The Night Will Only Know

The Journalist

Gustave sat on the edge of his seat, in a trance, captured by his father's words that hung in the air between them. Gustave's father leaned back, folding his arms across chest. He studied Gustave for a moment,

"And that's the end." He went to stand, Gustave reached across the distance between them and pushed his father back in the chair.

"What?" Gustave asked, his brown black eyes blinking rapidly, his spellbound trance broken.

"That's it. You know the rest of the story. Christine married Raoul and then 10 years later you all came to Manhattan. And Christine was...." His father trailed off, his black eyes wandering down to his lap. "There is nothing left to tell."

"Father. That can't be the end. That's not how stories go." Gustave said angrily, his voice cracking at the end. He cleared his throat, "After all, how could I be your son if you never saw mum for 10 years?" His father shook his head, he slid out of his chair. Gustave ran his hands through his dark brown hair. His father leaned upon the mantle, staring at the small fire, his black eyes shining with the reflection of the firelight. 

"The night before she wed." His father whispered hoarsely. Gustave sat up straighter,

"Father?" His tone questioning, his father shifted around to look at him.

"She came to me the night before she wed, met me on the docks as I was leaving for America. I hadn't seen her for a few weeks, she and I.....we......." His father shook his head and looked at his feet.  

"Are you ashamed of what you did, Father?" Gustave asked, unsure what to feel. He was angry that his father had broken one of the Ten Commandments, but he was happy for his father for finally getting the woman he wanted. As without that night, Gustave wouldn't have been born, but also without Gustave maybe his mother would still be alive.

"I don't know." He answered truthfully, "I lusted for a married woman, but without that lust the greatest treasure in my world wouldn't exist. I sinned, but from my sin came my redemption."

Erik Destler looked, really looked at his son, who was still seated on the sofa. He noticed Christine's graceful cheekbones, her long lashes that framed his black eyes. He saw a gleam of auburn in his son's dark hair. He heard the stubbornness of Christine in his son's voice, heard her spirit when he practiced the piano. Christine was there, in Gustave. For six years, Erik had mourned the loss of the woman he loved and he had been too blind to see that she was there with him this whole time.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jane, a young parlor maid who strolled in. Behind her, was a lanky man. He had wind ruffled reddish brown hair with clear gray blue eyes. Across his nose was a pair of glasses that perched haphazardly on his face. He wore a cheap black suit and scuffed brown shoes.  In his hand he carried a notebook and pencil, across his left arm he had draped his coat.

"Mr. Destler." Jane said, her American accent clipping and butchering Erik's last name. "This man is a journalist from Paris. He has a few questions to ask you. Shall I ring for a translator?" Erik smiled at the slim maid,

"No, it's quite all right." Jane curtsied and took the man's coat before disappearing.  The man, Gustave guessed to be young, in his mid twenties. He stood awkwardly, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Goo-od Af-te-rrr-no-on." His English was rough, and Erik smiled warmly.

"We can speak in French if it is easier for you, Monsieur...?" The young man smiled, a look of relief on his face.

"Leroux. Gaston Leroux." He stuck out his hand which Erik shook. 

"Erik Destler and this is my son Gustave Pierre Destler." Gustave inclined his head to the journalist, who nodded in his direction. 

"Now what do we owe this visit, Monsieur Leroux?" Gaston looked about,

"May I sit?" Erik nodded and Gaston plopped down into an armchair. "I was in Paris, about 2 weeks ago when my editor gets a ring from the Paris Opera House, asking if they have a journalist who is willing to write about a new opera taking the stage. I was the only journalist available so I agreed to go. Low and behold, opening night is a smash hit, place is packed. I'm seeing a lot of famous faces and as I go into my box, I find a middle aged man there. We began to talk and I find out he is the Vicomte deChangy!" 

Gustave looked  at his father, who betrayed no emotions and nodded to Gaston.

"As a journalist, I start interviewing him, I mean its not everyday you meet one of the wealthiest men in France. And I ask him, if he ever regretted anything in his life what would that be? He then asks if I want a story. A bit confused, I agree and he tells me to meet him in this little bar across the street after the opera's end. So later that night, I meet up with the Vicomte deChangy and proceeds to tell me the story of the Phantom of the Opera, but he tells it to me like he was living it." 

Erik licked his lips and nodded,

"Go on." Gaston nodded

"Now, everyone in the France has heard of the myth, and I almost blow him off. But before I go he tells me that the phantom was real. He gives me these," Gaston opened a notebook and pulled out several sheets of paper. One appeared to be a letter, the other two where black and white photographs. 

"And what are those?" Erik pointed to the photographs, Leroux handed him one at a time, the first one was a picture of a music box

"That is a picture of a music box with a monkey on top, which was sold at an auction a few weeks ago, right before the new opera took place." Erik froze, his eyes searching the photo quickly before handing it to Gustave,

"And this one is a mask, a white porcelain mask found abandoned in a cavern below the Opera House. It appeared to be from a broken masquerade mask." Erik passed this photo to Gustave as well, who's brown black eyes scanned them meticulously. 

"Here," Leroux says pushing the other document towards them, "is a diary entry from the Vicomte's wife Madame Christine Daae deChangy, explaining this mysterious Phantom figure and how she misses him." Erik ached at the familiar sloped writing, the delicate name written in blue black ink on the bottom.

"Now, what does all this have to do with me?" Erik asked, pushing down his pain and handing back the documents to Gaston. Monsieur Leroux shrugs,

"Vicomte deChangy claimed he knew of a man in America who could tell me more about this Phantom figure. So, he gave me the famous Destler or as you are more commonly known as Mr. Y's address and here I am, I want to know everything, was the Vicomte pulling my leg or was there a real Phantom character. Gaston pulls a pencil from his pocket and licks the tip, putting it to the paper. He looked expectantly at Erik; sighing Erik stood.

"The Vicomte deChangy,  oh that glorious bastard." Leroux stopped writing and pushed his glasses up.

"Pardon?"

Erik barked out a sharp laugh, "He sent you to the one man who knew more about the Phantom of the Opera?" Leroux confused, nodded.

"Yes, monsieur." Erik shook his head,

"No, he sent you to the Phantom of the Opera." Leroux stopped, a mixture of confusion, shock, and disbelief clashing on his face.

"What?" He shook his head, "No, he said the Phantom would be hideous and scarred and you...you're normal. You are the famous composer and magician Mr. Y, everyone knows that mask is a part of the act." Erik shook his head,

"This mask is more than an act." Leroux shook his head again,

"I don't believe you." Erik sighed and reached behind his head and untied two straps. Slowly he peeled off the white mask and revealed his distorted left cheek. Leroux blanched and Erik quickly replaced the mask. After securing it, he stared at Leroux who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The silence stretching on for several lifetimes.

"Do you believe now?" Leroux nodded, the color slowly returning to his pale face.

"Will you tell me your side? Of the story?" His voice shaky and nervous. His hands trembled as he placed his pencil to the page again. Erik sunk down onto the sofa next to his son, who had watched this whole ordeal in silence, as he was still processing the story himself. Erik gave a small smirk, nodded and cleared his throat,

"It began twenty six years ago..."