La Butte: Chapters 1-5
I'm posting old chapters of my PotO fanfiction. Just ignore it.
Title: La Butte
Pairing/Characters: Erik, Christine, Raoul, Nadir, OCs
Rating: R (for later chapters)
Phantom Version: mostly Susan Kay/Gaston Leroux
Warnings: none
Summary: Set two years after Christine’s departure (year 1883, according to Kay). Erik, fed up with loneliness, decides to live on the Montmartre. Between the carefree artists , he gets rid of sentiments and fixes on his work. Meanwhile, Christine feels trapped in her relationship with Raoul and longs for freedom. Will they be able to find themselves in the dangerous but vivid and thrilling whirl of Parisian life?
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom
Notes: Constructive criticism os welcomed :)
CHAPTER 1:
PROLOGUE
The Chagny Estate, Paris, 1883
Crying is weeping accompanied by intense emotion.
Christine’s eyes seemed to be made of glass. Motionless and fixed on the window. There was ice on it, a subtle frost pattern. She did not see it; her gaze was blank as she was lying on the couch. She wasn’t crying.
All the time in her mind were echoing only three words.
Don’t give up.
xxx
The vaults of the Opera Garnier, Paris, 1883
Erik wiped the keyboard of his organ. It wasn’t dusty at all. He wiped it because it was his habit. And an excuse to come to his study, to look through his old music notes, scribbles, drawings and designs, trying to force himself to any form of creativity.
His mind was worn-out; no new ideas, no inspiration. Shallowness.
CHAPTER 2:
A SINGLE SPARK
There are things you’ll never know; what it feels like to wander alone in the night. To watch the moths sticking to the lamps. To listen to the sound of an accordion from afar...
Or to open your eyes and take the first morning breath after a sleepless night. In the atmosphere of complete indifference.
There are things you’ll never know because I will never tell you.
Christine put her old diary off and sighed. These simple words she wrote over a year ago still remained true. The deepest recesses of her soul, her most private thoughts were never known by anyone but her. And never got to the paper again. It was the first and last page of her diary. She had neither the need nor the will to write more. She hadn’t willed to do anything at all. She was just sitting and waiting, though she didn’t know what for. Maybe for a day when she finally admits that she lost.
But she didn’t feel defeated. No… not yet. There was still a part of her that felt alive.
The very last reserve of her will fight.
xxx
Erik got up from his chair. What was that sound? Who dared to disturb him and to break the silence of his lonely contemplation? With mild curiosity, he took the Punjab lasso and made his way to the door of his underground house. The knocking on the wood was not only going on, but also becoming louder. Clutching the rope in his hands, he turned the key in the lock. The Punjab lasso swished in the air as the eyes of the Persian flickered in the dark. Erik drew his arm back, annoyed. The man standing before him looked too familiar to pretend he didn't recognise him.
"What are you doing here, daroga? I hoped to find an intruder and play Requiem for him." said Erik dryly.
"So, I'm not one of those intruders?" asked Nadir, bewildered.
"Of course you are, but unfortunately I have to spare your life. At least until you irritate me." snarled Erik, letting him in and putting off the Punjab lasso.
"I never know whether you are serious or not when you talk like this, Erik." said Nadir, smiling.
"Today," Erik reluctantly ushered his friend into the drawing room. "You can be sure I am absolutely serious. What do you want?"
"Erik, why are you always unkind to people who want to help you?" Nadir's voice sounded weary. He knew what Erik's reaction for his visit would be like. He knew Erik would act like this.
"Have a seat." he said sharply, ignoring Nadir’s question and lighting the samovar.
The Persian removed his cape and draped it over the back of a couch. He sat, gazing at cloths covering all mirrors in the room. Whenever he was there, these objects made him indescribably upset. Will Erik ever unclothe them?
Erik was standing silently on the side, waiting for the water to boil. He poured two porcelain cups and the room filled with the aroma of Russian black tea.
"So, what brings you here, daroga?" he asked indifferently, taking a seat opposite to him and passing him a tea cup. Nadir raised his eyebrows.
"I thought it was obvious." he said, taking a sip of tea. "Are you alright, Erik? You don't look very good."
The only response he received was a sigh. Erik was drinking his tea in silence, not even caring to look at him.
“Erik, can you hear me?”
“Don’t trouble my mind, daroga.”
Nadir examined his face hidden behind the mask carefully. He couldn’t see his expression, but he saw everything in his eyes. There was no anger or mute mockery any longer. Only deep sorrow and weariness.
“Erik, the last time I was here, which was about six months ago, I heard the same words.” he said calmly. He seemed to have unending patience for Erik. “Aren’t you going to change something? You can’t ponder about the past all your life.”
There was a long pause. Nadir, not taking his eyes of Erik’s face was waiting for response. This time his friend won’t get rid of him so easily. He needed help, but never wanted to accept it.
“Tell me daroga,” said Erik after a moment of silence “Did you get yourself a new wife? Or maybe you have new children?”
“I don’t want you to completely forget what happened,” started Nadir, a little taken-aback with such a response. “Look, I was thinking what to do to help you… at least a little.”
“I don’t need your help, daroga.” said Erik icily. “Neither yours nor anyone else’s. And now, please, go away. I’m tired.”
He put his cup off and started to head towards his study. Nadir clenched his fists.
“You’re always tired when I want to talk to you!” he said fiercely. “Listen to me at least this once!”
Erik stopped and turned around to look at him. There was an indescribable stubbornness in the Persian’s eyes.
“All right.” he said. Once again with a complete resignation in his voice. “Just make haste.”
“So, as I said, I thought up something.” started Nadir.
“Yes?” asked Erik with forced politeness.
Suddenly, when he was to tell him about it, Nadir lost his confidence. He looked at the white mask on Erik’s face and hesitated. Was it really as good idea as it seemed? Erik was living alone for so many years, after all… But if he never tells him, he’ll never know.
“Erik, I think you should move out of this place.”
CHAPTER 3:
DECISION
How dare he?! Erik’s first impulse was to kill Nadir. No matter how much he respected him. If only the Punjab lasso was within his grasp… Fortunately, he realized on time that the Persian wasn’t making fun of him. He was absolutely serious…
Now, when Erik was sitting alone is his room, he almost laughed at his irritability.
He had time to decide. Will he go out of the darkness and live among people? Never! - it was the answer he gave to his friend. But Nadir will come back soon and ask him the same question once again. What will he say then?
As the time was passing, Erik found himself thinking about it more and more. Of course, it was impossible. He would never be able to live like a normal man. He couldn’t even imagine it. House, windows, neighbours… buying bread and butter in the morning, looking at the rising sun, avoiding rain puddles on the street…and the sea of people… He shook his head. It wasn’t a life for him. But the more he was trying to deny it, the more he was realizing he wanted it. He hated his underground house. There were too many painful memories, too many objects that reminded him of the past. But he was still living there. Where else could he go? At least here, deep under the ground no one could find him, he was safe from people’s inquisitive gaze.
But wasn’t he already fed up with such life? This silence all around him was driving him mad. He wasn’t even able to compose or design anymore, he lost all inspiration that previously was poured into his heart with love for Christine. He felt old. Day by day, he was becoming more bored and weary.
And then suddenly his friend came to him and suggested him removal. He snorted. As if it was so easy. Or maybe it was easy, but he simply didn’t want to accept it? He only needed to find a house and pack some things, after all. He still had his old suitcase…
Erik smirked to himself. The older the stupider. Self-mockery became his best weapon against the dark hole of melancholy during his lonely years. But yet… he couldn’t shut out the thought of leaving this place, this life behind.
He set his gaze on the wall. No… he was wrong… it was possible. If Nadir, as he said, would find him a house… then why not? He could live in one of those beautiful districts in Paris. Maybe nearby Avenue des Champs-Elysees? Once again he felt a need to call himself an old fool. His skeleton face and the most popular place in France! A perfect match!
