A/N: Welcome, my dears, to Italy! Erik needed at least a FEW chapters of relief before I toss him back into the storm. Forgive the fillers, guys. Just enjoy the semi-fluff while it lasts.
The Hotel Gabriella was nothing remarkable, really, but good bargains were difficult to find in the Eternal City, and at least it had clean sheets and reasonably friendly staff. But so enamored by Rome itself was Erik that he hardly took notice of his accommodations. As he hardly slept anyway, he merely made sure Christine found the place satisfactory before booking a suite for the next month. Though she was clearly exhausted from the trip, he could not help but prattle like an excited child as he and a bellboy hauled their luggage from the hansom up to the room.
"There are so many things I must show you while we're here. You'll love the basilica, I'm sure, and we shall visit the Colosseum, and the Villa Medici, and the Pantheon, of course, and you simply must see the Roseto Comunale…"
Christine fanned herself lethargically with a paper fan, her cheeks flushed with heat. "May I take a nap first?" she moaned irritably.
"But of course, il mio innamorato," he laughed, oblivious to her petulance. "Rome wasn't built in a day, so we certainly shan't see it in one day!"
For once, everything seemed to be going according to plan. The boat had come into port two hours ahead of schedule, arriving just as the glorious red sun opened a new day in Rome. It had been far too long since he had visited the Eternal City, Erik decided, the moment he stepped off that godforsaken ship.
It was as if he had left all of his troubles in France, including the wretched Vicomte… who, by some fortunate twist of fate, had absolutely no idea he was a Vicomte. For the moment, everything was right as rain; Emily had sworn to keep him updated by post as to where they were, what they were up to, and any immediate plans. Just to be sure, he had written Nadir with vivid instructions to inform him if anyone so much as breathed a word about the Vicomte de Chagny's return.
With hundreds of miles and several national borders separating them, Erik could finally relax and enjoy some quality time with his lover in one of the world's most romantic cities.
He was only slightly disappointed when she brushed past him and collapsed on the bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Sighing good-naturedly, he shook his head, tipped the bellboy, and unpacked the luggage himself. After checking to make sure Christine was soundly asleep, he slipped down to the lobby and enquired as to whether any mail had arrived for a M. Erik Guerrier. He cringed only slightly upon grumbling his family name to the receptionist; damned international postal service required a surname. He had disowned his father's name decades ago, never intending to use it again… but it made no sense to make up another one. It was just a name.
The fiery little prostitute had kept her word, after all. Her letter was crudely sealed, as if she had mailed it in a hurry, the handwriting slapdash and terse:
Erik,
The train for Paris leaves in twenty minutes. Raoul and I shall be onboard. Was able to convince him that he saw Christine only in a fevered dream. He (and here the text was too smudged to read) a red scarf? Will write again in Paris.
Sincerely,
Emily Neilson
Nodding serenely, Erik tucked the letter in his pocket, checked on the sleeping Christine once more, and set out to the open-air markets. Over the past few weeks, he had developed the habit of purchasing food on a regular basis, as Christine had the irksome (but forgivable) necessity to eat every few hours. Occasionally she managed to talk him into swallowing a few bites of the food he prepared, but more than a few swallows usually made him nauseous. Nevertheless, he remembered enjoying Giovanni's cooking during his stay in Rome… one of the only occasions he could remember taking pleasure from food. He had actually taken the time to study the art of cooking all those years ago— just another of the countless trades he had picked up from his kind, elderly master.
Seventeen haggles later, he returned to the Hotel Gabriella with an armful of groceries: vinegar, olive oil, fresh pasta, basil, parsley, garlic, bread, and ripe tomatoes. An hour later, when Christine awoke, her stomach gave a terrific growl as she sat up and sniffed the air. The sound was quickly followed by an awed gasp; he had set up a little table with a white tablecloth and glowing candles, crammed to the edge with succulent Italian dishes.
Rubbing her eyes, she crawled out of bed and moved over to embrace him, her eyes never leaving the table. "When did you— I mean, I never knew you—"
Erik silenced her with a kiss, pulling out her chair like a perfect gentleman. "When in Rome…" he said with a shrug.
They spent the next two hours devouring every last scrap of food on the table, downing six glasses of wine each (though it tolled much heavier on Christine), discussing plans for touring the city, and making final decisions about her audition at the opera in the morning.
"Much as I'd love to see you as the resident diva here, I'm afraid it's too great a risk," Erik said gravely, twirling his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. "You are a very memorable performer, my dear. Unfortunately, we cannot allow Rome a taste of the magnificence you delivered in Paris."
"What are you suggesting?" Christine asked around a sip of wine.
