The Phantom of Valletta Read online

  The dimwit of a servant obediently agreed to the arrangement accepting employment. Erik made sure to convey early on in their relationship that he preferred to be addressed as “master.” As of yet, the man had failed to prove his worthiness. Erik had no doubt the Persian had warned Darius of his insidious temper when crossed and the consequences of betrayal. If needed, Erik determined to deal harshly with Darius should an ounce of disrespect fall from his thin lips. He resolved to mold him into a useful piece of luggage or discard him like trash at the nearest port.

  After some time of contemplation, Andrea challenged his silence and interrupted his thoughts.

  “Mulling over your regrets?”

  “Regrets for what?” he responded, shifting his body as he dreaded the ensuing conversation.

  “For leaving Paris, Erik. What else? You’ve lived there for many years.”

  “I have no regrets for leaving,” he replied, with a shade of bitterness. “Why should I? I have no fond memories to take with me to Valletta.”

  “Except perhaps one,” she quipped.

  “Don’t start, Andrea. I’m in a foul mood,” he retorted, his nostrils flaring. To further the point, he leaned forward in his seat and narrowed his eyes. “You’d think by now you would know I wish to forget who you are referring to by your remark. Do you not understand the purpose for this journey? I wish to forget and move on.”

  Andrea jolted in her seat from his harsh words. Erik witnessed fear in her eyes. He did not blame her. The poor woman had sat trapped in a cage for days dealing with his volatile temper. He did not want to cause her further pain, so he softened his voice.

  “It’s done and over. Let it go. I have.”

  He lied. It would never be over. His heart would always cry for Christine. Yes, Christine. He could speak her name as often as he wished. Christine…Christine…Christine. He would not allow others to utter her name in his presence or even bring up her memory, for that right belonged only to Erik.

  At last, the carriage slowed entering a small village and came to a halt. “It must be time to replace the horses,” he moaned. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

  The driver jumped down and opened the door. “We’ve arrived at Rosarno. Time to change teams.”

  Andrea and Darius exited first, and he followed. Erik pulled his hooded cloak over his head, shielding his masked face. He decided not to sail from France to Malta, because he feared the pursuit of the authorities. The dangers were too great. As an alternative, he had hired a private driver and coach to take him across Europe to Italy. The trip would have taken half the time by train, but he feared showing his half-face in public. Their mode of transportation had been tedious, to say the least, but effective in concealing his whereabouts.

  “Darius, take Madame Giry and get something to eat and drink.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us, Erik?” Andrea asked in concern.

  “I need nothing. Go…leave me to myself.”

  He walked away from the carriage to seek a place of solitude. The days of travel had taken its toll upon his psyche. Erik strode heavily toward a nearby wooded grove. After entering the thicket, he glanced over his shoulder and made sure to be out of sight.

  The dense woods provided ample shade from the morning sun. He wandered to the trunk of a large tree and stopped. Erik pulled off his hood and let it drop around his broad shoulders. Carefully, he lifted his mask from his face to allow the fresh air to soothe his putrid flesh. The pain of removal caused Erik to wince when small pieces of moist skin pulled away from his bony cheek. The interior of his disguise had been stained with blood from weeping sores, and the foul smell of rotting flesh filled his nostrils.

  Weeks of travel had wreaked havoc upon his deformed face. The hot air inside the carriage rose to unbearable heat, causing his flesh underneath to sweat profusely. The mask exacerbated the problem and new lesions developed daily.

  Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he took the folded white linen and pressed it against his right cheek to absorb the blood. Afterward, he examined the stained the cloth alarmed over the amount of residue. The refreshing breeze caressed his flesh. Erik stood motionless with his face turned toward the wind, hoping the fresh air would help dry the festering tissue.

  His ears tuned to the music of the surrounding woods, and Erik closed his eyes. Treetops swayed in the breeze rustling leaves in an orchestration of nature. Amidst the calming chords, birds sang their arias. He lost himself in the shadows of the glen and its enchanting operatic movements, which brought a brief moment of harmony to his weary soul.

