Bonus Get because all of you reviewers are too sweet! Merry Christmas once more! This might be the last of these rapid uploads as I return to work after Christmas, so editing the rest of the story will be slower (this story is complete, I upload a chapter at a time after editing through it).
Have a lovely and peaceful holiday!
~Donttouchthefigs
Raoul dropped her off a few blocks away at her request. "It's easier to get back on the highway from here, and you won't get turned around," she had excused which was true. She was more than grateful to Maestro for her bus pass.
"Be safe. I'll text," he called as she got out.
Lugging her bag beside her, she ran those blocks to the building. She made an awful noise running inside, letting the door slam behind her in her rush across the foyer to the theater. When she arrived at the stage, it was empty, the piano lid down. Groaning she slid onto the bench, but did not have long to feel sorry for herself.
"Indeed she arrives!"
Heart racing, Christine popped up, looking about wildly for her teacher. He as in box five, leaning over the side, fingers digging into the banister. But it was not shock and awe that drove his posture this time. "An hour late and counting!"
"I'm so-"
He fled the seat and like that first day was on the stage in minutes, silent and swift. Then he was storming onto the stage, footsteps echoing harshly in the empty theater. "An hour late! Does she not care what she does to Erik? Worried that she had been hurt? That she was somewhere in the city lost? That she decided she no longer wished to learn? Or does Christine believe she is a diva already, and is cultivating such attitude early?"
Her face heated, the insinuation hitting it's mark. "No! I'm sorry Maestro!"
He stood from her and folded his hands behind his back, his mouth in a firm line. He was waiting for an excuse. She was ready to provide (she had spent the whole car ride thinking).
"At work, an old childhood friend appeared-I had no idea they were in town. I haven't seen them since my mother and father were alive!" She held out her hands pleadingly. "That's a lot to catch up on. I was watching the time at first, but then I had to explain why I wasn't in the house-my childhood house-and everything that happened."
Her teacher took a breath and closed his eyes. He turned on his heel and walked away from her for a moment. She could see him spinning the conductor's baton deftly in his hand as the silence stretched on.
Feeling a little braver she ventured, "It's the first time I've been late. Usually I'm early."
"That is correct." Another deep breath. "You have been an exceptional student. And Erik...worried unnecessarily." He finally turned back to her, the tension gone from his shoulders at least. "You would not forget a lesson."
"No way," she promised, placing a hand on her bag. Not when she had so much to show. Maybe.
"You would not let your Erik sit here waiting and worrying on purpose."
"I'm sorry. I wanted to call but I didn't know if I should waste the time, or if you'd even be near the office phone."
"I would not have been," he agreed, his head lowering a little.
"You know if you have a better number for me to call incase something like this happens again... Buses can be late."
"Indeed. But I do not know it."
"You don't know your phone number?"
"No. I never bothered." He reached into his jacket's pocket and took out a sleek black cellphone. It looked so odd, her Maestro in his formal garb holding a modern phone. It was a few generations behind her own.
"I can find it in your phone, if you'd like. So I can contact you if I need to. If you'd like."
He held it out to her silently. Taking it, Christine frowned. "How do you not cut your fingers?" The screen of the phone was shattered. It wasn't unusual, Meg's phone had been shattered for a years while she waited for an upgrade. She had been too cheap to replace the screen. But Maestro's phone was a criss crossing web of breaks. She was almost afraid some of the pieces would fall out as she touched it. And was wasn't broken was scratched, not a reflective surface in sight.
"Erik manages."
His screen was the stock start up phone image, and he didn't have a password. Opening the lock screen she saw he had seventy eight messages and three missed calls. "You don't answer your phone much?"
"Those calling are not as important."
"Over seventy messages?"
"Na-Detective Khan-is a chatterbox."
Christine nodded, even if she wondered why the detective didn't just give up. She opened up his contacts, and forced herself not to spy, quickly tapping the plus sign. She put in her name "Christine" with a picture of a music note beside it. Quickly she lifted the phone to a decent angle and stuck out the tip of her tongue as she snapped a profile picture. Maestro watched this all, anger gone to be replaced with a little concerned curiosity. She texted her own phone though his and handed it back.
Erik starred at the picture for a very long time, before lifting his eyes and watching her open her own phone. "That is not you," he mused, catching sight of the singer on her background.
"Yeah. Amy is a lot prettier than I."
"Subjective. I believe remember her. The one with some sense of music."
"You only liked the album that had an orchestra on it," she reminded him. "You're more than a little biased." That album had been a mix of synth and classical. It was what had inspired her to play around with one of his tunes. She hoped it wouldn't be insulting.
