Through Phantom Eyes: Volume One: A Child's Guidance

By Theodora Bruns

Erik is only a young boy when he first discovers his great passion for music. Just before his third birthday, he listens to his mother playing the piano, and with excitement, he realizes his life will always be filled with music. Sadly though, along with that powerful and comforting emotion, there is also sorrow. Erik's mother fears him because of his facial deformity, and he is forever scarred by her rejection. His father loves and protects him and tries to guide his young son's rapidly growing genius mind and disturbed heart. Nevertheless, Erik's soul begins to fill with loathing for the world that shuns him, causing him to wage a fierce battle between murderous hatred and compassionate love.

Erik's temper erupts violently at times, endangering the lives of those around him as well as his own. Ultimately, he is abandoned and left alone to battle not only a world destined to cause him harm but also his tortured heart.

Discover the astonishing life of Erik, and journey into the private world and intimate thoughts of the man known as the Phantom of the Opera. Be with him as he struggles to balance his brilliant mind and tormented soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 28, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595842520

Theodora Bruns

Theodora Bruns earned an AA degree in accounting from Heild Business Collage. She began writing the Through Phantom Eyes series in 2002. Theodora has five daughters, nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren and lives with two of her daughters in Sacramento, California. This is the sixth book in her series.

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Copyright © 2007 by Theodora Bruns

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover & Interior Sketch Design By

Theodora Bruns

ThroughPhantomEyes.Com

Cover & Interior Sketch Artwork By

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Judy Sava-Coppola

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Model for cover art

Grandson of Theodora Bruns

Michael Preston

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Epilogue

Dedication

To the gift of music

Through the Author’s Eyes

I’ve never been able to leave a story with an unhappy ending alone, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I was raised on Disney movies with happily-ever-after themes, or perhaps it’s just the way my brain is wired to my heart. As far back as I can remember, if I watched a movie with a sad ending, I would re-write the closing scene in my mind and give it an ending that would make my heart feel warm and cozy all over. Now, if ever a story cried out for a happily-ever-after ending—Erik’s cried out the loudest. Consequently, my perpetual optimism drove me to create my own version of the Phantom who lurked in the bowels of the Paris Opera House.

From what is known about Erik, he was an extraordinary architect and a true genius in every respect. I’m convinced he had a magnificent voice, a musical brilliance beyond compare, a quick wit, a great imagination, and a clever sense of humor. He also had an intense passion for life and a tormented spirit, which desperately longed to love and to be loved in return. All his qualities were amazing—especially considering he was severely persecuted by the majority of the human race. I’ve tried to explain all facets of his personality and how and why it developed as he grew into manhood and beyond.

While I recognized horrendous tragedies filled Erik’s life, I wanted him to experience peaceful and joyful events in it as well. Therefore, I embarked on this tale of his existence that gave him what he desired and should have had from the beginning. I’ve endeavored to stay within the boundaries of the historical truths; however, I did take what I’ve learned about human nature into consideration. Then, when I combined those two views along with a healthy pinch of my own imagination, the not-so-clear happenings of his life emerged. I consider this work the most comprehensive writing about that remarkable masked man—who lived the greater part of his time on earth in distressing solitude.

Erik’s story begins before his third birthday when he first remembers his feelings for music, and from there it traces in detail his life as he sees it through his eyes. Those in his life who could look beyond society’s fear of the unknown, beyond his mask, and through his eyes into the depths of his heart could see this misunderstood and extraordinary man. When the expressions of those privileged ones were added to Erik’s thoughts—and then to how I wanted to see his life through my eyes—the title emerged. Thus, Through Phantom Eyes has a threefold meaning.

The tragedy of Erik’s life has given me a deeper awareness and compassion for the sufferings of others, and his unceasing passion for life has given new meaning to mine. I sincerely hope this astonishing journey I’ve traveled with Erik will be a voyage never forgotten by anyone who embarks on it with us.

Acknowledgements

My eternal gratitude reaches out to those who inspired me and helped me breathe life into this unforeseen work. First and foremost to Erik himself, for, as his lonely existence consumed my thoughts and his mournful pain permeated my heart, my own expressions pleaded for a release from their boundaries. Consequently, without his tragic life so full of love for his music and Christine, my imagination would have remained silent, and I wouldn’t have started on this astonishing journey in my life. Therefore, merci, Erik!

