Through the Mirror

Erik had brought Christine to his lair. What was he thinking? He pondered his actions as she oo-ed and ah-ed over his possessions, his furnishings, art and bookcases filled with rare and unusual books from all the years of his travels.
"Angel, this is the most wonderful home I've ever seen. A king could live here" she cried! He wondered, momentarily, how his living space would compare with the de Chagny's estate, town house and that dratted house by the sea.

Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the reality of what he had done. "A king? I suppose in a way the Opera House itself is my kingdom" he muttered.
"What did you say, Angel?" she turned back to him and gave him her full attention. She was studying his mask. He knew that feeling when suddenly the mask was all anyone saw instead of the accomplished man that wore it. His heart sunk. Would this end up a disaster? All the years they'd known each other… well, from two sides of the mirror, all his advice and coaching. All the times he comforted her tears, as best as he could, without actually taking her in his arms. Would it all come down to his deformity? If only both sides of his face were as his left. He could hold his own against any man. Tower over them, in fact, as he possessed skills and talents no other man on earth had mastered. "Nothing." He sighed. "Are you hungry, my dear? I have quite a full and extensive larder. I could prepare you something."
"What? Oh, perhaps." She was still looking intently at him. He took her hand and led her to a table that was laid out beautifully, though only set for one. He glanced at it and left her seated while he brought forth another place setting. Leaving, again, briefly, he returned with a platter of fresh bread, butter, cheese, grapes and a bottle of wine which he poured into a crystal decanter and set on the table. He added two thin and elegant glass goblets, and, then seated himself across from her. "Please, help yourself. This wine, it is very light… and very fine" he said as he poured her glass half full. She timidly, at first, and then with enthusiasm, filled her delicate china plate with bread, cheese, and fruit.
Erik watched her, fascinated by her every move and gesture as she contentedly ate and sipped at the wine. Her eyes bright. Her complexion rosy. She was so beautiful it hurt his heart.
"Won't you join me, Angel?" she asked. He could only sip his own wine, entranced by her presence.
Christine daintily wiped her mouth with the linen cloth napkin. Then she smiled at him, as he looked down, afraid she would find him staring.
He stood, "Come, sit here by the fire, you'll be more comfortable. " Taking his hand, again, oh, how she liked taking his hand! She rose and allowed him to lead her to the huge, plush velvet divan that faced a fireplace she hadn't noticed before. She settled in, her skirts tucked around her and once more turned her attention to him. "You haven't told me your name, Angel. I mean… "she stammered, which he found charming! " I think of you as my Angel, but now I realize you are not quite a heavenly being… " here, she blushed, which Erik found irresistible! "so, you must go by another name, as well."
"I… "here he paused for effect, "am Erik. I am known by various other names around the world, and a couple right here in the Opera House, that you would be surprised, or, perhaps not, are attributed to me."

"Erik? I like that. It suits you." Her eyes drifted to the huge pipe organ that seemed to take up a good bit of space in the room they were in. "The living room? Music room, maybe?" she wondered to herself. She took in the sheafs of music stacked, some neatly, some, she frowned, a bit haphazardly. There was a music stand and, she noticed to her delight, a violin case resting on the organ bench. "Oh, Erik, Angel, do you play the violin?"
"Yes. It is one of many instruments I have mastered. As you can see, I play the organ, as well. "He stood before the organ. "Would you like me to play for you?" he asked her. "Perhaps one day…one day, I will play and you, my dear, will sing. Sing music I have written." and to himself, he saw her as his creation, Aminta. His secret of secrets was that Christine had inspired this character in his life's work, Don Juan Triumphant. He had created Aminta with his delightful student in mind. Now, here she sat, innocence incarnate. His Don Juan seduces the equally innocent Aminta. He, indeed was a demon to have thought of that scenario. Not the Angel she dreamed of.
Sighing, he turned and seated himself on the bench facing the organ and began to play.

The music soared. Christine sat back, rapt. It was thrilling! She had never, in all her years at the Opera, heard anything to equal the heavenly quality. It was music not of this earth and time. It transported her. Only her father had ever played so beautifully.
She found herself rising. As if hypnotized she moved forward, towards where Erik played. How her heart soared with the music. She stood behind him. She could see his mask highlighted by the candelabra on his right side.
What lay beneath it? She wondered. Surely, if the unmasked side was any indication he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Suddenly, she had to know. She had to see her Angel unmasked. She had to see the man, the person who had written this divine, inspired music. She stood so close to him, now. He was absorbed in his playing. He was unaware as she reached out a hand and … gently touched the mask. She froze. He hadn't noticed. Grasping the edge closest to her, she tugged it and it came away in her hand.

All was silent. Erik sat unmoving. The organ's last notes seemed to hang in the air. Minutes passed. Finally, he stood, and turned to face her. She dropped the mask, and let out a scream that Erik was sure the patrons five stories above could have heard.
"Were you so desperate, Christine?" He spoke softly. He had been hurt beyond anger. He moved toward her. "Were you so uncharitable that you couldn't wait until we knew each other more intimately before you had me reveal what lay behind the mask? Did you not trust me enough to know, eventually, I would have had to show myself to you."

She had sunk to the floor, her face in her hands, weeping, damn her. "Weeping at the sight of my cursed face," he thought. He was furious now. More at himself for believing he deserved some happiness. He could still hear that scream. Would he ever forget it? And, yet, sardonically, he had noticed that even her screams had perfect pitch.