Unmasked (2 page)

To my surprise and joy, I discovered that
this was not a cellar, but a foyer into yet another room. I
continued along this path, my hands in front of me as far as they
could reach, until I came upon a room with a door at the far end.
My eyes were by now well adjusted to the darkness, and there was a
dim glow emanating from beneath the door. The doorknob turned
freely, and my eyes beheld candles.

It is a mortifying sensation when one arrives
at a conclusion that should have been patently obvious. Such was my
regret when I realized what a perilous predicament I was in. It was
then, and only then, that it occurred to me that the rumors about
the infamous Phantom lurking beneath the Opera might not have been
exaggerated. The juxtaposition of fresh candles and spent ones made
it clear that whoever inhabited the
se depths had been here for some time.

A curious smell pervaded the room. My
terrified imagination immediately suggested that it was the smell
of death. After the initial horror passed, however, I realized that
it was actually the foul stench of stagnant water. I looked down
and found that I had been standing on a ledge overlooking a
seemingly interminable channel of bilge water. Across the fetid
channel, pedestal candelabra were perched on a narrow precipice,
much like the one upon which I stood. The faint light of the
candles did little to dispel the thick soup of darkness, but their
flickering reflections danced upon the surface of the water like
stars, giving the impression that earth and sky had reversed their
positions.

“Who is there?” A deep voice called out from
the darkness.

My heart froze.

“What purpose have you here?” it demanded,
its anger resonating upon the ancient stone walls.

A numbing cold paralyzed my limbs, and I
began to shiver. I opened my mouth to answer the presence, but no
sound emerged.

“You dare ignore me?” The disembodied voice
seemed to travel around the room. I thought only of escape, but my
legs were senseless.

“Your silence will follow you to your grave!”
This time, hot breath fell upon my neck.

I whirled around, and It was there.

It was a ghastly spectre, a hideous white
mask hovering above a cloak of black. It loomed high above me, and
I reeled backwards to flee the terrifying phantasm. In my horror, I
forgot the ledge, and with an overdue shriek, I plunged into the
murky water.

The cold, heavy water stabbed me like a
thousand blades. I kicked wildly, my feet seeking purchase but
finding none. Unable to swim, I tore at the surface of the water,
and I made it up for a gasp of air. But my feet quickly became
entangled in the folds of my skirts, and I sank again. The heavy
fabric clung mercilessly to my legs, immobilizing them further. A
tightness squeezed my lungs, forcing me to gasp. Rancid water
filled my mouth, and my arms beat the water more wildly than
before. From beneath the water, my eyes flew heavenward. The
apathetic, unfeeling mask looked down upon me, its visage distorted
in the colliding ripples. A sleepiness overtook me, and closing my
eyes, I gave myself to the darkness.

The mind is a strange thing. Even in the
throes of mortal dread, images can take shape. I had a dream that I
had died in the water, and an angel dressed in black fell in the
water with me. His lovely face was porcelain white, and he lifted
me in his black wings and carried me to heaven. The angel placed me
in a golden bed, and I slept and slept and slept.

It was in the midst of this dream that I
awoke. My eyes fluttered open, and I thought myself to be in
heaven. I stirred in the bed, and took a deep breath. A coughing
fit wracked my body, and the dull pain in my chest convinced me I
was not spirit, but corporeal still. The air sputtering out of my
lungs tasted foul, like old garbage, and I was forced to suppress a
wave of nausea. When the spasms had subsided, I wiped the warm
tears from my eyes and looked around.

The bed on which I lay was draped with sheets
of smooth blue satin. A net of sheerest voile hung from somewhere
above the bedpost and cascaded all around the bed. Through it, I
could see rich Persian fabrics adorning the walls. Scattered about
the room was the most ornate furniture I have ever seen; it seemed
more theatrical than merely luxurious. The air was filled with a
sweet fragrance, which no doubt emanated from the bouquet of fresh
gardenias resting on the bedside table. My surroundings reminded me
of a Turkish harem, for I had read of such places. Spread upon the
bed was a woman’s dressing gown – elegant but garish, like a
costume. I called out, but no one answered. Hastily, I peeled off
my wet dress. I retained my undergarments, still damp but warm, and
poured the gown around me, grateful for its concealing thickness. I
then pulled back the heavy curtains, for there was no door, and
ventured out.

