Phantom (5 page)

"Yes, Father."

How meek he sounded, how innocent and vulnerable he looked, standing beside the heavily built priest. For a moment I doubted my own senses; I wondered if I was feeding on brain-sick fancies brewed by this penal solitude.

Why had I come to fear the extraordinary bell-like purity of his childish treble?

"Kyrie eleison… Christe eleison."

Lord have mercy upon us… Christ have mercy upon us.

Three times he sang the invocations to heaven, and with each phrase my will receded before a wave of aching longing that made me long to reach out and touch. Whatever spiritual ecstasy Father Mansart derived from those throbbing notes, my response was utterly and unequivocally physical.

The words were for God; but the voice, the exquisite, irresistible voice, was for me and it pulled like a magnet somewhere deep and unseen inside my body.

Before the next phrase took breath, I had slammed the lid down on the piano with a violence that narrowly missed trapping the priest's fingers. The sudden appalled silence was broken only by my hysterical sobbing. Father Mansart looked at me in amazement, but in Erik's eyes I saw fear and great misery.

"You are overwrought," said the priest briskly, as he pressed me into a chair. "It is understandable. Great beauty is often perceived by human senses as pain."

I shuddered. "He is not to sing again, Father… I will not permit it."

"My dear child, I can't think that you mean that. Forbidding expression to such a gift would be positively unkind."

I sat upright in the chair, staring beyond the priest to the child who now wept silently beside the piano.

"His voice is a sin," I said grimly. "A mortal sin. No woman who hears it will ever die in a state of grace."

As Father Mansart recoiled from me in horror, one hand strayed instinctively toward his crucifix, while the other gestured abruptly for Erik to leave the room. When we were alone, he looked down on me with an odd mixture of pity and distaste.

"I think you have been too much alone with your burdens," he said quietly.

I bit my lip and looked away from him.

"You think I'm mad."

"By no means," he replied hurriedly, "but certainly it would seem that your judgment has been affected by the strain of your solitude. Whatever you believe you hear is only the voice of your own confusion. You must try to remember that he is just a young child."

I got up and went to the bureau which stood in the corner of the room. A shower of papers tumbled out when I opened the glass door, and from the pile at my feet I snatched up a handful of musical scores and architectural sketches and pushed them into the priest's hand.

"Is this the work of a child?" I demanded coldly.

He took the papers to the light and examined them carefully.

"I would not have believed it possible for a child of his age to copy with such astonishing precision," he said after a moment.

"They're not copies," I said slowly. "They're originals."

He turned to protest, but was silenced by my expression. Placing the papers on the table, he sat down in a chair and stared at me in awe as I stood clasping my hands around my arms and shivering.

"It frightens me," I whispered. "Too much, too soon… it isn't natural. I can't believe such gifts are heaven sent."

The priest shook his head gravely.

"Doubt is the devil's instrument, Madeleine. You must close your mind to it and pray for the strength to guide the child's soul to God."

As he leaned forward to take my hand I realized that he was trembling.

"I have been remiss in my calling," he said feverishly. "I will come as often as my duties permit to instruct him in the doctrine of our Church. The boy must be taught very quickly to accept the will of God without question. It is extremely important that genius of this stature is never permitted to stray from the teachings of our Lord."

I said nothing. The priest's intense uneasiness was merely a grim echo of my own growing certainty that the forces of evil were steadily closing in around my unhappy child.

I felt desperately in need of the guidance of the Church, but the inner light of conviction was no longer there. The harder I prayed, the less hope I had of being heard. My crucifix was merely a cunningly carved piece of wood, my rosary just a meaningless string of beads. My faith had weakened to the point where I allowed myself to be seduced by a sung Mass rendered shamelessly and sensually beautiful. I had sunk to a wickedness that I dared not even confess.

"Tell me what to do," I said in despair. "Show me how to keep him from evil."

The fire fell into ashes, and as we talked long into the night the priest warned me very seriously against any attempt to muzzle Erik's unique talents.