"You do not keep photos on your phone?"
"I do! I just feel like it's narcissistic. For me. If people like seeing their own faces all the time that's alright. But not me."
Maestro nodded. "I quite agree. From now on you will call if you will be late?"
"Yes. I swear. Look up." He did and then frowned at the sound of a snap from her phone. It was a decent enough photo of him, a moment of casual repose.
"What was that?"
"I needed a photo for your contact." Christine paused. "Is that alright?"
"You took a photo of me," he breathed. "You...wished?"
"Yes. Is that alright?"
Erik blinked a for a long moment she thought he was about to yell at her again. It was thoughtless, and an apology was already on her lips when he said, "I am unsure. I have...yes. Yes you may have my image. If you wish it."
She replied to his text with a quick reply of 'Hello!', to test the number. Christine saw Raoul had already texted her. She couldn't help but smile.
His phone dinged in his palm, and he grimaced. "That noise."
"I suppose it would be annoying to hear it over seventy times."
Now Erik rolled his eyes, turning the ringer off tucking the phone away. "If it troubles you I shall open the messages tonight." He came closer to sit on the seat, but not before leaning closer and murmuring, "As I think of a fitting punishment for my diva."
Christine blushed furiously, and cursed her friend once more. The words and tone would never have made her stomach flip if she hadn't already been thinking about such...stupidity! "Yes, Maestro."
They worked or the next hour as usual. Warm up, scales, and then into The Magic Flute. The Night Queen's aria was almost perfect, and after time with her and her voice, he seemed to have shed the annoyance about her tardiness.
"Very good, Christine," he complimented. "Simply remember, 'aw' not 'ah'. It gives a deep tone, and is more pleasant for the ear."
"Yes Maestro."
"Rest. I believe it will be a little while before your bus arrives."
She went to the edge of the stage and refilled her glass. He shifted on the bench and began playing. It was beautiful, his songs always were. But today she gently interrupted him.
"Maestro?"
"Hm?" He continued playing, turning slightly to face her. "Yes, Christine?"
"I have...something to show you, I think."
"You only think?"
"I don't want you to be upset." Now that she was about to brooch the subject, she felt her stomach leaden. He must work hard on these pieces, and she had botched it in imitation, then tortured it with a medium he disliked. It was an insult. "Nevermind. You know what, it's nothing."
The music stopped. "Christine, please. Do not be afraid of your Maestro. What have you brought?" He turned his total attention to her, and she knew that she wasn't going to get away without showing him now. He was waiting there, hands folded primly on his knee, waiting for her to continue.
"Alright. Remember, before our lessons, when you asked about my creating?"
"Yes. Creating a new world with your voice," he agreed.
"Right. And I understood that. And I thought all I wanted to do was use my voice. Just...give life to the words."
"And you do," he encouraged.
"Well...I dabbled a little in creating music too. Not with my voice."
"Indeed?" Erik brightened, then held his hands to his chest. "Have you composed? And you wish me to see it?" He spoke as if she was giving him some great gift, bestowing an honor on him.
"No-sort of. There was a piece you played me last week. That..." She hummed a few bars, and he nodded. "It stuck with me and I tried to play it at home and I...please don't be mad at me. It inspired me and-"
"You altered it," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.
"No! I...I added."
"Added." Erik repeated the word as if it was another language. Then he stood and held out his hand. "Let me see." When she didn't move, he snapped his gloved fingers impatiently, and beckoned.
"I didn't write it on paper." She took out her laptop and brought it to the piano, gently placing it down on the lacquered wood. As it booted up, she took out her head phones, and cleaned then with an alcohol wipe from her bag. Opening the program, she plugged the buds in and held them out to Erik.
Glancing wearily at them, he held one to his ear, and nodded. Biting her lip she tapped the space bar and started the music. He starred off somewhere stage right, at least giving her attempt his undivided attention. She watched the notes scroll by, her stomach twisting. Finally, it stopped, and she waited for his verdict.
"You gave it a beat." He sounded surprised. "It's little more than a lullaby." At least he didn't sound angry. Indeed he cocked his head to the side, like an owl, curious.
"It is? To be it sounded like...like a love song. Like a slow se-soulful song." She was not going to call Erik's music sensual to his face, even if it was!
"Indeed?" He held the earphone up again and nodded. "Again."
He listened to it three times before Christine ventured to explain what she did. "I didn't get it quite right, your piano-"
"No you didn't. But it's very close."
