Why Not Today?
Christine is late, and Erik is trying not to be too perturbed. His wife is well-known and well-liked, and it is in her sweet nature to stop after a rehearsal and share words with her fellows, pass the time of day, indulge in some gossip. There may be journalists from the local newspapers, and she may feel obliged to speak a few words for them to spin into something extraordinary with their penmanship. It has been years since she married the man that many still call The Phantom of the Opera, but there are still those who will try to milk a story from it.
And of course, she was going to do some light grocery shopping and pick up food for the cat. Perhaps that is why she has been delayed. Erik snaps his pocket watch shut and flicks his fingers towards the burning fire, trying to shake off his irritation. He knows he is foolish to be concerned. All is well.
Aisha mews at him from the doorway to the kitchen, her daily demand for food; he should have purchased more for her already.
"I know," he responds. "She will be home soon."
She is, of course, entering through the Rue Scribe entrance, her dark curls shining in the firelight and lightly damp from the first misting of the autumn rain. She is wearing a bottle green gown with lace around the plunging neckline and at the cuffs of the elbow-length sleeves, and her cheeks are slightly pink. Over the dress is a chocolate brown cloak in a light wool and he can see the fine droplets of rain sparkling on it.
"Good evening, Christine," Erik rises from the sofa where he has been attempting to read the morning newspaper, and reaches out to take the box of groceries from her arms, but she puts it down on the floor instead and moves to kiss him in greeting. It still thrills him—the feel of those warm, soft lips on his! He has been wearing a mask for so long that he is not comfortable without one in his waking moments, but in the run-up to their wedding, Christine had helped him design one that left his lips bared, meaning that their sweet kisses could be long and unobstructed.
"Good evening, Erik," she replies when the kiss breaks. "And good evening to you too." She reaches down to pet Aisha who has rubbed herself against the hem of Christine's skirts, meowing piteously. Christine smiles at her husband as she undoes her cloak.
"I shall feed her and make a start on dinner. And you, m'sieur, are to stay out of the kitchen this evening."
Why?" He demands, taking the cloak from her. "What are you up to, woman?"
She just laughs at the tone that would have set little Meg Giry trembling.
"Ask me no questions," she says teasingly. "And I shall tell you no lies. Here," she reaches into the box and pulls out a copy of the evening newspaper. "Entertain yourself while I am occupied."
She picks up the box and moves to the dining room and the kitchen beyond it, keeping the door open long enough with her foot so that Aisha can follow her in, before letting it swing shut. Erik frowns at the door, annoyed. In the early days of their marriage he would have stormed after her and demanded to know why she was behaving so secretively. But he has mellowed; lovesick perhaps, he thinks to himself as he hangs up the slightly damp cloak, settles back onto the sofa and begins to read. Aisha joins him after a few minutes, haven eaten her fill of whatever dish Christine has provided for her, and tries to settle in his lap, but he gently lifts her onto the cushion beside him, petting her with one hand, the newspaper spread across his bony knees. It has taken him a long time to get used to the notion of being looked after, of not being the person doing the cooking. For years he prepared his own meals, had become quite an adept chef, found to his surprise that there was some pleasure to be had in the creation of a meal. It had been, too, an element of control in the early days of his relationship with Christine—controlling what she ate and when, back when he had first spirited her away into his realm in the guise of the Angel of Music. Giving up that control had been difficult, but she had reminded him again and again that she was not a child, but a woman on equal standing to himself, and that it was not his place to decide things for her, even something as small as what and when to eat. They shared the kitchen duties these days, and Erik found that he was content with the arrangement.
When Christine calls him into the dining room, he tuts in annoyance to find that Aisha has still managed to get cat hair on his well-tailored suit. He is still picking it off when he enters the dining room to find that Christine has prepared sauté de boeuf à la Bourguignonne and placed a candle and a vase of flowers on the table between them.
