Chapter 2: New Employments

In the not-so-distant city of London, evening shadows concealed the face of a man seated in a deserted café opposite Westminster. He had set out to sketch the façade of the building by the light of the street lamps, but buttresses and arches soon gave way to the frill of a gown cuff, detailed curls framing a delicate brow ...

Erik closed the sketchbook gently, as if to avoid injuring all the copies of Christine's face that it contained. He had been abroad for over two years now, making use of his collected wealth to see the world he had so long denied himself. His road had let to places too numerous to mention across Europe and eastward, the attention his mask attracted seeming to make no impression on him. All that mattered now was the day-to-day pleasures he found in new places where no one had ever heard of the Phantom of the Opera. Nadir had helped him liquidate his belongings; Erik often wrote his friend letters in his loneliness, but had not yet been brave enough to return to Paris and call at the modest flat on the Rue de Rivoli. It was all still too fresh.

He fanned one graceful hand across the sketchbook's leather cover. "I will forget her," he whispered, trying to sound certain if only for his own sake.

*

Monsieur de Jardin nodded approvingly as he read the CV that Christine had fabricated. It was not too ambitious, for she was still young and wished to appear as believable as possible. According to the document, she had nursed her ailing sister and her two children until the unfortunate's death; in the three years which followed, she had served as a governess in a noble household. Christine's false resume was bolstered by a letter of reference which she had signed herself as "The Vicomtesse de Chagny." The letter had been penned by another hand, however: that of a friar who had strayed from God's path and now made his living providing well-paying customers with forged documents. She had paid a pretty penny, as well as a portion of her principles, for the letter. It too was modest, praising in simple language Anna Daaé's skills as a nursemaid and elementary tutor. Christine had thus been forced to take on her mother's Christian name and invent two de Chagny children in the hopes of gaining employment.

Monsieur de Jardin was a wealthy businessman whose wife loved their young daughter but could not quite bring herself to raise the child. She much preferred the teeming social life of Paris; Christine tried not to wince as she tittered, "Daaé! Daaé! That was the name of that Opera singer - do you remember, Gerome?"

"I'm afraid I don't, dear," he replied in a flat tone that indicated Monsieur de Jardin rarely gave his wife his full attention.

Despite her husband's apparent non-interest, Madame de Jardin continued, "Christine Daaé, the name was. She was at the center of some scandal a few years ago ... made a great splash one evening and then disappeared completely. It was really quite shocking." The look with which she fixed Christine was prying and greedy. "I don't suppose she's any relation of yours?"

Christine cast her glance downward depreciatingly and wished she had chosen a fictitious surname as well. "No, Madame, I don't believe so."

The older woman flapped her fan, obviously disappointed. "A shame," she pouted; "I should have liked to hear how the whole thing turned out."

Monsieur de Jardin cleared his throat and mercifully changed the subject. "Madame le Vicomtesse seems to have thought very highly of you, Mademoiselle Daaé. May I ask why you chose to leave her employ?"

She was prepared for this question and had rehearsed its answer. "Monsieur le Vicomte's business required the family move to America," she replied modestly; "and though I did travel with them when they toured Europe, I did not feel prepared to move so far away."

"Understandable," he nodded, finding Mademoiselle Daaé more genteel and becoming by the moment. "Obviously you know of our requirements from the advertisement; so suppose you tell us what you are seeking in a position?"

Again, Christine had a scripted reply ready. "I would ask for a small stipend in addition to my board - perhaps fifty francs a week - and Sundays to attend mass and have time to myself. Otherwise, I am amenable."

"Very good," he replied, placing the papers down on the coffee table. He had already decided to hire Mademoiselle Daaé, but recalled at the last moment that his wife might like to be consulted. "My dear, have you any questions for Mademoiselle?"

She screwed her face up thoughtfully. "Can you sew?" she asked finally.

