A PERFECT CAGE
"Charlotte?" Gustave asked hesitantly.
"Oui?" she answered, sitting up from the blanket spread over the clean sand.
They had escaped the humid city together, and spent the day on the Breton beaches near Perros-Guirec. The weather was warm, very warm, and the pretty blonde ballerina wore a lightweight white summer frock and a wide-brimmed straw hat that matched her glossy hair. The sea breeze felt wonderful.
"I love you." There. He said it. He braced himself for her reaction.
Her pale green eyes grew wide for an instant, then she turned away.
"What's wrong, ma chère?" He ran his hands over her slender shoulders.
"N-nothing, Gustave."
"Something is wrong. Tell me. If you don't, I und--"
"No! It's--" She sighed; she shook her head, and her hair shivered in waves down her back. He loved her hair, like moonlight through topaz. She turned her head, and he saw her statuesque profile; her long lashes twitched as she blinked away tears. "I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
"If you break my heart, Gustave, it will never mend; I will fall to pieces."
"When you fall in love," he said earnestly, "you can't help but become broken. You can only hope someone else's pieces can make you whole. Two in an interlocked puzzle."
She smiled. He only vaguely comprehended his maladroit figure of speech, but all that mattered now was her smile.
"But--"
He kissed her. And, oh God, even if they didn't understand, they felt the puzzle pieces move; his heart was now hers, and hers belonged to him.
I glanced doubtfully at the bizarre, secreted mechanism before me, and re-read Erik's concise instructions. I prayed that no one coming down the Rue Scribe would spot me and ask what I was doing to a solid stone wall.
I pulled one stone out slightly and twisted it half-way counter clockwise. There was a small hole cut in an irregular shape on the side now facing upwards. I rubbed the "key" that Erik had slipped into my pocket between my cold fingers. The mid-morning January air was unforgiving. I carefully placed the object into the key-hole, and pressed down; it popped back up, and there was a sound like a vacuum being broken. The faint outlines of a door-way appeared as I snatched the key back, and the odd stone receded. I pulled the door open by its rough stone edges.
I started to draw a deep breath, and begin descending the shallow stone steps that led down. I had had much practise at stealth at Notre-Dame-des-Fleuves, sneaking out into the kitchen for scraps, or into the library for a book. No one was around; I tried to calm my racing pulse.
"Mademoiselle!" called a voice out of the blue. Deep. Foreign-sounding accent. Unfamiliar.
I gasped with chagrin, rooted in place. I cursed my ill fortune, and prepared to defend myself.
A man hurried up to me. I instinctively retreated, pressing my back to the cold stone. How foolish was I!
He was an elderly man, though still full of vitality, judging by his lively gait. He appeared to be Middle Eastern, with rich ochre skin marred by worry wrinkles, and a solid build; he was dressed warmly, with an Astrakhan cap atop his head, a waistcoat of exotic printed silk visible beneath his stark grey western suiting.
I didn't know him, so I was appropriately startled when recognition blossomed on his careworn face and he bowed slightly. "Mademoiselle Daaé! Forgive me; I did not see that it was you!"
"Monsieur?" I said, still a bit afraid. I wrapped my arms around myself; I'd stupidly left my cloak in the cloak-room, and stood here in the cold in just my blue silk gown.
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle." He removed his cap briefly, showing a thinning spread of coarse salt-and-pepper hair. "I am Nadir Khan, a … a friend of Erik's. Let us descend the stair; it is warmer inside."
"A friend?" I repeated curiously. Erik had certainly never indicated having friends. I let him go before me, and we continued to converse quietly. He took the steps slowly as I descended behind, one stair at a time; he holding his arm raised behind him, which I grasped thankfully like a barre.
"Yes," Nadir said slowly, almost forlornly. "We have something of a history together … back in Persia."
"What happened?" I asked diffidently, hoping I wasn't prying.
The Persian man sighed, "Let's just say we have changed each others' lives for good."
I changed the subject, uncomfortable with his reluctance; it was obviously a very personal matter. "How do you know me, Monsieur Khan?"
He glanced at me. I saw an inscrutable look cross his dark green eyes.
"Please," he said evasively, "allow me to escort you to the banks of the lake."
"Well?" I asked once my feet touched solid ground five stories below street level, now slightly concerned. The familiar sound of water shush-ing on the underground shore met my ears.
