Old Friends
"Maman, can we go see the park? Oh, please." Gustave bounces his way around the sitting room from a gold brocade settee to the royal blue velvet chaise longue and making several passes around the grand piano, before flopping at his mother's feet.
Large vases of flowers sit on every flat surface – almost to excess, but at some point a restraining hand appeared to take control. Some lovely pieces of statuary, a few odd pieces she would examine later, and French doors leading to a small balcony complete the elegant room.
More concerned with the song Mr. Y sent her than the décor of the room, she concentrates her attention on the libretto sitting of the music desk, fingering the keys, she sings the melody almost to herself, continuing to test her voice with the notes as written. Grateful for Raoul's insistence she rehearse as much as possible.
Despite the disdain received from associates of the de Chagney family – and the family itself, truth be told – she continues to perform at special events. Invited more for her infamy than her voice at this point. Not that the notes were wrong, her voice was still strong and clear and technically correct. The proper student of a master teacher would not allow her to become lax. Music simply no longer fills her soul as it once did.
Seeing Madame Giry and Meg today only reminded her of how different things were now. Madame had changed little – in appearance or manner – beyond the anger, Christine sensed was roiling beneath her cordial if cool reception.
Meg, on the other hand, was almost unrecognizable – harden by what, Christine wonders. The tiny blonde ballerina who once reminded her of the cotton candy Gustave insisted be purchased on their way to the theater. Her friend who loved everything pink and could make her laugh when the sorrow of Pappa's death threatened to drown her. There was no joy in her welcome – again buried anger seething up despite her best efforts.
The mention of the song – that she was to sing an aria – hit a sour note in the other woman – no longer a girl. The costume, perhaps showing more skin than the ballet costumes from the opera house, accented Meg's figure to full advantage. Christine could understand how she was the star of this place of fantasy and fun. Aware, too, that her old friend might wish for another dream – of being prima ballerina for the Palais, rather than this more common entertainment.
For herself, she found the energy and the colors and noise exciting.
Ten years – what changes have you wrought on all of us.
Strange they should be here – the venue where she would sing this new aria for an enormous fee, if Raoul's words were true. All travel arrangements paid for – plus the fee – for one night. A random thought crosses her mind, but is dismissed – along with the other random thoughts dogging her the entire journey.
"Later, my love," she responds. "Go to your room and change your clothes, I need to work on this song for a bit. The composer has presented quite a challenge for your mother."
"Oh, you can sing anything," he scoffs. "I shall find Eloise and unpack."
"Good boy."
The Vicomte was no longer the eager young man she recalled from Paris. The bags under his eyes and sallow complexion suggest a level of dissipation she is very familiar with. Many things about Coney Island were reminiscent of Paris – lust, over indulgence in all manner of intoxicants – alcohol, cocaine – and gambling. The toys of those with more money than they could spend responsibly. The life of leisure giving them no reason to do or be anything substantial, so like the Vicomte in front of her, they rot from the inside.
She smirks at the change that came over him when he realized he made a deal with his personal devil. One could not blame him – he came close to dying. Foolish bravery took him to the lion's den and he escaped – with the girl of all things. From all appearances that escape was the closest those two would ever be.
Christine Daae – the soprano of the century.
Erik would never speak of that night, but he changed as well.
Working the fairs, buying a small show of his own – then this. She worked alongside him – they made a good business partnership. A kind of serenity settled over him – being with others who suffered as he did with deformities – oddities – human cast offs became his friends and he created this place for them to be safe.
Still he kept to himself, becoming more restless by the day, until a few months back. The spark, dimmed when the left Paris, came to life again. Music consumed him again – not the vaudeville he created to entice those who found the entertainment at Phantasma to be to their liking – but beautiful, lyrical songs. New, even to him.
Now she was here. Did Christine know who Mr. Y was? Raoul seemed surprised – based on his reaction, Adele suspects he would not have made the agreement were he aware.
What of Christine? She likely relegated the thought to somewhere in her mind where she would not think about how this arrangement came to be. Reality was never her strong suit. Angel of Music, indeed.
"Christine has been visited by the Angel of Music, Maman."
"What are you talking about?"