Next, to Brad Little, whose eloquent voice, along with his amazing musical portrayal of Erik’s love, passion, and pain on the stage, unlocked my barren heart. Because of his extraordinary talent, my own passion was aroused in ways previously unknown to me. Brad’s awareness of Erik’s love for that one exceptional woman, Christine, was what enabled me to spread my awakening heart across the printed page for everyone to see. I’m forever thankful, Brad!

Then there is Patti who came into my life quite unexpectedly because of her fascination with Erik’s life. Among other things, she most importantly helped me keep my fingers on the pulse of those who want to read more about this man known as The Phantom. Perhaps with trepidation, she courageously spoke her mind and gave me insight. So thank you, Patti, for your time, tender care, and understanding of my special needs.

Also a big thank you to Ann. Her skills in the editing department went beyond the written word and various punctuation marks. She used her knowledge to help me understand the proper placement of those words and punctuation marks, and the time she spent in that pursuit I greatly appreciate.

In addition, there’s my remarkable daughter Debi who also shares my love for Erik’s story. She committed to working long and tedious hours with me to put the finishing touches on every phrase within my labor of love. Thanks to her keen eye, diligence, proofing ability, and patience, I believe the finished product is one that anyone can easily read, understand, and enjoy. A mere thank you isn’t enough to express my appreciation for all you’ve done, Deb!

And to Tara, my attentive and loving friend and daughter, who served as my personal assistant and took over many of my wearisome, yet necessary and important, responsibilities. Without her help I wouldn’t have been able to spend the necessary time writing and editing. She unswervingly made sure I ate, slept, and didn’t forget that I had a family and a life beyond my laptop. So thank you so much, Tara, for assuring that I stayed alive to finish this book.

Finally, there is my eternal friend and daughter Kelli who from the beginning enthusiastically shared my desire to see Erik with a full and satisfying life. She served as my diligent researcher, patient teacher, gentle critic, knowledgeable literary collaborator, public relation specialist, and my first fan. Her self-sacrificing efforts and encouragement over the years stirred my soul and gave me courage—courage that I never knew existed, and courage that was an essential element to see these novels to their completion. I fear, without her ever-present reassurance, my whimsical ideas about Erik’s life would have eventually retreated in a cowardly fashion back into my imagination. There they would be forced to live with the rest of my happily-ever-after endings, somewhere in the silent and dark recesses of my fanciful mind. Merci! Merci beaucoup, Kelli!

Prologue

Paris, France January 1881

I fondly remember that evening in January 1881. Fate had granted me one moment in my life to catch a glimpse of the most radiant eyes I’d ever seen and the young woman possessing them. She was with the other chorus girls and listening intently to tales about the infamous Opera Ghost, tales distorted by the chief scene-shifter, Joseph Buquet. From my location beneath the stage, I watched the scene as it unfolded, and I felt my pulse quicken when I heard, once again, the half-truths spoken about me. With clenched jaws, I waited for the right opening to direct my voice to that foolish man’s ears. When it came, I slowly repeated his name several times—in a deep and threatening tone.

As he heard his name resound in his head, he twisted in circles, and his eyes bulged as they darted beyond the props and backdrops in a futile search for the mysterious ghost of his imagination. His sloppy mouth gaped open, and he flung his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out my intimidating voice. He might have momentarily prevented my words from entering through his ears, but he couldn’t remove their tone from flooding through his frightened mind.

With delicate hands placed over painted lips, the silly girls in their lavender tutus giggled. Perhaps they believed Joseph’s actions were part of the entertainment? Well, in a way they were—entertainment for me, that is. After all, we were in an edifice designed with enjoyment in mind; hence, shouldn’t one of its builders also receive his due amusement? I believed so. Therefore, I continued to watch the hilarious movements of that superstitious idiot—the one responsible for my displeasure. While I maintained that cold and menacing manner he feared, I struggled desperately to restrain my hysterical laughter from escaping.

Once he removed his hands from his ears, I began again, "Joseph Buquet! Why do you spread these lies about me? Do you conjure up these falsehoods because of your dull and boring existence? Won’t these frivolous girls give you attention without bizarre stories? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You should be extremely careful, Joseph Buquet, or these lies about my past could become self-fulfilling prophecies about your future!"