It was not what Christine had expected; relieved, she answered, "Yes, Madame, I embroider and knit quite well."

"And mend?" Christine nodded. "Oh, good," Madame sighed, relieved herself. "I get so very tired of forever mending Estelle's things."

Monsieur de Jardin was silent a moment to be sure his wife had nothing else - perhaps something more important - to ask; but she gave him a small nod to indicate she was through and approved. Rising, he extended his hand to the young lady he was already calling "Anna" in his mind. "Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, we should be delighted to have you."

Christine rose too and shook his hand with a small bow of her head. "Thank you Monsieur ... Madame," another nod to his wife. She tried to maintain an outer composure and not betray her true feelings of mingled disgust and relief. A job as a governess was quite a fall from being the wife of a nobleman, and already she did not care for Madame de Jardin; but work was work, and she needed it. She was given leave to bring her things at once, and so after sending to the railway station for her trunks, she returned to the Opera for the remaining dresses and personal items from her bedchamber. Even a cheap hotel, which is all she could have afforded, might have drained her finances long before she found employment; and so she had been staying amongst Erik's empty caves. As much as her injured pride allowed, she still wished he would return; but she was glad nevertheless to leave the basements. Without his presence to make her brave and secure, she felt rather nervous and alone in the cellars.

What fears Christine had harbored about her new position were dispelled the following morning upon meeting her charge, the seven-year-old Estelle. A bespectacled, pensive child, Christine liked her ad once and could tell she would make an apt and intelligent pupil. "Perhaps why the mother doesn't like the child near her," Christine mused wryly as further acquaintance proved Madame de Jardin a foolish and petty woman. Christine allowed the little girl to call her "Mam'selle Anna," realizing the good it would do her in helping to remember her new identity; but though she permitted the little chambermaid to call her the same, she comfortably remained "Mademoiselle Daaé" to the formidable housekeeper and to her new employers.

*

Meanwhile, in Florence, Erik stood on a scaffolding like a great bird clutching a branch in a high breeze. His cloak fanned out like wings around him and something in that motion brought a vague smile to play at the corners of his ruined mouth. "The Master of all I see," he murmured to himself, and was pleased when the words gave him a tiny but perceptible thrill. He reached out and laid his palms against the rough wall of the building; it was nothing special, a great hulking mass of rotted wood and crumbling stone, but Erik felt a sympathy for the ugly structure that no other builder in the world could claim. Naturally his bid had come in lowest, and so he had contracted to restore the aged building to its former beauty: an act of mercy that he found a wry pleasure in. His own face was irreparable, but this at least was well within his ability.

Erik was glad of the project; it was nothing much, certainly no challenge for his skills as a contractor, but he had consciously chosen a small job for his first in Italy. He had no name here, and as was to be expected his eccentric appearance and the standards he imposed upon his crew often raised eyebrows. Had it not been for the letter of recommendation, he might not have succeeded in winning even this job ...

Carefully, almost lovingly, Erik had forged the testimonial from Giovanni which outlined his skills as a mason, architect, and overseer of workmen. That great builder was many years in his grave now, but among those who knew the science of stone and mortar his name was far from forgotten. A few of the older ones even remembered the whispered mention of a strange young man, an apprentice who hid his face behind a mask, who was believed to be Giovanni's natural son. Erik's re-emergence all these years later was a point of questioning, but the letter gained him an immediate attraction. Curiosity drew men to his employ; good pay and hard but gratifying work kept them.

Unrolling his plans for the job, Erik flattened them against the wall of the building and once again went over the figures. Silently, he also congratulated himself; his designs, though simple, were masterful and pleasing to the eye. It would be time-consuming work, but he had promised the building's owner a work of art; and time he had, in abundance. Only as he relaxed into sleep that night in the small bare room he had rented near the work site, did he allow himself to acknowledge the good of keeping his hands busy. As if the money and the reputation he would earn were only secondary concerns, he sighed in relief: it would help in not thinking of Christine.

