Homecoming
Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan
Chapter 9
For the Giry's sake, Christine was forced to tell more than just what had transpired tonight; for though Meg had often wondered, and Madame Giry believed she knew, Christine had never spoken to them directly concerning the connection between herself and the former Phantom of the Opera. It was with some degree of discomfiture that she related the history she shared with Erik, for she was ever sensible of the piercing gaze of the Daroga of Mazanderan; she could not help fearing that he might interrupt her, point out her mistakes or even call her a liar. But he did none of these things, and rather sat in deferential silence as she spoke, the only motion about him the flickering of the firelight in his dark eyes.
Finally she reached this evening's scene, and she worked Elaine's poor locket over and over between her fingers like a rosary. She had buried remorse beneath hysteria, all those hours that she had sat before the Giry's hearth and waited as Elaine did not return; but now that her child was asleep only a few short steps away, safe beneath a coverlet she had smoothed with her own hands, there could be no denying that the charges she had laid at Erik's door had been supremely unjust. Elaine was not only unharmed, but in excellent health; Christine had only to glance at her leg to know that no doctor could have done any better by her injury. But perhaps the most merciless reminder of her cruelty and thoughtlessness had come from the very mouth of her little daughter: Elaine had clearly fallen in love with Erik during her stay beneath his roof.
"And he cared for her," said the Persian gently, noting the prone expression in Christine's eyes as her voice trailed off. "I believe that she has saved him, perhaps even more so than vice-versa." For a moment he paused, allowing these words to seep into each straining ear; finally he added softly, "He is not much altered since you knew him, mademoiselle, but one change is certain: he is no longer this Phantom."
"But how can that be?" cried Meg, who had listened so long in such silence but could hold her tongue no longer. "If this man is – or even if he was – the Opera Ghost …"
"Meg Giry," her mother interrupted, her expression stern, "you are old now to be placing such stock in the gossip of the ballet rats. As we grow we must leave behind the stories we told ourselves in youth – be they fair or frightening." Her glance fell significantly on Christine, who listened with downcast eyes as she continued, "The Opera Ghost was a concoction of superstitious and impressionable fools, but there was never more than a grain of truth to them."
"You knew him too, then," Nadir said quietly, sizing up the former ballet mistress with his ever-critical eye. He had seen her often in his prowlings of the theatre, but had never spoken enough words with her to sketch her character.
"Not well," she demurred, "but well enough to understand."
"Your mother is wise, Mademoiselle Giry," the Daroga went on, turning his attention back to Meg. "I assure you, Erik deceived you only somewhat; the whispers and imaginations of the cast constructed the rest of the Opera Ghost's ruse."
"But the murders," Meg persisted. "They were not committed by imaginations!"
"No," Nadir confessed with a solemn nod of his head; "and on that score I can only ask you to trust me; I have known Erik for many years, and he is not a monster. Nor has there been a single act of violence at the Opera these seven years – and he has been there all the time, mademoiselle, though none but I knew it."
"He is right, Meg," Christine spoke up weakly. "He's never harmed me, though I've done nothing but betray him over and over again. I can't blame him for the things he said to me tonight; I denied him love all those years ago, and now I've stripped him of his very humanity …" Miserable, she brought her palms to cover her face. She thought she could weep no more, but the prickling sensation at the corner of her eyes was proving her wrong …
Watching Christine Daae weep for the pain she had caused Erik filled Nadir with a profound sense of justice. It was nothing like revenge – for he was a soft-hearted man, and had never wished her suffering – but rather a confirmation of all the hopes he had held tonight as he conveyed Elaine home. The once-so-vapid Mademoiselle Daae had grown up; she was now possessed of a true woman's heart. He was touched to see it so poignantly displayed.
"You mustn't weep," he said to her, reaching out to place his hand on the arm of her chair. "All is not lost; you have done no harm that cannot be repaired."
These words surprised her. "What do you mean, monsieur?"
The Daroga drew a sharp breath. He had listened to Erik's countless treatises on Christine Daae's beauty, but he had never placed much stock by them; but now that she met his gaze evenly and with purpose, he could see quite plainly the change that had come over her since she had quit the Opera's stage. Erik was right; time and motherhood had strengthened her, and her eyes were finer for it.
"I believe he loves you still," he replied. "So, if you would right the wrongs of so many years ago …"
For a moment Christine felt as though she teetered on the edge of a precipice; her mind reeled at the depth of the drop, and a hundred different emotions pressed upon her like wind. If Erik still loved her, despite the hurt she had caused him before she was old enough to know better – despite the hurt she had caused him after being old enough to know better – if he still loved her despite Raoul, despite time, despite everything …
If he loved her daughter – what other choice could she make?
