“Father. I’m so sorry. So sorry I wasn’t at your side. It haunts me. Every day. And now, without you here the entire world is collapsing. And I cannot help but think that it’s all my fault. You would have known what to do. You always had. I miss you, Father. I miss you so much—” His words broke off into a soft cry.
Aleksender searched around the dark crevices, seeking answers. He was at a total loss … defeated. His eyes returned to the casket, heart as empty as before. What now? What was he to do now? What did Christophe possibly want from him?
And then it struck him. Follow the light. The illuminations from the two broken windows.
Aleksender curled his fingers around the sides of the casket. Rugged juts of stone bit into his flesh like teeth. He was paralyzed. Mon Dieu. What had become of him? What if he was terribly mistaken? Was this truly Christophe’s intention? Could he bring himself to look upon his father’s features?
Somehow, someway, he knew. Aleksender’s face fell forward in pained agony. Time had run out. He would have to follow his gut.
He couldn’t risk questioning himself. He inhaled deeply, not quite believing what he was about to do—what he was about to see. Grunting from the exertion, his muscles quivered and broke out in sheens of sweat. Aleksender summoned every ounce of his considerable strength and slid the massive slab of stone away.
His heart instantly contracted.
His father looked remarkably like a porcelain statue. Cold, pale, and perfectly still. Aleksender grazed a fingertip along the curve of his cheek in a tender caress. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes—a testament to the gentle spirit he’d once been. Both of his father’s weathered hands were folded together and positioned over his chest. Sparse, gray hair was combed neatly back, his lips chaffed, eyes fastened shut.
Aleksender shuddered at the sight. He hovered above his father’s corpse, studying his peaceful features. Then his eyes narrowed in disbelief. Clasped between his father’s pasty fingertips was a note. Head spinning, Aleksender slid the parchment from his father’s grasp.
Alek,
He is lost to eternal slumber. Yet your pain reminds and warns you that you are very much alive. Take care: Love is not the only thing perfected in death.
Embrace yourself and return to the living.
Come, Desmond. Venus is shining. It’s time for a night out at the OPERA. — C.C.
The sensation came in one fell sweep—an overwhelming blend of closure and peace lightened his spirit. Aleksender pressed a kiss to his father’s forehead and murmured words of love beneath a hushed breath. He lifted the stone slate and covered the casket, tucking his father into bed for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY
May 26, 1871
La Semaine Sanglante, Day Six
As it happened, one of Paris’s underground tunnels led directly to Opera Garnier. The queer passageway had been deemed as the “Communard’s road” over the past weeks. Snaking through the catacomb’s eerie bowels, it had granted the revolutionaries a secure hideaway and a clever means of transportation. The nearly completed opera house, which loomed high above, had been transformed into a storage facility and infirmary. Standing as a strange warehouse-hospital hybrid, weapons, gunpowder and the like were mended inside of the walls and kept at bay. In other sections, dismembered and bloodied Parisians were nursed to life and cared for by an assortment of nuns, nurses and volunteers.
Sofia crouched at her heels as she knelt amidst the sea of battered bodies and tangled limbs.
“At least let me be of some use,” she’d chided Christophe a day earlier, wearing a smile that could melt the most frigid of hearts. “Please—allow me to tend to the wounded. Sacred Heart taught me much about patient care. Why … I’ve already gone half-mad down here, and you have my word I won’t run off.” In spite of herself, Sofia had inwardly grimaced at her deceit.
But it’d only been half of a lie.
And so, as most men are wont to do, Christophe had fallen for her doe eyes and hopeful smile. The weight of the world seemed to have lifted from her shoulders as the cuff was unlocked. Unable to suppress a laugh of relief, she’d swiveled her ankle and rubbed at the swollen skin, nursing her circulation back to life. A sudden and unwanted guilt had swelled her gut as her eyes rose to Christophe. His stare was utterly trusting of her intentions.
“I hope it’s nothing too serious,” he’d murmured, gesturing her ankle. “But fine. Do what you will, only take care—there shall be eyes on you, chérie. And too many to count.”
