Author's Note: The Phantom of the Opera and its characters belong to Gaston Leroux.
The idea for this story started to form after I saw an amazing performance in Las Vegas. I was really struck by Tim Martin Gleason's portrayal as Raoul and I wanted to write some R/C stories again, and this developed into a full-fledged story on the way home.
A throwback from 2007. ;)
Raoul carefully worked the comb through his wife's hair, concentrating on keeping his hands steady so he didn't accidentally pull at the snarls that inevitably developed. Her once thick curls had thinned considerably over the years and were now gray with streaks of white, but her hair was still beautiful. Christine insisted upon having it done up every day, although now she refused to allow anyone but Raoul to touch it. He pinned it on the sides and allowed the rest to flow down her back, a style that most would consider far too young for a woman of nearly seventy years, but she was very particular about it.
"All finished," he said as he smiled at his wife in the mirror, and though her lips curved in response, there was no recognition in her faded blue eyes. He set the comb on the dresser and helped her shuffle into the sitting room, where she spent most of her days surrounded by the music boxes she had collected during their forty-eight years of marriage. Once she was settled in her favorite chair, Raoul wandered over to the mantle and picked up the ivory box he had purchased for her on the trip they had taken to Switzerland for their tenth anniversary. "Would you like me to wind it up for you?" he asked as he inserted the key into the side, not waiting for her answer, for he knew what it would be.
"Yes please," she murmured politely as the soft music filled the room, sighing happily as she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Raoul traced the decorative lid of the box with one finger, remembering how her eyes had lit up when she had first spied it while walking through the streets of Bern. His wife could no longer recall that vacation, even though she had loved the city – she could not recollect many things now.
It had not seemed like anything serious at first when Christine had grown increasingly forgetful. She had always been rather absentminded anyway, and he had supposed that it was merely worsening with age. It was only when she had started confusing their daughter Rosalie with her childhood friend Meg that it became apparent that something was very wrong. He had taken Christine to every specialist he could find and had spared no cost, even traveling with her to Germany to consult with a former colleague of Dr. Alois Alzheimer, but no one had been able to offer any hope – Christine had Alzheimer's disease and nothing could be done for her. She had become progressively worse until a lifetime of memories together had faded away almost entirely, and only rarely did she ever look at him with anything more than curiosity.
"I know a man who has a beautiful music box with a monkey atop it," Christine offered after the last strains of the simple tune grew faint. "The monkey plays the cymbals when you wind the box; it's quite clever." She smiled at him when Raoul turned to face her, but it was an impersonal gesture, the kind of smile she should reserve for strangers and not the father of her children, but they were all strangers to her now. His beloved wife was caught in the web of her past, stuck in a world where her Angel of Music still lived, and she usually spoke about him as if he were listening to their every word.
"It sounds interesting," Raoul stated after a few moments, willing himself to remain calm, although his heart still ached as he looked at her. She talked about the monkey music box nearly every day, but she did not remember doing it, and so he listened to her with a patience that even the children didn't understand. They became frustrated with their mother when she repeated herself constantly, but he refused to allow himself to snap at her – it wasn't her fault, after all, and it only made her upset.
"It is," she agreed as she enthusiastically nodded, and wearily he lowered himself into the chair beside her. "May I ask your name?" Christine questioned after a while, the polite smile still in place, and Raoul coughed in an attempt to rid himself of the ache that formed in the back of his throat before answering.
"My name is Raoul," he replied, hastily wiping the corners of his eyes with his thumb. Sometimes she did not ask him his name and so he could pretend that she remembered him, but today it was obvious that she did not, and these times were the worst for him to bear.
"Raoul," she repeated almost dreamily as her cheeks grew rosy, "I know someone named Raoul. He's asked me to marry him." Christine looked down at her left hand and began twisting the engagement ring upon her finger, the one he had bought to replace the ring that her tutor had ripped from the chain she had worn around her neck. He kept her wedding band in his dresser drawer; wearing it only confused her to the point of tears, but for whatever reason the engagement ring did not have the same effect on her. "May I confide in you, Raoul?"
