Chapter Text
Finding fresh dead bodies in Paris was not as hard as one would have thought; it would only take a quick trip to the Île de la Cité. Some may have believed that it was blasphemy to have such a building right behind the honoured cathedral of Notre Dame, but la Morgue was indeed set in the best position one could think of to serve its purpose – right in the heart of the city and in the middle of the river where cadavers never failed to be easily spotted and recovered.
The night watchman was a short-legged obese man wearing a dirty, stained apron and a jacket that was at least one size smaller than what his bulky shoulders could accommodate. He was sitting on a threadbare stool near the service entrance of the building. He had the air of someone who could not be bothered with anything, much less work, if the broom forgotten near the door was any indication.
The sound of life and entertainment of the Quartier Latin, vivid and real across the river, did not reach the tip of the small island, if not carried by random gusts of wind that crashed inevitably against the sturdy walls of the temple of death.
From his vantage point in a shadowy spot under the trees that surrounded the building, Erik could see that the guard was bored. Throwing pebbles in a bucket had lost its appeal quite quickly. So had playing solitaire or carving a stick with a knife. Not a soul in sight with whom to exchange a few words. Erik wondered if there was any way to distract him long enough to get in undetected. Paying money to have the man “forget” his impromptu visit was too risky. He was sure the guard would sing like a bird to anyone offering just a franc more than what Erik had paid.
As luck would have it, the watchman decided it was time to leave his solitary diversions behind and stretch his legs. He left without a care, his gait slow and wobbly, a bottle clutched in his fist – and most importantly, leaving the door unlocked and unguarded. Erik could not really blame him. Who in his right mind would ever venture into this part of the city at night? The place was as dead as the people inside the building. And that was precisely the reason he was here.
He needed a body because tonight the Phantom of the Opera was going to die.
The placement of the Paris Morgue may have been controversial but all of Paris embraced it. Built with the purpose to help the municipality recognize unknown bodies, it became the city’s best known attraction, rivalling the Louvre in terms of visits. The crowd revelled in the chance to come see the dead bodies, displayed behind glass on their slanted slabs, to speculate on their manner of death. To feel the shiver of horror run through them in a way that reminded them, commoner, bourgeoisie, and nobility alike, that they were still alive.
Erik had been here before, too, always at nighttime of course, after the thronging crowds had gone and left the dead in peace. But he was not here for the morbid fascination that drove the rest of humanity. He had seen his share of dead people in his life. He needed no grisly reminders of the fact of his daily existence. He bore the mark of death on his face.
He had come to contemplate his own fate.
It was an unfortunate matter that such contemplation had not caused him to change his ways. La Morgue and its cold slabs served as a stark reminder that he would not be able to escape his ultimate destiny, no matter how tightly he controlled the Opera House, Christine, himself. Sooner or later, he would be the one on display, his most private secrets laid bare for the world to see.
And what a specimen he would be! He would not be remembered for his architectural designs, for his music, for the perfect voice he had cultivated in Christine. He would be remembered for the ugliness of his face. All the people of Paris he had avoided for all the long years would flock here to see him.
But not today. Today he was here to shift that fate, nudge it in a different direction. The ultimate irony. He had come here before to ponder his own death. Tonight, he was here to cause it.
He shook his head to clear it from the grim thoughts. He had a task at hand.
His home under the theatre was gone and there were people hunting for him, but no one ever had been able to find Erik when Erik did not want to be found. Others far more powerful than the useless Parisian mob or the gendarmerie had tried.
And failed.
Tonight would be no different.
Once inside the main hall, he walked to the chambers where the bodies awaiting transport were kept. It took a while, but he managed to find someone whose rigor mortis had not worn off yet and whose build resembled his own.
He altered the paperwork to show that the man’s body had been transferred to the undertaker – there were several bodies that had gone out in one pickup, it was a simple matter to add this fellow here to that group.
As he removed the body, Erik pretended not to see the young woman who lay on the slab to the left. Her chestnut hair was curly and still lush, draped over her naked breast. He swallowed the pain and squeezed his eyes shut.
No.
She was safe and sound. He had let her go. And wherever the boy had taken her, she would be happy. The moment she kissed him it was as if the curtains of a theatre had parted in front of him and Erik had seen the terrible error of his ways. His hunger for his own happiness was going to destroy hers and that was inconceivable. It went against all the care he had ever shown her. Everything he had done he had thought was out of love, but if that love was hurting her then he would withdraw.
