"She had all but forgotten the kiss they had exchanged when they said goodbye." ~ House of the Spirits
Do they all forget who I am or has my past been sculpted into a fable with
no
morals of any kind? There lies no prime reason why the history of our
relationship has been misunderstood, and I still stand to understate the
understatement in that line. The world is incapable of comprehending the rare
and unusual born to this earth, and I am tired of feigning my need for
sincerity. I am sick of playing the death who lives in night.
My half-brother has never seen past the anterior layer of this mask,
and presumably he never will. The squealing admirers and beauty-lovers will
follow him down his path of useless existence while I remain cold and
untouched in the darkest corners of my improper burial.
But I preserve my peace along with a vivid memory of the moments I had
experienced victory, and the greatest depths of love. I hold what is
inextinguishable in my mind and do not release that flame for an eternity of
heaven or hell.
But I am warning you, I will write only what I am capable of reproducing. This is no Shakespeare drama, nor is it a fairy tale, for both of these genres end excessively happy or morose – we are leveled somewhere in between the two separate worlds where a thin line holds it place. In return, I suggest you light a candle, and blow out your thoughts.
* * *
Unstable as Christine Daaé may seem, she was a firm believer in her Angel of
Music. After the loss of her father at twenty, most would agree she was
recklessly vulnerable and in need of a father figure. Her lonesome self was
literally crying out for guidance, and one cannot blame me for using that to
my advantage.
She was a chorus girl, the type that did nothing exceptional but dance
in the corpse de ballet and remained unnoticed for her own sake. Her beauty
and voice were also overlooked by the idiot managers who occupied the Opera
Populaire.
But a sparrow's voice could not be caged forever, and after the fateful
night that I heard her sing, it became an absolute obsession to take her under
my wing. Christine Daaé's voice was brilliant, but even brilliance could be
improved upon. Her spirit lacked insurance, and I swore to myself I would move
earth to provide it.
The first time I sang to her she had just threw a fit with Carlotta
Giudicelli,
the leading lady of the Opera Populaire. I did not hire that woman; it was a
mutual agreement between the managers I did not bother to destroy. Christine
was a sensitive being, and after three or four sour insults, he poor girl ran
off to her dressing room in humiliation.
That was where I had found her, crying her precious eyes out due to her damaged pride.
I stood quietly behind the large dressing room mirror which took up
more than two-thirds of the dressing room wall. The two-way mirror between us
was especially designed to capture a few moments of the crew men's gossip of
the Opera, but the room had been emptied for Christine's inhabitancy.
I was disappointed by the alteration at first, but later on it proved
it's great convenience.
I beckoned her forward with my voice, and not to my amusement, she did
as I asked. There was one strength and pure beauty inside of me that defeated
all purposes of mortal sin—my voice. I had discovered this gift at a young
age and used it as an instrument of power. With this voice I had easily and
effortlessly manipulated Christine Daaé into believing I was the Angel of
Music. And she had wanted this to lean against, finally an adobe to support
her frail figure.
Her bedroom was made in a matter of days. I had a servant who'd done
all the outside jobs for me since it was impossible to leave the house without
stopping traffic in the streets. I had ordered gowns and dresses of the most
expensive, rich kind, along with chemises, bodices, stockings, shoes,
petticoats, anything a man would consider buying for his fiancée—I knew very
well she was not my wife-to-be, but I often visited her bedroom before I had
taken her in, just to breath in the violet scents of her perfume, mixed with
the fragrance from the floral soaps and bath indulgences I had bought for
her. She was always too modest to use it all, but she never forgot to thank me
or gently brush her hand in gratitude against the cheek of my mask.
Then, I had taken it for granted—it wasn't as though I did not think of
it; I memorized the tinge of warmth the second the tips of her fingertips
touched my face, and I slept (though I did not do this often) with the growing
dream of a deeper touch. She'd given me hope I never found since the day I
was brought into this world. With a firm grip on that hope, I lived on the
brink of happiness for three days.
Until she snatched it away.