"And the deep humming you're hearing? The beat, it synthesized. So is the piano but it's trying to sound real."
"Like that album you played me. Mixing the two."
"Yes. And...and look what I can do." She hurried back to her bag, forgotten by the water, and pulled out the little microphone. She had bought it along with the programs in a bundle. She had heard voices as well as instruments manipulated by the computer in some of her recent playlists. Not just autotuning, but creating a totally alien and impossible sound with them. She had bought the microphone just in case Erik did not throw her out on her ear. She wanted to get his voice, and play with it.
That sounded so awful, damn Meg!
After a second of set up, she turned it on. She pulled out the headphones and sang a single note, a soft 'ah', recording it in the computer. It played back at her immediately, and for the first time she heard what she sounded like now.
She sounded damn good.
Using that confidence she fiddled with the program. When she hit play again, her new audio played back. Christine had changed the key of the clip in the computer. It didn't' sound totally authentic, but now her voice was harmonizing with itself. Then she shortened the clip, until she could play her recorded voice like staccato notes on a piano.
She turned turned to Erik, smiling. He was standing there, eyes wide. And he said nothing. "I...it doesn't sound real, I know, but it's interesting. And I couldn't sing like that-short bursts-without hurting my voice. So it can do things that I can't. I mean it-"
"Can you do that again? Singing a different note?"
Christine swallowed. It wasn't a rejection. Not at all. Now she grinned, on a roll. "You mean like a scale? Instead of auto-tuning it?"
"Yes."
"I can!"
Before she could move, he was at the piano again, and played her note. She sang it back, and when he nodded at the accuracy, she sang once more into the microphone. Again and again they did this, until she had all that he needed. "Can we do your voice too?"
"Mine?"
"Yes! Your voice is amazing. If you thought those tricks with my sound was good, imagine what we could do with yours. Or both, together!"
"Together...?" His eyes glazed a little. He put so much stock in her own ability, didn't he know the magnitude of his? "If you wish. Yes. Yes if you wish I will." Now he smirked a little. "On your cue, madam."
They repeated the process with his vocalizations, then stood, heads close over the computer, each with an earphone. Listening to Erik's golden voice was a joy. Having him near her, interested in her teaching him was like a drug: addictive. It took Erik a bit to adjust from staff paper to the way the program laid out the notes, but once he did they began to create. He would point and she would place clips of their voices in the track, playing it back for his approval. They had recorded in different keys, and thus created an effect of her light soprano answering back his baritone over the swell of the piano (he had already adjusted or added the notes she had missed in her memory).
Christine like to play with the effects, creating distortion or and echo. The first Erik didn't care for at all, but the latter he found he was fond of, especially for her higher angelic notes. Finally they listened to it in full, both of them smiling as the file slipped by, now dense with clips.
"Wait here." He gently took her computer and stepped down from the stage into the shadows orchestra pit. She waited, peering to see where he went in the darkness. Suddenly a light came on, revealing Erik inside a room under the seats of the opera, just behind the conductor's station. He was fiddling with something out of sight, and above her she heard the static of the hidden speakers coming to life above her.
Grinning, Christine understood what he was doing. He was going to play the piece on the speakers so that it filled the entire theater. Their music-because it was now, so much more than his lovely lullaby. Something they had created together, something he with all his musical talent deemed good enough to work on. Pride swelled in her chest, and she felt her eyes sting.
He complimented her, of course, during their work. But she had never really shaken the feeling of being a young student, just trying to catch up. Trying to match his command of sound with her feeble little songs. But if he wanted to hear the piece she had brought to him, that she had started in his theater...he must like it.
He must be proud of her, in someway. She must have created something that spoke to him, on the level he seemed to touch with such ease, the level her father's music had also reached. When she heard the first notes of the piano echo around her, Christine had a sense of arriving. Where to, she wasn't sure. But she knew she wanted to stay, stay where her work echoed back at her. Where her music-their music-lived.
Home.
Erik hurried out of the sound booth and scrambled back up onto the stage. He fled behind the curtain for a moment before returning with his violin. Counting the beat silently, be began to play counterpoint, the new notes soaring over their vocalizations sparing with each other with the deep humming synth beat.
His eyes closed and he simply began to play by feel, rocking back and forth in in tempo as his finger flew over the strings. His face, what she could see, relaxed into pure bliss as he was swept away by their music. She could see the sound live through him, and for the next few minutes he was beautiful.