But suddenly something came to his mind. A strange, but rational thought. There was a place where he could live… the hill full of people living on the margin, outcasts, minor thieves… a perfect place for those who want to hide. Montmartre, called la Butte by Parisians.
A sudden hope burst in Erik’s heart. It was like he woke up from lethargy. He knew what he wanted. Now he knew it. He simply wanted to live consciously. He wasn’t just a marionette, for the first time he felt strong enough to fight his fate. He won’t hide and let life pass him by any longer. He still had so many things he wanted to do or see.
It all lasted far too long. Maybe a few years ago, he liked the idea of spending the rest of his life alone, isolated from the world. But things have changed. He realized that it was not possible. He wanted to know what it felt like to be an ordinary man; not a lonely genius or a shameless murderer.
He sat by his desk and took his pen. He wrote quickly some words on the paper, signed it O.G., as always and with peaceful joy, he placed a pile of francs in the envelope.
It was the beginning of changes in his life.
xxx
“Erik, are you serious?” asked Nadir once again with disbelief, but his face was cheerful.
“Why did you ask me is I want to move from here, daroga,” said Erik, smirking. “if you don’t want to accept a positive answer?”
Nadir shook his head.
“Don’t be silly, Erik. I’m just surprised. I thought you’d rather kill me than agree.”
“Well, I actually was to do so, but I changed my mind.” he said, putting back his cup of tea. He leaned back on the couch and sighed. “I want to be a free man, daroga. I can’t live here any longer.”
“I know, Erik.” said Nadir quietly. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”
Erik nodded.
“I want to move to Montmartre, you know.” he said after a moment. Nadir looked at him guardedly.
“Montmartre?” he asked “Do you think it’s a good place? Do you know it’s full of…outcasts…?”
“Of course I do! That’s why I chose it.” said Erik, a little irritated. “Have you been there lately?”
“Yes… about a week ago, I think. ”
“Are there many flats for rent?”
“Flats? Aren’t you going to buy yourself a house?” another surprise. Nadir never thought he’d hear something like this from Erik’s mouth.
“No.” replied Erik simply. “I don’t think I could afford it. I sent back all the money to the managers.”
For a moment, Nadir was completely speechless.
“Erik… you never cease to surprise me.” he said at last. “Why have you done it?”
Erik shrugged.
“Being an extortionist doesn’t amuse me any more, daroga.” he said. “Look, I want to move there as soon as it’s possible. Maybe even this week…”
“This week?”
“Oh, God! You have no idea what it feels like to have an opportunity to live like a normal man, daroga!” said Erik passionately. “I haven’t seen the daylight for months. You don’t understand it…”
Nadir smiled, looking at this outburst. Seeing his friend’s sudden enthusiasm was the best thing that happened this year. He calculated everything quickly in his head. One week should be enough, after all…
“No, Erik, I understand.” said Nadir after a while. “And it is possible. Finding a flat on Montmartre shouldn’t be a problem. There’s a lot of them. And they’re quite cheap, I think. But what really troubles my mind are your things. What are you going to do with your organ, furniture and everything? It all is far too big to take it to the flat. I’m afraid you’ll have to…” he trailed off. How was he to tell his friend that he should get rid of anything connected with his past life, the objects he loved? Erik was waiting for his to finish the sentence. “To sell most of them.”
There was a long pause between them. Erik wasn’t pleased with what he heard. Selling his organ would be like selling a part of his heart. It was so dear to him… It served him so well through all these years… But he couldn’t forget it was also the biggest and the most troublesome object in his house. Nadir was right, there was no other way. If he wanted to be free, he had to abandon sentiments and forget his past life. But still there was something that was keeping him from agreeing. He suddenly felt angry at himself. He hasn’t even started a new life and there already was an obstacle. No, he won’t think about it anymore. An organ is just an instrument, after all. An instrument of many sad memories he wanted to forget.
“I know.” he said eventually. “I’ll buy a piano instead.”
CHAPTER 4:
RUE DURANTIN 17
Erik threw himself into the whirl of preparations for his removal. There were so many things to do. He was sorting all things in his house, dividing them to two groups; those that he’ll take with him and those that he’ll have Nadir sold. He didn’t want to take many things. He only needed some clothes and his mask. Old furniture, sculptures, books, candlesticks, Persian carpets and tapestries were useless. Nadir was coming to him every day in the evening to take some of his possessions and sell them at Parisian markets, trying to bargain the best price for things so dear to his friend. Eventually in Erik’s underground house was left only his pipe organ and a packed suitcase.
“What now, Erik?” asked Nadir. “I found a man who wants to buy your organ.” Erik glanced at the shiny keyboard of his instrument. “He’s willing to pay…”
“I don’t care how much.” cut Erik sharply. “I’m not selling it. I have enough money to rent a flat.”
Nadir didn’t seem to be very surprised. Somehow he knew that in the end Erik will change his mind.
“It’s your choice.” he shrugged. “Then what are you going to do with it?”
“It will stay here. No one will find it, after all.” he said simply, closing the lock of his suitcase.
xxx
It was a middle February day. It was cold and the wind was nippy. Nobody would call this day beautiful. Nobody but Erik. Snow was creaking under his feet as he was going down Rue Tholoze, looking around himself. His eyes were bright and excited, his coat was gradually getting covered with snow, but he didn’t even bother to brush it off. Everything he saw today was fascinating him; from big houses and street lanterns to frozen clothes hanging on balconies. He was rambling around the hill of Montmartre, trying to find a flat to rent. Once in a while he was passed by a hurried man or a pensive woman. Nobody was really surprised to see a masked stranger. Such views were quite common on Montmarte. For the very first time Erik felt like someone who didn’t stand out from the crowd.
He looked at the street signpost. Rue Durantin. He saw a quite old, but nice tenement house on the left. It’s walls were covered with light plaster, grayed and weathered with age. There were dark blue shutters and red roof tile. Maybe this one, thought Erik and rang the doorbell.
The door opened and madame Badeau, the elderly rentier of the house at Rue Durantin 17 greeted him. She had a wrinkled face with thin lips and light blue piercing eyes.
“How can I help you, monsieur?” she asked, eying him. She stopped her gaze at his masked face for a moment, but said nothing.
“I’d like to see a flat. I saw a notice on the door plate. Is there any for rental?”
“Yes, monsieur. The one on third floor.”
Erik followed her up the stairs. They entered a big empty room with light gray walls and a small kitchen range in a niche. Erik smiled behind the mask, walking about the flat.
“I’d like to rent it.” he said eventually. “How much will the rental payment be?”
“Twenty two francs. When do you want to move here?”
Twenty two francs! Nadir was right; living on Montmartre was very cheap.
“Today.”
Even if madame Badeau was astonished by his response, she didn’t let it show.
“As you wish, monsieur.” she said.
“Here you are… money for this month. I have to go now to buy all I need.” said Erik taking twenty two francs from his pocket. “Thank you very much, madame.” he finished quickly, put his suitcase on the floor and turned to leave, but she stopped him.
“One more thing, monsieur.” she said. “Your name, please.”
Erik froze. For many years he didn’t feel like this; like a frightened child wanting to hide in shadow. Such a simple question… He dreamed he would be able to live like anyone else, but in this moment he thought that whatever he’d do, it was impossible. His face, his past and his inclination toward crime were a barrier that excluded him from the society. He glanced at his future rentier; his eyes caught her simple, neat dress, pinned up hair and hands holding a bunch of keys. She was such a typical elderly woman, the one that can be met everywhere... How much time must pass till he will be able to forget about everything that made him so… different?
Madame Badeau was waiting for his response, examining his masked face carefully with her pale eyes. He kept quiet.
“Eh bien?”
Silence.
“Monsieur, I’m not asking you what has happened before in your life, or what you escape from. I only need to know how to call you.” she said impatiently.
He took a deep breath.