*

Estelle de Jardin crossed her little legs at the ankles because her feet did not yet reach the floor. She was rather a comical sight perched atop the piano stool, her grave little face framed by two thick brown braids. Scrunching her nose to adjust her glasses, she began the little tune again; but just as on the several previous attempts, something in the fifth phrase sounded dissonant and wrong. She heaved a sigh that was substantial for her eight-year-old frame, and Mademoiselle Anna came floating to her side like an angel. The error was perhaps a bit exaggerated; Estelle had noticed that her teacher was distant today, lingering absently at the window instead of sewing or reading in the chair beside the piano, occasionally reminding her to keep her fingers curved.

"Estelle, cherie, what's the matter?"

"I shall never get past this phrase, Mam'selle Anna - I cannot get it right no matter how hard I try!"

"You dear little goose, you've marked it incorrectly. See, here?" The governess seated herself on the piano stool, which her pupil had vacated for her. She indicated the phrase Estelle was muddling over, where she had pencilled in the names of the pitches above each note. "This is the wrong pitch," she said, rubbing out the offending mark and replacing it with the correct one. "Do you see, Estelle? It ought to sound like this ..." And Mademoiselle Anna opened her soft white throat and sang the phrase correctly. Estelle smiled, for she loved to hear her governess sing - and today she was especially glad to hear it, since her pretty teacher had seemed melancholy of late. When she finished the phrase, governess smiled at pupil, who was hovering at her elbow. "Do you see now, dear?"

"Oh, yes ... Mam'selle Anna?" she breathed, her eyes wide inside their glass prisons.

"Yes, Estelle?"

"Sometimes I think you aren't a governess after all, but a fairy princess come to look after me," the child said gravely.

Christine forced down a laugh at her quaint little charge, and asked just as seriously, "What makes you think that?"

"Because you're so pretty and good," she replied.

Smiling, Christine gave up her seat to Estelle and placed her hand on the little girl's head. In the year that she had lived with the de Jardins, Estelle had wrapped herself so tightly around Christine's broken heart that sometimes she felt moved to tears by the child's affections.

"But you're so sad so often, Mam'selle," Estelle said suddenly, watching the pensive expression that was crossing her governess' face.

Christine smiled a little and bent close to the child as if in confidence. "Perhaps I am missing fairy-land," she whispered.

"And the fairy prince who's waiting there for you?" Estelle whispered back.

Erik darted through Christine's mind in one violent moment of sadness. She drew in a breath and straightened. "I don't believe there is one, Estelle. But besides, I'd much rather stay here with you."

Estelle jumped off the piano stool and threw her arms around her governess' waist, fretful that she had caused the look of sorrow in Mademoiselle Anna's eyes. "Will you sing a duet with me, Mam'selle?"

"Of course, dear," Christine replied, and brought out the fat volume of simple songs Estelle had already mastered. The wise little girl chose one that made Christine smile to herself: a little air from a Shakespeare play. "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more -
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey, nonny, nonny!"When the song was over, Estelle struck the last chord and clapped exuberantly. "Oh, Mam'selle - you sing so beautifully!"

"Thank you, dear. And you shall play wonderfully one day, if you continue to practice your exercises."

"Oh," Estelle sighed heavily, "but I do hate my exercises."

"Now Estelle, you know that if you don't practice, you shall always play like a dreadful elephant." Christine fumbled her fingers across a few piano keys to set the child laughing. And as Estelle giggled, Christine was reminded of herself as a child and of the stories her papa had told her. "And," she whispered very low, which made Estelle listen to her very closely, "if you are very good and remember to do your scales every day, perhaps someday the Angel of Music will visit you and teach you to play more beautifully than anyone else on earth!"

"Oh, Mam'selle!" Estelle cried, clapping her fat little hands together. "You must have been taught to sing by the Angel of Music!"

