The Phantom brought up the subject of her father before she could.
She climbed up onto the stage, carefully watching him as he opened the lid of the piano a little and sat back down on the bench. Before he snapped at her, she pulled off her coat, carefully setting it near the edge of the stage so she wouldn't forget it...or the pepper spray. Then she took in a deep breath, gathered her courage, and opened her mouth to ask him about Gustave.
"According to your files, you were recently employed," the Phantom then said, looking at her.
She closed her mouth quickly, thought, felt stupid, and then nodded.
"The employment was terminated some months ago," he said, brushing his fingers over the side of the scuffed piano.
"Yeah," Christine said, somewhat embarrassed. "Uh…the bookstore I worked at…It was closed down. I haven't been able to find another job yet."
His gaze suddenly grew cold and stern. "You shall do no such thing," he said. "This is your employment. You have no time for anything else."
Christine became instantly flustered, and worries suddenly sprang out. "But…I don't have any money!" she confessed. "I…I have bills to pay—rent and gas and utilities…not to mention that I need to buy food and clothes and other things! I need a job soon."
"As long as you continue to adhere to your schedule of music, you will be provided for," he said shortly, his tone making it clear that there was no room for argument. "Now—you had employment of your own, and yet you do not have your own bank account. Correct?"
Christine said, "No, not really. I just gave my paycheck to my dad. He put it in the account."
"Did you have full access to this account?"
"Um…" Christine chewed on her lower lip and tugged a curl behind her shoulder. "No, not really. Dad gave me money if I needed to go grocery shopping. He paid all the bills and stuff."
The Phantom was silent, apparently thinking momentarily.
"Have you found him yet?" Christine blurted, hope and fear in her chest.
"Why would I be asking you these questions if I had?" he snapped. "Now, no more of this. You will sing."
"When will you find him?" she asked, nearly tearful.
"Soon," he said shortly, flicking through the music before him. "Listen to these exercises and then repeat them in a pure ah."
Christine tried again. "But you said—"
"Silence."
"Yeah, but you promised—"
"Enough!" he boomed, his voice seemingly shaking the dust from the curtains and the carvings. Christine jumped and squeaked, covering her mouth with her hand. She took a few hasty steps backward, terrified in an instant. There was complete silence, as if they were both letting the dust settle back down. She felt her heart thumping against her ribcage and wondered if she shouldn't just turn and run away.
"Enough," he repeated again, this time with controlled calmness. "You will sing now."
The exercises were difficult, especially as she was terrified that he would yell at her again so her tongue and jaw were tight. She kept a good distance away from the piano, watching him warily and pulling at a curl, twisting it around her index finger. He let her sing without comment for several minutes, and then the lesson began.
It became obvious that he knew exactly what he wanted and expected.
"Your breathing is dismal, your lower register appalling, your upper register underdeveloped, your timbre lacking, your interpretation nonexistent, and your posture is repulsive."
Christine blushed in embarrassment. No one had ever criticized her singing before. Everyone had said that her voice was "pretty." People in the streets sometimes gave her money to sing.
The Phantom continued. "It is clear that you are untrained. We will begin from the basics and work to the levels I know you can achieve—but that is only if you concentrate and dedicate yourself to the music. If you slack or become distracted, it will only interfere and slow your progress."
He gestured her to move closer to the piano, and she did so timidly, standing in the small bend and staring at the scratched stage. The Phantom stood, and she flinched slightly, but he made no notice. He stood in front of her, and she resisted whimpering. The top of her head barely brushed the level of his collarbone.
"Breathe," he commanded.
Her breathing was somewhat uncontrolled as a result of her panic, and as he observed, she noticed that his eyes were glowing with displeasure.
"No—quite incorrect," he said. "Your lungs are not located in your stomach, girl. Your sternum is collapsed; keep it high to allow more air flow."
He continued to teach her, speaking calmly about the proper technique of breathing and posture. Once he frightened her when his fingers brushed the air around the bottom of her ribcage, but he was merely demonstrating something, and he never once actually touched her.