"Of course," he responded, trying not to sound as puzzled as he felt. It was very rare that she remembered him at all, and he could not recall the last time she had spoken about their relationship while she had still been at the Opera in Paris.
"I'm not sure if I should marry him." Christine's words were a shock to him; never before had she ever expressed any doubts about choosing to marry him, and Raoul looked away so she would not see his distress. "There is someone else, you see – I have a tutor who is a very jealous man. I'm afraid of what he might do to Raoul, he might harm him, and I couldn't bear it." Raoul stared at the pattern of the carpet, unsure of what he should say, if anything, and Christine seemed to take his silence as an invitation to explain more about the situation. "He doesn't even believe me about my tutor – oh it's so confusing, I can't possibly explain it all – but some people seem to think my tutor is a ghost, and I used to believe that he was an angel…it's no wonder Raoul doesn't believe me! He has always been relatively sensible, except for the time that he rushed into the sea to fetch my scarf."
"I'm sure that your young man can take care of himself," he said finally as he dared to peek at her through his lashes, and she nodded in agreement, although she still twisted the engagement ring on her finger, the lines that framed her mouth deeper than usual.
"I had a terrible dream last night," Christine whispered, her voice shaking with emotion, "with my Raoul in a noose and my tutor shouting at me. It was so real to me, it frightened me so much, and it seemed so familiar – I must have dreamed it before." She reached for his hand, and he could feel the warm metal of the ring against his flesh, a reminder of all of the years that they had spent together and yet she could no longer remember, and Raoul pressed his palm against the back of her shaking hand.
"They are only dreams," he murmured soothingly, patting her fingers in what he hoped was a calming manner. "You don't have anything to fear." There was no need for him to tell Christine that her nightmares had truly happened long ago; she would not understand.
"You are very kind," she replied with a small smile. "You remind me of my own Raoul. He is always telling me that I have nothing to worry about now, that he will always take care of me." She released his hand and the glazed look returned to her eyes. "He loves me to distraction, if you can believe that someone like him is interested in a poor girl like me – he's the younger brother of a count and comes from a very distinguished family."
"I don't find it so very hard to believe that he loves you," Raoul said gently, earning another soft smile from his companion.
"Oh, but I do, I find it quite difficult to believe sometimes. I have absolutely nothing to offer him and yet he loves me. I know that we were childhood friends but…" Her smile faded and once again she fretted with the ring that she wore. "I love to daydream of forever, Monsieur, but I do work in the Opera, and I see what goes on there – so many of the performers are mistresses of married men. I'm afraid that someday my Raoul will no longer love me and will regret proposing. His family doesn't approve of me, I know that they don't, and although Raoul doesn't seem to care now – what if he does later? What if he grows to despise me?" A few tears slid down her pale cheeks, and she did not attempt to wipe them away.
"I married a woman much like you when I was younger," Raoul answered after some thought, taking her hand once more and squeezing it. "We've been married for forty-eight years, and I have never regretted it, not for one moment. I am sure your Raoul will feel the same."
"You are such a dear man," she murmured, returning his squeeze with one of her own, and her gaze was no longer impersonal. "I do hope you're right – such thoughts make me worry, although I would never speak about them to my Raoul. I wouldn't want him to believe that I doubt him. I don't think that he would understand that it's not him I truly doubt, but myself."
They sat together quietly for a while holding hands, a small scrap of intimacy that seemed to stir some sort of memory in her, and for the briefest moment she looked at him like she had before she had become ill. Far too soon, however, her eyes grew clouded again, and with a heavy heart Raoul allowed her hand to fall to her side. She focused upon the rows of music boxes that lined the room and he rose from his chair, his knees stiff from sitting so long.
"Would you like me to wind it up for you?" he questioned as he chose another music box from the mantle, the one he had purchased for his wife when their first grandchild had been born, and he began to turn the key before she replied, for he knew what her answer would be.