Chapter 12
November 19, 2009

HD & ML

Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember. ~Seneca

Nothing felt right. At night, she tossed and turned, and during the day, she could barely concentrate. Christine felt out of sorts, now that the opera season was over and she had nothing to distract her from dwelling on her worries. She decided that what she needed was to get away from Paris and city life in general. She was still, she told herself, a country girl at heart who missed the peace and quiet of rural life…and maybe some time to think things out, sort out her feelings. Surprisingly, she found that she was not as upset over calling off her engagement to Raoul as she thought she would be. She wondered. Logically, Raoul was the perfect choice for a husband with his wealth and status, but could it be that her heart had never really been involved?

There was also the matter of unfinished personal business with her teacher. Several times, she had tried to contact Erik. Their encounter at the courthouse following the rendering of the verdict had been brief, and there was so much more that she wanted to say to him. At the very least, she wanted to thank him for all he had done for her; even more, she needed to let him know she forgave him for his mistakes. She also knew she should say goodbye: He had told her he loved her, and though he had frightened her and threatened Raoul, he wasn't a monster. He had been her friend for nearly a year, and he deserved to be treated civilly—regardless of the way their friendship had ended.

Christine had no idea where he was living these days, and had visited Monsieur Bruguière's office on several occasions to deliver letters she had written to Erik, but there had been no replies. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought. Erik apparently wanted to put the whole shameful experience behind him and start anew; maybe she should take his unspoken advice and do the same.

-0-0-0-

"Mme Moreau, I wanted to let you know that I shall be going away for a few days." Christine was in the parlor with the landlady where the two of them were indulging in an afternoon cup of tea. During the off-season, she could relax and spend a little more time with her landlady. Since the death of Mama Valérius over a year ago, it was Mme Moreau to whom Christine turned when she wanted the companionship and advice of an older woman. "I've been saving money from my salary for this."

Mme Moreau thought it a good idea. "Yes, some time away from here, away from all those reporters and nosey gossips is just what you need. I know it's been almost two months since the trial, but it has taken its toll on you. You're pale and tired these days; you need to get the roses back in your cheeks."

Christine smiled. "I'm glad you approve."

"Where will you be going?"

"To Perros."

"Oh, it's lovely along the Breton coast," the landlady agreed. "Have you ever been there before?"

Christine gestured in the affirmative. "Yes. My father and I lived there that last couple of years of his life. In fact, it's where he's buried. I have been lax in paying my respects, which is another reason I am going there."

Mme Moreau understood. "It's a difficult time you've been through recently. I'm only sorry it ended with you and your beau calling off your engagement."
"I'm not," she replied, surprising herself with her candor. "Raoul is a very nice man. He'll make some woman a very good husband…just not me. We move in different circles. I grew up a farmer's daughter. He's an aristocrat. No, it would never have worked."

Madame clucked and tutted like the proverbial mother hen. "Well, you're young. There's still plenty of time for you to find the right man."

Christine sniffed. "Who needs men? My life is full as it is. They only seem to complicate matters."

Mme Moreau only nodded but said nothing.

-0-0-0-

The train ride had been uneventful. Christine had spent the extra coins for a private compartment and was glad of it. She was tired of being the center of attention. All she wanted now was privacy and anonymity. As the train pulled out of the station, she gazed out her window, watching the station grow smaller and smaller, until it disappeared altogether. She continued watching as the engine picked up steam and the cityscape flew past her, buildings blurring and then thinning out until they turned into a rural countryside. By the time they pulled into the station at the seaside town of Perros, her mood had begun to lift. No longer was she thinking about the opera, or about Raoul. She was thinking about her father, and how much she missed him.

At Perros, she stayed at the Inn of the Setting Sun, a quaint country inn that looked out onto the ocean. It was near the rose-colored beaches that made Perros famous, surrounded by granite boulders that stood guard like silent sentinels. Once she was settled in, Christine decided it was time to visit her father's resting place. It was a beautiful, warm day late in May, perfect for a solitary picnic. With a small basket in one hand, and a blanket draped over the other arm, she headed out.

A short walk brought her to the gates of the churchyard. It was neat in appearance, with the look of a place that was well tended. It did not take her long to find her father's modest grave. Kneeling in front of the simple headstone, she said a silent prayer.

She recalled her visit to her father's grave last year. Then, she had been confused, troubled, and wanted to be alone. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she remembered hearing what she had thought was an enchanted violin playing "The Resurrection of Lazarus." In her naivety, she had believed it was a sign from her father, that he had sent her the Angel of Music.