Christine had never seen him play that way. Oh tunes on the piano, yes, but not losing himself to the music. It was not just the violin, his whole body was the instrument. He held the wood lightly, the bo dancing across the strings, making them sing, coaxing sound rom them as he so often did with her.
When the last echo faded, Erik opened his eyes to find Christine standing right before him, tears in her eyes. "You..." But she couldn't go on. It seemed to crass to break the heady silence now. She lowered her head, wiping her tears away. He had lost himself in something she had created, and he had played for her again. Lost his strict control and let his own voice fly. Happiness seeped through her veins, filling her with warmth, and the genesis was the look he was giving her. His mismatched golden eyes soft as they sought out her face.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I think I understand a little more now. About your synthesized sound."
Christine let out a watery laugh. "I'm just glad you didn't rage at me for destroying your music."
"Rage? No!" He clutched his violin to his chest. "You memorized my music! You replicated it by sound, you were listening!"
"I always listen when you play," she insisted. "Your music is beautiful!"
"I have never played them for anyone else, not my own pieces," he admitted, and Christine's eyes watered all over again. She had never really thought about what his reclusive life meant outside of the secrecy their lessons held. Had he truly never let anyone else in as far as her? Not even detective Khan?
"I would not have thought that piece anything more than a simple tune, a lullaby to relax you between exercises. I never would have thought to put a beat to..." Then Erik jumped back, bow raised in triumph. "You were a drummer!"
After a moment of stunned silence, Christine burst out laughing. "You got it!" Clapping her hands she explained, "It was my feeble attempt at teenage rebellion. My father wanted me to play the violin, and Mom wanted me to get serious about the piano. But I love drumming, I like a great beat. I like to dance too, that may be part of it. But I'm nowhere near as good as my friend Sorelli-she does ballet and jazz dancing in her off time."
Erik threw back his head and laughed, almost like a drunkard, high on victory. "I told you! I told you Erik would figure it out! And now you must perform!"
"Oh no!" She stepped back. "No way, it's been forever!"
"One does not forget-you did not forget how to sing."
"It's completely different! It'll be awful!"
"All the same." He took her by the wrist and pulled her down into the orchestra pit. There was a drum set there, not put away from rehearsal. Christine sighed, knowing there was no stopping him.
"Alright ,but I'm warning you I'm really, really rusty." She sat on the stool and tested the bass pedal. "Hey, do you know how to fiddle?"
In answer, Erik lifted his violin to his chin and waited, poised. Finding the sticks she tested out a few beats before falling into an old favorite. After a few moments, her teacher joined in, following her beat and dancing his tune along in time. After the first song, Erik started playing, encouraging her to follow him. Back and forth they created again, playing known tunes and making a few things up as they went. After a while, muscle memory kicked in, and Christine felt comfortable once more seated behind her drums and hitting out a rhythm.
With a last hit of the crash cymbal, Christine put up her hands in surrender. "I give! I'm all played out."
Erik nodded, lowering his bow. A few hairs had come loose in their music making, and he too seemed to be breathing a little heavier. "Indeed. Thank you Christine. That was...invigorating!"
She laughed and stood, but froze when she heard clapping. Erik too seemed to go stalk still. He held up a finger before returning to the stage. Christine kept to the shadows of the orchestra pit, but twisted to watch him. Erik peered into the darkness of the theater.
And then he snarled-truly snarled lips pulling back over bared teeth. "Charles."
"That was very nice, Erik." The voice she heard was friendly enough, and was coming closer in time to the heavy footsteps down the aisle.
"It is after hours. What are you doing here? Your manager is not here for you to protect!"
"He isn't my manager, damnit, Erik. He's the manager and he's been doing his job! Why can't you see-"
"I see every night that woman is on MY stage shrieking in MY theater."
"It is not just yours!"
Her Maestro brought himself up to his full height, his hand tight on his bow. She swore she heard the creak of wood. "Maestro," she said softly.
"Who was that?" Suddenly a face peered over the edge of the pit from the front row. A man, middle aged and a little pink in the face peered down at her. His brown hair was combed neatly, and he wore suspenders under his tweed suit jacket. "Christ there's a girl here! Who are you?"
"Why are you here," Erik demanded again moving closer to the edge of the stage, as if he were protecting Christine from his questions. "Why are you interrupting my work?"
"I came here to talk to you. Who is this? Is this who was playing before? I thought you were playing against a recording."
"Talk and leave."
"Does Nadir know you have a girl here?"
"Nadir does not have mastery over my life!" Erik was screaming now, hunched as if ready to leap across the pit at the man.