After speaking my mind, I released my control over him. In his attempt at a hasty retreat, he began groping backward, stumbled over a prop, and landed with a loud thud on the stage floor. The color completely drained from his distorted face, and he struggled to get to his feet and run away—to where I don’t believe he knew or cared. I will forever be amazed with how terrified someone could become with only the sound of my voice.

Instinctively, my hand pressed against my lips to prevent laughter from escaping, but by the time he managed to flee behind backdrops, nothing would have prevented me from expressing my amusement. Watching his desperate plight was better than any comedy script ever written, and before long I couldn’t suppress my sense of humor any longer. As a result, my booming laugh joined the shrill pitch of the girls’ giggling.

Within moments, I became aware that my voice alone was vibrating through the nearly dark house. The ballerinas huddled together, resembling a group of porcelain figurines thrown on a young maiden’s bookshelf. They had a death grip on each other in an endeavor to protect themselves from their own over-active imaginations, fueled by the power of my imposing voice. As the last thunderous waves of sound gradually subsided, a chilling silence crept over the stage, and out of that stillness a small familiar voice dared to mutter.

It’s the Phantom…. I know it!

The familiar voice belonged to little Meg who began chattering like a frightened baby bird. With a smile and shake of my head, I watched her scurry with another young chorus girl behind the dark red stage curtains. Curiosity about what stories she might relate regarding the infamous Paris Opera Ghost gained control, so I quickly and quietly rose up through the trap door in the stage floor. As I made my way to the shadows of the backdrops, I heard another voice.

That sweet, soft, and unfamiliar voice questioned, The Phantom? Who is the Phantom, Meg?

Meg responded, with the tenor of both excitement and fright mixed with intrigue, The Phantom is who Joseph called the Opera Ghost.

You mean he actually exists? the new voice asked rapidly. I thought Joseph was only toying with us.

Although scarcely above a whisper, Meg‘s voice showed the extent of her stimulated emotions as she began her version of the legendary Phantom.

„Yes, he exists! I‘ve seen him! He‘s extremely tall, and always wears a black hat and cloak … which flows along behind him. He doesn‘t have legs, so he glides effortlessly and silently through the corridors … and also through walls!"

With another shake of my head, I pondered her words. I definitely liked Meg‘s story better than Joseph‘s. Perhaps she‘s in the wrong profession. Perhaps she ought to be a mystery writer.

Meg raised her slender arm and sight toward the catwalks hovering high above the stage, then continued her unbelievable description.

„Sometimes he makes himself invisible, but he can still be heard up there somewhere. Her voice quivered as she looked back at the fledgling dancer. „Then sometimes he can‘t be heard or seen, but you can somehow feel him all around you.

„Meg, you must be joking! That isn‘t possible!" the tiny voice responded with hesitation and growing fright.

I opened my mouth to calm her fears, but then I caught sight of her and my vocal cords adamantly refused to obey my simple instructions. The soft footlights behind her silhouetted her frame with the glow of an angel, and my breath fled from me. Her vision left me without intelligent thought or the capacity to move as I stared in amazement at her elegance. While they murmured about the Opera Ghost, I dared to move closer—close enough to hear their rapid breathing.

Meg, little by little, pulled the heavy curtain back and peeked behind it, although she didn‘t realize she was looking in the opposite direction from where I was hiding. Then, a whisper coming from the angel‘s glow broke my dizzying daze.

„Meg, can you see him now?"

Meg replied softly, „No…. I don‘t see him, but I know he‘s here.. I just know it."

My eyes stayed fixed solely on the new ballerina as she clutched Meg‘s arm. Her thick golden hair framed her perfect features and then cascaded in curls over her bare shoulders. The bones of her face were well defined and yet soft, with a petite and slightly upturned nose. Her eyes, wide with anticipation, were like the eastern sky on a clear evening just before sunset—the deepest blue possible. Her cheeks had a rosy hue while a deep shade of crimson kissed her lips. Those lips—how full and soft they looked. I recall thinking that it would have to feel exquisite to have them caress mine, but my resourceful imagination didn‘t come close to the eventual reality.

I‘d seen many alluring women during my travels, especially in Persia. The women there had hair as black as ravens‘ wings, and eyes that put the most luxurious polished jadestone to shame. Their smooth olive skin could only be compared to the finest Persian silk, but nothing could compare to the wonder I felt as I gazed at that angelic creature before me. It might have been her physical appearance that first captured my attention, but what was stirring in me was much deeper than any physical attraction—much deeper. Regardless of my intellect and varied experiences in life, I couldn‘t explain what was happening within my heart and soul.