She was on her feet at once, moving with such purpose it was impossible to believe that she had so recently seemed frozen to a chair before the fire. The swirling of her cloak recalled Erik to all those present as she clasped it around her shoulders.
"Take me to him," she said in earnest; and moments later the Girys watched the Persian and the Vicomtesse slip away into the night.
Once Nadir had stepped across the threshold and Darius had closed the door behind him, Erik had sunk weakly into a nearby armchair. The hours passed slowly as he kept keen watch, and all but one lamp flickered out as he waited for the door to open again. What he expected to happen then he could not say, for he felt as though he had lost his compass upon a stormy sea. There was nothing left for him to fix his sight on; the clouds had blotted out the stars, and Elaine was no longer here – and so he waited for his friend to return.
Nadir was fond enough of offering unsolicited advice; perhaps he might make himself useful this once, and tell Erik what he ought to do next.
So when the door creaked on its hinges and heralded Nadir's return, Erik stood and smoothed his jacket. To shield his confusion and despair behind the familiar veneer of elegance and silence was the only comfort he could know now – and to greet Nadir with the same old formality might make some sense out of this misery …
But the figure that slipped into the flat and paused, her eyes squinting as they adjusted to the dimness, only convinced Erik further of his decent into madness. To see Christine now was nothing short of lunacy – to imagine her come back to him now!
By the dim light Christine could make out only his silhouette, as stern and commanding in its rigid posture and dress as it had ever been. For a moment the bony hand of fear clutched at her throat – he will dismiss me again, just as he did this evening! – for he stood profiled by the solitary lamp, and she could not even see his eyes to search them for the hint of love she needed to cement her resolve. But the memory of Elaine's tears … yes, that was a source of strength and resolve, too.
"Erik," she said softly, moving towards him in the gloom, "I've come to say something to you …"
Her voice sliced through the comfortable fantasy that he had lost his mind; for even in the throes of his misery – of missing her – he had never been able to recreate her voice with any accuracy in his inner ear. There had always been something missing: some tiny detail, one solitary shade that he had neglected to memorize in the tapestry of her voice had always eluded him, mocked him, reminded him that he had never possessed her as fully as he might have wished. In that moment, as he realized that she really did stand before him, he wished for his cloak; he knew how easily he could have drawn it close, to protect himself from whatever final hurt or insult she had come to impart … "Yes," he said softly, and so icily that it even stung his mouth to speak so; "did you find a hair of Elaine's head out of place? Some torturer's mark upon her?"
She seemed unwilling to acknowledge the retort, for she raised her voice slightly to speak over him. "… and I will say it, no matter how hard you may try to prevent me."
"Then please, speak," Erik replied smoothly, concealing his vague surprise at this assertiveness behind his modulated tone. "After all, I have never denied you the chance to do or say what you would."
"Haven't you?" Christine's strength was flagging; she was too used to the Erik who would have moved the foundations of the Earth to please her, to spar with this cool and angry man who stood before her. "Why just today, you allowed injured pride to stand in the way of an apology honestly offered."
"Oh," he said with a soft chuckle, "can you mean to say that, in the midst of all the insults you hurled at me this afternoon, there was an apology hidden?"
"There is one in the offing even now," she retorted, "in the midst of all these insults."
"Enough." A few quick strides brought Erik to the table where the lamp stood, and with a swift motion of his wrist he turned the flame up high. "Why have you come here, Christine – or a better question yet might be, how did you find this place? I certainly extended no invitation to you …"
"It was I that showed her the way," came Nadir's coal-soft voice from the doorway. Erik started – he had not noticed his friend traveling in Christine's shadow; but then he bristled. That Nadir would have offered him sanctuary – and then admitted to that safe space the very cause of all his injury!
Nadir caught and raised a hand to head off the onslaught of Erik's anger. "I had visions of myself returning from my errand," he said, "and of your asking my counsel on your next steps. I simply anticipated you, Erik – I brought to you my answer." And with these words he took a backward step across the threshold, closed the door behind him and surrendered his house to be the stage of reunion. He was tired to his very bones – but he had spent sleepless nights before for the call of duty; and Erik commanded more of his loyalty than the Shah-in-Shah ever had.
Christine and Erik stood meekly in the silence that followed Nadir's exit, each trying to wrap their minds around what he had said. "Your friend is too kind," she said at last, her voice like the timid tapping at the door of a friend with whom reconciliation is long overdue.
"Yes," Erik replied vaguely, barely remembering to infuse his words with acid; "he has always had a weakness for pathetic creatures."
"Erik, please." Her tone was suddenly even and resolute, almost palpable as a firm and gentle hand upon his arm. Oddly, it made him think of Mademoiselle Perrault, that solemn and steadfast lady who had not been his mother – oh, but how he had wished …!