"Erik … is a very private person, as you know. But once I asked about you, several months ago. And as he spoke about you, your vocal progress, your disability, your wit and warmth … I saw an emotion in him that I had never witnessed him to express before. Hope."
"Thank you, Monsieur Khan," I said softly.
"If you don't mind my asking, Miss Daaé, but why are you returning to him?"
I didn't answer for a bit. Finally, I said softly, "Because he asked me to."
Nadir looked at me another long moment. From the immaculate details of my custom dress, my average height and stocky build, my unappealing face, dishevelled hair, then into my eyes. I had the unsettling feeling that his green gaze were appraising things hidden from even myself. I averted my gaze and stared at the stone walls in the semi-darkness.
Semi-darkness?
There was a light approaching from the direction of the water's gentle rhythm. Through the eerie mist came a boat. And in the boat there was …
"Daroga," I heard Erik greet casually as the bow of the gondola hit the edge. Without even looking up, he looped the rope around a moor, unhooked his lantern, and gracefully stepped ashore. I tried to disregard the quickening of my heart, the sudden swell in my throat, the warmth that rushed to the surface of my skin …
"I hope your filthy lair is in order, Erik," Nadir said smartly, "because you have a guest."
He jerked his head up enough to peer out from under the brim of his fedora; when his misallied eyes met mine, I found it exceedingly difficult to look away. I couldn't possibly count nor name the emotions that flew through them. The ache in my throat intensified; unshed tears rose up inside my neck and seemed to burst inside my head.
He looked so much thinner than the last time I'd seen him, and the shadows beneath his visible eye had darkened dramatically. He looked sunken, haggard, gloomy … and tired. Drained of energy like a clockwork figure on its last turn of the key.
"Christine." The way he murmured my name made it sound like a prayer.
I stepped from the shadows. "Hello, Erik."
"You came."
"On my own," I added quietly.
I moved toward him uncertainly, but mid-way there, tripped on a rock. I toppled forward with a small cry.
Erik was there in an instant, swooping in like a hawk--not to kill, but to save--to break my fall. He held me up securely by my upper arms as I struggled to catch my breath. I stood up shakily, testing the joints of my legs. They trembled.
Very gently, his tone as delicate as a cloth made from spider silk, he asked, "Christine, where are your braces?"
"I--I left them here. I mean, in my workshop. I had a cane, but I forgot to bring it this morning." Embarrassment sent tears to sting the backs of my eyes.
He tightened his grip on my arms lightly. "My dear, you're icy."
"No, no, I'm fine, Erik," I protested weakly. The truth was, I was shivering intensely; when my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, he slipped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it over mine. And just like last time, all those months ago, the black satin lining felt soothing, and the bejewelled woollen collar was warm on my neck.
"Daroga, I pray you'll excuse us … Mademoiselle Daaé is unwell," Erik said coolly.
Nadir nodded. "But of course. Please. À bientôt."
The Persian man bowed his head, and cast me a final look. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Daaé."
"And yours," I whispered. Nadir set out for the exit, and Erik guided me to the gondola. I took my seat on the old velvet cushions gratefully; I doubted I could have stood another moment. Erik shoved off easily, and poled across the vast lake in silence.
When the boat scrunched into the tiny port at the House beyond the Lake, Erik nimbly hopped out and moored it, then proceeded to walk away.
"Erik!" I yelped, shaken. "Help me, please?"
"I think you can help yourself," was his cold retort. He strode away, but left the door ajar.
What happened? I wondered. Touched deeply by despondency, he had been concerned and mild, but now it seemed he'd dropped the iron curtain between us again. With much effort, I clambered from the boat and shoved through the door. Erik stood by the organ, but was not playing.
I dropped the crumpled letter from my pocket at his feet. I reached out to him, but he immediately glided beyond my grasp.
"How could you even believe that I would betray you, Erik?" I said quietly but quenched.
A tiny flame of anger whirled around in his eyes. "Because you have, Christine."
He lifted his left hand, drawing it back towards his masked face, while simultaneously curling his gracile fingers. With a quick motion, much like releasing a bird, or throwing a small ball, he tossed something at me. I tried to catch it instinctively, but missed. Something hit my blue silk skirts.
Sitting in my lap was the enormous engagement ring that Raoul had given me.
"Oh God," I said helplessly, picking it up. I looked up at Erik. "I--"
"You needn't say a word," he whispered, turning away. "Go back to the Vicomte, Christine."