Sofia had nodded as she felt the numbness ease from her foot. “You have my word. Thank you.”
All it took was a single glance at the outside world and the inevitable had been confirmed: she was a prisoner. And neither Christophe nor the Commune were her true captors. Paris, in all of her embittered and malicious agony, held the key to her captivity.
One step onto the street and it would be her last. That much was also pristinely clear. Versailles soldiers occupied every corner—perhaps, sixty thousand in total—and, within the span of a heartbeat, she’d be marked as a Communard. With an aching fear, Sofia knew such a thing was not so far from the truth.
Yes, Christophe had gone to an extreme (a sentiment which comes with obsession and losing one’s sanity, she very well assumed), and many of his followers were slacken with bloodlust. But the underlying principle, that crimson freedom flag, was nothing but noble.
Desperation was a terrible thing.
Sofia’s thoughts quickly turned to Aleksender. She only prayed—God, she prayed—that Christophe would do him no harm. Over the past few days, she’d witnessed a goodness in the man, a transient gentleness and compassion, which could not so easily be ignored.
Sofia tended to a wound as she executed her infirmary training from Sacred Heart. A chunk of debris had fallen onto the man’s chest, leaving him with a nasty second degree burn. She drenched a cloth and pressed it against the inflamed flesh. The man groaned and lolled his head onto its side. He was only half-unconscious, which proved to be a small mercy. “I’m sorry. It hurts something terrible, I know.”
“In God’s teeth, how would you know?” The words were spoken between clenched jaws and full of cynicism.
Sofia swept away a mass of curls and exposed her scars. “They’re not quite as severe as yours, but—”
“I’m sure the memories make mine pale in comparison,” he finished. “I can see the pain in your eyes.”
She smiled weakly and felt the sting of tears. “Yes, well … that was long ago. Now. Let’s get you all wrapped up, shall we?”
•
Blacker than pitch, the darkness enveloped Sofia inside a suffocating cocoon. Within this windowless prison, no stars were to be found. She was a little girl again—helpless, frightened, and alone.
The flared end of a cigar sears my skin like a brand. I cry out and fight to run away—far, far away! But long fingers snake in my hair and tug at my scalp. A weak protest emerges from my lungs. Maman sobers me with a stinging slap to the face. I slide across the floorboards like some wounded mongrel … through the winding hallways and into that impenetrable darkness …
Maman tosses me into a blackened pit. It is the faint click which confirms my fears. I am locked inside.
Beyond the walls of my prison I hear thunder … deep, growling thunder. I pound and pound … thrashing against the wood till my fists ache and blood seethes from each knuckle …
Sofia woke with a scream that could resurrect the dead. Slowly she caught her breath and tugged on her restraints without luck. Once more, she’d been chained to the wall and left unable to stir a limb. Her head rolled backward in despair. It could only mean one thing. And her heart nodded in rapid agreement.
He was near.
•
Apollo, the God of Music and Art, balanced his lyre high above his head as he’d done for so many years. Strings spun from gold jutted against the horizon and kissed the metallic sunrays. Aleksender briefly thought of Moses standin
g atop Mount Sinai, two stone tablets in hand, as he sought to bring order and peace to his people. But the Hebrews had grown impatient during his absence and had fallen into a state of chaos and immorality. Angered by what he’d seen, Moses had smashed the tablets at the foot of the mountain upon his return. Only after his people had paid for their sins was order again restored.
Up until this moment, Aleksender had always scoffed at the tale and turned his cheek in apathy. But everything had changed. He was involved now—and, as a result, his understanding of the world had become recomposed.
Aleksender adjusted the burden of his satchel, carefully surveying the monument that loomed before him. He’d abandoned his beloved Juliet to the carriage house only moments before, which had been no easy feat. Without her comforting nickers and playful nudges, he felt anything but heroic.
A rush of hopelessness engulfed Aleksender in a dense, black haze. All of Opera Garnier’s entrances were barricaded off and sufficiently guarded. The red flag of the Commune covered the opera house’s facade like a security blanket, branding the house as a sanctuary and place of rest.
