Like Father, Like Son | Phantom of the Opera

iii. This Parenting Thing

SEPTEMBER 1907

ERIK

The carriage ride had been long, and while I had known it would be, being in a comfortable living space was my one desire—not even for myself, but for the sleeping boy leaning against my side. His eyes had fluttered shut fairly soon after I bestowed his new nickname upon him, and he had continued to sleep for almost two hours. Even I had found myself nodding off for a few moments every now and then, which was bizarre. I had been doing that quite a lot lately—sleeping. It was an activity that I had not often partaken in. For years, my mind had been plagued with the notes of Don Juan Triumphant, leaving me too awake to do anything but compose. More recently, however, Christine had been the only thing that filled my thoughts. For the past ten years, I had only dreamed of her. Although my age seemed to be catching up with me and my body demanded frequent rest, I could not make myself shut my eyes for very long. When I did, I saw her and it was like I was holding her body against mine once more, only for me to awaken and feel my loneliness flood over me when I found my arms to be empty. At that moment, however, I was so exhausted, both physically and emotionally, that the dreams were the least of my problems.

I had been resting my head against the window and trying to sleep when I felt the soft bumping of the carriage stop. I opened my eyes and looked to the driver, who had opened the door next to me and was staring up at my face.

"Is there a problem?" I inquired.

"We must stop for the night, Monsieur. We are no longer in the city, and these roads are dangerous at night. There is an inn here where we can rest before we leave in the morning."

I sighed, displeased with the truth. I had hoped to be on that night's journey to England, but deep down, I knew that a stop for the night was best for all parties, even if my tickets did go to waste. "Very well. Where are we, exactly?"

"Un petit ville, Monsieur," the driver replied, falling back on our native French language when his English vocabulary failed him. "Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville."

And with those four words, my heart was made to stop beating.

"Boscherville?" I repeated. "Are you quite sure?"

"Oui, Monsieur. It will not be too long of a ride to the pier from here in the morning."

The driver moved to collect our luggage from the back of the carriage, which left me to gather my thoughts. It had been years...

I shook my head and returned my focus to my life's new priority: "Gustave, my boy," I whispered as I gently rubbed the boy's shoulder. "We've stopped for the night, come along."

The boy's eyes slowly opened and he sat up, an exhausted groan escaping his lips. "Okay, Papa," he whispered as he rubbed his eyes.

I stepped out of the carriage and lifted him out and onto the ground, then grabbed our luggage from the driver. "The inn is just this way. Follow me."

Gustave nodded, and I felt his small hand wrap around my arm. "Papa, where are we?" he asked.

"A little village in northwest France called Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville." I took a breath as the memories that I had so long suppressed once more flooded back. "I was born here years ago."

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The two of us walked into the inn and I told Gustave to take a seat while I spoke to the innkeeper. While the building was small, it was beautiful, as much of Boscherville was. The town was once home to many brilliant architects—my father included—so the beauty was not shocking, although improvements could always be made, as was the case with just about any building.