Who was she? Where did she come from? How long had she been here? Could she sing? Oh please, my pounding heart whispered, please let her delicate throat carry the sounds of a nightingale—no—the sounds of an angel!

No matter how stunning she might be, if her voice couldn‘t match her perfection, then I couldn‘t tolerate it. On more than one occasion, I had to turn a deaf ear to an attractive woman because of the sound of her speech, let alone the sound of her singing. Even the Opera Populaire‘s prima donna, La Carlotta, had forced me to leave my seat in box five during one of my favorite arias because of her squawking. The beauty so close to me right then just had to sing with an excellence to captivate multitudes. Who was she?

I was only faintly aware that most of the girls had scampered away, and only Meg and the new ballerina remained. After releasing the curtain, Meg turned to the fledgling dancer and resumed her unbelievable tale.

Every word I’ve said is true. He even talks to mother in her room. You can ask her if you don’t believe me. Sometimes his voice is like thunder .so loud and powerful it makes the scenes shake and the chandelier sway.

As if being choreographed by an unseen chorus director, they both turned and looked at the grand chandelier cloaked in total darkness high above the seats. Then while their fingers and arms intertwined, they turned back in unison to stare into each other’s wide eyes. With their arms resembling entwined grapevines, they remained perfectly still, and so did I. Eventually, the new ballerina released one hand to cover her parted lips and a soft gasp.

But, at other times, Meg assured her in a much calmer tone, his voice is so soft, so gentle, and so caring … like an angel’s voice. Please trust me. It’s true, Christine.

Christine! Christine! What a beautiful name for a beautiful young woman, I mused!

Christine… Christine.

Unknowingly, I spoke her name aloud, and the two slender figures turned their attention toward me. They increased their hold on each other as they peered into the darkness, causing me to press my body back against a huge prop and lower the brim of my hat.

While they held their grip on each other, Meg started again.

That’s him, Christine! He spoke your name. Never have I heard him speak anyone’s name in that way.

Christine began to speak softly—almost trance-like—as she broke her hold on Meg’s arms and took a few mindless steps in my direction.

Meg, his voice is the most enchanting sound I’ve ever heard. It can’t belong to a ghost. It must belong to an angel. He must be an angel. Yes .a magnificent angel.

A deafening silence fell over the empty house, allowing the gas lamps to send their faint hiss among the shadows. My heart was beating so loudly I feared it would unquestionably betray me if I remained there any longer. Therefore, I told myself to move farther out of sight, but I couldn’t persuade my legs to obey that uncomplicated and familiar command. Hence, we stood there only a few paces away from each other—like two granite statues in a shaded park.

While she searched for the man behind the voice who had captivated her senses, I searched to understand the effect her nearness was having on my logical and controlled thinking faculties. My active curiosity wasn’t what controlled my actions that particular evening. There was something about her, and the way I felt, that I couldn’t recognize.

Directing my voice to stage left, I spoke her name once more, and then I waited for only an instant until she turned away from me. After her sight followed my voice, I slipped farther into the darkness. Once behind a curtain, I removed my hat and mask—not wanting my sight to be hindered in any way. I slowly parted the curtain and then watched for one more brief moment that angelic creature searching for my voice among the curtains of stage left.

Yes—just one more look at the exquisite young woman who adorned my stage. I had to find out everything I could about her—this feminine beauty who had taken control of my lonely heart and soul as none other.

With one last look, accompanied by a deep, slow breath, my epic quest was given birth.

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One

Perros-Guirec, France September—1838

From my earliest memories, I can recall listening to my mother playing the piano and, more often than not, accompanying herself with her own exquisite voice. That beautiful sound comforted me as I watched her smooth, slender fingers slide over the keys. Often, they almost hypnotized me with their move-ment—which quite naturally matched the rhythm of the melody. With the music surrounding us, her face became serene and caring. Many times I felt a desperate need to touch her hands or her cheek, but I somehow knew I shouldn‘t do that. So, I merely listened and willingly drifted on the soft, comforting cloud of sound along with her.