It was a night after our regular singing lesson, and I'd brought her
down to the catacombs that evening as I did the other three nights. Her
expression had the same angelic brightness, and I sensed nothing dangerous from
her soft mesmorized smile. She'd even touched me again, which I found
delightfully normal by then, but still forbidden.
But Christine Daaé lost all purposeful defenses during her voice lessons,
which
is why I forced myself to be extremely cautious. I would hardly look into her
eyes during the lessons in fear of losing my own self-restraint. When the
music built up to the climax of the piece, I had allowed my own mind to be
wrapped in the euphoria of glorious notes…and I did not notice her little hand
as it reached out and lifted my mask from my face.
How does one define desperation? It is when the blood in your body
freezes and paralyzes your mind into one terrifying thought, when all you have
hoped would come true was a building pyramid that is destroyed into ruins,
when an outstretched hand suddenly withdraws and one is left with nothing to
hold onto and he is trapped in an endless fall.
I looked up at her for the very first time that night and she shrunk
away from me instinctively, and she just stared at me in horror like she was
staring at a complete stranger…the man who she'd seemingly trusted in these
three days had been transformed into a monster, and he was scaring his little
ingenue to death. A second later I had looked away, my body shaking and my
face wrenching out frustrated tears and the buried fear of exposure. I was
still crying when she shakily pushed my mask across the floor to me, repeating
the first words she'd ever spoken to me since I saw her.
"I'm so sorry…."
We looked at each other for an unbearable span of time. At last, when
I'd finally regained the dignity and human consciousness, I stood and left her
alone by the pipe organ. It seemed strangely stupid to say anything to her
after the bitter confrontation. I thought it right to blame her for allowing
curiosity to take the upper hand. It was the one human trait that I despised
with passion.
But the next night when I had beckoned her through her mirror, she did
not refuse. When I played my music and drove her to the farthest horizons of
ecstasy, she did not resist. I watched her half-closed eyes cloud with
pleasure and the tempting, small raise and fall of her breasts to my song, but
my voice was silent. Deep inside, I did not know how to take her return, as
an invitation, an act of pity, or one of confusion. There were many things I
wanted to ask her, but I concluded by asking nothing at all.
* * *
Everyday between the hours of sunrise and the birth of the moon, she
lived above grounds and emerged herself in the luxurious rays of sunlight,
happiness, and human contact. I did not value such things since I'd grown
accustomed to survival without the essential needs of man. But she loved the
blue sky and its peaceful soft clouds, and I made sure I would not deprive her
of these simple joys of life by returning her to upper grounds before dawn.
Beyond the lake we lived as equals and in a manner of husband and
wife. I never pushed her to do things she did not wish to do, and after the
earlier incident, she seemed to have understood my need for that mask. But we
tip-toed our way around our feelings like an uncleansed foot testing the
surface of a pool of water—neither of us would speak of emotion when it came to
our extraordinary associations.
I never pushed her to sing when she was exhausted after her dance
rehearsals; on the contrary, I often suggested to her an early sleep. But
she'd insist on continuing with the voice lesson, her blue eyes persuasive and
pure, and I began to realize how much she needed my music. Without it she
would be six feet above my home but completely miserable. Music quenched a
thirst in her no man could ever satiate, of course, no man except for myself.
We had this in common; we claimed one sanctuary.
She would often beg me to tell her stories and produce poetry for her,
and after I acceded to her request, she would fall asleep, kneeling besides me
with her head leaning lightly against the side of my leg. That astonishing
sensation! It was as if I would feel no greater pleasure from her voluntary
touch, just to have the silky curls of her hair unbearably close to my skin,
my eyes, my breath. I wanted this girl more than all the music in the world,
and in the stolen moments of ecstasy, it would feel almost as though she were
truly mine.
Alas, only I knew she was not.
I was not the only man who looked upon Christine Daaé with desire;
there was the Vicomte de Chagny. He was a patron and son of a rich old man who
showered his son with wealth and spoiled him to the bone. I never liked the
boy since the first time I laid eyes upon him—he was indecently young, the
same age as Christine, and unimaginably immature. There was nothing in common
between the two except for their love for joyous things, and I did not see him
as a hindering device when he first arrived at the Opera Populaire. But the
boy and Christine had been childhood playmates, and soon after their first
reunion, I took de Chagny's necessity under consideration. He was an
aristocrat as well as an addition to the overflowing population of the other
patricians, and his existence irritated me beyond creed.
