Too Many Years Fighting Back Tears
Erik stopped long enough in the parlor to retrieve his parcel and instruct Jean-Louis, in the process of removing the tea tray, to fetch a brandy decanter and glass to the music room. Once inside, he placed the wedding dress on a table and shed his coat and cravat onto a conveniently located chair already piled with books. Dismissing Jean-Louis with a wave, he poured a glass of liquid reflection, all the while staring at the dress. Erik had no intention of getting intoxicated this time of day, merely to wash the taste of the tea, among other things, out of his mouth. Ensconcing himself in the music room seemed convenient, as hopefully he would not be disturbed with any additional intrusions. The solitude allowed him to reflect on Christine at his leisure.
When he finally had responded to the pleas of a distraught child for the Angel of Music to appear, could he have ever imagined the enormity of his decision? In the midst of his daily struggle with his personal demons, that beautiful piping treble calmed him as nothing else. Still, it was more than the music; in time, the child revealed a gentle and understanding nature that poured over his soul like healing balm. Between them, they built a world far away from the degradation of his past and the sorrow of her loss.
A series of disparate events aligned to change the nature of that relationship. The hiring of Carlotta by LeFevre coincided with the change in Christine's voice. Her airy treble had matured into a lilting soprano, driving him to commence her opera training in earnest. But more than her voice had changed; she was no longer a child but a jeune femme, and a beautiful one at that. Anger that his sweet young companion was growing up tangled with another emotion that he dared not explore. That was until he could no longer deny it. Christine, the woman, would serve the tortured man as well as his glorious music.
Spurred by his needs, the Opera Ghost engineered her triumphant debut in Hannibal with the hope of making himself so worthy of her favor that she might consider his suit. He would not brook any interference from that insolent boy; Christine was his and he would take her. Instead, she hesitatingly took his hand. From that point, his fabricated guise of authority and control warred with the vulnerability that threatened to overtake him with his every glance at her look of wonderment. That she was so receptive to his advances that first night in the lair was dizzying beyond imagination, emboldening him to allow her a glimpse of the man Erik. The disaster of that meeting spun into choices and events that would conspire against them, leading up to that final night.
What an elegant figure I no doubt cut, dragging and pulling her down into my lair after Don Juan Triumphant, my unmasked face likely contorted into a rage more hideous than my scars.
Picking up a portfolio case, Erik opened it and spread out his charcoal and crayon sketches of Christine. He had not drawn her image since the lair and composed these from memory upon his return from Minette's. I wonder if she looks the same. Not likely if the Comtesse's account was reliable. Erik's gut twisted at the thought of his Angel suffering for his sake as she did. Madame was right; Christine had become the battleground not only in his war against de Chagny but also in his war against the rest of the world. It was in her defiance of his shadows that she showed him the way to declare a truce.
Yes, that darker side which perverted every decent inclination in him. Love became obsession, protection became possession, passion became lust.
Your chains are still mine, you belong to me.
Better that he had hung an anchor on that chain and dropped her into the deepest ocean before exposing her to the monstrosity inside him.
Walking to the piano, he sat and stared at the composition before him, allowing himself emotions he had repressed for so long. Growing a soul left precious little energy for any other sentiment. Christine and his feelings for her had to be put to the side, never out of sight but not to be touched. Too soon, that conscious choice had become an uneasy habit.
What a delightful irony that the boy's mother overran his defenses to become the instrument of their reconciliation as surely as her son had become the instrument of their separation. His cynical nature initially ascribed it to apparent self-interest but the Comtesse's passion could not be discounted. The woman had shed real tears over the girl's suffering.
Erik took his pencil and made some notations on the score. One day, God willing, he would play it for her.
Like his music, he wondered if he had composed her before he ever knew of her existence. It was as if she was the earliest memory of a melody that had traveled with him all of his life. The music was stronger and weaker at intervals, but it never died. Now he sensed it unfurling its wings, as if on the precipice of soaring. She was singing to him. God help him, how he loved this woman.
It was his turn to respond to Christine's song. Time was rewinding itself, allowing for a new beginning. What had the Comtesse said?
