Many thanks to all who have been so kind as to leave feedback! Please know that I'm very grateful.
We're getting to the part of this narrative where things really hit the fan. :)
Every lover is mad, we are told. But can we imagine a madman in love?
– Roland Barthes, "A Lover's Discourse"
The station at the Plaza del Doctor Andreu was empty, and as the last funicular train started its steep ascent through the darkness to the Tibidabo mountain, Christine examined the pocketknife in her hands. She had ransacked the flat looking for anything, any kind of weapon she could use against Erik, and she had found an old pocketknife of Raoul's in his bedside table. The bone on the handle was coming off, what little remained of it hanging precariously from a screw. Yet Raoul had kept the hardware within oiled and sharpened, and that was all that mattered. Shaking her head, Christine despaired. What madness was it to try to confront Erik with a mere pocketknife? Perhaps she would succeed in surprising him, at most. Still, having it in her hands gave her comfort as the dark forms of pine trees slipped past the windows of the train.
Erik had chosen the amusement park on Tibidabo mountain as the stage for his blackmail. She knew him well enough to ponder the meaning of that.
"Haec omnia tibi dabo si cadens adoraberis me."
"All this I will give to you," the Devil said to Jesus, showing him the earthly panorama from the mountain's height, "if you kneel down and worship me."
Thus the highest mountain in the Collserola range had been named using the Devil's own tempting words to Jesus. The irony of his calling her to the amusement park at its summit was typical of Erik.
Finally, the car pulled into the station at Tibidabo. Christine surveyed the empty car as she rose to her feet, secreting the pocketknife into her skirt pocket. As she moved towards the exit, the driver, who had been mute during the entire trip, turned towards her.
"The place is closed, señora, but you will be permitted to enter. Mind your step."
"Wait!" Christine cried, but he pulled the door firmly closed and pointedly turned his back to her.
She stared at him for a few seconds, then turned and moved slowly out of the station. An October crescent moon shone over the plaza at the entrance to the amusement park. Although she could see a few lights illuminating the park, it was empty of people. She had never seen the park so abandoned, and as the wind whipped through her hair, loosening her bun, she shuddered and adjusted her hat. Against the stars, she could see the forms of the Ferris wheel and rollercoaster that dominated the Tibidabo park. Reigning high over the amusement park, at the very peak of the mountain, was the massive Church of the Sagrado Corazon, as yet unfinished. Christine's eyes swept over the walled fortress that surrounded its crypt, which was flanked on either side by a monumental double stairway. Above the crypt, the church itself, made of paler stone, rose up in Gothic splendor and ended abruptly, just below where a central tower and surrounding turrets would someday be. The archangel Michael presided from its high arches, ready to do battle against Satan. The wind stirred once more and the pine trees whispered softly, then more loudly. Christine turned to survey the panorama below Tibidabo. On the black velvet expanse spread out below the mountain, Barcelona's jeweled webs of lights shimmered up at her, interrupting the darkness that stretched out to the sea beyond.
Christine squared her shoulders and turned resolutely towards the park. Her heels clicked dully against the pavement as she approached the entry gates, and she quickly located one that was standing ajar. Her shoes were loose on her feet, selected by her especially for that reason. If worst came to worst, she could kick off her shoes to run – not that she expected to get very far.
IF YOU REFLECT...
As she entered the park, she paused to look towards the right, scrutinizing the attractions and buildings until she had located the one she wanted. There it stood: the Hall of Mirrors. She wondered whether Erik was holding Raoul there, or whether he had him secured somewhere else. Had he killed him already? That fear made her heart skip a beat, but somehow she knew that Raoul was alive. She prayed he was unharmed.
The ornate door to the Hall of Mirrors was also conspicuously ajar, but Christine paused before entering, the hairs at the nape of her neck rising. The darkness within the building was complete. She was entering into combat against a man who could see easily in the dark, whose capacity for violence was unspeakable, and whose intelligence was unmatched – and she was doing it on his terms entirely. She released a tremulous breath and stepped into the hall, her arms outstretched so that she could feel her way into...where?
The door slammed shut behind her.
"Erik?" she breathed, struggling to control the fear in her voice.
