Chapter 5: Le Reviens
For some time, Nadir had been ending his letters to Erik with invitations to return and visit him in Paris. As his friend whiled away the years in various parts of Europe and Asia, he noticed that his letters became less and less brooding, more full of hope and plans for the future. Nadir was glad to see Erik progressing so well, as he had been fearful that the whole affair at the Opera would break him. But now that so many years had passed, he began to wonder whether Erik's travels were not just elaborate ways of avoiding the site of his heartbreak. He did not relish the thought of Erik forever running from his past - nor the prospect of never seeing his friend again unless he himself were to travel to Italy, Russia, Austria... As much of a grain of sand Erik had at one time been in Nadir's shoe, he had to admit that, after such a long parting, he missed his friend very much.
When a crisp envelope, addressed in the familiar spidery hand, arrived with a return direction in Geneva, Nadir replied to it quickly. "My dear friend," he wrote, "Since you have landed in a spot so near to Paris, I hope you will consider any one of my invitations to pay me an overdue visit. It has been too long since I had the pleasure of your company, Erik. Please come when you can."
Though he hurried to post his letter, Nadir knew that Erik was not likely to return to Paris. Still, the closeness of his current roost made the invitation feel somehow less futile - and after all, it had been nearly nine years since the curtain fell on Erik's career at the Opera. Perhaps it was true that time could heal all wounds ... but no, Nadir would not allow himself to grow carried away by hope. It would be hard enough when Erik's refusal arrived.
*
Erik had tired quickly of Venice after Christine's departure. Although he had tried to pretend that it did not matter, he could not stop their conversations from replaying in his mind. The look on her face as he stepped backwards through the French doors stabbed him; as much as he tried to forget it, it reappeared in his dreams and made him wake up weeping. Contracting lost its creative thrill, and when he finished with his last job he simply cut his ties and disappeared. He felt a small pang for his workmen, but supplied them each with a generous severance and hoped having survived working for him would bring them renewed respect in their field and the job offers such respect carries with it.
He left Venice as soon as he was able; his tenure as a builder, however brief, had replenished his financial coffers enough for several years of carefully budgeted travel. He hoped that the sights and sensations of Europe, which had once before soothed his heartbreak, would again expunge the regrets from his heart. "Why did I leave her?" he asked the moonlit canals the evening he set off. "Was the price that high?"
The first year was the hardest, just as it had been after his departure from Paris; Italy gave him no comfort, and from Milan he decided to travel eastward, to the Russian cities where he had found solace after Luciana's death so many years ago. But still he felt restless, unable to plant himself in any of the soil his feet touched; and he wondered if he would ever be capable of recreating the independent life he had nearly possessed before he turned and saw Christine running after him in the marketplace.
The only link he felt to reality as he drifted like a disembodied, melancholy spirit was his continued friendship with Nadir. He did not write his friend of his encounters with Christine in Italy - each time he took a pen into his hand the words that came were not enough to express the mingling and strangling of joy by anguish. Besides, he read between the lines of Nadir's letters that his "man of the world" charade had not fooled the daroga. Flit though he might from city to city, he knew that Nadir knew Christine was ever on his mind.
When he wrote his friend from Geneva, a reply was swift in coming. "My home is always open to you," Nadir wrote, yet another attempt to lure him back to Paris.
So many times before, Erik had waved aside such invitations. Nadir likely thought that returning and making peace with the places of his past would lend him closure; Erik had never felt inclined to play a part in Nadir's sentimental farce.
But now he felt alone and empty, abused by the cold winds of despair that blew his hollow form through Europe. Even though Paris was the very graveyard of his murdered dreams, he longed for the solemn and comforting companionship of his old friend.
"Very well, my dark knight," he muttered as he folded Nadir's letter. "Set up the chessboard; the black king is coming home."
*
With disbelief, Nadir surveyed the brief note that announced, ever so casually, Erik's acceptance of his invitation.
"Look for me within the month," Erik wrote simply, "and have the decanter full and ready; there is much time to be made up for."
