Long time, no see! But the update is here and we are certainly nearing the end of this story, sad as it may be! Woo-hoo!
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Chapter XXXV
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A thousand times, he had considered reaching her prior to the event. Erik, however, was hardly like that. He was the night, the shadow – and in the shadows he stayed, watching and waiting. He had secured the purchase of an apartment in Sydney before ever arriving in the great city – hotels were tedious. You had to be visible, much too visible, and he had ample money to secure himself a comfortable and, above all else, private living. Besides, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have eventually acquired a flat or house in the city, as the resident opera house was the most renowned one in the world, not only because of its unquestionable quality, but also because of the architectural achievement it presented.
In a sense, it seemed that Christine had agreed to go truth with the concert as a way of creating a neutral ground on which they could interact. That was a sly and cunning move; likely, she hadn't fully realized the consequences of such an act. But it was also a reasonable proposition, and not one to be rejected. Besides, the small chamber performance – what it was supposed to have been – was currently shaping up to be one of the most anticipated events of the year. Everyone of any kind of importance in the world of music would be there.
And, of course, the more sensation-oriented media were already wondering whether he would appear there as well. Oh, naturally! How grandiose a revelation, how great an opportunity! And the idea of no one recognizing him nonetheless was charming. But Erik had no actual intention of appearing for a ravenous crowd. He loathed crowds, and if there had never been the need to acquire some necessities for himself, he would never have even allowed them to hear a single note of his music. What had they done to deserve it? But he had craved wealth, if nothing else, and made certain that society was being properly taxed for all its wrongs and all that he had been faced with.
Even angels didn't sing for free; especially when they had no sheet music to sing from.
In Christine's absence, he had managed to complete Don Juan triumphant. But he remained resolved not to ever show his masterpiece of two decades to anyone. Not even Christine. Especially not Christine, as she would have been more frightened of him than she already was. Poor, naïve Christine. So easily broken, so willing to be filled with kindness. In her quest to bring happiness to all, she had inadvertedly brought misery to herself.
When he saw her during the rehearsals, her face was ashen, pale, though still undeniably lovely. She was so close that the madness threatened to take over his senses and many a time he contemplated simply carrying her away. It would not be so difficult, though the fact that she was now famous presented somewhat of a problem. But what then? Certainly she would stay with him. But only because she had no other choice! Doomed, doomed to remain the caged nightingale, singing to he monster in his moments of madness and despair.
Poor Christine. And she pitied him for his lot in life! She would never be lacking in anything. He was prepared to do anything in the world for her, virtually anything, if she would only stay. It was like a disease spreading through him, the heat of it almost touching even his cold death's flesh, the feverish thoughts threatening to drive him mad. It was the pinnacle of inspiration and agony. Only when she was gone did Erik realize to the full extent of the words that he loved her completely, her presence, her childishness and her divine voice.
Cruel Pandora. She had eliminated the greatest obstacle between them only to place another there – distance. But that was more easily overcome than the involvement of the boy with such a perfect face.
He had abandoned the thought that she and Nadir might have plotted this spectacular escape and the spectacle to back him into a corner. Christine wasn't like that. Christine was pure. And there wasn't only fear in her eyes when she always surveyed her surroundings during rehearsal, watching, perhaps, for some glimpse of the shadow that always followed her. It was almost amusing.
Did she think him that clumsy? Unless he wished to be seen, he could have been standing next to her and she would never be the wiser.
He listened to her practice the songs with what coaches and accompaninists the theater could provide. Her choices were daring, but she managed admirably in her conditions. Of course she wasn't as perfect, as flawless as she could have been under his tuition, but she was breathtaking nevertheless.
Whenever she sang Qui la voce from I Puritani, the temptation was strongest. To take her away and force her to speak her mind, not run again. Never again. Where could she run, truly? But he had given her to the world, a priceless gem, and taking her away would mean facing the world. Sharing her with them for the moments she was on the stage was tolerable, acceptable.
Anything else wasn't.
The night finally came that anyone that was anyone appeared in their most lavish and expensive outfits at the opera house, Venetian-styled masks in their hands and on their faces, laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Even the press seemed to have acquired a small mask or to for the occasion.