"She told me – he comes to her when she is alone and teaches her to sing."
"So that is what he is calling himself these days."
"I do not understand."
"Just pray he only wishes to be her teacher."
What was he up to? What did he want – expect to happen?
He threw his life away for Christine once – now, however, she has a stake. Too much time and too much effort have been expended building this empire for a love-sick, former phantom to toss what she helped create away for a woman who refused him.
Old friends.
"Why?" Meg pushes through the door to her dressing room, pulling off her wig, throwing it at the mirror of her vanity. The costume torn off her body, the sound of the beads hitting the floor like a freak summer hailstorm.
Heavy tears fall from the deep blue eyes, their once bright light dimmed from the life she now lives. Her mother used to protect her from the groping and grabbing of the patrons who haunted the rehearsals at the Palais Garnier. Now, their attentions were encouraged.
Grabbing a cloth from her dressing table, she wipes her eyes, the mirror reflects a ghost. "Little Giry where have you gone?" Sitting down, she pulls a jar of cream toward her, slathering a heavy layer on the skin no longer fresh and young.
How could he do this to her – to her mother? Everything was fine – he was even writing better music for her – not the burlesque trash. Mother said so. Just give him time – he is shy, not accustomed to the affection of women. So she was patient – she waited – she sang the songs and danced the dances – the trashy music the crowds loved.
Of course, the music he wrote late at night was not for her. She was here. The music was for her – the music was always for her.
Wiping the cream from her face, she puts on her swim suit. Grabbing a towel, she leaves the room.
"If anyone is looking for me, I am going for a swim," she calls out to no one in particular – if anyone is even listening.
Dead, she said he was dead. The balls of his hands press against his temples. Or did she? She said he was gone. Not the same thing. Apparently not, judging from this contract. The idiot reporters, for all their gall, have it correct. He lost his fortune and Christine still sings beautifully – thankfully – keeping their heads above water. But not as she had that night when he rediscovered her. Even he can tell something was lost to her that night.
The Angel of Music – she told him it was he – the reason she sang as she did. When he died…left, so did something inside her.
Fear of what she would say, kept him from asking where she went that night.
"Was he there?"
"Who?"
"You know very well who."
"He is gone. Is that not what was reported?" Turning away from him, she returned her cloak to the armoire. "I needed to get some air – wedding nerves."
"You could have been accosted."
"But I was not," she said, "I am fine, if tired. I think I should like a bath."
"We are expected at the marais at 5 – do you still plan to marry me?"
The look in her eyes frightened him – first she focused on some place beyond him, past the French doors, then shifted her gaze to her carpet bag, lying on her vanity. His breath bated, afraid to make even the slightest sound.
"Yes, of course, Raoul," she said, returning her attention to him…present in the room again. "I am fatigued, however, and would like that bath and, perhaps, a short nap." Walking to him, she presses a kiss on his cheek. "Is there not some superstition about the groom seeing the bride before the wedding?"
He should have known. Her reaction to his leaving those damned sewing kits behind. When she retired to her bathroom, he opened the boxes. Frowning at the poor tools, he could not see what her attachment was. Riffling through the larger box, he found some cuttings of heavy, black wool emblazoned with fine jet beading. A braided cloak fastener with a carved jet clasp at either end. A section of golden fringe – from a costume, he supposed. Other scraps and bits of fabric – important to her he supposed – knew…now. The cloak fastener kept drawing his eyes – the black wool.
"He is gone."
The money – they need the money. Knowing it was he, he would press for more – why not take advantage of the devil's obsession. So much for giving her freedom – the monster still thinks he has a hold on her.
The boy runs to him as he enters the sitting room. "Father, will you take me for a walk? I should like to see the rides…Maman is busy with her song."
'Not now, Gustave," Christine says. "You were going to change your clothes – now scoot."
"Meeting with Madame Giry and Meg interrupted getting you set up with the stage manager," he says. "I shall take care of that now – perhaps walk around a bit. This is not what I expected – tacky – beneath your talents."
The music, the noise – all the different people remind me of my childhood," she says, smiling at him. Holding out her hand for him to take it, she says, "This will be fun – we shall make it so. Gustave is already enamored with the place and it is a pleasant change from our everyday life."