"Hey! Hey, wait a minute." Christine didn't even bother with the stairs, hualing herself up on stage between Erik and the intruder-Charles. She had never seen her teacher this angry, not even a few hours ago. Frustrated yes, exasperated even, like before. But never rage filled. Her veins had depleted what ever warmth their creating gathered, and she began to shiver as if chilled. Erik was scaring her, with his glare, his fury. She'd never seen him so transformed. "Her name is Christine Daae. And if I don't want anyone knowing about my lessons, then no one will know!"
"Lessons?" The man dropped into a theater seat. "Lessons? You're teaching her?"
Erik didn't answer, and Christine wondered if he was beyond words. Her stomach dropped a little more. Maybe she shouldn't have let that slip. "Yes, he's helping me. And, excuse me, but you are interrupting Mister...?"
"Charles Garnier."
That name rung a bell. Where had she heard it before? Oh, she hadn't. She had read it. He had help build this theater. Erik Khan and Charles Garnier where the names mentioned.
"What did you come here to talk about," Erik hissed, his voice low. He was as taught as his damaged bow, nearly humming with barely suppressed fury. Christine put out a hand, but was afraid to even touch his arm.
"To bury the damn hatchet Erik." Once more Christine was ignored as Charles stood coming around to the stage and hefting himself upon it. Still, Erik's student placed herself between them, but protecting who was still in question. "Firmin has brought in the money to keep the lights on. Even you have to admit that-"
"But has his ideas finally left a sour taste in your mouth? Have you been included in all the meetings, hmm? Finally realizing what...what drivel he is dragging into the building?"
Charles folded his hands, and seemed to pray for calm. "But he is Carlotta's man."
Erik laughed again, the same drunken peel. But it wasn't victorious now. Now it sounded almost...demonic. "Finally found that out now, eh? Eh? Haha! Oh what poetic justice."
Charles ran his tongue over his teeth. "He asked to see the blueprints of the building. Carlotta is renegotiating her contract and she wants a bigger dressing room."
Erik gasped. "She wants to alter my building!"
"Our building, Erik. I told him no, and he went on about having to keep our star and sales."
"And?" Erik stepped closer, but no longer looked ready to fight. "And? And! Well man what did you say to that?!"
"I told him no, again," Charles cried, throwing up his hands. "I won't let some spoiled diva cut into the plans we poured our blood into! Christ Erik, I know you're angry but what do you take me for?!"
Erik placed his violin down and began to pace the stage. "Insupportable! Insufferable! Intolerable," he raged, fingers curling and uncurling into fists as he moved. Christine wrung her own hands, watching him prowl like a caged animal, hackles raised and snarling. Where had her soft spoken teacher gone?
Charles however, seemed unfazed. He finally came to her, hand outstretched. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you, Miss Daae did you say?"
"Yes." She shook his hand, and was immediately glad for the warmth that radiated off it. She was numb with shock, and more than nervous. "Pleased to meet you."
"Erik has never, ever taken students before. You must be quite talented."
"He seems to think so."
"What do you play?"
Before Christine could answer, Erik had reached a decision. "I will speak to our beloved Firmin. Not even Reyer can stand this woman, and demanding changes to my theater!"
"R-reyer," she asked softly. Christine was a little lost in this current drama. Though, technically, it was her drama. Or would be if she supplanted the diva. Which, at this very moment, was the last thing she ever wanted to do.
"Our conductor," Charles supplied. "The only one Erik seems to be on regular good terms with."
"The man has something going on here," Erik said, tapping his temple hard enough to make a knocking sound. Christine winced for him.
"Anyway, I hoped you would."
"Now you find my talks convincing! La! Nadir was telling me how un-fun you thought they were!"
"That was before Firmin stopped listening to me."
"Can..." Christine lost her voice when both men turned to look at her. Clearing her throat-Erik winced and gave her the familiar Maestro reproachful glare-she asked, "Can Carlotta actually change the building herself?"
Charles shook his head. "No. I own the building, and Erik is the landlord. The two people they can go to won't let them. But this is the last in a long list of demands."
"She has say in what operas play," Erik snapped.
"Yes. That was in her contract."
"Oh..." Christine understood a little. Erik was an owner in a way, and when she had asked all those month ago why he couldn't fire Carlotta, he had told her he did not have the same sway as he used to. This must have been what he meant. "Oh no."
"Her tastes are self serving, to say the least," Charles supplied.
"Self serving to say the least!" Christine jumped slightly. A high pitched mimic of Charles' words seemed to come from the man himself, but his lips never moved.
