Visitations

By Kryss LaBryn

A/N: I am particularly proud of this one. I honestly think it is some of my very best work to date; also, for this story I finally did something that English teachers tried unsuccessfully to get me to do for over a decade, heh: I plotted and roughed it out in advance. I suspect the flow of the story is the better for it, but I still regard it (doing up outlines) as one of several tools in my arsenal, rather than the only one.

This took a long time to get from the idea to paper, because the concept originally was simply the flashback scene. It took me a long, long time to get the framing story worked out for it, and I only did so because I wanted to contribute to The Write Stuff's anthology, "Phantom Variations" (you can find the link to it on my profile page; this is one of two stories I have in there; the second, "Tit For Tat," is a short comedy piece and may also be posted up here relatively soon. Check the book out; proceeds benefit The Phorphyria Foundation). Unfortunately, somewhere along the journey that is publishing, the italics that denoted the flashback got lost, which made the scene rather confusing.

Therefore, and since I am (as you have probably noticed by now lol) a total review whore, I now present "Visitations" with the italics included, in the hopes that you will shower me with reviews (as one doesn't get them from printed works, and I have sorely missed them), and in order to promote "Phantom Variations" and its very worthy cause, The Phorphyria Foundation (phorphyria being the disease that it is believed may have influenced Leroux's depiction of the Phantom's appearance).

Enjoy! Next chapter up soonish; we have company over this weekend so I expect early next week. If you read, please review! :D

First Visitation:

Despite the heavy scent of roses in the air, the breeze still carried a slight chill. Pastor Denis gathered his coat more tightly about him as he hurried down the street. He wished he could have afforded a taxi.

The streets were crowded with couples enjoying the spring air, despite the coolness. He dodged around customers frequenting the shops on Rue Edouard VII, following it to its termination in a small square of elegant buildings. Finding the correct address, he sighed. It was on the top floor, and there was no sign of an elevator. He wondered how the elderly occupant managed. Ah, well; he was young and in shape; if she could manage, so could he.

His knock was answered by a woman too well-dressed to be a maid. Her rather sharp gaze frankly appraised him; he suspected he was found wanting, but she invited him in regardless.

"You must be Pastor Denis," she said, holding her hand for his coat; "I'm Sophia, La Christine's daughter. She's expecting you."

She was rather too slender, making him wonder if she was eating properly, but her long blonde hair was beautiful. He expected she would show him in at once, but she paused. "My mother may make some rather odd claims," she said at last, slowly, as if choosing her words with care. "Please don't be surprised or offended. Pastor Neil once laughed in her face; she never forgave him." She paused again, then said coldly. "I would not have her die without the comfort of a priest."

"What sort of claims?" he asked, curious.

"Claims regarding my father," and she would say no more, but turned and left.

He followed her down a wide hall to a cheerful sunlit room. A corner was taken up with a rather old-fashioned piano; several plants lent a welcome touch of summer. A comfortable-looking divan sat in the sun near a window; upon it, her legs covered with a bright quilt, reclined an elderly lady he could only assume was Madame Daaé.

She had to have been in her seventies, at least, but, fragile though she seemed, her gaze was clear and welcoming as she gracefully extended a hand to him. "Pastor Denis! Welcome! I'm so glad you could come. Please forgive me for not standing; I am afraid it's very difficult for me, these days."

He murmured politely, noticing Sophia quietly leave. Following his gaze, Mme Daaé laughed fondly. "She's lovely, isn't she? She has her father's eyes. . . ."

"Mme Daaé," he began, taking the chair she indicated, but she interrupted him.

"Oh, Monsieur; Mme Daaé was my mother. Please, call me Christine."

"Very well, Christine—Did you not take your husband's name?" Had she not married, he wondered in shocked disapproval?

"No; I had already begun my career when we married. Erik didn't want my audience to lose track of me. Besides," she leaned forward slightly, confidential, "He never did pick one!"

"One what?"

"A last name. You needn't be concerned; it was all approved by the priest who signed the marriage papers. We were married in the Madeleine, did you know?" She sighed. "He wrote us the most beautiful wedding march. . . ."

"The priest did?" He was becoming more confused by the moment.

"No, silly; Erik did!"

"Who is Erik? Er, your husband?"

"Husband, tutor, friend, Angel . . . He was everything to me." She sighed, suddenly wistful. "I haven't heard his voice in years . . . I don't quite know why. I wish I did."