You know she chose you. It was a series of benighted circumstances that kept her from you. I have no idea what kept you from her.
No, you wouldn't know what kept me from her but it kept her alive.
Erik smiled wistfully at the memory of Christine giving him the ring. His betrothed. But like the mirrors in the lair, he had shattered into a million pieces, each threatening to lacerate her soul into shreds. What had he told Minette, he was a work in progress? That work began when he walked out of his prison.
§
Late evening after the last performance of Don Juan Triumphant
Nadir returned to his flat in Rue de Rivoli immediately after the aborted performance of Don Juan Triumphant on the off chance that his assistance might be needed. Damn Erik, he had saved his life once in Persia and, unless the Frenchman had planned for all exigencies, he might feel obligated to do so again. What was it, that old Chinese proverb which alleged if you saved a man's life, you were ever responsible for that life? He supposed the Chinese never counted on a scarred musician becoming mad in his love for a young diva betrothed to another.
Damn the little Daaé, too. Why had not fate whisked her away from the Populaire before she grew into an exceptional beauty certain to appeal to Erik's long-repressed carnal longings? None of the lovelies at Mazenderan ever tempted him; Nadir had thought him some kind of emotional eunuch until the little Daaé flowered. No, like a dog returning to its vomit, Erik would center his desire on a white-faced, corseted, pious little European demoiselle, who rapidly lost her piety with him on that stage. How ridiculously French of him. Ah, well, cherchez la femme.
The Persian had dozed but a moment in his comfortable chair when he awoke to find Erik standing before him. Alone. Nadir sighed, realizing there was not a lock this magician could not pick so he might as well not have it changed. The Frenchman looked a complete wreck.
"Well, Erik, I cannot say this is a complete surprise. Where is the little Daaé?"
Erik looked at him with barely composed red-rimmed eyes, "I sent her away on the boat with the Vicomte and escaped the lair through a secret passage."
"You let her leave with him after all…" Nadir's astonishment was cut short by Erik's reply.
"It is for the best."
"Erik, the gendarmes are swarming the Populaire like a cloud of locusts. You must leave Paris."
"Daroga, that was my intent but it would seem that my hired conveyance was confiscated by a hysterical subscriber." Erik smirked bitterly at the irony. How could he possibly have expected to escape with Christine under the circumstances?
"No matter," replied the Persian. "I will have my manservant, Darius, arrange for a new hire in the morning. You need rest. By the way, where are we going?"
Erik scowled at him. "Daroga, we are going nowhere. I am leaving for my estate in Bezancourt."
"No, my friend, I am going with you. I saved your life once; you owe me this favor. Darius will handle my affairs here."
The Frenchman was all too cognizant of his debt to the Persian. How like Nadir to play that card when he least wished to be obligated.
"Very well, but you are to leave me in peace. My estate is large enough that we need never cross paths"
Nadir surveyed Erik intently. He had no desire for a vacation in the Normandy countryside, but his instinct warned him that Erik was emotionally at a crossroad that might bode ill for the younger man's continued earthly existence. Upon his own death, the Muslim did not wish to meet Allah with that on his conscience, knowing that he might have prevented something catastrophic.
Glancing down at the Frenchman's clinched left fist, the Persian remarked, "Erik what do you have in your hand?"
Erik, flinching as if awakened from a dream, opened his palm. Even after changing his clothes and gathering his important papers in a satchel, he still had the ring clutched in his hand as if it were a talisman of protection. Nadir, gazing at it wonderingly and remembering that the Phantom had snatched it away at the masquerade, spoke in a hushed tone.
"It is the little Daaé's betrothal ring. You did not return it to her?"
"Yes, but she returned it to me. It is now my betrothal ring."
§
Sitting in a saddle on his resilient black Arabian a good part of the day seemed, to Erik, a reasonable way to avoid the questioning eyes of Nadir. Shamil, his four-legged Persian friend would not plague him so. It was enough that he was plagued by his own questions without adding the weight of another human's. Down in that lair he had asked Christine "Why?" Now he tortured himself with that same question and more.
