the family, based on those and other recollections by Henry – describing the house and their land, the parents could not be located and no one in the town where the orphanage was located had ever seen Henry or Margaret. The people who ran the orphanage, knowing of the Lilliputian Village contacted Dreamland and the children were picked up the day of the fire.
This was the family seated at the breakfast table eating French toast prepared by their adored, if absent, Papa or Pap Erik as Henry and Margaret call him.
“And so, Miss Emilie, did your funny Papa say why he was going to Phantasma without taking any of us with him?”
“Nooo, but I think he is sad.”
“Gustave?”
“I agree, Maman.”
“So if we were to put this to a vote, you believe Papa is unhappy about something.”
All the children nod their heads vigorously.
“I must agree,” Christine says. “He has been particularly quiet these days, which we all know is not like Papa at all.”
Nadir and Erik work well together, despite their ever-present bickering. Darius coming on board as a counselor for the “freaks.” Work often proved too much or some customers treated them with less than respect, so having someone to go to, even to blow off steam was very successful. Darius’ prosthetic hand gave him additional credibility. Everyone commented on his compassion. Abuse of alcohol and drugs was almost unheard of now. Squelch and Dr. Gangle took responsibility for overseeing the carnival performers and Adele managed the theater. Despite the success of Phantasma, far surpassing what any of the adults hoped or suspected, Erik was not as enthusiastic as some might expect.
“I think I might know what is wrong,” Gustave says getting up from his seat – running from the room. “Hold on a minute.”
“Mam – would you like some tea?” Margaret asks, lifting the cozy from the tea pot to pour Christine a cup, pushing the sugar bowl and creamer toward her.
“Papa prepared this, too?”
The little girl nods. “I was up before everyone else – even Helen. Pap Erik was in the kitchen getting everything together, so I helped him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He just said how wonderful it was we have such a happy family, then asked if there was a special song I liked in the show.”
“And is there?”
“I told him I liked Bathing Beauty because Maizie got to wear all those different costumes,” she says. “I love costumes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He laughed and said Oh, no. Then he began to sing the song to me and asked me to join him and do the dance,” she shrugs, “And so I did.”
“That must have been fun.”
“Yes, sort of, but then he got all sad like and told me he wrote an opera once and other beautiful music.”
“I see,” Christine says, reaching across the table to squeeze the girl’s hand.
“Papa is sad about music,” Emilie says taking another bite of toast.
“He told you that?”
“No, he just is.”
“Yes, I was hoping I was mistaken, but, you are right.”
Gustave returns to the room, holding a sheaf of papers. He waves them in the air before handing them to his mother. “I found these in the trash.”
“In Papa’s office?”
“No.” His response out of his mouth almost before Christine finishes her question. “I am not allowed his office when he is not there – these were in the bin by the furnace.”
Christine sifts through the papers. “These are songs – or one long piece.” Looking more closely, she shakes her head. “No, these are not simple songs, this here appears to be an aria.” She sings a few of the notes. “This is lovely – sad, but lovely. Why would he throw this away?”
Not meeting her eyes, the eldest son shrugs. “That is why I saved them.”
“I think I must speak to your Papa.”
Emilie nods solemnly.
“Well, if our family fortune teller agrees, then the talk must take place as soon as possible.”
The consensus of smiles around the table convinces Christine talking is the best tack to take.
“Are you going to the park today, Gustave?”
“Yes – Nadir will be picking me up in…” he turns around to look at the Ormolu clock…”fifteen minutes.”
Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she rises from her seat taking the music with her. “Wait for me – I shall quickly dress my hair and meet you outside.”
“We shall wait,” Gustave says as Christine leaves the room. “Now the rest of you, finish your food and put your dirty dishes on the tray.”
The sound of the door opening startles Erik. No one except Adele is supposed to know he is here. Why cannot people just leave him alone for even a short while? Solitude is a distant memory – years of being alone…isolated…vanished and…surprisingly missed from time to time. This being one of them.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his eyes before grabbing his wig and mask from the top of the piano, putting them back on. “Who is there?” he growls, getting to his feet. “I instructed Madame Giry to tell everyone I was not to be bothered. Can none of you follow instructions?”
“Only your wife, whom you left abandoned in her bed this morning without saying good-bye,” Christine retorts, coming out of the shadows. “I thought you had given up that practice.”
Erik grunts before closing his eyes and shaking his head, “What?” Her allusion to a time years before escapes him for a moment. Why would she think of that? Was she aware of the brief moment he gave thought to his lack of seclusion? Was he that transparent? “I am sorry – of course you are always welcomed.” Instead of walking toward her, however, he returns to his place on the piano bench.
Christine continues across the expanse of the Eyrie, taking off her cloak and bonnet as she walks, leaving them and her reticule on the settee.
“The breakfast you made was wonderful – the children really enjoyed the treat and having their Papa take care of them.” As she nears the piano, she stops short, not approaching him, standing to one side as she would if performing.
“I had a restless night and the kindest thing I thought to do was allow you a peaceful sleep and give the children a treat.”
“It was not long ago would you have simply locked yourself in the music room and played the piano until it would seem your fingers would bleed,” Christine says, setting the papers Gustave found on the piano’s frame, resting her folded hands on top of them. “The Erik of those days would not have thought what might be kind.”
His shoulders fall, he rests his elbows on the fallboard, holding his head in his hands. “No, I suppose I would have damned and cursed everyone and believed the world a horrible place. Now I know better.”
“Erik, for goodness sake, what is wrong?”