“Erik.” he mumbled eventually, only waiting for the question about his mask. But, to his surprise, she didn’t ask about anything more. She noted neatly “Erik” and “February - 18 francs” in her old scrapbook and nodded.
“Alright then.” she said as she finished. “If you’re looking for cheap, but good furniture, you should go to Meubles on Rue Lepic. I hope life on Butte will be kind to you, monsieur. Good bye.”
xxx
Though the name “Meubles” was neither original nor sophisticated, Erik found what he was looking for. He bought a cheap bed, solid table, two wooden chairs and a desk. Next he went to an instruments manufacturer and arranged a transport of a piano. It was very simple, without any useless ornaments, but had a good tone.
Erik visited also markets and bought some bread, potatoes, eggs, coffee and tea.
When he came back to his just rented flat, he started to settle down in his room. There was a lot of free space that he couldn’t fill with four pieces of furniture. He placed his bed in one corner of the room, the desk in another and the table with the chairs in the center. All his clothes stayed unpacked in the suitcase. He took from there his old drawings, sketches, music scores, some paper, pencils and ink and put it all on the desk. And when food found it’s place on the big table, he lighted his old samovar and threw beans into the pot with water. Then he hung the cooking pan above the range and smashed three eggs. When the process of preparing his dinner was over, he sat by the table and started eating, looking out the window at roofs of Parisian buildings gradually sinking in darkness of a winter evening.
But the next day, things didn’t look as beautiful as the day before. He woke in the cold room before the sunrise. As he opened his eyes, he needed a few seconds to remember where he was. Groping, he found the gas lamp and went to the kitchen range. Only when the room filled with warmth, he dressed up and drank black coffee. Then he pulled out everything he had in his pocket, he realized that more than half of his money went for yesterday’s shopping. And he still had to buy some clothes, because he had only his elegant suit. He sighed and put back and put off a few francs and the rest left in the drawer of his desk. He would have to save money now.
He wasn’t hungry, so he decided to have a walk to see how Montmartre looked in early morning hours. On his way down the stairs he met madame Badeau with curl papers in her hair and fireplace shovel in her hand.
“Good morning madame!” he greeted with enthusiasm that surprised him. Madame Badeau returned his greeting and pointing that he is an early riser, she invited him for a cup of tea. He followed her to the small drawing room.
“Have a seat, monsieur.” she said and disappeared behind the door to, as Erik supposed, a kitchen.
He sat down on one of two surprisingly uncomfortable carved armchairs and looked around himself. The room was very clean and was furnished quite simply. Although there were many trashy landscape paintings on the walls and an old oak sideboard was full of porcelain sets of all colors and patterns imaginable.
Madame Badeau came back in few minutes carrying a tray with two porcelain cups on saucers and a pot full of hot tea. The cup she passed Erik was white with blue flower patter and gilded lip.
“It seemed, monsieur, you asked about work on Montmartre.” she said, sitting on another armchair and taking a sip of her tea. “You see, it depends what kind of work you’re looking for.”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe masonry or work in the factory or mine… I have to start with something. ” he replied.
“Masonry? Then maybe Sacré Coeur construction?
“I actually thought about it. It’s not very far from here, is it?”
“No monsieur. And if you catch a fast cocher, it shouldn’t take too much time.”
Erik mused for a moment. He could make a living from working as a simple mason. Though it sounded quite odd; an elder, experienced architect who designed the Opera Garnier, was to smear his fingers with mortar instead of inspecting the work of others.
“Monsieur?” madame Badeau’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Would you like to try my gateau au chocolat?
CHAPTER 5:
NEW NAMES AND PLACES
Next day Erik got up early in the morning, ate a quick breakfast and hurried down the stairs. It was the first day of his work. Fastening his flannel shirt, he didn’t notice madame Badeau carrying a copper coal hod. She was standing at the bottom of stairs, looking at him attentively.
“Ah! Monsieur Erik!” she greeted him when he approached.
Erik raised his head and met her gaze. His heart stopped. His mask stayed on the desk in his flat. He went out only for a moment to check what the weather was like. He was sure that so early in the morning everyone was still sleeping. Madame Badeau’s gaze was now studying his exposed pale face. His green, hollow eyes were glistening in the darkness of the staircase; blue veins were shining through his thin skin. His deep cheeks gave him the look of an extremely haggard man.
“Good morning, madame.” said Erik eventually in resigned tone, cursing in thoughts his stupidity. But on her face was no fear, no disgust or pity. She stayed indifferent as if it was an everyday view.
“So were you monsieur at Sacre-Coeur yesterday?” she asked, putting the hod on the floor. She wiped her hands on apron and rolled up her sleeves. Those simple actions surprised Erik; she really wasn’t astonished by his appearance.
“Yes.” he replied, still impressed by her reaction. “I signed up for today’s shift and now I’m going to begin my work.”
“So early? Oh, those people are cruel… ” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “Well monsieur, have a nice day at work.”
“Thank you, madame.” Erik turned on his heel to go back for his mask.
“But monsieur, aren’t you going to work?” she stopped him.
“I forgot something.”
She paused for a moment.
“Monsieur, I am never so impertinent, but…” she began hesitantly “But if this is the cause you wear a mask, you can throw it away.”
She took her hod and disappeared behind the door of her drawing room, leaving Erik taken aback and sunken in thoughts. He didn’t take his mask.
xxx
Erik rubbed his hands together to warm them up and then hid them deep in the pockets of his thick jacket. He was going to the building site of Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, the same road as a week ago when he went to sign up for a shift. It was five o’clock and it was still dark outside. Gloomy streets were enshrouded in cold morning fog. It was raining in the night so there were many puddles on the pavement. Montmartre was waking up lazily for another winter day. The air was filled with voices of tradesmen. Women wrapped in woolen shawls were bargaining for bread and fish; laundresses and seamstresses were rushing to work. Nobody looked at him as if he was a monster. Just like madame Badeau, they glanced at him with indifference, absorbed in their own lives. He trusted her age and long living on Montmartre experience and he did not regret. Parisians were accustomed to seeing all kinds of people. Erik never expected it; he’d never think that anyone could look at him and not scream or run away. It suddenly showed up that he didn’t have to hide beneath the opera. He could have simply come to Montmartre. He felt strange; like everything he had done in his life was not necessary. There so many people with deformed faces; they were ill or the were veterans… Maybe he really never had to hide from the world?
Erik turned up his collar and hastened his pace. It was one week since he started working at the Sacre-Coeur construction. His work wasn’t as easy as he thought at the beginning. The design of new basilica was very complex and there was a lot of to do every day. Workers were in the process of framing since two years already. Such a huge building needed a lot of time. Erik already passed Place du Tertre and massive scaffoldings of Sacre Coeur began to appear in gray fog. He heard first sounds of workers’ voices; his eyes caught small silhouettes pushing barrows full of bricks. Bricklayers, stonemasons, roofers and dozens of other people were already beginning their work.
He passed the unsteady wooden barrier separating unwary Parisians from the building site. He was at once assigned to work by Gautier Ames, the grim construction inspector. Greeting by his way those workers he already knew by name with a quick hand wave, he hurried to get tools.
xxx
“How about going for a dinner with us, Erik?” asked Karl, one of bricklayers one day when they finished their work. “You’re new on Montmartre, we can show you the best places. I’m not going for dinner home. I saw my wife cooking beans today. It’s awful.”
It was how Erik’s social life began. Since this memorable day, he was no longer eating breakfast alone in his flat. Every morning he was meeting with workers in a bistro where they ordered a cheap meal. None of them had a wife who’d be upset if they didn’t eat at home. After breakfast they were going to Sacre-Coeur construction to work hard for five hours. Then there was a short dinner break when they could rest, smoke cigarettes and curse their construction inspector or cold weather. But the break was quickly over and they had to go back to work. At three o’clock they were getting their daily wage and signing up - or not - for the next day shift. Then some of them were going straight home, to the arms of their longing wives and the rest was choosing a bistro to go. Erik was always in the second group, which usually formed of four or five persons, depending on what dish was Karl’s wife to serve at home.