I could have easily gotten rid of him if not for the risk of loosing
her trust. Christine would have unquestionably suspected me of murder; only
she knew I was capable of such deeds. My past was a mist of miserable
despair, unforgotten and as cold as the depths of the winter snow. Questions
never arose unless she proposed them, and even then I released very little
information; deceiving was a simple and guiltless task, you see, Christine
would have believed me if I told her the sun revolved around the moon. Neither
of us minded each other's presence, but I always sensed there was something
overpowering and timid inside of her. She was still living with the constant
reminder of what lay behind that mask—that was why I gave her Elisabeth.
She completely porcelain, an Victorian doll and dressed in hand woven
blue silk. Large blue eyes were forever awake and staring attentively at who
holds it in her hands. She had only one oddity which was her lack of a
mouth. She was far too beautiful to be left with her seller; thereupon I
bought her, disregarding the odd looking mouth, or lack thereof.
Christine loved her, nonetheless, and I agreed to make Elisabeth sing.
It wasn't a difficult task since ventriloquiy lay at the tip of my tongue for
I had once performed as a ventriloquist in Vienna. Christine was delighted
when music came out of the doll's invisible mouth. She'd clap her hands
gaily, her sea-blue eyes twinkling and the sensual, pout of her lips spreading
into a indulgent smile. When I was consumed with fatigue and thought it best
not to sing, she would make me tea, and serve me, as a nurse serves a patient
who is on crutches for life. And I suppose, in a way, I was.
There were times when I did not sleep, and we just spent a night awake,
watching each other while the tension stirred and built to the point where
she'd turn away, a rosy hue flushing her cheeks. Feelings—all these feelings
she had to understand were too sudden and forceful, and I began to see that it
was virginity, for both of us.
Virginity not just in the literal sense, but mentally…emotionally…we
did not know lust. We did not feel sexuality, or we did not recognize it. It
was like exposing a part of us that both she and I were vainly reluctant to
share. In a way, we were still children, pushed back by the barrier of
innocence, and too alarmed to cross the perimeter.
* * *
Life would have carried on in such an insignificant but disturbing
fashion if I had wanted it to, but at length I waved Carlotta Giudicelli off
the Parisian stage with a few threat notes to the management and put Christine
in her rightful place. The first production of Faust, finally, consisted of a
fine cast, and the performance was stunning. Her voice and my efforts
rewarded her with fame and a glorious victory—it was what I would have had
without this face, but I was content to sing through her.
She came to me freely that night, found her own way through the
passages and endless corridors, and rowed across the lake to meet me at the
other side. I was fairly surprised, perhaps touched or even delighted she did
this willingly, but symbolism meant very little. I read her a fairy tale, the
stories she loved so dearly, and she once more fell asleep with her head
leaning against my side. It was bitter that evening, and I thought it best
that I put her to bed right away. I picked her up in my arms, feeling the
weight of her light supple body in my hands and her soft steady breathing
against the skin of my neck; it felt like butterfly wings. I laid her
carefully in her elaborate bed and blew out the long ivory candle at the
bedstead. But I could not make myself leave the room.
Instead, I sat in a chair next to the bed and stared down at her with
irrepressible longing. In the stark coldness of the room I still saw her
clearly, allowing my eyes to travel to all places of her, memorizing, savoring
the one thing I could not have.
She lay motionless, her hands lying limply at her sides and her legs
covered by her long white gown. Her hair spread like a sea of silk around her
pale face, peaceful, utterly angelic, and untouchable. A lock of her hair had
fallen to the tip of the smooth mound of her breast, taunting and mocking me
as I crumbled into heaps within. Why do you come back? I asked her in
silence. Why do you remind me of what I will never conquer? If she knew I
never accepted defeat, she was right not to answer.
Her eyelashes trembled, her lips parted as if to speak, and for a moment I
thought I heard her call out my name… My own mouth opened to answer, and I
closed them again, tortured by irresolution and momentary hesitation. She was
dreaming, I knew, but they were the most useless things of all—dreams do not
come true. Only nightmares. Only night. If I had answered….