"I can't." The words leapt to my lips before I could even think. "Raoul thinks that he loves me, but he doesn't understand me.
"He thinks that I am a broken doll--that I can be repaired and repainted … then dressed up and put on display. He wants to … lock me up in a perfect cage," I whispered, "and he had given me the diamond padlock."
"And you accepted," Erik said with a faint sneer.
"I didn't! I didn't shut the door behind me--" I took a shaky breath. "I didn't clasp the lock. I'm so tired of all of it … so sick of being a prisoner, in my trade, in my life, in my own body …"
Erik was silent.
"I'm so sorry for what I've done, Erik. I was weak and imprudent and weary; I misjudged everything. I won't make the same mistakes again."
"Why have you returned here, Christine?" he said finally.
"You said that I have many lessons before I will be ready to assume the role of Aminta." I dropped the ring on the keyboard and folded my arms across my chest. "I am here to learn."
I turned on my heel and limped away with as much dignity as possible to my private bedchambers. Inside, there was a large brown spider sitting soundly on the floor. I carefully picked the creature up, and gently set it outside the door before shutting it. I needed no audience to my brooding tonight.
The dream I dreamed that night disturbed me. I saw Erik, tall, regal, enigmatic, with a beautiful, willowy young woman swooning in his arms. She looked a bit like my mother; same lovely face with enormous, heavy-lashed green eyes, thin nose, and rosette mouth. Only, instead of long, satiny blonde locks, she had a thick flag of dark brunette curls.
Who is that? I wondered, aggrieved.
Christine, Christine, Erik sang gently.
No! I protested. It couldn't be! I wanted to tear this stranger away from my maestro, my angel …
She vanished. Twisted in wretched, naked anguish, now unmasked, Erik collapsed. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth in a vain attempt at self-control. He fell to his knees, wracked with sobs; in his hands, he held a waterfall of sheer white tulle.
My eyes snapped open involuntarily. For just a moment, I floated senselessly between dream and reality. My eyes saw the canopy of my bed, but my mind still saw Erik bringing the wedding veil to his face, pressing the rose-perfumed softness against his skin, now wet with tears.
I dressed in a plain calico gown and leather slippers. I found my braces set demurely by my vanity table; Erik must have taken them from my workshop and brought them here. I sighed, then pulled my ivory stockings up before strapping the metal braces over my lower legs. I strapped them on tightly, a small penance for the inexplicable guilt that I felt. I brushed my hair, then tied the whole bushy mass away in a sloppy plait. I dabbed rose-water on my neck, then pushed myself to my awkward feet.
I emerged into the music room surprised by the delicious aromas that greeted my stubby nose. There was a breakfast set out for two near the organ. As I approached, my delight grew.
"Erik?"
"Good morning, Christine," he replied, behind me.
I spun around. "Why the feast?"
"Isn't it your favourite?" he asked innocently. "Orange sweet rolls and raspberries with English cream?"
"I--yes," I stuttered.
He bowed his head, and said, "Actually, I would like to apologise for my behaviour last night, Christine. I was being unjust and irrational. And … I am very glad you have come back."
I broke a piece off of one of the spiced orange rolls and smiled. "I am, too."
For the next several days, Erik and I greeted each other with courteous civility, and the ghost of the timid affection we'd shared. After testing my long-neglected singing voice with scales and simple exercises, I sang selections from Faust, Cosí fan tutte, and Aïda. My teacher listened with incredible concentration.
J'écoute et je comprends cette voix qui chante …
qui chante dans mon coeur …
"Your sound is starting to lean away from the coloratura … to mature," Erik observed from the piano.
"I'd like to be a full lyric," I said anxiously. "I think I sound too thin to be a really strong Marguerite."
"Well, my dear, your range is extraordinary, in the literal sense of the word," Erik explained. "At the moment, you can perform certain roles in each Fächer. Why don't you choose an aria for tonight's lesson?"
I began rifling through Erik's collection of scores for the particular aria I wanted to try. I easily found Mozart's Die Zauberflöte.
"The Queen of the Night," I heard Erik say softly with thinly-veiled pleasure.
I looked up at him and smiled. "I'm a little nervous about those high notes, but I've always wanted to sing this aria. The melody is so pretty."
Erik lifted his eyebrow, then smiled cunningly. "Very well," he said, gesturing towards the piano. I studied the score meticulously, struggling to recall the minimal German that Papa had taught me during our travels over the continent. I understood the music much more than the translation of the libretto.
Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,
Tot und Verzweiflung,
Tot und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!
"More anger," Erik said abruptly.
"Pardon?" I blinked.
"The Queen is enraged and vengeful," Erik said in a teacherly tone. "Your singing is pure and exquisite, but it is blank. I know you are plenty capable of fury, Christine. Put swords of flame into your voice."
I nodded. Anger. Anger. Where did I keep my rage? Of course. The children at the orphanage. Strangers across nations who all succumbed to rudeness and curiosity. La Carlotta. Carlotta!
How dare you! You evil woman!
This time, when my mind gave me the image of all the people in my life who had stared, pointed, and laughed at me, I summoned up a ball of incensed fire from somewhere deep inside.
Fühlt nicht durch dich
Sarastro todesschmerzen,
Sarastro todesschmerzen,
So bist du meine
Tochter nimmermehr.
I heard stilettos in each high, staccato note.
Verstossen sei auf ewig,
Verlassen sei auf ewig,
Zertrümmert sei'n auf ewig
Alle Bande der Natur
Wenn nicht durch dich
Sarastro wird erblassen!
Hört, Hört, Hört Rachegötter,
Hoert der Mutter Schwur!
"Better," he said, though I could tell he wasn't fully satisfied with my performance.
That night, Erik was busy at the piano composing something that sounded strange and wonderful; the music alternating with the scratch of his green quill. Not wishing to disturb him, I reclined on a couch near the fire, letting the light illuminate the pages I was reading. I had made it about half-way through Victor Hugo's mammoth Les Misérables, but I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open. Soon, I pushed the tome aside and rested my head …
I woke up. I was lying on my side, facing the back of couch; there was a cramp in my shoulder. Soft music spilled from the piano … Erik's flawless playing. I opened my eyes to a dull darkness; the fire in the hearth, though warm, had died down to faintly-glowing coals. I shut my eyes again, hoping to fall back asleep. I listened to the end of Chopin's Mazurka in F minor peacefully. When the piece ended, I heard the bench scrape backwards a bit as Erik rose from his seat. His footsteps, as stealthy as a hunting cat's, were inaudible, but I sensed his presence, like a thundercloud, draw near. He cast a shadow in the orange light that fell over me as he paused in front of the fireplace. I heard him sigh heavily.
I continued to lay there, body lax, breathing evenly. He pulled away from the hearth and approached the couch directly. I felt him lift his hand, perhaps to shake my round shoulder gently to rouse me, but apparently he changed his mind.
Instead, he bent forward slowly and charily slipped one arm beneath my thick neck, and the other beneath my battered knees. I felt Erik draw in a breath sharply, and almost effortlessly lift my bulky body into his arms; I lay as blank and loose as I could, my arms carelessly folded over my middle, my head nestled into the crook of his neck. He began to carry me across the lair to my bedroom as I prayed silently he wouldn't feel my heart beating at such an ungodly speed. His shirtfront was warm from the fire, and he smelled good, smoky and mysterious.
The air in my bedchamber was faintly perfumed by the rose-water I wore daily. Erik gently laid me down on the bed, and covered me with a thick blanket.
At the threshold, I heard him whisper, "Good-night, Christine," or was I already dreaming?
I was kneeling one afternoon before Erik's bookshelf, searching for a fresh read, absently humming the haunting English folk song Scarborough Fair. I hadn't brushed my hair, and it was springing free from the slipshod bun I'd tied it in; I'd dressed in a comfortable bronze-coloured gown, and tied a pretty shawl over my shoulders. It was with a slim volume of poetry in my hand when Erik announced we were to try material from Don Juan Triumphant.
"I think you're ready," Erik said simply to me. I felt a rush of excitement pulse through my veins, a swift energy that raced up and down my left arm, like an ache.
"Why don't you try Aminta's Act IV aria?" he suggested.
I nodded. I had read over the score for the aria, titled, The Hunter's Kiss. It was a sensual, metaphorical piece with strong string instrumentation. Appropriately, Erik's impeccable accompaniment for this song was on the cello.
"Christine," Erik interrupted the first reprise, frowning. "You're still not emoting enough."
"I'm trying," I said defensively, shutting my eyes. "But I'm not Aminta, Erik. I'm just Christine. I don't know if I can do this."
