All the Point of View - Chapters 1-3

All the Point of View
Perhaps it is all the point of view. - Lord Sheftu

Author's Notes: The only Phantom book I've read is the original novel by Gaston Leroux. This is based on both the musical and the book, using information from the past from the book (and other slight tidbits here and there) and the rest from the musical (mostly). This is a story told from Erik's point of view. However, some things are changed in this story, and the ending is added to.

Chapter One
A New Possibility


Beautiful, Carlotta! Lefèvré complimented the heavyweight airheaded prima donna, Carlotta Giudicelli. That was indeed your greatest performance I have seen yet.

I heard scuffling noises of the people making their way out of the Opera, then of the cast congratulating each other, and then the usual gossip.

I yawned, looking about my private box, silently cursing everything I'd ever known. The moments whittled away in Persia, the days long spent in my underground lair, the wasted time listening to that cursed daroga, the terror of sitting through an opera in which Carlotta sung the lead role, and even those few minutes I remembered spending with my mother. I had made her life unreasonable - on purpose, of course - so she could feel my pain, but all it seemed to do was make her more paranoid. I prayed that something exciting would happen, for a change.

As if an answer to my prayer, I heard some juicy news spreading among the energized ballerinas and dancers.

I heard that there's a new dancer coming to the Opera! said one particularly young-sounding voice.

Wow! Did you get her name? said another voice, one I vaguely recognised as my old friend' Madame Giry's daughter, Meg.

I believe it was Christine Daaé, Meg, the young one replied.

An old friend! Meg whispered in delight.

This was intriguing. Perhaps I would hear more if I got in closer. Climbing down the hollow column in Box Five, I took a passage that led straight to the stage. From my new vantage point, my ears did not have to strain to hear everything, and my view was just perfect.

I heard a new sound coming from behind me, and my eyes shifted over there. My mouth dropped open. Tiptoeing timidly onto the stage was the most beautiful young woman I'd ever seen in my life. Her long, curly golden-brown hair glistened with the stage lights, her blue eyes gleaming with fright, reflecting the beams of yellow light pouring onto her like a spotlight. I could hear her white dress sliding softly on the floor as she passed right by me. I shut my eyes and put a vivid image of her in my head. If there was such thing as love at first sight, I was experiencing it right now.

Meg called to the rabbit-like child, who was obviously that new dancer they had been speaking of. Her eyes lit up at the familiar face, and she dashed to her and embraced her old friend. So this was the now-popular Christine Daaé. My heart skipped a beat as I watched her become the new obsession of the dancers for a day or two.

Christine soon grew tired of the attention she was receiving, and I could see tears forming in her sad, blue eyes. Blue. Like the ocean splashing against the wharfs in Persia, like the sapphire I'd seen with the Shah. She retired from the jittery throng of dancers to go to her new dressing room and I slipped out of my hiding place to follow her.

She had a beautiful voice, too, though I noticed it would need training to ever be a box office hit.

To my delightful surprise, her dressing room was the one with my secret passage to my house. The mirror had a counterweight that allowed it to turn, and only one side of it worked as a mirror. The other side was dead transparent, and I could see right through it.

Hmm, I thought, realising that it would be impossible to slip through the mirror while she was in the room. I'd have to go through some other passage. I sighed, trotting away from the dressing room, my eyes still fastened on it longingly. Before long it was out of sight. I crawled through a trapdoor and hurried down to the torture-chamber through the little gap that separated it from the cellar.

I came round to the passage that led to Christine's dressing room. I spoke to her softly.

Her timid face lit up with surprise, looking up to the mirror, where the voice had come from. She walked closer to the mirror.

I began singing to her songs I had written myself and she drew closer, closer, until she was touching the mirror. It was unlike me to share anything out of Don Juan Triumphant, but I thought if I were to get to know her, she'd need to hear it.

She opened her mouth to speak. she asked the now-glowing mirror.

Yes, yes! This was good. If she thought me an angel, I could fool her most certainly. I replied softly.

Angel of Music. . . so father kept his promise. She backed away and shut her eyes and I guessed she was being flooded with memories. W-will you teach me?

Of course, Christine, I answered her. Now I'd get to know the glorious Christine. The young Swedish guttersnipe who somehow made it to the Opera. Her blue eyes were bright with excitement as what I said sunk in.