“She’s a wonderful cook, believe me.” he was always repeating “But some of her dishes are simply disgusting.”
Their dinners at bistros lasted usually a few hours; they were always accompanied by discussion, jokes and, of course, smoking cigarettes. Erik quickly grew to like those simple-hearted and cheerful people, as well as the atmosphere of Montmartre bistros. However, his favorite places he visited in the evenings and only occasionally. Cafes were full of all sorts of people; from poor Gypsies playing cards and drunk prostitutes to artists with ruffled hair discussing and arguing about art and women. When only Erik’s small wage let him, he was spending evenings in such places. His, as well, as his new friends’ first choice was Café de la Nouvelle Athenes, called shortly La Nouvelle. It was a famous and quite cheap café on Rue Pigalle. No matter what the time was, it was always noisy in there. Smoke was floating above the heads of visitors, glasses were knocking and people were discussing extremely loudly. Montmartre painters waving theirs hands, gesturing and shouting were trying to persuade their opinions. Or if they weren’t in mood for arguing, they were simply cursing paintings sellers, critics and public. In the meantime musicians kept exchanging their views on Chopin or Berlioz, complaining about music publishers and writers were flirting with young girls, charming them with lyricism.
Erik and his friends always occupied the table in the corner where they had had good view to the whole café from. They liked Erik, though he didn’t know why. Maybe because he never talked very much and always listened to their stories that the others found boring; surprisingly it was his reserve that broke the wall of distrust to stranger. For him everything was interesting and exciting; after so many years of loneliness he began to treasure company. He got to known a lot of people in La Nouvelle. When he told one day that he used to be a composer and an architect, they mentioned dozens of artists they knew and introduced them to him. It was how he met Pierre, Remy and Rene.
Pierre and Remy were young painters studying at Academie des Beaux Arts. They were full of hopes for their future artistic career and there was still some of boyish naivety in them. They could talk about women for hours and never get bored of it.
Rene was a painter, too, but he was one of those who didn’t succeed. All of his works had been constantly refused by all critics and one day, when he lost patience and money, he decided to finish his artistic career. Now he was earning for life painting shutters.
When only he started to spend time in company of artists, he visited a lot of new places. In late evenings, when his friends from Sacre-Coeur construction had to come back home to get enough sleep to be able to work next day and earn for bread, the life on Montmartre was just beginning. He got used to spending half of nights in fuggy cabarets and dancehalls, drinking, smoking, watching dancing couples or listening to artists singing their romantic ballads. Moulin de la Galette was the dancehall that he visited most frequently. It was attracting careless laundresses, seamstresses, milliners, models, craftsmen and minor cutthroats. It was joyful, old and well known by local people, who were coming there to flirt and have fun on Sunday evenings for only two sous.
None of his new friends; neither workers nor artists, paid attention to his face, which was very important to Erik. They asked about it only once, during dinner. Bruno, the roofer, brought an immediate silence when he asked Erik if it was his remain of war. However, when Erik assured them that he was born with it and that he had never been at war, the question got quickly forgotten in discussion about politics.
Even though Erik got to known a lot of different people, he wouldn’t be so happy on Montmartre if his old friend didn’t visit him. Nadir didn’t live on Montmartre, but he was dropping from time to time to Erik to listen to his stories about his new life. Sometimes even Erik managed to take him to some of his favorite places where over the glass of gin or cognac, they were remembering old times. Erik was always avoiding recalling memories connected to Christine so Nadir didn’t mention her at all, knowing that it’d be painful for his friend. However, it was he who persuaded Erik giving his old music scores to the publisher.
“You’ll loose nothing.” he told him one day. “And you can always earn some extra money for all those nightlife amusements you like so much. And if you succeed, you can start composing again - don’t forget you have a piano.”
“I think you influence me too much during last weeks, daroga.” replied Erik at first, but next afternoon, instead of going to Moulin de la Galette with Remy and Pierre, he went to his flat and started sorting his music scores.
But when only he glanced at first notes, his head started to fill with Christine’s voice, drawing memories, but he shut them out, humming with stubbornness the refrain of a popular cabaret song Ballad of the black cat. He skimmed through his music scores as quickly as he could and chose a few of them. Taking his coat, he went down the stairs of tenement house and hurried towards the publisher on Rue Lepic.
There was a short queue before the entrance. Erik was standing behind two men, waiting impatiently. The one who was just talking with the published was infuriated; he shouted and swore until the publisher intimidated him with the police. He left him and, still cursing under his mouth, began to walk away.
“Police…” he was muttering angrily “Police should see to people who want the others die of hunger instead of hunting a poor artist. Don’t go there, mon ami.” he said to Erik “Don’t waste your life. He just refused to publish my music. It’s the sixteenth time! Sixteenth! I’ve been counting since I came here a few years ago. ”
He muttered another bunch of curses and pulled out cigarettes, offering Erik one.
“I’m Frances.” he said. He didn’t seem older than Erik; he had to be around forty. He was wearing old, ragged clothes. He was unshaven and had slight wrinkles around his face.
Erik introduced himself to him, accepting a cigarette.
“Next, please!” called out the publisher suddenly. Erik passed him his bundle of music scores signed simply “Erik”.
“We’ll let you know by mail.” said the publisher and noted his name. “Your address, monsieur.”
“Rue Durantin 17. Flat number six.”
“We’ll see what can be done.”
“We’ll see what can be done.” mocked him Frances. “As if you ever checked those scores, you damn dandy!”
He cast him last hateful glance.
“I’ll never come here again.” he said to Erik “But maybe you’ll have more luck. Let’s hope so, mon ami. Well, I’m off to Chat Noir now. I play accordion. Drop in there sometimes, they serve awful beer but they have very good comedians.”
Erik nodded, smiling. Another talkative artist of Montmartre.
“Then see you tomorrow at Chat Noir!” Frances waved to him and disappeared in the crowd.
Erik sighed and threw away the cigarette stub. He went into the first bistro he stumbled upon and ordered a vegetable soup. As he was waiting for his meal, he noticed that the local was full of prostitutes. He didn’t have a watch, but it meant it was late. The waiter brought the soup. If that publisher won’t publish any of his scores, he’ll have to admit he lost half of day sorting tons of paper. He swallowed the soup and left money on the table.
He left the bistro and felt cold air on his cheeks. Though March had already begun, nights were still very chilly. He started heading towards Rue Durantin. The streets were empty now, everyone was either at home or in some café.
Suddenly he heard a hurried, frantic sound of heels clicking on the pavement. A graceful shape appeared from behind the corner of some house. A girl, most probably a streetwalker, run up to him.
“Please, monsieur…” she said breathlessly, squeezing his sleeve and added something feverishly in dialect he didn’t understand. Then she let him go and disappeared in darkness. She had to be somewhere close; he heard her breathing. Suddenly another person run to him. Erik heard the girl hold her breath.
“Where is she?” panted the policeman. “Have you seen that strumpet, monsieur?”
“Yes. Somebody has just passed me. She run that way, down Rue Lepic.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” said the policeman and hurried in the direction Erik pointed him.
The girl came out of her hide. She was wearing poor clothing; she had to be cold. Her eyes sparkled in the gaslight of a lantern.
“Thank you. That stupid arse almost had me.” Erik heard once again an accent typical for local people. She added more vulgar epithets to the policeman and with one swift move she pulled her hair back into a loose bun.
“What did he want from you?” asked Erik with mild concern.
“What they always want. He saw me talking with a man on the street and he wanted my book. You know, to see if I’m registered. I had to run away. I lost a good client because of him. Now I must look for another.”
She blinked at him seductively, smiling.
“You saved me, monsieur.” she whispered. “So you can have me for half of normal price. I promise I’ll be nice.”
Erik dug in his right pocket; his fingers found some coins.