He lifted his troubled gaze to meet hers, and found it waiting for him with a steadiness he had never known Christine to possess; it was unnerving, and behind the mask his lips began to tremble. "What is it you want of me?" he asked softly, all his anger and his bitterness falling away to reveal the weariness which is always the last result of anguish.
He sounded broken, and it tore at Christine's heart to hear it – and even more so to know that she had been the cause of it, with all her cruel innocence and indecision. Stepping closer, she nearly held out her arms to him – but she stopped herself, knowing he would never warm to what he believed to be pity or melodrama. "To mend this hurt," she said simply; "or, if it cannot be mended, then at least to make you see the depth of my regret. I am sorry, Erik – for everything – everything I did not know, but should have …"
Inside the pocket of her cloak, Christine's fingers encountered something – Elaine's locket, which had been returned to her anger, now gave her the strength to press on. "But most of all, I am sorry for not owning what it took the eyes of a child to see – your great heart, your kindness and compassion." He turned a half-step away, but she could sense his tension giving way, and she grew bolder. Her feet carried her right to his side, and her fingers reached for but just barely missed brushing his sleeve. "Thank you for my child, Erik, and forgive me my cruel thoughtlessness. I was overcome with worry, but I was wrong to lash out at you."
Still he said nothing, and Christine's heart began to sink. She had said all she knew to say; now there was only to accept what decision this silence forbore. Turning away, she took a stumbling step towards the door; but as she fumbled for her gloves she remembered what she carried. "Will you take this?" she asked, extending her fingers and letting the tiny necklace cascade from between them. "I am sure Elaine would want you to have something to remember her by."
His eyes caught the trinket dangling before him, and seemed to take on a bit of its radiance; what Christine could see of his face began to awaken from its shock and silence. "Her locket," he whispered, reaching his own delicate fingers towards the treasure. "I mended it for her …"
"Did you?" she asked, her heart leaping to life again to hear him speak without malice, and with the undertone of love and wonder that she recognized – and only now realized that she missed …
"One of the ballet rats took it from her and hurled it into the cellars," he said warmly, remembering the golden child. "She went bravely after it, but took her fall … I suppose it led her to me."
"And she led us to each other," Christine added breathlessly, impetuously. "Erik – if you can mend something as tiny and frivolous as a golden chain, can you find it in your heart to mend something far more precious – a tie between two hearts, that should never have been broken?"
He looked at her in pure surprise; but the unexpectedness of her words and of the sincerity behind them had punched a hole in his untouchable façade, and from it a tiny trickle of love began to flow. Yes, he admitted to himself; in time he would forgive her. He had already begun … he could not help himself.
But perhaps it was best – not to tell her just now, lest she think him slavish. No, perhaps better to wait a time …
In the end, he gave her his hands in friendship, and she clung tightly to them as the carriage trundled through the rainy streets towards the Giry's. He had not opened his arms to her either, but she knew now that she could not have expected it; it was too soon, and the wounds still too deep. And for now she could be content to ride with his hands in hers, to talk with him about the possibility of her remaining in Paris to perform – and with his willingness to sit beside her at her daughter's bedside. In the morning the rain would give way to sunshine; and Elaine would wake to the two who loved her most in the world.
And then the healing would begin.
"Well, this is wonderful news!" Andre beamed the next morning, relief stamped all over his insipid face. "Firmin and I are delighted to hear of the child's safe return."
"Of course, there will be no suit, Mademoiselle Giry?" Firmin inquired. His eyes, while expressing relief at this piece of good news, seemed also to be calculating how much it would take to keep this tomfoolery from becoming a complete scandal in the avenues of Paris. "I can hardly see how it is the Opera Garnier's fault that a small child got lost inside it – especially when it is not an orphanage that we are running here, but a place of business ..."
Meg Giry's eyes snapped with fire, but she kept her voice smugly even. "I am not the child's mother, messieurs. You will have to take that up with her – I do believe that you will be seeing much of her in the near future."
The matching looks of confusion that adorned the manager's faces would soon give way to one of consternation; for Meg bestowed upon each of them a black-edged envelope emblazoned with an all-too-familiar hand. The notes detailed, among other things, the Opera Ghost's dismay at the shambles the theatre had become in his long absence, and contained explicit instructions for the reinstatement of Christine Daae as prima donna. Lucia Trevezant, after all, was not fit even to sing over a steaming tub in the Opera's laundry …
Meg stifled a giggle and turned on her heel, and in an unconscious imitation of her mother, sailed out of the room on a wave of dignity.
Firmin jumped to his feet a second too late. "Mademoiselle Giry! Half a moment!" But she was gone, and the two were alone with their wide-eyed dismay – and the once-again-palpable presence of OG in the office …
"I think I need a drink," Firmin gasped.
"That might be a good idea," Andre replied, one trembling hand reaching for the brandy decanter.
Fin
