SHADOWS
By G E Waldo
Rating: General audiences
Pairing: Erik/Christine
Time-line setting: Late 1890's, New York.
Author's note: Leroux's book has the Phantom disappearing at the end as if into thin air, leaving his fate unknown. In the Phantom of the Opera the musical it is much the same. At the end of Susan Kay's book, Christine Daae reluctantly leaves Erik as he is dying of heart failure. As much as I loved Kay's book, I've chosen to overlook her ending and continue this story as though Erik lived and escaped as he did in Leroux's book and in A. 's opera. I hope you enjoy it.
POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPO
It had changed. A little.
It still looked the same in this first light of morning. She supposed she ought not to have come so early. No one was likely to be around. Still, as unchangingly severe as the external appearance still was, there was change present too on the inside, she was certain.
So certain of the presently unseen changes within that she could sense it as she stood before its doors. Feel it. Wonder at it; the knowledge that it had altered over time. Not a long time, but long enough. This great monument to an architect's vanity was somehow less. Bereft. Almost lonely.
She could well empathise as she was alone, now, once more. As he had been.
But Christine, her blonde tendrils woven and twisted into a not unattractive, but more practical, bun and wearing her very British tweed skirt that swept the ground and her neatly buttoned high collar jacket - her travel clothes - entered the great black double doors of the Paris Opera House. She carried her own small stiff travel case. Within were only those items she had deemed worthy to keep with her: A heavier coat for the cooler climes of Paris in the fall plus a few other feminine garments, a red leather folder of various currencies, her diamond necklace (a gift from Raoule on their fifth wedding anniversary); a train schedule, and her cherished hairbrush and mirror that had belonged to her beloved mother, the two items of any value she had managed to salvage from her younger years. Before...
No, even before that.
She was greeted at the door by a young man she did not recognise. He held a grey-stained rag in his hand and Christine could smell the odor of silver tarnish. He seemed astonished to see anyone at this time of day. "I'm sorry, miss, the Opera House is closed at this time. You are not allowed in."
She nodded but did not retreat, "I'm looking for someone – perhaps you know her? Madame Giry."
"Well, yes, mademoiselle, she works here, yes but as I have said, we are not open."
Her old impatience with those of the servant/labour class reared its head and she, a little irritated now - "Is she here?"
The young fellow looked away and down a bit. He swallowed in his nervousness and Christine felt a tiny pang of guilt. She had tried to shed her more upper class expectations after Raoule's death but when one gets used to a way of living...it was so hard. Raoule had spoilt her in one way. She had never wanted for anything.
"Yes, she is here." He gestured (rather rudely Christine thought), over his shoulder with one extended thumb. "Madam Giry is in her office."
"Good." Christine gathered up her bag. The, she assumed, cleaning boy, offered to carry it for her with one unwashed hand. There was black beneath his nails. She refused his polite offer with a single shake of her head. "No thank you, I know the way."
"My God!" Was the reaction of Madam Giry who, Christine decided, had hardly changed at all, hair a little greyer perhaps but still kept under strict obedience in a tight bun on the back of her head, and veritably whipped into submission by many hair-pins. "Christine Daae!" The older woman stood up and came around from the ornate and much waxed desk to greet her properly.
Christine smiled. Madam Giry had been an exacting Box Keeper and Opera House Manageress, often exercising her sharp wit in order to keep the foolish young dancers literally on their toes. But she had also been a friend, of sorts. And, most of all, Madame Giry had been the only one to particularly sympathise with her (and with him), during the terrible events of nine years ago.
"Madame Giry,"
The older woman waved off the formality with a black sleeved arm. Even now she wore her old Manageress outfit, a long black, unflattering dress and black heeled lace-up shoes. "Let's have none of that." But she did genuinely smile back. "Please call me Marguerite."
Christine had not known her first name then. "Then you must call me Christine. And it's de Chagny now."
"Oh, pardon, pardon, of course. And how is the Vicount himself faring if I may ask?"
Christine had explained many times already and it was no longer a shock to learn that people, most people from her past at least, did not know. "My husband passed away over a year ago I am afraid. An accident."
"I am sorry to hear of it. He was a good man but at least you have the comfort of your son. A fine lad I have heard..."
