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Winter 1851

Tehran

Christine

It was too cold to venture outside often, and so I spent most of the time inside my little apartments, Murina for company. She really was a sweet, kind woman.

In addition to teaching me to cook, she began to teach me to sew and weave. I had grown up with a father who, although had never "pampered" me, found that it was too easy to overlooking teaching things that a normal wife would have to do: sew, cook, and clean. Raoul was also wealthy enough that I did not need to do those things. However, as time went on, I found that I enjoyed doing them.

But, of course, nothing replaced having real conversations. The letters I received from Raoul were currently resting in my bedroom, and I read them all each night. It was something, but it did not make up for the loneliness I was beginning to feel.

The only "real" conversations I could have with anybody were with Erik, and those were few and far between. He came over to teach lessons, which were still poor, due to my lack of comprehension and, I suppose, dedication. I spent most of the time trying to talk to him, wanting to hear my own beautiful French spoken back to me.

Through much wheedling over several lessons, I discovered Erik was quite proficient in several other languages, most prominent being Russian and Italian. He claimed his others were quite poor, having never found an opportunity to use them much, but I doubted that entirely. I didn't claim to know Erik well, but I did know him well enough to understand that when he undertook a new task or challenge, he worked toward perfection and achieved it. And I also suspected that he spoke even more languages than what he had revealed to me.

He never seemed interested in any idle chatter at all. He was quite particular with keeping strictly to my lessons, drilling pronunciation, grammar, and vocabulary endlessly. He was demanding, which was quite frustrating sometimes, given that I was less than perfect in all concepts he had thus far taught me.

Whatever resentment I had for his harsh and critical nature during lessons disappeared one afternoon when I received a caller, which was most unusual. Erik was at the site and said he did not know when he was to be returning, but it would not be soon. And so, Murina answered the door; I did not hear the usual muffled gasp that accompanied Erik's arrival. Curious now, I went to the door and saw two British missionaries standing at my door, smiling benignly at me.

They greeted me in French, and I invited them inside. Murina fumbled over tea with milk while we became more acquainted with one another. I was more than delighted; their French, although accented and somewhat choppy, was enough to charm me. When I asked how they had learned the location of my current home, they said that Erik had informed them of my being here, and that I was also a practicing Catholic who had not heard a Mass for months.

This struck me odd; Erik had never seemed particularly religious.

We spoke for a little while longer, and they promised to return on some Sundays to have devotionals with me, which I looked forward to very much; the religion practiced here was so foreign and strange.

The weeks passed slowly. I was very, very lonely. Murina tried very hard to cheer me up, but it was difficult. We had still not mastered languages – indeed, our vocabulary was elementary at best. I missed Raoul desperately; I wanted Erik to return and, if not just teach me, at least converse with me about simple things.

He finally did, a fortnight later. One ordinary afternoon, I heard a knock on the door and Murina's whimper, signaling Erik's arrival. I practically flew to him and spoke rapidly for several minutes, simply to hear my language and see it being comprehended. He held up his hand finally, telling me to stop, and I did, although I had not stopped smiling.

When we were seated in our customary positions for a lesson, he folded his unnaturally long-fingered hands on the table and said,

"There is one thing before we begin, Madame."

"Please, Erik," I said, still smiling. "Call me Christine."

He ignored my request and continued: "Your husband has spoken nonstop of your singing voice. Being somewhat of a musician myself, I was hoping you would give me a private performance."

Immediately, I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Here?" I asked, flustered, "Now? Well – Raoul certainly is not a musician, and I'm afraid I would only disappoint you. I haven't taken private lessons in years, and I haven't warmed up, and I – "

"Sing," he commanded, and it ended the conversation.

Nervously, I cleared my throat and began, softly, timidly. I began in a random key and prayed that it would work with the song.

Voi che sapete che cosa e amor,
Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor,
Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor.

Glancing at Erik, I saw that he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Unsure if this was a good sign or a bad one, I continued.

Quello ch'io provo, vi ridiro,
E per me nuovo capir nol so…

I stopped and hesitated, swallowing and clearing my throat once again. Finally, he opened his eyes and gestured with his hand. "Continue," he said emotionlessly.

"I'm sorry – but I've forgotten the rest," I said, wringing my hands.

There was another moment of silence – agonized for me. I wondered what exactly Raoul had said to pique Erik's interest in my feeble singing voice.

"Why did you sing that song?" he finally asked. Unsure how to answer, I simply looked at him.

"You could have picked a song better suited for your voice," he said, standing. He walked into the main room and returned with my score of Die Zauberflöte. Thumbing through the pages, he finally found the song and put it in my hands.

"Here," he said, tapping the page with his long, gloved finger. "Sing this one."

I looked at it and saw Pamina's heart-wrenching aria in the second act. I glanced at Erik and took the score; it shook in my hands.

"I don't think I can do this one," I said quietly.

"Try," he said simply, and resumed his seat.

Again, I began the song anxiously, timidly, but the song seemed to encase me, and I no longer cared about Erik's presence, or my atrocious German pronunciation. I was lost in the song, feeling Pamina's pain as my own, dwelling on my father as I sang of loss and death.

