A/N: Thanks to Abbie, my first reviewer!
I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.
Chapter Four – Sunday, April 3, 2011
Where was she?
Erik was pacing, a habit he thought he'd abandoned long ago, in another country, in another line of work. He felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought of his work in the Middle East. Memories of those years played in his mind: the cool marble floor of a palace, the dizzying heat of the desert, the gritty taste of sand between his lips, a whiff of sandalwood perfume, the sound of bells tied to a dancer's feet, the swirl of turquoise skirts, and a tug at the end of his lasso.
It's done, it's over, he thought in an effort to calm his nerves. He needed to be calm. Christine would be arriving for their first meeting. If they were to work together, she would need to respect him; and what was there to respect in a man who quaked at memories of the past?
In the last month, Christine had signed Tabby Cat's contract and had agreed to join The Fifth Cellar, much to Erik's approval. Her audition in early March, although unconventional, had won over the label and she'd emailed a scanned copy of her contract the next week. In another week, she'd made the move to a flat in the Wandsworth area of London. She'd met Nadir, Edward, and Michael at the record studio and had her first two rehearsals with them. It was now early April and Christine would be meeting with Erik for their first rehearsal together.
He'd chosen to wait for three reasons. The first was practical; if her rehearsals with the other members of The Fifth Cellar were lacklustre, the record company could terminate her contract and select another singer to fill her place, without Erik having to invest any time into working with her. The second was due to his own limitations; Erik wanted to ensure that she could learn the material and build an amiable working relationship with the rest of the band before working with him. Erik demanded perfection from those he collaborated with. Working with a vocalist still learning the band's repertoire would have been a frustrating experience at best. The third reason? It bothered Erik to admit it, but he was frightened of the young woman's reaction to him. His mask attracted stares, attention, and, worse, attracted questions from ignorant fools. What would Christine's reaction be? Would she gape at him? Sneak looks at his mask when she thought he wasn't looking her way? Pretend not to see?
His face was a curse. A curse that he hid from prying eyes. Using the cover of smoke, the guise of a stage double or elaborate coverings, he was able to fool the press and the band's fans. Michael, Edward and Carlotta knew that he wore the mask to hide something – wouldn't they like to know what! – from the audience. Only Nadir had seen.
A soft knock on the door announced Christine's arrival. Erik felt his pulse quicken as nervous energy coursed through his body, chasing away the calm he'd felt only a moment ago. She was here! He moved away from the door and stepped into the darkest corner of the room. She would still be able to see him, but perhaps the black mask would be less noticeable in the shadows.
A second knock.
"You may come in," he said, straightening his back and assuming an arrogant posture. "Leave the overhead lights off. I detest fluorescent lighting."
Christine stepped into the room, her eyes adjusting to the low light coming from the lamps and the grey sky out the window. She was wearing a loose cream-coloured lace and cotton dress with a lilac cardigan, navy tights, and brown boots. She'd pulled her wavy brown hair away from her face in a low ponytail. She hardly looked the part of a heavy metal songstress, Erik thought, but she was beautiful nonetheless.
Her eyes met his across the room and, after a second's hesitation, she began to walk towards him, with her hand outstretched for a handshake. She'd chosen to act as if she hadn't seen the mask; perhaps Nadir had warned her to say nothing.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said, her voice shyer than her outstretched hand suggested. "I'm Christine. Christine Daaé."
"Erik Desrochers," he answered, extending his hand. Her fingers were long and calloused at the tips, like a guitar player. From his balcony vantage point, she'd looked small at their first meeting. Standing next to her, he saw that she was tall, at least five-foot-eight.
"Nadir says great things about you; he told me that you'd written all of the songs?"
"Yes. I have a studio in my home where I compose," Erik answered, feeling impatient to start their rehearsal.
"That must be really convenient," she answered. "My mom had a studio at our house in Montreal when I was a kid. She used to practice there during the day when dad was at work."
"Very good," Erik answered, curious about Christine's mother, but unwilling to delve into a lengthy personal conversation. They needed to use this time for rehearsing, not chattering like children.
"Perhaps we can begin? I've put some music out on the table behind you. Are you warmed up enough to begin? I can run through some scales if you like."
"Oh, okay. Maybe a quick warm-up?" Christine replied with a shy grin. "It's cold outside. Does it always rain so much in London?"
"Not during the summer." Erik sat down behind his keyboard, pulling the cover off and running his fingers over the keys, testing their tune.
Christine rolled and unrolled the sheet music in her hand before smoothing the papers on a stand near the keyboard. Erik played a slow scale, starting at the C note. Christine followed easily, meeting each of the notes. Erik repeated the process, a little faster, bringing the notes into a higher range. Again, Christine met each note. As the warm-up continued, Erik nudged Christine up an octave, into a mezzo soprano range.
Satisfied that she was ready to begin, he shuffled through a binder of sheet music, scanning the titles of the songs he'd written over the last five years. Nadir and Michael had informed him that she was familiar with the band's later work and could sing from their second and third albums. He needed to test her competence, so he'd left a mix of pieces from their first album on the table for her.
