A Bouquet of Chrysanthemums
The night was coming to an end. Erik, unable to sleep, had made his way up to the roof of the Paris Opera House and leaned against the statue of Apollo and watched, dispassionately, as the moon soon gave way to the reddening of the sky signifying dawn.
He removed his mask, and rubbed a hand across his weary eyes, setting it down on the base of the statue. Apollo wouldn't turn away in disgust or cry out in fear at the sight of Erik's unmasked face.
He and the Sun God were on intimate terms. He had spent many an hour over the years he'd lived in the 5th cellar high up on the roof, away from prying eyes and from curious stares. Here, often unmasked, he felt the fresh air of each season encompass him. Even the harshest of winters couldn't keep him away. It was a good place to think, and compose and muse.
What he had trying to do, tonight, was to put thoughts of his beautiful and talented student, Christine Daae, in perspective. More and more he was haunted by her physical presence and by the lilting purity of her unique soprano. He had trained her voice to a dazzling brilliance. A voice now being slowly recognized by even the most critical of music critics. Soon, she would belong to all of Paris and beyond that, to the world.
While she had never seen him in person, just the hypnotic voice that seemed to her to emanate from beyond the mirror, she seemed quite devoted to him, never missing a lesson and begging him to critique this or that song she was rehearsing from some Opera or other. He lived for these moments.
Tired beyond belief, Erik reattached the mask and lifted the hood of his cape so it enshrouded his features and then began the descent down the winding stairway, careful to stay to the shadows and alcoves, as the staff and artists of the Opera House were up and enjoying the beautiful fall day, darting here and there and in and out of the various rehearsal rooms and… wait! He paused. Something had caught his eye.
A familiar shape, a cascade of dark ringlets falling over a red woolen cloak. No! Could it be Christine? It was! His very Angel. His beating heart! Where was she off to at such an early hour? All fatigue left him as he crept silently after her… and then, she was out a side door and keeping just a few steps behind, he followed her.
The street was busy with people of all shapes and sizes and they seemed to be headed in one direction. Falling into step, his mask unnoticed, as many wore hoods and capes and cloaks. His eye on Christine, he found himself in the flower market. There was an abundance of blazing color, and here, Christine stopped and inspected bunches and bouquets of chrysanthemums. As Erik watched from the sidelines, leaning against a brick wall, he saw that the market was now filled with people doing as Christine had done, choosing bunches of these singular flowers.
Christine, with an armful of flowers as bright as flame, paid the vendor, and, smiling to herself and holding the flowers close, she continued her path up the street. Many others were walking this way, as well, arms filled with the chrysanthemums in reds and yellows and oranges. He was stirred by this sight. As she passed a shop window, Christine, paused once more and entered the shop. Lingering outside, he saw a notice mentioning candles in the window. Ah! Now he knew. And he knew just where his Angel was headed. It was November second.
In France, this was All Souls Day, the traditional day of honoring the dead. Christine emerged from the shop, now carrying a small paper bag, and continued her journey. Soon they were at the gates of the cemetery. Two huge stone angels stood guard over the parade of pedestrians passing through the entrance.
Erik, understood, all too well, Christine's destination. Here, beneath a statue of a marble angel holding a violin, lay her beloved father, the great Swedish violinist, Gustave Daae.
Hidden behind a statue of a mourning, hooded figure, Erik, silently watched, and feeling a bit guilty, listened, too, as he had very acute hearing.
Christine knelt beside the statue and the grave before it. "Father, I have missed you so," she murmured, placing the bouquet next to a stone urn on one side of the grave. She glanced around and then "ah, there you are," Erik startling at her words, but she had brought forth a ceramic pitcher filled with water, and she poured it into the urn and then arranged the flowers so beautifully it was as if she had lit a warming fire in this grey and shadowy place. And, in fact, now, she was lighting a match that she had taken from the paper bag she had been clutching, and lit a delicate white candle, holding it so its wax dripped onto a small stone dish, and then she set it firmly in place, so, it too, bloomed against the cemetery's natural gloom.
Fascinated, Erik continued to, well, to be honest, to spy on Christine's private moments with her late father. "Father, you would be so proud of the advances I am making musically. You were so wise in sending me the Angel of Music because he has taught me so much. I cannot tell you how dear he has become to me, Father."
Hearing this, Erik leaned in a bit closer.
"He has made my voice the instrument you always hoped it would be. You had taught me well, Father, but you left me when I was only a girl. I was lost. I had lost my voice in despair over losing you. The Angel came to me. He told me not to be afraid. And that, even though I had Madame Giry, and my darling Meg, he knew how lonely I was. He said he would always be there for me, to teach me to sing, to listen to my hopes and dreams and to guide me. He has done all that and so much more. Father, if the Angel was only a man, I would have fallen in love with him." Here, Erik audibly gasped. Then fearing she had heard him, he leaned further against the towering shrouded figure, and felt his heart beating so loudly, he feared all visiting the cemetery would know his feelings.
"I love him as he is, but, I wanted to share this with you, Father, as I cannot tell a soul. Madame Giry seems to understand. But Meg thinks I am a bit mad, going on to her about my Angel."
She smiled a warm, secret smile."He knows me better than anyone. He has seen me at my worst and made me the best singer I am capable of being. He taught me to sing from my soul. From my heart. And Father, I sing for you at every rehearsal and at every performance, but… I am also singing for him, my beloved Angel"
She sat quietly for a few moments more, than rising, she stood and placed a kiss on the cheek of the marble Angel guarding her Father's eternal slumber, and turning, for one last glance at the flowers and the candle, she retraced her footsteps, heading back to her dressing room for she had an important engagement. One she couldn't miss. This afternoon, she would have a lesson with her Angel. And perhaps, she would pour her heart out to him. And as she walked, unseen behind her, her protector followed, making sure her journey home was a safe one.