Nadir felt dizzy even thinking of it - that, after all these years, Erik should so unceremoniously stroll across his threshold. But, he reminded himself, what else could be expected? With Erik, things were always inextricably complicated and yet supremely simple.
Between the hurried preparations for his friend's arrival, Nadir suddenly found himself plagued by one worry: he had never mentioned to Erik Christine's presence in Paris. He had read of it in the newspapers nearly a year ago, the death of de Jardin and the consequent fortune and surrogate motherhood that had fallen to her. The scandal of the man's former wife - married now to de Chagny, how very ironic! - and her obsession with challenging the will had been splashed all over the Paris press. No judge would grant credence to her claim, of course; she was remarried and quite comfortable without her former husband's money, which was left to Christine for the care of his daughter. Angry at the enforcement of de Jardin's monetary bequests, the shallow woman had dropped all her claims to the child and soon made a grand departure from Paris altogether, the ridiculous Vicomte clinging tightly to her skirts.
Christine alone remained standing, the victor of a bitter battle. He had not seen her, but the whispered rumor was that she had grown drawn and pale and rarely ventured into company, despite the clamourings of the nosy Parisian society. They would have welcomed her with open arms and she would have been their darling for a time; but she chose to decline their invitations and remain behind the closed doors of the de Jardin home on the outskirts of Paris. What little Nadir could glean of her current activities was this: she had placed her charge in a rather modest school for young ladies, and had become the silent beneficiary of an orphan's home.
Nadir wondered, now that Erik would be returning, if he ought to tell him of the proximity of Mademoiselle Daaé. Unable to choose a course of action that made him feel at ease, he finally resolved that he would judge Erik's demeanor upon his arrival and make his decision then. It was his hope that his friend had finally let go of his attachment to the former chorus girl, and that the tale would bring no harm in telling. But his knowledge of Erik prevented him from putting too much stock in such an act of optimism.
"Never mind," he told himself as he and Darius made their little flat tidy in anticipation of their visitor. "Wait and see."
*
The reunion at the doorway of the flat on the Rue de Rivoli was awkward in its very first moments, as the two men regarded each other with uncertainty as to the proper behavior for such an occasion. But after the initial strangeness of being so long apart and then so suddenly face-to-face dissipated, Nadir extended his hands. "Welcome, Erik. I am so very glad that you've come."
As unexpected was Nadir's gesture to Erik, so was Erik's reciprocation of it to Nadir. The two friends embraced briefly, and when the strange but comforting sensation of it was over, Nadir guided Erik into the flat with an arm still draped across his shoulders. Erik, who knew the location of the daroga's dwelling but had only ever gazed in from the outside, stepped slowly about the sitting-room, admiring the small details of his friend's life. "It is good to see you again, Nadir," he said softly, fingering "the Persian's" opera cloak briefly before hanging his own cloak beside it on the corner hat-rack. The words of heartfelt friendship seemed so strange as they slipped easily over his tongue, but he savored them.
"And you, my friend," replied the daroga warmly, seeming not to notice Erik's wonder. "Now come, have a seat, and I shall bring the brandy; we have so many years to fill in!"
At first, Erik was wary of Nadir's wish to hear all of his personal business from the time of their parting; but as the warmth of friendship and of spirits washed over him, he found his tongue growing loose. It was only a few hours and a few brandies later that he was relating all that had happened in Venice with Christine.
Nadir stared with ill-concealed shock as Erik told him of their repeated meetings, of the conversations they had had, and most of all of Erik's receipt of Christine's attempted persuasions. When at last Erik told of his departure from the twilit arbor and paused to take a sip of his drink, Nadir could no longer contain himself. "In Allah's name, Erik," he breathed. "You were right not to tell me of this in your letters - I should surely never have believed it."
Erik shook his head and took a deeper draught of his brandy. "Nor I, my friend. Sometimes I am forced to tell the story to myself again, for I myself do not believe it."
Though his words were benign, Nadir caught some tiny flaw in Erik's voice that rendered his tone suspect. Testing that weakness, he asked cautiously, "And you simply walked away. I hope you will forgive me, Erik - but I must admit I despaired your ever forgetting her."