She did not sing a single note for the rest of the lesson, instead concentrating on finding the balance in her breath work. Once he told her to lie down on the stage, and she hesitated, but as soon as his hand clenched into a fist in impatience, she was on the floor quickly. While she breathed on her back, she listened as he told her what was happening in her body, where the air was flowing, why her stomach was expanding and how the diaphragm would help her control her breathing.
After a while, her fear somewhat faded, and she began to listen intently, interestedly. He was…very smart. He was turning out to be an effective teacher. He spoke in terms she could understand—and when she didn't understand, he knew she didn't and said it another way so she could.
By the end of the lesson, she was feeling rather tired from all of the manual, heavy breathing that she had been doing, and when she checked the time, she saw that they had been working for over three hours. She glanced at the Phantom nervously, wondering if she would be safe bringing it up again.
"Uh—excuse me," she said hesitantly, blushing when he looked at her and then blushing deeper because she blushed. "My dad…You'll…let me know when you find him, right?"
"Naturally," he said shortly. He straightened his music, clasped it in his long hands, and strode off into the wings. Christine zipped up her coat and headed back out into the chilly winter air. The snow from Christmas was stuck in a permanent gray ice, and she carefully avoided the patches as she made her way back to her apartment. Her breath rose in full, thick spirals, and as she walked, she continued to think about her lesson and her breathing. What he said seemed to make so much sense…And when she thought of how she used to breathe before when she sang—the shallow, natural breathing that she had always used while talking—she felt a little silly. Of course she needed to breathe differently while she was singing!
Her apartment was very cold, and she risked turning the heater up just a few more degrees. It was lonely there, and she flipped on the radio to keep her company as she readied herself.
Raoul had replied to the text she had sent, and she had seen it the morning after, having slept on the couch all night in a rather uncomfortable position. Twisting her neck and rubbing it to try to rid it of the crick, she had looked at the message.
Hey! Thanks for texting. Would you be up to talking soon? I think we should.
She had debated with herself for an hour before replying, Sure.
So he had called her on his lunch break and asked to take her out to dinner. She had agreed without much hesitation. The prospect of real food was, to her embarrassment, somewhat tantalizing. She had been feeding herself canned fruit and pasta for the past few days, and she felt sick every time she thought of it.
As the time approached for Raoul to pick her up, she began to feel increasingly nervous. They hadn't spoken since Christmas morning. What would he say to her? Would this be his…official break-up with her? No matter what she had thought about him, the prospect of Raoul leaving her life was somewhat heartbreaking. She had depended on him so much—before her father was taken and after more than ever. He was the stability in her life, the rock that she could cling to. Even if she didn't understand why he put up with her, the fact was that he did, and she needed him.
However, she vowed that she would try to hold onto what scraps of dignity and pride she had left. She would refrain from bursting into tears at the restaurant and begging him to take her back. Raoul would surely be disgusted if she resorted to such behavior…even though she had done it before. She always asked for more chances with him.
She wanted to look pretty for him, and so she spent a long time on her hair and makeup, looking it over critically in the small, grimy mirror in the bathroom. She remembered the last time she had done something like this—the night her father was taken, and she felt her breath catch in her throat for a minute or two. She leaned her hands against the sides of the sink and breathed deeply for a few long moments. Then she collected herself. As she was spraying down a few unruly curls, she heard a knock on the door, and she bounded from the bathroom, her stomach jumping up and down in anxiety.
He looked handsome, as always, and he smiled at her. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
"Hey, Christine," he said, his voice sounding a little awkward, as if unsure of what else to say. "You…ready to go?"
She nodded. "Just let me grab my shoes and purse."
His BMW held the usual faint smell of leather and car air freshener, and she looked out of the window at the city, thinking of how many times she had done this, how many comfortable silences they had sat in. She wanted to reach over and have him hold her hand in his strong, warm one, but she kept her one hand in her lap and another pulling at some of her hair. An old pop song was playing softly on the radio, and she knew all the words by heart. It had been popular when she had been in high school. She must have heard it a million times. If the situation had not been so…somber, she might have sung along to it as a joke. Raoul would have laughed, and maybe he would have risked a quick kiss.
They went to one of their familiar restaurants and were seated promptly. Christine sat and played with her glass of water, staring at the white tablecloth, feeling childish and vulnerable.