One day while sitting with my eyes closed—soaking in not only the warmth on my back from the fireplace but also the warmth from the melody that encircled me—tears began trickling from my eyes. The light material that covered my face became damp with my tears, but I didn‘t understand why. I wasn‘t sad; I was contented. I usually cried when Mama screamed at me, so why was I crying then? I didn‘t understand.

Through my tears, I watched Mama with her eyes closed and slowly swaying with the melody. Frequently, her eyes opened, focused on the brightly colored painting above the piano, then they closed again, allowing her to continue her journey in darkness. With the power of the music within me, my naive desires took over, and I headed for those graceful hands and white keys that made such breathtaking music. Once at the piano, I dared to touch her hand. Instantly, those slender fingers and ivory keys—which had made such harmonious sounds only moments before—made a terrible noise.

Her eyes flashed and her face distorted as she shrieked, „How dare you! . How dare you, you wretched child! You know not to do that!"

I flung my hands over my ears to shut out the abrasive sound of her voice, but she grabbed my wrists and pulled my hands away so her words would reach me. I forced out her harsh speech and tried to replace it in my mind with the music I so loved. Then, the familiar tears I knew so well began to fall. I don‘t know how long her attack continued before Papa entered the room, and with two long strides he was at my side. He grabbed her by the arms and began questioning her in his usual low, controlled voice.

„Anna, what happened? Control yourself! You‘re frightening Erik!"

Thanks to his words, she let me go, and then covering her face with her hands, she slowly turned from us. Papa picked me up and held me closely with his strong yet gentle arms, while I buried my face, along with my sobs, in his neck. He pulled me away momentarily to look into my tear-filled eyes before he removed the cloth from my face. He looked sternly at Mama while he crumpled the white cloth in his hand and then angrily threw it across the room. He looked into my eyes once more before he released me to return to the safe haven of his embrace, and he returned to rebuking my mother.

„The mask was to make taking care of Erik easier for you, Anna, but since it doesn‘t seem to be working, then there‘s no need for him to wear it any longer … is there?"

While I listened to his accelerated breathing slow, he held me securely in silence. After that, he tried speaking to Mama again in a softer tone.

„For God‘s sake, Anna, why do you treat him this way? He‘s only missing a nose. He has everything else and more so. He has good sight and hearing, all his limbs, and a strong heart so full of love. He reminds me so much of you, Anna, with his dark hair and eyes and his love for your music. He‘s happy and intelligent, just like you, Anna … or at least the way you once were. He‘s not some animalistic demon; he‘s only a young child, your child . our child. He can‘t help the way he looks any more than we can, and it‘s only a nose . just a nose, Anna. Can‘t you look past what‘s on the outside and look within him and show him compassion for the loving child he is? Please, Anna, look past his face and to his soul. Look into his eyes and see this marvelous child of ours."

Slowly she turned and first looked up at Papa, and then, almost reluctantly, she looked at me. Frightened, I cowered back against Papa‘s chest, and then to my great surprise she focused on my eyes. For a few tension-filled moments, silence filled the room. As I watched her face soften, she took a step in our direction while raising her hand slowly toward my cheek, where it stayed only a

breath away. I pushed my body back against Papa’s chest further—not knowing if she was going to strike my cheek or stroke it. Spellbound, I watched her face transform into the gentle features she had when she played her music. I was studying her eyes closely when her fingers barely brushed my cheek, and I relaxed somewhat.

Her lips formed a soft smile, and then she whispered, Erik?

Hesitantly, I responded softly, Mama?

I moved away from Papa’s chest and raised my hand to touch hers, but as my fingers touched her skin, she quickly recoiled from me as if my touch had become flames of fire. Her hand covered her mouth, and her eyes widened, then filled with tears that resembled dark pools of water. She looked up at Papa and her head started to shake slowly. She began retreating while whimpering.

I can’t, Maurice … I’m sorry. I can’t. Please don’t ask me to do this. Looking quickly at me she whispered, I’m sorry, Erik. Her head dropped; then her grief-stricken face disappeared behind her hands and she sobbed, Oh, God, please forgive me.

So confused and hurt, I returned with more tears to my father’s neck.

Anna, please listen to me, Papa continued in a stronger tone. You can’t repeatedly treat him this way. If you do, you’ll surely distort his soul to match his deformed face. Is that what you want?

Her face turned red, and she instantly turned on him in another rage.