Christine, unknowingly, had paid a certain cruel homage to him. She wouldn't understand what it felt like to have a mask make her face complete.
He remained hidden from the crowds, having arrived at the opera house hours before the performance, to see her practice, to silently give her confidence and to ready himself for what was to come. For if Christine rejected him in this final moment, he would have exhausted his reasons to live. His opera was finished; his student had brought vocal perfection to the world. But the finale of such a grand tragedy had to be equally big, equally splendorous.
It would be a pity about the chandelier, though. It wasn't the worst he had ever seen. But currently, it was attached in a way that could be easily controllable for him. If Christine Daaé said no, lives would be lost. He didn't care one bit. He would likely die of grief himself before they did.
So ends the tale that should have never begun.
No matter. There were other things of importance to be taken care of that evening.
He watched as the artists casually butchered up completely wonderful pieces of music. He cringed when Carlotta killed the song that he had yet to hear Christine sing in her new production. In her lavish and over-the-top costume, Carlotta Giudicelli resembled a multicolored fruit and a bar wench more than a soprano of world-class, which she couldn't claim to be.
And then, Christine appeared, in a light cream-colored evening gown, the complete opposite of Carlotta in her lavish stage costume. She was an angel stranded on earth and the moment she opened her mouth and a glorious sound came out, it seemed that heaven had been brought to the earth when she couldn't sprout her wings again and ascend above the clouds.
Even he was very near being transfixed by the mere sound of her soaring song, though there was a dampness in his eyes. She was exquisite, her voice divine; a true angel. The world didn't deserve; he himself scarcely deserved her. His only saving grace was that he was the only one who could enhance her perfection even more and redefine the limits of art through her and his music. She was singing the song of a madwoman reminiscing about what things had been like when she had been with her beloved and not burdened by the conventions of her time and the strict desires of her family.
Would she end up mad, in time? There wouldn't be second escapes. There would be either acceptance… or death. Either way, every opera had to have an ending. With a twinge of momentarily terror, he remembered that not all operas had a happy ending. Most of them didn't. But of course, Christine was stronger than a romantic heroine of the classic operas. She had rejected that boy; she had forsaken almost her whole life… for him. And she hadn't died when she saw!
No; there had been enough time to mourn and to wait. There was a decision to make and Christine would have to make it now, whether she was ready or not. Hadn't he had enough patience? Hadn't he been considerate enough? He, who had given Christine the means of showing her a piece of heaven to the unworthy world, who had changed her life in a way that showed her, deserved at least that – to know that.
The true moment of triumph, however, came afterwards. The applause that followed the final note of the aria was unparalleled; most of the audience didn't even wait for the orchestra to finish the final instrumental part of the aria, standing up spontaneously on their own accord. At that moment, Erik felt pride. He had seen her sing many times now, always stupendous, but this time, she had done this on her own. She had the strength to be a diva in her own right… though he would have to steer that strength, so that it wouldn't carry her away from him. That he could not abide.
He had given her wings to fly, not to flee.
Arguably, the worst part of the concert was the moment she had to sing with Carlotta. Piangi was tolerable – at least he seemed to have some sort of joy in hearing the music and recognized when he was outmatched. Thus the duet he sang with Christine was somewhat more submissive than it should have been. When Christine sang the higher voice in her duet with Carlotta, it was also almost bearable, though the older diva tried to glorify her part as much as she could, thereby ruining most of the song.
The true trial was the second duet with Carlotta, or rather, the aria where Christine sang the higher voice for a moment when the chorus joined in.
Oh, he had something special prepared for that particular aria. You could not sing a song about a veiled, masked beauty without someone who knew more about masks than anyone else in the world to interject somewhat.
Christine tried to make the most of her little interjection in the aria. Again, Carlotta was attempting to drown her voice by the sheer broadness of her tones, but it was proving next to hopeless. And the more the diva tried, the less she focused on producing her own notes evenly, which turned out to be a very bad strategy. She still hit the notes, but they sounded shrill, like a cold wind, and wheezed equally so.