  “Master! Monsieur Dante!”

  Darius’ voice pierced the beautiful strains, interrupting his idyllic surroundings. The fresh horses stood ready, and the driver wanted to push onward.

  He opened his eyes and wiped the bloody remains from inside the mask. Carefully, he placed it upon his face, secured it again, and ground his teeth at the discomfort. Before returning, Erik pulled the hood back over his head.

  As he strode back to the carriage, he pondered the physical and emotional pain that had followed him like a curse. Nevertheless, forty years of suffering paled in comparison to the agony of losing Christine. An empty ache tormented Erik’s soul. He had spent his entire life wandering the earth, seeking acceptance, longing for love, dreaming of the pleasures of the flesh, but had experienced nothing in return. Life, up until that point, had been a meaningless journey.

  “Are you sure you don’t need anything to eat, Erik?” Andrea asked, approaching him as he returned to the carriage. He kept his head bowed and his meditative gaze away from her eyes.

  “No, I’m fine,” he muttered.

  “Well, I brought you some bread and a piece of fruit if you get hungry later.”

  Unable to thank her, he simply nodded as he struggled with the intense emotion crushing his heart.

  “Come, let’s get on with it,” he announced coldly.

  He assisted her step into the coach and climbed in after Darius. The door closed, the whip cracked, and the horses galloped off down the bumpy road, jostling them to their next destination. By tomorrow afternoon, the ship would dock in Valletta and their feet would stand on Maltese soil. Erik had no idea what awaited him on the strange isle in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. He only knew that he felt driven to restore what he had lost. His new life would be filled with his love of music, far away from Paris and its memories. Perhaps in time, Christine’s face would fade and another would take her place.

  Erik glanced out of the window and longingly wondered if there remained a chance to find love in his lifetime. If not love, then he would pursue peace and music as consolation for the remainder of his days. He dared not hope for anything more.

  Chapter Two

  The trip progressed uneventfully, and the hired carriage arrived safely in Reggio di Calabria in the early afternoon. Tired from the day’s travel, Darius arranged for rooms in a local inn for the evening. Footmen delivered the travelers’ trunks to their quarters, which carried every possession the threesome had decided to bring on the journey to the new world.

  Erik spent the remainder of the day in seclusion, leaving his travelling companions to fend for themselves. Andrea understood his need for solitude and reflection. Erik struggled to acclimate himself again to the presence of humans, after years of hiding in the bowels of the earth. Forcing his way into the mix of humanity would be a challenge. All his life, he had been a social outcast. It would take time.

  Music had been the only constant that remained in his life, and the most precious of personal belongings that accompanied him to Malta had been his Stradivarius violin. Through music, Erik found comfort for his tortured soul. Even though he had never been a religious man by any means, he knew of the mystical story of David and Saul in the scriptures. David would play his harp for Saul, and the evil tormenting spirits would leave the king for a while. Mysteriously enough, Erik felt calm by practicing the same method to soothe his own rage and depressio
n. Whenever he felt overwhelmed or on the brink of madness, he would embrace his violin and release healing music.

  When Erik played, he closed his eyes, lifted his violin beneath his chin, and proceeded to caress the instrument like a lover. With each stroke of the bow, music mollified the raging anger and hurt in his heart. The intoxicating melodies penned by his own hand transported him to a place of rest, where he could stand for brief moments untouched by the past, undisturbed by the present, and hopeful for the future.

  He sat in his room and played for hours until weariness overtook his body, and the desire for sleep consumed him. Erik removed his mask, laying his naked face on a soft pillow, which would surely show stains of blood by morning. He waited for sleep, and if it did not come, he could induce it by indulging in his favorite flask of cognac. Tomorrow would be a full day.

  When daylight arrived, they boarded a steam ship headed for the port of Valletta. Erik insisted on hiding below deck in private quarters, having already endured the stares of passengers over his appearance upon boarding. He ignored the curious whispers and made his way to the cabin, while Andrea and Darius remained above in the glaring light of day.