"A volcano must have its natural outlet," he said mysteriously, "it must not be driven in upon itself. If you feel that you can no longer train his voice, then you must permit me to do so. Let me teach him as though he were any other chorister in my choir. I will steep him in the music of God and the ways of the Lord, and in time heaven will grant you only pleasure from his voice."

I stared at the sad, gray remnants of the dead fire.

How could I tell him it was the pleasure that I feared?

He was five when we had our confrontation over the mask. Until that terrible summer evening he wore it with unquestioning obedience, removing it only to sleep and never setting foot beyond the confines of the attic bedroom without it. So fiercely unbending was my regime that he would no more have considered appearing without it than he would have considered appearing naked—at least that is what I thought until that night.

It was the evening of his fifth birthday and I was expecting Marie for supper. I hadn't invited her. With her stubborn grain of well-meaning she had issued an ultimatum, insisting that I celebrate an event which until now I had contrived to ignore.

"You can't continue to let the occasion pass unmarked," she told me with a curious finality that brooked no opposi-tion. "I shall bring him a present and we shall all take supper together in a civilized manner."

I spent the day in the kitchen, with the door closed, contriving to keep myself busy so that I need not be reminded of the reason for this grim farce. I might have been preparing to feed the entire village. Batches of cakes and tarts issued in an insane procession from my oven, but still I went on mixing and stirring in the still, stifling heat, like a woman possessed. And all the time I worked I was aware of the piano playing softly in the drawing room. He did not come pestering, like a normal child, begging to lick the spoon or steal a cake with the healthy impatience of his age. His complete indifference to food was merely another source of conflict between us.

At length, when I went in and told him to go upstairs and put on his best clothes, he turned on the piano stool to look at me with surprise.

"It isn't Sunday… is Father Mansart coming to say Mass again?"

"No," I replied, wiping my hands on my apron, and not looking at him directly. "It's your birthday."

He stared at me blankly and I felt a perfectly unreasonable irritation rising inside at the shameful necessity of explaining this basic phenomenon.

"The anniversary of your birth," I said shortly. "You were born five years ago today and the event should be celebrated."

"Like a requiem?"

For a second I wondered if he was mocking me, but the eyes fixed on mine were entirely innocent and puzzled.

"Not exactly," I said with difficulty.

"Then there won't be a Dies Irae?" I heard the sudden disappointment in his voice. "Or an Agnus Dei?"

"No… but there will be a special supper."

I saw his interest shrivel and his glance wander back to the score on which he had been working.

"And a present," I found myself adding suddenly. "Mademoiselle Perrault is bringing you a present, Erik. I expect you to remember your manners and thank her nicely."

He turned to look at me curiously and for a horrible moment I thought I was going to be obliged to explain that too. But he said no more, only continued to gaze at me thoughtfully.

"Go upstairs and get changed while I set the table," I told him hastily.

As I pulled a tablecloth from the drawer, I was aware that he had made no effort to move.

"Mama."

"What is it now?" I demanded irritably.

"Will you give me a present too?"

I put the napkins out on the table with a trembling hand.

"Of course," I replied mechanically. "Is there something particular that you want?"

He came to stand beside me and something about his taut silence made me suddenly very uneasy. I sensed that he was afraid of my refusal, so no doubt whatever it was he wanted was going to be highly expensive.

"May I have anything I want?" he asked uncertainly.

"Within reason."

"May I have two of them?"

"Why should you need two?" I inquired warily.

"So that I can save one for when the other is used up."

I began to relax. This didn't sound very alarming… nothing more extravagant than a ream of good quality paper, by the sound of it. Or perhaps a box of sweets…

"What is it you want?" I demanded with sudden confidence.

Silence.

I watched him playing with the napkins.

"Erik, I've had quite enough of this silly game now. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you will have nothing at all."

He jumped at the sharpness of my tone and began to twist a napkin between his thin fingers.

