The Strange Tale of Erik Rene

The Strange Tale of Erik Rene
By April Grey

AN: I want to thank my reviewers: Jula, Akina and Kristine. I wish I could update faster; however I've got several irons in the fire with regard to writing (i.e., taking another sf writing workshop and trying to sell my second novel, Chasing the Trickster). Also, I'm doing my best to keep on top of the research for the geographical and historical background of this novel. Not to mention trying to stay true to LeRoux' vision (using a copy of The Essential Phantom Of The Opera for it's excellent footnotes).

Your support is most appreciated. I've loosely drafted out 15 chapters, but hope to expand to 20.


Chapter Three


I ask you—what is the Phantom of the Opera without his opera house?

He is the Phantom still. Without that huge edifice to play hide and seek in, I knew I had to be much more circumspect. With no trapdoors to bolt through and no false rooms to hide in, I was exposed, as vulnerable as a hermit crab without his shell.

But though my fingers were heavier and slower, they still knew how to perform magic tricks, and though my voice was rougher and lower my music had not departed. Nor had my knowledge of architectural design and construction fled.

Yet, I was without shoes and proper attire and entirely dependent on a family that seemed to my mind quite mad.

Henri appeared with a pair of slippers and a shaving kit that third day of my convalescence.

"Here, though I don't think they will fit you." He handed over the slippers. They were old, the leather cracked and quite dusty. I blew on them before attempting to put them on my feet. My heels hung over a good inch.

Henri shrugged, "It's the best we can do. You should be thankful that the shaving kit wasn't sold. Look at the quality of that pearl handle! We couldn't get a good enough price, so we held onto it."

Shaving! Another new experience to be had in my new land. Henri put up a small porcelain freestanding mirror, decorated with pink briar roses, on a shelf in my stall. I laughed. This dainty mirror had clearly never been intended for use by a man.

It was time to take my first look at myself since leaving Paris. My heart thumped heavily in my chest as I moved to witness this new me. Yes, the nose was still absent. But my eyes--they were no longer hidden in their deep orbital caverns as they had been before. They were now quite visible, of a bright golden yellow in color. And one could see expression there. I lifted a black eyebrow. My goodness, I thought, how amazing!

The hair on top of my head was coming in full, black, and baby fine, and the beard on my cheeks and upper lip were becoming quite thick. With trembling hand, I touched this face, uncertain if my mind could ever adjust to such a miraculous transformation. Odd, when I had donned a wig and false nose and mustache to travel in the world I did not look this way. What I saw before me was entirely new.

Then the question struck me. ‘What would my beloved have thought of this face?'

It was on the rooftop of the Opera that night that she had fled with her lover. Thinking themselves safe from me out in the open, they had discussed their situation.

"If Erik were handsome, would you love me, Christine?" the boy had asked.

Her answer was quite coy, that he was tempting destiny by asking and that she hid such things away, as she would a sin.

I am not handsome, even in my new face. Yet does not a normal though ugly man have an immense advantage over a monster? Then I wondered--could I be a monster still? Some things may seem to be superficial but they send their roots into one's very essence. I still remembered clearly how it had felt to be a child and have the women of our village spit on the ground and made the sign warding off the evil eye when I approached. The taunts of children and barking of dogs still rang loud in my ears. The image of my self as Death personified stood behind this new me like a great black shadow. And my soul--it was the repository of numerous sins. I had been living in Hell and now was booted out from that place. Who was I? My talents declared me as the Phantom, but there was a yearning to leave him behind, buried in the subbasements of the Paris Opera.

Again the question presented itself—what would she have thought? Would she have felt anything for this new Erik besides the horror that was invoked before?

"Well, don't get all lovey-dovey with yourself. You're still the ugliest man on the island," said Henri gruffly.

I shook my head, ugly or no, it was no longer a death's head visage. For the first time in my life, I had a face that could be presented to the world!

He poured some hot water from a kettle into a chipped basin. Its floral design matched the mirror. He took a dented enamel mug and started lathering up some soap.

"If you take my advice, you'll only shave the throat, jawline and the chin and leave the moustache and sides. They add some fullness to your skinny face. Especially the moustache, it gives you a lip where you have none."

"Why do this at all? Just leave a full beard."

"We aren't talking fashion, just trying to get you to look normal. Those straggly hairs on your chin aren't doing much for you. Bah! Do what you will."

I opened the razor. It had been kept in good condition with a layer of oil to keep the blade from corrosion. I stropped it and summoned my courage to shave, as I had watched first my father, then the performers of the circus and the opera.

"Just be sure you don't cut the chin off to match your nose," Henri laughed. It would be a miracle if I did not eventually throttle the man.