Erik sighed, setting down his glass and taking her left hand gently. "You must understand, Christine, that it's remarkably difficult to ask you to tarnish your voice. To… purposefully mar such a beautiful instrument seems almost blasphemous." Honest distress clouded his eyes as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "But we cannot chance anyone discovering your identity, what with…" He hesitated, and Christine finished bitterly.
"With the rumor that I am a bloodthirsty, greedy, adulterous husband-killer." She looked away, nodding. "I understand."
Unable to bear the tension hanging between them, Erik rose and moved to kneel beside her, lifting her chin with his forefinger. "None of that, il mio amore," he whispered, kissing her shoulder. "It is behind us now. We must simply take precautions to keep those demons locked in the past."
Without turning to look at him, Christine asked quietly, "And what of the future?"
Erik swallowed hard as his breath hitched in his chest. It was such a straightforward question… almost a plea for some sort of anchor to ground her. After what she had suffered, he understood that she needed a pillar of support. The question lingered in the air between them, suffocating in its intensity. Did he want to commit himself to her for the rest of his life? It was the most ridiculous question he'd ever heard; he had been devoted to her, mind, body, and soul, from the very moment he had heard her voice over ten years ago. Did he want to marry her? Of course… though the sacrament meant nothing to him religiously, he appreciated the symbolism of binding himself to her for the rest of his life.
But as always, doubt reared its ugly head, dragging him down the slick slope into the recesses of his mind, and a plague of dark memories.
It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…
Pitiful creature of darkness…
We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered!
The tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold and turn to tears of hate!
And suddenly his strength failed him.
Fighting hard to quell the onslaught of shivers that ran the length of his spine, he answered softly, "I wish I knew, my love." When tears gathered in Christine's eyes, he had to fight back his own. Desperate to restore some of the night's romance, he pulled her into a tight, warm embrace, silently cursing himself for his cowardice. This was the second time he had failed to come through with a proposal. He swore to himself that it would be the last, inventing all sorts of excuses for his failure this time: they were both drunk, the timing was wrong, she had just gone through emotional trauma with the "dream" of seeing Raoul on the beach, and the list went on.
His heart felt hollow as he lifted her into his arms and brought her to the bed. Christine did not resist as he gently peeled away her nightgown and covered her angelic body in kisses, but neither did she respond with her usual ardor. They made love, but it was half-hearted, almost forced. When Christine curled over on her side, with her back facing him, he suddenly had the irrational terror that he had lost her forever. Biting back tears, he molded his body against hers and hugged her bare back to his chest.
It was a very, very long night.
-------------------------------------
The next day…
Lady Bianca di Gama could not have been a day over eighteen. Pale as fresh cream, bright-eyed, and with flaxen tresses that cascaded airily over her slender shoulders, she seemed almost to glow incandescently in the stage lights. Every eye in the room rested on her elegant frame, accented by a flattering gold silk gown and the diamonds that dripped from her ears, wrists, and neck.
It was if a Roman goddess herself had floated onto the stage to grace her subjects with a taste of heavenly music.
Erik scowled, absently tightening his grip on Christine's arm. She hardly seemed to notice; like all the other women waiting for their auditions, she sat rigid and pale, her self-confidence shattered by the appearance of this ostensibly divine competition.
"Not to worry, my dear," he whispered, leaning over to kiss her earlobe. "I have seen many a wealthy, doting parent pay so-called 'experts' to tell their spoiled daughters that they sing like angels, only to be humiliated in affairs such as this. Reserve your judgment until you've heard her sing. If I were a gambling man, I'd bet she has the voice of a strangled goat."
Christine smiled weakly and squeezed his fingers. "You are a very persuasive liar, Erik. Thank you." But as he opened his mouth to protest, Lady Bianca began to sing.
A reverent, awed silence hung in the air long after she had finished the aria, bowed, and exited the stage. The next woman in line ran for the exit in tears, followed by the three girls following her in sequential order.
Christine turned back to face him, one eyebrow arched. "Then it's a very good thing indeed you aren't a gambling man," she commented wryly.
The judges murmured and nodded amongst themselves before an elderly, bespectacled one raised his head and scanned the remaining performers. "Marguerite Giry?"
Next to him, Christine began to fidget and wring her hands, pausing from chewing her lip only long enough to flash a reassuring grin at her best friend. "You'll be fine," she mouthed.
Smiling wryly, Erik leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You're a very persuasive liar. I'm sure she's appreciative." His grin only widened when she smacked him playfully on the thigh, and some of the tension drained from her muscles. She sighed shakily and resumed biting her lower lip as Meg stepped up onto the stage. Erik wasn't watching the talented little ballerina, however; he met her mother's eyes briefly, offering a curt nod. Madame Giry raised her chin slightly in acknowledgment before devoting her full attention to her daughter.