Is that what I want? Are you suggesting his deformity is my fault? Yes, you’re blaming me for the way he looks, aren’t you? You’re just like my mother! How dare you! You had a part in his birth too, you know! He’s your child also! Perhaps what happened to him is your fault! Yes, you take the blame for a change!

Again silence filled our home, allowing me to listen to the crackle of the fire in place of her harsh words. The next sound came from Papa as he went on in his calm yet firm tone.

I’m sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean to raise my voice that way, but you have to realize what happened to Erik is no one’s fault; it’s just one of those things that can’t be explained. But I believe, regardless of how he may look on the outside, on the inside there’s something truly special about him. Have you taken the time to look closely into his eyes when you’re talking to him, or when he’s talking to you? Please, give him a chance, Anna.

He gently turned me around so I faced her again. Then while rubbing his long fingers across my back, he said softly, Tell Mama something . anything. Talk to her, Erik.

I looked back at his face for reassurance, and he gave me a nod in my mother’s direction, silently telling me to speak to her. Confused, I watched Mama as she wiped tears from her dark eyes. It took another gesture from Papa before I asked her for the only thing that mattered to me at that moment.

Mama, please play more music for me.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, she looked past me to the piano for a few seconds.

Looking up at Papa she pleaded, I’m sorry, Maurice. I can’t. Next, looking at me, she finished barely above a whisper, I’m so sorry, Erik.

Turning quickly, she ran upstairs to her room in more tears. As her sobs disappeared along with her, I again looked up at Papa for much needed guidance. He looked down at me, and the smile I was waiting for appeared on his kind, tanned face. He raised his eyebrows while shrugging his shoulders.

Well, Erik, I guess we’ll have to make our own pretty music. Would you like that?

While carrying me across the room, he ran his fingers up and down my ribs, making me squeal and wiggle. He joined his laughter to mine as he sat us down on the piano bench. Holding my breath, I felt the smooth keys with my eager fingers for the first time and then looked up at his face for approval.

He smiled, placed his large hand next to mine, and then, pressing the keys down, he sang, La la la .

The noise he made didn’t sound like a real song, but it didn’t matter.

Soon, I followed him and began pressing the keys while singing, La la la .

Our laughter mixed with our disharmony wasn’t anything like the lovely music Mama made, and I can remember wondering why.

Our joyful, yet bizarre, noise came to a halt with Mama’s voice raised in anger. Running down the stairs and across the room, she screamed so loudly it made my ears hurt.

What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to shatter my eardrums? Stop that noise now, or I’ll go mad!

Quickly, she slammed the key cover down, barely missing our fingers as Papa pulled them to safety.

I don’t want him playing with my piano, do you hear me? she began demanding. I only have this piano to give me comfort these days, and I don’t want it ruined by him banging on it.

Rising to his feet, Papa reached one hand out to her, trying to reason with her.

The only thing that gives you comfort? What do you call me? Don’t I count for anything? Don’t I give you comfort?

Mama began wiping the tears from her eyes one more time as she responded in a much softer tone, You used to, Maurice, but now you spend all your time at home with him. Most of the time I feel as if you don’t even know I’m here.

Papa glanced over his shoulder at me.

We’re all he has, Anna. Can’t you see that? You can join in the time we have together; I would prefer to spend my time that way. The three of us should be together more often. That’s the way a family should be.

You just don’t understand! she cried through her tears as she ran back upstairs. You just don’t understand!

Papa again turned and looked at me with desperation in his eyes, and my tears began to flow freely again. He came to me, gently picked me up, wiped the tears from my cheeks with the tender touch of his finger, and then gave me a big hug. He carried me across the room while placing a tender kiss on my forehead. When he set me down on the braided rug in front of the fireplace, he told me to look through my assortment of small storybooks until he came back. He turned from me and quickly walked up the stairs, and, taking two at a time, he managed to miss the squeaky ones.

Again, I heard Mama’s elevated voice, so different from the beautiful sounds she made at the piano, and Papa’s low, soft voice trying to calm her. I couldn’t understand their speech, but I felt hurt all the same. I pushed my hands as hard as I could against my ears. However, I could still hear them, so I began humming and rocking—trying to drown out the sounds of their fighting. Since that tactic didn’t work either, I tried to look through my storybooks stacked beside me like Papa told me to do, but also without success.

