by D B Nielsen
Bloodless lips pulled back in a replica of a smile and I felt a chill far worse than swimming in the ocean on a winter’s day run through me.
Turning to Gabriel in agitation, I said, ‘Oh my God! Look over there!’, pointing at the spot where Louis was seated.
My heart was thudding in my chest as Gabriel leant forward, shifting his body weight in his seat, arm casually resting on the velvet railing, to get a better view.
I had reacted instinctively but, now, feeling rising anxiety, it occurred to me that it might not have been a good idea to call attention to the presence of the Rephaim. Remembering my only other experience of when the Anakim and Rephaim had clashed in the woods and the devastation afterwards, made me realise that an encounter between Gabriel and Louis at this moment would have dreadful consequences if they chose to fight in public. I really hoped that Gabriel would be able to hold onto his hidden, well-banked temper.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at, chouchou?’ Gabriel queried, politely.
I gave a start. But as I followed Gabriel’s gaze to where I had pointed, Louis had disappeared. In his place was a young man with similar pale blond hair but clearly not Louis Gravois, sitting beside a lovely brunette in a blood red gown.
‘C’est une belle robe,’ Gabriel murmured, ‘Vintage Thierry Mugler, I believe. A truly beautiful dress. You have good taste, Saffron; an eye for beauty and detail.’
It was indeed a beautiful dress, but that wasn’t what I had been meaning to draw his attention towards. Frustrated and still feeling unsettled, I continued searching the crowd for signs of the Rephaim, but I didn’t see Louis anywhere.
Could I have been mistaken? Was my imagination getting the better of me?
Finally dismissing what I believed I saw as unbelievable, a trick of the light perhaps or a product of my imagination, I focused again on the brunette’s stunning evening gown like a blood stain flowing to the carpet.
I sighed wistfully. Gabriel was right in some ways – I did like pretty, feminine clothes, but only because they appealed to the aesthete in me. Yet I preferred vintage designer clothing of the kind found in the Hollywood films of the 1950s, such as those worn by Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor and Grace Kelly. Mum’s sister, Aunt Lily, a theatrical costume designer, understood my passion. She often scoured her sources for vintage Chanel and Dior pieces for me, like the dress I would have worn to my high school Formal, which would have been perfect for tonight’s visit to the ballet.
Gabriel was still leaning casually against the balcony’s railing, striking a pose of insouciance. To any ordinary onlooker, he would have seemed just another patron, though evidently showing signs of boredom and impatience from the rapid drumming of his fingers against the barrier’s red velvet covering. But, from the set of his jaw and the tightness of his shoulders, I alone could tell that he was as tense as a jaguar ready to spring into action.
Perhaps he had seen Louis Gravois, after all. Though why he’d pretended otherwise didn’t make any sense to me. He was way too cunning for my liking.
Turning to look Gabriel directly in the eye, I stated, ‘I think you’re a bit of a fraud, Gabriel Chevalier. I think you like to be seen as simply a decadent hedonist, a ne’er-do-well, with your looks and your charm and your “devil may care” attitude ... But it’s all a lie, isn’t it? Who are you really, Gabriel? And what is it that you’re really trying to hide? That you’re not as indifferent or as idle or as shallow as you lead people to believe?’
Once I had begun, I couldn’t stop. It was as if I’d had an epiphany and, from the imperceptible stiffening of my companion, I could tell I had hit my mark.
Gabriel leant into me, until his nose was almost touching mine. To anyone watching we may have been lovers, but I felt a slight quiver of unease as I looked into his light-filled eyes. I suddenly saw him as if he were as human as the rest of us mere mortals, yet I knew that he was something else – something that had been born out of the fastness of light into time.
I could not move. I could not breathe. And, as his eyes met mine, he seemed to read my thoughts. Silver-grey washed through me.
And then, as quick as it had begun, it was over. His eyes released me, and I could move again.
He chose to ignore my previous questioning, changing tactic.
‘Tonight’s performance is one of the most popular ballets performed at the Opéra Garnier, Coppélia,’ he informed me, leaning in to whisper in my ear. His voice was smooth and sweet sounding, trickling from tempting ruby lips. ‘Do you know of it?’