I shaved, only nicking myself once, very lightly. Even the chin had developed some thickness, no longer merely bone, it proudly thrust itself out. I was uncertain about the sideburns, but to please my hulking friend I left them.

Henri took the towel after I was done. "Madam will be pleased."

"Why should it be so important to her?"

"She is most concerned that you prepare yourself for your new life. Now if we can get the money together for your transport out of here, there's a ship leaving for Jamaica in a couple of weeks. The captain was a friend of her father and is trustworthy. He won't take our money and then bring you to a Bokor for the bounty on your head. We should be selling the kit, but Madam said to make it a gift to you."

"I shall thank her. But perhaps it would be best to sell it. I can go unshaven and a pair of shoes would be most handy."

"You ingrate. What about the slippers?"

"They don't fit."

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. They don't fit." Henri slapped his face with one hand in mock horror and did his best to imitate my continental accent. I felt my temper rise, but was it quelled by his next statement, "You don't seem to understand, friend. To get your pretty white arse out of here, we'll all be living on rice gruel for a month. You want the shoes so badly, go find them yourself."

With that Henri stalked off.

And I was left to contemplate exactly how I was to come into my shoes—and more.

Of my skills, being a magician is perhaps the most useful. There was no lock I could not pick, nor pocket for that matter. And throwing one's voice was surprisingly useful, especially in the art of misdirection.

Of course to pick a lock, one had to have the proper tools. I headed for what used to be the tack room. A few nails of differing lengths and thickness were all I needed.

The room had been used to store broken furniture: broken bookcases, chairs and even a Chinese screen. My hands longed to repair them. I enjoyed carpentry. The shops at the Opera had been mine after all had gone home and I had spent pleasant evenings creating my own chairs and table for the house across the lake. I could design and construct a house in my sleep. I had made my living as a contractor once, and had, indeed, even been the architect of a palace. I started moving aside the items in my search for the much needed metal. And there I found an old steamer trunk, heavily mildewed.

I opened the latches and began coughing as a huge cloud—the dust of decades--sprung up. It was filled with clothes of the style of fifty years ago. I sighed. Still perhaps some of it might fit.

On top of the clothing was a daguerreotype of a fair skinned man with blonde hair and light eyes. I assumed it was Nell's father. And there was a reason why the clothing had been left in the trunk; it was all heavy woolens, completely inappropriate for this climate. There was even a pair of fur-lined boots best suited for walking through snow.

Still they looked to fit me, if I didn't mind smelling of mildew--and I dare say, I have smelt worse. I hung them up to air. They could become useful should I return to Europe. Or if I were to head far enough North. Ah, decisions, decisions.

I shuffled up to lunch in my cracked and ill-fitting slippers. Like yesterday, the meal was being served on the terrace, and this time it was a fish broth. I learned that fish was a staple at this household, chicken, pork and beef all being too costly and Henri being quite good at catching fish from the spit of land just outside the harbor.

Madam had just returned from doing "rounds." She dryly told me of how she'd needed to check on the bandages of a man who had a hand amputated due to gangrene. There was also a woman who had given birth only a few days past. Madam looked pale and tired.

"Nell, I would like to ask your permission to repair some of the items that are in storage at the stable," I said as soon as we had said grace and begun our meal.

"Furniture? Oh, the tack room, I haven't been there in a decade. Are you saying you can repair all that?"

"Yes, Madam."

She stared at me and her fingertips rapped a tattoo on the table. "What will you need in the way of tools and supplies?"

I quickly gave her a list. "Not so fast," and she went into the house for paper and pen. She wrote the items down and frowned, "What we do not have, we will have to borrow. Let me have Henri look at this. Just imagine, a carpenter. I never thought to ask if you had a trade."

"Did you simply assume that I was useless?" I said, stung.

"I am afraid so. My apologies. You know we complain that we are judged by the color of our skin. I fear that problem can go both ways. I thought being French--well, I don't know what I thought. The history of this place has left its scars. This island's economy was based on the hard work of slaves who were ruled over by men too lazy to tie their own shoelaces."

"Do you see all white people as useless, then?"

"Sir, you go too far," she flushed. "My father was white. He emigrated here from Austria."

I turned the topic onto a more pleasant subject, the weather, only to discover that it was their season for storms and that the force of some huge storms—hurricanes—could decimate a town in mere hours. I tried again for a more pleasant topic, this time turning the subject to her career, and thus resigned myself to being regaled with the recounting of her first time helping her father. How Madam at the tender age of six had removed maggots from a patient's leg wound!

It is fortunate that I have a strong stomach.

After lunch Henri and I had a little discussion over my role in things.