After a pause, Erik replied, "Of course I forgive you, Nadir. I acted like a damn fool." Silence for a moment, in which he toyed with the delicate glass he held in his long deft fingers. Then, softly, he continued, "I try to tell myself that my anger was justified - but she was such a silly child ..." He shook himself mentally, the reproach manifesting itself as a faint shake of his head. "But none of that matters now. I am no longer angry with her - I simply wish that chapter of my life to be closed forever."
Again, words that made one assertion; but the tone betrayed something else, a nearly-concealed hollowness that might have escaped anyone but the oldest friend. Nadir caught it, and immediately made the decision he had been vacillating over for weeks. As soon as the opportunity arose he changed the subject, and the name of Christine Daaé was not spoken between them again that night.
*
Time passed pleasantly as Erik and Nadir became used to being in each other's company again. Nadir especially took a great deal of pleasure from the visit, for Erik was more than willing to venture out of doors now: a change to his personality that was somewhat disconcerting and yet infinitely interesting for the daroga. As it became clear to him that Erik was capable of accompanying him anywhere in Paris, an idea began to tug at his mental coat-tails. It took nearly a month for him to consider and reconsider the idea, probe his friend gently for indications of how he would receive it. Finally, nearly a month after Erik's arrival, Nadir made his determination.
"Well then, Erik," he said one afternoon, closing his newspaper and removing his feet from the parlour coffee table, "what do you say to a night at the Opera?"
Erik eyed his friend over his tea. "Don't be ridiculous, Nadir."
"Come now, how can you dismiss it out of hand when you have not even heard what they are giving?" The daroga flashed his pearly teeth. "It is your favorite, Erik - it is Faust."
Shaking his head, Erik drained the teacup and placed the china carefully on the table. "My dear friend," he replied, a jocular turn to his voice; "I am afraid that my occasional laughter at your pathetic attempts at humor have deluded you into believing that you are funny."
Nadir threw back his head and laughed openly at Erik's jest, and rose from his chair to fix them each a nip of sherry. For several minutes the conversation was light and amusing, but in the end Nadir steered back to his original course.
"But in seriousness, Erik," he began. "Don't you think you've been running long enough?"
Erik, indignant at the re-emergence of a subject which was disconcerting to him, replied shortly, "I am not running." The sudden change in his tone gave quite the opposite impression.
"Then come with me to the Opera tonight," Nadir responded glibly, picking up his paper again. "The curtain is at eight o'clock ..."
With a sigh, Erik rose from his chair. "I don't understand your insistence, Nadir."
His friend, lowering the newspaper to his lap, replied, "Don't you think it's time?"
"Time for what?" Erik asked, leaning up against the mantelpiece and placing his empty tumbler atop it. "To return to the scene of the proverbial crime?"
"It ought not to feel that way," Nadir reproached him, "if you have truly put your past behind you."
"Is this a test, then?" Erik threw the words bitterly over his shoulder. "You confuse me, Nadir - you who are not a Christian and yet portray such a convincing Doubting Thomas. Why must you probe my wounds, Nadir?"
"Please, Erik," his friend replied, his voice going suddenly soft with concern. He rose too and moved to Erik's side, placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't doubt you. But I do know you. I admire the strength of character it took for you to return to Paris; but why not take it a step further?"
The turn of Nadir's voice was sincere, and struck a chord somewhere in Erik's heart; but he made no immediate reply.
Nadir moved to face his friend and placed his remaining hand on Erik's other shoulder. "I truly think that it will do you good, my friend. If you are ever to be truly strong again, you must bury whatever ghosts you left behind you there."
Silence for a moment, in which Erik waged a war inside his brain. He was indignant at the daroga's insistence, but deep inside the truth of Nadir's words nagged him. As much as he hated it, his friend was right; he had been thinking of Christine. He had never stopped thinking of her. Defeat washed over him in waves, and he was suddenly too exhausted to protest any further.
Finally he raised one of his hands and, placing it on Nadir's arm, gave it a squeeze. "Very well, Nadir ..." He was trying to sound nonchalant and obliging, but a bit of nervousness crept through as he added, "As long as you will be there ..."