They got through the prima volta without any kind of incident. But during the seconda volta, at the moment when the chorus and the page were to hit a low note, so that Eboli could show off her top A, something unprecedented happened. Instead of the perfect tone Carlotta had in mind, something akin to the sound of a frog that had just been stepped on came out of her throat.
The orchestra stopped playing. The chorus almost started muttering quietly amongst themselves. Carlotta looked white as chalk, but cleared her throat and tried again.
To the same result.
The third time was no better and by then, a few of the dignified faces in the audience had turned into mild snickers. This was the event of the year – all notable television stations were here, papers and radios including. This transmission would go around the world.
Carlotta ran off the stage – very peculiar in comparison to her usual storming off – and Christine could swear she saw tears on her face. Be they of rage or of embarrassment, she didn't know.
There was a moment of very awkward silence in the auditorium. Christine was the only one who by now had an idea of what was going on and she swallowed, hard. This was the work of only one person – there was certainly nothing wrong with Carlotta's throat.
He was here.
A shiver ran through her, but she stood straight as a candelabra, waiting for some kind of instruction. The managers backstage were ready to faint, she could imagine. The conductor, too, felt the sweat pouring down his temple. With the diva gone, how were they supposed to finish the damned aria? There was no way he could just call off the soprano and chorus like that. It would only be even more embarrassing.
And then, next to his ear, a voice that could have only been sent by divine intervention whispered: "Christine Daaé could sing it, sir."
The conductor looked around him, but no one from the audience had leaned in to say those words. Besides, the voice had been… perhaps it was simply his own delusion. But the voice was correct – the soprano knew the lines and the music, certainly, as she had the same lines and her vocal line had been only a third above Carlotta's.
What he couldn't understand, though, was why she was searching for something with her eyes rather than looking at him for instruction.
"Miss Daaé!" There was no helping it – he had to call out to her, and, thankfully, she turned her attention back to him, as if a whip had cracked. "From the cadenza, if you please."
For a second, she stared at him as if he were crazy, but then nodded. She sang the entire cadenza perfectly, having heard it a thousand times, especially now that she knew that Erik was watching. It was a bit too heavy for her voice, but it didn't matter. The chorus took over the vocals of Tebaldo, which was no problem for them, as some of the sopranos had the same phrase.
Applause drowned the auditorium.
But as soon as the aria was finished, one of the managers raced to the stage, apologized for the "incident", as he called it, and announced that there would be a ten-minute break before the show would resume.
"We would like to check the technical equipment to find out whether anything is impaired and thus caused Signora Giudicelli´s voice to… malfunction." He said apologetically. "We request your patience. Meanwhile, the services of our bar and restaurant are at your full disposal, ladies and gentlemen. We would also like to thank Miss Christine Daaé for her willingness to handle the situation. Thank you."
The crowds applauded Christine again loudly, and she felt almost deafened by the sound.
Ten minutes. She felt that not even a lifetime would be enough to tell Erik what she wanted to say and to find him.
As she went to her dressing room, she noticed that Carlotta was crying on Piangi´s shoulder, her makeup ruined, her assistants and seamstresses running around her, bringing her anything and everything she needed.
Piangi, too, was giving rather sour looks to the managers, who tried to assure him that they were doing everything in their power to find the source of the technical anomaly, for there was clearly no way in the world that Carlotta's golden voice could have broken and broken so horribly.
In her dressing room, Christine prepared for the final few arias alone. She took off her white and silver mask, rearranged her hair somewhat. But all this was done with an air of anxiety. She was getting paranoid.
What do you intend to do, Erik? To return the hurt by destroying my concert? Would you do the same to my voice? But she shook her head. No; he had created her voice – he wouldn't destroy it just out of sheer spite.
Besides… he loved her. That sent more of a shiver down her spine than even his gaze could.
Because she… if she loved him… if she didn't, why should she care? Why would she tremble? Why would she… miss him and damn herself each day for casting him back into the cage of loneliness. She had the capacity for loving him – why couldn't she simply…?
On her vanity table, her phone rang.