The Puppeteer
"Consider it for a moment, Christine, if you will," Raoul says. He pushes his messy blond hair back with his sunglasses. Though we sit at an outside table at the Café de Flore, facing the cars and the passersby, his blue eyes focus only on me. I sigh. Giving up on my salade niçoise, I set down my fork.
"Maybe I already have." What will it take for him to realize I'm not interested?
"Then consider it a little longer." Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out the flier for the talent show; I edge it to the end of the table. "I'm concerned about you, Christine." He shifts closer. "I fear that you have resigned yourself to remaining closed off forever."
"Give me time." I fold my arms, but he lays his hand on top of mine. "When I'm ready, I'll let you know."
"Perhaps you never will be." As I turn my head away, he brushes a lock of my blonde waves behind my ear. The first time we met, Papa and I were living at Perros-Guirec and had gone to the beach for the day. I lost my scarf, but a boy ran into the sea to get it. He said his name was Raoul de Chagny. We spent the rest of the summer together because his family was vacationing there. After what happened to Papa, he tried to be there for me.
"We shall find you a voice instructor," Raoul continues, sitting back, "to ensure that you will be better prepared. That certainly shan't be an issue—"
"I already have one," I blurt before covering my mouth.
"You do?" His eyes expand to the size of his face. "Why did you not inform me? What is your instructor's name?"
"He doesn't want anyone to know." When I met him a few months ago at a public concert through the Conservatoire, he asked me not to tell anyone about our lessons. Bowing my head, I try to signal the end of the conversation. Raoul ignores me.
"Mon Dieu! Your instructor is a—man? Is that why you didn't inform me?" His eyes narrow, and I swear I almost detect a hint of green in them.
"Raoul." I smack my hands on the table. "I'm not cheating on you with every man I happen to meet. Don't you think better of me than that?"
"Christine, I—I shouldn't have dared—I apologize." His face turns the burgundy color of his sweater.
Frowning, I chew my lip. "I'll accept your apology if you don't do it again."
"I promise that I shan't." He holds up his hands, and I breathe out. He does mean well.
"Wrong again!" Slamming his gloved hands against the piano keys, he stops playing. "Try the scale once more. You need to focus; quit daydreaming."
"I'm sorry, Erik," I reply, biting my lip. I stand near him in the living area of my apartment, the sofa and coffee table behind me. "I've just had a lot on my mind lately."
"Like what?" His low, velvety voice shifts from irritated to mildly curious. Reaching into my skirt pocket, I hesitate. Should I show him the flier or not? His amber eyes, all I can see of his face behind his black mask, follow my movement; I pass the paper to him, no longer having any choice.
"A talent show," he mutters, skimming the page. Maybe he won't find it interesting. Maybe he'll say I'm not ready. Maybe… "This could be your chance, Christine, to show Paris what we've accomplished." I groan inwardly. First Raoul, now Erik.
He rises above me, moonlight outlining his features. With that mask on, I can't read his expression. Why won't he take it off? "Why are you hesitant?" His beautiful voice softens.
"It doesn't matter; I don't want to bother you." I meet his gaze but drop it quickly. Probably he won't understand any more than Raoul does, though he tries to.
"Christine, it does matter…It matters to me." Making to touch my arm, he jerks back quickly.
"I lost my papa not long ago," I choke out. "I never knew my mama, so he was all I had. Papa used to make some money playing the violin. I loved to listen to him, but he couldn't get by on music alone. When things got tough, we had to leave Sweden for France. He promised he'd make enough money to buy us an apartment and put me through school. For a while, he did.
"Then he got sick. I tried everything, but he didn't get better. He died of pneumonia. By then, I was old enough to make it by myself; I worked hard to get through school at the Conservatoire to make him proud. But music felt dead to me without Papa. That's why—I can't do this."
"I see." Erik nods, twisting his long fingers together. "I had the opposite situation…I never knew my father, and my miserable mother wished she never knew me…" His words curtail in a muffled sob. "Enough of this. You need to practice more." He settles onto the piano bench again, flicking his black trench coat behind him. Never has he told me anything about himself. Now I know. He does understand.
Gently, I reach out to touch his shoulder; he leaps away as if burned. "Erik, I know how hard it can be. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm here."
"Christine…" he murmurs, bending his head. "Merci."
I need to visit Papa. I don't want to go alone; I start to ask Raoul, but he says that he has to go to something important for his family. So I ask Erik instead, since he's been through this before. He agrees. After taking the train to Perros-Guirec, we pass the aging church with its Gothic door and steeple, settling by Papa's headstone. A few wild red roses grow nearby, life amidst all this death. My hand shaking, I brush away a few weeds from the worn headstone. It looks neglected.
"I ought to have come sooner," I say, plucking a rose to lay at his tombstone, "but I just couldn't. Papa wanted me to do the best I could. When I was really little, before I could read, he taught me the musical alphabet. He scraped up enough money for me to take voice lessons. Every day, I showed him what I learned. I wanted him to be proud of me." I swallow, choking on the words.
"If he were here, he would be," Erik replies, his eyes holding some of my pain. "You have incredible talent, and you have improved tremendously."
My lip quivering, I lean against his shoulder. "He—he wouldn't want me to hold myself back because of him." Tears splash down the front of my dress. Wrapping his bony arms around me like I'm made of glass, his heart thuds irregularly behind his protruding ribcage. I can't help it. My own heart beats in time to his.
"Mon Dieu!" a familiar voice cries from behind us. Breaking away, I stand to face Raoul; Erik rises beside me, his lips curving downward. Raoul's narrowed eyes shift between us. His face closes off like blinds shutting out the sun. "I believed you when you said that you weren't cheating, Christine. I shouldn't have."
