A Gift from Saint Valentine
Erik draws the strains of Chopin's Lullaby Berceuse Op 57 in D flat Major from the white, gold and green art piano – lost in the music. The window next to him reveals the dark, wet Rue de Rivoli beneath the apartment he and Christine purchased – raindrops glimmer in the light of the street lamps. A warm glow from the fireplace provides warmth to the room decorated in soft shades of sage, cream and peach. The lighting and the burgundy shade of his velvet smoking jacket give a touch of color to his normally sallow pallor.
Christine removes Belle's rosebud mouth from her breast, then wraps her tiny body more tightly in the pink blanket she knitted for her. A pony tail of chestnut ringlets, tied with a purple satin bow, flows down her back, a few loose strands of hair circle her face, flushed from the warmth of the room. Placing the sleeping baby against her chest, gently patting her, the little one gives an agreeable, if noisy burp. "That is my good girl."
Closing the flap of her white flannel nursing chemise, she secures the lavender chenille dressing gown with its sash. Rising from the velvet settee, she carries the infant on her hip to the piano, placing a hand on Erik's shoulder.
"Ah, le toute petite mam'selle has finished her dinner," he says, turning from the keyboard to peek at the tiny bundle that is his daughter. "Her lusty belch suggests she enjoyed the meal." The ghosting of an elegant finger against the tiny fist pressed against her chin, rouses her enough to grasp him. His eyes, when he shifts them up to look at Christine, are bright. "I do not believe I shall ever tire of her touch." Brushing his lips against a plump cheek, he says, "Belle Angelique, it would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you, as I am certain it shall be."
Christine kisses him on the forehead. "I agree. You will no doubt be granted that privilege when she falls in love, as I did with you."
"Do you think she will forget her pappa?" A frown creases his brow.
"Of course not, any more than I could forget my pappa, but they say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that is true." Tilting the baby toward him, she asks, "Would you like to carry her to bed?"
His body tenses. As if burned, he removes the hand to his lap, clasping it to the other – sliding back slightly on the piano bench, he says "I am not certain that would be wise."
"Erik, she is two months old – you must learn to carry her."
"What if I drop her?"
"That will not happen. When you held her on your lap – all was well."
"But walking – I could trip."
"When was the last time you tripped? You are agile as a billy goat – more so, perhaps, climbing up and down in the tunnels for so many years." Taking his hand, she pulls him to his feet. "Hold your arms as you do when sitting with her."
Taking a deep breath, shaking out his arms and shoulders, rolling his neck to relieve a knot – he stands up straight and makes a cradle of his arms. His look to her is a plea, but without any sign of resignation on her part, only an amused smile – he dips his knees, shimmying his hips slightly to adjust his height to hers and takes possession of the precious bundle.
"You can breathe now – stand up straight, gather her more tightly and move," she says, with a gentle nudge on the back.
Each step from the sitting room, across the three Aubusson carpets, past the floor to ceiling bookshelves and reading area, to the hallway leading to the bedrooms, is tentative.
"Just walk. I am tripping over your feet."
"Shhhh, you shall wake her, then what will I do?" he barks softly.
"Sing.
"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses.*
"That is not a lullaby," he says. Stopping short, he turns to face her. "You remember?"
"It most certainly is a lullaby – it is about dreaming – listening to your heart," she says, stumbling at his abrupt movement, taking hold of his arm to stabilize herself, she stands on tip-toe to whisper in his ear, "It is like, in that moment, the whole universe existed just to bring us together – how could I ever forget?"
Tears form in his eyes, nodding, he gazes at the face of their sleeping baby – her reddish-brown swatch of hair, smoothed into a tiny lock, the bubble of milk escaping her mouth, eyelids so pale the fine blue veins are visible, already beguiling dark lashes dust her cheeks. "Dreams are very interesting things – they often do come true."
Completing their short journey, Erik places Belle carefully into the walnut rocking cradle that sits next to their bed. The mahogany four-poster from Erik's former bedroom is canopied with a cerulean brocade, matching the drapes on the two floor to ceiling windows.
He gathers Christine into his arms, swaying, humming the recalled song into her hair. "My intention was not to have you fall asleep when I sang to you."
"No, you intended me to fall in love," she chuckles, her head nestled into the crook of his neck. "As it happened, I did both – although recognizing the love took a while."
"You fainted before I even finished."
"I believe that was due to the mannequin," she says, carding his hair, twisting a few graying strands with her fingers as is her wont.