Christine listened to Madame Giry prattle on about the healing presence of the son she assumed Christine still held in her arms at night. With practised calm, for she had had much practise, Christine interrupted gently "My son died of consumption Madame Giry, seven years ago." Seven years ago this very month in fact. My God, has it been that long already?
Marguerite put one hand over her heart. "Oh dear, my apologies my child. I had no idea! That is the most dreadful news. How terrible for you my dear, please come and sit. I'll have Iacques bring us some tea..."
After Madame Giry's fussing had passed (a common reaction most had to the news she was a widow and (they assumed) still a grieving mother – "So young! You poor thing! How awful! Please come sit a while. You must feel so lost!" Christine had grown used to people thinking she was somehow helpless because she was so young a widow and because her son had died. It had been a terrible blow of course but she had grown used to it now, the idea of loss; the very personal experience of it. It tasted familiar on her tongue now. Not so bitter anymore either. She had felt lost, of course, and sad after Little Erik (she had always called him that: Little Erik) and then six short years later, Raoule's passing. But she was fine now. However somehow being a widow and a mother bereft of her only child while being still young was apparently a greater tragedy - in the opinion of others - than having become either as an old woman bent over and frail. Old, soon to be dying and also bereft of her son and then life-long companion. She had been motherless for six years and a widow for nineteen months and was surprised to find herself already feeling, as they sometimes said, "over it."
As terrible a blow as it had been losing Little Erik and then Raoule, she no longer felt devastated or sorrowful. She felt...restless).
When they were both sitting side by side on the thread-worn divan and drinking tea, Christine finally broached the subject which had drawn her to this place. Drawn her, tugged at her heart, yanked on her poor struggling soul against all her wishes and will for six long years.
"Madame G- I mean Marguerite...where is, that is...do you know...where...?"
She nodded to Christine and, it seemed, to herself as well. Of course she had expected this question. "I am afraid you're too late my dear."
Christine felt the ground beneath her give way and from the great chasm the wailing of the soulless shouted up at her He's dead-He's dead-He's dead!You're too late-you're too late!
Madame Giry saw the sudden paleness of her guest's face and took the younger woman's hand in hers. "No, no, Christine, no my dear, you misunderstand me. I mean he has gone away. He is no longer here."
Christine felt her heart begin to beat once more and the gaping hole in the world closed over under their feet with a grinding whisper to leave no trace. Madame Giry seemed not to have noticed anything at all had transpired. "Where is he?" She swallowed the thick lump of pain that had lodged in her throat, forcing it down into her stomach. She would digest it later. "Where did he go?"
Madam Giry rose and walked to her desk. From a small drawer she removed a ring of keys. Walking to a small side cupboard as tall as she was, and made of finer wood than the desk and fitted with ornate brass knobs, she inserted the key and turned it. Opening the door to reveal heaps of papers and leather files, she rummaged around underneath an especially dusty looking sheaf of papers and with drew a yellowed envelope.
Giry brought it to her and placed it into her hand. Christine examined it for a few seconds. It had been closed the old-fashioned way, with a seal of wax.
"From him," Giry explained, "to you."
The seal was unbroken.
"He made me promise that if you ever...well, he made me promise and I keep my promises." Marguerite sounded regretful now. "There was little else I could do for him after all."
Christine was desperate to open it but she did not. Instead she asked "When..?"
Giry sat back down but this time at her desk once more as though she sensed Christine was not going to share its contents with her anyway and Madame Giry was still of the mind to respect another's wishes if one called them friend. "Two weeks after he disappeared from the Opera House this was slipped under my door along with a note that begged me to give it to you if you should ever come looking."
Christine wondered "Why not post it to me?"
Giry shrugged. "I don't believe he believed you would ever come looking. He was going to wait. I believe he would have waited for you forever, had circumstances been other than what they were. And so in a sense I suppose I waited with him. It was little enough to do and in the end the only thing I had to give."
She would open it, but not here. She had no idea what it might read. Suppose it was only a poem? Or a final word of goodbye or merely a wish for her happiness? "Marguerite, do you know...do you know anything? I mean about where he might have gone?"
"Rumours...conjecture." She leaned back in her chair and it creaked. Christine could hear no other sound in the room except her own breath and heartbeat. "If he was indeed needing to escape – and he was of course needing to - I believe he would have left France altogether. Perhaps he crossed the Channel but they would probably have found him there sooner or later."
"What do you mean "they"?"
