The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “Who? The diva?” Jenna asked this time, wondering if Erik had any more news on how their prank had been received.

  “No,” Erik responded, still staring into space. “The Angel.” Omid had already begun to roll his eyes and Jenna looked at him strangely until Erik whispered the name “Christine.”

  Jenna stared at him in confusion, “Who's Christine?”

  “Oh, weren't you listening, Mademoiselle?” Omid asked, sarcasm dripping from his every word. “She's the angel!”

  The Persian's jest made Erik snap out of his reverie, sighing. “Christine is the seamstress I was telling you about, Jenna. The victim of Carlotta's wrath.”

  “Oh,” Jenna said, finally understanding.

  “But she is so much more than a seamstress.” Erik rose from his seat, and began to extol her virtues. Omid took a gulp of his drink as Erik began, after once again offering the glass to Jenna, to see if she required the same liquid fortitude he did to get through Erik's imminent speech. “She has the voice of a lark and the soul of an angel.” Coming back to earth momentarily, he looked at Jenna and asked, “Do you know that…cow, that…pig had the nerve to blame her for our actions! She struck her!”

  “Oh no,” Jenna answered.

  “Uh oh,” Omid responded, peering down into his now empty glass, trying desperately to spy at least one last drop of amber relief.

  “But fear not!” Erik continued, pacing as he resumed his oration.

  “I wasn't,” Omid muttered, and Jenna slapped him gently on the arm.

  If Erik heard Omid's remark, he expertly ignored it. “Christine shall have her revenge. With her voice, and my training, she will become the greatest Prima Donna in the land, and then that… goat…will not even be fit to sew Christine's hems!”

  “Your training?” Jenna questioned, still thoroughly confused.

  “Oh, yes,” Omid answered with a bright smile. “Didn't you know? He's an angel too!”

  “You're drunk, Persian,” Erik glared at Omid.

  “No, I'm not,” Omid disagreed, “but I should be. Are you watering down my alcohol, Erik?”

  “Your whiskey?” Erik responded, incredulously. “Do you mean my whiskey, which you steal without permission every time you enter my home—also without permission?”

  “Well, Erik,” Omid pointed out pleasantly, “you stole it first.”

  When Erik just glowered at Omid, speechless, Jenna took the opportunity to cut into the conversation. Erik had been in such a fun mood when he returned, and she was somewhat annoyed at Omid for bringing him down. She was not in the mood to witness another one of his displays of temper.

  “Erik,” she asked, drawing his attention back to her. “What is he talking about?”

  Realizing Jenna had not yet heard of his plan to displace Carlotta, Erik sat back down at the game table, turning distinctly away from the Persian, and told her. “Christine has a lovely voice, Jenna, but it is untrained. I have told you that music is my greatest passion. I know how to sing, so I am going to teach her, and once she has had the proper training, she will far surpass Carlotta in skill, since she already has such lovely raw material with which to begin.”

  Jenna heard Omid snicker but ignored him. “So she has agreed to lessons, Erik?”

  “She has.” He smiled, contentedly.

  “Then you will bring her here?” Jenna asked, excitedly. “It will be wonderful to have another girl around here.”

  “Well, no,” Erik said, a little discomfort entering into his expression. “I cannot bring her here. She cannot know me.”

  “But I…thought she already knew you?” Jenna once again heard confusion enter into her tone. “How could you have discussed lessons with her if she didn't know you?”

  “Angel, remember?” Omid interjected. Erik glared, while Jenna kicked Omid under the table to shut him up.

  “I will teach her in the opera house from behind the wall of the chapel.” His eyes were clouded once again, and Jenna felt her spirit fall.

  “But Erik, why?” she asked him, sadness coloring her tone.

  “Is it not obvious, Mademoiselle?” He rose and began pacing once more.

  “If it were obvious, Erik,” Jenna responded, “I would not be asking you.”

  “She expects that it is an angel that will be teaching her,” Erik said. “The Angel of Music, to be exact.”

  “Well, why would she expect that?” Jenna questioned.