Charles lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Really Erik."
Christine turned to her Maestro, who was smirking now, arms still folded. He had done that? He could throw his voice! Her lips parted in awe, and in her left ear she heard a good imitation of her own voice "Oh wow Maestro!" She batted lightly at her ear, still a little shocked.
"If you're done showing off..." Charles sighed.
"Well now that you've finally seen sense, Charles, I will speak to Firmin." Erik leaned against the piano, crossing his ankles casually. The rage that had enfused him a moment ago seemed drained; being right had soothed him. "Though, for all your worrying it won't be much of a problem in the end. Carlotta is getting on in years. There is always someone younger and ready to take a diva's place-anyone's. Theater life, you know."
Charles' eyes slid to Christine. "Hmm. I suppose. But talk to him Erik. No more, do you understand?"
"Don't be such a boring little fart, Charles. You're worse than Nadir."
"His constitution for your antics is stronger than mine." Charles sighed and turned to Christine. "I'm sorry for interrupting your lesson, Miss Daae."
"You're forgiven this time. Now go away," Erik snapped.
Christine glanced at her teacher, shocked at his rudeness. But Garnier sighed. "Don't worry. This is normal. A pleasure." He held out his hand again.
"Same." She shook his hand again and mustered a smile. Once he had left, Christine finally turned on her Maestro. "You were so rude!"
Erik's eyes widened at her chastisement, whether from the validity of it or the fact that she was dressing down her teacher. "Rude? Rude! Bringing that man into my theater, and I am rude? Having that woman run roughshod over everything I have built and I am rude?" Erik gestured to the empty seats, the boxes and the sage around them. "I built this! I created this! I bankrupt myself to make this happen, the only thing the the world I've ever truly wanted, and she threatens to corrupt it all and I'm rude?"
"To Mr. Garnier," she said. "You were so angry! You...you scared me."
Erik's arms fell, his shoulders hunching around his ears. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed firmly on her sneakers. All at once, the smugness, the anger, the indignation bled out of him. Now, before her stood the man unsure, the man that had been so embarrassed by a passing joke in a cafe store. Her head hurt a little trying to reconcile the two. They had gone from anger to ecstacy to shame all in the space of a few hours, and she was thrown off kilter; and more than a little tired. "Erik would never harm you, Christine. I did not mean..."
"You looked like you were gonna strangle him."
"Erik would never harm Charles. But the man doesn't see what he does! I understand the ways of the world, I am not a child. I know the theater needs money, but to...to whore out my theater just for the sake of profit!" He shook his head, shivering at the idea. "It...it has been a long standing struggle. It has come to a head many times. Erik may become angry but he would not harm his partner."
"Alright," Christine said slowly. He had shown some of that anger at her, just before and still he had not moved to touch her, had calmed himself before their argument was heated. This time.
"Please." He stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Please. Let me play for you. We played so beautifully before. We created music, together. Erik and his student created something beautiful. Do not let your poor Erik's harsh words ruin a perfect memory. Do not fear your Maestro."
His student glanced around them. Her computer was still in the sound booth, his violin laid on the piano he had used for her lesson. She was still holding the drumsticks in one hand. They had created music. A glance at her watch told her that they had been working on her computer for hours, and played for more. It as almost midnight. And it had been wonderful, to lose herself in the act of creation, using her head and not just her voice. And he had enjoyed it-he would not have played so beautifully to their music if he hadn't. He would have treated her attempts with the same scorn as the idea of Carlotta if he had not been pleased. But instead he had moved past his snobbish tastes and given her a chance. And loved it. She had changed her firm Maestro's mind.
It was a perfect memory. Theater people-music people were passionate people. She'd seen 'artistic differences' before in the conservatory and most of them weren't exactly civil. It didn't make it better...but if this diva was threatening to destroy part of Maestro's theater-one he had sunk his entire life into. Well, of course he would be defensive. He was simply...enthuzed for his cause. She wanted to believe that; she had to.
"I don't like fights like that," she convicted at last, and stepped forward, her eyes dropping to his hand. His bare hand.
He could not play violin in those gloves, after all. His hand as just as long fingers as it seemed, and encased in pale grayish skin. She could see the veins clearly in his wrist, and there wasn't an ounce of softness or fat in that hand, the bone clear through the papery flesh. She had to guess when he refused to remove his mask, that he had a skin condition. This seemed to confirm it. Erik realized what she was staring at, and immediately pulled back.