  After he closed and secured the door, he went to the porthole and flung open the round glass window to behold the scenery. Even he, a monster, could appreciate the beauty of nature that he rarely had the opportunity to enjoy. He had forgotten the grandeur of the sea from his years of hiding beneath the crust of the earth. The deep sun-kissed sea shimmered like sparkling diamonds, as the water rose and fell in swells.

  Enthralled with the emerald color of the Mediterranean, Erik spent the entire trip below deck, enjoying the beautiful views and a time of reflection. He stripped off his confining mask and allowed the sea breeze to flow through the window and gently kiss his face. The moist damaged skin dried from the salty sea air, bringing welcome relief to weeks of pain.

  Poseidon granted fair sailing. As they neared the port of the aged city, Erik struggled with a mixture of remorse and excitement. They had arrived at the isle of Malta and its capital, Valletta. Steeped in history, Erik found his new home fascinating. The Greeks, Romans, Spaniards, and French had all occupied the land at one time, but now it was under English rule and part of the British Empire. Napoleon had captured Malta by storm in 1798, and Erik planned to capture the city of Valletta through the tempest of music. Of course, he knew the Maltese people were not fond of the French, but he hoped to win their hearts through the operatic arts and his sheer genius.

  After pulling into port, Darius quickly made the necessary arrangements, procuring a carriage and having their luggage removed from the ship. Erik finally appeared from below deck and walked the plank to shore after the majority of the passengers had disembarked. He stepped heartily upon the dock with the heels of his boots resounding with a declaration of his arrival before climbing into the carriage alongside Andrea and Darius.

  Valletta claimed Erik’s heart as soon as he saw the landscape. A spark of new life flowed through his veins for the first time in months. As an admirer of architecture, he found the city immensely captivating. His eyes examined the various buildings with interest, while the horses trotted down Strada Reale. A moment later, Erik caught sight of the pillared facade that would soon be his new home. Before he could say a word, Andrea blurted out her exclamation of praise.

  “My God, Erik, it’s gorgeous!”

  Darius chimed in, “Master, look! A great building.”

  Erik winced at the weak female expression that Andrea used, describing the magnificent facade as gorgeous.

  “I’m very pleased,” he muttered. Awkwardly tongue-tied and overwhelmed at what his eyes beheld, he tried to focus on his purchase. The closer the carriage came to the building, the more thrilled Erik became over the architectural design.

  The columnar structure appeared larger than the photographs in the Parisian news that had showed its condition after the fire. Four large marble columns held each corner, and four marble columns guarded the main entrance. Multiple stairs led upward from the street level to the entrance from each side. He couldn’t help but wonder how the women in their pointed shoes and billowing gowns made it up the steps.

  Erik quickly surmised the height of the building neared 200 feet. As he peered upward, he felt immensely relieved to see the stonework exterior had suffered no visible damage. He did note the fire damage had blackened the upper portion of the building from smoke. There were numerous broken windows along the sides.

  He strained his neck as they passed, enthralled by the master architect, Edward Middleton Barry’s creation. It stood superb and much to his liking. Erik had read reports saying early in construction there were foundation problems that were later rectified. The structure appeared formidable and strong, though much smaller than the Garnier in Paris. The front portico and colonnade sides gave it the appearance of a Greek temple. Erik’s heart pounded in his chest with excitement.

  Anxious to forgo formalities, he wanted to see the interior as soon as possible. When they arrived at the British Hotel, Erik instructed Darius to contact the owners so they could immediately arrange a tour. If they were not available, Erik determined to breach the entrance even if he had to break down the doors with his bare hands to gain access.

  Check in went quickly and smooth, and their trunks were delivered to their rooms. Erik announced to his companions that he did not intend to spend an indefinite amount of time in a stuffy hotel. Darius and Andrea were welcome to do so until other housing arrangements within the walls of the opera house became available. In the meantime, Erik would quickly take up residence, regardless of its condition. In his mind, the Royal Opera House of Valletta would soon be his home.