But it hadn't been an Angel. Raoul's sudden and – she finally admitted to herself – rather unwelcomed appearance had dispelled any doubts as to that. No, it had been no Angel. It had been Erik. What was it he had he called her? Wandering child? Yes, she had been a wandering child, lost and helpless, looking for someone to provide her with guidance. Sadness came over her.

Why didn't you tell me the truth, Erik? Why did you have to trick me, to play upon my foolish superstitions?

Then she remonstrated herself. It was wrong to put all the blame on Erik. After all, hadn't she encouraged this charade? Wasn't he merely providing her with what she had wanted, a fairy-tale come to life? Well, she was past that sort of thinking.

With tears in her eyes, she spread out her blanket next her father's grave and placed flowers in front of the headstone. As she sat down, memories flooded her mind. She remembered her childhood, and the beginning of her father's long illness….

-0-0-0-

Eight years earlier near Uppsala

It was the day of the Midsommarafton – the Midsummer's Eve festival – and twelve-year-old Christine Daaé, along with her father, was attending the celebrations that were being held in a village north of Uppsala. She was at that awkward half-child, half-woman stage that left her feeling self-conscious. That she was wearing new clothes didn't help either, articles for which her father had spent hard-earned coins, all so that she would be pretty this day. She tugged at her fitted vest, beautifully decorated with embroidered flowers, that she wore over a snow-white blouse and at the brightly striped apron she wore over her new skirt. She wasn't used to new clothes, most of the time making do with hand-me-downs given to her by kind-hearted farmer folk who loved to listen to her sing to the accompaniment of her father's fiddle.

The festival of Midsummer's Eve, which marked the longest day of the year—the night when the sun never truly set—was very special in a land like Sweden, where the summers were all too brief. Tonight, the sun would remain just above the horizon leaving the land in a kind of twilight during the nighttime hours. The old people would say that this was one of the days of the year when magic was strongest. Herbs picked at this time were said to be more potent than at any other time, and spring waters were bestowed with special healing properties missing from them the rest of the year. It was also a time to look into auguries that would foretell the future, and many a young girl took part in rituals that were supposed to tell her who she was going to marry.

Christine looked around at raucous scene, feeling left out. All around her was singing, dancing, eating, drinking and general merry making. These people knew each other, but though welcome, she and her father were strangers. No, that wasn't quite true. Everyone knew of Papa Daaé – he was the best fiddler in all the land, and no festival was complete without his music, and while he made friends easily, Christine was more withdrawn. Throughout the day, young people came up to her, inviting her to join in their games, but she had declined, preferring to stay near her father. Papa Daaé had not been well of late; his cough had gotten worse and Christine had it in her head that something bad would happen if she strayed too far from him. She had already lost her mother; the thought of losing her father was frightening.

"Nonsense," Papa said when she told him this. He smiled at his daughter indulgently and gave her a quick hug. She was, as the old saying went, the apple of his eye. He doted upon her, gave her all the love a father could give. But he was beginning to worry that she spent too much time in his company. She would be a young lady soon. It was time she started mingling more with people her own age.

"Of course you should go play with the young folks. Your papa doesn't need a babysitter."

"But Papa, what if your cough comes back? Who will fetch you a glass of water?" his daughter asked, worry in her voice.

"If I become thirsty, I'm sure one of these good people here will bring me something to drink." And he picked up his bow and played a little ditty on his fiddle. Next to loving his daughter, Papa loved music. He played every kind of instrument, from fiddles to intricate latfiol and other folk instruments. Over the years, his reputation had spread widely through the district which is how he came to be playing for special occasions such as today's. "See?" he said. "I'm feeling much better. It is summer. The warm air eases the aches in these old bones of mine."

Christine was not so sure, but knew it was no good arguing the point. Her father was a gentle but stubborn man, and she gave up trying to convince him of what was best for him. She wandered near where the majstång, the maypole, had been raised. Music and laughter floated in the air, and around the green-covered pole, traditional ring-dances were taking place, much to the delight of the children. She had once asked her father why it was referred to as a maypole even though the month was June.

"Some say the custom was introduced by the German merchants who visited Sweden many years ago," he had explained. "This may be so. Germany is a much warmer place. But here in Sweden, it's impossible to find the necessary greens and flowers to decorate the pole in May. So some smart-thinking farmer decided that we should put up the pole in June when the weather is nicer. Nobody bothered to change the name is all."