Christine suddenly realized what a mistake she had made. If she were to forget Erik and the hole he had left in her life when he vacated his underground house, she ought not to tell Estelle stories about the Angel of Music. "Yes," she finally answered, feeling suddenly hollow. "But that was a long time ago."

"Mam'selle Anna?" The little girl's forehead creased in concern. "Why are you so sad?"

She smoothed Estelle's hair with her palm. "I am not sad, dear. The Angel's voice was just so beautiful, it made me feel like crying."

Estelle hugged Christine about the waist again. "I hope I will hear Him someday."

"Perhaps you will, but you must keep practicing. Remember to keep your fingers curved." Christine's voice was absent again, and she returned to the window to watch raindrops slip down the pane. It was a dreary day in Paris and the gloom had made her melancholy. I have been thinking of Erik, she admitted silently to herself. That alone could be the reason she had been so quick to tell Estelle stories about the Angel of Music. In fact that could be the only reason Estelle fancied her a sad fairy princess pining for her absent prince, or the only reason for anything anymore. Oddly enough, Christine rarely thought of Raoul - and when she did, it was with distaste. Erik alone filled her thoughts these days, and she felt torn between the new, tender feelings she struggled to define and the pain he had caused her by his disappearance. The de Jardins' music room curtains were a rich scarlet and, leaning her cheek against them, she thought of the velvet and deep mahogany of the old sitting-room in the house beneath the Opera. She closed her eyes. "Oh, Erik," she whispered under Estelle's playing; "how could you go away and leave me when I needed someone so badly?"

Almost as if in response to her question, three sharp taps sounded on the music room door and Monsieur de Jardin entered. "Hello, my sweet," he greeted Estelle, who hurried to him in a flurry of petticoats and braids. "Have I got a present for you anywhere about me?"

"Oh, Papa, a present? Where, where?"

"I can't quite remember," he joked, tugging lovingly on one of her braids. "That's where I need your help."

Giggling, Estelle tried to feel all his pockets while he playfully danced away from her, complaining that she was tickling him. Finally his coat pocket relinquished its treasure, a bright orange fresh from the street market, and a bit of lovely ribbon. Estelle exclaimed with pleasure, kissed her papa's cheek impetuously, and ran to Christine to have the new ribbon put into her hair. As she undid Estelle's thick braids and combed through the long waves with her fingers, Christine was suddenly aware of something she had noticed from time to time since her installment here: Monsieur de Jardin was watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. The first time Christine had felt his gaze on her, she been afraid she had displeased him in some way; but as she noticed it again and again, she began to realize that it was a look of anything but disapproval. This made her even more anxious, however, than disapproval might have; fearing that she understood him all too well, she learned to break these moments by looking him straight in the face. His expression always neutralized when her eyes met his, and she was thankful for it.

She looked at him now as she tied off half of Estelle's hair into one long pigtail, allowing the ends of the ribbon to flow down her back along with the rest of her chestnut waves. "There now," she said, laying her hands on the child's shoulders; "now who is the fairy princess?" Estelle beamed and ran to examine herself in a mirror, leaving Christine rather awkwardly alone in the room with the father.

He cleared his throat and came a few steps closer to her. "I have a gift for you, too, Mademoiselle, if you would permit me."

"Oh, Monsieur, please - you are too good ..." But the little serving-maid, Agatha, had entered the room with a hatbox in hand. Monsieur de Jardin took it from her and laid it atop the piano, whereupon Agatha withdrew.

He smiled at Christine, almost shyly. "Please, open it," he said with an inviting wave of his hand.

Unable to resist the temptation, Christine lifted the lid of the box and drew from its tissued interior a lovely hat of cream-colored fabric with a delicate silk band. "Oh, Monsieur, it's charming ..."

"Just right for travelling, or so the milliner told me." When she looked at him questioningly, his expression was sheepish. "I'm sorry to bribe you like this, but I felt I could not ask you what I'm about to ask you without first presenting some kind of appeasement."