"Each step of the way," his friend affirmed.
*
They were fortunate - upon their arrival at the box office they discovered that some wealthy patron had allowed his box to be sold that night. Nadir and Erik, each cloaked in understated evening finery, ascended the staircase to the Grand Tier and took their places only minutes before the curtain rose. And when it did ...
Erik had been to the ocean in his travels, and had even gone so far as to step into the surf at the margin of the Atlantic and experience, for the first time in his life, an undertow. He felt that sensation again tonight, the feeling of the very earth being eaten away beneath his feet and his body becoming borne upon a rolling wave. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him - the lushness of the auditorium, the churning expanse of memories, the complex effect of the music. As moments bled into each other, Erik felt as though he were the only one in the auditorium; the other theatregoers around him melted into the swirling oblivion of gilding and red velvet and song.
When the lights rose for the first intermission, Nadir turned to his friend in time to see him exhale deeply. "Did you breathe at all during the first acts, Erik?"
A faint smile crossed the former Phantom's lips. "Only in time with the music," he whispered.
Nadir smiled. "How do you feel?"
"Strange," Erik replied. "Almost ... like a pilgrim in a cathedral ... like I'm profaning this place with my presence."
Giving his armchair a half-turn towards Erik, Nadir leaned closer. "Then you are not sorry we came."
"No," Erik breathed, casting a thirsty glance across the auditorium. "I cannot lie to you, Nadir - I did want to see it again."
Nadir allowed himself to feel relief at this reply. "And how do you find it?" he asked.
"Unchanged," Erik replied, smiling softly again. "So funny, somehow, though I don't know why it ..."
His voice died suddenly as he was sweeping his glance along the tier. The aborted remark disintegrated into a sharp intake of breath.
"What is it, Erik?"
"It may be my memory playing tricks on me, but ... give me your opera glass, Nadir. That looks uncommonly like ..."
Following Erik's gaze, Nadir's own eye entered a box across the tier from them and lighted upon a face he recognized with dismay. He had glimpsed her in the foyer as they were hurrying to their seats, but in the crush had assumed he was simply seeing ghosts. Now that he saw her again, although she was only faintly lit by the house lights, there was no mistaking this woman's reality - or her identity. "It is," Nadir replied, his tone sinking as low as his heart.
Erik raised the tiny binoculars. At any other moment, the Persian's infuriating calm might have grated on his nerve; now he did not seem to notice it. "You knew she would be here?"
Nadir winced at the frankness of the question, knowing it would no longer be possible to conceal from Erik his knowledge of Christine's recent history. He sent a silent prayer heavenward that his friend would not begrudge him his deception, which was executed out of honest and deep personal concern. "I knew she was in Paris, yes. But I did not expect her to be here tonight, or else I would not have brought you."
Erik waved aside the superfluous parts of the remark. "How did you know?"
Nadir spread his hands. "Since you left Paris, I have had little to do with myself other than attend others' business."
If he noticed Nadir's attempt at backpedaling, he did not dignify it. "Why did you not tell me?"
With a sigh, the Persian replied, "I wanted to, Erik. But I did not know ... if it was better, not to."
A moment passed in which Erik said nothing. His fingers flexed around the opera glass as he puzzled over this quandary. Christine - his beloved still, though she had immersed him for the past eight years of his life in layer upon layer of blinding pain - once again so near ... And Nadir - his only friend in the world - had kept it from him! The old fury, hibernating somewhere in the depths of his soul, stirred; but it sickened him, and he exhaled deeply. Nadir had his interest at heart, and he had learned all too well the consequences of anger and bitterness. "How long ...?" His voice was weak with the effort of forgiveness.
Nadir misread the soft tone and worried that Erik sounded as though he might faint. Carefully, he released a small dose of the truth. "Longer than I know for certain. She had been in the employ of a wealthy man, tending his daughter - the girl beside her. About a year ago he died and left all his belongings to her, along with custody of the child. It was about then that I became aware of her presence in Paris."
Erik drew into himself, suppressed any reaction to Nadir's tale and turned the details over in his mind. More ... I must have more. "How was that?"