  “Because that's what he told her,” Omid added in.

  “Because,” Erik corrected him, “that's what her dear, departed father promised would happen. He said he would send her The Angel of Music to make her song take flight. She truly believes in what her father promised her. She was despondent that the Angel had not yet come.

  “I saw her crying for her angel, so I told her I was him, and that I had come to teach her. She believes her angel has come to lift her out of her despair. Why would I shatter her illusions?”

  “Especially when they work out so well for you,” Omid retorted.

  “Why are you still here?” Erik turned to him and asked.

  “I cannot resist a good drama,” Omid said with a smile. “And you, Erik, are full of it.”

  Erik turned away from him once more and concluded his tale, “Regardless, it will work. She does not need to see me to hear my voice, and she will learn, and one day grace the stage of this very opera house.”

  “When will you start lessons?” Jenna asked.

  “We have already begun.” Erik smiled at the memory. “She sang a bit for me today. But we will meet every evening, so there is much I need to prepare.” Erik started to walk toward the bookshelf, gathering papers and taking them with him to the piano. “I trust you two can prepare your own dinner?” Erik called to them, already thumbing through the sheets of music before him. “There are plenty of provisions in the kitchen.”

  It was late when he walked into her hospital room, carrying his lab coat over a bundle in his arms. “Jenna,” he called quietly, “I'm back. And I brought you a visitor.” He closed the door behind him with his foot, gingerly balancing the bundle on one arm and using his free hand to remove the coat, revealing a very spoiled, very cuddly yellow cat wearing a red collar. As soon as the coat was removed, the cat let loose a loud “MEEERRROOOOOOW” and rubbed his head against the doctor's chin. He chuckled, saying, “I know, I know, Red. You're happy to see her too.” He walked over to Jenna's bedside and sat in the chair next to her bed. “So I have a new roomie, Jenna. Nice guy. Talks a lot. Furry. I think you two know each other,” he said, with a smile, rearranging the cat so he was closer to Jenna. “Would you like to hold him?” When he gently placed Red beside Jenna on the bed, the cat immediately started to purr, bumping his head against Jenna's hand, as if asking for a pet. The doctor reached out for Jenna's hand and softly placed it on the cat's back, which seemed to make the feline purr even louder. “Awwww, see?” The doctor said sweetly, “He likes you. I knew he was a good judge of character.” He continued to watch Jenna's face for any sign of a reaction, as he reached out and pampered Red's head with a few lazy pets. Suddenly, his fingers brushed up against Jenna's, and he glanced down to see her slowly stroking Red's fur. “Jenna?” he asked quietly. “Jenna, can you hear me?” he asked again, but got no response. “I know you're in there, Jenna. I know you can hear me. Why won't you wake up? What are you waiting for?” He sighed in frustration, his head hanging low. “What am I doing wrong?”

  After a moment, he felt soft fingers on his head, and he realized that Jenna's hand had moved from stroking Red's fur to his hair. He glanced up at her face, and once again saw that serene smile cross her lips. He felt his heart jump a little, thinking her smile could only be more beautiful if her eyes were open.

  “I know I've said this before, Jenna,” he said in a somewhat shaky voice, “But I'm not giving up on you. I know you know I'm here, and I know you can hear me.” He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, taking in the feeling of her fingers in his hai
r. “I just hope that one day soon you'll answer me.”

  14 GENIUS

  “Finally!” Jenna said to herself, as she opened the last kitchen cabinet to find the tea. A simple dinner had come and gone, Omid had taken his leave for the evening, and still Erik was at his piano, preparing for tomorrow's lesson with his angel. He did not actually play much—mostly running scales and short passages of songs here and there, making copious notes on sheets and sheets of paper. It had gone on for hours, and though Omid had hinted earlier at Erik's genius, there was only so much plinking and plodding that Jenna could take. She had decided that though he had not eaten dinner, it seemed a very singer-ly thing to do to drink tea, and since his mind was on voice lessons tonight, the tea might be just the thing to distract him—at least for a few moments.