Nearby stood several of the village girls, all in their late teens, talking animatedly about heading out into the nearby woods to pick flowers. They were a friendly group, and when they saw Christine standing alone, they waved and invited her to join them.

"Where are we going?" Christine asked.

The oldest one, whose name was Karah, explained. "We are going into the woods where we will split up, each of us going our own way. There, we look for flowers. We will each pick a bouquet with nine different kinds of flowers. Just don't go too far; keep the music and the festival within sight, so you don't get lost."

"What will we do with the flowers?" Christine asked.

The other girls giggled. Karah gave Christine a look of surprise. "You mean, you don't know? Didn't your mother ever tell you about picking flowers on I?"

Christine looked down, embarrassed. "My mother died when I was young."

The giggling stopped, and the other girls suddenly felt sorry for her.

"We pick these flowers for our dream bouquet," one of them said, and they all started talking at once, telling how girls and young women were supposed to pick nine different species of flowers and lay them under their pillows. At night, their future husbands would appear to them in a dream.

Karah pulled Christine aside, treating her like a younger sister. "You want to know what your husband will look like, don't you?"

Christine admitted that she had not given much thought to marriage. "I'm only twelve," she said, realizing it was no excuse and suddenly worried that she was over the hill.

The older girl smiled knowingly. "That doesn't matter. It's never too soon to start thinking about who you want for your husband." She tilted her head in the direction of a strapping youth, who happened to turn his head at the same moment and gave Karah a rakish wink. Boldly, Karah winked back. "That's Sten," she said. "I've got my eye on him, and tonight, I'll find out if he will be my husband."

"Does it really work?" Christine asked, troubled that she might not dream.

"You'll never know unless you try it."

Christine hesitated, and then thought, why not? It was all in fun. Nobody really expected her to dream of her future husband, not at her age.

And so the girls slipped away from the celebrations. With all the eating and drinking that was going on, no one would notice that they'd gone.

The sun was low on the horizon and the woods were filled with strange and weird shadows. A warm breeze from the south would occasionally pick up and then die down, rattling the branches overhead.

Christine walked carefully, heeding Karah's advice about not straying too far. As she headed deeper into the forest, she heard the night birds sing and the crickets chirp, and wondered if there were any wolves lurking nearby, waiting to snatch a tasty young girl for his dinner. From time to time, she thought she saw something moving, then laughed at her silly fears when she saw that it was one of the other girls.

"The sooner you pick the flowers," she told herself, "the sooner you can leave these spooky woods."

When all had finished their self-appointed tasks, they met again at the clearing at the edge of the forest. They sat in a circle and compared their bouquets, admiring the blooms and congratulating each other for picking what were surely the most magical flowers in the woods. They exchanged gossip about whom they secretly liked, and of whom they hoped to dream. Christine had no such expectations, but played along, joining in the game of declaring who was the most handsome boy in the village.

By midnight, the party was still in full swing. The girls had rejoined the others, but none wanted to stay much longer. Let the adults and the youngsters remain; all they wanted to do was go to their beds and dream. Christine quickly checked on her father, relived to find him happily fiddling away. She stopped to say good night to him, then rushed off to the room they were sharing while staying in the village. There, she put her bouquet under her pillow and laid down.

She closed her eyes, but was sure sleep would never come to her. Not tonight. Not with all the noise coming from outside. But eventually she drifted off. The next morning, all the girls gathered to talk about their dreams. Christine let the others think she had not been visited by a dream. That's all right, they told her. You're still young; try again next year.

What she hadn't wanted to admit was that she had dreamed, not of a handsome farmer's son, but of a man whose face was partially obscured by a mist. In her dream, she had been standing by a vast, glassy lake. And on the lake had been a boat. A man, dressed all in black, had stood by the boat, inviting her to come with him. When she looked into his face, all she could see were his mismatched eyes.

And then he sang to her, and it was as if one of God's angels had come to earth.

-0-0-0-

Christine woke with a start, momentarily confused. Then she remembered where she was, and realized that she had dozed off. But why had that particular memory come back to her? She had forgotten about that dream…but now she wondered. Could it be that, eight years ago on midsummer's eve, she had dreamed about Erik? No, she scolded herself. It had only been the influence of her father, who had always been filling her head with stories of angels and supernatural beings. Her dream was only the tale of the näcken clouding her memory. It had been her father's favorite story, about a masculine water spirit that lured women and children into a lake with the music of his magical violin. He had told it often, but it was only a story: Only that, and nothing more.