Why did he insist to Christine that fear can turn to love, only to wring as much fear as possible from her with his actions? Was it that blackness in his soul? Would it not be satisfied until it had made a mockery of every loving connection between them and replaced it with terror and possession? Looking at his face for eternity was nothing in comparison to the harm that looking upon his soul for eternity would have wrought upon her.
Angel that she was, she would not leave him there. He remembered looking at her through tear-dimmed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time, a heavenly creature who with her kisses had risked her soul to pull him out of Hell. At that point, though he had never experience the emotion, he knew he loved her. He loved her to the point that he would sacrifice any hope of his own happiness to ensure hers.
Yet that darkness had shielded him from the burden of a conscience. He had bitten the fruit of the knowledge of evil, as well as of good. The scales had fallen from his eyes, revealing a past that spread before him in its unparalleled hideousness. The lies in his mind told him that any action was justified in order to ensure his survival, starting with the murder of his gypsy slave master. What the lies didn't tell him was that there was a price to pay for that survival, the price being a loneliness, anger, and fear that promised a Hell-born endgame. Payment was due and, like those doomed souls afflicted with St. Vitus' dance, the final reckoning was coming ever closer with each lurch and stagger.
§
Nadir's years of poking around the opera house gave him a decided advantage in surreptitiously observing Erik without being blatantly obvious. It didn't matter of course; Erik always had the uncanny ability to sense another's presence in his vicinity, no matter how well they attempted to conceal themselves. It just made the Persian feel better to think so. As it was, Erik seemed content to ignore his existence and made no comment. What little Nadir saw of him was not encouraging. If Erik once prided himself on being the notorious Opera Ghost, he was beginning to resemble one in the flesh. Day after day, the Persian watched the life slowly draining from the Frenchman's eyes. It was more than just leaving the little Daaé. Erik seemed to be genuinely wearied of life, which meant to Nadir that Erik's past had finally caught up with him. The rosy hours at Mazenderan had finally released its poison and were claiming its victim years after the fact. Once more, the Muslim felt a reluctance in confessing his failure to Allah. They had been in Bezancourt four days. Tomorrow morning, he would enter the lion's den and attempt to rescue the Christian.
§
As Erik strode down the stairs for his early morning ride, he sighed at the appearance of the daroga at its foot. Nadir had that look on his face, the one that would not brook any argument. Tempted to sweep past him, he reconsidered. What did it matter anyway? Nothing could touch him now. Let the man speak and finish it.
"Erik, I will say my peace before leaving for Paris, not that you are in any frame of mind to care" Erik wanted to feel a twinge of conscience but in truth he did not care. Nadir continued.
"You have never told me what happened with the little Daaé that last night at the Populaire. But something occurred which is turning you into death itself. Your time in Persia was a constant battle to stay alive when others would conspire to have you dead. Are you telling me a mere slip of a girl is able to do to the "trap-door lover" what those masters of treachery could not? Did she so rip open your soul that you feel you have no choice but to die from exposure? The great and terrible magician and assassin is undone, not by the most devious minds of the Little Sultana's court, but by a woman of your own European ilk, like the one who spawned you?"
"If she is the only one who could tear those demons out of you then, Allah forgive me, perhaps her white Christian God is the only one that can save you now."
Erik felt the murderous rage bubble inside his chest. Nadir had dared compared Christine to that hateful excuse that was his mother. He wasn't in the lair that night. He had not heard a loving Christine pray to her God for courage to show…
Nadir, stepping back slightly not wishing to appear a coward, but was well aware of Erik's talent for destruction. The Persian's words would have certainly given him the appetite for it. Instead to Nadir's wonder, a flicker of light emerged in Erik's death eyes, growing stronger with each passing second. The Frenchman turned on his heel and raced up the stairs, prompting the Persian to stay rooted in his spot, not daring to leave and miss the implication of this new behavior. A half hour later, Erik reappeared washed, freshly shaven, and clothed in his appropriate gentlemen's apparel. He flung out the door and bolted towards the stables where the groomsman held his impatient horse, mounted and galloped away as if escaping the hounds of hell.