  She removed the lid from the ornate metal box and found…dirt. “What the…” she muttered to herself, realizing after a moment that they did not have teabags in 19th century France, and of course, she was going to have to use loose tea. She had never made tea this way in her life—and though she looked all over the little box, there were no instructions. “Hmmm. I guess brewing tea from tea leaves should be common knowledge right about now,” she said to her self. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if perhaps she should ask Erik if he would make her tea, but she got the distinct impression she would dry up from dehydration before he would separate himself from his piano.

  Letting out a loud huff of air, she mumbled, “Well, it can't be that hard,” as she began to scoop several spoonsful of the very fine mulch-like substance into two porcelain tea cups while she waited for the kettle to finish boiling. When the water bubbled, she poured it over the leaves and let it sit for a few moments while she gathered the sugar bowl and a little container of cream, not knowing how Erik preferred his tea. She set these things, along with two silver teaspoons and two cloth napkins on a tray she had found in one of the cabinets. Handling the delicate tea items, she felt, for a moment, very much like an elegant Victorian lady, and she decided she should simply embrace the part for the time being. After all, Erik was obviously too distracted by his angel tonight to figure out a way to get her home. With a satisfied smile on her face, she set out to carry her offering to Erik.

  She stood there quietly beside the piano a moment or two with Erik not noticing she was there, so absorbed was he in tapping out notes and recording them on his sheets. She cleared her throat once, twice, three times, and still Erik's attention was entirely focused on the circles and lines he scrawled on the paper, coinciding with the tunes that were swirling around his mind. Finally her impatience won, and she called out “Erik,” perhaps a little louder than she had intended.

  With a start, Erik looked up and met her gaze. “What?” he asked, not noticing her tray at first, but then slowly realizing what Jenna carried in her hands. “Oh,” he said with surprise, “you made tea?”

  “Yes,” she smiled again, finally received the acknowledgement she'd craved. “I thought you could use some.”

  “Oh, well,” he began, as his eyes wandered once more to his music. “That…” he jotted down a quick note, absentmindedly, “that was very nice, but I have much to do to prepare…”

  “You've been working for hours!” she interrupted him. “You didn't stop for dinner. Did you even notice that Omid left?”

  “That would explain the absence of hot air in the room,” he replied emerging somewhat from his music-induced stupor, a sardonic smirk teasing at his lips.

  Jenna allowed him a grudging chuckle. “Well, that, and the fact that the fire's died down.”

  Erik glanced over to his hearth, to see only embers remaining where there were once roaring flames. “Ahh,” he commented, nodding. “So it has.”

  “Five minutes, Erik,” Jenna asked quietly. “You don't even have to get up from the piano. Just drink your tea and take a break for five minutes. After that you can go back to composing…or preparing…or whatever it is you're… doing, and I will borrow a book and go to my room and not disturb you. But I didn't want to go to bed without saying goodnight.”

  Erik sighed softly. He was not used to having anyone else reside in his quarters, and so his timetable had become his own. What did the rising and the setting of the sun matter to one who always lived alone in the dark? He ate when he was hungry—which was rarely—and he slept when his body gave out from exhaustion. He saw no real significance in either activity. But Jenna stood here before him, having made an effort to offer him some small nourishment and somehow feeling it important to acknowledge his presence before taking her leave from him for the night. “All right, Jenna,” he nodded, realizing suddenly that his throat was a bit dry. “A cup of tea might do me some good.” He acquiesced, as she set the tray on one of his side tables.

  “Cream and sugar?” Jenna asked.

  “No thank you,” Erik waved the thought off. “I prefer my tea black.”

  Jenna smiled as she lifted a cup from the tray and handed it to him. “OK, then. There you go.”

  Erik smiled politely and took the cup she offered him. When she also had her own cup in hand, he took a drink of the still steaming liquid while looking up at her. He then promptly spat it out—all over the music he had been writing.

  Jenna gasped, shocked at Erik's vulgar display.

  “Oh,” he gagged, “that was awful.” He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to pat at the composition he had been working on. “Oh, don't be ruined…don't be ruined,” he muttered at the papers in a worried voice.

