Sweet Seduction

Chapter Nine: Little Lottie

Erik settled comfortably against Christine on the couch, listening to the raging storm outside. They had awoken to the gentle patter of rain on their windows this morning, and thought nothing of it. The sky had been looking a little dark after their dinner last night, which was just a warning of a storm approaching. Once again, it was almost springtime, and that meant rain, rain and more rain. Both of them had just stayed inside the entire day, Erik composing and Christine doing...whatever she could keep herself busy with. Erik's meeting with Georges had been cancelled, and now he wasn't sure how much reconstruction would be delayed since the Opera House currently had no roof. But, he'd worry about that later. Tomorrow maybe. Right now he just wanted to relax and spend a quiet, comfortable evening with his soon-to-be-wife. They were both on the couch, listening to Christine read aloud from her storybook in front of the blazing fire and of course, both sucking on peppermints from the endless supply Erik hadn't fallen on.

He loved listening to the gentle rise and fall of her voice as she read. Sometimes, when coming across poems or musical parts in the stories, she would sing them to him, leaving Erik in pure heaven. Christine enjoyed leaning against his warm body, smelling the subtle little hint of cologne he always wore as she read. Eventually, they came to a dull passage in the story that couldn't succeed in holding either of their attention. Erik began softly twirling his fingers around her hair and she sighed. He ran his hands down her body, trailing soft kisses down her neck and small arms. Christine let th book drop to the floor and slid her fingers through his hair slowly, kissing him. They were so involved with their rather adolescent displays of passion, they didn't notice there was a knock at their door until it turned into a constant pounding. Erik and Christine immediately broke apart, looking up

"Who could that be?" Erik wondered aloud, rather annoyed at the interruption.

Christine stood up, scurrying over to the door. She opened it to reveal a soaking wet man, nearly taller than Erik, with dark brown hair and a face she found oddly familiar.

"Yes?" she asked politely "May I help you?"

"Mademoiselle" he rasped before clearing his throat. By this time, Erik had come up protectively behind Christine, anxious to know why this stranger was at their apartment.

"Mademoiselle, I am so terribly, terribly sorry to impose like this, but may I come in for a few moments? Just to dry off for a moment by the fire?"

She looked at Erik oddly, unsure how to answer. Erik was just as baffled by the stranger's arrival and requests as she was, and he wasn't a very trusting person. Christine shrugged. The poor man looked very tired and he was soaked to the bone. He'd catch sick in no time, and it wouldn't hurt to show some hospitality

"Of course, Monsieur, come in, come in." she said, ushering in him towards the couch. Erik shut the door behind him, glancing at Christine. She shrugged.

The man sat down on the couch awkwardly, almost reluctant to ruin the beautiful furniture by getting it wet. Christine fetched him a towel and he wrapped it around his body gratefully, warming his hands by the fire

"Oh, thank you so much Mademoiselle. You are too kind. I really appreciate this. Thank you"

She smiled, sitting down next to Erik "That's all right monsieur. You looked very... uncomfortable" she offered weakly

He smoothed his curly hair back and Christine snatched a moment to study his face. He looked to be in his late-forties, early fifties. He had a well-toned body, very lean and tall, very well built. His aged face still held some hints of kindness. What she noticed immediately were his hands and his neck. Very long and flexible fingers with callouses on the ends, and the indented mark bellow his chin, often acquired by violin players from the long hours of steadying their bow in similar spots. He looked almost like...no, it couldn't be him. There was no point in getting her hopes up.

"So" Christine said cheerfully "Would you like some coffee, monsieur?"

"Oh, no, mademoiselle, please don't go to any trouble for me, this is far too much already. Thank you anyway"

"No, it's no trouble at all. I insist. You need something warm" she said, hurrying up to the kitchen. Erik tugged at his collar awkwardly. He knew men were supposed to be the lucky ones when it came to gender, but he truly thought women had it better. Whenever they felt awkward or strange or needed to be alone, they could just run away to the kitchen and use their domestic duties as an excuse, always leaving the men to these awkward confrontations. He was silently cursing Christine right now for letting this man in.