Never having been to the ballet before, I shook my head. ‘No, I’ve never even heard of it.’
Gabriel’s unusual coloured eyes held a teasing light. ‘You will love it – if Frankenstein reveals the darker side of a scientist who creates life, then Coppélia is the light side. Oui, oui, oui. There is dash of romance, and a touch of magic. And you will adore the gypsy costumes. It should appeal to you very much.’
I felt the blood congeal in my veins. His words were ominous. He’d hinted last night when dropping me off at St. John’s apartment that he’d been keeping an eye on me. He obviously knew about the gypsy fortune-teller, which meant he knew about the incident with Finn. Was this another warning that I should stay away from him?
From somewhere beyond the auditorium a bell began to ring informing theatre patrons to take their seats.
‘Tell me, Gabriel,’ I asked, suddenly suspicious, ‘why are we here tonight?’
Something shifted in his eyes momentarily but was gone too fast for me to gauge. Instead, his lips lifted in mockery. ‘Bah, we’re here to watch the ballet, of course.’
There was no besting him.
I may have said more, pushed a little harder for a proper answer, but just at that moment the overhead lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the first note of the Prelude et Mazurka and the ballet began.
And I was lost.
Transported into another world, I sat on the edge of my seat, enraptured. Despite claiming I didn’t much care for ballet, I was mistaken. The story of Coppélia unfolded before my eyes – of a mysterious and faintly diabolical inventor, Doctor Coppélius, who creates a human-sized doll. The doll is so lifelike that Franz, a village swain, becomes infatuated with it, and sets aside his true heart’s desire, Swanhilde. But the clever Swanhilde shows Franz his folly by dressing as the doll and pretending to come to life, followed later by a romantic reconciliation and wedding bells.
I had no recognition of time passing; the theatre and all worldly distractions had fallen away. I only remembered my charming companion when, half way through the Second Act, Gabriel tapped me lightly on the shoulder to call my attention.
‘C’est l’heure! It’s time!’ Placing his fingers to his lips, he gestured for me to follow him. I was loath to leave the world of Coppélia behind, but I was equally curious to know what Gabriel was up to.
Sliding silently from my seat, I slowly made my way to the back of Box Five as Gabriel pulled the red velvet curtain closed behind us.
‘What’s going on?’ I hissed beneath my breath as Gabriel assisted me into my woollen overcoat.
Gabriel’s silver-grey eyes shone wickedly in the dim light.
‘Subterfuge,’ was his only reply as he placed a strong hand against the delicate, ornate carvings of the enormous marble column which separated Box Five from the stage-box, his fingers sliding beneath one of the sculpted decorations, which gave the illusion of being solid marble, and pressed.
The mechanism gave a soft click, and it was possible to hear a very faint whirring as if a turnstile was springing to life after a long period of inactivity, the ropes and pulleys and wooden spokes and counterweights creaking into place. Then slowly, on silent hinges, the entire marble column rotated before me to reveal, in its dark hollow, a small wooden platform between vertical rails, enough to fit two grown men.
‘Ladies first,’ Gabriel whispered, standing aside.
I looked at him questioningly but, when he did
n’t even so much as bat an eyelid, I realised he was serious. Gathering my courage I stepped onto the wooden platform, wrinkling my nose as I noted the musty smell of rising damp and rot off the floorboards that permeated the inside of the hollow pillar.
‘Are you ready for an adventure?’ Gabriel murmured cryptically as, stepping into the narrow, claustrophobic space beside me, the column rotated once more, enclosing us in darkness.
I felt stifled in the airless space and wanted desperately to sneeze from the smell of mould tickling my nostrils but managed to hold it back. Hearing a match being struck, the cavity blazed with sudden illumination as Gabriel lit the small lantern hanging above our heads. The smell was pungent – a mix of sulphur and lime – but I was too ecstatic to complain, despite the way it made my eyes water.
‘Oh my God! Sweet! It’s just like National Treasure when they go beneath Trinity Church,’ I whispered, clutching Gabriel’s arm in excitement.
