An American Home

The Persian

Paris, France

September, 1876

A stiff butler escorted the visitor into an impressive library, and bade the man to wait for the comte. The tall, pale stranger merely nodded his understanding and then cast a glance at the books that filled the shelves around him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, making his stance one of calm, relaxed attention. He was dressed as any gentleman of means would be but a short astrakhan cap clearly marked him as no mere business associate.

Not many minutes after he had been left in the library, the door opened. A smile appeared and faded in an instant as the sound of a crying child could be heard. Philippe de Chagny, Comte, hurried into the room, making sure to quickly and firmly close the door behind himself. The brown haired man looked harried and annoyed.

“You are Ahmir Khan?”

The dark eyed man nodded and curtly and gave the slightest of bows in greeting. “How may I be of service to you, my lord?” he asked as he straightened to his full height. “Your summons to come here was most unexpected, and quite vague, if I may say so.”

With a wave of his hand, the comte gestured for his visitor to be seated. “I have been reliably informed that you are a man who deals with problems that cannot be handled in traditional ways,” Chagny said as he himself moved to take a seat behind his ornate desk that sat in the middle of the room. “Is this so?”

Modestly, Khan spread his hands. “It depends on the problem,” he answered as he took a seat opposite the desk. “But there have been very few occasions where I have failed to complete the task I had taken on. Do you have a 'problem', my lord comte?”

Chagny glanced down at some papers on his desk. “What can you tell me about the affair of the Phantom of the opera?” he asked.

“That's a rather involved question, my lord,” Khan responded, raising an eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair. “I am aware of the tales that have spread; they have been told for many years now. There was talk of a man, or apparition, causing trouble for the residents of the Opera Populaire. Most people shrug the stories off as superstitious imaginings of theater folk.”

“Yes, and what else?”

Khan frowned. “Five years ago, there was a fire at the opera house,” he continued, sticking to the main facts that he knew. “It was said that the fire was the phantom's revenge for being rejected by a ballet dancer. And some sixteen months ago, a member of your family, your brother I believe, and several of his acquaintances laid a plot to catch a man you suspected of being the phantom.”

Looking both chagrined and annoyed, Chagny shook his head. “That fool brother of mine,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “You're very well informed, Khan.”

“Mere stories. Many people know them.”

“They are not stories,” Chagny informed him, bringing his fist down on his desk. With an obvious effort, the viscomte forced himself to relax. “Every word you heard is completely true. There was a man living beneath the opera house and he destroyed it when my brother became...enamored with that ballet girl.”