As I rocked, I couldn’t keep from looking longingly at the piano, alone and silent against the wall. I began wishing it would make pretty music again so I wouldn’t hear her bitter words. Driven by tears of despair, I took a deep breath and quickly ran to the piano bench where I tried to climb up, but I wasn’t tall enough. I looked around the room and saw only my books that were small enough for me to lift. Therefore, with a few of them in my arms at a time, I carried them to the floor by the piano until the stack was high enough for me to climb on the bench. Once that obstacle was overcome, I felt a sense of satisfaction, but I could still hear Mama’s harsh voice, and the tears continued to run down my uneven cheeks.

With much effort, and a heart beating rapidly with excitement, I eventually managed to lift the key cover. I started humming the melody Mama was playing earlier, and then, one by one, I picked out the correct keys to match the sound of my voice. Much better, I remember thinking, and I felt good inside knowing I was able to make the keys do what I wanted. But best of all, I could no longer hear hurtful words.

I played that same piece repeatedly, gradually adding one more key and then another. The feeling inside me was beyond description! I could make the music like Mama! I no longer needed her to make it for me! The sound—so warm and comforting—surrounded me, and soon my cheeks held only the remains of dry tears. Time became irrelevant and I could have gone on forever, but Papa’s hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me, made me stop.

Erik, do you hear me?

I looked up at him and began joyfully chattering, Look, Papa, look! I can make music! I can make my own music! It makes my tummy tickle, Papa. I can do it myself

Through smiling lips, he responded, I knew you were exceptional the first time I looked into your extraordinary eyes, Erik. Moisture formed in his crystal blue eyes as he watched his fingers move through my hair. What other special surprises do you have in this unique mind of yours? Turning his gaze toward Mama sitting on the divan, he asked, Did you hear what he did, Anna? I told you he was special. I told you!

Mama stared at me—expressionless—which made me extremely uncomfortable. She rarely looked at me without the mask over my face and, even then, only when she had to do so. I looked around the room for the mask as the feeling to be protected by it increased, but I didn’t see it. My search was halted when Papa picked me up and carried me to his chair facing Mama. After sitting down, he placed me on his knee and began speaking to her in that voice—that deep, rich, warm, and reassuring voice I cherished.

Anna, you must teach him all you can. I would, but as you know I don’t have a musical ear.

She looked at him, then to me, and then back to him again. Finally, after a faint sigh, she answered softly, Teach him what? He seems to be teaching himself.

Papa placed his hand on my head and began running his caring fingers through my hair while he responded in just as soft a tone.

"Yes, perhaps he is. But he was only repeating what he heard you play. You must teach him all you know about music; teach him how to read the notes

and what they mean. He paused a moment while he placed a loving kiss on my cheek. Did you see his face, Anna? He truly loved what he was doing. He wasn’t just playing around like a normal two-year-old. He must not be confined to only copying what he hears. Will you please teach him?"

Mama continued to sit there in silence, gazing at the braided rug between us. Then finally, she made a faint nod of acceptance to do Papa’s bidding. She took a long and slow breath before her eyes traveled back to Papa.

He’s only a baby, Maurice. Then she looked at me. How did you do that, Erik?

I didn’t know how to answer her since I didn’t know what I’d done. All I knew was that I had needed to make myself feel better.

Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study my face, and I again began to feel uncomfortable, so once more I searched the room for that small piece of white cloth to hide behind. Eventually, I spotted it between the divan and the side table; so I slid from Papa’s knee, ran, and picked it up. I fumbled with it as I tried to replace it on my face, but Papa quickly took it from my hands and threw it again. Only that time, he threw it into the fire.

While giving a stern glance in Mama’s direction, Papa announced, We won’t need this mask any longer, Erik.

At first, Mama only looked at him without expressing any emotional reaction to his abrupt action. I prepared myself for another outburst of anger from her, but she merely turned her gaze to the fire and watched as my mask burst into flames.

Papa placed one more kiss on my cheek and then told me it was my bedtime. Picking me up, he headed for the stairs, and I wrapped one arm around his neck then laid my head on his broad and comforting shoulder.

Goodnight, Mama, I said softly as I waved my small hand in her direction.

I waited for a response, but none came. As we climbed the stairs, I watched her gazing into the fire apparently lost in thought. Then, with mixed emotions, I also looked at the dark, smoldering remains of my once-white mask. I didn’t like it on my face. It made my skin itch, and I couldn’t see well, but it gave me solace and made me feel protected when Papa wasn’t home. If I didn’t have it, or his arms, how could I hide from Mama’s wrath? What would I do without my mask?