  Jenna reddened in a combination of embarrassment and irritation, and said, “I was only trying to do something nice for you!”

  “Nice?” he repeated, unthinking, still blotting at his music. “How did you make the tea, Mademoiselle? By mixing lake water with dirt?”

  “I used the tea that was in your cupboard,” she answered back, her voice rising in indignation.

  “Do they no longer make tea in 2014?” Erik shot back acerbically, “Because the tea in my cupboard never tastes like this when I make it.”

  Jenna could feel angry tears rise to her eyes, but she'd be damned if she would let him see them fall. “In 2014, we use tea bags—not the dirt, as you call it, that I found in your cupboard,” she shouted. “And you did not make the tea, did you? You've been too busy isolating yourself at your piano, preparing music for a girl you have to talk to through a wall. You barely even noticed the living, breathing people who were here in this room with you tonight!” She yanked Erik's cup out of the limp hold his hand still had on it, placed it on the tray with the rest of the supplies, and hurriedly made off to the kitchen.

  Erik stared at the place where she had stood a moment longer, mouth gaped open in stunned silence. Had she just yelled at him? The fearsome Phantom? In his own home? Because she had botched something as simple as making tea? Tea he had not wanted—had not asked for? Tea which he only drank because she somehow decided it was necessary for him to drink it?

  He had been perfectly happy to sit here at his piano, composing, honing, perfecting the methods by which he would forge Paris' greatest soprano. He had his work—he had his music. He hadn't needed interruptions, or tea, or…or…people! And he definitely hadn't needed her to say goodnight.

  But she had felt compelled to say goodnight to him.

  Erik inwardly groaned as he covered his head with his hands and heard his elbows make a loud, discordant sound on the piano keys. She was right. Damn it, again, she was right! He had been so terribly wrapped up in his plans for teaching Christine, that he had forgotten that Jenna was here, all alone in a strange world, with no one to turn to except for him. Was her predicament really so different than his angel's? Jenna too was lost, out of place. But she strove to show him kindness, and he…? He had spent the entire evening completely ignoring her, thinking instead about Christine.

  Erik rose from his piano bench and quietly walked into the kitchen. He arrived to see Jenna slam closed the drawer that held the teaspoons and
begin to scrub furiously at the hardly dirty teacups. Without a word, he stood beside her at the sink. He poured some water into a pot and set it to boil. He then gently removed the teacups from her hands, rinsing them, and opened the drawer to retrieve the spoons she had just deposited. He reached into the cupboard and once again took down the box of tea.

  “What are you doing?” Jenna asked, petulantly.

  “I am making you,” Erik said calmly, “a proper cup of tea.”

  “You don't have to do that,” Jenna said, looking away.

  “I know it is not required. I want to,” Erik said calmly again. He reached for the cast iron teakettle she had used, and poured a bit of the boiling water into it, allowing the vessel to get hot, and then poured the water out. He scooped a few spoonsful of the tea leaves into the warmed kettle, and poured the rest of the boiling water over them. He covered the kettle, and allowed it to sit, as he went to the cupboard that held the cooking utensils and produced a strainer. When the tea had steeped for several minutes, Erik placed the strainer over each tea cup, pouring the rich brown liquid, letting the leaves themselves be caught in the sieve. He then placed the steaming cups, spoons, kettle, sugar and cream back onto the tray she had chosen and began to walk out into the sitting room. When she did not immediately follow, he turned back and motioned with his head for her to come with him. He then directed them to the settee, where he waited for her to sit before he placed the tray on the table and took a seat on the other side. He handed her a cup, saying, “Your tea, Jenna.”

  Jenna grudgingly took a sip and said, “This is good, Erik.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he responded, taking a sip himself. When the uncomfortable quiet around them lingered, Erik once again found himself with that awkward urge to repent from, atone for and be forgiven of his recent behavior. “Jenna,” he began quietly. “I find it quite ironic that I had never apologized to a single soul before I met you, and here I am, expressing contrition for the second time in as many nights.”