I was thankful I had a beautiful voice. I knew she'd be thinking I had the voice of an angel, since she had believed I was her Angel of Music. What a cruel deception. . . but it was the only thing I could do to get her to look past my mask once she met me. I wondered if we'd ever meet face to face, since I had deceived her once. . . .

Christine turned away to change, and I turned away. Once I was sure she'd finished, I came back to the mirror.

She looked up at the mirror, which was glowing like I knew my cheeks were - at least, the cheek not covered by scars and a mask. When will you teach me? she asked quickly.

Tomorrow evening, come here. I shall teach you here.

She smiled and trotted away without farewell. I didn't need farewell. I collapsed against the wall and tried hard to steady my beating heart.

The next evening, she was there, ready for her lesson. She wanted to start immediately. Christine's private lessons with me had begun.

Chapter 2
A Diva's Debut

After about three months' lessons, Christine's voice had improved greatly. I found joy in teaching her - the first joy I'd experienced in years. But my annoyance was growing, as well, with every night Carlotta performed a lead role in the Opera.

It was about then that the current manager, Lefèvre retired, bringing two new messieurs with him - Messieurs Richard Firmin and Gilles André. Intriguing.

I was there at the rehearsal of Hannibal' while Lefèvré was showing the new managers around - his final days at the Opera Populaire. Hidden in the shadows, watching, I noticed that Joseph Buquet was away from his post. I slipped into his place and watched.

Carlotta was preparing to sing for André and Firmin - just great. And there was Christine, who knew the lines just perfectly and had a voice three times as terrific, watching this overweight pampered excuse for a diva performing what was rightfully hers.

An idea sprung to my mind. I would drop the backing. With luck, it would land on her. Slowly and skillfully I worked the ropes and aimed. Then I fired by releasing the rope I held. It crashed down - and missed. Oh well. . . .

The dancers went hysterical, Carlotta screamed, and the managers searched for Buquet. Meg led the dancers in song: He's here, the Phantom of the Opera! He's with us, it's the ghost!

Chief of the flies. He's responsible for this, the retiring manager explained to the new messieurs impatiently. Buquet! For goodness's sake, man, what's going on up there?

Buquet came with a rope with a noose-like end and fastened it to the backdrop. He lifted the backdrop and spoke to the angry men. Please, monsieur, don't look at me: as God's my witness, I was not at my post. Please monsieur, there's no one there: and if there is, then, it must be a ghost. . . .

Ha. Ghost. Sure I was a ghost. I was Christine's angel, Lefèvre's Opera Ghost, the dancers' Phantom of the Opera, and my own man. Certainly fun messing with their minds.

André tried to comfort the pampered prima donna. These things do happen, he explained.

Si! These things do happen! she scoffed. Well, until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen! She stormed off the stage. Heh heh heh.

Who is the understudy for this role? one of the managers - I didn't take note which - asked Madame Giry, the ballet mistress and Meg's mother, as well as my private boxkeeper.

There is none, m'sieur. It is a new production, she sighed.

Christine Daaé could sing it, sir. Meg was piping up now. I was suddenly aware of everything going on. Yes, she could!

The chorus girl? Firmin asked uncertainly.

As Meg explained about Christine's lessons, my hopes soared. Christine might receive a role in Hannibal!

Let her sing for you, m'sieur: she has been well-taught, Madame Giry assured the clearly uncertain managers.

Very well, Firmin finally replied. Let her sing.

Christine nervously stepped up to sing. Reyer played a two-bar introduction, and Christine began her lines.

Think of me,
think of me fondly
when we've said goodbye. . . .

She sang beautifully. So well she was granted the part. Evenings later, she was singing in the gala. I watched happily from my place in box five.

I noticed up in the managers' box, there was a new man. Who was this? Upon further inspection, I noticed it was the new patron - Vicomte de Chagny. He was singing something of his own, which I didn't care for; the only words of his I heard were,

I thought of her, most definitely - I couldn't think of anything but. And once she retired to her dressing room after the performance, I was there behind the mirror immediately. She was almost to the door when I sang.

Bravi, bravi, bravissimi. . . .

Christine was bewildered, but Meg, who had approached from behind, had not heard me.

Where in the world have you been hiding? Meg asked Christine. Really, you were perfect! I beamed. I only wish I knew your secret! Who is this new tutor?

