It wasn't a simple question: "Why won't you let me in?"
The answers, for there were many, even more complex. I had an inquiry of my own, for her poignant plea had left me in quite a state of silent awe. Why, after all I had told her, the blood, the murders, the gypsy freak show- and all said in a very matter-of-fact manner as if we had simply been discussing what delicacy we'd savored at a local bistro. I could have colored my tale with guilt, remorse, passion, and pain. But all of those feelings, which did indeed plague my days- as the past always had an irksome habit of being quite memorable.- need not be voiced.
I was beginning to realize that the sweet mademoiselle had learned to read my every gesture, each physical nuance. I need not say a word to express my self-loathing, Christine could see it in the eyes that somehow found the resolve to hold her face and meet her gaze.
Like a dolt- feeling very much like that Chagny boy, not a pleasant sensation- I managed to form the words, "I confess, my dear, that I don't know exactly what you are asking of me?" I offered her a weak smile- or what I could muster of an expression I was so unaccustomed to making-and took a seat on the front pew directly before the magnificent altar a few steps in front of where we conversed. My hands fell to my lap, all other movements seeming futile.
"I just. . .I never know what it is that you are thinking, Erik." Slowly, but with deliberation and not timidity, Christine assumed a place on the pew, her thighs mere breaths from my body. "I know there must be so many things you do not say which must only remain festering inside. I can understand that. I've always been that way, myself. I was, rather, until you listened to me."
"There are some emotions Christine, some passions that are so dark and intense that they should never be shared. If I do not tell you everything that I am thinking it is only out of respect for you." In an effort to cajole her, my fingers grazed from her smooth jaw to her forehead before tucking a few renegade strands of spiraling chestnut hair behind her perfect earlobe.
She was not going to accept such excuses, I quickly learned.
"Erik, I have seen your face. I have heard you speak of your own hands stained with the blood of countless souls. What secrets could be darker or more private than what you have already chosen to offer me?" Again, she caught my hand as it attempted to retreat from her face. She held it there, silently trembling in the distance between our heads. I made a vain attempt to wrest my fingers from her insistent grasp. Her grip held tight as a mother's would to a curious toddler taking in the wonders of a toy shop's window display. Christine lamented my aloof manner, but at that moment, there in the glorious cathedral, I had never spent such an intimate evening with another human being.
"You do not know how greatly I value your sweet virtue, your acceptance and kindness, Christine, that is why I must let some feelings remain untouched. I would never wish to compromise your innocence, even with my simple words. Surely, you understand?" There was no possible way to defend my silent passions than to pose them as a threat to her purity.
"I see the pain you must be feeling with every step you take. It's in your voice when you sing me to sleep, Erik. In the mornings, when you are composing, it's there. Your shoulders tense as your fingers fly over the organ keys and scrawl out some agonizingly beautiful aria for your opera. You burn inside, Erik. You burn and you feel more than anyone I have ever met. There must be a war raging inside of you."
I was shocked at just how accurately she described my state. Had she inventoried a catalog of my nuances or memorized the script of my heart?
"Christine. . ." The secrets of my soul, dearest. . ." I exhaled deeply, feeling as if I was once more wandering the arid Persian landscape. This realm was far more treacherous. "If I were to reveal my thoughts, my hidden feelings. . . You would run so far away from my presence. Christine, your revulsion. . .you would cleave my very existence from your memory."
She tensed at my words, their intense implications like a rising inferno between us. "I am still here. After every word." Then it was her hand that traced over the tender flesh of my lips. Her fingers pressed lightly, the curious child once more groping through her desired darkness.
All I wanted was to take that precious hand into my own, kiss the lovely tapered fingertips, the inside of her wrist which she'd lightly dabbed with lavender oil I routinely purchased for her pleasure. The invisible barricade between us seemed to crumble just a little. A few doubts and notions of self-loathing falling to the ground in crumbly, intangible shards. But not enough.
I had lied to myself before. To merely have her company, the spell of her voice weaving in incandescent beauty with my own could not conquer the pain or the passion. I needed her love, needed her smiles and the softness of her eyes in the morning. I began to realize, that without her love- the all-consuming kind so often portrayed in operas, ironically- I would surely commit myself to die. I made a silent promise that night as her little hand continued to caress my face: Earn her love, her complete devotion, or die.
It was settled then. Mercifully, a dying man has a limited array of options. I felt for the tiny box in my coat pocket, the velvet lining warm against my palm. How could I begin to ask? Or how dare I presume?
"Christine, do you really wish to know my feelings? If I let you in, as you have asked, there is no turning back, you understand?"
She smiled in a manner meant to offer me comfort and reassurance. I began to tremble as the darling girl cupped my face in her hands once more. "No going back now, Erik. I know."
"Yes, Christine." The weight of my heart seemed to fall into those compassionate hands as they dared to rove along the back of my neck and through my hair. This was all a sublime illusion. "No going back now."
"Erik, will you let me in?"
My grasp on the tiny box, with its sparkling treasure, tightened. I need only to lift my hand to her welcoming gaze.