Giry's eyebrows rose to hide in her straight cut hair-line. "What do you possibly think I mean child? He had murdered, more than once. He was a hunted man Christine. He had to flee."
"Where?"
Giry sighed with the heaviness of the memories finally forced to the surface, and her old ache of empathy for a man who had had experienced very nearly not a single kind word or gentle touch in his lifetime. "Where do they all go who are in fear of their life here? Where do those who are hunted escape to?"
Christine understood. "You mean the Americas."
"I would say that is likely."
She would book passage, today, as soon as she was finished her purposeful visit to the Opera House.
Which was all but finished now, "Thank you Madame Giry," she rose and gathered up her bag. "I'm afraid I must go now."
Madame Giry accompanied her to the entrance doors. The custodial boy Iacques must have finished up with his polishing of the silver rails as he was nowhere to be seen.
Giry held the heavy door opened for her guest and old friend. She had a final word "Be careful my dear."
"Yes, of course. Yes I will be." The new big passage ships could be uncomfortable things that carried as many lower class passengers as gentry.
"I mean with him, should you find him. He was not the man you thought he was and I'd venture to say he is even less now."
Christine slipped on her wool-lined Egyptian cotton gloves. It was a chilly day. "I know what he was." He said he loved me. I'm sure I believed him.
"A man who killed to be with you, a man who hurt you when he thought you had betrayed him. And a man who was hated, threatened and ultimately driven from his home and country because of his love for you," Giry reminded her and then lowered her voice to a whisper that ironically made her last words all the more powerful. "I am convinced he did love you. Beyond all measure or reason. And he lost you, didn't he?"
Christine stared at her, slightly horrified. "You think he would harm me?" She did not believe it. He had been harsh with her, even cruel in his words but he had never struck her and never threatened to either.
"No, but in the frenzy of his hopeless devotion to you, he might yet again be harmed." She nodded to the note settled inside Christine's bag. "If you find you do love him after all, then do him the honour of obeying his instructions in the note he left you."
Christine felt a wave of betrayal herself. "You read it?"
"No, but I suspect I know what it says. Farewell Christine de Chagny."
The black doors to the Opera House closed and in their high gloss Christine saw her own face, distorted by the imperfections in their surface. She returned home to make final arrangements. She did not read the note.
The passage was rough and miserable, despite her being as comfortable as anyone could be in her private cabin aboard the steamer ship. The food was barely edible, the water stunk, and her fellow passengers were a mix of boorish new high society and those who were stuffy old-money sort. It was a miserable trip through-and-through. And still she did not read the note.
She never thought she would be so glad for there to be real earth-bound dust to settle itself upon the polished glow of her fine leather shoes. But there was a lot of dust here in America. Lots of dust and, she had to admit, lots of people. Almost as many as Paris or London or any large city she had been to in her still young life.
This was New York harbour. Filled with people, sounds, animals and almost every kind of odor one could imagine, many of them, she thought as her slightly upturned nose twitched and the intrusion of yet another (this one carried the stink of damp cellars), unpleasant stench. Waving down a passing cab drawn by a very proper looking cabby, Christine climbed in. The cabby did not step down to assist. So he only looks proper Christine thought. She hoped some in New York were upper society or at least trained to respond to those who were. "I need a good hotel sir." She remarked, assuming her would know where. It was clear that she was new in the city and could not be expected to.
"Yes m. I kno'one at'll be suitable." She frowned at his accent. He'd said it "suit-ble" but she supposed she was in a new place and ignored its strangeness. "The Park Av'nue 'Otel. V'ry nice."
But he said by rote, she noticed, so he probably did not really knowing whether it was nice or awful. Christine never-the-less settled back into the seat.
He whistled at his animals and the rhythm of their hooves sang pleasantly in the back of her mind as she gazed out the windows at the passing alien - to her – city. They crossed an enormously long bridge over a wide, cold looking span of water and presently the cabby drove the team of horses swiftly beyond the noise and bustle of New York Harbour and into the quieter but still busy streets of what he said was 'New York Island'.
It was many more minutes later when he hauled back on the reigns and they stopped in front on an imposing but not altogether unpleasant looking hotel.
"'This'un caters ta' women." And in ever more clipped speech "'At'll be a dolla' Miss."
An exorbitant price. She picked a coin from her small change purse. "I only have a three dollar coin. Do you have change?"