Father once spoke of an angel. . . I used to dream he'd appear. . . now as I sing, I can sense him, and I know he's here. . . .

They continued to sing about the Angel of Music. Ah, how sweet of her to mention me.

Their song ended as Madame Giry handed Christine a note and took Meg away to practice with the other dancers. Christine read the note aloud.

A red scarf . . . the attic . . . Little Lotte . . . .

Christine entered the dressing room. I chose not to say anything until I knew more. If I were her Angel, I should know about these things. I heard some footsteps coming from outside and somewhat muffled conversation.

Pressing my ear to the wall, I strained to hear.

A tour de force! No other way to describe it! It was Monsieur André.

What a relief! Not a single refund! exclaimed Firmin.

Heh, it was Madame Firmin.

Richard, I think we've made quite a discovery in Miss Daaé! André was saying.

Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte, Firmin said, and I realised that the Vicomte had been with them all along.

Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied, said the childish, premature Vicomte's voice.

Get away from my Christine.

Where did that come from? I asked myself. That was abrupt thinking, to say the very least.

Christine, where is your scarf? the Vicomte asked, entering the room.

Christine asked uncertainly.

You can't have lost it. Not after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin . . . .

Good for you, I thought, rolling my eyes. Now get away from her.

Christine laughed, and I narrowed my eyes at the boy.

Because you had to run into the sea to fetch my scarf, she finished delightfully. Oh, Raoul. So it is you! I'd have groaned, but I didn't want her to know what I was thinking. I knew an angel shouldn't be jealous, but I couldn't help but feel a little green.

Raoul confirmed, embracing her and laughing. I made a mental note to gag when I had the chance.

Christine mentioned me visiting her, and I almost smiled.

Then things got worse.

No doubt of it - and now we'll go to supper!

No, Monsieur le Vicomte. You're not taking my Christine. Where were all these my Christines coming from? She wasn't mine. . . yet. Monsieur le Victomte, get away from Christine.

No, Raoul, the Angel of Music is very strict, Christine whispered, as if an answer to my silent plea.

He shrugged. I need to get my hat. And you must change. Two minutes - Little Lotte. With that, he trotted out of the room. I was furious with him, but glad to see his young, hideously ignorant figure glide out of the room.

Christine sighed and looked down at her feet. Things have changed, Raoul.

As soon as I was sure he was gone, I sang. Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!

Breathlessly, she gasped and sang back. Angel, I hear you; speak, I listen! Stay by my side, guide me! Angel, my soul was weak; forgive me. Enter at last, master!

I smiled and decided now was the time. I prayed silently for an instant that she would accept me when she found out I was no angel, but the Phantom of the Opera' or Opera ghost' and just a simple man in love.

Flattering child, you shall know me; see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror - I am there inside! Lighting a lantern on this side of the mirror gave it the lighting it needed to become transparent from her side. I tried my best to look like an angel as she stared through the glass and saw the real me for the first time.

Angel of Music! Guide and guardian! Grant to me your glory! she exclaimed, ecstatic. Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange Angel . . . .

Strange? I thought. Then I remembered my mask. Ignoring it, I was ready for her to come to me.

I am your angel of music. . . . I purred. Come to me: Angel of Music. . . .

It was about then that the boy returned, but the door of the dressing room was locked.

Whose is that voice? Who is that in there? he asked thin air. I would have laughed at his cluelessness, were I not drawing my precious Christine to me.

I am your angel of music. . . . Come to me: Angel of Music. . . .

The mirror was glowing now, and Christine was approaching it. I worked the mechanism that turned the mirror so quickly that in a moment it opened up like a door. I reached out and snatched Christine by the wrist firmly - yet not fiercely - and pulled her into an inferno of light behind the mirror. The mirror closed once again behind us.

Christine! Angel! shouted the voice of the bewildered boy as he stepped into the empty room.

Chapter 3
A Surpressed and Revealed Secret

Like a cat I led Christine down the catwalks toward my house under the Opera House. She followed me eagerly, singing as we walked:

In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came. . . that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. . . . And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind. . . .

Yes, in your mind! I'm there, the Phantom of the Opera. . . . Sing once again with me our strange duet. . . my power over you grows stronger yet. . . . I glared into her ecstatic blue eyes. And though you turn from me, to glance behind - the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind. . . .