The enormous marble column was deceiving. In fact, it housed a dumbwaiter system. I would have done a little dance of joy if I could but, apart from there being no room to manoeuvre on the small wooden platform, I didn’t think Gabriel would have been too impressed.
Removing his tuxedo jacket, silk scarf and cufflinks and handing them to me in a neat bundle to hold rather than placing them on the dusty floorboards, Gabriel rolled up his sleeves to expose muscular forearms and set to work. He was all business. It was cold in the shaft but it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest whereas, in comparison, all the hairs on my body were raised.
I watched attentively as he began to haul on the thick aged rope which was attached to a drum above the ceiling of the cabinet, not needing my help. Counterweights balanced the platform. Geared to the drum was a large pulley from which the endless loop of rope that Gabriel was tugging on, with an ease that was superhuman, dropped down the shaft past the platform, allowing it to move freely.
The man-powered elevator began its slow descent.
‘I was passing through Egypt,’ Gabriel informed me, attempting to distract me from the rough jolting of the dumbwaiter’s movements, ‘when the engineers devised windlass derricks for projects such as the pyramids to ensure that the slaves weren’t worn out in hauling building materials up such heights.’
I raised my eyebrow sceptically. ‘Are you sure it was for the sake of the slaves?’
Gabriel gave a deep laugh at my cynicism. ‘Well, that was what I was told – and it doesn’t pay to question the Pharaoh.’
‘So you saw the pyramids being built?’ I asked in awe.
‘I have seen many things,’ he replied cryptically, continuing to haul on the rope, ‘Far too numerous to name. So many explorations and inventions.’
‘Like the elevator,’ I stated.
‘Like the elevator,’ he confirmed.
‘Sweet!’ I said impressed, adding smugly from my love of films, ‘What about in ancient Rome? Did you also see the Colosseum’s dumbwaiter system where they raised the gladiators and wild animals to the arena level to fight?’
Gabriel laughed. ‘No, I was not there. But, perhaps, you should ask St. John.’
‘Pity,’ I murmured, shrugging my shoulders.
‘Ah, so you are unimpressed by my experience and knowledge, mon petit chou?’ Gabriel demanded and, not to be outdone, continued, ‘Bah, in the seventeenth century a device called a “Flying Chair”, similar to the one we are in, except there was a chair and not a platform where the passenger hauled on a rope to move themselves, was used at the French court.’
‘Really? I don’t remember seeing any “Flying Chair” at Versailles.’
‘Oui, oui, oui,’ Gabriel replied, ‘Possibly because the device fell into the king’s disfavour. It was not a pretty sight to watch the king’s daughter, the little princesse, have a serious accident when using it.’
As if to prove his words, the ageing, rickety dumbwaiter gave a bump and ground to a stop. Gabriel replaced his tuxedo jacket and, pocketing both silk scarf and gold cufflinks, doused the flame in the lantern before flicking a small device that kept the hidden entrance to the dumbwaiter latched. It gave a sudden lurch, spilling us out onto the cellar floor as the panel slid open in front of us.
‘Merde!’ Gabriel exclaimed, adding apologetically, ‘You are not hurt, I take it? It is a little rusty. It hasn’t been used for over a century.’
I was grateful that Gabriel had not shared that particularly disturbing piece of information with me before I had stepped onto the dumbwaiter, as images of the rope breaking and the platform plunging to the ground – like the unfortunate accident of the king’s daughter – flashed in my mind.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see we were standing in a large disused cellar. Wooden crates lined the walls accumulating dust and cobwebs like a crowded warehouse or container terminal. The Paris Opera House was composed of seventeen storeys; seven of which were below stage level. It was a maze of passageways, dressing rooms, rehearsal rooms, music rooms, storage rooms, stables and cellars. It was so vast that a person could probably disappear within it and not be heard from again.
‘Come, the hour is growing late,’ Gabriel stated as he lit another sulphur and lime lantern; this one portable.
‘Late for what?’ I queried, warily looking at the lantern that he carried, its little light failing to dispel the darkness which was as thick as an oil slick on the ocean, pushing in at us on all sides.
