It Could Be Worse

The man once known as the Phantom of the Opera winced as the dawn light gilded the black wreck of the Opera Populaire. The fire brigades had gone, but smoke still stung his nose.

He pulled his worker's cap down low and walked toward a small kiosk on the corner. Hunger clawed at him. Perhaps an apple would do for now.

The stand held apples and leeks, potatoes and cabbage, but what forced the saliva to his mouth was the thick, rich smell of meat pies.

He fumbled in his pocket for coins, in woolen trousers loose and scratchy. Another performance, he thought. Another disguise.

"Two for a franc, Monsieur," the little man in the kiosk said. "My wife made them this morning."

The hungry man looked up at him with a start. The little man wore an eye-patch. His face was pitted with black dots, lodged in between flaming red scars. What little hair he had stuck out like shrubbery.

"I'll take four. All I have is a five-franc coin."

"That's fine. A working man gets hungry. Two in waxed paper, for your dinner."

The clamor of the Paris street faded as he stared openly at the vendor's hand, twisted around the change. Two fingers were missing.

"Don't mind me. It was the war, the Crimea. Tried to catch some Russian cannonballs, but I missed." He chuckled, then paused. "You look like you might have been there yourself. You're just old enough."

"No," he said softly. "I wasn't there."

"I haven't seen you around," the little man remarked. "I'm here every morning, and I know most of the workers that go past. What's your trade?"

Pick something you can do, but where you can blend in. Anything as far as away from music as possible. "I'm a stone mason," he finally answered.

"They're in demand these days. Where're you working now?"

"I'm not. I've … just arrived."

"You look strong, strapping," the vendor said. "Here, let me write down my son's name. He's in a crew over at the new hotel site on Rue Feydeau. Says they need cutters and carvers."

Hunger assuaged, he reached for the slip of paper, and bumped a pile of cabbages. They tumbled to the pavement, and the little man said, "No, don't bother, I'll get them."

The kiosk door creaked open, and the man wheeled out on a cart, the stumps of his legs wrapped in trouser cloth.

The two men picked up the cabbages in silence.

"I'll look up your son."

"You do that. Thanks for the help. Come back again."

He walked down the boulevard, the pies still warm in his pocket, the morning sun pouring over him like melted bronze. He felt his legs move under him, powerfully, on muscular, pivoting hips. He flexed his right hand, then his left, and pulled the hat up a little.

Warm eyes grazed his skin, and a young woman smiled at him over her baskets of flowers as he walked toward Rue Feydeau.

(The End)