"How do you manage it?"
"What?"
"Being so good and lovely…I do not deserve you."
"You gave me a wonderful life, Raoul. Do not be so hard on yourself."
Shrugging, he says, "I shall work on it. Do not work too long – perhaps you might like to rest before we partake of supper."
"Perhaps. Kiss me then take care of your business."
The fear has returned to his eyes – and she was certain he had brandy on his lips. This was becoming all too familiar – the emptiness inside her – her constant companion - fills with a strange excitement. Why is she happy over Raoul's discomfort? The past was coming back – unfinished business.
Surveying the room, she seeks something offering a clue as to who arranged this concert. A ribboned box on the console table near the doors he did not see earlier, catches her eye. A small card is tucked in the bow.
Welcome to Phantasma.
Mr. Y
Taking the box to the piano, she undoes the ribbon and removes the lid. The Music Box reminds her of another – years ago. As she sets it on the piano, the song begins to play.
You have come here
In pursuit of your deepest urge…
Erik stares at the automaton – his finest creation. Over the past ten years he has been perfecting his skills – spending much time on oddities and fun house images, but all the practice leading him back to her. His Christine. Not Christine, of course. A silent fraud – more refined than the other mannequin – many would believe to be real. Silent, nevertheless. However great his talent, he was unable to make her sing. The need his heart cried out for to make him whole again.
"Good-bye, my dear," he says, closing the cabinet, locking it and drawing the curtain, before moving it from the center of the room to a closet. "Even the greatest force of will and creativity could not give you real life. Imitation is imitation – having known the wonder of the real person, you are simply not enough."
His focus wanders to the sound of the steamship. The Persephone – how appropriate. He must calm himself – not rush to see her like a schoolboy – even if that is how he feels. Grateful their circumstances are such Raoul accepted his offer.
His estimation of the type of person the Vicomte would become appears to be correct. Rumors and keeping up with news of Paris through the newspapers and the chatter of visitors to the park kept him aware of the affairs of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny.
Christine was singing more and more often. An indication that the money was running out – she was literally singing for their supper. The one consolation being the performances were still in places of real art – a salute to her gift. Still – as Raoul becomes more desperate he would most likely prostitute her gifts. And the darling girl would go along. He was starving for that goodness to be in his life.
How much, he wonders, would it take for Raoul to disappear?
"Mr. Y?" Squelch asks, poking his head into the music room.
"You delivered the package?"
"Yes, sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, thank you," Erik says, smiling at the man – one of the so-called freaks who befriended him when he arrived in America – helped him with the language problems. Despite his travels and knowledge of various languages, English did not come easily to Erik. Neither man was accustomed to having friends, so their easy camaraderie was a pleasant surprise to both of them. Some would call it natural law – like attracting like. There was a certain comfort in not being the only monster in the room.
"Well, then, have a good evening."
The excitement is greater than he anticipated, he wipes his hands, damp with perspiration on a linen handkerchief, before blotting the moisture from his brow, careful not to damage his make-up. The meter of his heart beats threaten to gag him. He coughs into the square fabric, hoping to regulate his racing pulse. Smoothing his wig, he takes a deep breath. He enters the elevator, carrying him to the penthouse where the de Chagnys are staying.
He hears the Music Box as the door opens to see Christine – ever beautiful in a lace, ruffled dressing gown. Her chestnut curls piled high on her head, with a single lock, hanging over her shoulder. Could she be lovelier?
The reaction to his entrance suggests he overdid the drama – did he really expect a diva? Once again her presence threatens to bring him to his knees – how could he have forgotten her innate humility? Not wishing to frighten her further, he walks behind the settee – allowing her to accept his presence. When he opens his arms to her and she runs to him, the joy he feels is almost worth the long wait – to hold her – to have her hold him.
Then the inevitable. She pushes away – the fear, the anger, the hatred. He hopes that is not the case – the first two can be dealt with – the last…well, he took that risk – encouraged it even. How could she not hate him.
Let her go. Allow her the fear and rage – ten years has not dampened her memory of that night – how he left her. He can only hope she also remembers what came before.