Author's note: "Past the point of no return…the final threshold – what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn…beyond the point of no return…?" Okay, so perhaps my lyrics aren't exactly on the beat, but it was pretty close…right? ^_^ Here is 'Don Juan Triumphant' and all of the madness (hehe) that ensues because of it. Enjoy!
PS For those of you who have commented on Raoul…yes, I did want to make him pitiable in that one scene where Christine tells him she doesn't love him because no, I don't exactly hate him. Think he's a fop – yes. Don't want him with Christine – yes. But hate him? No. I just happen to like Erik more, and that (along with artistic license as to how I portray the characters) is my only excuse.
PPS Cat: Yes, well, I simply adored the Charles Dance way of dealing with Carlotta, but how did Julian Sands do it? (Just out of my insane sense of curiosity…)
And for everyone, hopefully soon I will be getting some of my Phantom artwork put up on a phan site. When this is done, I will post the link…so please drop by and see my stuff, and tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom. *sobs* I don't own Phantom – I don't own Erik, Christine, Meg, Mme. Giry, Raoul, the managers, Carlotta, Piangi, or Nadir. I don't own Phantom. Cruel world – I've only been to the show just once! *sobs again, then runs off to grab her little sister's Ken doll who is dressed up as Erik and cuddle him*
Chapter Nineteen –
Past the Point of No Return
Christine resumes the narrative…
It was the night of the premier.
Stagehands rushed around on the stage, behind the curtains that obscured them, trying to get every last minute item into place, as the little girls of the ballet corps fluttered – like anxious, tittering butterflies who didn't know where to go – around the wings and the wardrobe mistresses shooed them out of the way, bustling to find their employers, the principal actors in the opera.
Silent and pensive, I sat in my dressing room, having already been dressed and made-up for my rôle, and stared into the mirror on my vanity table, wondering how I was going to make it through the evening. Instead of the answer that I so desperately needed, however, it was my own reflection that stared back at me from the mirror's silver-black depths.
The young girl there – the child with large, hungry blue eyes, pale, small features, and a mass of dark, thick hair – offered me no answers as she gazed into my face. Just then, I heard the door creak slowly open behind me. I flinched, expecting to turn around and see Raoul standing there. But, a moment later, the person who had just entered revealed herself to be someone totally different.
"Christine, cherie! May I come in?"
I turned around and smiled wanly. "Meg!"
Her expression literally shone rays of joy and girlish excitement as she ran across the room to me, flushed an exuberant, pretty pink. When she had kissed and embraced me, she stood back and spoke, trembling with delight.
"Oh my darling Christine cherie," she said, marveling at my Aminta costume. Erik had given intricate, flawless drawings to dictate what the characters of 'Don Juan Triumphant' should wear, and André and Firmin had made certain to obey to the minute of his orders. And I had wondered how the man could be such a genius! "You look so beautiful! I cannot wait to see you sing tonight – you will certainly make everyone look pale in comparison! Mama says that…"
And she went on with her sweet, childish prattle, speaking of everything and anything as I turned back to my table, calmly restraining my unexplainable urge to break down into tears. At length, however, Meg became aware of my silence and she knelt beside me, putting her small arm around my shoulders, and her emerald-green eyes stared into mine, filled with concern.
"Christine…" she said, softly. "Are you all right?"
I shook my head no. Then, rallying my presence of mind, I lifted my head, inhaled and then exhaled deeply, and turned to her. "Meg, Raoul and I are not going to be married." I told her.
My little friend was instantly taken aback, as I had expected she would be – how else could someone possibly react to the knowledge that a sparkling, young engagement full of hope and dreams had been so suddenly and horribly broken? It didn't surprise me: I had known that the whole thing had always been a farce, a play-act, but Raoul, the managers, and clearly everyone else had really been expecting to see it happen. Meg's eyes were filled with dismay and pity as she stared at me in the five seconds of silence that passed us by as soon as I had spoken my revelation to her.
Stricken, she asked me, almost at a loss for words, "But Christine – why? Why have you done this? I thought that you were in love Raoul!"
I gave a bitter laugh to that, smiling ruefully as I looked down at my hands. "No. How could I have been in love with him?" I shook my head again, still smiling my mordant little smile. "I never loved him."
Meg turned my chair around and knelt in front of me, taking my hands and holding them tightly as she strove to read my face. "Christine, please!" she cried, begging me. "Why did you break the engagement?"
