Chapter 7: The Man Who Wasn't There

Antigonish

Yesterday upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.
Oh! How I wish he'd go away!"

William Hughes Mearns, © 1899

Erik exhaled noisily as he exited the room, placed his hand to his lips and stared blankly into space.

"I cannot believe what just happened in there! We kissed! We touched! Oh mon Dieu! We just did those things in front of Meg and her mother! Merde!"

The look on his face half smirk, half grimace.

"She touched my face and still, she smiled at me and kissed me."

The smirk and the grimace replaced by a look of stunned realization. His eyes slipped closed. He relived and reveled in the memory of her touch upon his marred flesh. He shivered and gooseflesh ran up and down his arms. She had lit a fire within him. Just the thought of her or the memory of her sweet face caused his chest to ache and the lower part of him to throb. He knew he wanted more. His body needed more. Just the thought of her made him feel breathless and his entire body hot, hard and ready. He did not know what to do. Well, he knew what he wanted to do, but thought he would never be able to act on those feelings. Those feelings were ones he had never expected to experience. Her kiss had been his first. He hoped it would not be his last. An errant thought crossed his mind.

"I wonder. Was that kiss, her first kiss too?"

Somehow, the answer to that question seemed very important, but Erik knew he had no way of discovering what the answer was. At least not at the moment. Hopefully, he ... no, they would be able to meet again and he could ask her.

"And, how precisely do I go about asking her. Excuse me, Mademoiselle Daae. I am completely inexperienced in the art of love and I would like to inquire as to your level of expertise. Oh, that would certainly win her heart. Erik, you are such a fool. This woman could never love you. She was either feverish or she was toying with you. However, I do not believe the young lady is the type to dally with a man's affections. So, I wager her actions were due to the ramblings of a fevered mind."

He squeezed his closed eyes even more tightly shut.

"Oh, if I could have but one wish, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

It was only at that moment that Erik realized that someone had taken hold of his shoulders and was shouting into his face.

"Erik! What happened? Are you well? My God, man, what happened in there? I know that you are normally five shades paler than most men are, but you look so pale I believe you could be mistaken for a marble statue!"

Quickly composing himself, Erik opened his eyes and found Raoul standing before him. The young man's pale blue eyes stared intently at Erik, his firm hands gripping Erik's shoulders. He gave Raoul a sheepish smile and gently disentangled himself by stepping away from him. He held up his hand and shook his head.

"I hardly know where to begin, Raoul. Please, I need to think. I am sorry, but..."

"Whatever you need, Erik. After all, what are friends for anyway?"

The young man smiled gently, moved to the other side of the corridor and leaned against the wall. He folded his arms across his chest and after silently observing his friend, cocked his head thoughtfully.

"Take all the time you require, but if you should need an ear to bend, I am always willing."

Erik smiled gratefully at his friend.

"I know, Raoul. Ever since we met, you have always been a true friend."

The man leaned back against the wall across from the young Vicomte. He closed his eyes and remembered the first time Raoul had acted as his friend.

"Fromage de tête¹! That's what his face looks like! Monsieur, you have the face of fromage de tête and, quite possibly, smell like one too!"

The boy snickered and roughly shoved Erik as he mocked him. His friends laughed as Erik's ankle twisted on the edge of a cobblestone and he stumbled. The group of boys encircled him, pushing and pawing at Erik, but he continued to walk unheeding along the street.

"Nah! He don't smell like fromage. Fromage smell too good. This one, he smell like he dead! Hey! He even look like a corpse with that rotten face. Ah, mon Dieu!"

A second boy jeered at Erik and kicked him in the back of his knee.

Erik took in his situation. A group of four boys had begun to follow him and make comments on his face almost as soon as he had stepped off the train and onto the platform at the station. The boys were unkempt and dirty. They most likely were living on the streets of Paris and making their way through life committing petty thefts. He wondered how long it would take before the group of boys tired of tormenting him. He hoped it would be soon.

"Why is it that I always seem to cross paths with people like this? Why can I not be like the man who wasn't there? I should have stayed in Milan for the summer. Italians are so much more accepting of people who are different. The way these boys act, makes me ashamed to be French. Just ignore them, Erik. Keep walking. They will tire of you soon enough."

Unfortunately, for the young man, the moment that thought crossed his mind was the same one that a fifth boy joined the group. This boy was unusually tall and burly. The only feature that told his age was the lack of stubble on his face. Otherwise, Erik would easily have mistaken him for a man older than Erik's own 21 years. Erik immediately sensed that this boy with his unruly red hair and ruddy complexion was truly dangerous. The entire situation suddenly seemed to shift from one of a juvenile prank to something much more ominous.