Chapter 41: Shall We Begin Again?

And, shall we begin again, Christine? Shall we bare our souls true and vulnerable, after sharing the most intimate of nights? Not just once, but for several intoxicating hours, those days that simply ran together as one passionate dreamscape in which we hardly knew ourselves, outside the connection of our two bodies and all those unspoken longings made real by touch? I know not how to touch you now...Now that I have pushed you away. Pushed you away because I do not yet know how to make this thin strand of happiness survive, how to nourish it. If I reach for it again, will the strand break? Will you disappear like a sweet vapor the moment I touch your cheek and whisper into your ear, that I love you? That I surrender completely to you?

I am on my knees now. Humbled, watching my reflection in the waters of the underground lake. The waters do not move. They act as yet another mirror in which I see the outline of my mask, the line of my shoulders. But, this reflection is not true. If we are to begin again, everything must be real, everything must be true. No more charades and mirages. No angels or ghosts, no phantoms. Only a man. Only a young woman.

I untie the lacings of my mask and slowly remove the wig, placing both items gingerly to my right side, a safe distance from the edge of the lake. Before I confront her with my truth, I must first confront myself with the deformity that has defined my existence. Before I search for my true face in the black waters, I steady myself, do the best I can to straighten what locks of unruly hair I have and feel every scar and contour of this horrible cheek, the pulled and bloated lip, the ridges and hollows of my forehead, the sunken nature of my right eye. Why I take a moment to calm my unruly hair and steady myself, I do not know. My ugliness will never change. I will not see anything different in my reflection, once I look.

Has her love transformed me? Has her caress allowed me to feel that, for at least a precious handful of moments, I am a normal man? A man deserving of love and desire? A man and not a ghost? Has she awakened me with her touch?

Kneeling at the edge of the water, I seek out my true face in the reflection, prepared to deal with the truth, as I must. I realize, as I look at my distorted face, that this is what I have to offer her. This face and the music. Our music. I put my hand to my face again, running my fingers along my lips where she had placed her burning kisses. I still feel the ghost lingerings of them. Soft, sweet, and urgent.

A slow burning.

I look at my face in the dark waters and wonder how it is possible to hold a love so heavy that it is impossible to define in any language humans have constructed. Words are inadequate for longing and love. They always have been. That is why we have music. Music to convey the longing, the pain, all the unspoken feelings and unsaid words we do not dare speak to one another. Music, and its veiled secrets, combined with raw emotion, this is the true language of all souls. It has always been the language I have used to navigate this hostile and unaccepting world. Had I been born a handsome boy, would I have realized this truth? Would I have searched for the beauty in this world? The beautiful hauntings of melody, the fine facades and intricacies of architecture? The mellifluous timbre of her voice? Would I have sensed and noticed the sublime subtleties that dot the landscape of our lives?

She has changed me. Her touch, her love, her voice. I know not how to function beyond her caress. I am at a loss. What do I say now?

Her voice, my voice . . .I have found both, despite my deformity. And now, I must call upon her and share with her my truth.

Now, I put the quill to the ink pot, and I write. I write to her. My hands shakes as I put the pen to parchment. I struggle to find words. I struggle to find truth. I know this truth, but I struggle to put the burden of my past, my pain, upon her soul. I write. I write for her to come to me. To understand. If she comes, the darkness in my soul may calm.

I finish my letter and seal it with wax. A Death's head. The letter is sealed. Madame Giry will leave it on the armoire in Christine's dressing room tomorrow.

I am spent. This huge burden of love could kill a man. I carry it willingly. It gives this haunted life meaning, a purpose. But, even with this purpose and loving of Christine, I know not where to go now.