"That's why I so easily believed Erik was the Angel of Music," she said to herself, scoffing at the idea. She shuddered, an evening chill creeping into her bones as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the graveyard. She pushed the recollection out of her mind as she opened her picnic basket and withdrew a flask of water. The cool, refreshing liquid brought clarity to her thoughts. It wasn't sensible, she told herself. There were no such things as portents. It was just a children's story.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder, "Could it be true? That, for me, Erik really is my destiny? He did say he was my fate…"

And now, she was more confused than ever.

-0-0-0-

Dressed in black from head to toe, the night enveloped him, kept him safe from prying eyes. Ever since Le Matin had begun serializing the story of his life, he'd been harassed by curiosity seekers whenever he left his modest apartment. Why did they hound him? Weren't there any other masked men in Paris? In the past, he'd been able to get around in broad daylight, if he was careful to avoid calling attention to himself, but with the sudden infamy of the scandal at the opera house, the ensuing trials, and now this celebrity, he felt like a rat on the run.

Erik cursed himself for ever having agreed to write his memoirs, and he cursed Bruguière for not insisting on limitations to the publication rights. To be fair, his attorney-agent would never have imagined that notoriety could change to fame in so short a time. Overnight, Erik went from hiding to save his sorry skin to hiding to preserve his privacy–and to spare his pride.

It was difficult enough to put his story on paper, difficult beyond words to know that people were reading it. Still the money was good, and he'd learn to swallow his pride even if it killed him. His life was an open book, and, as Édouard had warned, others claiming to know the Opera Ghost had begun to sell their own sordid versions of the tale. Le Matin had exclusive rights to Erik's autobiography, though, and sales were soaring. When the weekly edition appeared on the streets, newsboys were mobbed by the public, eager for the latest installment. Erik, for one, would be glad when the last chapter had been written, read, and forgotten.

Lately, for his own amusement, he'd taken to writing fantastic tales of adventure featuring derring-do and bravado, thinking that the public would lose interest once they realized he was putting them on, but his plan had backfired. Sales had gone through the roof, and letters from lonely-hearts had doubled. The last time he visited Bruguière, he had tossed a bundle of them into the wastepaper basket on his way out the door, without even looking at them.

He longed for a new scandal that would divert attention from himself, and toyed with the idea of arranging one himself, if need be. Perhaps a caper at the Louvre would be the ticket. He could see it now: A missing masterpiece would certainly draw attention away from a mere opera ghost. It was tempting…

But there she was, always in the back of his mind. What would Christine think of him, if he threw away this chance at rebuilding his life, if he rebuked the second chance she had arranged for him? She had been the conduit for the ledgers that had absolved him of guilt; had persuaded Bruguière to defend him; she had even testified in his defense. How could he even think of betraying her trust now, when he had come so far?

Like as not, she was no doubt still on her honeymoon in some bright and sunny land, while he was skulking about in the shadows of Parisian streets, late at night. He hadn't been able to bring himself to buy a paper, not to see his own name in print and certainly not to read about her wedding to that boy. He was better off not thinking too much about Christine, and certainly, he was better off not thinking too much about her honeymoon. He rounded the corner with a heavy heart, surprised at the lamplight that spilled out onto the sidewalk from a storefront.

In the arrondissement where Erik lived, evidence abounded of Parisians fallen on hard times. Occasionally, a working woman beckoned to him, offering him a moment's pleasure in a back alley. These were among the worst members of his new community--diseased, dirty whores more disgusting than desirable. One of the less distasteful signs of impending poverty was the selling of personal possessions; pawnshops thrived on the fringes of neighborhoods such as this one.

Tonight, a shopkeeper was up late, counting the profit he made off others' misfortunes. Erik imagined him pocketing gold while cheerfully selling off the meager treasures from some new vagrant, a worn out man seeking a few coins for bread or a roof for his family. Most of the items were of questionable origin: Handkerchiefs, costume jewelry, worn purses, and meerschaum pipes spoke of petty theft, while furniture and dishes told of the harsh realities of losing one's home. He imagined that the people who came there, bearing their paltry belongings, had few options and little hope for the future. It was depressing. He had known poverty, and had vowed never to be destitute again – which reminded him of the memoirs. He cursed again for his lack of foresight, for not having squirreled away more of his fortune before his world came crashing down upon him.