"You're wearing the earrings I gave you," Raoul suddenly said, gesturing to her ears. "They look good on you." She touched them and blushed.
"Thank you. They're pretty."
There was further silence, and she wasn't sure that she could stand waiting until their meal came. She wanted him to simply get it out and done with, to stop torturing her like this.
"How have you been?" he then asked softly, and she risked a glance at him. He appeared to be concerned, as if he still cared about her feelings.
"Fine," she replied. "Just…trying not to miss him too much, I guess." The confession came out suddenly and unplanned. It was something of a relief to say it, though. She had missed warm, comforting words, and when he replied with sympathy and assurances, she felt infinitesimally better.
When their courses arrived, she knew that it would begin as soon as the waiter left, but at least she got a good, hot meal out of the night. Like Christmas Eve, she began to think that it would probably be better if she simply spoke up. It would save time and probably some hurt. If he knew that she knew, it would make it a whole lot less awkward for him.
"I just wanted to say I understand," she blurted—at the same exact time he said, "I'm so sorry about Christmas, Christine."
They paused, and Raoul suddenly looked confused. "What?" he said. "What do you mean, you 'understand?'"
She resisted fidgeting in her chair, and she ate a forkful of salad to stall for time. Then she said quietly, "I just…I understand, Raoul. Thanks for having the decency to tell me to my face instead of just a text or a phone call. It really does mean a lot to me, actually."
"Wait—now I don't understand," he said, his right eyebrow quirking up, as it always did when he was confused. "Tell you what 'to your face?' Wait—Christine. Do you…do you think that I'm here to break up with you?"
Her grip on her fork clenched a little, and her stomach jerked slightly. "You aren't?" she said—somewhat hopefully. She was disappointed in herself that her emotions were reacting strongly to this possibility when she had tried so hard to control them. Her breath was somewhat short and her heart pounded heavily.
"Of course not!" Raoul exclaimed, slightly too loudly. A few people at other tables looked at them in annoyance, and Raoul had the decency to look apologetic. Then he reached across and put a hand over hers. "I mean, I don't want to. Not at all. I just don't know what happened over Christmas. My mom isn't the easiest person in the world to handle, and I get how you had a hard time with her. I really wanted to spend Christmas with you, I swear, but she had planned the trip like six months in advance. Please, Christine. I'm really sorry."
She stared at him, her eyes wide, and she felt her heart beating slow into a gentle, almost comfortable pattern again. It was…wonderful. Apparently Raoul didn't know she had heard what his mother had said to him on Christmas Eve, but the point was that he was sorry that his mother had been there and ruined things. He was sorry. He still wanted her.
Suddenly the restaurant seemed less gloomy and threatening, and the food on her plate looked incredibly appetizing. Her stomach growled in appreciation at the smell.
"So are we good?" Raoul asked. "I promise I'll make it up to you however I can."
"No, it's fine," she said. "We're good."
The tension that she hadn't noticed before instantly left his face and shoulders, and he smiled widely at her. Their talk slowly became more comfortable, the conversation beginning to flow with more ease as the night went on. Afterward, he persuaded her to watch a movie with him in his apartment, and though she had some misgivings, she nevertheless went with him.
It was a little uncomfortable being there, remembering what had happened the last time she was, but Raoul was sweet and did his best to make her feel welcome again. When they sat on the sofa to watch West Side Story (Raoul had insisted on watching it, even though she knew he didn't want to), she carefully and hesitantly leaned her head against his shoulder. When his arm came around her and pulled her closer, she let a small smile linger on her lips. The day had turned out nicely after all.
Yawning, Christine pulled open the heavy theater door and went inside, trying not to be too nervous about the upcoming lesson. The musty, old smell of the theater hit her again, and she coughed a little in the stale air as she went down the aisle and climbed up onto the stage. The Phantom was there, and, as usual, there was the rush of anxiety and fear that chilled her as she looked at him. To her surprise, he had shed his suit coat. It lay a few feet away from the piano, looking rumpled and dusty. The white Oxford he was wearing only emphasized his gaunt frame. She tried not to stare at the sharp ridges in his shoulder and the bony shoulder blades that poked through the material of the shirt. She saw that the cuffs of his shirt were a dark grayish color, and as she looked and watched him scribble on some music paper, she realized that they must be smudged with ink. He was left-handed.