We turned a corner and lowered down a level into another cellar. Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. . . . Christine sang, her voice a bell-like whisper in my ear. However, Christine, you have not seen my face - a good thing, for if you had, you would draw back in the fear you sing of. . . . I am the mask you wear—

It's me they hear.

Your spirit and my voice, in one combined. . . . the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind!

While Christine was singing her part of the duet, I sang mine:

My spirit and your voice, in one combined. . . . the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind!

As if there were someone else singing with us, it almost sounded as if faint voices in the distance were singing, He's there, the Phantom of the Opera - beware the Phantom of the Opera!

It was about then that we reached the lake and climbed into my boat. I reached for the pole and pushed off the edge of the water.

In all your fantasies, you always knew. . . that man and mystery. . .

Were both in you, she finished.

And in this labyrinth, where night is blind - the Phantom of the Opera is there . . . . we sang together, then she continued unnacompanied.

Inside my mind. . . .

Sing, my angel of music, I insisted softly.

He's there, the Phantom of the Opera. . . . Christine then began vocalising beautifully. As her song grew more extravagant, I encouraged her more.

Sing for me!

She sang for me, all right - probably could have shattered a glass, had she the chance. I sat down at the organ as we walked into my house.

I have brought you
to the seat of sweet music's throne,
to that kingdom where all must pay homage to music,
music. . . .
You have come here
for one purpose and one alone -
Since that moment I first heard you sing,
I have needed you with me, to serve me; to sing. . . .
for my music. . . music. . . .

I turned to her. Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation - darkness stirs, and wakes imagination . . . silently the senses abandon their defences. . . .

As I sang to her, she became extremely enveloped by my song. Finally I felt brave enough - and she was relaxed enough with me - to reach over and place my arm around her neck, standing behind her and swaying slightly. She swayed with me, as if we were floating.

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication— Ah, yes, she was intoxicated with music right now— Feel it, hear it, closing it around you. . . Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind in this darkness which you know you cannot fight - the darkness of the music of the night. . . .

I continued my mesmerising solo and brought her to a mirror with a dustcover on it. I pulled away the dustcover and Christine stared intently at what she saw - herself in a wedding gown. She walked slowly towards it, but then its hands thrust themselves out of the mirror toward her. She fainted almost immediately. I reached out, bent down and caught her. The boat was like a bed when not in the water, and I laid her down on it, placing my cloak about her shoulders.

You alone can make my song take flight . . . help me make the music of the night. . . .

***

The next morning I sat at my organ, pounding away and composing. My concentration was sincere. It was all turning out nicely, though I knew the sound would be much better done by a full orchestra and band rather than just a pipe organ.

I stopped to write down some music. Then I returned to my playing. Once more I stopped to write down the music I was playing. Then suddenly - I felt something on the right side of my face, and then my mask was off.

I screamed, then turned furiously to the timid Christine, who flung herself against the wall, holding my mask and staring at my ugly face.

I cursed at my one love, then I accused her. You little prying Pandora! You little demon! Is this what you wanted to see?

Curse you! You little lying Delilah! You little viper - now you cannot ever be free!

Once again I cursed at her. My voice quivered and I was nearly choking with sobs. Why, Christine? Why?

I took a deep breath, then turned away. Stranger than you dreamt it - can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me: this loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven, secretly, secretly—

I turned back to her. But, Christine— fear can turn to love— Had I just said it? You'll learn to see to find the man behind the monster, this repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly. . . I felt a tear drip down my scarred face. Oh, Christine. . . .

I held out my hand, and Christine handed me the mask. I fastened it back on and turned away. Letting out a sigh, I scowled, remembering something. Come, we must return - those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you.

I led Christine back, but not before hearing Joseph Buquet describe my face to the dancers. He was going to receive a gift from the Opera Ghost.

Then I returned to my home and sat down with a red pen and some writing material. I scribbled a few notes and signed them with my initials - O.G.

I dropped the notes into the managers' inbox and returned to my lair. True, Christine had unmasked me - but perhaps if I continued to teach her, to let her know me, she would look past the mask and see the man behind it.

I smiled as I sat back to listen to the foolish managers of the Opera read my notes. Today was certainly going to be fun.