“Let’s go for a drink.”
Title: La Butte
Pairing/Characters: Erik, Christine, Raoul, Nadir, OCs
Rating: R (for later chapters)
Phantom Version: mostly Susan Kay/Gaston Leroux
Warnings: none
Summary: Set two years after Christine’s departure (year 1883, according to Kay). Erik, fed up with loneliness, decides to live on the Montmartre. Between the carefree artists , he gets rid of sentiments and fixes on his work. Meanwhile, Christine feels trapped in her relationship with Raoul and longs for freedom. Will they be able to find themselves in the dangerous but vivid and thrilling whirl of Parisian life?
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom
Notes: Constructive criticism os welcomed :)
CHAPTER 1:
PROLOGUE
The Chagny Estate, Paris, 1883
Crying is weeping accompanied by intense emotion.
Christine’s eyes seemed to be made of glass. Motionless and fixed on the window. There was ice on it, a subtle frost pattern. She did not see it; her gaze was blank as she was lying on the couch. She wasn’t crying.
All the time in her mind were echoing only three words.
Don’t give up.
xxx
The vaults of the Opera Garnier, Paris, 1883
Erik wiped the keyboard of his organ. It wasn’t dusty at all. He wiped it because it was his habit. And an excuse to come to his study, to look through his old music notes, scribbles, drawings and designs, trying to force himself to any form of creativity.
His mind was worn-out; no new ideas, no inspiration. Shallowness.
CHAPTER 2:
A SINGLE SPARK
There are things you’ll never know; what it feels like to wander alone in the night. To watch the moths sticking to the lamps. To listen to the sound of an accordion from afar...
Or to open your eyes and take the first morning breath after a sleepless night. In the atmosphere of complete indifference.
There are things you’ll never know because I will never tell you.
Christine put her old diary off and sighed. These simple words she wrote over a year ago still remained true. The deepest recesses of her soul, her most private thoughts were never known by anyone but her. And never got to the paper again. It was the first and last page of her diary. She had neither the need nor the will to write more. She hadn’t willed to do anything at all. She was just sitting and waiting, though she didn’t know what for. Maybe for a day when she finally admits that she lost.
But she didn’t feel defeated. No… not yet. There was still a part of her that felt alive.
The very last reserve of her will fight.
xxx
Erik got up from his chair. What was that sound? Who dared to disturb him and to break the silence of his lonely contemplation? With mild curiosity, he took the Punjab lasso and made his way to the door of his underground house. The knocking on the wood was not only going on, but also becoming louder. Clutching the rope in his hands, he turned the key in the lock. The Punjab lasso swished in the air as the eyes of the Persian flickered in the dark. Erik drew his arm back, annoyed. The man standing before him looked too familiar to pretend he didn't recognise him.
"What are you doing here, daroga? I hoped to find an intruder and play Requiem for him." said Erik dryly.
"So, I'm not one of those intruders?" asked Nadir, bewildered.
"Of course you are, but unfortunately I have to spare your life. At least until you irritate me." snarled Erik, letting him in and putting off the Punjab lasso.
"I never know whether you are serious or not when you talk like this, Erik." said Nadir, smiling.
"Today," Erik reluctantly ushered his friend into the drawing room. "You can be sure I am absolutely serious. What do you want?"
"Erik, why are you always unkind to people who want to help you?" Nadir's voice sounded weary. He knew what Erik's reaction for his visit would be like. He knew Erik would act like this.
"Have a seat." he said sharply, ignoring Nadir’s question and lighting the samovar.
The Persian removed his cape and draped it over the back of a couch. He sat, gazing at cloths covering all mirrors in the room. Whenever he was there, these objects made him indescribably upset. Will Erik ever unclothe them?
Erik was standing silently on the side, waiting for the water to boil. He poured two porcelain cups and the room filled with the aroma of Russian black tea.
"So, what brings you here, daroga?" he asked indifferently, taking a seat opposite to him and passing him a tea cup. Nadir raised his eyebrows.
"I thought it was obvious." he said, taking a sip of tea. "Are you alright, Erik? You don't look very good."
The only response he received was a sigh. Erik was drinking his tea in silence, not even caring to look at him.
“Erik, can you hear me?”
“Don’t trouble my mind, daroga.”
Nadir examined his face hidden behind the mask carefully. He couldn’t see his expression, but he saw everything in his eyes. There was no anger or mute mockery any longer. Only deep sorrow and weariness.
“Erik, the last time I was here, which was about six months ago, I heard the same words.” he said calmly. He seemed to have unending patience for Erik. “Aren’t you going to change something? You can’t ponder about the past all your life.”
There was a long pause. Nadir, not taking his eyes of Erik’s face was waiting for response. This time his friend won’t get rid of him so easily. He needed help, but never wanted to accept it.
“Tell me daroga,” said Erik after a moment of silence “Did you get yourself a new wife? Or maybe you have new children?”
“I don’t want you to completely forget what happened,” started Nadir, a little taken-aback with such a response. “Look, I was thinking what to do to help you… at least a little.”
“I don’t need your help, daroga.” said Erik icily. “Neither yours nor anyone else’s. And now, please, go away. I’m tired.”
He put his cup off and started to head towards his study. Nadir clenched his fists.
“You’re always tired when I want to talk to you!” he said fiercely. “Listen to me at least this once!”
Erik stopped and turned around to look at him. There was an indescribable stubbornness in the Persian’s eyes.
“All right.” he said. Once again with a complete resignation in his voice. “Just make haste.”
“So, as I said, I thought up something.” started Nadir.
“Yes?” asked Erik with forced politeness.
Suddenly, when he was to tell him about it, Nadir lost his confidence. He looked at the white mask on Erik’s face and hesitated. Was it really as good idea as it seemed? Erik was living alone for so many years, after all… But if he never tells him, he’ll never know.
“Erik, I think you should move out of this place.”
CHAPTER 3:
DECISION
How dare he?! Erik’s first impulse was to kill Nadir. No matter how much he respected him. If only the Punjab lasso was within his grasp… Fortunately, he realized on time that the Persian wasn’t making fun of him. He was absolutely serious…
Now, when Erik was sitting alone is his room, he almost laughed at his irritability.
He had time to decide. Will he go out of the darkness and live among people? Never! - it was the answer he gave to his friend. But Nadir will come back soon and ask him the same question once again. What will he say then?
As the time was passing, Erik found himself thinking about it more and more. Of course, it was impossible. He would never be able to live like a normal man. He couldn’t even imagine it. House, windows, neighbours… buying bread and butter in the morning, looking at the rising sun, avoiding rain puddles on the street…and the sea of people… He shook his head. It wasn’t a life for him. But the more he was trying to deny it, the more he was realizing he wanted it. He hated his underground house. There were too many painful memories, too many objects that reminded him of the past. But he was still living there. Where else could he go? At least here, deep under the ground no one could find him, he was safe from people’s inquisitive gaze.
But wasn’t he already fed up with such life? This silence all around him was driving him mad. He wasn’t even able to compose or design anymore, he lost all inspiration that previously was poured into his heart with love for Christine. He felt old. Day by day, he was becoming more bored and weary.
And then suddenly his friend came to him and suggested him removal. He snorted. As if it was so easy. Or maybe it was easy, but he simply didn’t want to accept it? He only needed to find a house and pack some things, after all. He still had his old suitcase…
Erik smirked to himself. The older the stupider. Self-mockery became his best weapon against the dark hole of melancholy during his lonely years. But yet… he couldn’t shut out the thought of leaving this place, this life behind.
He set his gaze on the wall. No… he was wrong… it was possible. If Nadir, as he said, would find him a house… then why not? He could live in one of those beautiful districts in Paris. Maybe nearby Avenue des Champs-Elysees? Once again he felt a need to call himself an old fool. His skeleton face and the most popular place in France! A perfect match!