Poor little Meg looked as if she were about to faint from terror as she stepped into the spotlight, swallowing hard. She squeezed her eyes shut for a fleeting moment before the music began, and suddenly it was as if a completely different girl stood in her place. In mere seconds she transitioned from a nervous child to the experienced performer she truly was, bending and twirling gracefully in perfect sync with the music. Landing ten complicated aerial movements in a row, she earned a brief, appreciative applause from those gathered in the auditorium, and impressed smiles from two of the three judges. Erik chanced a glance at her mother, and found her expression characteristically neutral and severe, though her heel tapped almost imperceptibly to the rhythm of the strings. It seemed a very speedy audition; soon the tune came to an end, with Meg easing fluidly into her final position. Thunderous applause filled the auditorium, and she smiled bashfully, offering a quick curtsy.
"Excellent, excellent! Thank you very much, Signorina," the judge called as she exited the stage, looking very impressed indeed. He had only to glance at his peers before scribbling what Erik guessed to be Meg's name on the roster for the Roman corpo di ballo. A moment later, he raised his bald head again and called, "Juliette Guerrier?"
Stiffening, Erik touched Christine's shoulder. "That's you. Go."
She spun to face him, wide-eyed. "What?"
"I couldn't very well use your true name with half of Europe looking for you," he hissed urgently. "Now go." As she stood, still looking bewildered, he grasped her hand, staring meaningfully up at her. "Remember: do well, but not your best. We cannot risk them casting you in the lead role."
"I don't think that will be a problem," she assured him, glancing sideways at Lady Bianca. Her shoulders lifted and sunk in a heavy sigh as she ascended the stairs to the stage. After curtsying politely to the judges, she locked gazes with Erik and refused to break eye contact. He met her stare calmly, the picture of composure, while inwardly his stomach was churning. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Christine could secure one of the lead soprano roles in this opera house just as easily as she had done in Paris, even without the unseen, authoritative nudges of her Angel of Music. But fame did not come without a price. There would be suitors calling on her, newspaper reports written on the mysterious new diva… it was all just a bit too precarious for his comfort. Parisians often ventured into Rome to visit family and friends or tour the ancient city, and unless they had been living as hermits, locked up in their estates without any outside contact, they would have heard of the de Chagny scandal, the abduction of Christine Daaé, and the Phantom of the Opera, let alone the rumors of murder and inheritance circulating about Paris.
This time, the Angel of Music could not make Christine into the star she deserved to be. But neither could he keep her from the stage she so dearly loved. Heartache ensued either way.
He had zealously objected to Christine's choice of audition material, insisting that it was too risky. Over the course of their thirteen-hour boat ride, however, she had managed to convince him that the only people in the auditorium who would have heard her sing it in Paris were himself and the ladies Giry. Reluctantly, he had agreed to allow her to perform the all-too-familiar song, unable to dispute the fact that it was the only aria she had truly mastered for the stage. Erik certainly was not inclined to have her sing anything from the dreadful Il Muto, and he wasn't strong enough to force his already self-conscious protégée to perform an aria she had not yet practiced; he'd had enough trouble convincing her to audition in the first place, though he knew that for all her protests, the stage secretly beckoned to her. Performing music was in her blood.
Fortunately, using Chalumeau's famous aria seemed to be worth the danger. Christine was utterly relaxed as the familiar opening notes swelled from the piano, her voice clear and steady as she began to sing.
Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me once in awhile
Please promise me you'll try
When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment
Spare a thought for me
Erik narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin as her voice soared comfortably over the notes. Immediately she took his cue, shifting slightly off-pitch and weighing her voice down with far too much vibrato. His lips curled in a satisfied smile, but it faded at the look in her eyes. She hated this, Erik realized; hated marring the glory of her voice when they both knew her potential. Through his eyes he tried to convey his sympathy and understanding, and he was stunned when she looked away, her eyes filling with tears.
We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember
Stop and think of me
Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the way things might have been
One of the judges raised his hand in a signal to stop, nodding his approval. "Yes, yes, that will do, thank you, Signora Guerrier," he called. Sniffling and nodding in return, Christine dipped in another curtsy before striding hastily offstage.
She did not stop at Erik's row, but kept on walking toward the exit at the back of the auditorium. Increasingly concerned, he rose to his feet and followed her at a half-run. He found her standing in the lobby, propped up against a pillar, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. For a moment he simply watched her, trying to discern the source of her distress. It certainly wasn't anger at having to tone down her performance, he understood now.
And then it struck him.
Clenching his teeth to refrain from biting out a cruel remark, he took a clean handkerchief from his own pocket and pressed it into her palm.
Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, "Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes? Or of vicomtes or phantoms?" he recited mentally. In the back of his mind his conscience insisted that he could not blame her for missing the boy— he had been her husband, after all.