The leather satchel eased its grip as he slipped to the ground and pressed his back against one of the cracked walls. The fate of Paris flashed before his eyes as he watched the doom of his homeland unfold. From crevice to crevice, gunfire, brutal fist fights and wailing children swarmed every inch of the square. Blood and corpses littered the streets. Hoping to strengthen the barricades, furniture had been tossed from the windows days earlier. Thousands of cobblestones had been torn from the ground and utilized as deadly weapons.
And all the omnibuses had been either discarded or flipped over. It was chaos and total anarchy.
Aleksender’s eyes grew heavy and fluttered shut. Nestled within the haven of his inner thoughts, he saw her face and smile, heard the melody of her voice, watched the gracefulness of her steps. The world fell away, leaving only the two of them. Aleksender groped his chest, massaging his heart in steady circles, easing the pain within. Mon Dieu. He missed his little Sofia. He missed his darling ward more than he could bear to comprehend. And he had saved her once, nearly ten years ago.
Could he do the same again? Or was his quest purely in vain? Maybe this was Christophe’s ultimate revenge, his last laugh. Maybe Sofia was already long dead and Christophe was sending Aleksender into the grave for no other reason than to mock his weakness, much like the little nightingale who vainly sacrificed herself for a rose …
What now?
Aleksender couldn’t risk being recognized. He’d be marked as an enemy of “the people” without a doubt—which wasn’t so far from the truth. And this place had to be the endpoint of his journey. Alas, this was one of the Commune’s central bases, and Christophe was inside.
But how in God’s name was he to sneak past the watchmen? The opera was thoroughly guarded from wall to wall. And only recognizable figures belonging to either the Commune or National Guard held any chance of gaining entrance. Indeed, the security was the finest that Paris could buy.
Aleksender lolled his head against the impressive stonework. Zoning in and out of his thoughts, he studied the towering architecture and black night sky. Carved angels hovered above him by the masses, intricate columns perched upon their backs.
Sofia was beyond those walls. Of that he was certain. Aleksender nearly laughed at the realization. The message of his journey was borderline poetic. Over the past days, he’d seen and lived the horrors of Paris.
Christophe had forced Aleksender to become a part of the bloodshed—a part of the revolution.
Aleksender climbed to his feet without further thought and barricaded himself behind one of the jutting columns. He stripped away his coat and hat, throwing them into the surrounding wreckage. In decided movements, he disregarded any giveaways of his social standing or identity, keeping only the satchel on his person.
Aleksender eased back into the crowd and searched the distressed faces.
In moments, Aleksender was sucked into the surrounding combat. His fighting instincts took over as he dodged the wild shells with a fantastic show of agility. He clasped a hand to either side of his head, warding off the resounding gunfire and cries. Alas, he was back on the battlefield and near to panicking.
He needed out.
Nearby, Aleksender spotted a National Guardsman who was presently yelling orders rather than fighting. A pair of civilians dragged a wounded man over, muttered some quick incoherent words, and escorted him inside the opera house. Aleksender inhaled a shaky breath, knowing precisely what had to be done. A nearby angel, who held a column upon his mighty back, seemed to suddenly slump—as if he’d realized the gravity of his fate.
Heart pounding in his ears, Aleksender scaled the side of the building until he found a corner of privacy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sagged against one of the towering walls and held his breath. Aleksender’s words from the rooftop echoed his mind and rekindled his perseverance. Pain is in the mind. And, in my mind, ma chérie—
Detaching mind from body, he dug the muzzle of his shotgun into his shoulder and—bang!
A rush of excruciating pain overcame Aleksender. His scream was last to the overwhelming ambiance, camouflaged within the cries of fallen men, women and children.
Clutching onto his arm, Aleksender fought to retain every ounce of his strength. He had been stabbed and shot before, countless times, and this was no different.