But Christine's hand shot out, clasping around his fingers before he could. If he could stand her touch, she would give it. It had been rude to stare, and mean to look so shocked. Shame reddened her cheeks and she held tight as he weakly tugged from her grip. His flesh was cold, but smooth like marble. Christine could feel the bones as clearly as she saw them, but it was no different then holding the hands of an elderly man. Whether time or condition ravaged his hand, it was still just a hand. Just her Maestro's hand. She'd held it before after all. Smooth and soft on the back, with rough hard working palms and calloused violinist fingertips.
Now that she came closer, she looked at his mouth, visible by his white mask. They were thin and pale as well, the same bloodless color, like the flesh of a man dead. They parted now, to speak, to rebuke her. Would he pull away in shame, order her to go? Or fall to his knees as she feared?
Christine beat him to the chase before he did any of those. "If you're not tired, I'd like to hear you play. But something short-I'll have to call a cab. No buses are running now."
Erik was staring at her hold, mouth agape. She heard him take his next shuddering breath, his eyes closing shut. "Christine," he whispered. "Christine..."
"Maestro? Are you tired? Maybe I should go."
"No!" Now his hand tightened around hers. It didn't hurt, but she couldn't pull away. "No, no not yet. Not while you're standing here, holding my...my hand. Not when there's more music to be had." Then his voice changed, became the rational teacher again. "And Erik will drive you home. I will not have you wondering the city at this time of night."
Christine nodded, and her Maestro let her go, descending once more into the orchestra pit, to the sound booth and retrieve her laptop. She flexed her hand. Though his flesh had been cold, it left her own flushed warm. 'Not while you are standing there, not while you're holding my hand'. That's what he had said. Not that he wanted to teach her more, but he wanted her to stay because she had held his fingers.
She was going down a path that would shift their whole dynamic. Subscribing something more than fascination with talent to their partnership...to their relationship. But what if her Maestro was having the same struggle? What if Erik had thoughts like her?
What if he found her just as alluring, just as beautiful as he was when he played?
Tears crowded her eyes, and she wasn't sure why. She was too tired, too emotional from the constant tug and pull of emotions. Christine had to turn her back to the front of house, and held her flaming cheeks. She did not want to lose these lessons. Not when they had discovered something new, not when she had become his own maestro in so many things. And if there was something there, something burning low and simmering, to add fuel to it by acknowledging it could burn their beautiful structure to the ground.
She must not let it happen. She must stop these ridiculous thoughts. She must, to save them both, and this place that was almost like home.
"Christine?" He was by her side now, holding out her closed laptop. In this lovely theater, the stickers on the top seemed garish and too colorful; childish. She took it and bent to tuck it in her bag. Erik stood beside her and wrung his hands. "Christine, there are tears in your eyes. Erik has harmed you."
"I'm-I'm just tired," she murmured, beyond glad her voice was steady.
"Then I will not play."
"Oh! No I want to hear-"
He held up a hand. He had replaced his gloves while she stood there lost in her thoughts. "No. You are exhausted, and your life must be sorely missing you. Erik will take you home, and you will go straight to bed and sleep as much as you can. Saturdays you do not work, correct? Then you will sleep your fill."
Erik disappeared again and returned with his overcoat and fedora. Not the trilbies young men in the cafe always wore, tossed jauntily on their bags as they worked on school work at the little tables. A real dashing felt fedora that he placed elegantly on his head, tilted fashionably. Maestro maybe moody, and strict and perhaps had too much of a temper, but he was a sharp dresser.
He led her back stage, weaving between the sets and discarded props. Had she been less tired Christine's curiosity would have stopped them a million times over. But she could always ask later, and now she had to concentrate on one step at a time. With the adrenaline of music gone, her body sagged under the weight of being up at six and pulling an eight and a half hour shift before an 'hour' long lesson.
Out a side maintenance door, the cold October wind whipped at her face. Here, outside the walls of the theater, the world moved on, the lights bright and garish on the deserted side street that led into the car park for the opera house. Erik's jaguar was parked in the first spot, and he came around to the passenger side to open it for her.
The leather seats were supple, and she sank gratefully into them. When he was seated beside her, the first thing he did was turn on the seat warmers. She sighed happily, her head lolling back against the rest. "This car is beautiful."
"I like beautiful things."
That voice, the soft timber that he used outside of the theater warmed her just as much as the heaters. His honeyed voice was so beautiful and had so many facets. Showman, singer, ranging Maestro, hissing demon, trickster god. So many people wrapped up in her Maestro, she wondered which was the one that was truest?
