Since speaking with Justine, one phrase had whirred in Christian's mind: I want my mother. He had continued his night-time supervision for a few days, watching the beads of sweat at the back of her neck as she vomited. As she retched, her voice echoed in Christian's ear. I want my mother. He sat across from his father, who was engrossed in another composition. He had been writing a new piece, unnamed and under constant revision. Christian knew its variations as well as his own heartbeat. Christian crumbled his bread into pieces, not taking them to its mouth. He had only dared ask this question a few times before and he knew Papa preferred not to be interrupted. He stood up from his crumbs and drifted across to the bed he shared with his father, seeking his parchment. His watery coffee would do well enough for colouring (his precious dried watercolours were used only scarcely from the knowledge that new purchases had to be approved by Papa). He began to sketch a new face.
His pencil pressed the parchment. He felt the hairs on his neck. He ran his hand over his scraggly neck. He heard his father's chair scrape against the stones, the swelling notes from the organ. He was in a good mood, then. Christian looked at his pencil, pointed against the paper.
I want my mother.
Papa's long fingers – yellowish like the ivory beneath them - pressed the keys. Middle C chord, a flurry of high, clear notes – quick and light like a winged insect.
"Papa?"
The insect hovered. Erik lifted his face. There was nothing unusual for Christian in this walking skeleton. Having seen nothing else for the first ten years of his life, Erik's ugliness was less a horror to Christian than the ballerinas' beauty was an incredible miracle. Could Erik have become somehow uglier, he would have lost none of Christian's love. There was too much familiarity for that kind of fear.
His father did not turn around. In the silence came Christian's quiet voice.
"Papa, where is my mother?"
He saw the tension at the back of his fathers neck, the poor little veins rising in his old hands. A note of guilt had found its way into Christian's question; there was a note of pain in Erik's reply.
"You have no mother, my boy. It is like I told you. You are only mine – there was never a mother."
"But Papa – don't be unhappy with me, I mean no harm – I must have a mother, for all people do. I have read it in the encyclopaedia," he added, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. See, Papa, no one has turned me against you.
Papa's reply was a hiss: "I'll burn that book. Boy – Christian – my child, do you think that I would lie to you? I am your father, not a tyrant. Haven't I fed you from my plate and wrapped you in my bed? Haven't I given you everything that is mine? Haven't I taught you everything important? Would I deprive you? Who are you going to believe, a dusty old book or your father, who sits here before you – your father, who has loved and protected you, and demands nothing but your trust and your devotion?"
This was neither the worst nor the best way this conversation had gone. At five, this line of questioning had ended with a welt beneath Christian's eye; at twelve, it had been met with a period of starvation and silence. It would not be the first time that Papa had shunned his food in anger; it was for this reason that Christian had waited until after breakfast to ask. It was for this reason, too, that Christian's answer was well-rehearsed.
"My cherished father, you know that all I am is yours. I mean not to distress you. We need not go further down this path if it upsets you."
"What is all this talk of mothers, lately? What have you heard on your gallivanting?" Erik asked. His black eyes told Christian, often but quietly, that the boy's travels above were taken personally. Christian opted for the best-received reply.
"I have only heard the music, my father, and from it I know that you are right, that the music is the most important part of life, and that you are a genius. I have been transcribing a new score for you, but I haven't quite caught it yet. I think you will like it when you hear it, Papa."
"Is that so?" Erik shifted on his seat. "Come then – play it for me."
Like a good boy, Christian took his seat and played a piece he had dreamed up for Justine. It wasn't unusual for him to write for the girls he fell in love with, possessing them in notes and chords instead of kisses and caresses. It did the girls no harm and helped him immeasurably, for Erik, having never know erotic love, had no inkling that he might need to warn his son about it or tell him how to tame it. The notes were frenzied then plaintive; had a dancer attempted to copy it, she likely would have fell down from exhaustion. Having only learned to read and write somewhat later, sheet music was in many ways Christian's first language; he often thought and even dreamed in melodies. His hands came to a sudden halt.
"Forgive me, Papa, I forget how it ends."
"It was very beautiful, and you play it well. I hope you have remembered time to focus on your own compositions, my boy. I didn't raise you to be a parrot."
"Of course, Papa," the boy said without thinking, "of course." This was the old refrain – the best way to soothe the old man. Christian would likely have said he knew the phantom very well, or at least he knew how to manage him. Within his limits, Papa Fantome was benevolent, calm and gentle. He was like that wonderful, shabby organ they both so loved. Certain strings inside it had thinned. Certain keys creaked or fell away. Much of it was still lovely even in its disrepair, provided one knew that there were certain keys that were not to be touched.