"So" he said "Uh, monsieur, I don't believe we've met. I'm Erik Destler"

"Gustave" he said, shaking his hand. Erik looked at him oddly

"Is there a, uh, last name that goes with that?"

He chuckled awkwardly "Well, monsieur, oh, you're going to think I'm crazy, but uh, no, there isn't. You see, I really can't remember anything before I was thirty-six. I had quite a terrible illness and I've never really recovered. I'm perfectly healthy and everything is fine, I just cannot remember anything beyond waking up in a strange hospital. The doctors said that a man brought me there and then left. I was apparently at a home by the coast and had quite a nasty case of tuberculosis. The man didn't think I was going to live, but I pulled through. The only reason I can remember my first name was from the engraved pocket watch the doctors found in my coat, and a letter addressed to a Madame Giry telling her to take a little girl.. somewhere. The letter was quite stained and torn fro the journey, but both the items claimed they belonged to a man named Gustave, and since I was currently in possession of them at that time, they must have been mine. But other than that, I have no memories whatsoever before then, only what I've accomplished after being released from the hospital"

Erik felt his body go rigid when Gustave mentioned Mme. Giry. What could this person have been mixed up with Marie for?

"If you don't mind my asking monsieur, what was the letter to Mme. Giry about?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. The ink ran and it's in a very bad condition. The only things I can make out are something about a little girl and the ballet corps. I have no idea. It could be a story or a love letter for all I can tell"

Christine came out during his little speech, handing out the coffee which Gustave accepted with a "Merci". She too had heard his response about Madame Giry, but she shrugged off her tiny hopes that had never quite died. Mme. Giry received hundreds of letters like that every season, parents and tutors wishing her to take in their little girl and train her in the ballet corps. She had been the ballet mistress for thirty years and taught thousands of little girls, herself included. It wasn't anything that unusual for this man to have an old letter like that. Was it? Oh well, maybe she should change the subject, for this was quickly becoming too strange for her liking.

"So, monsieur, do you know if you have any family?"

"No, mademoiselle, I am afraid I do not. I have these sharp little memories every so often of a little girl with brown curls and a scarf, but I have no idea who it is, and most of the time I have no idea whether it's my own imagination or just a rare memory. I have no idea who she is, a niece or neighbor girl, maybe even a daughter" he said sadly

Christine truly felt bad for the man. How awful, to have no memories of your life or your loved ones and to have no idea of who you truly are. He must have had a hard life. Erik, on the other hand, wasn't quite so sympathetic. He'd heard of men like these, con artists and pickpockets who worked up sob stories for money. Members of the gypsy camp he'd been forced into had done this every time they'd travel, often forcing one of the younger gypsy girls to go out looking for travelers with a sob story worked up to put on a performance for a few gold coins.

He cleared his throat "So, monsieur, what do you do for a living?"

"Oh, odd jobs here and there, whatever is available at the time. I am quite involved with music though. I have developed quite a passion for the violin"

Christine nearly choked on her drink "The violin?"

"Yes, do you play?"

"No but my fa- a man I used to know played. Quite beautifully actually. He would play for me all the time"

"What a wonderful expierence you must have had. I'm afraid I'm really a hopeless case. I cannot sight read, I can just play a tune by ear"

"By ear?" Erik asked incredibly. This man and he had a lot in common. Erik could play something perfectly upon hearing it once, an odd trait for musicians since most were strictly sight-readers and used their musical ear to simply aid them, not guide them

"Yes, I can only play by ear I'm afraid. It's funny, though. Sometimes, I'll just start playing a tune and I've never seen music for it before or even heard it! I just know where my fingers should be and what the notes are and I can remember than perfectly. It's so strange"

Christine felt a strange numbness coming over her. Her own father, bless him, could only play music once he'd heard it. He couldn't sight read at all. Notes on a page meant nothing to him, even if he was reading his own compositions. The same was true for Christine. The notes in Erik's music and the notes he struck on his keyboard held no connection to her. She could only identify with the sound coming from them, the perfect pitch and tone. She hardly noticed when Erik dragged her off to the kitchen with him, still keeping his eyes on Gustave at all times

"Christine, I know you want to be kind to an old man, but something isn't right here" he whispered

"What?"