Her mind was obviously wandering, if she had forgotten her husband's death, but she seemed harmless. He wondered if it was due to her age or her illness. "Madame—Christine, I gather you were a singer of some note?"

"Oh, yes! Have you never heard of La Christine?" At the honest shake of his head she laughed, somewhat sadly. "Ah, well; it was many years ago, and the opera is not as popular as it once was. These days, it's all about the talking pictures, I suppose. Sophia," she added, as her daughter re-entered, "Would you be so kind as to start the Victrola?"

Sophia set the tray of tea things she was carrying down by her mother and went to a corner near the piano. Denis noted with curiosity an old-fashioned gramophone, of the kind that played wax cylinders. Sophia quickly and expertly wound the handle and set the needle.

The sound was scratchy, and somewhat distant, but the clear young voice impressed him. "That is the famous Jewel Song from Faust," said Christine, reaching for the teapot before Sophia could intervene. "That was the first starring role I had, you know. Est-ce toi, Marguerite," she sang quietly along for a few bars. Her voice, elderly though it now was, was still recognisable as that issuing from the gramophone. It was lovely.

Sophia brought him a teacup, and retired again; Denis rather suspected she was hovering just outside. "You sang on the stage. At the Palais Garnier?"

"Yes, primarily. Of course, there were the usual tours, but the Opera Garnier has always been home. It's why we live here. Much more convenient than a country home would have been!"

"But surely you don't sing anymore?"

"Oh, no; not for years! Not professionally, anyways. Not since Erik . . . died. But it was in my dressing room that I first heard his voice; how could I move away?"

"You met him at the Opera?"

"In a manner of speaking." She seemed amused. "It was in my dressing room that I first heard his voice, and, months later, that I finally met him face to face."

"You . . . heard his voice, but he wasn't there?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, no; of course he was there! I just couldn't see him."

"Ah! You were blind!" He had heard of that, temporary blindness caused by some illness or other. He wondered if she could still see clearly.

"Not at all! He simply chose to not manifest."

"I . . . see." He did not.

She paused, studying him with the same appraising gaze her daughter had used, before saying, quite clearly, "My husband was an angel, you see."

"Ah. I see." He was glad of the warning her daughter had given him; he still had to clench his jaw to keep his face carefully blank. Was she mad, he wondered? Or was it just the dementia of an aging mind? Behind him, the Victrola reached the end of its spiral and tracked an endless groove, winding down. She waited in silence.

"How—How do you mean, an angel?" he asked finally. "Do you mean, he was a good man, or . . ."

"He was the Angel of Music, sent from Heaven by my poor dead father to tutor me," she replied, still gazing intently.

Lunacy. Sheer, utter lunacy! Surely she could not believe that a real angel...! It was no wonder that her daughter had not wished her mother's ravings to chase away another priest, especially now, when she was so obviously so near the end of her life. He was suddenly, gravely concerned for the state of her soul. "You had better tell me more," he said finally.

She seemed slightly satisfied with his answer. At least he had not laughed in her face. He would have to thank Sophia for the warning.

"This was back in the '80s," she began. "My father had died some two years before. You must understand, he had told me all about the Angel of Music, and how he sometimes visits good children to bless them with music. And he had promised to send him to me, once he was in Heaven." She paused, her voice catching, but continued. "But it had been nearly two years, with no sign of the Angel. I was in despair.

"But suddenly, one day, after rehearsal, as I sat alone in my dressing room, I heard the most beautiful singing! Oh, you can't imagine what it was to hear his voice. I'm so glad God didn't take his voice, as well. . . ." Her eyes brightened, and her face softened; she looked almost young again at the memory. "I wish he would come and talk to me once more. . . . In any case, I soon learned that the angelic voice was none other than the Angel of Music himself! Oh, I was so happy. . . ."

He hesitated to interrupt her strange tale, but could not stop himself from asking, "Could there not have been someone outside, in the hall?"

"I am not an idiot, monsieur! Of course I rushed out to check; it was the first thing I did! But there was no one in the hall, nor in the rooms on either side; there was no one about at all! My dressing room was in a very lonely area, you see. And I could only hear the Voice in my room. . . . Oh, you can't know; you never heard his voice! No one who ever heard it could ever mistake it for anything a mortal man could produce." She must have sensed his disbelief, for she added, a bit sharply, "I was surrounded by the best voices of the day, Monsieur; I had already worked in the National Academy of Music for some time! I can assure you that I know voices, and this Voice was no ordinary one!"

"My apologies; of course you would know best," he murmured, wishing to hear the rest of her curious tale. "Please continue!"