I stared at her for a moment, then told her: my voice slow, calm, and deliberate. "Because it was never a real engagement. I always thought of Raoul as only a friend, Meg…but I never loved him. How can I marry a man who I never loved?"
* * * * * *
That evening, the cast of the Opéra Populaire gave their finest performance ever in the premier of 'Don Juan Triumphant' – and yet, it seemed as if something was very, very wrong, and that a horrible tragedy would soon befall us. I tried not to think about it as I sang the words of the songs in the Phantom's opera, but forcing myself to be blissfully ignorant of the reality around me wasn't something that I could do…especially tonight. I glanced at Box Five every five seconds during the performance, hoping to see him there. But, of course, I saw no such thing.
The words in the arias of 'Don Juan Triumphant' were fiery and impassioned, riddled with emotion, deception, and raging plots for revenge and conquest. I was shocked at the attitude of my own character even during the performance. That night wasn't the first time that I had sung the part of Aminta, but I finally discovered the meaning, the feeling, behind the gypsy girl's words. Aminta was a dreamy, passionate young woman who acted on her impulses and poured her heart's blood into her every action, word, and thought. Her character had put me askance at first, but now…now as I sang her part, I realized that she and I shared a curious similarity to each other…almost as if we were the one and same person.
Incredible…but somehow not unbelievable.
The final scene of 'Don Juan Triumphant' was set in the giant front hall of Don Juan's home: an arch crowned its width far up on the stage. Behind the arch, almost hidden behind a shield of heavy, ornate curtains, was a smaller room; it was in that room where the climax of the opera would take place. Centre-stage was a long, fine table, heavily laden with all sorts of scrumptious delicacies and décor. There was only two chairs set at it, however, which told the rapt audience that the table would not be the scene of a large and jovial banquet.
Passarino, Don Juan's servant, was supervising the preparations of the room as Don Juan's veritable army of sixteenth century ruffians and hoydens, all of whom were fanatically devoted to their master, filled the room with their movement, sound, and colour. The chorus that they sang was clamorous and almost discordant: its words were spicy and as full of electricity as a bolt of lightning.
Here the sire may serve the dam,
Here the master takes his meat!
Here the sacrificial lamb
Utters one despairing bleat!
Poor young maiden! For the thrill
On your tongue of stolen sweets
You will have to pay the bill –
Tangled among lying cheats!
Serve the meal and serve the maid!
Serve the master so that, when
Tables, plans, and maids are swayed,
Don Juan triumphs once again!
On cue, Signor Piangi, dressed in the elaborate, slightly garish garments of Don Juan, stepped onstage. Passarino stepped over to him as Meg, playing a gypsy dancer, spun across the stage: her tiny, arched feet flicking quickly over the floorboards, and pirouetted coquettishly for Don Juan.
The members of the chorus abruptly poured into the wings, pressing around me as I stood just beyond the stage, watching the performance and waiting for my cue, and disappeared until the stage was set for the finale and bows.
Meanwhile, Don Juan had thrown a purse to Meg's gypsy dancer: she clutched it and flirtatiously minced offstage. Then Don Juan and Passarino had a musical conversation as they discussed how they would deceive Aminta and would therein triumph over all else.
I didn't quite understand Erik's point in this, but that really didn't matter. I was only playing the part – my comprehension of the littérateur's unspoken, true meanings to his work wasn't even a part of the production. Finally, I watched as Don Juan swept Passarino's cloak over his shoulders and disappeared behind the curtained arch. Passarino stepped into the wings, passing by me as I waited for my cue.
Without a moment's warning, it was time for me to begin my final scene in the Phantom's opera and I closed my eyes for a moment, arduously trying to calm myself, and then I sang – I sang as I never had before.
…No thoughts
Within her head,
But thoughts of joy!
No dreams
Within her heart,
But dreams of love!
On the last, high note of the verse, I stepped onto the stage, balking for an imperceptible moment at the seemingly endless, yawning space ahead of me. What would that stage hold for me tonight? I wondered, but then there was no more time to wonder, no more time to think…it was time to act.
Passarino skirted onto the stage behind me as I stood motionless, facing the audience and staring up at the ceiling of Don Juan's fortress: the ceiling that wasn't really there, and he leaned towards the arch, calling to his master within.
Master?
Suddenly, a voice vibrated from behind the curtain: the vibrant, enthralling, icy tenor of a well-trained singer…a voice that I, in the horror of a single moment, thought I recognized. I froze, terror flashing through my eyes, as the voice, which was supposed to be that of Don Juan: Signor Ubaldo Piangi, replied to Passarino's hail.