"I want—I want two…" He stopped and put his hands on the table, as though to steady himself.

"For God's sake!" I snapped. "Two what?"

He looked up at me.

"Kisses," he whispered tremulously. "One now and one to save."

I stared at him in horror and without any warning burst into uncontrollable tears and sank down at the table.

"You must not ask that." I sobbed. "You must never, never ask that again… do you understand me, Erik… never!"

He shrank from my noisy grief in horror and backed away to the door.

"Why are you crying?" he stammered.

I made a mighty effort to control myself.

"I'm not… crying." I gasped.

"Yes, you are!" he shouted in a voice that was suddenly ugly with rage. "You're crying and you won't give me my birthday present. You made me ask—you
made
me ask— and then you said no. Well, I don't want a birthday… I don't like birthdays… I hate them!"

The door slammed behind him and a moment later I heard the echoing bang from upstairs.

I sat where he had left me, staring at the napkin he had thrown on the floor.

When at last I stood up wearily, it was to see Marie walking purposefully up the garden path, with a parcel under her arm.

As we sat down together at the table I was dreadfully aware of the empty place setting.

"Where is he?" asked Marie, broaching the subject that had been between us since her arrival.

"In his room," I said grimly. "He won't come out… I've called him several times, but you know what he's like. There is nothing to be done with him when he flies into one of his tantrums."

Marie looked at the parcel she had placed on the chiffonier.

"Does he know it's his birthday?"

"Of course he knows!" I said angrily.

Lifting the lid off the tureen, I began to ladle soup a little wildly into her bowl, trying desperately to recapture the determined, busy mania which kept my terrible thoughts at bay. As long as my hands were moving, my mind remained blissfully numb and I could avoid facing my own wicked inadequacy as a mother. A mother who could not bring herself to kiss her only child; not even on his birthday; not even when he begged. The tragic dignity of his request had unnerved me so much that my hands were still shaking. I spilled soup on the cream lace of the tablecloth and mopped at it with a muttered curse.

The door behind me opened and I stood rigid, watching Marie's face turn white and her hand fly instinctively to her mouth. The horror in her eyes lasted for only a split second before she regained her composure sufficiently to force her slack lips into a strained smile.

"Good evening, Erik, dear… how nice you look in that new suit. Come and sit beside me and have your supper. Then afterward we shall open your present."

When I turned and saw him standing there in the open doorway, without the mask, my heart seemed to stop dead in my breast. He had done this for spite; he had done this to punish and humiliate me…

"How dare you!" I spat. "How dare you do this, you wicked child!"

"Madeleine…" Marie half rose in her chair, one hand outstretched to me in a nervous gesture of appeal. "It really doesn't matter—"

"Be silent!" I snapped. "I will deal with this without your interference. Erik! Go back to your room and put on the mask. If you ever do this again I shall whip you for it."

He shivered and the grotesquely malformed lips puckered, as though he was about to cry, but still he stood there stubbornly, both hands clenched into fists of defiance.

"I don't like the mask," he muttered. "It's hot and it hurts me. It makes sore places." could see those places now. Beneath the hollow sockets of his eyes the livid flesh, thin as parchment, had been rubbed raw by the constant pressure of a mask which was evidently too tight. Because I did not look at him more closely than I had to, I had failed to notice how much he had grown.

"Go to your room," I repeated unsteadily. "I shall make a new mask after supper, and you will not come down without it again. Do you hear me, Erik? Never!"

"Why?" he demanded sullenly. "Why must I always wear the mask? No one else has to."

A red mist of rage swam before my eyes, an explosion of fury that blew the last shreds of my self-control to pieces. I flew at him and began to shake him so savagely that I heard his teeth rattle.

"Madeleine!" sobbed Marie helplessly. "Madeleine, for pity's sake—"

"He wants to know why!" I screamed at her. "Then he shall know… by God, he shall know!"

I dug my nails into the thin material of his shirt and dragged him from the room, up the stairs, before the only mirror in the house.