But it didn't help.
Oblivious as always, little Meg Giry came trotting through the doors a moment later, all bright smiles and compliments. "Oh, Christine, you were wonderful!" she cried, enveloping her friend in a warm embrace. "I overheard the judges talking, and I think they were very impress— what's wrong?" She studied her friend's tear-streaked face before following Christine's gaze over to Erik. Gasping, she backed up a few steps, the blood draining from her flushed cheeks. Wide-eyed and scared speechless, she looked from Christine to Erik and back again several times before Christine came to her rescue.
"I'm fine. I think I caught a cold on that horrible boat. My nose won't stop running!" Erik doubted that even Meg Giry, renowned for her credulity, would believe such a blatant lie. He raised his eyebrows as Christine plastered a smile on her face, squeezed her friend's shoulder, and handed the soggy handkerchief back to him. With perfect composure, she looked up at him and said coolly, "I would like to go back to the hotel for a nap. Be a dear, Erik, and hire us a hansom?"
He glared at her, unappreciative of being dismissed like a pestering child in the company of adults. But he saw the pleading just beneath her façade, and grumblingly agreed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little Giry girl visibly relax as he swept out of the grand doors and down to the street.
There was something refreshing about Roman air. Dusty, hot, polluted, and horrifically overcrowded, it seemed the very last city that should have been appealing to him, but nevertheless he considered it one of his sanctuaries.
As he waited patiently on the curb for a group of giggly tourists to file out of a nearby hansom, his wandering gaze snagged on a cluster of houses on the horizon. His chest constricted with surprise, and slowly a light of recognition flared in his eyes. Smiling faintly, he dug in his pocket and produced a few crisp Italian bills which he had traded for francs upon entering Rome. Perhaps a long walk would help to clear his mind of the emotional audition and all of its implications.
"A young brunette woman will be on her way out in a few minutes," he told the carriage driver in flawless Italian, placing a bill in his hand. "She is wearing a pink dress and a white bonnet. You are to escort her personally to the Hotel Gabriella, and return immediately here to pick me up. I shall pay you ten times what the trip is worth if you keep her from harm's way."
"As you wish, Signore," the man agreed with a tip of his hat.
Erik gravitated instinctually toward the cluster of buildings, inhaling the scent of fresh bread and sun-baked tile. As the streets grew more residential, less and less tourists milled about, much to his relief. It was a lovely upper-middle class boulevard, just as he had remembered it. After strolling leisurely past several sprawling estates, he stopped suddenly, tilting his head as he studied one mansion in particular.
He could almost feel the wet mortar between his fingers as he smoothed the walls of that very house, creating painstakingly precise arches and pillars and high, rounded ceilings. Giovanni had designed a beautiful house indeed, and Erik had worked day and night for seven weeks to translate his master's work of art from paper to adobe and cement. He could still remember the pride that swelled in his chest as his kind old master ran his fingers caressingly over the smooth walls. A wrinkled smile from Giovanni was one of the most precious gifts Erik had received to date.
That had been twenty one years ago. Looking at the water stains along the roof, and the faded, worn steps leading to the front door, Erik suddenly felt very, very old. A shiver tingled up and down his spine, and he shook his head. So much of his life wasted. And now, when he finally had something—someone— worth living for, Fate stepped in, as usual, to try and rip it away.
Sighing heavily, Erik studied the product of his labor for another long moment before turning away. What he wouldn't have given to speak to Giovanni one last time. He was the one man he could bear to take advice from. Of course, there was always the Daroga… but he never explicitly asked for advice; the meddlesome Persian just seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in giving it. In his adolescent mind, at least, Giovanni had not been a mortal, like Nadir, but almost like a benevolent god— an omniscient father figure.
Like I was to Christine.
Guilt flooded him at the thought of her name. It suddenly occurred to him how selfish it had been of him to abandon her in her time of anguish. Cursing quietly at himself, he hurried back toward the opera house at a brisk jog.
A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending… hey, at least it's not a huge cliffhanger. That's a first in quite awhile, huh?
So in case you guys didn't get the oh-so-subtle hint, I LOVE Giovanni. –grins- I believe he and Nadir are Kay's biggest contributions to the fandom, yet both are horribly underused in fanfic!
A note to those of you who are fans of the musical "Rent": When Christine asked Erik what was to become of them in the future, I was THIS CLOSE –holds fingers a millimeter apart- to having him burst into song: "There is no fuutuurre, there is no paa-aa-ast; I live this moment as my last!" –winks- Okay, so I wouldn't ACTUALLY do that…
For those of you moaning and groaning about the fillers, don't worry— the plot will pick back up with a big, loud BANG in a few chapters. :D Hang in there.
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