"Well," she sat back, mollified, "The Angel tutored me for about six months before he finally announced that I was ready. You have to understand what a short time that is! I had had the potential, I am sure; but to be perfectly honest, at the time he first came to me I was just in the chorus, and only hanging on by the skin of my teeth. To go from that to the lead in Faust in a mere six months was unheard of; it was a feat most didn't accomplish in their entire lives!"

She paused to sip her tea. "He unveiled me at the gala supper given to bid the old managers farewell, and to welcome in the new ones. La Carlotta, the prima donna, had suddenly taken ill. Why they chose me to sing in her place I have no idea; I can only assume it was the influence of my Angel. But they did, and I sang . . . To be honest, I really don't remember much of that night. It was all a blur then, and that was a long time ago! I am told I was a success." She smiled modestly.

"It was somewhere around then that I realized that I . . . loved the Voice. I know! I know! To dare to love an angel: is that not a sin? For how can we poor mortals separate our love of the spirit from our love of the flesh? I tried very hard to hide it, even from myself, but, of course, one can hide nothing from an angel.

"Then, the night of the chandelier disaster, I went—"

"Wait," he interrupted, "What chandelier disaster?" He was beginning to fear for her sanity.

"When the great chandelier over the auditorium fell," she replied. "It was in all the papers. Don't you remember?"

"I'm afraid I had not yet been born," he said apologetically, not wanting to impolitely remind her of her age. "In any case, I only came to Paris a few years ago."

"Oh! Of course. I forget how long ago it was, sometimes. . . . You didn't fight in the war, then? You were too young?"

"No, but that was less due to age. . . ."

"Oh?"

He swallowed uncomfortably, but said, "I had just entered the seminary, and they rather frowned upon their young men dropping out to go and kill. So I figured I could be the most use as an army chaplain, but then . . ." He shrugged. "The war ended before I made it to the Front. I never saw action." He glanced aside, ashamed.

"That must have been very hard on you," she murmured, sympathetic. "All the other young men going off to do their duty. . . . You must have felt a coward."

"I did, rather."

"It must have taken a great deal of courage to stay behind to learn to administer to men's souls, instead of taking the easy path and simply killing. I am sure you have helped more men as a priest than you ever would have as a soldier."

Her sympathy surprised him; her words absurdly comforted him. He wanted to understand this strange woman, so childish one moment, so wise the next. "Thank you. But how did you come to be married to an angel?"

She beckoned for his cup and poured more tea for them both. "Well, as I said, it was the night of the chandelier disaster. I was playing Siebel to La Carlotta's Marguerite in Faust—"

"You weren't Marguerite?" he interrupted. "But I thought—"

"No; I did sing at the gala, but I had not been offered any more leading roles. I'm not sure why; my Angel assured me they would soon be forthcoming. And, indeed, when the auditorium had been repaired and the Opera reopened, I was given a new contract. La Carlotta never sang again."

"Repaired? Was there much damage?"

"Have you never seen the chandelier in the auditorium?"

"Madame, I am embarrassed to admit I have never been inside the Paris Opera House!"

She tsked playfully. "And you call yourself a Parisian! Well, it was a very large chandelier. It would be a struggle to fit it into this room. Luckily, only one poor woman was killed, but there were many others grievously wounded. You may well imagine the horror! We were all in shock already, because of the croaking—"

"The what?"

"The toad in La Carlotta's throat! You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? I must sound a right madwoman… Well, it was the middle of the Jewel Song—"

"The one you just played."

"Yes. She was singing perfectly, as she always did, when suddenly—She croaked!"

"She died on stage?" He was horrified.

"No, no," she laughed; "She croaked! Like a toad! Oh, it was horrible; as much as we disliked one other, it was a terrible thing to see happen to a singer, especially one of her calibre! She tried to continue, but she just kept croaking. . . . And then the chandelier fell! Oh, the cries of the injured—It was horrible! I was so terrified—"

"It must have been an awful experience!" he said, sympathetic.

"Oh, I was less concerned for myself. I was safe on the stage; we had not been hurt. The chandelier hung well into the middle of the auditorium, you see. . . . But the Voice had promised that it would be at the performance; I was afraid my angel had been crushed!"

She laughed slightly. "As if an angel could have been hurt! But I wasn't thinking straight. I rushed straightaway to my dressing room, where the Voice was to have met me after the performance, for I thought that, if it were unhurt, it would go straight there." She paused, remembering.

"And was the Voice there?" he prompted finally.