But suddenly something came to his mind. A strange, but rational thought. There was a place where he could live… the hill full of people living on the margin, outcasts, minor thieves… a perfect place for those who want to hide. Montmartre, called la Butte by Parisians.
A sudden hope burst in Erik’s heart. It was like he woke up from lethargy. He knew what he wanted. Now he knew it. He simply wanted to live consciously. He wasn’t just a marionette, for the first time he felt strong enough to fight his fate. He won’t hide and let life pass him by any longer. He still had so many things he wanted to do or see.
It all lasted far too long. Maybe a few years ago, he liked the idea of spending the rest of his life alone, isolated from the world. But things have changed. He realized that it was not possible. He wanted to know what it felt like to be an ordinary man; not a lonely genius or a shameless murderer.
He sat by his desk and took his pen. He wrote quickly some words on the paper, signed it O.G., as always and with peaceful joy, he placed a pile of francs in the envelope.
It was the beginning of changes in his life.
xxx
“Erik, are you serious?” asked Nadir once again with disbelief, but his face was cheerful.
“Why did you ask me is I want to move from here, daroga,” said Erik, smirking. “if you don’t want to accept a positive answer?”
Nadir shook his head.
“Don’t be silly, Erik. I’m just surprised. I thought you’d rather kill me than agree.”
“Well, I actually was to do so, but I changed my mind.” he said, putting back his cup of tea. He leaned back on the couch and sighed. “I want to be a free man, daroga. I can’t live here any longer.”
“I know, Erik.” said Nadir quietly. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”
Erik nodded.
“I want to move to Montmartre, you know.” he said after a moment. Nadir looked at him guardedly.
“Montmartre?” he asked “Do you think it’s a good place? Do you know it’s full of…outcasts…?”
“Of course I do! That’s why I chose it.” said Erik, a little irritated. “Have you been there lately?”
“Yes… about a week ago, I think. ”
“Are there many flats for rent?”
“Flats? Aren’t you going to buy yourself a house?” another surprise. Nadir never thought he’d hear something like this from Erik’s mouth.
“No.” replied Erik simply. “I don’t think I could afford it. I sent back all the money to the managers.”
For a moment, Nadir was completely speechless.
“Erik… you never cease to surprise me.” he said at last. “Why have you done it?”
Erik shrugged.
“Being an extortionist doesn’t amuse me any more, daroga.” he said. “Look, I want to move there as soon as it’s possible. Maybe even this week…”
“This week?”
“Oh, God! You have no idea what it feels like to have an opportunity to live like a normal man, daroga!” said Erik passionately. “I haven’t seen the daylight for months. You don’t understand it…”
Nadir smiled, looking at this outburst. Seeing his friend’s sudden enthusiasm was the best thing that happened this year. He calculated everything quickly in his head. One week should be enough, after all…
“No, Erik, I understand.” said Nadir after a while. “And it is possible. Finding a flat on Montmartre shouldn’t be a problem. There’s a lot of them. And they’re quite cheap, I think. But what really troubles my mind are your things. What are you going to do with your organ, furniture and everything? It all is far too big to take it to the flat. I’m afraid you’ll have to…” he trailed off. How was he to tell his friend that he should get rid of anything connected with his past life, the objects he loved? Erik was waiting for his to finish the sentence. “To sell most of them.”
There was a long pause between them. Erik wasn’t pleased with what he heard. Selling his organ would be like selling a part of his heart. It was so dear to him… It served him so well through all these years… But he couldn’t forget it was also the biggest and the most troublesome object in his house. Nadir was right, there was no other way. If he wanted to be free, he had to abandon sentiments and forget his past life. But still there was something that was keeping him from agreeing. He suddenly felt angry at himself. He hasn’t even started a new life and there already was an obstacle. No, he won’t think about it anymore. An organ is just an instrument, after all. An instrument of many sad memories he wanted to forget.
“I know.” he said eventually. “I’ll buy a piano instead.”
CHAPTER 4:
RUE DURANTIN 17
Erik threw himself into the whirl of preparations for his removal. There were so many things to do. He was sorting all things in his house, dividing them to two groups; those that he’ll take with him and those that he’ll have Nadir sold. He didn’t want to take many things. He only needed some clothes and his mask. Old furniture, sculptures, books, candlesticks, Persian carpets and tapestries were useless. Nadir was coming to him every day in the evening to take some of his possessions and sell them at Parisian markets, trying to bargain the best price for things so dear to his friend. Eventually in Erik’s underground house was left only his pipe organ and a packed suitcase.
“What now, Erik?” asked Nadir. “I found a man who wants to buy your organ.” Erik glanced at the shiny keyboard of his instrument. “He’s willing to pay…”
“I don’t care how much.” cut Erik sharply. “I’m not selling it. I have enough money to rent a flat.”
Nadir didn’t seem to be very surprised. Somehow he knew that in the end Erik will change his mind.
“It’s your choice.” he shrugged. “Then what are you going to do with it?”
“It will stay here. No one will find it, after all.” he said simply, closing the lock of his suitcase.
xxx
It was a middle February day. It was cold and the wind was nippy. Nobody would call this day beautiful. Nobody but Erik. Snow was creaking under his feet as he was going down Rue Tholoze, looking around himself. His eyes were bright and excited, his coat was gradually getting covered with snow, but he didn’t even bother to brush it off. Everything he saw today was fascinating him; from big houses and street lanterns to frozen clothes hanging on balconies. He was rambling around the hill of Montmartre, trying to find a flat to rent. Once in a while he was passed by a hurried man or a pensive woman. Nobody was really surprised to see a masked stranger. Such views were quite common on Montmarte. For the very first time Erik felt like someone who didn’t stand out from the crowd.
He looked at the street signpost. Rue Durantin. He saw a quite old, but nice tenement house on the left. It’s walls were covered with light plaster, grayed and weathered with age. There were dark blue shutters and red roof tile. Maybe this one, thought Erik and rang the doorbell.
The door opened and madame Badeau, the elderly rentier of the house at Rue Durantin 17 greeted him. She had a wrinkled face with thin lips and light blue piercing eyes.
“How can I help you, monsieur?” she asked, eying him. She stopped her gaze at his masked face for a moment, but said nothing.
“I’d like to see a flat. I saw a notice on the door plate. Is there any for rental?”
“Yes, monsieur. The one on third floor.”
Erik followed her up the stairs. They entered a big empty room with light gray walls and a small kitchen range in a niche. Erik smiled behind the mask, walking about the flat.
“I’d like to rent it.” he said eventually. “How much will the rental payment be?”
“Twenty two francs. When do you want to move here?”
Twenty two francs! Nadir was right; living on Montmartre was very cheap.
“Today.”
Even if madame Badeau was astonished by his response, she didn’t let it show.
“As you wish, monsieur.” she said.
“Here you are… money for this month. I have to go now to buy all I need.” said Erik taking twenty two francs from his pocket. “Thank you very much, madame.” he finished quickly, put his suitcase on the floor and turned to leave, but she stopped him.
“One more thing, monsieur.” she said. “Your name, please.”
Erik froze. For many years he didn’t feel like this; like a frightened child wanting to hide in shadow. Such a simple question… He dreamed he would be able to live like anyone else, but in this moment he thought that whatever he’d do, it was impossible. His face, his past and his inclination toward crime were a barrier that excluded him from the society. He glanced at his future rentier; his eyes caught her simple, neat dress, pinned up hair and hands holding a bunch of keys. She was such a typical elderly woman, the one that can be met everywhere... How much time must pass till he will be able to forget about everything that made him so… different?
Madame Badeau was waiting for his response, examining his masked face carefully with her pale eyes. He kept quiet.
“Eh bien?”
Silence.
“Monsieur, I’m not asking you what has happened before in your life, or what you escape from. I only need to know how to call you.” she said impatiently.
He took a deep breath.
