Chapter 8
Where Do We Go From Here
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Christine finished her morning mug of hot cocoa as she looked out her apartment window, watching the first snow flurries of winter drift lazily from the leaden December sky, mulling over how her life was changing. She glanced down at her pendant watch, checking the time. Even though it was still dark outside – dawn coming later as the days grew shorter – the watch showed her that it was time to be leaving once more for the opera house. A quick look around the cozy apartment assured her she had everything in order and that no gas lights were left on. Being La Carlotta's understudy made her appreciate how fortunate she was to have either Erik's house or her own apartment to come home to at the end of a day. She could understand the lure of having one's own private sanctum, such as the one Erik had built for himself beneath the opera house.
During her walk to the opera house, she mused on the events of the past few weeks. When it was first announced that she would become Carlotta's understudy, the aging diva had made it clear from the start that she neither wanted, nor appreciated having, one. Such an attitude perplexed Christine. The only conclusion she could reach was that artistic talent did not necessarily include common sense; common sense that said even the hardiest person could come down with a chest cold, or that the greatest diva could slip and turn an ankle. What it really came down to was that Carlotta saw Christine as her competition, something the older woman could not brook.
In spite of the temptation on some days to scream back at the woman, Christine chose to quietly tolerate whatever Carlotta threw her way. She wanted to prove that she was worthy of the promotion, and allowed her talent to speak for itself. Besides, her perception these days was colored these days by love. Looking at the world while in such a euphoric state, she was willing to forgive Carlotta almost anything. Not for the first time did Christine ponder the possibility that Carlotta engaged in such outrageous behavior because, other than the stage, her life was empty and cold.
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"She's got the personality of a snake on a hot rock."
It was all Christine could do to choke back the giggles that threatened to erupt over Anatole's latest snipe at Carlotta. They stood next to each other, hiding their whispers behind their hands like conspirators, watching the exhibition before them. Carlotta and the tenor, Signor Pietro Sospenzoi, were going through their paces, which meant the diva was doing everything humanly possible to make the poor man's life miserable.
"I'll bet when his contract's up, Sospenzo will disappear from Paris for greener – and more peaceful – pastures," Christine said in a low voice back to Anatole.
"That would not surprise me. So, care to wager as to what will happen next?"
"Oh, it will be the usual. Carlotta will 'rehearse' for about forty-five minutes, think of some excuse to walk off so she can go shopping or dining with friends, and 'allow' me to fill in for her."
"You!" a voice screeched in their direction. They looked around, pretending to look to see who Carlotta was addressing.
"Yes, you two! You're interfering with my rehearsal!" Carlotta hissed at them. "Anatole Garron, you should know better. And you, Mademoiselle Understudy, since you have so much time on your hands that you can chit-chat while I'm trying to sing, you can take my place. Now!" Throwing her libretto into the air, the fiery diva stormed off the stage, followed by a chorus of sighs heaved in relief.
An impish smirk covered Anatole's face as he playfully pushed Christine to the fore. "I guess that means you're on, now." Christine rolled her eyes and laughed softly, then walked over to pick up the pages strewn across the floor. Glancing over to the director, she waited for his signal as to what he wanted to do next.
The flustered little man made no secret of the fact that he was pleased Carlotta was gone, that he preferred to work with Christine. On more than one occasion, he had made a point of praising Christine's voice and hard work before the other members of the company, complimenting her on how much she had improved over recent months. He also knew that with Christine, rehearsal would proceed much more smoothly. As a small victory celebration, he suggested that everyone take a ten-minute break. Walking and chatting with Anatole as the two of them strolled off the stage for a quiet corner in which to talk, Christine was unhappy to hear an all-too-familiar voice.
"It is shameful, the way they allow Carlotta to treat you, Christine. If you wish, I shall have a talk with the managers. I will suggest that they rein in Mme. Carlotta. As a patron of this fine establishment, I do have some influence here."
"Good morning, Monsieur le Vicomte," Anatole said critically, unsuccessfully trying to make a point of the fact that de Chagny was interrupting a private conversation.
"Oh, good morning, Garron," Raoul replied in an offhand manner, taking notice for the first time that Christine was not alone. "As I was saying," the young man persisted, turning his attention back to Christine, "you should allow me to intercede on your behalf."
"Frankly, I think Mlle. Daaé has been handling Carlotta quite well," the baritone inserted, ignoring Raoul's glare.
Christine quietly sighed, wishing Raoul would disappear. "Thank you, Raoul, but that will not be necessary. If I am going to succeed on the stage, I have to learn how to handle these situations on my own. I doubt that Carlotta is the only temperamental singer I shall run into over the course of my career."
Raoul acknowledged her decision with a curt nod. "Very well, if that is what you wish. Remember though, Christine, if you find that matters become too difficult, I shall be there to assist," he said, and strode off in the direction of Meg Giry and the members of the corps de ballet.
"Now, what do you suppose he's really up to?" Garron said as he watched Raoul walk away.
Christine shook her head. "I wish I knew."
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The never-ending day had finally come to an end, and Christine was on her way to her dressing room to pick up her cloak and head downstairs to meet Erik. Now that the two of them had professed their feelings for one another, she found herself spending even more of her time in his company, often at his house by the underground lake, before returning to her own flat. Though she continued to insist that it wasn't necessary, he would never permit her to return to her apartment on her own, always escorting her there at the end of each evening.