"You've convinced her that you can repair these items. So I'm to spend my day finding you tools—you better be good." As usual, his tone was half threatening and half joking. I wondered if he knew what to make of me anymore than I knew what to make of him. We were like a pair of dogs, sensing each other and trying to see who would be alpha.

"Yes, I am good. And hopefully I may gain a pair of shoes out of it all. That is my wish."

"Yes, yes, the damned shoes. Are you a ballerina, too?"

Actually, I had when I was younger tried to imitate some of the dance steps I had watched the performers at the Opera do. But no, my talent was in music. I let Henri have his little joke. I was curious as to what sort of threat he saw in me. A few weeks more and I should be gone.

"Henri, I wish no quarrel with you. I am quite grateful for all your family has done for me."

"You have no idea. One of the Bokors is still upset by your presence. Madam having a White Zombie has more than a few people in an uproar."

"But I am no Zombie. Perhaps if I was allowed to prove it"

He shook his head. "Too dangerous. You do not understand the ways of this island. Madam is a wild card, she receives no support from the authorities and she has offended more than one Bokor. Our position is most vulnerable."

"Is she not a doctor?"

"In all but name. She is allowed to work as a midwife, because Dr. Pellitreau considers it beneath him. He does not appreciate being roused from his sleep in the middle of the night to go birth babies. However, she was an apt student of her father and she does better work than Dr. Pellitreau and unlike the doctor never demands money in payment. I believe he is jealous of the regard in which she is held. Every chance he gets he downplays her abilities and sneers at her work."

"And these savages, the Bokors?"

"Not savages, no, our religion, Vodou, gave us the freedom we needed from the slavers. And most who practice Vodou are also Roman Catholic. No, it is more a matter of politics: the Houngans are orthodox Vodou and leave her alone.

"Unfortunately, she has run afoul of more than one Bokor on this island by undoing their zombies. There are checks and balances to every situation, but she chooses to have her head in the clouds when she should be watching her every step. Fortunately, she has me to watch over her and protect her."

Henri swelled with pride. The names and practices that Henri spoke of were unfamiliar to me and left my head spinning. As to his self-confident brag, I had no idea. He followed Madam everywhere like her shadow. Was his presence so direly needed, or did he simply prefer to skive off from doing much needed work around the household? I sighed; it was none of my business.

Henri left and returned with a box of tools. Much to my pleasure I now had a complete set of lock picks. I was free to come and go as I wished from this small compound.

My conversation with Henri had made me curious to learn more about the island. Ironically, it did not matter if I now could pass as a normal man, for my skin color would make me stand out and there was a bounty on my head. I would need to return to my Phantom ways and become invisible. Though the clothes and leather gloves found in the trunk would be uncomfortably warm, they were black and would allow me to freely move about in the shadows at night. I merely needed to put soot on my face and I'd explore this port and perhaps listen in on the doings of its people. In the Paris Opera, I made free taking whatever I needed. Perhaps there was a clothesline with something in my size on it?

And it seemed to me that perhaps Dr. Pellitreau might have deep enough pockets to make him worthy of my attention. Surely he might have one or two secrets or vices that he'd pay to keep quiet.

It might take a little doing, but it was nice to have a project again.

Feeling good, I proceeded with my repair of the bookcase.

That evening a squall blew in. It rained as I had never seen it rain in Europe or the East. The next day the rains became worse, with a wind that seemed more to do with Hell itself than any God created condition. And just when one thought it could not get worse, it did. It was almost impossible to walk more than a few feet without being hit by some wind propelled detritus or losing one's footing in the waterlogged grass.

Henri and I secured as much as we could of the house and stables. The roof began leaking in Madam's house and we both tried to persuade her to move from there, just in case the ceilings should collapse.

She was stubborn, "My books. I will not leave Father's library." She acted as if they would sprout little feet and go marching off if she did not keep watch over them. Yet she could not stop them from being ruined should the roof collapse.

Because she was normally so sober a woman, I had forgotten that being a woman she was still quite capable of stubborn irrationality. She simply would not leave her books. I gave up and gave in. That night, she and I worked together to move the entire library under a tarp of oilcloth. Once we were finished, and she was certain her precious books would be safe even if the ceiling collapsed, she joined us in the not so much greater safety of the stables.

Henri and his family took up one stall, all bundled up in blankets and attempting to sleep on a pallet normally kept there for the sick and infirmed.

Madam and I took up another stall. She could have had her own stall, there were four available, but she admitted that the sound of thunder worried her nerves and she did not wish to be alone.

I, for my part, was delighted to have her company. Storms in Paris, the French countryside and in Persia were nothing like this and it was good to have another soul be equally discomposed over the nonstop whine of the howling winds. We did not speak for one would have to shout to be heard.