In this dour frame of mind, he saw it in the window: a nykelharpa, a musical instrument popular among the Scandinavian immigrants. Erik knew about nykelharpa. Similar to the hurdy-gurdys the gypsies touted, they were fondly regarded by Swedes in particular as ancient instruments used in folk music. A keyed string instrument similar to a fiddle, it was also bowed. He felt the ache in his left arm as he imagined pressing the keys to change the pitch of the strings, and then realized it might be possible for him to play it. He couldn't hold a violin in the proper position, not yet, as the muscles in his left arm had not regained the full range of motion that was necessary, and he refused to hold it in the downward position of the gypsies. This nykelharpa would be secured by a strap around his neck, and he could sit while playing it. He could lower it in his lap to depress the keys with his left hand without raising his arm at all. Yes, this instrument had possibilities.

He peered through the window of the pawnshop, and, seeing no one, he tried the knob. Locked. He glanced around to make certain no one was watching him before sliding the skeleton key into place, and opened the door only enough to slip inside, quiet as a ghost. He tiptoed to the display and lifted up the instrument softly, gently, without making a sound.

"May I help you?" called the shopkeeper, loud and clear.

Erik nearly jumped out of his skin. It had been years since anyone had snuck up on him! "I was just looking at this…thing. What is it?" he asked cagily. He kept the masked side of his face away from the man, to avoid startling him.

"I thought I locked the door," began the pawnbroker. "Oh, well…I must be getting old." He rubbed his hands together like a greedy miser. "That, sir, is a Norwegian violin, the best of its kind. Note the gold work…," he said, pointing at the brass fittings, "…and the precious pearl inlay." He indicated carved bone, which Erik recognized not as mother-of-pearl, but as probable remnants of some Swedish craftsman's supper long ago. It was not Norwegian, but Swedish; of that, he was certain. No matter. It was hardly a museum specimen. It was only a simple folk piece, practically worthless.

He turned the dusty instrument in his hands, oblivious to the prattle of the salesman. He noted the carved figures of men and women playing similar instruments, running the length of the neck, and smiled at the whimsical carving of the sound holes as Valentine hearts. This had been a work of love, perhaps from a young man wooing a woman. It appealed to his romantic nature, and he let his mind wander to the tales of the North that Christine used to tell him. There she was again, Christine, always in the back of his mind. Before he knew it, a sigh escaped him.

"I'd let you have it for a fair price," the man was saying. "I can see that you like it. A fine instrument like that belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to use it."

Erik depressed a few keys, noting the sixteen strings. "Three for melody, one for drone, and the rest for resonance," he muttered, before turning his attention to the bow.

Without being asked, the shopkeeper produced a lump of rosin. "No need," Erik said. "There's plenty on the horse hair." He tightened the bow, looking down its length, and noted it was straight and flexible. He let it dance across the strings, digging in when he wanted to see how far it would take him—and his music. It was a crisp tone, pleasant enough, perfect for the kind of music the simple people enjoyed. He dug in, switching to baroque music, and lost himself in the moment. When he looked up, the shopkeeper was standing in front of him with his eyes closed, an unaffected smile of pure joy lighting up his pudgy face.

"Where did you get this?" Erik asked, breaking the silence. He had underestimated the instrument. Though it had bright overtones, it was also capable of producing warm, dark notes – the full scale. In other words, it suited him perfectly.

The man shook his head to clear the cobwebs from it. "A long time ago, a man brought it in. He said it had belonged to a great musician."

Erik raised his eyebrows. No doubt, this was a pretense for raising the price. "And who was this musician?" he asked skeptically.

A shrug indicated there would be no further information. "How much?" Erik asked, setting the instrument down. He turned his back on the shopkeeper, feigning disinterest in the nykelharpa.

To his surprise, the man answered in a whisper. "Pay me what you can."

Erik peered at him from the corner of his eye, still not letting the man see his mask.

"I paid three francs for it. If you can afford that, I am satisfied." To Erik's quizzical response, he replied, "I was right when I said it belongs in your hands. I've never heard such beautiful music before tonight." He cleared his throat, coming back to his business sense. "Besides, it's been sitting in that window for years. I'd like to get rid of it."

"I want the case, too," Erik said, pulling five francs from his wallet. He knew he had to be careful with his money, as his profit from the memoirs was only a modest fixed sum. It would support him, for a while, if he curtailed his extravagant taste; he'd begun to see frugality as a challenge. Christine might have called it, "character-building."

The pawnbroker beamed. "Yes, sir," he said with a broad grin. "And for you, I'll even throw in the rosin."

-0-0-0-

Author's Note: With the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend fast approaching, I thought I'd post this week's chapter a little early. Happy reading...and Happy Thanksgiving!!