"Hello," she said, keeping a tremor out of her voice.
He ignored her for a few moments, and then he set his music aside and pressed out a chord.
"Posture," he said shortly, and she pulled off her jacket, went over to the small bend in the piano, and stood as best she could remember. He looked her over critically.
"Your feet are too far apart," he said. "And don't lock your knees!"
She corrected herself instantly. When he started playing some exercises for her to catch on to, she felt that that was his silent approval for her posture. It made her feel a little better.
The lesson began. The Phantom listened to her warm-up with a few scales, and then he would stop and correct her breathing and posture some more.
"Did you even listen to me yesterday?" he snapped once.
Christine blushed a little. "Of course I did," she said timidly. "I'm sorry. It's just a lot to remember."
"You need not consciously remember it," he replied. "You must have it become engrained into your being. Soon you will need to do everything naturally. There is still much for you to learn."
She nodded, looked over her posture once again, and tried a few more exercises. He kept the scales in the middle of her range, nowhere near stretching her voice, and though she felt a little disappointed, she said nothing. He would undoubtedly become angry if she tried to question him. And if he grew angry, that might…lead to other things. He…killed people, after all.
The thought caused her throat to tighten, and she squeaked on a note suddenly. The Phantom stopped, glared, and then tried it again.
As the lesson continued, she allowed herself to momentarily forget about the Phantom's…job. She let herself sing, and she listened to the piano being played.
After many more exercises, the Phantom stopped, and again he began speaking to her about breath support and posture. She listened, demonstrating for him when he demanded it, trying to retain all of the things he was telling her.
As he spoke, she felt a yawn well up, and she hid it behind her hand, closing her eyes for a moment.
The Phantom stopped speaking abruptly, and she could see that his eyes were narrowed in anger.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice cold and harsh. "Am I boring you?"
"Oh—no!" Christine tried not to blush or quiver. "I'm just tired. I'm sorry."
"Tired?" he replied instantly. "Why should you be tired? You have no excuse not to get adequate sleep."
"I was out with my boyfriend last night," Christine said, trying to explain before he exploded into anger. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to stay out so—"
"What?" the Phantom interrupted her loudly. "What?" His hand was clenched into a fist, and he stood. The bench scraped loudly on the stage.
Christine cowered, taking several hasty steps back, putting as much space and as much piano as she could between them. He looked like he was ready to attack her. She could still remember how badly her elbow had hurt for days afterward, how her back had smarted with every movement, how the cuts in her mouth had made her taste blood until they healed over. He was dangerous and violent.
"I'm sorry!" she whispered frantically. "I'm so sorry! It won't happen again!"
"You promised that you would devote yourself completely to the music. Completely. You cannot do that if you are out gallivanting with men! Stupid girl! Must I explain every little thing to you? I have half a mind to walk out of here and cease my search for your father altogether!"
"No!" Christine nearly fell to the stage. "No, please! Please, don't! I'm so sorry! I didn't think it was a big deal. I promise—I swear that I won't be out late anymore! I am devoted—completely!"
He looked at her coldly. "No, you aren't," he said. "Not yet."
There was a long pause, and Christine was still prepared to turn and run if he made a move toward her. He stared at her in a way that made her uncomfortable and embarrassed, and she dropped her gaze to the scuffed stage. Briefly, she wondered what had happened on that stage last night. Then she regretted wondering, because she had a pretty good idea of what had happened.
"Please," she then tried again after more silence. "Please, I promise that Raoul won't distract me."
She was terrified that he would demand that she end her relationship with Raoul. Just after they had made up! Just after she had felt somewhat secure again!
But the Phantom merely sat back down onto the stool and played a quick succession of minor chords, all the way up and down the keyboard. Then he stopped and said,
"Very well. At the first sign of disobedience because of your…relationship with this young man, I will consider our arrangement forfeit. You would not be wise to break an agreement with me."
Christine felt herself pale slightly, and she nodded wordlessly.
She didn't even want to think about what that meant.