“Erik.” he mumbled eventually, only waiting for the question about his mask. But, to his surprise, she didn’t ask about anything more. She noted neatly “Erik” and “February - 18 francs” in her old scrapbook and nodded.
“Alright then.” she said as she finished. “If you’re looking for cheap, but good furniture, you should go to Meubles on Rue Lepic. I hope life on Butte will be kind to you, monsieur. Good bye.”
xxx
Though the name “Meubles” was neither original nor sophisticated, Erik found what he was looking for. He bought a cheap bed, solid table, two wooden chairs and a desk. Next he went to an instruments manufacturer and arranged a transport of a piano. It was very simple, without any useless ornaments, but had a good tone.
Erik visited also markets and bought some bread, potatoes, eggs, coffee and tea.
When he came back to his just rented flat, he started to settle down in his room. There was a lot of free space that he couldn’t fill with four pieces of furniture. He placed his bed in one corner of the room, the desk in another and the table with the chairs in the center. All his clothes stayed unpacked in the suitcase. He took from there his old drawings, sketches, music scores, some paper, pencils and ink and put it all on the desk. And when food found it’s place on the big table, he lighted his old samovar and threw beans into the pot with water. Then he hung the cooking pan above the range and smashed three eggs. When the process of preparing his dinner was over, he sat by the table and started eating, looking out the window at roofs of Parisian buildings gradually sinking in darkness of a winter evening.
But the next day, things didn’t look as beautiful as the day before. He woke in the cold room before the sunrise. As he opened his eyes, he needed a few seconds to remember where he was. Groping, he found the gas lamp and went to the kitchen range. Only when the room filled with warmth, he dressed up and drank black coffee. Then he pulled out everything he had in his pocket, he realized that more than half of his money went for yesterday’s shopping. And he still had to buy some clothes, because he had only his elegant suit. He sighed and put back and put off a few francs and the rest left in the drawer of his desk. He would have to save money now.
He wasn’t hungry, so he decided to have a walk to see how Montmartre looked in early morning hours. On his way down the stairs he met madame Badeau with curl papers in her hair and fireplace shovel in her hand.
“Good morning madame!” he greeted with enthusiasm that surprised him. Madame Badeau returned his greeting and pointing that he is an early riser, she invited him for a cup of tea. He followed her to the small drawing room.
“Have a seat, monsieur.” she said and disappeared behind the door to, as Erik supposed, a kitchen.
He sat down on one of two surprisingly uncomfortable carved armchairs and looked around himself. The room was very clean and was furnished quite simply. Although there were many trashy landscape paintings on the walls and an old oak sideboard was full of porcelain sets of all colors and patterns imaginable.
Madame Badeau came back in few minutes carrying a tray with two porcelain cups on saucers and a pot full of hot tea. The cup she passed Erik was white with blue flower patter and gilded lip.
“It seemed, monsieur, you asked about work on Montmartre.” she said, sitting on another armchair and taking a sip of her tea. “You see, it depends what kind of work you’re looking for.”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe masonry or work in the factory or mine… I have to start with something. ” he replied.
“Masonry? Then maybe Sacré Coeur construction?
“I actually thought about it. It’s not very far from here, is it?”
“No monsieur. And if you catch a fast cocher, it shouldn’t take too much time.”
Erik mused for a moment. He could make a living from working as a simple mason. Though it sounded quite odd; an elder, experienced architect who designed the Opera Garnier, was to smear his fingers with mortar instead of inspecting the work of others.
“Monsieur?” madame Badeau’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Would you like to try my gateau au chocolat?
CHAPTER 5:
NEW NAMES AND PLACES
Next day Erik got up early in the morning, ate a quick breakfast and hurried down the stairs. It was the first day of his work. Fastening his flannel shirt, he didn’t notice madame Badeau carrying a copper coal hod. She was standing at the bottom of stairs, looking at him attentively.
“Ah! Monsieur Erik!” she greeted him when he approached.
Erik raised his head and met her gaze. His heart stopped. His mask stayed on the desk in his flat. He went out only for a moment to check what the weather was like. He was sure that so early in the morning everyone was still sleeping. Madame Badeau’s gaze was now studying his exposed pale face. His green, hollow eyes were glistening in the darkness of the staircase; blue veins were shining through his thin skin. His deep cheeks gave him the look of an extremely haggard man.
“Good morning, madame.” said Erik eventually in resigned tone, cursing in thoughts his stupidity. But on her face was no fear, no disgust or pity. She stayed indifferent as if it was an everyday view.
“So were you monsieur at Sacre-Coeur yesterday?” she asked, putting the hod on the floor. She wiped her hands on apron and rolled up her sleeves. Those simple actions surprised Erik; she really wasn’t astonished by his appearance.
“Yes.” he replied, still impressed by her reaction. “I signed up for today’s shift and now I’m going to begin my work.”
“So early? Oh, those people are cruel… ” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “Well monsieur, have a nice day at work.”
“Thank you, madame.” Erik turned on his heel to go back for his mask.
“But monsieur, aren’t you going to work?” she stopped him.
“I forgot something.”
She paused for a moment.
“Monsieur, I am never so impertinent, but…” she began hesitantly “But if this is the cause you wear a mask, you can throw it away.”
She took her hod and disappeared behind the door of her drawing room, leaving Erik taken aback and sunken in thoughts. He didn’t take his mask.
xxx
Erik rubbed his hands together to warm them up and then hid them deep in the pockets of his thick jacket. He was going to the building site of Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, the same road as a week ago when he went to sign up for a shift. It was five o’clock and it was still dark outside. Gloomy streets were enshrouded in cold morning fog. It was raining in the night so there were many puddles on the pavement. Montmartre was waking up lazily for another winter day. The air was filled with voices of tradesmen. Women wrapped in woolen shawls were bargaining for bread and fish; laundresses and seamstresses were rushing to work. Nobody looked at him as if he was a monster. Just like madame Badeau, they glanced at him with indifference, absorbed in their own lives. He trusted her age and long living on Montmartre experience and he did not regret. Parisians were accustomed to seeing all kinds of people. Erik never expected it; he’d never think that anyone could look at him and not scream or run away. It suddenly showed up that he didn’t have to hide beneath the opera. He could have simply come to Montmartre. He felt strange; like everything he had done in his life was not necessary. There so many people with deformed faces; they were ill or the were veterans… Maybe he really never had to hide from the world?
Erik turned up his collar and hastened his pace. It was one week since he started working at the Sacre-Coeur construction. His work wasn’t as easy as he thought at the beginning. The design of new basilica was very complex and there was a lot of to do every day. Workers were in the process of framing since two years already. Such a huge building needed a lot of time. Erik already passed Place du Tertre and massive scaffoldings of Sacre Coeur began to appear in gray fog. He heard first sounds of workers’ voices; his eyes caught small silhouettes pushing barrows full of bricks. Bricklayers, stonemasons, roofers and dozens of other people were already beginning their work.
He passed the unsteady wooden barrier separating unwary Parisians from the building site. He was at once assigned to work by Gautier Ames, the grim construction inspector. Greeting by his way those workers he already knew by name with a quick hand wave, he hurried to get tools.
xxx
“How about going for a dinner with us, Erik?” asked Karl, one of bricklayers one day when they finished their work. “You’re new on Montmartre, we can show you the best places. I’m not going for dinner home. I saw my wife cooking beans today. It’s awful.”
It was how Erik’s social life began. Since this memorable day, he was no longer eating breakfast alone in his flat. Every morning he was meeting with workers in a bistro where they ordered a cheap meal. None of them had a wife who’d be upset if they didn’t eat at home. After breakfast they were going to Sacre-Coeur construction to work hard for five hours. Then there was a short dinner break when they could rest, smoke cigarettes and curse their construction inspector or cold weather. But the break was quickly over and they had to go back to work. At three o’clock they were getting their daily wage and signing up - or not - for the next day shift. Then some of them were going straight home, to the arms of their longing wives and the rest was choosing a bistro to go. Erik was always in the second group, which usually formed of four or five persons, depending on what dish was Karl’s wife to serve at home.