"Monsieur?" she asked, her forehead creasing.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, you have been with us for over a year now, and please allow me to tell you how pleased my wife and I are that you have come into our home. Estelle adores you and we could not imagine a pleasanter young lady than yourself."

"Thank you, sir," Christine replied cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I know I must be worrying you," he smiled, "but rest assured there is nothing wrong. I simply came to ask you a favor - a rather great one, as you might guess from the gift."

She breathed a small sigh of relief and allowed him a faint smile in return. "How may I be of help, sir?"

"By accompanying us on a tour of Europe," he replied hurriedly. "You have done this before, I believe, with your previous employers; but I ask with such hesitation because this is to be a rather extended tour ... two years, perhaps, or slightly longer. Madame de Jardin has been restless lately and I want to restore her spirits with a nice long holiday."

Christine nodded; a whisper among the servants rumored that Mme. de Jardin had lost a baby earlier in the year. Agatha maintained that it had been following a row regarding a perfumed letter Madame had found in Monsieur's coat pocket, but many of the staff pooh-poohed the little maid's theory.

"I know it is asking a great deal, Mademoiselle," he was continuing, "but we would like very much for you to accompany us. We do not wish to send Estelle away to school when she is so happy with you - and the trip would be wonderful for her, I am sure." He hurried on, as if he anticipated and wished to prevent her refusal. "We would make all the travel arrangements, of course, and provide you with whatever trunks and travelling clothes you might require. And," he seemed to be running out of breath, "a raise of ten francs per week would be yours if you wished it."

Christine was smiling broadly now, and she held up her hands. "Please, Monsieur de Jardin, breathe before you do yourself a harm. I think I should be very glad to accept your invitation - it is very kind of you."

"Are you certain?" he asked, surprised. "After all, it will be quite a long time ..."

She nodded. "It is a long time, sir, but to be perfectly honest I have nothing to hold me in Paris. I will think about it and give you my definite answer in a few days; but I believe that answer will be 'yes.'"

Monsieur de Jardin beamed and clasped her hand, looking for a moment very like Estelle. "Thank you, Mademoiselle - thank you very much." Then, as if to prevent her changing her mind, he hurried from the room.

She returned to the window and gazed out, this time a small smile lightening her features. "A long trip could be the very thing," she whispered to herself, leaving 'to help me forget Erik' unspoken.

*

Erik mopped his forehead and moved the lantern to a greater distance; but in a moment, he realized the faint light would never do from far away. Muttering an oath, he moved the lantern near again, only to find it to blame for the sweat rolling into his eyes. Finally he threw down his chisel and moved away from the frieze he was carving, frustrated and in need of a cool drink.

The frieze was to be fixed to the façade tomorrow, and when that was done his restoration of the building would be complete. These last refinements he was making to the delicately carved stone would surely cement his fame; already his work was garnering notice from the populace. He had even been approached, very tentatively, by rich signors looking to have homes built.

He was glad to have gained a name of his own right, since hiding behind Giovanni's had been inexpressibly painful for him. Especially when he worked on fine details which required the removal of his mask for comfort's sake, his thoughts would heedlessly wander back to the days of his apprenticeship; his deft fingers would create things of heartbreaking beauty from the most mundane stone as if in tribute to the loss of the purest affection he had ever possessed. And yet, he made certain he came to do this work alone and under cover of darkness: recalling Luciana, he could bear to let no member of his crew see his face. Stare as they might at his mask, they respected him - or at least, the high wages he paid them. But he would be unable to hire any man, at any price, should he frighten just one with his unconcealed ugliness.