Again she parted her lips but no sound came out, and she turned
comfortably to her side, wrapping her hands around her arms, trying to avoid
the cold. I removed my cloak and gently covered her with the long cashmere,
and as I did so, my fingers brushed the tantalizingly soft material of her
gown, then her hip and arm, and lastly her slender neck. I froze in place and
dared not move my hands, for they had suddenly ached to linger a bit longer.
I could have slipped beside her and have her sleep in my embrace for one
night, but I turned away, quietly closing her bedroom door behind me.
I was disgusted with myself.
Rape…a violation of heart, of body, of dignity and the right to belong
to oneself. A kind priest had told me this a long time ago, and I never
thought of the word until now. It occurred to me how close I was to raping
Christine Daaé, and the idea drove me mad with loathing. I have killed in my
lifetime, but this concept seemed much more frightening and incorrigible; it
was like the act of stabbing one's mother…the blood of guilt would always come
back.
For hours I sat in my throne and delved in the bleak dungeon of my
mind, recalling the unspeakable crimes I had committed towards humanity in my
fading past. How I had killed for pleasure, under authority, stole beautiful
things without a cry of conscience, and I had myself to remind me that I stole
Christine too, a girl who not quite contrasted with a pretty piece of jewelry.
I thought of how she murmured my name in her sleep, her voice sweet and
caressing, full of the innocence that begged to be corrupted. If I had leaned
forward and breathed in the scent of her hair, to explore her darkest secrets,
would she have awakened and screamed at the sight of my glowing mask? A part
of me answered a persistent no, but another part, was coldly reluctant to
answer at all.
I poured myself a cup of fine brandy and sipped lightly at the crimson
tinted drink. Everything I saw reminded me of blood, it seemed, but it did
not disturb me. Death was like a painting—it came in all different shades.
And tonight, I was feeling particularly black.
I set down the wine and crossed the room, considering momentarily of
playing the pipe organ stretched against the wall. I dismissed the idea at
the thought of waking her—the last person I wanted to see now was her, in all
her innocence, asking me to play more. And I was playing—just not music, but
a game of cat and mouse with my delightful princess. I was very frightened to
loose her, you see; who knows when she will let down her hair to me one day,
and the plotting little Vicomte would cut it off when I am only half way up
the golden tower. . . .
Resignedly, I slid into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. In
the black ivory of my bed I dreamt of what was never truly meant to be. The
name she called out was mine indeed, but in my dreams, I answered her without
conscience, and she would come to me without fear.
* * *
We crossed the lake, and I took her back to her dressing room the
following morning. Before we parted I told her she was not required to come to
me for the next three weeks. It was best for me to keep my distance from her
for a period of time since the only solution to her unbearable presence was to
not have her be there at all.
I told her this ambiguously, and the hurt in her eyes broke my heart.
"Have I done something wrong?" She asked brokenly, "Are you angry with me?"
"No, my dear Christine," I said with forced indifference.
"Regrettably, there
will be a visitor who I must care to meet alone…."
She looked up at me with such intense accusation, I was sure she was about
to
cry.
"You've found somebody else, haven't you?" She whispered sadly and
resolutely. Her lower lip trembled instinctively, "You've found someone
worthy
enough…."
For a moment I just stared at her in my dumbstruck surprise. I wanted
to laugh at her absurd conclusion and muse at the incredible insolence of that
assertion. Did she actually think there would be another like her whose voice
would moved me to tears? Was she so insecure and naive, that she would
believe there is someone left in the world who would not cower away from my
face? Perhaps my little ingenue was more senseless than I'd thought.
My left hand gently caressed the air of her delicate cheek as I lowered
my mouth to the tip of her ear and felt the heat around her shiver under my
breath.
"You torment yourself, Christine," I whispered softly in a voice
that
made the hair on her spine stand on end.
I left her there, in her confusion and uncertainty, and I smiled
despite the thundering drums of my excited heart.
By their own accord, the walls she'd built around herself had begun to
fall apart.