"It's not what you think it is," I counter, my fists closing. It's not—is it? "Erik's only a friend." Erik, who had been giving Raoul a death glare, turns to me, his eyes losing their spark. "I'm sorry," I mouth. He looks so lost.
"It's exactly what I believe it to be," Raoul says, jabbing his finger in our direction. Shifting my weight, I place my hands on my hips.
"She didn't recoil or turn away…" Rounding on Raoul, Erik folds his arms, his voice scathing. "She could have, but she didn't…You can't make her choice for her…"
"You shan't speak, you scoundrel!" Raoul snaps. Erik's lips tighten, and he makes to strike Raoul, who seizes his coat.
"Enough already!" Separating them, I stand between them. How have I found myself in this mess? "I'm not a rag doll to be fought over! I'm a human like everyone else, and I can decide for myself." Turning to Raoul, I add, "I thought you said you couldn't come."
"We had to change the date, as my brother fell ill unexpectedly," he explains. "I came because was concerned about you. However, I didn't expect that you had asked somebody else in my stead, and you didn't inform me." He glowers at Erik.
"She didn't need to tell you," Erik retorts, his fists clenching.
"You said you wouldn't do it again, Raoul," I override him, stomping my foot. "You broke your promise!"
Raoul backs away, blushing to his scalp. "I shouldn't have dared—"
"No, you shouldn't have! This was one time too many. If you can't respect me, maybe we ought to call it quits!" My chest heaves. Raoul squirms, and my heart begins to fracture. I have to do this, but how can I? He was my first love. Erik glances between us, the light rekindling in his eyes.
"Christine, if you allow me one more opportunity, I shan't—" His hands outstretched, Raoul steps forward. My heart hardens. How many times have I heard him say that?
"No, Raoul. I asked you not to do it again, but you did. That's it. We're over!" I start to leave, and Erik moves to follow me.
"Fine. Fine! Choose that scoundrel over me, for all I care! You shall regret it one day, Christine, when you have no one remaining! I'll make certain of that!" Raoul shouts after me.
Though Erik turns his head to say something, I touch his arm. "Just leave it be."
After our argument, Raoul says he won't show up at my audition for the talent show. But Erik promises he will. Backstage, I warm up, attempting not to shiver. What if I hit a wrong note? What if I forget something?
"A final round of applause for our ballerinas," Monsieur Richard, one of the judges, announces. "Now, please welcome Mademoiselle Christine Daae!" Applause carry me onto the stage; I hold onto the microphone for support. Where's Erik? There, in the back. He nods, and my heart constricts.
"Mademoiselle Daae, whenever you're ready," Monsieur Moncharmin, the other judge, says, smiling.
Focusing on Erik, I try to sing just like we'd rehearsed. Though I stumble over the first few notes, he waves me on. Regaining my strength, I continue; the words flow over each other like water over river stones, and I lose myself in the music. "I pass from the street, resigned, awaiting only dreams to fill my mind. A voice below sings of what might have been; I've never heard it before then…"
The voice might be Papa's, telling me, I'm so proud of you, daughter. His words fill me with warmth, like the hot chocolate he used to make after we went sledding in the snow. Then his voice fades away, the internal warmth growing chill. Maybe the voice is someone else's, urging me on. This is your best yet, Christine. The words soothe me, like gentle rain after a storm.
I barely notice the end of the song, though wild applause reverberates around the theater. A standing ovation. My face flushes. In the back, Erik removes his fedora. His voice sounds in my ear: Chapeau! I smile.
"Bravo, Mademoiselle Daae!" Monsieur Richard, a wiry man with a mustache, says when the audience calms down. "That was magnificent."
"I couldn't have done it on my own," I admit. It's true.
"You stumbled at the beginning, but you really pulled through," Monsieur Moncharmin, a short, beefy man, adds. "Such emotion. It's as if the music was a part of you. We don't hear that very often."
"We fully expect to see you here for the next round of competition," M. Richard concludes. "Very well done indeed."
After the audition, Erik and I return to my apartment. Both of us drop onto the sofa. Before he can stop me, I reach up to remove his mask; I need to see what he looks like before things go any further. I need to see who he is. Grabbing my hand, he yanks it away. "Erik, please," I say, meeting his gaze. "Let me see you. I've known you for a few months; you don't have anything to hide."
"Christine," he whispers. "You won't want to know what I look like after…" He removes the mask. His eyes are deep-set, his cheeks sunken, and he has no nose. Instinctively he reaches up to hide his face, but I grasp his hands, which squirm in mine. This is what he was hiding. Yet—he's not ugly at all. He's beautiful.
"You don't need the mask," I say, touching his cheek. A muscle in his jaw jumps. I've found his weak spot. "Did your mother—" I start.
"Yes. A doctor diagnosed that I had arinhia," he says, glancing away, "…He claimed that it was rare and only about forty cases had been reported…My mother said that made me more of a freak…I believed her. Though the doctor suggested plastic surgery, she said she didn't have enough money…Instead, she made me wear a mask. She never wanted to see me…and neither did anyone else." His voice constricts, his eyes haunted by memories.
My heart goes out to him. "I wish we could live in a world where people don't judge on appearances. Where the ideal of beauty comes from within." Lightly I kiss his cheek. Tears trace the contours of his face. I can't help it. I start crying, too.
"Nobody has ever kissed me before," he whispers. Wrapping his trembling arms around me, he adds, "If I were to die tonight, I'd be perfectly happy."