‘Bah. Late for our meeting,’ Gabriel’s cryptic response drifted back to me as he’d already begun to navigate the distance of the cellar ahead.
I watched his retreating back as I planted one foot in front of the other carefully, fearful of tripping over in the muted light. Breathing in stale air, I heard something scuttle across the dusty floor directly in our path, disturbed by the flare of the lantern.
Probably rats, I hazarded a guess. I could handle rats. I could even cope with spiders and snakes. I just didn’t much care for cockroaches – they were filthy, disgusting creatures and the crunching sound made when you stamped on them made my skin crawl.
As I moved further into the cellar, the smell of damp rot intensified until it was almost overwhelming, and I succumbed to vivid imaginings, speculating upon how many spores of mould had taken up lodgings in my lungs and whether I would die of consumption like they did in the nineteenth century.
Probably not, I thought, scornfully, it was much too romantic a death for me! I wasn’t cut out to be the suffering heroine in some sickly sweet romance. That wasn’t quite my style. On the other hand, I could see myself in some dystopian world, fighting the good fight. Dauntless. Divergent. The Girl on Fire. The Mockingjay.
I finally caught up to Gabriel, almost ploughing into his solid back, but only because he had stopped walking.
‘Regarde!’ Gabriel ordered.
And, turning to where he pointed, I noticed a trapdoor in the cellar floor.
‘That is where we enter the Phantom’s lair.’
CITY OF BONES
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At his words, Gabriel threw open the trapdoor which fell back on its hinges, stirring up a century’s worth of dust to reveal a gaping black void. Something sparkled, shifting below, and I heard a small splash within the dark recess as it was exposed to the flare of light from the smelly sulphur lantern which Gabriel held up over the cavity.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Looking down into inky blackness and back up to Gabriel’s face, I shook my head in disbelief, announcing agitatedly, ‘Bloody hell! I’m not playing Christine to your Phantom!’
‘T’inquiète, Saffron,’ Gabriel’s silver-grey eyes filled with a teasing light, ‘I was only joking about the Phantom’s lair. We are merely using the underground system to reach the Île de la Cité without being followed.’
‘I knew it!’ My eyes narrowed. ‘I knew we were being watched! You did see Louis Gravois, didn’t you?’
‘Bah! Don’t be so dramatic, Saffron. We are merely taking preca
utions,’ Gabriel said, not bothering to reply. Gesturing to the opening in the floor from which a ladder extended down into the space below, ‘You first. Down you go.’
Squaring my shoulders, I took a long, deep breath before stepping up to the opening, grumbling, ‘And my mother thinks you’re keeping me out of trouble! What a joke!’
‘Euf, stop whining!’ Gabriel laughed, the deep sound echoing through the cavernous space of the cistern as he descended behind me, bearing aloft the smouldering lantern, ‘I could make this harder. I could make you swim!’
He was lucky my hands were occupied gripping the metal rungs of the ladder or I might have been tempted to hit him. As it was, I didn’t bother answering, concentrating instead on lowering myself into the gondola bobbing at the foot of the ladder where it was anchored. Little ripples moved across the stillness of the lake, caused by the trapped fish which resided there in the darkness. This was what I had heard splashing in the water earlier. I wondered how anything could survive down here.
‘Is this thing safe?’ I asked anxiously, seating myself on the dusty red velvet cushions at the helm of the gondola. ‘I really can’t imagine why it isn’t rotting or waterlogged after a century down here.’
Gabriel shook his head in exasperation. ‘Mais certainement! It won’t sink if that is what you’re inferring.’
That was exactly what I was thinking, but kept that knowledge to myself.
As Gabriel hung the lantern on the pole at the front of the gondola, I was at liberty to take my bearings. It was true that the Paris Opera House was built over an underground lake. This was a tributary of the Seine which ran beneath the anatomy of the building. As such, structural work had to be done to alleviate the problem when site excavations began in the middle of the nineteenth century. A double wall was constructed, similar to that of a dam or huge tank, allowing Garnier to construct his famous building on the chosen site. It was this underground lake, coupled with the falling chandelier, that had given rise to the Phantom legend.