The blunt questions gave Nadir no room to manipulate the tale. What was it about Erik that inspired such supreme honesty? "There was rather a scandal, I'm afraid. Apparently the gentleman had an estranged wife who was unhappy with the will - but there had been a divorce, and a remarriage, so she had no just recourse. Christine inherited it all."
Christine an heiress ... how strange. "How much?"
"More than she makes use of herself, which as you might guess from her gown is not too much. There is a healthy sum for the child, and she gives generously to charity. A girl's orphanage here in Paris benefits the most."
Erik was quiet, examining her through the opera glass. Her beauty was unaltered, but for some reason she seemed to only resemble the Christine he remembered. There was something different: a certain set of the mouth, perhaps, or a more temperate expression in the once-doe-like eyes. Her gown, despite Nadir's depreciating remark, was well-made in a conservative style; its dark blue set off the whiteness of her still-supple throat ... He drew a deep breath and let the glass fall. He felt, in that moment, for the poor fools who gazed too long at the Medusa; and he wondered if they too knew their fate for just one painful heartbeat before they turned to stone. He felt that now, as once again he realized he was doomed for ever laying eyes on her. He was not ready - he never would be ready to see her again.
The reaction he had been concealing so carefully suddenly broke forth in one small word. "Nadir ..." he said softly.
The Persian had been waiting for this inevitability. "Shall we go?" he asked gently.
Erik's knuckled were white from gripping the red velvet lip of the box. "I don't know," he whispered.
"Does she still effect you so? You said you had forgotten her."
"I said I had forgotten the anger I held for her. And I had thought ..." He shook his head weakly. "But I had not seen her."
"And now that you have?"
"Nadir ... look at her."
He did, and sighed. "I shall call the box-keeper for our cloaks."
But Erik did not seem to hear him; he had leaned back into his armchair, let the shadowy interior of the box envelop him, and raised the opera-glass again. Nadir reached out and lightly jogged his friend's elbow. "Erik ... this cannot be healthy for you."
Guiltily, he handed over the glass. "Yes, you are right," he answered, his voice soft with resignation. Rising from his chair, he absently adjusted his hat over the special flesh-colored full-faced mask he had fashioned for use in Paris. It looked almost like a normal face, and beneath the brim of his fedora the shadows were kind to him. He no longer cared about reactions to the white half-face; but for the Opera, no need to take chances. "I believe I should go to the Rotunda for a drink, Nadir. Order the horses, won't you?"
He turned to go, but Nadir caught his elbow. "To the Rotunda - and nowhere else?"
Erik fixed him with eyes that smoldered. "Nadir, look at me." He held out his hands. "I'm trembling - just from seeing her. Do you think I could go to her?"
A moment in which the friends regarded each other. Nadir knew that perhaps he had cut too close to the quick with his question; he could read pain in Erik's eyes. But there was truth there, too ... he released him gently. "I will come find you when our carriage is ready," he said, turning to open the door. They exchanged a glance, and Erik quitted the compartment.
Nadir turned back to the auditorium and, to his surprise, to the eyes of Christine Daaé. She was staring directly at him, and before he could stir a muscle she had jumped up and left her charge alone in their box. His heart sank and his body leapt to life; he had read recognition in her face.
Leaning out into the foyer, he motioned to the box attendant. "Our horses, if you please ... and our cloaks."
The little woman's eyes widened. "Is something wrong, Monsieur?"
He had feared such a reaction and pressed a ten-franc coin into her palm. "No, bless you. My friend is just not feeling social this evening after all." The half-truth seemed to satisfy her - or perhaps it was the money; but she dipped a curtsey and scurried away to speak to the livery-man. A knock a few minutes later brought Nadir back to the door, expecting their cloaks. Instead, he opened to Christine Daaé, whose blue eyes were a bit too bright in her pale face.
"Mademoiselle Daaé," he greeted her, shielding his alarm behind a chilly façade.
"Monsieur," she breathed, peering over his shoulder into the box; she found it empty. "Forgive me ... but I thought I saw ..." Her voice trailed off, but when he said nothing she suddenly grasped his arm and whispered urgently, "He was here, wasn't he?"