"I don't think he really has amnesia or ever had it. Christine, he must be lying. I've seen men like these before. They're con artists and frauds. They work up a sob story hoping you'll open your wallets for them."

"Erik, he's just a poor old man who's cold and tired. Show some compassion for once"

"Christine, he has to be lying. It's almost impossible that a violinist could only play by ear. In string instruments, you have to be able to sight read to correspond with the pitch. It's almost impossible for a violinist to only be able to play by ear if-"

"Erik" Christine cut in coldly, her eyes blazing "My own father was a violinist and he only played by ear. Notes meant nothing to him, he never sight-read. Don't you dare tell me what's possible and not possible for a violinist when I was raised by one, damn it! Hes' just a poor old man and I don't think he has any ulterior motives. You could show a little kindness" she said, turning sharply around and leaving him standing there, resisting the urge to slap him. Why was it so hard for him to trust anyone?

She came back out to find Gustave reading her book of fairy-tales. He was engrossed. She cleared her throat softly and he looked up guiltily

"Oh, I'm so sorry mademoiselle, I never should have been looking at that without your permission. Please forgive me"

"Oh, it's quite all right, don't fret about it. What were you reading?" she asked as she picked up her coffee cup

He sighed, picking up the book "This tale right here. It seems so familiar, yet I can't say why. It just makes me picture that little girl on the shore"

Christine felt a sharp stab in her heart when she looked at the tale: Little Lottie.

"Oh, are you fond of it?"

"Quite so. I seem to remember these words here from the poem. In fact, the words written here fit perfectly with a tune I'm always playing on my violin. Would you like to hear?"

Christine nodded blankly. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real

He cleared his throat and began singing in a pure, light tenor

"'But what I love best' Lottie said

'Is when I'm asleep in my bed

And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head'"

Christine heard the coffee cup she was holding shatter as it hit the wooden floor, yet it seemed like a thousand miles away. Somewhere, she heard her own voice joining in with his, in a song she hadn't heard since so long ago, but she had never forgotten

"'And the Angel of music sings songs in my head

The Angel of Music sings songs in my head'" they finished

Christine looked up blankly at him, still in a trance

"Monsieur, that was one of my father's original compositions. He wrote it specifically for me. No one else has ever heard that tune. Where did you hear it?"

He looked at her in a daze, starting to make the connection

"I haven't heard it before, mademoiselle. I simply remembered from somewhere long ago, and have played it over and over."

"My father wrote that. After he promised he'd send me..."

"The Angel of Music?" he said softly

Christine gasped

"The stories down by the seashore..."

"My talent with the violin..."

"Little Lottie..."

"The little girl with the brown curls and the scarf I so often remember..."

"The Angel of Music..."

She looked up at him again as his eyes shone with compassion

"Monsieur, I lost my father when he was thirty-six to tuberculosis. I was sent away to the Opera because they knew he was going to die. It was his last wish for me-"

"To train in the ballet corps with Mme. Giry?" he finished

She nodded, absentmindedly

"I recovered from tuberculosis whenI was thirty-six and have no memory beyond that, except for some strange old songs...-"

"-and a little girl with brown curls and a scarf at the seashore" she gasped excitedly

He gasped touching Christine's curls for a moment

"My little girl" he said faintly "my little girl I always told stories too. About Little Lottie to encourage her to practice her singing" he said softly

Erik was watching the entire display with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. That couldn't be true.

Could it?

"And my father, I missed so much after he died. I always remembered his tales of Little Lottie and playing the violin to me at the seashore-"

"-While you ate peppermints" he said, the realization dawning on them both at once

"Father?" Christine gasped excitedly, her eyes shinning with hope

"Christine, my Christine! My Little Lottie!" he said excitedly

They embraced, tears of joy streaming down Christine's face

"Oh father, it really is you! You're truly alive! Oh, I've always hoped!"

"Oh Christine, I never dreamed I would live to see this day! I found my memory...and my long-lost daughter!"

He broke apart, glancing at her, tears of joy threatening to spill from his eyes

"My Christine. My Angel of Music"