Ach, ich fühl's, es ist verschwunden
Ewig hin der Liebe Glück!
Nimmer kommt ihr Wonnestunde
Meinem Herzen mehr zurück!
Sieh', Tamino, diese Tränen,
Fließen, Trauter, dir allein!
Fühlst du nicht der Liebe Sehnen,
So wird Ruh' im Tode sein!

When I finally found myself, I felt tears running down my cheeks. Hastily, I wiped them away and tried to compose myself as quietly as I could, feeling my skin flush with embarrassment. Erik made no comment, no gesture, no motion at all until I was quite settled and calm.

"I apologize," I said, smiling weakly. "I was thinking about my father when I sang that."

"He is dead, then?"

I looked at him, shocked by his frank question, but he did not look abashed. He merely gazed at me, with a lazily curious look in his eyes. I finally nodded.

"So," I began, somewhat nervously, "how did I do, Maestro?"

He did not answer, still looking at me, his head tilted ever-so-slightly, as if examining me.

"Was it that painful?" I asked with another small smile.

"Quite," he said curtly. I allowed myself several moments to feel justly insulted. He had wanted to hear me! And Erik might have been a mediocre musician, for all I knew – he had never played anything for me. (But I doubted that entirely.)

"You have some talent," he said, finally standing, "and potential – but you have never fully developed."

"I did take vocal instruction for several years," I said, somewhat indignant.

"Your previous voice teachers have ruined you," he said, folding his arms. "They never pushed you. You are not ready for Ah, ich fühl's; your notes were stretched, your pitch accuracy dismal, and your breathing lamentable. I suspect your previous teachers gave you easy, second-rate ballads and praised you endlessly."

I was silent; that was exactly what my teachers did. "Well," I said, attempting to cover up my embarrassment and anger, "what do you suggest I do?"

"First of all, get your voice out of your throat. It will damage you irrevocably. You know where your sound should be – so put it there. Your pitch depends too much on your breathing to let it slide by; I hardly saw you take a solid breath during either song. You are heavy on the higher notes, which are supposed to float. I know you know where to put them – do it."

I cleared my throat and absorbed this quietly. Although my previous vocal instructors had taught me, none of them had been unkind nor blunt. It was a surprise to hear this from Erik…a somewhat welcome one.

"If you wish," he said, "try Voi che sapete once more, but this time listen as you sing."

I took a moment to prepare myself and then started again. All throughout, Erik quietly streamed through advice, critique, and I felt myself improve in those few short minutes.

"Put your feet farther apart…Keep your sternum high – higher – yes. Feel your breath expand your body – try a bigger breath next time. No – no, don't collapse on that ending phrase! Come off the note with another breath – yes, like that. Remember, pure Italian vowels. Do you feel the sound resonate? It is much easier and simply more efficient to keep your sound right where it is, now keep it there all the time…I said all the time! Keep it there in your lower register as well."

And so on. By the end of the song, I was tired and completely out of breath. Erik simply said, "That is the sign that you have not been breathing properly. Singing correctly should be something of an exercise for your entire body. It is not just from your throat. Power comes from your stance, your breathing, your direction of sound."

I nodded and was almost shocked to find that I was enjoying this small lesson. Perhaps it was simply because I understood what he was saying, but I knew it was because I enjoyed music more than anything else.

"My father was an excellent musician," I said suddenly, and he looked at me. I smiled, reminiscing, and continued: "He played the violin – very well, I remember. I used to sing with him when I was younger. He found me vocal teachers when I was old enough to learn. But…everything changed when he decided to send me to a school very far away. My mother had died when I was one, you see, and my father thought that I wasn't being raised properly." I felt my throat becoming stuck, and I swallowed harshly. "I was so angry with him…so angry. I couldn't believe he would simply send me away after years of happiness between us. I left without saying goodbye. He became ill, but he never wrote to me of it. He thought it would pass. And he died two months after I left for school. I never told him how sorry I was, or how I loved him more deeply than anything else on earth."

For the second time that day, I found tears welling in my eyes, and I tried to blink them back, but they came anyway. I tried to smile at Erik, who had remained silent and stoic throughout my monologue, and said, "I'm terribly sorry. This is the second time. I promise I'll control myself in future lessons. I just – I miss my father terribly."

"That is understandable," Erik finally said, after a few moments of silence. He approached me and peered down at me; he was tall – very tall. "Madame," he said, quite gently, and I looked up at him in surprise. "Your father knew you loved him. It is not your fault."

In six years, this was the most comforting thing I had heard concerning my father's death. I broke down, sobbing, not with sadness, but with something akin to relief. Coming from Erik…I could believe what he said.

When I had finally managed to control my tears, Erik said he had to leave, and he then asked, "Are you sure you will be all right if I go?"

"I'm very sure," I said. "Please, don't let me keep you."

He nodded and collected his things before going to the door. "Good afternoon, Madame."

"Goodbye, Erik," I said. "And thank you."