I opened my eyes to see him staring at me thoughtfully. Not crossly. He put down the bow of his cello and laid the instrument aside.
"Perhaps you'd like to wear this … as an early dress rehearsal, then." Erik pulled from some hidden depository a long white dress-box. I sat down and accepted it modestly.
I couldn't conceal the smile of delight as I opened the box. Inside, I found a positively striking dress of blushing salmon pink silk. The square neckline was trimmed with black lace studded with scarlet rosettes, and the sleeves were capped at the shoulder with the same seductive fringe. White lace peeked out from beneath the wide ruffle of the sleeves themselves, trimmed with black embroidery. The stomacher flared open, appliqués adorning a peasant-style lacing. The skirt, falling just mid-calf, was composed of several layers of pink ruffles edged with ebony embroidery that split down the centre to reveal a dark print. I looked closely at the shimmering fabric and gasped. The lacy print was of roses. The tiny red ribbon flowers were roses. Even the design of the black embroidery was of roses.
Aminta wasn't a gypsy girl or even a servant.
She was a forbidden flower.
I carefully lifted the dress from its box, and breathed, "It's so beautiful."
"It's yours," Erik answered.
I held it up to me, then glanced up at him. "May I?"
"Of course," he said.
I lurched up from my seat and went into my chambers to change. The costume fit perfectly, tailored exactly to my lumpy, humble body shape.
I emerged from my chamber. "Erik?"
He turned. He stared at me for several moments while I was sure my face turned the same hue as the dress.
"Wait a moment, my dear," he whispered. He plucked a fresh red rose from some vase nearby, and broke the stem off close to the blossom. He drew near, and gently tucked the flower into my frizzy hair, just above my left ear. We were uncomfortably close, and I fidgeted nervously.
"Try this phrase," he advised, pointing to a line of music. I read it quickly and smiled. I flung my arms out, and, twirling clumsily, exulted,
No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy!
No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!
I gasped at the end of the high note; not for shortness of breath, but for the utter change in sound. My voice no longer sounded like my voice, it was gossamer, but somehow powerful; like a crystal prism, the light of a star, soaring like a comet.
He didn't say a word, but from the glittering in his eyes, I knew that I had pleased my maestro. He had given me a voice to shatter prisons.
What was this feeling between us? I wondered, troubled, one evening as I tilted my head to better hear Erik's delicate and intricate playing on the grand piano. Clearly there was more of a rapport than simply teacher and pupil. That I accepted easily. The rest of the possibilities were much more unsettling. The only path of my future I had ever embraced was a solitary one; even as a little girl, I had always known my fate to be that of a working-class spinster. The only hope I had kept was to earn enough money to live in comfort, and cultivate a careful contentedness, without desperate desires.
But now where did I stand? Engaged to a nobleman that barely knew me, dwelling below the ground with a peculiar man just old enough to be my father. What a twisted travesty my life had become!
I couldn't think about it anymore. I had tried for so many years to shut my heart off, to be reconciled with my dejected life and carry myself with dignity. All the peace of mind I had worked for was being swept out from under me … A wave of vertigo swept over me, as though I were staring down a bottomless sheer drop just before my feet. Oh God, I would surely fall …
You can't afford to fall to pieces right now, I told myself sternly. What would Papa think if you fell apart in the face of an obstacle?
"Is everything all right?" Erik asked me later as he took his customary seat by the hearth. The warm firelight flickered over the polished surface of his mask.
"Oh .. Yes, Erik, thank you," I said distractedly, staring at the flames.
I sighed. "It's just …the anniversary of my father's death is approaching. It always make me melancholy. It's been so many years, and I'm afraid of losing him, forgetting him. I want to remember all the little things … the sparkle in his eye when he played the Tzigane, how he'd tap my nose twice when I sat on his lap, the texture of his ratty old opera cape, how he'd always let me tug on his hair …"
"You miss him," Erik said softly, stained by sorrow.
"I do," I said, staring at the flames in the hearth. "Next week marks the day, and I've visited his grave in Perros-Guirec every year without fail."
"Ah," he said. "Then, I take it you'll need this?"
He took from his tailcoat pocket a train ticket, and handed it to me. "One voyage to Perros-Guirec, my dear."
"Oh, Erik," I sighed, "thank you." I looked over departure time and station, satisfied. Erik even knew the day I needed to go.
"You must get some rest, Christine," Erik said quietly. "I want you to be well-rested for tomorrow's rehearsal."