“I wish I knew,” he says, looking up at her, the tears visible in the amber eyes. Taking off his mask, he again wipes his eyes.
“Do you think you might be too happy?”
“What?”
“You have been so full of self-hatred your entire life – maybe you feel you do not deserve it – you are waiting for the gods to rain down some sort of punishment for all the goodness in your life – including your own goodness.”
“Maybe they have.”
“Oh, my darling man, what has you in this state?” Christine says, leaving her place at the side of the piano, joining him on the bench, taking him into her arms.
“I feel an emptiness – as I did all those years ago when you were still in Paris and Phantasma was just opening.”
The long days and nights creating the park helped him forget Christine for moments and even hours at a time. Too much work to do – the automatons, hiring staff, creating rides and other features…and writing songs. Songs – trashy, simple songs. No one wanted elegance and beauty…just happy-go-lucky ditties they could hum as they left the theater. When he had the idea to entice Christine to come to New York, he had to write something magnificent – she would become his muse again and the aria came to life – along with his spirit.
Cocking her head, she says, “Continue.”
“I have lost my music and…”
“And?”
“I fear I might lose you…”
“What?”
“I fear you will grow tired of me…of the music you are singing – modern melodies – nothing to challenge you.”
“I suppose there is some truth to what you say.”
“I knew it,” he moans.
“Stop. I meant about the music – the songs I sing now,” She says, slapping his knee. “I shall never grow tired of you or our life together. Neither of us had a normal life – now we do and maybe, maybe, we are a little complacent – missing the imbalance of being nomads with only music to ground us.”
“There must be something about depression and anger and hating the world that stimulates my creativity because now, when I am blissful most of the time, I find I cannot write. Melodies are no longer struggling to be born.”
“That is why you came here alone today?”
He nods. “Even by bringing my workshop above the ground, you have to admit it is quite dark and dreary up here.”
“I have noticed that, yes,” Christine says smiling, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I want to write something big – important – not just trivia like Bathing Beauty.”
“People love that song. Little Margaret told us you sang and danced with her today.”
The first smile since her arrival crosses his face. “She is quite adorable.”
“I know that is not enough – you said yourself when you finished Don Juan Triumphant you would die…and I suppose, in a way, you did. You are not the same man who wrote that opera.”
“But another opera? Since then I have only written one aria?”
Getting up again, Christine retrieves the sheaf of papers Gustave gave her. “What about this?”
Taking the sheets from her, he frowns. “Where did you get these?”
“Gustave found them in the trash bin…to be burned in the furnace.”
He riffles through the music in his hand saying, “This was a false start – something I tried to write when Raoul was here talking about that book – The Phantom of the Opera – I wanted to write the truth – it became too painful.”
“The song is beautiful.”
Smoothing the papers, he looks at the music more closely. “I wrote this for you…and your father.” Sifting through the other pages, putting the sheets in order. “There is a violin introduction…ah, here it is.”
“About my Pappa?”
He hands her some of the pages. “These have some lyrics, such as they are…I never finished.”
Christine sings:
Wishing you were
Somehow here again
Wishing you were
Somehow near
Sometimes it seemed
If I just dreamed
Somehow you would
Be here.
“Oh, Erik, do you have more? You did not burn it…tell me you did not burn it.”
“I dreamed of you singing like that again.” Shaking his head, he says, “No – I have too much ego. The score, such as I have written is at home – I do not know how this wound up in the trash, though.”
“Gustave.”
“He was going through my music. He knows better.”
“As he informed me when I asked where he found this song.”
“I am not certain how I should feel – he disobeyed me – invaded my privacy,” Erik says. “How can I be angry – this is a gift, although I am not certain I can take this up again.
“You told me it took you over twenty years to write Don Juan Triumphant.”
“Since I attached my death to the completion of the work, I felt there was no rush,” he manages a laugh. The anxiety gripping him begins to lessen and a calm settles in. This woman has always had an effect on him – be it calming or exciting – whatever he needed at the moment, she provided.
“I should like to see more of this work…and have you finish this aria.”
“What about Gustave?”
“Snooping and lying are not good habits.”
“I am not certain I am the appropriate person to punish him for those misdeeds – I should not think such behaviors were hereditary, but…”
Christine laughs. “He has more courage than I do – I supposed you would tell me at some point what was bothering you.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You have always been a man of passion, but I…we all…sensed you were missing something – something none of us could give you. Gustave, being so like you, suspected what it was…music. You know how unbelievably cranky he becomes when he cannot play.”
“I am not certain going back to something I abandoned is the answer.”
“Perhaps not, but you will not know until you experiment. The season is over, everything is being handled. Think of it as priming the pump,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “You must finish this song for me, however. That is one thing I must insist upon.”
“I shall – hearing you sing just now…”
The sound of rain drops on the skylights draws their eyes – the sky has blackened, the clouds ever deepening shades of gray, streaks of lightening flash followed by clashes of thunder – a vibrant timpani concerto.
“It appears we shall be confined here for a while – the towncar is at the hotel.”
Her gaze travels to their room, their private space before moving to the Bay Ridge house.
Erik’s eyes track hers. “You are a vixen as well as being a wise and wonderful woman.”
“I forgot how wonderful it is to be with you alone – we must come back here more often,” she says, rising from the bench, holding out a hand to him. “The perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon.”
Standing up, he sweeps her into his arms. “Thank you for seeking me out.”
“It would seem to be my role in life…one I accept with pleasure.”
“I shall try to do better.”
“Just be yourself, my husband, you do not have to perform for me.”
“My muse.”
“My maestro.”