A flush rises from his neck to his cheeks.
"No worries – I am not the jealous type." Giggling, she takes his hand and leads him to a chaise of raspberry velvet. Sitting him down, she settles herself onto his lap, resting her head against his chest.
"When I think about my…our life now – that memory, though still with me, does not seem real."
"You were so alone."
"I was in hell – waiting to die – then I heard you sing." Tugging at the ribbon, he releases the ponytail, tousling the curls with his fingers – staring into the past.
"Erik?"
"Yes, my dear. I am sorry – I seem to have drifted away for a moment."
"Will you marry me?" she asks, sitting up, her face aligning with his.
"Excuse me?" he chokes, clearing his throat. "Now you have me thinking I really have been living a dream."
"Marry me in church."
"I do not understand – I know you join Adele at church on occasion, but…?" Studying her face, solemn and calm – no hint of teasing, he says, "If it is what you want. You know religion has no relevance for me."
Christine bows her head – tears flow down her cheeks.
"My dear, what is wrong?" He lifts her chin and kisses her gently.
"You will think me silly."
"Never – at least not when you are crying."
She laughs lightly and wipes her eyes. "Saint Valentine's Day is coming."
"Another of those holidays I do not completely comprehend, but, yes, Valentine's Day is coming. Is there something I am supposed to do? Are we to decorate the house in some particular way – trees and holly? Special foods – goose, minced meat?
"It is supposed to be romantic with flowers and chocolates and lovely dinners."
"We do that every day." His chin indicates the crystal vase of daffodils displayed on her vanity.
'Stop, you are making me sound foolish."
"I do not mean to," He sits back pulling her close to his chest again. "Tell me why you find this Valentine's Day celebration so significant – I thought our marriage was perfectly fine."
"It is called Saint Valentine's Day – I wanted to know who he was, so I asked Adele's pastor."
"And?"
"He was a priest – sentenced to die because he continued to marry people after the Emperor forbade them doing so. The men wanted to get married and did not enlist – or deserted because they were tired of fighting the wars the Emperor kept waging."
"Go on."
"He made friends with the blind daughter of his prison guard. Before his execution on February 14, the priest wrote her a letter on a piece of heart-shaped paper which he signed: From your Valentine." Cocking her head, she purses her lips, urging him with her eyes to understand.
"What? Tell me. I presume there was a miracle of some sort."
"After he died, her sight returned so she was able to read the letter." Palms turned up, she sings, "Ta da."
"Are you suggesting our love is something of a miracle?"
"Well, is it not?"
"It is indeed,' he chuckles, "but I am still confused why this saint – Valentine – is so important to you?"
Completely still, her focus falls to her hands.
He gathers them into his.
"He reminds me of you." The words stumble from her mouth.
"A priest? A sainted priest, yet." The sincerity of her words silence any mockery he might add.
"He was imprisoned and tortured – then he was beheaded – all because some powerful person found him unworthy of life."
"Thankfully, I was not beheaded." His tone dry.
"But you were. You were. Only for you it happened first – before the imprisonment and torture." Her brow furrows, eyes unblinking, chin quivering. "You were deprived of a face, walking the world, hoping the world would not notice – you might as well have been headless – and all you wanted was love – to both give and receive."
The image is almost laughable, still, for the briefest moment his heart stops – or so it feels. With a catch in his throat, he says, "I love you very much, probably more than anybody could love another person – the immensity of your compassion will never fail to surprise and amaze me." His arms envelop her.
They stay this way quietly for a moment – the only sound – the rain beating against the windows.
"I was also thinking about Belle."
"How so?"
A little girl was given sight through love. We three, our little family, are gifts to one another – I want to honor his gift by recognizing his faith."
Erik says. "How can I refuse such a lovely wish for our marriage and our child?"
"Thank you," she says, pressing her lips against his.
"Belle was born on the Feast of Saint Nicholas. We shall have a church wedding for Saint Valentine's Day. I am curious as to what amazing event will memorialize Easter for us," he says. "May I assume you also wish the candy and flowers?"
"Of course."
"Waah. Waaaaaah…"
"She agrees – her mother's daughter."
A/N -
The Fault of Our Stars: John Green 1/10/12
Big Fish: John August 12/10/03
Music of the Night: Lyrics by Charles Hart (Love the synchronicity to the story) Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber
Serendipity: Marc Klein 10/5/01
50 First Dates: George Wing 2/13/04