For as long as his stubborn will would let him, he stayed away from Christine. He banished himself to the shadows of his lower world, the realm that he himself had carved out, his small piece of hell. Yet, for him, it wasn't so terrible. The dark hid things. It could be soothing in the night, where no one can see you, where the shadows cast a new face for you, where silence and darkness meet and mingle in a curious and matchless solitude. His portion of hell, he had made a paradise of sorts. He had read Milton's Paradise Lost and had admired Satan's resolve to curse the light of heaven and forge a heaven in hell. In his bolder moments, he imagined himself as such a hero, desperate to shape a new life in the night, away from the probing eyes of the upper world.
But suddenly, it was no longer enough to rule his dark world alone. The more he tried to be content with his lot as the opera ghost, the more Christine's face and voice would flash upon his mind. He could not forget it, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many glasses of Tokay he drank. More, he also began to imagine what it would be like to be normal: to be like any other gentleman above. What would he want? The temptation to imagine his life as anyone else's was too great sometimes. When his resolve slipped, he would picture himself, able to walk hatless and maskless above on the street. He would pause and look in a shop window. He would sit on a park bench to watch the ripples in the pool and the pigeons squatting along the gravel. Innumerable little things. Beautiful little things. All tiny actions that he could never perform. Ever. Not without killing someone.
Sometimes, he wondered and marveled at how the face of some young girl could conjure such foreign thoughts in him. And then he would long to see her again.
Soon enough, he could not stay away.
Soon his impulse over took his mind.
He sought her out and found her easily.
For the next few weeks, he watched her, at a safe distance of course, but he watched every conversation, every turn of expression, every smile (though they were rare).
The company was in rehearsals for the next opera, "The Marriage of Figaro," and for the manager, it was to be his final full opera. The poor manager, quite overwrought with having a ghost as a co-manager, had finally announced that following "The Marriage of Figaro" he would retire, and there would be a variety gala which would instate the new managers. During all this, the company worked in full disfunction as usual: the chorus stumbled their way around the stage, La Carlotta showed up late for rehearsals if she came at all, and the dancers flounced their way across the front of the auditorium like uncoordinated geese. Christine, caught in the fray of it all, stood in the back of the chorus, attempting to keep up with the chaos.
As he watched her, he tried to read her thoughts in her face: a hard task. She concentrated so hard on her music, on staying in line, and on not being noticed. Often she would shrink to the back, hiding behind the larger women in the soprano section. She would not have herself be seen. He smiled at this.
"The little Beatrice wishes to hide. She is like me," He would whisper. But then he would catch himself. She was not at all like him. Not really. He would not allow himself to build bonds where there could never be any. Yet, she was so very interesting to watch. At times, when La Carlotta took the stage, he would look at Christine's face, and yes, he saw it. He saw the smallest glimmer of envy, of desire, in her eyes. She wanted to be in La Carlotta's place. She wanted to sing and bring beauty to the world. At the sight of that, he had to turn away from watching her for a moment; it brought such ideas into his head, what he might do with her voice if he could...But no. That was unthinkable.
That week, as he watched her, Christine appeared sullen and quiet. She hardly ever smiled or engaged with anyone. He found this not so strange; he himself lived in eternal solitude. But soon he was vexed. Her face looked increasingly sad as time went on. She grew pale, her face losing a rosiness in her cheeks. Irrationally, he began to fret about her; was she eating? What was wrong? Had something happened?
In his time watching her, he had learned enough of her living situation; she dwelt with an old lady, an invalid. Her father, long dead, a violinist, had left her with little, unfortunately. The only thing really left to her had been a love of the theatre and a desire to create beautiful things. More, she possessed a rare and untouched faith; for her, it was as if Darwin and all his controversial theories had never been published; her faith proved indestructible, or at least persistent, since she attended mass every morning and evening when she could.
But now, her face had lost its buoyancy, as if life was ebbing out of her.
After rehearsal, he lingered close to her in the shadows behind the wall, listening.
"Christine, are you coming tonight?" Jammes addressed her.
"No. No, I...I shall be going home tonight," Christine replied with a dead voice.
How it pained him to hear her voice so lifeless! What was wrong? His heart pounded in great throbs.
"Are you sure?" Jammes wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, "There shall be many young men there tonight."
"No, thank you. I shall simply go home. I have a pain in my head."
"Suit yourself."
"Goodnight."
The door closed. Jammes sauntered away.
From the shadows, Erik watched Christine as she sat unflinching in front of her dressing room mirror. With a blank expression, she looked at herself, as still as a statue. The ache to know her thoughts was excruciating. If only he might speak to her.
Then she spoke,
"Father, I have waited so long." Great tears formed in her eyes. "I have waited for a sign from you. Nothing has come. I cannot bear to wait any longer. My heart cannot bear this. I...I am so weak...Why do you not send me the angel of music? What have I done? Have I shamed you? Have I angered you?" She was trembling.
From the shadows, he saw her hand reach for her hand bag.
"Father," She continued, "I have thought on this. If you cannot or will not send me the angel of music,...then I will come to you instead."
Her hand held a bottle containing a dark liquid.
"No one shall miss me here, father. No one but Mamma Valeris, and even she need not be burdened with me."
Her fingers were twisting the cap of the bottle.
"Father, do not hate me for what I do. Do not refuse me entrance to heaven. Let me come to you now."
The bottle was coming to her lips. No! He would not let her die.
From the core of his soul, Erik began to sing. He sang out life, letting his voice surpass the wall and surround her. He let his voice caress her heart, her hair, her face. From the dark, he sang to bring her back to life.
The bottle dropped from her hand to the carpet, spreading an inky black puddle onto the floor. With an expression of near disbelief and transcendent surprise, she rose to her feet. His voice dared to come closer; it embraced her and drew her near. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound, harkening to the call, his call for her to live and not die.
But soon, a sob of his own crept into his throat, and he paused to let a small gasp escape. As silence fell around her, she awoke with a panic. He watched as she called out, as she opened the door and ran down the hall calling vainly for the owner of the voice. He waited for her to return, tears of his own running underneath his mask. When she did, he began to sing again,
"Rise. Rise. Rise from the dead.
Death is for none such as you.
Live. Live. Live once again.
Sing in the morning new."
She fell to the floor, tears streaming.
In the a quiet whisper, she sobbed out,
"Angel? Is that you at last?" Such an innocent lost child.
He stopped singing. Terror gripped his heart.
The silence was terrible.
She was waiting for an answer.
And though his mind bid him run for his life, his heart forced him to answer,
"Yes, child."
