Everyday
between the hours of sunrise and the birth of the moon, she
lived
above grounds and emerged herself in the luxurious rays of
sunlight,
happiness, and human contact. I did not value such
things since I'd grown
accustomed to survival without the
essential needs of man. But she loved the
blue sky and its
peaceful soft clouds, and I made sure I would not deprive her
of
these simple joys of life by returning her to upper grounds before
dawn.
Beyond
the lake we lived as equals and in a manner of husband and
wife. I
never pushed her to do things she did not wish to do, and after
the
earlier incident, she seemed to have understood my need for
that mask. But we
tip-toed our way around our feelings like an
uncleansed foot testing the
surface of a pool of water—neither
of us would speak of emotion when it came to
our extraordinary
associations.
I
never pushed her to sing when she was exhausted after her
dance
rehearsals; on the contrary, I often suggested to her an
early sleep. But
she'd insist on continuing with the voice
lesson, her blue eyes persuasive and
pure, and I began to realize
how much she needed my music. Without it she
would be six feet
above my home but completely miserable. Music quenched a
thirst in
her no man could ever satiate, of course, no man except for myself.
We had this in common; we claimed one sanctuary.
She
would often beg me to tell her stories and produce poetry for
her,
and after I acceded to her request, she would fall asleep,
kneeling besides me
with her head leaning lightly against the side
of my leg. That astonishing
sensation! It was as if I would feel
no greater pleasure from her voluntary
touch, just to have the
silky curls of her hair unbearably close to my skin,
my eyes, my
breath. I wanted this girl more than all the music in the world,
and
in the stolen moments of ecstasy, it would feel almost as though she
were
truly mine.
Alas, only I knew she was not.
I
was not the only man who looked upon Christine Daaé with
desire;
there was the Vicomte de Chagny. He was a patron and son
of a rich old man who
showered his son with wealth and spoiled him
to the bone. I never liked the
boy since the first time I laid
eyes upon him—he was indecently young, the
same age as
Christine, and unimaginably immature. There was nothing in
common
between the two except for their love for joyous things,
and I did not see him
as a hindering device when he first arrived
at the Opera Populaire. But the
boy and Christine had been
childhood playmates, and soon after their first
reunion, I took de
Chagny's necessity under consideration. He was an
aristocrat as
well as an addition to the overflowing population of the
other
patricians, and his existence irritated me beyond creed.
I
could have easily gotten rid of him if not for the risk of
loosing
her trust. Christine would have unquestionably suspected
me of murder; only
she knew I was capable of such deeds. My past
was a mist of miserable
despair, unforgotten and as cold as the
depths of the winter snow. Questions
never arose unless she
proposed them, and even then I released very little
information;
deceiving was a simple and guiltless task, you see, Christine
would
have believed me if I told her the sun revolved around the moon.
Neither
of us minded each other's presence, but I always sensed
there was something
overpowering and timid inside of her. She was
still living with the constant
reminder of what lay behind that
mask—that was why I gave her Elisabeth.
She
completely porcelain, an Victorian doll and dressed in hand
woven
blue silk. Large blue eyes were forever awake and staring
attentively at who
holds it in her hands. She had only one oddity
which was her lack of a
mouth. She was far too beautiful to be
left with her seller; thereupon I
bought her, disregarding the
odd looking mouth, or lack thereof.
Christine
loved her, nonetheless, and I agreed to make Elisabeth sing.
It
wasn't a difficult task since ventriloquiy lay at the tip of my
tongue for
I had once performed as a ventriloquist in Vienna.
Christine was delighted
when music came out of the doll's
invisible mouth. She'd clap her hands
gaily, her sea-blue eyes
twinkling and the sensual, pout of her lips spreading
into a
indulgent smile. When I was consumed with fatigue and thought it
best
not to sing, she would make me tea, and serve me, as a nurse
serves a patient
who is on crutches for life. And I suppose, in a
way, I was.
There
were times when I did not sleep, and we just spent a night
awake,
watching each other while the tension stirred and built to
the point where
she'd turn away, a rosy hue flushing her cheeks.
Feelings—all these feelings
she had to understand were too
sudden and forceful, and I began to see that it
was virginity, for
both of us.
Virginity
not just in the literal sense, but mentally…emotionally…we
did
not know lust. We did not feel sexuality, or we did not recognize it.
It
was like exposing a part of us that both she and I were vainly
reluctant to
share. In a way, we were still children, pushed back
by the barrier of
innocence, and too alarmed to cross the
perimeter.