Further, we decided to share our blankets for added warmth. We had both been soaked coming from the house to the stable. She sat beside me on the pallet, the two of us under three layers of blanket and quilt. It would have been better had we discarded our clothes, but I lacked such courage to ask. So we sat there, cold, damp and shivering. After a while our combined body heat warmed us, even with the wetness.

She yawned, rested her head upon my shoulder, and soon she slept.

And I gave myself again to introspection. So much of my life had been afflicted solely because of my looks. For as long as I could remember I had been an object of contempt and fear. The casual hugs and embraces given so freely to children and friends were denied me. Even as the guest of the Shah-in-shah, I was treated as a grotesque curiosity. My talents earned me some respect, but even there human touch and companionship were denied to me. If I have behaved callously towards my fellow humans it was only because I was considered by all to be outside of humanity.

Illness aside, I wondered if my behavior towards Christine would have been so extreme if I had not been starved for--this so simple and taken for granted thing--human touch. The long years of my self-exile in the vaults of the Opera may have driven me mad for the want of a handshake, or a kiss on the cheek, as friend will greet friend upon meeting in the street.

Nell's body against mine was warm and soft. After she fell asleep, I took her hand in mine. I nearly cried with the pleasure I felt of having another body so close to me. I savored the feel of her touch and committed it to memory. With deep satisfaction, I fell asleep with her in my arms, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair next to my chest.

Come the morning I awoke alone, but I could still smell her soap and sense her warmth. I stood up and stretched and beheld the chaos left behind by the storm. The sky was a brilliant azure blue and the air held a freshness that seemed unique to this land.

Both roofs had for the most part held but there were a few gaping holes. One of the holes was over Madam's bedroom and the waterlogged ceilings there, and in the library located underneath, had fallen in. It had been a good idea after all to move the books to under the oilcloth, for they would no doubt have been damaged by both the moisture and falling plaster.

Henri groaned at the devastation to the land and houses and held Amelia while she cried. Margaritte shrugged her shoulders philosophically and began picking up the debris in our yard. I joined her.

Henri left to see if Madam was still on the premises, but he assumed she had gone out searching for anyone who may have been injured.

"That's her way," he said, once he had checked the house for her. "She should stay here so that they can come to her. But she gets antsy and figures it's better than waiting around." His wife brought him a cup of hot coffee. He blew on it and said, "I'll find her--I always do."

Henri left us to go traipsing after Madam as he always did, while we were left to clean up the mess. It was not until after midday that I was able to return to my furniture repair work.

When Madam and Henri returned, it was already after dark. Madam had a bad headache and went straight upstairs to lie down. She and Henri had spent most of the day helping to dig out a family trapped in a house that had collapsed in a mudslide. Miraculously only one, a grandmother, had died. She had drowned in the mud. There were other injured people Madam had attended to as well, but the one death had upset her. She had had a special fondness for the old lady. I was beginning to understand Madam's sometimes sardonic attitude--she was surrounded by pain and suffering. I would hope that it was balanced by the times she brought new life into this world; however, she never seemed to be made any happier by the birth of a child because then she'd catalogue all the misfortunes that could result in the poor babe's failure to reach adulthood.

I found myself wondering what would bring a smile to her face. She did not like the violin, and I had access to no other instruments but my voice. I could juggle for her. Perhaps some feats of legerdemain? Still she was rather foreboding with her dark glasses and ever-present little frown--I didn't think tricks would entertain her. Then what?

Henri, Amelia, Margaritte and I sat around the kitchen table eating our supper. We were all exhausted and said little, but after the meal Amelia brought out some homemade dandelion wine. Margaritte headed to bed, leaving the adults to their indulgence.

We made a toast, "to good health." I liked that. And then Amelia looked at Henri, "How bad is the roof? Can we fix it?"

"Should I leave? Do you need to discuss the household?"

"You should stay since this affects you. It maybe a while before we will be able to pay for your passage from here," said Henri. He then quoted an exorbitant amount of money for repairs.

"Why so much?"

"The lumberyard can afford to ask top price. Half the town is in disarray."

Amelia piped in, "We were lucky. The damage here is mild."

I really had no idea, having been trapped in the compound all day.

Amelia took out a small, worn leather purse from her pocket. She spread the money out on the table and counted. Henri counted it a second time. It wasn't even close to what they needed.

"What about the furniture I repaired? And the shaving kit?" I asked.

Henri smiled, "Certainly. I can find buyers for the furniture. The kit, no, I do not wish to upset Madam. She wants that to be yours. Maybe I can bring you some more things for repair. I looked at the bookcase this morning. I can't detect where it was originally broken."

"Certainly," and I shook his hand. And so my stay was extended. And Henri and I became business partners.

And that night, once everyone was asleep, I made use of my new picklocks and the Phantom came to Haiti.