"Dearest, we have gas lighting," he points out. "The candles are supposed to be used for emergencies."
"Indulge me," she replies. "In enjoying a candlelit dinner with my husband."
He smiles. "Of course."
They sit on either side of the table and eat, discussing their respective days. She is rehearsing a new opera by Puccini, and his architectural skills have been in demand to help in the restoration of another of Paris's theatres.
"Are you tired?" He asks. "Or do you wish to sing tonight?"
Her smile hints at something beyond her words.
"Oh, I think I will be singing tonight."
He sniffs, glancing around the dining room.
"Do I smell burning?"
Christine jumps up, insisting that he stay where he is, and rushes into the kitchen in a swish of skirts. Yes, something is burning, a dessert by the sweet smell; he takes a sip of the burgundy and wonders if she will let him tease her about her inferior skills as a cook. Granted, she has not started any small fires in their kitchen for almost a year.
"Disaster averted," she tells him when she returns to the table.
"What are you cooking?"
"Wait and see," Christine gives that teasing smile again and Erik sighs.
"I do not like surprises, Christine." There is a hint of warning in his tone.
"There is nothing to be alarmed about, Erik, I assure you." Christine reaches across and takes his hand in hers, her skin warm against his perpetual coolness.
She refuses to let him wash the dishes, commanding him to return to the drawing room. He does, to see that Aisha is asleep on the settee and the fire is burning low. He feeds the fire and sits on the piano bench with a flick of his coattails, spreading his long pale fingers over the piano keys. As always, his mood is betrayed by the music, and minor keys find their way into the melody he is improvising.
It is perhaps half an hour later when Christine joins him. She is carrying a plate in one hand and the candle in the other, and on the plate is a sponge cake. A golden sponge with a filling of cream and strawberry jam, a dusting of icing sugar on the top.
"This is what you've been doing?" Erik is surprised. "Baking a cake? What is the occasion? Or did the spirit simply move you?"
"Happy birthday, Erik," she says softly.
Erik gapes at her. Is it possible that Christine is ill? Her cheeks are flushed, but that could just be the wine they had with supper.
"Christine," he says gently. "It is not my birthday. I do not know the date of my birth."
She is young, even for the early stages of dementia. Worry constricts his heart.
"I know," she replies. "So why not today?"
"I don't understand."
"You do not know when your birthday is, so why not choose a day to celebrate your existence?"
"I never have. I never considered my existence worth celebrating."
"I do." Christine leans down and kisses him, placing the cake and candle on the piano. He is astonished, and immensely moved by her words. His eyes prick with tears and he blinks to keep them at bay.
"I think that your birthday should be today," she continues when their lips part. "The 24th of September."
"Why?" The word comes out a little choked.
"Well, it is a glorious time of year. All the colours of the world are changing from summer to autumn; the trees are ablaze with leaves of gold and orange. It's not too hot, but warm enough that it's not necessary to wear gloves and scarves. The nuts and berries and fruits are ripe. Besides, it's exactly halfway between my birthday and Christmas. Autumn makes me happy. And you make me happy. So what do you say, Erik? Shall we celebrate your birth today?"
He cups her face in his hands.
"You are an angel," he tells her. "And more than I have ever deserved."
This time, it is he who initiates the kiss. He will do anything to please her, so if she wants to celebrate his existence, and assign this day to do so, then so be it. Christine nods to the candle.
"Blow it out."
"Why?"
"Because you have to. I couldn't find a candle to go onto the cake, as is traditional, so this will have to do. Blow it out and make a wish. A wish for the year."
He smiles, leans forward and extinguishes the candle with a breath. As the flame flickers and dies, he makes his wish, with all of his heart.
They have a slice of the cake each, and Erik does not mention the slightly burned sections. They drink more of the burgundy, and Christine sings for him while Erik plays. When they retire to bed, they make passionate love, and fall asleep in each other's arms.
And the following June, Erik's birthday wish comes true. Perfectly.