Passarino – go away!
For the trap is set and waits for its prey…
Trying very hard not to let my utter sense of hopeless, sheer terror show through, I bemusedly reached behind myself, found the corner of the lavish table with my fingertips, and slowly lowered myself onto it. I turned around, as Aminta was supposed to do, and found a glossy, tempting red apple at my elbow. I bit into the fruit, ignoring the salty taste that flooded my mouth on experiencing its horrid, saccharine sweetness. My stomach turned and I wrapped my arm about my waist, mentally forcing myself to forget all thought of vomiting right there on the stage.
Of all times, not now!
There was a sweeping sound behind me and then, without warning, the same, appallingly perfect voice sang to me. I jumped visibly at hearing it; Aminta was supposed to be startled by the salutation that would inevitably come to her, but my fright was nothing but real…overpoweringly, hideously real.
You have come here
In pursuit of
Your deepest urge,
In pursuit of
That wish,
Which till now
Has been silent,
Silent…
I have brought you,
That our passions
May fuse and merge –
In your mind
You've already
Succumbed to me,
Dropped all defenses,
Completely succumbed to me –
Now you are here with me:
No second thoughts,
You've decided,
Decided…
In the midst of this twisted, passionate song, I turned around, slowly, as if I was a sleepwalker, and faced the singer.
Don Juan had disguised himself with Passarino's cloak, which was long, full-cut, and black, with ample sleeves and a hood that completely hid the wearer's entire face. I stared at him, struggling to control my incredible fears that threatened to transform into utter hysteria, as I realized that this person…this man who now stood in front of me…gazing into my face through the blackness of his hood…was not Ubaldo Piangi.
Silence.
Then, the orchestra began a tango-like, syncopated, passionate rhythm: the musicians who played the violins, oboes, and cellos plucked enticingly at their strings, capturing the audience's interest, as the last song of 'Don Juan Triumphant' began.
Past the point
Of no return –
No backward glances:
The games we've played
Till now are at
An end…
Past all thought
Of 'if' or 'when' –
No use resisting:
Abandon thought,
And let the dream descend…
What raging fire
Shall flood the soul?
Which rich desire
Unlocks its door?
What sweet fantasy
Lies before
Us…?
Past the point
Of no return,
The final threshold –
What warm,
Unspoken secrets
Will we learn?
Beyond the point
Of no return…
During the whole of his entire musical soliloquy, I had remained where I was, forgetting everything, forgetting that this was a play and nothing real, that nothing could happen, that this couldn't happen, that I was imagining things.
None of that was true.
Without even thinking, I began to sing: my voice filled the stage and the theatre with volume, passion, and trembling emotions, making the very rafters ring.
You have brought me
To that moment
Where words run dry,
To that moment
Where speech
Disappears into silence,
Silence…
Leaving the table and the forgotten apple as it spun softly on the floor, dropped ungraciously from my suddenly limp hands, I paced to the edge of the stage. My mysterious partner – the man who was hidden in his black, bat-like cloak – stood there and watched me in silence.
I have come here,
Hardly knowing
The reason why…
In my mind,
I've already
Imagined your
Lips meeting mine: I'm
Defenseless and silent…
And now I am
Here with you:
No second thoughts,
I've decided,
Decided…
On the last, surprisingly low note of that impassioned, forbidden verse, I turned around and faced him. He was still there, as silent, impassive, and mysterious as ever. Even though he wore the hood, drawn close about his face, I looked at him and knew that our eyes had met…and that he was watching me.
There was only one way that I could know whom he was…although I already had a creeping suspicion that Signor Piangi had been taken out of his rôle as Don Juan, there was that one, all determining means. I had to do it.
If it would cost me my life, I had to.
He wasn't terribly far away from me; gazing at him with imploring eyes, I crossed the stage and came close to him, standing so that we touched. Hardly knowing if what I was going to do would work or if it would spell certain doom for everyone, I reached up and brushed my hand across his shoulder, from right to left. I heard his shuddering sigh as my fingertips ran across his hidden collarbone. He seemed weakened and somehow surrendered to my will, as if I was the one in power. I continued to sing, drawing ever closer to him, staring up into his hooded face.
Past the point
Of no return –
No going back now:
Our passion-play
Has now, at last,
Begun…
Past all thought
Of right or wrong –
One final question:
How long must we
Two wait, before
We're one…?
