Chapter Fourteen: Lethal Soup and Just Press Play
She watched him eat, eyes taking in every detail avidly. He wasn't immune to her stare, of course, and though he tried gamely to ignore it, eventually he felt something must be said.
"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded. "I feel positively violated."
"Well, at least its positive," said Lonny philosophically. "It could be quite a negative experience."
He laid his spoon down and narrowed his eyes at her till she wilted slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, "I just don't know that I've ever seen someone slurp soup with such wild abandon before."
He snorted and picked the spoon up again. "Normally, I will have you know, I am quite a polite eater— when I partake of a meal at all, which is not often— but I confess to feeling quite hungry at the moment. I trust you will excuse me."
"—oh, sure," said Lonny eventually. "I have a present for you."
"Oh, goodie," Erik muttered acidly.
"We're going to have a little bit of music. And I'm going to take a look at the book— I mean, your book. We're going to have a little Phantom-fest. Or phest, if you like. And I promise not to refer to Gerry. Except right then, when I was making the promise about not mentioning him. And then. Sorry." She grinned at him and ducked out of the room while he grumbled and continued to slurp his soup. There was something different about this soup, anyway— something very strange. He couldn't quite place it.
Oh yes. That was it.
It was utterly nasty.
She passed the door again in her quest for the book and other things, and he bellowed to her, "What in God's name is this?"
"Campbells. Campbells Cream of— Something Or Other. Better not to think about it."
"It's revolting and I'll not eat it again!"
"You were enjoying it before you slowed down enough to taste it," she called, passing back the other way.
"Its positively lethal," he said firmly, and shoved the (now empty) bowl away from him. "Have you any of that Hamburger Helper? It would appease my tastebuds to a certain degree."
"You're pathetic," Lonny trilled, waltzing back into the room with the book, which she plunked down on the table in front of him. He leaned over to regard it seriously and she waited for his approval.
"Abridged," he said, and sniffed in distaste.
"The other copy weighs ten pounds," she whined.
"It must be large print; it is not that long a book. To abridge it is not merely a travesty, it is absurd."
"Well, that's life for ya," she said philosophically, and settled back down across from him. She picked up the book and frowned at it thoughtfully. "I guess its good, huh?"
"Of course its good," said Erik, poking at his soup bowl with a spoon. "Why would I be in a book that wasn't good? It doesn't make the least bit of sense, and if nothing else I like to think I make sense."
There was a pause while they both thought this over.
They reached a mutual conclusion that caused them both to shake their head.
"At any rate," Erik went on, "it is a good book and I am insulted that you have not read it before now."
"I didn't know you before now."
"Don't you put any importance on literature at all?" he inquired, leaning forward and fixing her with an inquiring yellow eye.
"I like People magazine," she demurred, and shrugged slightly. The shrug turned into a laugh at the expression on his face. "What?"
"That— person whom they let portray my character is in that particular publication every so often."
"You mean you've read it?" Lonny guffawed; she got rather a lot of enjoyment out of this. "The Phantom of the Opera reads People magazine! That's classic!"
"I've flipped through it once or twice," said Erik sullenly. "At doctor's offices. Outdated copies. You promised me music. But then, you promise me many things."
Lonny sobered, gradually. "I try not to promise anything I can't deliver," she said. "I don't always succeed, but I do try." She pushed herself away from the table, laying the book down again, and held up a finger to indicate that Erik should wait a moment. Once more, she disappeared out of the room, leaving Erik to moodily contemplate the empty bowl and the forlorn book.
Eventually he shoved the bowl out of the way and drew the volume towards him. It was very small and rather dusty, so much so that when he blew on it a cloud arose and made him enter a violent coughing fit. Eyes watering, he smoothed one hand over the cover and opened it to the middle.
He read for a few moments; words that he had read a million times before, words that were committed to heart, but words that he never tired of hearing and could never quite bring himself to believe. His eyes focused on a passage that he'd always been particularly fond— and almost afraid— of.
"If Erik were handsome, Christine— would you love him?"
The words were Raoul's; the question was one that circled round and round in Erik's brain, endlessly and forever. He was lost in a reverie, and Lonny entered silently and watched him.
They remained motionless for some time; finally Erik looked up, and she found that he had been aware of her presence the whole time.
"Once you read it," he said, almost hesitantly, "I would like your opinion on one or two matters of interest."
"Certainly," said Lonny gravely, and beckoned him with her finger. "You have to be in the living room to hear this." He picked up the book and handed it to her, then followed her down the hallway to the living room, where she seated him on the mud-brown couch in front of a vast entertainment center. She glanced at him. "All set?"
He nodded, and looked baffled.
She hit a button, appropriately marked "Play."
The music that flooded the room is a bit controversial even now, and has given rise to endless discussions (between certain people, anyway) on its actual value. The most often used name for it is "pop opera" although in the circumstances "popera" would seem to be catchier, and certainly a little faster to say. Its divided the phan-camp into the groups of those who dislike it heartily, those who think it's the most incredible thing since American cheese, those who think its even worse than American cheese and should be done away with, those who think its not too bad but is certainly overrated, and those who think everyone else who disagrees with them are morons and should be shot immediately (there's bound to be a group like this in any community). It was, in short, Mr. Lloyd Webber's take on the story of the Phantom.
Erik looked like he was about to go into shock.
Lonny couldn't be certain if this was a good thing or a bad thing, so she left the music on and sat down with the book, muttering, "Only time will tell."