He sighed and extricated himself gently from her grip. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I must be going."
"Please," she gasped, taking his elbow again, "you don't know what I would give to speak to him."
Her persistence made him forget to deny Erik's presence further. "I do not know that he would wish it."
She was visibly upset by his words. "Did he see me? Did he leave you here to tell me that?"
He understood the depth of Erik's pain in that moment, for although Christine was nothing to him, the tears that rose in her eyes stung him. "Mademoiselle," he sighed again. "I am only Erik's friend - I cannot speak his mind. But I do stand between you ... and I will not see him harmed again."
"You mustn't say that," she whispered, her brow creasing and her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. "I would not hurt him for the world! All I want is to speak with him ... I have not seen him in three years ..."
"He told me how you parted then," he replied flatly.
It was her turn to look stung; she recoiled slightly from him, taking a small step backward. "You think me a terribly selfish creature, don't you?"
"Mademoiselle Daaé, please do not excite yourself."
Jumping forward again, she pressed her tiny, chilly fingers to his hand. "Please, you must understand! I am ..." she dropped her eyes and blinked back her tears. "I am very much changed. If you won't tell me where he is ... please, at least tell him that."
Nadir also dropped his chin and slipped out of her grip and the box. "I will, mademoiselle." As he hurried into the crowd, he muttered under his breath, "Should the subject ever arise."
*
Presently, Christine resumed her seat beside Estelle in their box.
"There you are!" the young lady exclaimed. "You startled me by disappearing so."
"I'm sorry, dear," Christine replied, giving her hand a distracted squeeze. "I saw some old friends and had to hurry to catch them." It pained her to lie to Estelle, but it had been hard enough to confess her old connection to the Opera. She could not quite bring herself to talk of Erik now.
"Oh, how lovely," the girl exclaimed. "You must invite them to visit us - how nice it would be to have company again!"
Her little charge's words rang to the bottom of Christine's heart. She was aware that her lifestyle had become reclusive since Gerome's death, but she had not known that Estelle felt it so keenly. Silently, she vowed to no longer deny the blossoming young woman the opportunity to see and be seen. "Perhaps they will come," she whispered. She was glad as the lights went down; pressing her handkerchief to her lips, she vainly sought the blackness for hints of Erik's spirit. Estelle thrilled at the sights onstage, the fairies and princes of her dreams coming to life before her eyes, but they barely attracted Christine's notice. She dried her tears during the curtain call and ushered the young lady home to bed.
*
After their night at the Opera, Erik began to betray restlessness. He had slipped all of Nadir's attempts to draw him into conversation about what occurred that night, but instead spent all the private time he could muster brooding over it. Being in such close quarters with Nadir, such time was difficult to procure, and it was obvious the daroga had noticed his deterioration in humor. For several weeks, the atmosphere in the flat on the Rue de Rivoli was tense at best.
But the roots of friendship between Erik and Nadir were decades deep; eventually the taut silence began to dissipate and a degree of ease returned to their interactions. Nadir stopped pressing his friend to speak about Christine, hoping that Erik would begin conversation on that topic when he was ready. Finally, one day over sherry, Erik drew a breath to speak; but his words proved different from what Nadir had expected.
"My friend." Erik's voice was soft as he rested the cut-glass tumbler on his knee. "I think the time has come for an admission ..."
Nadir's heart leaped in his chest, thinking that they would finally have it out over their excursion to the Opera. Silently he nodded, not wanting to speak for fear that Erik would change his mind in the time it would take to make a verbal reply.
But instead, Erik began to speak on a subject entirely other than what Nadir had expected. "I have trespassed on your hospitality for nearly three months - longer, I think, than politeness permits." He paused to sip the sherry; Nadir waited in surprise for the remainder of his speech. Finally, the small twitching began at the corner of Erik's mouth - Nadir had come to recognize this as a smile - and he concluded. "If I do not establish myself somewhere I shall be forced to make you accept money from me, to cover my board."