The Phantom was there.

It stood in the center of the room, a
profusion of candles illuminating the stern-looking mask.

“Are you well?” It asked, with a hint of
concern that was hard to ignore.

“Yes, thank you,” I heard myself respond.

It turned around, and began to pour something
out of a bottle. I stole the opportunity to study this strange
creature more. Its black hair was straight and combed flat against
its head. The cloak was gone; what remained were an impeccable
black tailcoat and trousers, and a snow-white cravat. Its clothes
suggested a fashion of an earlier decade, as if time had stopped on
a single day long ago. It was tall, perhaps extraordinarily so, and
it was possessed of a physique that was as striking as it was
masculine. Here was no spectre; this was a man.

He turned back towards me and drew near.
Nervously, I clutched my gown to my bosom and took a step back.
Towering over me, he stopped at arm’s length and held out a crystal
goblet. Now that he was so near, I had hoped to see his face. Alas
for me, I stood in shadow, and now so did he.

“Drink this,” he said, that strange voice
echoing in this vast chamber. With trembling fingers, I took the
proffered glass.

He remained there, that frightening white
mask glowing even in this dark corner, looking down upon me. I
brought the goblet to my lips and drank. The brandy burned as it
went down, but it filled me with a suffused warmth that at once
dispelled the preternatural chill and calmed my frayed nerves.

I returned the glass and thanked him, but he
merely turned and walked toward the tray.

“Monsieur, if you please, what am I doing
here?”

Though he was turned away, I could see him
tense. “That is the very question I should like to put to you,
mademoiselle.”

I blushed hotly, thankful he could not see
me.

“Draw near the light.” His commanding tone
brooked no refusal, so I obeyed. “Tell me your name.”

I did so. The mask, frozen in a perpetual
scowl, covered almost his entire face, exposing only his mouth and
chin.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle de Sauvoigny, who sent
you to spy upon me? And I warn you, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I stared at the glowering face with growing
panic. “No one, monsieur. I was lost. One moment I was in the
theatre, and the next I was…here.”

“You do not convince me, mademoiselle, for
you are plainly leaving out a great deal. What brought you down
here?”

There was much I did not want to tell this
man, particularly the information he sought. I was resolved not to
confess the frightful ridiculing I underwent in the opera pit.

“There is nothing to tell, monsieur. I was
taking a stroll about the opera house, and before I knew it, I was
in an unfamiliar wing. I could not find my way back, and so…”

His voice boomed across the room like the
roar of a lion. “Do not toy with me, young woman, or you shall find
yourself lost forever!”

I shook as his anger pulsed through me, and
for the second time that day, I began to cry.

Then the most extraordinary thing happened.
He flew to my side and bent his head until his mask was but inches
away from my face. Staring keenly into my eyes, he murmured with a
hint of discovery, “Pain…not fear in your eyes…but pain…”

“Please, monsieur, it is nothing,” I said as
I wiped my face, uncomfortable he could read me so. My pain and my
humiliation had always been unwelcome companions, but familiar
ones. Even so, they were an intimate part of me, as much as my
breasts or my thighs, and I never let others see them.

“Share it with me,” he said.

It was what I had longed for as long as I
could remember – someone with whom to commiserate. A troubled
spirit is a bane to anyone, but infinitely more so to one who must
endure it alone. Now that I had an audience, however, I still could
not unburden myself. Humiliation is an insidious torture. It is, by
its nature, a solitary punishment. To share the pain is to divulge
its source, and that is unthinkable.

“I cannot.”

“There is no need to hide your feelings here,
mademoiselle. This underground kingdom is both a monument to pain
and a sanctuary from it. I assure you, whatever troubles you will
not plague you here.”