  * * *

  As requested, Darius sent word to the owners of their arrival and desire to see the interior, but heard no immediate response.

  “Then we’ll go on our own,” Erik announced. “Andrea, you may come or stay.”

  “Do you mean to trespass and break in without permission?” she asked, scrunching her nose in disapproval.

  “Yes, I damn well do!” he replied, making his way out the door.

  Darius and Andrea followed. Erik felt confident they would find a door somewhere among the many that surrounded the building. Upon their arrival, as he hoped, they discovered the stage door ajar but blocked by debris.

  The two men pushed hard against the barrier and shoved the debris out of the way. Eventually, the entry opened wide enough for the three of them to slip inside. It took a while for their eyes to acclimate from the bright daylight to the dim darkness of their surroundings. When their vision finally adjusted, their mouths dropped open in shock.

  Erik stood gawking at the ruined interior. If he possessed the capacity to cry over what his eyes beheld, he would have wept unashamedly. Overwhelmed at the devastation, he staggered down a dark hallway like a drunk. He groped along the blackened walls until he reached a rectangular foyer. Darius and Andrea followed carefully in his footsteps. Finally, they were greeted by light filtering through the broken windows of the front entrance hall.

  Erik stopped and leaned against the wall in an attempt to control his emotions. A loud groan of disappointment released from his throat. He stared blankly at spirals of ash floating in the air that had been kicked up by his feet. The sight created an eerie atmosphere of overwhelming defeat.

  “Erik, it is worse than I imagined.” Andrea’s voice cracked on the verge of tears.

  Darius stared wide-eyed and mumbled a Persian curse under his breath.

  At that moment, Erik wondered if he had taken on too much by his prideful desire to resurrect an opera house from the ashes. The horrible conditions he beheld explained why it had lain dormant and in disrepair for six months. After inhaling a deep breath, he confessed his fears.

  “It is far worse than the owners portrayed in their correspondence. I should have surmised as much from the pictures.”

  Erik surveyed the layout. A staircase on both sides o
f the center foyer led upward to another tier. In the center stood a series of doors, which led into the main auditorium. A few hung loosely from their hinges, whiles others remained intact. Erik warily approached the center door. Cautiously, he pushed the barrier open and stepped into the interior. Andrea and Darius followed closely behind.

  Erik expected darkness inside the auditorium, but instead glaring sunlight hit his field of vision after entering. He squinted, focused his eyes, and then tilted his head back to view his surroundings.

  “My God,” he howled. His sharp voice frightened numerous pigeons that had roosted inside the empty boxes. A flurry of flapping wings and floating feathers greeted his arrival. “There is no roof!”

  The fire had destroyed the heart of the theatre, apparently burning so hot that the roof had collapsed in the inferno. The interior contained mounds of timbers, tiles, and roofing that had fallen onto the seats, crushing everything into one gigantic pile of rubbish. Nothing remained. The stage had been destroyed. All the curtains, riggings, sets, and scene drops were ashes. The only residents that remained were birds, who had circled the area dropping their waste on the destruction below.

  Erik heard weeping and slowly turned to look at Andrea, whose tears spilled down her rosy cheeks. His own heart sank into an abyss of disillusionment. Four stories of opera boxes lined the walls as burned-out shells, all empty and black. The stone masonry had calcified from the heat of the fire.

  “I didn’t anticipate such devastation,” he admitted, choking over his own distress. Oddly enough, he felt a slight release from the guilt he harbored over bringing down the chandelier during his tirade in Paris. Whatever damage he had caused seemed minuscule in comparison to the hell fire that consumed the house in which he stood.

  “What will you do, Erik?”

  Andrea approached and stood by his side, offering a slight touch on his forearm. He felt her trembling and took her arm to wrap around his own when he realized the poor woman needed support.