He would die for her.
But not just yet.
His life had been a nightmare since he first drew breath. He was chaos in a world where everyone behaved as society imposed. He had no rules and lived by no rules. Music and architecture brought beauty and order and discipline to his life and became his foundation. Not just a way to express himself, his vision and his creativity, but something that would give him the visibility he craved and that his face had denied him; the chance to leave a mark in history.
And for a while it had been enough - until Christine had entered his world and had given him even more to live for. A chance for joy. But his nightmare of a past life had destroyed the dream of his future. People… Christine, could not be manipulated like notes on a staff or lines on an architectural drawing. His attempt at a normal life, at love, was doomed from before its start.
For Christine’s sake, he would take his pain and remorse and bear it for the rest of his life as penance.
Perhaps he would be allowed to find some solace in music and architecture again, more than he deserved. But he would do it alone.
Not even half an hour later, he was out of the building and hurrying down Quai de l’Archevêché, carrying a heavy burden across his shoulders, the moonless night hiding him from view. The short trip to the bridge of St. Louis left him winded, but still very much convinced that all of the hassle would be worth it in the end.
The small boat he had moored under the bridge was waiting for him, bobbing in the calm waters of the river. The quickest route to the Opera crossed the Tuileries gardens and passed along Avenue de l’Opera, but first, he had to reach the Louvre where he had a cart waiting for him. As fit as he was, he could not very well drag the body through the sewers. The safest way to avoid anyone noticing his progress was to cross the river by boat.
The season was turning to late autumn. Few people were willing to brave the already chilly and damp windy nights of the French capital, preferring to stay indoors at home or to extend their stay at bistros or restaurants where warmth was assured. Erik was counting on uncrowded streets to safely return one last time to his underground realm and close out another chapter of his solitary life.
The trickiest part would be the descent to his lair. The mob had come and gone but the police were still milling around, searching for him. His only advantage was that they would never find all of the secret passages that led down to the cellars. It would take them a lifetime to explore them, just as it had taken him a lifetime to build them.
He left the cart in Rue des Mathurins. There was an empty house here, with a tunnel that ran all the way under the intersection with Rue Scribe. It was the safest, closest alternative, only five additional minutes to the Opera. The dead body weighed on him more and more with each additional step. By the end, Erik was more tired than he ever remembered being.
He was not looking forward to the next bit of his plan.
They were looking for a disfigured man and a disfigured man he would give them. Being born with his face was one thing, reproducing its devastation on the face of another human being, even if dead, felt – sacrilegious. Abominable. Inhuman.
He looked at the face of the man, observed the symmetry of his visage. He was not what Erik would have ever described as handsome, but certainly more pleasing to the eye than he would ever see reflected in a mirror.
Though the man’s eyes were closed, Erik felt under scrutiny. There was no soul in the empty shell he placed on the floor of the dark corridor, yet Erik felt his insides roil at the thought of the act he was about to commit. One more sin on his conscience that would have to be atoned for somehow.
It was important that the face not be identifiable save by inference. And that the circumstances of the death explain how the face had been damaged beyond any recognition, to both the dullest and most incisive inspectors. They would be keen to assure an avid Paris that the Phantom was gone for good.
There was a high and dangerous point on one of the stairways that led down to the underground lake. A fall from there would be a sufficient explanation.
He had to dig deep in the recesses of his anger, to reach one last time for all of the hate he had ever felt, and, once deep in that dark place for what he would make sure was the last time in his life, he proceeded to craft a spectacle that would convince the world he was dead. He fitted the rock to his hand and with every strike, even from his self-imposed distance, felt the horror and disgust at his own actions rise. It was for her, he reminded himself. For her.
Erik left the cadaver posed and dressed in some of his own clothing, in that spot below the stairs, a place he knew the Rat Catcher frequented. That man would assuredly alert the authorities. The final touch, a broken and bloodied mask pushed into place atop the brutalized face to ensure even the dullest member of the gendarmerie would be able to come to an enlightening and inevitable conclusion.
As he washed his hands in the lake, Erik wondered if they would ever be clean, then he went back to his house – or what was left of it – and gathered a few personal items and his violin.
It was time to go.