“She’s a wonderful cook, believe me.” he was always repeating “But some of her dishes are simply disgusting.”
Their dinners at bistros lasted usually a few hours; they were always accompanied by discussion, jokes and, of course, smoking cigarettes. Erik quickly grew to like those simple-hearted and cheerful people, as well as the atmosphere of Montmartre bistros. However, his favorite places he visited in the evenings and only occasionally. Cafes were full of all sorts of people; from poor Gypsies playing cards and drunk prostitutes to artists with ruffled hair discussing and arguing about art and women. When only Erik’s small wage let him, he was spending evenings in such places. His, as well, as his new friends’ first choice was Café de la Nouvelle Athenes, called shortly La Nouvelle. It was a famous and quite cheap café on Rue Pigalle. No matter what the time was, it was always noisy in there. Smoke was floating above the heads of visitors, glasses were knocking and people were discussing extremely loudly. Montmartre painters waving theirs hands, gesturing and shouting were trying to persuade their opinions. Or if they weren’t in mood for arguing, they were simply cursing paintings sellers, critics and public. In the meantime musicians kept exchanging their views on Chopin or Berlioz, complaining about music publishers and writers were flirting with young girls, charming them with lyricism.
Erik and his friends always occupied the table in the corner where they had had good view to the whole café from. They liked Erik, though he didn’t know why. Maybe because he never talked very much and always listened to their stories that the others found boring; surprisingly it was his reserve that broke the wall of distrust to stranger. For him everything was interesting and exciting; after so many years of loneliness he began to treasure company. He got to known a lot of people in La Nouvelle. When he told one day that he used to be a composer and an architect, they mentioned dozens of artists they knew and introduced them to him. It was how he met Pierre, Remy and Rene.
Pierre and Remy were young painters studying at Academie des Beaux Arts. They were full of hopes for their future artistic career and there was still some of boyish naivety in them. They could talk about women for hours and never get bored of it.
Rene was a painter, too, but he was one of those who didn’t succeed. All of his works had been constantly refused by all critics and one day, when he lost patience and money, he decided to finish his artistic career. Now he was earning for life painting shutters.
When only he started to spend time in company of artists, he visited a lot of new places. In late evenings, when his friends from Sacre-Coeur construction had to come back home to get enough sleep to be able to work next day and earn for bread, the life on Montmartre was just beginning. He got used to spending half of nights in fuggy cabarets and dancehalls, drinking, smoking, watching dancing couples or listening to artists singing their romantic ballads. Moulin de la Galette was the dancehall that he visited most frequently. It was attracting careless laundresses, seamstresses, milliners, models, craftsmen and minor cutthroats. It was joyful, old and well known by local people, who were coming there to flirt and have fun on Sunday evenings for only two sous.
None of his new friends; neither workers nor artists, paid attention to his face, which was very important to Erik. They asked about it only once, during dinner. Bruno, the roofer, brought an immediate silence when he asked Erik if it was his remain of war. However, when Erik assured them that he was born with it and that he had never been at war, the question got quickly forgotten in discussion about politics.
Even though Erik got to known a lot of different people, he wouldn’t be so happy on Montmartre if his old friend didn’t visit him. Nadir didn’t live on Montmartre, but he was dropping from time to time to Erik to listen to his stories about his new life. Sometimes even Erik managed to take him to some of his favorite places where over the glass of gin or cognac, they were remembering old times. Erik was always avoiding recalling memories connected to Christine so Nadir didn’t mention her at all, knowing that it’d be painful for his friend. However, it was he who persuaded Erik giving his old music scores to the publisher.
“You’ll loose nothing.” he told him one day. “And you can always earn some extra money for all those nightlife amusements you like so much. And if you succeed, you can start composing again - don’t forget you have a piano.”
“I think you influence me too much during last weeks, daroga.” replied Erik at first, but next afternoon, instead of going to Moulin de la Galette with Remy and Pierre, he went to his flat and started sorting his music scores.
But when only he glanced at first notes, his head started to fill with Christine’s voice, drawing memories, but he shut them out, humming with stubbornness the refrain of a popular cabaret song Ballad of the black cat. He skimmed through his music scores as quickly as he could and chose a few of them. Taking his coat, he went down the stairs of tenement house and hurried towards the publisher on Rue Lepic.
There was a short queue before the entrance. Erik was standing behind two men, waiting impatiently. The one who was just talking with the published was infuriated; he shouted and swore until the publisher intimidated him with the police. He left him and, still cursing under his mouth, began to walk away.
“Police…” he was muttering angrily “Police should see to people who want the others die of hunger instead of hunting a poor artist. Don’t go there, mon ami.” he said to Erik “Don’t waste your life. He just refused to publish my music. It’s the sixteenth time! Sixteenth! I’ve been counting since I came here a few years ago. ”
He muttered another bunch of curses and pulled out cigarettes, offering Erik one.
“I’m Frances.” he said. He didn’t seem older than Erik; he had to be around forty. He was wearing old, ragged clothes. He was unshaven and had slight wrinkles around his face.
Erik introduced himself to him, accepting a cigarette.
“Next, please!” called out the publisher suddenly. Erik passed him his bundle of music scores signed simply “Erik”.
“We’ll let you know by mail.” said the publisher and noted his name. “Your address, monsieur.”
“Rue Durantin 17. Flat number six.”
“We’ll see what can be done.”
“We’ll see what can be done.” mocked him Frances. “As if you ever checked those scores, you damn dandy!”
He cast him last hateful glance.
“I’ll never come here again.” he said to Erik “But maybe you’ll have more luck. Let’s hope so, mon ami. Well, I’m off to Chat Noir now. I play accordion. Drop in there sometimes, they serve awful beer but they have very good comedians.”
Erik nodded, smiling. Another talkative artist of Montmartre.
“Then see you tomorrow at Chat Noir!” Frances waved to him and disappeared in the crowd.
Erik sighed and threw away the cigarette stub. He went into the first bistro he stumbled upon and ordered a vegetable soup. As he was waiting for his meal, he noticed that the local was full of prostitutes. He didn’t have a watch, but it meant it was late. The waiter brought the soup. If that publisher won’t publish any of his scores, he’ll have to admit he lost half of day sorting tons of paper. He swallowed the soup and left money on the table.
He left the bistro and felt cold air on his cheeks. Though March had already begun, nights were still very chilly. He started heading towards Rue Durantin. The streets were empty now, everyone was either at home or in some café.
Suddenly he heard a hurried, frantic sound of heels clicking on the pavement. A graceful shape appeared from behind the corner of some house. A girl, most probably a streetwalker, run up to him.
“Please, monsieur…” she said breathlessly, squeezing his sleeve and added something feverishly in dialect he didn’t understand. Then she let him go and disappeared in darkness. She had to be somewhere close; he heard her breathing. Suddenly another person run to him. Erik heard the girl hold her breath.
“Where is she?” panted the policeman. “Have you seen that strumpet, monsieur?”
“Yes. Somebody has just passed me. She run that way, down Rue Lepic.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” said the policeman and hurried in the direction Erik pointed him.
The girl came out of her hide. She was wearing poor clothing; she had to be cold. Her eyes sparkled in the gaslight of a lantern.
“Thank you. That stupid arse almost had me.” Erik heard once again an accent typical for local people. She added more vulgar epithets to the policeman and with one swift move she pulled her hair back into a loose bun.
“What did he want from you?” asked Erik with mild concern.
“What they always want. He saw me talking with a man on the street and he wanted my book. You know, to see if I’m registered. I had to run away. I lost a good client because of him. Now I must look for another.”
She blinked at him seductively, smiling.
“You saved me, monsieur.” she whispered. “So you can have me for half of normal price. I promise I’ll be nice.”
Erik dug in his right pocket; his fingers found some coins.
“Let’s go for a drink.”