From his binder, he chose "In dreams I come," a romantic ballad about a ghost visiting her lover in his sleep. Erik had written the song as the centrepiece of his first album, Strains from a Ghost's Orchestra, but The Fifth Cellar's producers felt that the softer tune worked better as a supporting track than as a single. In later years, Erik had become more assertive in his artistic choices, demanding studio time to compose and record new pieces that the label had predicted would be commercial failures. With sales of the band's second and third album spiked in Europe and South America, Tabby Cat Records recanted, giving Erik complete freedom to compose as he liked. His latest composition, Don Juan Triumphant, was his boldest yet.
Christine took several minutes to study the piece, reading the lyrics with care and humming unfamiliar passages to get an understanding of the song's movement.
"It's meant to be sung by a soprano, but Andrew will provide answering vocals in the chorus," Erik explained. "Start after the interlude."
Erik began to play, plying a soft melody from the keyboard. Christine drummed her fingers lightly against the music stand, tapping out the notes to help her remember the piece. The melody was gentle and haunting. After a pause in the music, Christine took her cue and sang.
Sunlit streets in the old city
A dress of summer white cotton
Two cups of wine and promises
Spoken in the daylight
No more sunlight, only darkness now
The stars and moon watching silently
In dreams I come – to keep my vow
Here you sleep, twisting in your sheets
Don't let the tears fall in the night
In dreams I'm here – tonight we meet
The song continued through four verses, a bridge, and a repetition of the chorus. With the drums, bass and guitar added, the piece was easily eight or nine minutes long. The record label preferred three to five minutes for radio play. Anything longer and the audience's attention would wane, the producer had advised. Erik smirked, knowing that three of the pieces on Don Juan Triumphant reached the ten-minute mark. He looked forward to hearing – and ignoring – the label's criticism.
"It's a beautiful piece. I'd never heard it before," Christine admitted, after Erik had finished playing.
Erik ignored the compliment and offered his critique of her performance. "Your technique is almost perfect, but you're weak on some of the lower notes; you sound like you're growling."
"Growling?"
"Yes, growling, rumbling, pick whichever adjective you like!" Erik stood up from the keyboard and moved closer to Christine. "And your voice lacks emotion. I should feel your sadness and hear the wobble in your voice when you sing about being parted from your lover. All I hear are the notes and the words."
Christine was still, her face blanking at the criticism. Erik watched her lower lip tremble, but she did not cry. Instead, the soprano looked in his eyes and, instead of arguing or asking for clarification, asked to try the song again.
"This time with passion, with despair," Erik said, choosing a softer tone.
They rehearsed the song a second time, and then a third and fourth time. With each rendition, Christine's grasp of the music strengthened. Her lower notes deepened into a purr and her voice gained power. Still, Erik wasn't satisfied, but rather than yell at the girl, he asked her to perform new songs. After five hours of rehearsal, Christine and Erik had run through every track on Strains from a Ghost's Orchestra. To keep her motivated, he'd also included singles from their more recent albums, Reverie and Nighttime Carnival, knowing that she would have rehearsed these with the rest of the band earlier in the week.
"We've done enough today," Erik decided after the two had finished with "Call of the sea nymphs," a piece with a demanding mix of high notes and a fast tempo. "You've done well for a first rehearsal, but please practice at home. The fans will expect you to know every line and every note, and to be able to perform as well as – or better than – Carmen did. You're in a challenging position and I need you to be ready before we start recording the new album.
"I know what I'm up against," she answered. "My best friend is one of your biggest fans. She probably wrote half of your Wikipedia page. She follows all of your social media account and chats with other fans about the band non-stop. I know what they're saying about me: 'I'm a Canadian, I'm too fresh out of school, I don't have enough classical training, I don't have any experience performing with a band' and I don't care. I'm not here to fail."
"Then I admire your determination and I'd like to make you an offer."
"I've already accepted your offer, that's why I'm here."
"Another offer, then," Erik said. "I'd like to continue to rehearse with you privately. As a tutor, if you will. We can continue to meet here, or in my home studio. I'll teach you each of the songs and we can work on the material for Don Juan Triumphant as well."
"A tutor?" Christine repeated, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I'd like that."
"Very well then. Meet me here tomorrow night at seven. Don't be late."
"I won't. Should I bring anything?"
"No, I'll have everything ready here," he answered. Erik moved the sheet music aside and picked up another folder to hand to Christine. "This is Don Juan Triumphant. The other band members will be receiving their copies in the morning. Read through each song before tomorrow night. I've included a CD with the keyboard music that I've recorded on my own."
"Homework?" she joked, accepting the folder. "I'll have the readings done before class, Professor Desrochers."
Erik held back a laugh, maintaining his serious demeanour. "Don't lose that folder. If even one page is lost and leaked to the web, the record will lose its surprise."
"I won't, I promise," Christine said, putting on her sweater and retrieving her umbrella. "And thank you."
"You're welcome and good night Christine."
"Good night Erik."
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