"You've been handling Carlotta's temper tantrums quite well. You are to be commended."
Christine looked up. His appearance in the hallway was an unexpected but most pleasant surprise, and she couldn't keep the silly grin from spreading across her face as Erik stepped out from the shadows, took her hands in his and brushed them with a kiss. It was obvious that he had been as eager to see her, as she was to see him.
Not letting go of his hands, she stood on her toes to return his kiss with one of her own – on his lips. "That may be," she said, welcoming his embrace, "but I still wouldn't mind if a piece of scenery dropped on her head one of these days."
Erik laughed as he accompanied her back to her room and the passage below. "That can be arranged," he said.
Christine watched the flames lick the logs in the fireplace as she sat on the floor next to Erik's chair, her head resting on his lap. With supper over, the two of them had retired to the parlor, to spend a quiet hour or two together before he would take her home. "The opera is planning a new production of Gounod's Faust," she was telling him, "and I shall need your help in preparing for the role of Marguerite."
"Still as Carlotta's understudy, correct?" he asked. "It's a shame that those fools who run my theatre don't recognize what a gem they have in you, my dear."
"Your theatre?"
Erik shrugged. "I tend to feel possessive sometimes. After all, I did help Garnier design the place." He glanced down and saw Christine grinning up at him. "Oh…" he said, noticing the smirk on her face, "you were teasing, weren't you."
"You are far too serious sometimes, Erik," was all she would say and turned her head again to face the fire. She watched, mesmerized by the crackling blaze as its reflection bounced off the walls, adding a warm, golden cast to the room. "Where do we go from here?" she asked dreamily.
"Go? I'm not sure I know what you mean," replied Erik, combing his fingers through her hair, taking pleasure in the feel of her body resting against his.
"I mean us – you and I."
Erik hesitated. He had not really thought that far ahead, had actually been afraid to.
"What if we were to marry?" Christine went on, unaware of Erik's sudden discomfort. "Where would we live?"
The possibility of marriage was something completely new to him, and he gave careful consideration to her questions before answering. It was not that he the concept was unknown to him; on the contrary, it was something he had dreamt of, longed for, for much of his life – to have a nice, quiet flat, with ordinary doors and windows, and a wife inside it, like anybody else! A wife whom he could love and take out on Sundays and keep amused on week-days… 1 Marriage was something others might look forward to, but not him. Until now…
In spite of his deep feelings for her, Erik had been certain that his relationship with Christine would never progress beyond their being very dear friends, nothing more. He was still filled with so many self doubts, yet here she was, talking as if marrying would be the natural result of what they felt for each other. Could it be true? Was she telling him that perhaps there was hope, that her feelings reciprocated those feelings he had for her? Was Christine truly serious about marriage, or was she simply doing what young ladies her age often did – daydreaming about it.
"Not…not down here, I suppose," he finally said when he found his voice once more, wanting to believe, yet afraid of being hurt if he did. How strange, he thought, that at this point in his existence he was for the first time actually contemplating the kind of life that most took for granted – a normal, ordinary life.
He glanced about his home, trying to see things through her eyes. Christine might enjoy her sojourns down here now, to this hideaway from society, but at some point, the allure and fantasy would wear off. It wouldn't matter how much she loved him, she was not a person who could shun the world the way he had, and he should not expect her to. It had not quite crystallized in his mind yet, what it was he was doing, but instinctively he was putting her needs and wishes before his, taking those first steps in learning the give and take of relationships.
"It…it wouldn't be practical," he added, not knowing what else to say, not having the answers for either Christine's questions or his own.
Christine didn't seem troubled by his lack of response. She remained where she was, as content as a cat curled up on a hearth rug. "You're right, of course."
"We…we would have to find some quiet, secluded spot," he offered tentatively, 'a place that would be far enough from prying eyes, yet convenient to the opera house."
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. "Must you hide from the world, Erik? I know it is painful for you to talk about it, but you wouldn't be the first person whose face was scarred. Look at the men who were maimed and wounded in the war. I understand your need to cover your face in public, but that doesn't mean you must lock yourself away from the rest of the world. Yours is the face of the man I love," she pleaded. "Let others think what they will."
"You don't understand," he said, his voice heavy as he stroked her cheek with his hand, "you've never had to deal with the stares, the laughter, the shrieks, the humiliation… I love you, Christine, but there are some things I…I just cannot do. I'm…I'm sorry…" His head sagged down, his chin resting against his chest as he fought back the demons that were always lurking inside; certain he had just driven a wedge between them.
Christine stared at him and saw Erik's body sag as if in utter defeat, fearing she had wounded him. She loved him so very much, would always love him – that would never change – but she was only beginning to understand how much of a struggle his life had been.
"No, Erik," she said as she reached up, wanting to take back the inadvertently hurtful words, and tenderly took his hands within hers. "I'm the one who should apologize. I didn't think."
He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes deep and sad. "I…I imagine that you are now having second thoughts about…us."
"No, Erik," she said, leaning forward and kissing him lovingly, wanting to reassure him of her affection. "We will work this out – together."
Author's Note: Signor Pietro Sospenzo is named for NASCAR Crew Chief Peter Sospenzo, simply because I love the sound of his name!