At this point, the mood began to intensify, along with the music, and I stepped behind him as he laboredly lowered himself onto the bench at the table: his long, pale, slim hands moving to grip his knees as his cloaked head bowed and his shoulders flexed beneath the cloak. I couldn't let the moment go: not now. I paced behind him and leaned over him, my hands moving to caress the crown of the hood and his broad, powerful shoulders, my palms trembling when they came into contact with the warmth of his head. I sang on, speaking to him in verse what I could not in words.
When will the blood
Begin to race,
The sleeping bud
Burst into bloom?
When will the flames,
At last, consume
Us…?
In a moment, I realized what I had just done.
He moved with superhuman speed and, before I could even breathe, his hand closed around mine and he spun me into his embrace. His arms locked about me, and I threw my head back to stare at him as he sang, reminding me of my own words.
Past the point
Of no return…
I joined him, fearlessly.
The final threshold –
The bridge
Is crossed, so stand
And watch it burn…
We've passed the point
Of no return…
The reader knows and guesses, by now, that Don Juan was played by Erik: the Phantom of the Opera.
How he had managed to somehow brush Piangi out of the way, without a noise or movement to betray him, how he had gotten past the wall of guards and gendarmes that had surrounded the theatre, I had no idea. But, then again, I really didn't care. He gazed into my face from beyond his disguise and then, and only then, could I see into him. The darkness of his eyes, touched by the faintest, golden glimpses of yellow, pierced through me and I was surrounded, permeated, by his warmth. I could barely restrain myself from ending the whole production and telling him everything that had filled my heart during the last months – during forever, really. But I couldn't.
Then he did a very odd thing. He reached up, with one hand, and removed the hood that he wore, exposing himself for everyone around us to see.
Say you'll share with
Me one
Love, one lifetime…
Lead me, save me
From my solitude…
I could hardly bear to take my eyes off of him in the midst of this – he was telling me the truth that I had always wanted to hear – but movement from within the wings attracted my attention, and I remembered that Raoul and the gendarmes still intended to capture and bring down the Phantom. "Erik…" I whispered, but he merely continued to sing, completely ignoring me.
Say you want me
With you,
Here beside you…
He then raised his voice and the climax of his song shook the very foundations of the room: the paintings, engraved architecture, and façades shaking within themselves at the volume and utter beauty of his song. As this happened, he looked into my eyes, deep into my soul itself, and I saw in his gaze what I had to do – what he was asking me to do.
Anywhere you go
Let me go too –
Christine,
That's all I ask of—
He never reached the 'you' of that phrase, for I reached up and tore off his mask. Raoul and the gendarmes fell back, horrified at the sight of the awful, distorted, mangled face of the Phantom of the Opera as he whirled, rounding on them. Taking advantage of their terrible shock, Erik pulled me against him and swept his cape about us, covering me.
I glimpsed gendarmes as they dashed onto the stage, rushing at his figure, and then I heard Meg's scream from upstage and André and Firmin's double cries as they found Piangi – hung behind the curtain – not dead, simply unconscious as of yet, floudering about in the air like a fish out of water.
The floor beneath our feet abruptly shot away, revealing a yawning, narrow pit of blackness beneath us, and then we were suddenly plummeting into that blackness. I screamed and then we hit the ground beneath the stage. Suddenly, we were running down the escape passage – away from the still-opened trapdoor and the shouts of the quickly forming mob of vengeful stagehands, actors, police, and Raoul – into the blackness that only Erik could navigate in.
The lake shone in eerie, greenish-yellow luminescence, as if it was anticipating a terrifying set of events, and it cast a weird glow onto my skin and his already white complexion. He looked incredibly pale, more so than usual. His movements sharp and deliberate, he tightened his grip on my hand and led me across the dock to the boat.
"Get in." he snapped.
Frightened at his tone, I obeyed. We made the journey to the lair then, without a word, until he suddenly burst out, "Down once more we plunge, Christine – for the last time, when our fates will be decided! All my life, I have been hounded out by everyone, met with hatred everywhere, and now it is over: tonight, it will end!"
"Erik, what are you going to do?" I breathed, but he didn't reply.
As soon as we reached the lair, he took me to my room, his hand never releasing mine, and then he opened the door, gesturing for me to go in. "There's a gown on your bed – put it on," he ordered. I stepped into the room and he closed the door behind me, almost slamming it. I stood, stunned, within the darkness, and heard his footsteps click away, down the hall, on the cold marble floor.
I couldn't believe what had just happened.