A gust of air brushed past her. "Ah, you have finally come to visit your poor Erik in his solitude! So kind of you. Please approach, my dear." His voice was cold, smooth, beautiful. Christine could hear the anger within its deceptive cadences.
A beam of light snapped on, illuminating a hallway, and little more. There was no sign what it led to, as the light faded into blackness after several yards. The walls were black, and Christine could barely discern the floor. She hesitated.
"I can't see well, Erik. I can't..." Her throat was dry. "Where are you?"
"Approach."
She felt the limits of his patience in his voice and forced her feet to move. As she moved down the dark hallway, she fought panic. Complete darkness surrounded her at the end of it, and she felt the brush of curtains as she entered a doorway...to what?
A light blinked on, and Christine suppressed a yelp. She was now staring at her own image, but there was an unearthly quality to it, and she realized that it was because her reflection was suspended in a bottomless well of darkness. Looking up, she saw nothing but blackness as well. All that existed was her own reflection in the dark void, and herself. Even her own body seemed to be floating. There was no ceiling above her, no floor beneath her feet, only the vacuum of a space that was terrifying and infinite.
Her reflection moved suddenly, retreating backwards at dizzying speed to disappear into blackness entirely.
Christine found her voice. "Erik...you told me to come, and I've come. Please...I don't want to play this game of yours, whatever it is."
There was the sudden metallic clack of a mechanism as it ground into motion, and the dim light that had illuminated Christine gave way to complete darkness.
"Indeed? It is I who do not wish to play your games, Christine."
Her image appeared once more, but it was off center. To its right, another tiny image approached, hurtling forward rapidly, and Erik was suddenly standing beside her reflection but looking down at the real Christine. He was dressed for evening, the starched whiteness of his cravat stark against the darkness of his suit and cloak. He was wearing his black mask, and the fire that always lit his gaze fairly blazed in these shadowy surroundings. Erik's specter regarded her for several seconds before the two ghostly reflections began to slide together, uniting into one solid image that was half Erik and half her. Soon, the two reflections were superimposed upon each other. Christine stared. They appeared to be locked into a sublime embrace, but his fiery eyes never left hers as her mirror image became fused into his.
She forced herself to breathe. "What have you done with Raoul?"
Her own reflection disappeared, and Erik alone regarded her silently. He gestured casually to the left, and Christine gasped. Raoul was floating at her side, pale as death, a hangman's noose about his neck. The rope did not seem taut, but his feet were relaxed, toes downward, as though he were indeed being hanged.
"You've killed him! Raoul!"
Christine leaped towards Raoul, intent on removing the rope, but she hit the flat surface of the mirror with a slap. Sobbing, she sank to her knees, onto the dark surface of whatever mysterious floor was supporting her.
"How could you?" She looked up at Erik, who was viewing her from on high with seeming detachment.
"How could I? But I did not, my dear! Always thinking the worst of me, aren't you?"
As if on cue, Raoul opened his eyes and looked wildly around. He worked frantically at the noose with his hands, but Christine could tell his efforts to free himself would be futile.
"Raoul! I'm here!" She could give him hope, at least.
"Christine!" He had heard her, but suddenly the rope at his neck became taut, and Christine watched in horror as his paleness turned to purple.
"Erik! Please!" Still on her knees, she continued to watch Raoul.
In answer to her cries, the images of Raoul multiplied and revolved around them; at first, there were four reflections, but soon there were sixteen. Only Erik's regal presence remained steady, continuing to look down at Christine as Raoul circled them, writhing and choking.
"Please, Erik!"
"No. Not without a promise from you – you, who are so good at keeping promises," Erik's voice taunted smoothly.
The images of Raoul had stopped spinning around them, and all but one of them faded out. Christine looked at him carefully and noted that he had stopped struggling.
"What promise do you want, Erik?" Her voice was dull, resigned.
"I think you know."
"I'll do anything. Anything."
Beside them, Raoul's reflected image relaxed and took in great gulps of air. The rope was slack now. The reflection faded and disappeared.
"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Christine looked up. Erik hovered over her like a shadow for a minute before bending to pull her to a standing position. His hands lingered on her upper arms. Something lunatic flickered in the heated depths of his eyes, but Christine stood her ground.