The car silenced the hum of the road as he pulled out onto the highway. Christine rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stay awake. Once they got to Montclair, she'd have to give directions to her little flat in Caldwell. "Maestro?"
"Mmm?"
"Why do you say my life will be missing me?"
"It does. When we are in lesson, you are away from your current work, your friends, your home. If I keep you, they will miss you."
"Yes. But you're my life too," she murmured, watching the street lights flash by. "Our music is my life, even when I'm away form the theater. I think I've proven that." She rolled her head to the side to look at him. Mistake.
He had to recline his seat to make up for his height, and he drove with his hand lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel. He was like a leisuring cat, elegant in repose. The white of his mask reflected the streetlights, softly glowing form the rest of his black clad attire. She felt her stomach drop a little at the sight. It was...inviting.
But then his hand slid up the wheel to grasp it tightly. "Christine."
"It's true. And if I start to audition, and really go on your stage, that will be my life won't it?"
"Yes. Your new career."
"You'll still be my teacher, won't you?" Christine's heart tightened. "You won't just leave me to the conductors and directors, will you? I'll always need coaching." Not that she was even sure she'd go through with this plan. But to think that she may, one day, be insane enough to step on stage and sing and know that her Maestro was no longer there, no longer watching and expecting and encouraging. It chilled her to her very bone.
"Christine please," he whispered. "Please do not worry so. You will never be without your Erik. But he cannot..."
"Can't what? You'll be with me. That's it. You're in my life. I mean I gave you number after all."
Erik's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Yes. But you are exhausted. Your mind is laying traps for you, and Erik does not wish to see tears in your eyes again. Where do I turn, after the cafe?"
She told him the basic route, and before she was ready they were slowly pulling up to the side of her building. Once more, he stepped out, coming around to open her door. She took his gloved hand and heaved herself out of the low car. "Thank you for the ride. I know it's a long way."
"It was my pleasure." He shook a finger at her gently. "Sleep immediately. And do not rise until the sun is well up."
"Yes Maestro." Christine looked up at him, his eyes still softly glowing under the brim of his hat, those eyes that were so oddly clear in the dark. She always had to tilt her head back just to look at him, he dwarfed her so. Her hand squeezed his gently. "You need sleep too, you know."
"Erik manages," he said, seemingly unable to let her go as well. His breath was warm against her cheeks. He smelled like the leather of the car and honeyed tea tonight. He was standing barely a foot away from her, his body blocking the chill of the wind.
Erik was gazing at her, and Christine wanted and feared him lowering his head; that she would learn tonight if the skin of his lips felt the same as his wrist.
Behind them there was a small crash of metal. A stray cat meowed somewhere in the shadow, and they heard his claws skitter across the sidewalk as it ran off. Erik whipped around towards the sound, peering into the darkness just outside the glow of the lamp light. Seeing nothing, he turned his gaze back to her. "Go. Go to bed."
Christine nodded and hurried to open her building door. Up the stairs she stepped into her apartment, the warmth of home feeling suddenly empty and dark. Turning on the lamp by the door only helped her see. Without thinking, she was at the window, wanting to get one last glimpse of his car.
She got more than that. He was standing beside the Jaguar, looking up at the building. Waiting to see if she was safe inside. Christine pulled back the curtain, and pressed a hand to the glass. When he noticed, she waved. Erik bowed slightly, before sliding back into the driver's seat. In the next moment he was gone.
Christine watched as his taillights faded into the darkness of the street. Her forehead rested against the cool glass of her window with a small thud. Don't think. Don't dream. Don't go there, Christine, she chided herself. Don't think about that moment, or any of the moments tonight, or in the last months where he looked at you so...adoringly. Not when you just got everything in order. Not when you just avoided everything falling apart. Not while it's still good.
No, she couldn't let herself imagine kissing her teacher. Could not imagine riding in his car, their hands entwined, standing by this window every other night as he waited to catch one last glimpse of her. There was danger in pondering these moments as precious, rather than routine. Her eyes squeezed shut as the tears that had risen and ebbed all night finally fell.
She was a damned coward. She had been scared to sing again, scared of music again, then scared to perform again. And now she was scared of the man that had robbed her of that fear. Damn her fantasy heart, damn all those fairytales, damn all those stories, and damn the perfect love her parents had that left her now so bereft. And damn her too for feeling the absence of it all, and not using that pain to move on. To heal.
In the end, Christine was afraid of living. And she wept for her own lack of courage.
The album Erik mentions and the one that inspires Christine is Synthesis by Evanescence
For a sense of what they did to their voices listen to All About Anna by Cellogram