He thought about it for a second or two then shook his head. "Naw miss. Uh don'carry change."
Christine suspected he was lying but handed over the coin. She paid her debts, even to professional thieves!
The hotel was satisfactory if a bit vulgar in its desperation to impress in its square and imposing marble face. Inside a well dressed clerk, a middle aged man with thinning hair and a pleasant smile greeted her. "Good day Ma'am. May I be of service?"
"I would like a room please with a private"- Americans called them 'restrooms'. Ridiculous! One hardly entered them to rest "With a private restroom please."
"Certainly Ma'am, and how long will you be staying?"
Christine hesitated. She hadn't given thought to how long. She had all but flown from her previous home; the home she had made with Raoule; their beautiful home where she had never felt at home, where her restlessness had caused her long-suffering husband unease and frequent unhappiness. She realised the patiently smiling clerk was still waiting for an answer. "I believe – um – I am not certain. Shall we say indefinitely?"
The clerk nodded, ever smiling. "Certainly Ma'am, that'll be one dollar fifty centers per night plus a five cent deposit for the bedding." He handed her an iron key. "Room 421 - fourth floor. The elevator is to your left by the stairs. Do you need assistance with your bags ma'am?"
Christine stopped to pick it up herself. "No thank you, I prefer to carry it myself."
He smiled even wider. "Of course ma'am, whatever you wish. Please let either myself or one of the maids know if there is anything at all you might need."
"Thank-you," Christine turned away, anxious to retreat to the privacy of her room and do what Americans did - put her feet up. Mostly she wanted to gather her thoughts.
Room 421 was clean and remarkably pleasant. This was not a place for the very rich after all, but still it was clean and the furnishings were tastefully made-up. She had wanted something more under-stated. She needed to get used to living as the more common people lived again. She was not poor by any means. On the contrary Raoule had kept her in luxury – in fact he had left her extremely wealthy; she wanted for nothing! But that is not what she had been born into and if she wanted to mix among the common folk she needed to look the part. If she wanted to find what she had come here hoping to find and she had no idea where she might find it.
Where she might find him.
But still she did not read the note. If Madam Giry had been present to ask why Christine was not sure she could explain it herself. The yellowed, and now much thumbed, envelope had been moved from her purse to her travel bag to her coat pocket to her hotel room's small writing table and back to her purse. And still she could not bring herself to open it!
Two weeks and nothing! She had spent a fortnight searching the dim streets and making discreet inquiries about mysterious men with a taste for expensive suits and secure, hidden lodgings. Most often she had been mortified to be met only with curious stares or raised eyebrows.
Christine threw her small purse onto the bed with fury. She was a fool! How could she believe she would simply be able to ask a few questions and find out what she needed to know? After all The Americas were very big. The country was enormous! How she even hope to locate a single man, even such an unusual, exceptional man, in all these teeming hordes?
Christine threw herself down on the bed as well. All her efforts were for naught. She must have walked every street on the island and come up with not a single name or lead. All her frustrations and all her shattered dreams had culminated in this single moment and in an irresistible urge to cry her eyes out.
But she fiercely held in the tears. She had cried enough. Enough for a lifetime. She didn't want to cry anymore! Crying solved nothing. Crying was the harbour of weaklings and children. Of fools.
No, she wanted to be strong. She wanted only to live again. But curse her restless spirit! She had lived, hadn't she? Hadn't she lived more than most, with beauty and position and wealth and her every desire granted by a household of servants and a doting husband? Hadn't she 'had it all', as the Americans said? And here she was, after weeks aboard a steam-ship, and weeks searching for him, all for nothing! Her restlessness had brought her nothing but grief. Why could she never learn? Why couldn't her heart ever be satisfied with what was in front of her?
Christine sat up on the edge of the soft bed and contemplated her situation. She could simply return home. Open up the house again. Bring back her servants and have her meals served to her, have her clothing and bedding laundered by other hands. Attend her friends' tedious parties. Go to the opera, buy new dresses and jewelry. Be just like the other fine ladies. Be like when Raoule was still at her side, urging her to 'enjoy life' and 'be content – 'put the awful dark past behind her and be happy!' And try as she might, she found it nearly impossible to do any of it.
