I was not accustomed to surprises of any nature, to say the least. I was quite set in my ways, however odd they appeared in the shadow of a 'normal' routine. I was a man of control- perhaps too enamored of my own power. This possible fault had never occurred to me until Christine. In her presence, somehow, I had found myself to be the supplicant, eagerly aiming to please her every desire, no matter how trivial.
Which brings me back to that evening. It is a night I rarely allow to appear in my mind's eye, considering the outcome. . . And yet, the memories flood through my soul as if they wish to drown what is left of me. I recall each moment, as if I had framed a daguerreotype of each simple and instinctive movement of her body. Her smile. If I close my eyes very tightly, I am able to live in that night again. . .
"Of all places, my dear, why Sainte Chappelle? I thought you sent your prayers to heaven from the chapel at the Opera?" I offered my best impression of a smile.
Christine gave me a quizzical look, as if to say, "No questions, Erik. Just follow me." A look I had so often bestowed upon her impenetrable innocence.
Simply follow me. . .
"Are you to be my tutor, tonight?"
Swiftly, her gaze shifted from the road before us to rest on the intoxicating knot of our fingertips. "Perhaps. . .in a way. I wish to show you something. . ."her grasp tightened around my palm. I sensed her heartbeat in every vein of my flesh.
We walked for hours, I think, yet it seemed like a mere handful of moments. I was intoxicated by the contact of our palms. A man violently fighting desire in the face of propriety. And love. My raw and overwhelming feelings for the girl forced my every yearning to remain unsated. Outside of the realm of music, I'd never been a reverent man. I could more aptly be called sacrilegious. But, Christine, this tiny, trusting nightingale, brought me to my knees in awe. How very ironic that a hateful and bloodthirsty ghoul like myself could be awed and humbled in the presence of everything I was not.
"It's not far now," Christine squeezed my fingers eagerly, and pulled my arm. Soon, she had me practically running. Like two children, we could have been, meeting clandestinely to perform some mischief far from the gaze of our parents. I don't believe, in all my years, that I had ever felt so unencumbered. Christine had the miraculous ability of allowing me to forget who I was, what I was, if only for a handful of hours.
We came to an abrupt and solid halt in front of the massive chapel doors. There was a comfortable moment of silence between the two of us as we took in the many detailed engravings that adorned the cathedral's facade. A silence, not one laden with the weight of unexpressed desires, but a silence of mutual appreciation for the beauty that was Saint Chappelle.
As an architect, I was at once rueful that I had never, in all my years in France, visited this sanctuary to God. I'd heard about it's crowning glory- the intricate and brilliantly colored stained glass windows. Notre Dame might easily outrank Sainte Chappelle in size, but the little church's windows, I was told by Christine, as we had made our walk, left all other painted glass wanting.
"It's remarkable, isn't it Erik?'Her fingertips grazed a whisper over the many engravings, until they tickled the back of my hand. In my reverie I had failed to realize that I was just as drawn to the beauty as she. Yet, Christine possessed an appreciation for these sacred wonders that I no longer could, a reverence to the one for whom they were erected.
I had lost my trust in The Almighty long before this pious and delicate creature had graced my existence with her irresistible fragility. I t was quite simply to make the Holy Father an eternal foe after coming to the revelation that he made some of his 'children' to be inferior to the others. The religious of society often said deformities were simply the hardship every man must go through, except it is merely physical. The clerics would have counseled me- if ever I'd allowed them my confidence- that I must look to the Holy One for answers, put my faith in him, and willingly accept my deformity as a test of faith. I was not the unfortunate and God-fearing Job of Scripture. And as for faith, well I had never been given cause to place my soul into the care of any other being other than myself. Yet, the deft sensation of Christine's fingers over my own ignited a fleeting thought that perhaps, one day, I might have faith in someone else.
Christine smiled up at me and tugged on my hand. "Let's go inside. I can't wait for you to see the chapel!" Her voice absolutely spun with anticipation. It was quite endearing. But, suddenly, I could not take another step forward. I could not deny the bitterness and anger that scorched through every inch of my body, my grudge against that all-powerful joker who I was told had created me. I would not give HIM that satisfaction or reverence; when he had never taken into account the torturous existence that would undeniably be my fate after he'd made a mockery of my face. Every muscle and tendon stiffened as I planted my feet solidly on the cobblestone at the church doors.
"What is it, Erik?" The girl gave me a look of concern, but also of possible rejection.
"I am not certain I can do this, ma petite."