Mon Dieu. The entire journey would be useless if he fell. But the military of Versailles was on the brink of breaching the opera house. In a matter of hours—perhaps less—everyone inside would be slaughtered like a flock of sacrificial lambs.
Your pain reminds and warns you that you are very much alive.
Aleksender shook away Christophe’s voice and continued his pursuit. He fought for consciousness at every step as he stumbled through the dead and wounded. Bloody faces and amputated limbs paved the walkway. Grasping onto his satchel, he squared both shoulders and stood before the National Guardsman.
“My shoulder. I—I’ve been shot.” Aleksender’s words emerged in a strained gasp. Excruciating pain shot through his body and spirited his breath away. Praying he wouldn’t be identified as Paris’s comte, he dropped his face as the guard surveyed his body. For once fate was in his favor. The man merely latched onto Aleksender’s hand, tugged it aside, and gave the wound a thorough once over.
“Don’t worry, monsieur. They shall aid you well. There—through that door.”
With a sharp nod, he called out to another guard and directed Aleksender beyond Opera Garnier’s forsaken walls.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“By and by thou shalt come unto a river of hell, whereas Charon is ferryman, who will first have his fare paid him, before he will carry the souls over the river in his boat, whereby you may see that avarice reigned amongst the dead, neither Charon nor Pluto will do anything for nought: for if it be a poor man that would pass over and lacketh money, he shall be compelled to die in his journey before they will show him any relief …”
—The Marriage of Eros and Psyche
Aleksender maneuvered through the maze of flesh and weapons, unsure of where precisely he was to go. The pain in his arm had settled into a dull and throbbing ache. No one cast him so much as a second glance, completely absorbed and dedicated to their tasks. Off to the side, men, women, and children labored before melting pots as lead was casted into bullets.
Aleksender ventured deeper into the opera house, moving past the excitement and activity, tracking through endless corridors. The surrounding commotion gradually faded into an eerie and detached silence. Searching for answers, he continued his quest.
Aleksender quickly discovered that Opera Garnier was the Goliath of Salle Le Peletier. It contained over six thousand doors, secret passageways, and more gold than the king himself. Many of the rooms were bare, unfurnished and unlit.
Then—
A shadow moved across one of the walls in quick and decided motions.
Aleksender followed after it, tracing the steady footfall. He quickened his steps—shadowing the shadow. He rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of whomever or whatever he was pursuing; the shadow now appeared as a mere silhouette. A ball of light bounced off the dark walls and carpeting.
As he suspected, the silhouette was clutching a lantern and a chassepot rifle. Aleksender strained his eyes. The felt brim of the silhouette’s hat was barely visible, but he could see enough to identify the man as a member of the National Guard. Indeed, the guardsman was moving with purpose, never breaking stride. He’d obviously walked this path many times before now—the path of the Communard’s road.
A low creak resounded and a door swung open. The man entered one of Opera Garnier’s rooms—a library or parlor, Aleksender took notice—and approached the towering bookshelf. Just as Aleksender was certain he would collide straight into the fortress of books, the thing came to life. The rosewood shelf moaned, groaned, and gave a sharp pivot—sweeping the silhouette out of sight. Aleksender stormed across the room. He fumbled and pressed at the shelf, willing it to life.
Magic. In a single flash of movement he was swept to the other side.
Darkness blanketed everything. The lantern was yards away now and growing further—a winking star amongst a false horizon—slowly bobbing out of eyesight …
Without the lantern, everything fell pitch black within moments. Aleksender’s erratic breathing swelled the small space to its limit. A sense of claustrophobia took hold, wrapping his throat like a fist.
Aleksender had seen enough to know that he was standing in a hallway approximately three feet wide and infinitely long, which curved this way and that, twisting like a serpent … a hallway that was lined with human remains. Millions of them.
Aleksender blindly outstretched his good arm and groped onto his surroundings. His index finger curled into an eye socket. The heel of his palm wafted across a humorless grin. The pad of his thumb skirted up and over a slight protuberance—a nose, by Aleksender’s estimate.
The Frost of Springtime Page 27