Luciana ... in a way, she had helped him almost as much as she had hurt him. He had mourned her piteously as a youth just on the verge of manhood, and the guilt he felt for her tragic end had never entirely left him. He could not yet walk through the street markets of Florence without selecting some delicate bloom to lay on the tiny grave he had sought out upon his arrival in the city. But he no longer blamed himself for her obsessive desire to see what lay behind his mask; she had been a selfish, willful child, and her determination to have her own way was her own flaw. This thinking, in turn, had helped him in the construction of his still-fragile life without Christine. He had come to accept that people are like blocks of stone, each with its own particular imperfection, and that Christine's leaving had been no fault of his but rather something in her that he could never have changed. It made it easier to think this way, to unshoulder the blame onto his absent angel. And without the weight of guilt, it became in turn easier for Erik to be angry with her. He told himself this was healthy - she had treated him wrongly. Yes, time had passed ... but he was new to this, this thinking like another person. He was proud of his progress.

Removing his cloak and jacket, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and returned to his work. By the time dawn pinkened the sky, sweat plastered what little hair he had to what little scalp he could boast, but the frieze was complete even to his own exacting standards. And what now?, he found himself musing. Of course a cool bath and a fresh suit, but after that - after the building was finished - what then? Slipping the mask back over his ruined face, he started back to his small rented room. Or perhaps ... where next? Perhaps indeed - another change of scenery? Did he really want to settle down and build houses for tentative signors? No, it could wait ... and becoming scarce for a while might just increase his value. Thoughts of Vienna flooded his mind as he strode through the lightening streets. The symphony there was said to be exceptional.

*

"Mam'selle - hurry!" Estelle giggled and ran after a fat and impatient-looking sheep, who spent all his days being petted by children in Coram's Fields in London and had become abruptly bored with Estelle when he realized she had no food for him. Christine lagged behind as her charge pursued the wooly creature and found herself unable to suppress a small smile at the sight of it waddling away across the park with Estelle's braids in hot pursuit.

She had brought Estelle here every morning this week; although her ninth birthday had passed she did not feel too old for the petting zoo and so Christine could not begrudge her it - especially since they would leave London tomorrow. Madame de Jardin had enjoyed "The Season" in this great city but now complained of being depressed by the constantly damp weather. Christine had to admit she felt rather dismal herself - but Monsieur de Jardin had cleared away everyone's storm clouds.

"What do we think of Italy?" he had said.

*

Erik did not lean out his window in the moonshine, as so many music-lovers do in Venice, to drink in the song of the gondoliers; but he did leave his balcony doors open to allow both moonlight and music to spill into his modest apartment. Sometimes when a particularly prideful boatman would pole by, he would smile and, standing out of sight behind the curtains, sing a soft harmony to whatever tune the young man was belting out. The look of surprise that crossed his face was nothing compared to the speed and silence in which he would row away after Erik had employed his ventriloquist's art to throw a whispered remark about humility into the straining ear. Harmless amusement, that, he would tell himself, musing good-naturedly about what a gondolier he himself might have made. He chuckled as he composed a resume in his mind: years of experience poling and singing on subterranean waters.

The Viennese symphony had not impressed him terribly, and he wished he knew someone among its management so he could have amused himself with a few notes. But since he did not, he had concluded his holiday there and done a bit more travelling: Berlin, Brussels and Prague had entertained him briefly, but in the end Italy had called him home. After reappearing in Florence to test the endurance of his popularity, he had been satisfied with it enough to move base to Venice. There he spent much of his days in the lovely flat he had rented, drawing up plans for the several jobs he was overseeing, and his evenings strolling along the canals, ducking into churches to sample their choirs or just observing other ramblers from a streetside café. He felt an especial affection for the young lovers who held their trysts in the shadowy streets, although he often observed their fleeting embraces through a veil of his own bittersweet feelings.

Tonight, however, there was something in the air that caught Erik's attention. A particular perfume: acrid, tickling the nose almost like the scent of tears. The gypsy in him went on guard - something is going to happen. "Rubbish," he murmured to himself, picking up his violin in the moonlight. "I control what happens to me now."