At that moment, the stinging humiliation, the
loneliness, and yes, the pain – all vanished. In that horrible,
magical instant, a current of understanding passed between us. I
felt as if some great chasm had been spanned, as another human soul
reached out to touch mine.

“It should be fairly obvious, monsieur,” I
said with my well-practiced, self-deprecating laugh. “I am fat as a
pig. I roll like an ale casket. I cause earthquakes when I walk to
market…” Even as I spoke these words, taunts I had heard a million
times, they rang hollow to me, and I realized that this was not at
all what made me sad. In the candor of the moment, I felt foolish
hiding underneath the epithets that others hurled at me. “And I
find that I do not like people very much.”

In the silence between us, the wind groaned
through the catacombs, sounding for all the world like a suffering
animal.

“What have they done to
you
?” The
tenderness in his voice reached out to me.

I whispered my response.

“They made me into a monster.”

The Phantom arched slowly, as if someone had
plunged a dagger into his back. His ragged breath fell from his
lips. I hung my head, afraid to show my face. The confession of my
ugliness stripped me of what little pride I had remaining, and I
suddenly felt excruciatingly naked. I had given something away that
I could never take back.

His hand reached under my chin and tilted my
face upwards. The sensation of his warm fingertips electrified me;
no man had ever touched me, let alone in so familiar a fashion. He
shook his head.

“With each passing age, I become more amazed
with humanity, and yet more horrified by humans. How callous they
have become to demonize one so undeserving. You have said it,
mademoiselle: monsters are not born, but made. By the scorn of
others for faults unworthy of contempt. Pity those who look upon
you with hatred.”

Pity? I had heard many things about the
nefarious Phantom of the Opera, but pity did not characterize any
of them. Wasn’t this the person who murdered dozens of people over
a possessive infatuation with a beautiful opera singer? Isn’t this
the man who punished with death anyone who dared ridicule or even
countermand him? And yet I keenly felt the absence of his
fingertips on my face.

“How can I have pity, monsieur, when they
take such pleasure in hurting me?”

He handed me a white kerchief from inside his
sleeve, and I dutifully wiped my tears. “Out of the overflow of the
heart the mouth speaks. They take pleasure only in distracting
others from noticing their own hideousness. Take pity, for their
ugliness goes far deeper than the one for which they fault
you.”

As I considered the truth of his words, I
marveled at the man who was speaking them. I would never have
ascribed this resigned demeanor and benevolent wisdom to the
Phantom of the Opera. Even though it had been some time since any
acts of savagery had been reported – ten years, in fact, since I
had learned about the infamous incident of the opera house
chandelier, which he sent crashing down upon the audience,
shredding dozens in a bloody rage – this man’s reputation remained
a menacing one. And yet, if he were capable of doing the things
described in those stories, why would he have saved my life?

“I have prepared a bath for you in the
alcove, through that doorway. I will find something dry for you to
wear. We will take dinner in an hour.”

Bath. Dinner. After the events I had endured,
my mind found it difficult to wrap itself around such ordinary
words. Numbly, I let him lead me to the alcove. Its door was thick
and locked from the inside. Thankful now for the darkness, I
undressed and stepped into the rose-scented bath, and eagerly
washed the noxious water out of my hair.

The Phantom had laid out a dress of rich
green velvet, which fit me well enough though there were no mirrors
to judge my appearance. When I was ready, he led me into a small
salon with two chairs and an ornate mahogany dining table. Although
the ancient stone walls were still heavy with the stench of the
lagoon, the furnishings bespoke taste and a flair for elegant
design.

I wondered where all the food had come from,
but I did not ask. There were platters filled with many different
kinds of dishes, and my mouth watered at the aromas. He seated me
at one end of the table and himself at the other. I found to my
consternation that he had an irritating habit of choosing the
darkest corners, so now I was surrounded by light, but again he was
hidden from view.

“There are no servants here, so you must
serve yourself.”