Chapter 6
Tell Me about Yourself

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"Tell me about yourself," Christine asked Erik as the remains of their picnic lunch laid scattered upon the blanket. They sat together at Apollo's feet, basking in the warm autumnal sun, listening to the birds twittering in the trees below. She rested her head against his broad shoulders, amazed at how their bodies seemed to fit so perfectly. Sitting here with him, his arms around her, felt right and natural. So this is what it feels like to be in love, she thought dreamily.

"There's not much to tell. I was born; I grew up, traveled…" His voice drifted off into nothingness.

"Surely there is more to the story than that."

"Before I met you, Christine, life had no meaning for me. Nothing held any interest for me. I existed, nothing more."

"But that can't be completely true. Something must have caught your interest, to make you seek me out."

He nodded, not sure whether it was the wine they had shared or simply Christine's guileless acceptance that was loosening his tongue. "I think that what drew me to you that first time was the loneliness I heard in your cries at night. They reminded me of a little boy I once knew."

"You?" she asked, remembering the pain she had seen in his eyes earlier.

"Yes." Erik hesitated. "I suppose in looking back, it must have seemed odd for a man my age to have taken an interest in a young girl like you…"

"I wasn't that young!" she said in mock indignation. "I was almost 18. Many girls are married by that age. Besides, you're not that old." She looked up at him, unable to resist the urge to tease him just a little, to try to make him smile. "Are you?" She pretended to inspect his face for signs of aging. "You don't look old to me," she reassured him. "Besides, Mamma Valérius always told me it's better to be an older man's sweetheart than a young man's slave."

Erik laughed. Christine loved the how that sound felt when her ear rested against his chest. "I must meet your foster mother one of these days, Christine," he said, combing his fingers lightly through her hair. "It is true that I am older than you. I imagine the phrase 'old enough to be your father' might apply, though I confess that my feelings for you right now are anything but fatherly." He bent down, brushing his lips against hers.

"Good," said Christine, returning his kiss as she snuggled closer into the comfort of his embrace, "because I'm not exactly feeling daughterly. As a matter of fact, I'm finding I rather like this…," she said, relishing the sensations these newfound emotions brought with them, and kissed him again. "But you haven't finished your story."

Erik shook his head. "It's not a happy story, Christine."

She nodded, understanding that his past was a painful subject, one that was seldom revisited, and then only when absolutely necessary. "If you'd rather not, I'll understand," she said.

"No, you have a right to know. I was born, I believe, about 1841 or '42, in a small village near Rouen. I'm sorry; I don't have an exact date to give you." He halted, then proceeded. "My father was a master stone mason. He…he was difficult to live with."

She could feel the tension in his body when he mentioned his father, and taking hold of one of his hands, squeezed it to reassure him. "And your mother?" she asked softly, turning her head to look at his face, and saw Erik fighting back tears. "Please, Erik, don't. You don't have to talk about it…"

He shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'm fine, it's…it's just that…I have never spoken of these things to anyone else." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "My father was very proud of his position within the community, and I…I was a great disappointment. I made him the laughing stock of the village, and he never allowed either me or my mother to forget that. He turned to drink, and when under its influence often became harsh. He…he would take one look at me, and it would send him into a rage. He would become…violent…" He stopped speaking, locked in the memories of the past.

"Did he ever hurt you or your mother?" Christine asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

Erik nodded sadly. "My mother insisted that I wear a mask at all times. She must have hoped that if my father couldn't see my face, he would be less prone to violence. She was always distant and aloof towards me. Looking back, I now realize that she was afraid to show me any affection out of fear of my father. I don't think it would have mattered, though. Nothing would have changed my father's opinion of me. I was a failure. My face mocked him, was God's curse upon him. As I grew older, the situation at home became untenable. I had to leave. So one day I made up my mind to run away."

"How old were you when you left home?"

"I'm not sure, perhaps ten. When I left, I never wanted to see either of them again. But later, when I'd returned to France after living abroad for many years, I was overcome with curiosity. I made a few discreet inquiries, and learned that within a year of my leaving, my mother had passed away. The cause of death was said to be an accident, that she'd fallen down the stairs of her house. My father was the one who found her unconscious on the floor. Apparently, she never woke up, so no one knows what really happened. Within a couple of years my father had drunk himself to death."

Neither said anything more, and for several minutes sat together in mutual silence. "And what about you?" he finally said. "Please, tell me something pleasant."

She turned her head to gaze at Erik, took a hand and caressed his face, the side he kept hidden from the world, and kissed it. "Very well, then, allow me to tell you a story.

"Once upon a time," she began, using the time-honored traditions of story-telling her father used to use when he told his daughter the dark stories of the North and the tales of the Angel of Music, "in a small village near Upsala, there was a farmer who lived there with his family, cultivating the land during the week and singing in church on Sunday. This farmer had a little daughter whom he taught to decipher the musical alphabet well before she could read.

"Father Daaé was, without perhaps realizing it, a great musician. He played the violin and was considered the best itinerant fiddler in all Scandinavia. His reputation spread far and wide, and it was always to him that people applied for the dance music at weddings and feasts."

"That must have been pleasant," said Erik, trying to imagine a life of such carefree abandon, surrounded always by music. "What a wonderful way to have lived."

"Yes, it was. But there is a sad part to the story, too. You see, Mother Daaé was disabled, and she died when her daughter had just turned six. Immediately, her father, who loved nothing but his daughter and his music, sold his plot of land and went off to seek his fortune in Upsala, finding only misfortune instead.

"So he returned to the countryside, wandering from fair to fair, even traveling so far as Brittany, playing his Scandinavian melodies, while his daughter, who loved him dearly and never left him, listened in ecstasy or sang along with him. Then one day, at the Limby Fair, Professor Valérius – a very great and learned man, I might add – heard the two of them and subsequently took them both to Göteborg. He claimed that Father Daaé was the best violinist in the world, and that his daughter had the makings of a great artist."

"An astute judge of talent, I'm sure."

Christine nodded and continued her story. "He provided for the education and musical instruction of the child, and complimented her for her rapid progress. It wasn't long after that, though, that Father Daaé took ill. It was a wasting illness of the lungs.

"When Father died, Professor Valérius and his wife took me in and raised me as if I were their daughter, as they'd never had any children of their own. A few years later, Professor Valérius died, too, leaving Mamma Valérius and me on our own. Professor Valérius had a small savings, and Mamma took the money, sold the house in Upsala, and brought me with her to live in France."

"Why France?"

"Because I always wanted to sing on the stage of the world famous Paris Opera, and I couldn't very well do that in Sweden, could I? Besides, I think the Angel of Music wanted a certain someone to hear me sing."

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Author's Note: If you didn't recognize it, Christine's story is taken almost word for word from Gaston Leroux's wonderful novel.