At first Nadir was speechless; he was taken aback at Erik's sudden proposition of departure, but also at the empty sensation that flooded him at the thought of it. He had not realized how used to Erik's company he had grown, nor how much he truly enjoyed being with him again; as good a companion as was his man Darius, and as much as the daroga hated to admit it, he was really quite lonely here in Paris. "I shall hate to see you leave, Erik," he finally replied with as much of a smile as he could muster, "but you know I cannot accept money for your keep - you are my guest, although a stubborn one. I know very well I cannot dissuade you if your mind is made up. So where will you go?"
An almost careless flexing of the right hand accompanied Erik's reply. "Not far," he said, his voice very nearly nonchalant; but Nadir's ear was well-tuned, having spent so long in Erik's company, and he could hear the falseness of the tone. He did not question his friend with words, but the silence that descended upon the end of Erik's remark gave Nadir to know that his incredulous expression did not go unmarked. "Perhaps I shall not leave Paris," he finally murmured, lifting the liquor once again to his lips.
These words were welcome to Nadir's ear, for it left him the possibility of future meetings with his friends; but recalling Christine Daaé, his suspicions were immediately roused. "And for occupation?" he probed, rendering his voice light and wry. "Surely not building - this city is already home to one of your monstrosities, and I believe one is more than enough."
Erik chuckled. "Yes, the Opera can hardly be bested. No, I had not intended to contract ..." He twisted the glass between his fingers, setting its contents swirling in a slow, undulating dance. The words that followed had a special weight. "I had considered teaching."
"Had you?" Nadir inquired, not entirely as surprised as he allowed his voice to betray.
He nodded, not meeting his friend's gaze. "I'm sure you don't think me ready ..." The silence was heavy, and he seemed to struggle under it; but finally he threw it off and looked up into his companion's face with a strange expression. "... But I am, Nadir. I am tired of this gulf between me and the rest of the world - I want to span it. I want there to be some life touched by mine that will continue after I am gone."
Such philosophy seemed sudden and strange coming from the ever-satirical Erik. Compelled by the urgency in his friend's tone, Nadir reached out and placed his hand on the arm of Erik's chair. "You have touched lives, Erik. Think of who you are speaking with! Who is more affected than I, for having known you?"
He shook his head. "No, Nadir - your friendship is valuable indeed, but you mistake my meaning. I need to pass along something of myself ...." He spread his fingers and regarded them carefully. " ... some of the magic in these hands ..."
Nadir cleared his throat, uncomfortable to see his suspicions so nearly confirmed. The sound jerked Erik from his reverie and he fixed his friend with an earnest expression.
"I know what you're thinking - the last time I tried such a thing I nearly brought the heavens down around my ears." He paused for a moment and bowed his head over his interlaced fingers, as if to collect his thoughts. Presently he continued, "But this time is different, Nadir. I am different ..." He drew a breath and his frame straightened, as if thinking of her required a physical rigidity to keep him calm. " ... and this time, there will be no Christine Daaé."
Gravely, Nadir nodded and folded his hands on his knee. "What will you teach, and where?" The question wordlessly communicated Nadir's trust in Erik's honesty, which clearly touched him although outwardly he made no indication that he had perceived it.
Erik's tumbler was long dry now, and he fidgeted with it as he considered his answer. "I don't know," he said finally, his voice absent again. "Perhaps music ..." A moment passed where Nadir knew that he was still thinking of Christine, but he made no mention of it; and soon the small twitching returned as Erik tried to convince his friend of his good humor. "Yes, I shall teach music, and I shall teach it to the wealthy brats of Paris."
"The children of the upper class?" Nadir questioned, bemused himself at Erik's plan.
"Of course," he replied, a wry turn to his voice. "Greedy, rich parents who want their little lap dogs nicely trained. I dare say it will be entertaining at the very least."
Nadir chuckled under his breath. "One hopes that you will keep that frame of mind."
"What, do you think I shall grow annoyed at their stupidity and strangle them?" Erik laughed aloud. "My dear friend - if that is your fear, I shall promise never to offer them violin."
At any other moment, reference to the punjab lasso might have been menacing; but the spark in Erik's eyes was infectious, and Nadir laughed in spite of himself.