Papa laid me down in my bed, told me goodnight, and I tried to go to sleep as he instructed. I even squeezed my eyes closed so tightly they hurt, but for me sleep rarely came easily. The hypnotic music I had made kept swimming in my ears and filled me with excitement, along with a desire to make it again. I lay

there humming the melody repeatedly and watched the moon appearing and disappearing behind clouds, as though it was playing peek-a-boo with me. I studied the shadows changing shapes on my wall, trying to change the subject in my mind so I could obey Papa, but I couldn’t. I just had to play the piano again.

Once my need for music outweighed my desire to please my Papa, I crawled from my small bed and went to the top of the stairs. The sitting room was dark and silent, except for some glowing embers in the fireplace and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, but I had to go down regardless of the darkness. Therefore, I crept slowly down, and once there I climbed on my books and the bench once more. I began to hum and play the same notes as before, while savoring the unbelievable emotion. I wasn’t sure just what I was feeling, but I knew I couldn’t compare it with anything I’d ever experienced.

Too soon, Papa joined me again on the bench, with his gentle arm wrapped around my shoulder. After a kiss to my forehead, he smiled from ear to ear like the proud father he was. I looked up into his kind eyes as he spoke in little more than a whisper, trying to reason with the excited child before him.

Erik, it’s late and not the time to play the piano. Neither Mama nor I will be able to sleep. You need to show patience and wait until morning before you can play again. Do you understand?

I nodded, and he continued to smile that smile that belonged only to him. As he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I giggled. Climbing the stairs, he carried me back to bed once more while I watched the piano standing alone in the dark. Before it disappeared around the corner, I raised my small hand, which had just experienced its first powerful taste of making music, and waved goodbye to my new friend.

Goodnight, piano, I spoke softly. See you in the morning.

Papa laid me down with a bounce, tucked the blankets in around me, then sat on the edge of my bed before he tried to tell me goodnight for the second time.

Erik, I know you’re excited about what you’ve learned, and so am I, but you have to learn patience. Remember, all good things are worth waiting for, and all good things come in time. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to play the piano in the days ahead, but you need to sleep now. Then, with a slight nod and a special twinkle in his eyes, he added, And in the morning, I’ll have a special surprise waiting for you … just for you. How would you like a present, Erik?

I sat straight up in bed and clapped my hands in front of me. A surprise … for me? What is it, Papa? I jabbered with excitement. What is it?

He laughed at me, laid me back down, tucked me in again, then leaned over and kissed my cheek as he whispered in my ear, Patience, Erik, patience. With his warm smile still on his face, he kissed both my eyelids and told me, Now remember . you can’t open your eyes once I kiss them shut.

Yes, Papa, I responded obediently.

I heard him get up and leave my room, which meant I was left completely alone to deal with my overactive mind—one more time.

I threw myself over on my stomach and buried my face in my fluffy pillow, thinking it would help me keep my eyes closed. That approach might have helped me keep my eyes closed, but it didn’t come close to stopping my eager mind from working. I just couldn’t go to sleep. On top of my exciting discovery of making my own music, I had a surprise waiting for me. I rolled over on my back and my eyes automatically popped wide open. Again, I squeezed them shut, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. Eventually, I heard the back door open, then close, followed by footsteps outside in the yard. So I jumped up, climbed on my little chair, then on the small dresser under my window to find Papa walking to the barn with the lantern swaying at his side. Soon I heard hammering, and my heart raced.

He’s making my surprise! I said aloud.

I knelt on my dresser and pressed my forehead against the cold window, becoming even more impatient for the time to pass. I stared as hard as I could to see what Papa was doing, but I couldn’t see anything. While I listened to the hammering, I watched the stars twinkling at each other and wondered how they managed to do that.

The next thing I knew the sun was coming up, and I was tucked back in my little bed nice and warm. I imagined Papa must have found me asleep on the dresser and put me back to bed—again. My thoughts quickly turned to the piano and Papa’s promised surprise, so I ran down the stairs as fast as my little legs would carry me. Across the room I ran, to the lonely piano, and there I found my surprise. Instead of my books beside the piano bench, I found a small, wooden, blue box with my name painted