I could not watch any longer. The simple, but affectionate greeting the two had shared was enough to cause me more than a little distress. How could it be so easy for the boy to win her trust, to bring a sweet smile to her face? It had taken months for her to grow entirely comfortable in my presence. To be just a normal man. . . But it was best not to ponder over such things. Things one could and never would be able to change, not even with the luxury of a great mind.
As I retreated back to my home, I could hear their jovial laughter assaulting my eardrums. Thankfully, the closer to my liar I came, the fainter their voices grew, until I was mercifully rid of the sound. Still, I would hear echoes of their 'friendly' chatter as I tried to sleep that evening, and for many nights thereafter.
How does a man react the moment he learns the purpose of his life has been laid waste? Does he scream or lash out? Does he take to his bed in immeasurable grief and anger at what he cannot alter? Perhaps, he ought to find an opium den or some shadowy corner in which to drink himself to oblivion.
Usually, I quelled the ferocity of my emotions with fervent composition, notating the music that whirled about in my brain in a feverish scrawl. This time, it would not be enough. The more I thought of their warm embrace, the more I sought an alternative release to my awakening madness. If I could not appear as a normal man, I, at least, could resort to his vices.
Instead of continuing on my journey home, I made a quick turn and exited the Opera from the gate at the Rue Scribe. Faintly, I recalled mention of an opium den not far from the theatre. Buquet and the other stagehands had often talked of drowning their minds in the drug's alluring haze on nights when I prowled unseen about the catwalks. It was true that I, myself, was no stranger to opium, or its sister morphine, appreciating its calming powers during times of great distress. Throughout one's life, it was necessary to escape the troubles of the world in some manner. I chose not to run to another corner of the world, but to another corner of my mind, a corner far removed from Christine's bright smile and mellifluous voice.
The den was located in a narrow alley off the Rue Scribe, a derelict locale flanked by whores and their amorous customers and beggars pining for the necessary funds that would allow them the next dosage of their chosen drug or spirit. In truth, the surrounding company, which paid little attention to my presence, set me at ease. Despite my physical appearance, I had a home of sorts, and was not a slave to any substance.
I knocked gently on the heavy wooden door, only to be greeted by a rather short but rotund Asian gentleman. His large body was adorned with many golden piercings; a tasseled skullcap covered his head and led to an impressive black braid that extended all the way down to his waist. However, it was his outrageously long red fingernails that drew the most attention, as they had grown so far from his fingertips that they began to curl under themselves.
His unusual appearance settled something inside of me. "Smoke, monsieur?" He whispered in surprisingly articulate French, and motioned for me to follow him. I nodded in reply and allowed the strange character to lead me down a narrow chamber. Divans lined either side of the room, each one occupied by some happily oblivious individual, silently smoking at a long-stemmed pipe.
The smell of the opium crept into my nostrils like honey in the air. The room stretched on and on, it seemed, it's corners and alcoves bathed in a dim orange light. The walls were lined with silken panels of red and gold, depicting ornate dragons and landscapes of the Far East. Every detail and fixture of the opium den perpetuated a feeling of dreaminess. It was a place where a man could feel completely removed from the outside world- a feeling I relished.
"Here, " and my guide gestured with his curious nails to a divan of plush, red velvet, adorned with two fringed pillows. "Lay back," he added, handing me a long glass pipe, almost identical to those I had seen upon entering the locale. Eager to vanquish all the day's horrible events from my mind, I followed his instructions as he tended to the opium. I was taken aback at how easily he managed to pack the drug into the end of the pipe, given the nature of his hands. It took him only a matter of seconds to accomplish the task of preparing the pipe and lighting it.
"Puff, inhale." He ordered, pantomiming the actions after speaking them. Again, I nodded to him, and fished from my pant pocket a few coins that would be more than adequate fare for the night's activities. The Asian gentleman bowed, accepted the money with an open palm and pivoted on his heel to leave me to my own devices. It was only upon later recollection that I realized he had not even given my masked visage a second glance. I suspected he saw more than his share of curious individuals in his line of work.
As I laid back and smoked the sweet opium, I pondered over my reasons for coming to this point. My eyes traveling over the vast room, I wondered how many of its occupants had also chosen to partake due to the pain of loving a woman. Surely, I was not the only man to turn away from reason and escape to a kinder, quieter world- to leave a world of rejection for one where nothing actually seemed to matter much.
As the opium began to wrap me in its spell, my thoughts wove around images of her, to memories of her touch. It almost seemed that her living ghost traced the contours of my face, that her soft breath grazed my uncovered cheek. It was an illusion of which I was fully aware, alluring and comforting, though it pained me to know she would not touch me again in love. I could not accept the loss of her. I would not let her fall into another man's arms without trying to reclaim her for myself.
Perhaps, it was the opium that caused me to make foolish promises of winning her back. The opium had deluded me into believing that there was a chance; that she would not completely abandon me. It was so much simpler to hope. "Christine. . ." I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, the honeyed smoke tickling my throat, as I drifted off into a cherished oblivion. "Christine. . ."