Only moments before, I had been wracking my mind trying to find a way of saving him, since the one opportunity that I had had to warn him of the plot had been taken away from me. Now, I was back in the lair, with Erik, and there was a mob of angry theatre patrons, staff, and others stalking the underground catacombs in which the Phantom's lair was located. But they would never find Erik's palace, I thought – no one could. And yet he had said that our fates would be decided tonight…
I turned to the bed and saw the gown that lay upon it.
The doll's gown.
A bride gown.
I couldn't think. My mind was going numb, and I felt as if I was losing my grip on reality – and yet, at the same time, I felt incredibly alert and calm, almost serene. There was a mob coming after us, Raoul would be looking for me, the opera had been yet another disaster, and I was now back in the lair with Erik. My fingertips tingling with the rush of flurried emotion that now filled me, I crossed the room to the bed and stared at the gown for a moment.
It was even more beautiful than it had been the last time that I had seen it, if that was even possible. Beautiful as the dawn, magificent as any queen could desire.
And I was to wear it.
Silently, I removed my Aminta costume and laid it out on the bed, beside the white bridal gown. Then, I went to the wardrobes that all of my clothing had been placed in, by Erik's careful, deft hands at a time that I could not guess at. I took out a set of petticoats – each frothing with yards and yards of lace and ribbons – and chose stockings and slippers to wear as well. I paused for a moment, trying to still the rapid beating of my heart, trying to remind myself that this was Erik whom I was dealing with: my Angel, and that no matter what, I couldn't be frightened.
Or could I?
I slipped on the luxuriously silky white stockings and the embroidered, bejeweled slippers, and then I stepped into the petticoats and fastened them about my waist, bemusedly noting that they very nearly hung off of me. As soon as this had been done, I turned to face the gown once more.
You must do this, Christine.
Somehow, the voice of my own thoughts was more like Erik's than anyone else's, even mine. He so filled my every thought, dream, my very life itself, that I felt as if nothing else mattered.
"Perhaps nothing else does." I whispered, looking down at the carpet beneath my feet.
I drew the gown on over my head, feeling for a moment that I was literally swimming through its voluminous skirts, which were all made entirely of pure white tulle, which caught the candelight in the room strangely, sparkling as if diamonds had been sewn into it. Knowing Erik and his seemingly inexhaustible amount of wealth, this could very well be the case.
The gown itself was nothing less than a wonder, as is quite obvious by now. Its skirts were a sea of flawless whiteness, bursting out around me in a perfect bell-shape, like the bloom of a full-blown rose. Its bodice was detailed with tulle, embroidered with opalescent white roses, their leaves, and vines, a white ribbon lacing it up to its heavily embroidered neckline. The neckline itself came away from my shoulders, baring them to the warm air in the room, lined with peaked white lace, and the waist of the gown came to a low V. The back of the gown had an elaborate satin train that swept out far behind me, making a soft shh-ing noise whenever I moved about.
When I had laced up the back of the gown, I went to the mirror…and was stunned by my own reflection. Was this me? This shy, hesitant, wide-eyed, but statuesque and thoughtful young woman, this pale and wondering girl? I could hardly recognize myself.
Just then, there was a knock at the door: three soft taps.
"Erik."
My lips formed the name, but no sound came forth. Gathering my skirts into my hands, I ran across the room and carefully opened the door.
Erik stood outside, in all his glory: garbed in all-out, dark magnificence. His Don Juan cloak and scarf had been replaced by his opera wear. He now wore a full-cut, romantic-style white shirt, complete with a flowing, lacy cravat, a huge diamond stud to fasten it, and draping cuffs that were edged with lace, a black silk jacket and pants, a black velvet waistcoat which was also studded with diamond buttons, and, of course, a billowing black velvet cloak with intricate, swirling designs of jet about the collar. His mask was white…with a red teardrop etching down from its eye.
I was stunned by how incredible he looked. He was absolutely beautiful. I would always have to be careful, I resolved for the hundred thousandth time, when I looked at him. The mere sight of this compelling, elegant, swoon-worthy man was enough to send any girl or woman into a dead faint at his mere gorgeousness. He was more amazing, more fascinating and enthralling, than any man that I had ever before seen.
And yet he didn't even know that himself.
A long, silent moment passed us by, and then he spoke.
"Beauty is dressed as a bride…is she ready to greet her Beast?"
* * * * * *
Author's note: Oh dear, Christine, you had best watch yourself – now he's really mad. Next chapter!