"No," she murmured softly, "The Voice was not there. Instead, there was a man. . . . You have to understand, my door was kept locked at all times, so I was not expecting anyone inside! To see a man standing there, inside the locked door, was a terrible shock! I opened my mouth to scream, but the man spoke. 'Christine,' he said, 'It is I!'

"I recognised the voice of my angel! And he was a man!

"I was furious, and frightened. I thought I had been deceived by a mortal man, but he took my hands and gently led me to my little sofa. And he explained..."

"Christine," he said, my hands trembling in his cold ones, "It is I! God has granted me a great gift, the greatest gift he can give an angel.

"He has made me flesh!"

I did not know what to think, so I bit my lip and looked away.

"I know," he said apologetically, reading my thoughts, "I do not much look like an angel anymore, do I? That is my own fault, I am afraid. . . ."

At his words, and his following silence, I could not help but look back at him.

"You are wondering about my mask, are you not? About my hands. . . . I know they are cold now. Christine, dear Christine, if only you knew. . . ." His head, enfolded in soft black silk, bent so low to my hands that I thought he was going to kiss them. Instead, he simply murmured, "It is forbidden, for an angel to love a mortal. But I could not stop myself, however hard I might try! Christine, I love you. . . !" and he did press a kiss through the silk.

He saw my confusion, wiped my tear away with his thumb. "I love you, Christine Daaé," he whispered softly. "How could I not? And God, in his infinite mercy, has granted me a life with you.

"However, God, in his infinite wisdom, did not grant me a handsome form. If you love me in return, it must be because you love me, not just the shell that I wear. Can you do that, Christine? Can you love me, as I love you?"


"...And so you married an angel," he said, wondering at her sanity.

"I did indeed," she murmured.

He dearly wanted to ask her further questions, to examine her story from all angles and see if he could winkle out the truth, but Sophia chose that moment to reappear. "I'm very sorry, but it's time for you to go," she informed him brusquely. "My mother is not well; she tires easily." She retrieved his empty cup from his unresisting hands, and stood stiffly, waiting, it seemed to shepherd him out.

He rose politely, but, "I would like to talk to your mother a while longer, Mademoiselle," he said. "If I may have but a little—"

"Impossible," she replied, unsmiling. "This way, if you please, Monsieur. . . ."

He ignored her outstretched arm and turned to Christine. "Perhaps another time, then, Madame?" he asked. "I would dearly love to hear more of your unique life!"

Christine smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling in her wan face. "I should like that very much," she replied, giving him an elegant hand. He bowed over it obediently. "Perhaps, oh, say on Wednesday, in the afternoon?"

"I would be delighted, Christine," he told her gravely, and finally followed Sophia back to the door, mentally rearranging his schedule.

"Do not believe everything my mother tells you," said Sophia as she brought him his coat and hat. "She has always been a superstitious child, the daughter of peasants. She believes everything she hears; don't you start making the same mistake."

He was slightly startled to hear her speak so baldly of her scorn. "There is nothing wrong with coming from peasant stock," he chided her gently. "Jesus himself was the son of the poorest peasants—"

"Jesus was not known for his lies," she retorted sharply. She opened the door dismissively, and within moments he found himself in the hallway, staring at the closed door.

He tried to shake off his irritation at her abrupt manner, and scolded himself for the pride that expected a servant of God to be treated in a more courteous manner, and instead deliberately turned his thoughts to the strange tale he had heard. The beginning of the tale, he corrected himself. He had no doubt that there was more to follow, although he couldn't believe any further revelation could rival her assertion that she had married an actual, real angel!

Surely some agency was at work to deceive the poor woman, the poor, impressionable girl she had apparently been. Was it human, or—Of course, she might simply be delusional. Still, she did have a daughter; that spoke of a husband of some sort! A daughter, he mused, with strange, golden eyes, unlike any he had ever seen before. Her father's eyes, he remembered. Was it, perhaps, possible after all. . . ? He hardly dared complete the thought. If a real angel had—If the daughter really was—The implications were too enormous.

And highly unlikely, he chivvied himself roughly. Far more likely it was that someone had taken advantage of a superstitious young girl; but for what purpose he could not say.

He desperately needed more information. He doubted very much he could approach any of his colleagues without further details; he would become a laughing-stock.

With a last look up the carved façade of the building to the window he imagined must belong to the diva's flat, he hurried away down the street. Wednesday was only a few days away; if he hurried he might be able to fit a few hours of research in between his other duties.