"What will it be, then, Erik?" she wondered tiredly. The sleepless night, the ordeal at the Victoria, and now this...all were taking their toll on her.
Her question went unanswered. Instead, Erik scrutinized her silently, his hands still on her arms.
"You are exhausted, my dear. What on earth happened to your face?" His long fingers grasped her chin, moving her head to the side so that he could examine her injury. This he did with the gentle solicitude of a man who had never strangled someone to death in his life.
"A mishap in my dressing room," Christine explained. "I see the makeup I used didn't hide it very well. Erik, are you going to release Raoul?"
"All in good time. How went 'Turandot,' dearest? How many ovations did you receive? I should be garroted for not having attended, but Erik has been a busy man lately!" The lunacy in his glowing eyes reappeared briefly.
"The opera went well," she lied. "Erik, please at least make certain Raoul is well...he needs a doctor."
Erik scoffed. "What's a rope burn to our battle-scarred hero? His pride would be offended if we were to treat him with such tender indulgence!"
"You will let him go, won't you?"
"As soon as you honor your word, I shall honor mine."
"Erik, I'm married to Raoul," Christine attempted, but she knew what Erik's answer would be.
"You know perfectly well that your so-called marriage was null ab initio." He waved a gloved hand in casual dismissal and began to circle her.
A flicker of panic pierced Christine's fatigue. Erik had won; they both knew he had won, but he was far from satisfied. She sensed a danger in his demeanor, a recklessness that was the fruit of whatever discomfort affected his mind. The best she could do, she decided, was to stand perfectly still and not betray her anxiety by turning to look at him. She felt his presence behind her as the prey senses its predator.
"You want me to go to New York with you? You understand that I had other plans," she said, keeping her voice calm.
"They were never your plans, were they, Christine? He would have you live in hiding at his brother's estate. The comte de Chagny supports the Vichy government rather loudly. He's with the Action française movement, you understand, and always has been. He's nobility, he is a monarchist! How long do you think it would take him to hand you over to the Nazis?"
"He would never do that to Raoul!" Christine exclaimed, but her tone lacked conviction. She had entertained the very same doubts that Erik was naming. "I'm nothing but an opera singer to the Nazis, anyway. They're not looking for me. I could pose as a servant...what's another Spanish refugee to the Vichy government?"
He was suddenly directly before her, grasping her arms as his eyes blazed into hers. "Little fool! The comte blames you for his brother's unfortunate political leanings and will not scruple to have you arrested as a Red. Why do you think he is so eager to welcome you to the family? A successful opera singer who has left Spain under suspicious circumstances, ending up on his estate disguised as a servant...oh, the Nazis would be all too happy to interrogate you and hand you back to the Spanish regime. The comte would be more than happy to assist them. With a brother like his, he is eager to prove his loyalty to Vichy, and this would be the perfect means."
Christine remained silent. Erik's logic was impeccable, and she recognized that he only spoke the truth. He continued to pace around her, circling silently in the gloom.
"You do not love him and have not truly loved him for a long time, if you ever did," Erik continued from off to her side. "You will forget him. He would place you in danger, something that I will never permit him to do."
"I've already agreed to whatever you want, Erik," Christine sighed.
He was out of her line of vision again. Where was he? Behind her?
"Whatever I want, Christine? I want you to know yourself for once, rather than avoiding the truth about what I am to you and what you are to me. You, my dear, are a coward – oh, not the kind that runs from physical danger! It would be much better for us both if you weren't so daring in that regard...but no, you are a coward when it comes to the truth. You insist to yourself that you're honoring that sham of a marriage of yours, yet you come to my bed easily enough, don't you? You abandoned all others when you gave yourself to me. I, in turn, have taken you, protected you, and placed you above all others. No cause will ever be as dear to me as you are."
Silence descended. Christine waited, her heart pounding in her ears.
"I think we have danced this little dance of ours long enough, don't you, my dear? It's time you accepted your fate." His voice was low, nearly a whisper, and she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh.
The darkness yielded to a white light that suddenly seemed to focus on Christine from all directions. Her own image, repeated several times to form a circle around her, shone upon her from all directions like stage lights. She blinked and squinted. This vision of herself was resplendent in its white wedding dress.
"I think the time has come for that promise you owe me, Christine."