"Stay with you?" The kiss, the broken music, and the prospect of living with a pipeline directly to the rehearsals in which my music was soon to be crucified: all of these had conspired to make me rather stupid.
"Right. What do you need? I can run back in there and get it – whatever it is. She's thinking about what she's doing; she won't notice…"
"In your home?"
"Right. Toothbrush? A change of clothes? Your pillow? I have extras, and blankets, but…"
"For…multiple nights?" When my emotions consisted of rage, fear, and satisfaction things were much simpler. None of those is similar to the others, and each is easily recognizable, even when there is overlap. Now… a stew of emotions had simmered the full spectrum of human feelings and I could not isolate the flavor of any of them.
"Right." She peered at me a moment, one eyebrow raised. "Erik, my love, if you don't want to, just say so. Right now you look like a fish on a hook."
I felt like a fish on a hook, dangling and gasping.
"I couldn't possibly…impose on you."
"Don't be silly. It's my pleasure." She paused to swallow and I noted that her face looked a bit more pink than usual. "Really."
"But Reyer will need instruction. Lots of instruction. And the orchestra – I must find some way to encourage them to practice a bit more than usual. And Debienne and Poligny will never manage without…"
But Erik, they're the managers. That's what they do. We left explicit instructions in their office."
"But they're mere puppets! Fools!" I shouted, finally running out of excuses and, therefore, my fragile calm. "I hired them so that I could have them work my will, not theirs!"
For a moment, Christine said nothing; she only cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
"And a business owner who hires fools… what do you call him, my love?"
"I…" Well, that last had shut me up quite nicely. While I admired her quick wit, I was also mildly tempted to strangle her. As I contemplated strangling her, I simultaneously was appreciating her wisdom and the depth of my love for her. It was many, many years before I was told that this particular brew of feelings is not psychopathic – it is a perfectly normal sentiment for any member of a romantic dyad.
"Ok, then. I have a phone and a car. Call Reyer and set up an appointment with him. I will then drive you to it. Remember, the whole idea here is to get you away from the place so the orchestra has a chance to develop on its own, without any mishaps involving blood and death."
While she was delivering this speech, I had noticed something. I was outside the opera house, sitting in the parking lot. I was sitting outside like any other man, having a little spat with my...
"Christine?"
She heaved an exasperated sigh and looked up at me. Ah, she looked beautiful when she was annoyed!
"What."
"Does all this mean that you are my girlfriend now?"
Now, patient listener, I must ask you: what do you think she did then? You'll never guess, so I shall have to tell you.
She took a breath, stared at me for a few seconds, blinked, and then burst out laughing. Her laughter bounced and echoed throughout the parking lot. She laughed until she had to hold her stomach. She laughed until tears streamed from her eyes and she plopped to the curb. She kept laughing until she was no longer making sound, except for the occasional desperate gasp for air. I watched, completely bewildered, until her quaking laughter died off into the occasional spurt of giggles.
She gave herself a minute to recover and then stood up to take my hand warmly in hers. Every sign of displeasure was gone from her face. She pulled me close, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me long and tenderly.
"Oh, my love," though her laughter had faded, her voice was still full of smiles, "Come on."
She pulled me across the parking lot to her car and I followed easily, still confused. I'd asked what I believed to be a perfectly reasonable question, and she'd exploded. It was past my understanding. Was she laughing at me because I'd made some terrible gaffe? Had I assumed something I should not? Even after I climbed into her passenger seat and we were well on our way down the road, I could not stop staring at her still-smiling face, searching for an answer.
We pulled into a driveway – apparently she'd moved out of her old apartment and into a little townhouse – where she parked and waited for me to get out of the car. Upon exiting, I found her again taking my hand and gazing up at me.
"Yes, Erik. I suppose I am you 'girlfriend' now, but I think that at our age we should say 'significant other', don't you?" She smiled and winked.
Her townhouse was small, but prettily decorated. I now understood what Nadir meant when he referred to "a woman's touch" with regards to decorating. Christine's preferences leaned towards soft neutrals complimented by even softer pastels. There was bamboo everywhere – she later explained to me that bamboo was extraordinarily strong and fast growing. She never bought any other kind of furniture. "Better for the environment," she said.
In the living room she showed me the couch that would be my bed for as long as I stayed with her. I must admit that after that one night together this was a disappointing turn of events, but she made it up so nicely with a pillow, sheets, and blankets that I could hardly complain. The undeniable and amazing thing was that I was in Christine's home, with Christine, just the two of us.
"Make yourself at home," she said, and I gingerly settled onto the couch.
She puttered in the kitchen, making tea. I sat on my sofa-turned-bed and fell into a state of deep contemplation. It was not concern for my theatre, or my painful past, or even the upcoming debut of my music that so captivated my thoughts. I was taking in the wholly domestic scene around me and wondering:
What was happily-ever-after supposed to look like, anyway?