Her one joy had been Little Erik. His large, expressive brown eyes, his dark curls and pearly skin – his intelligence and wit in one so young had been her only refuge in a life she remembered longing for with all her being and, when Raoule had swept into her dark thoughts, taken her hand and lead her into the sun; into his world of carriages and fine mansions, when she'd finally found her haven, had then found herself drifting and listless within its golden walls.
But she could try again, she thought. Try to conceal how dreadfully boring she found it all. How utterly pointless! What else was there now? Where else had she to go? Perhaps she could learn not to hate it all so, as before? Perhaps she could find something useful to put her mind and money to? There was always charity work. Plenty of poor in need or in hunger in every nation after all. She could do some of that she supposed. No one in her life needed her now, after Little Erik and after Raoule.
And after him...
She could have a purpose again.
Yes!
Yes! Tomorrow she would book passage home. For now she was feeling a renewal of purpose. And a bit hungry too, she realised. Christine slipped her fine white gloves back on her delicate fingers. She may even indulge in some wine, if good wine can be found on this side of the Atlantic, she thought ruefully. That was in serious doubt. But she would try.
POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPO
Christine located a small French food restaurant that did in fact serve some passable bisque followed by some delicate basil salmon terrine and now she was finishing her meal by nibbling on a small vanilla éclair. Sipping from a very good dry French wine she was grateful to be enjoying the flavours of home. Once her meal had been consumed and paid for she stood and immediately grabbed hold of the chair's high wing-back, her head swimming a bit. Perhaps she ought not to have tasted the whole bottle herself! But it was no matter. Her hotel was only a short cab ride away.
But there were no cabs to be seen this night. She approached a passing man who gave the appearance of hurrying somewhere. "Pardon me sir, but have you seen any cabs nearby?"
"Eh? Naw, miss, no cabs tonight I think. There's a big match at the Square t'nite. Not likely ya'll find a cab."
"A match?" She asked, looking up and down the street anyway in hopes that the passing fellow might be wrong.
"Boxin' match. Big 'un too. Levine and Griffo'. All a'cabs'll be there I 'magine."
The man walked on. Christine looked around, a bit alarmed. It was growing late and the sun was almost down. She supposed she could walk. It wasn't too far, only eleven blocks away. She straightened her spine and began to walk in earnest in the direction of the Park Avenue Hotel.
POPOPOPOPOPOPOPO
Only two short blocks from the welcoming light and warmth of the Park Avenue she was accosted by two rough looking men who demanded to know where she was going.
Christine moved to sweep passed them but one reached out and took her arm in a grip that showed no quarter while the other stepped in front of her path. "That's no' very polite, is it Ed?"
The other (Christine assumed it was the one called 'Ed"), answered in a mocking tone "No, it sure isn't, is it Pete? Fine lady like this though is prob'ly used ta' turning 'er nose up at the likes o'us."
Christine tried to free her arm but the man's grip was like iron. "Let me alone!" She cried, hoping someone would hear her.
'Pete' said "Now there's no'un about miss, they's all at the match see so there's no use n' sceamin'. Now you be a good girl un' 'and over that purse and we'll be on our way."
'Ed' licked his lips. Foul breath invaded her nostrils as he leaned in. "Let's not be too 'asty Pete. This ere's a fine lookin' filly and I could do wi'a bit o' sport."
Christine flushed in anger at the moniker one would only use in reference to a horse. "Unhand me you beasts!" She demanded.
'Ed' leaned in as though to kiss her cheek but instead with one unwashed hand he hooked claw-like fingers over her high buttoned collar and with a single wrenching tug he pulled, tearing the material and popping several of the buttons which flew into the gathering darkness.
Christine screamed.
In an instant of time the hands that had been pawing at her coat and skirt disappeared, the smell of the dirty, intruding breaths and their guttural speech was gone. Christine fell but on the way down she thought she heard the crunch of bone and the spurt of something wet that landed on the pavement nearby. Then a soft, moan of pain that died away in the night was the last thing she was aware of until all was dark and quiet.
Through her half lidded eyes, in the feeble glow of the nearby new electric street lights she saw a figure looming over her. A great cloak swished as it leaned over her and reaching with a single slender finger gently checked the pulse at her throat. "My angel..." she heard a soft, sorrowful sigh, almost a sob, "Why couldn't you just leave me be?"
POPOPOPOPOPO
Chapter 2 asap
