10. A Stranger in Foreign Lands

The cemetery of Saint Cecilia was almost on the other side of the city, not too far from the daroga's former home … or the Opera House, for that matter. Erik knew it well. It was rather large, with a church on the grounds, which had been the most convenient place of worship for the more pious inhabitants of the Populaire. It was also the resting place of Monsieur Daae; whoever had arranged his funeral had decided that he should lie here, under the protection of the patron saint of music.

Erik remembered how – when Christine was a little girl, fresh with grief from her father's death – he had whispered comforting stories to her about Saint Cecilia, about how the saint would protect her and her father. Saint Cecilia … the saint of music, virgin martyr, who had been aided by her guardian angel and who remained eternally beautiful, even in death. They were pretty stories, all the more lovely because they had been created together – the child had added to the tale herself, creating a shared world for the two of them, sometimes surprising her guardian with her ideas. Saint Cecilia lived heaven, in an airy castle where all the walls were of pearl and gold, and where all souls were allowed to wander as they pleased. There were endless corridors of doors, and behind each was an angel creating a world with its own special music, conducting and directing the sounds so that they gradually resolved themselves into solid shapes, born of the notes. In this way, one could dance among stars that were actually shards of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik", or behind another door, walk through a strange forest weaved from the melodies of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", meeting any number of magical creatures on the way. Christine knew her father would be in this castle always, safe and happy … she knew he would like the worlds made out of gay gypsy music best, for that is what he had loved to play for her, when he was alive. She liked to talk about him playing his violin there, and about the shimmering red and purple ribbons that would issue forth from his instrument when he made music. It was magic, you see; the fairies always thanked him for playing, because they used the ribbons to make their dresses, and sometimes he made them cry, when he played his sad songs. He was a special man there, her father.

Erik recalled how they could spend hours whispering, visiting Cecilia's Castle of Music, imagining the endless activities and delights that could be found within: he would sing her snatches of music, so that she could dream up the worlds to go with them, and eventually she began to sing herself, with her sweet, pure voice, so that he could do the same. The game had been as comforting for him as it had for her – with her songs to inspire him, his imagination had come alive with the most beautiful images and stories to delight her. He had felt like a boy himself, living the moments of wonder and excitement he had never known in his own childhood.

Though that was all so long ago, now, and she had been so young. She wouldn't remember any of it … it had stopped as soon as she was a little older and he began to tutor her in earnest. Even if she did remember, the innocence of those times had been thoroughly destroyed and swept away in the violent, dark currents that followed.

Wrapped up in his memories, he didn't know how long he had walked, but eventually he found himself at the gates of the churchyard and slipped inside. As it was the middle of the night, the place was of course deserted. He skirted around the "old" section and made his way to the newer graves, where the daroga would lie. Briefly, he wondered what the Persian would think about being buried here, in a Christian graveyard – Erik was sure he would have liked to be transported back to his own country, but apparently he had not been able to make such wishes known, or else the funds to carry out such an operation were missing.

At least they had managed to give him a grave. Erik soon found a plain wooden marker, hastily inscribed with the daroga's name, standing in the ground on a plot rather close to the main path. This is where the tombstone would stand, once it was finished – however, the grave had not yet been dug; it was still an unblemished patch of green grass. Well, at any rate, this was the place he should be watching … he looked around for a suitable waiting-spot.

Not too far away, there was a rather large and elaborate mausoleum, with many corners and alcoves where one could stay hidden. After making a circuit of the pretentious structure (which appeared to belong to some sort of Baron, though the carved name was so weathered it was unreadable), he chose a hole from which he had a view of both the grave and the church beyond it. He sat on the ground with his back against the wall, pulled his knees to his chest and covered himself with his cloak. Even in daylight, a passer-by would not see him … or if they did, would only glimpse an indistinct bundle and assume it was a pile of rags or else a homeless gypsy. He arranged his limbs for some minutes, finding the most comfortable position, then gradually drifted off to sleep, into restless dreams about music and saints and the daroga.

The next morning, he was pulled into waking by the sound of church bells. He dared not move, but lifted his head off his arms a little to observe the world carefully from under his hood. The daylight was the first thing that struck him. Only rarely did he go outside during the day, so the sensation of light all around him was strange. Then he heard people, lots of people. He shrank even deeper into the shadows as he saw groups walking along paths so close that they were within earshot. What was going on? He watched the well-dressed people from the darkness, unnoticed. Finally it dawned on him. Of course! With his lifestyle, he had no use for keeping track of the days, but it must be Sunday. They were headed to Church.

He carefully settled back into his position … he would just have to be extra careful to remain hidden. He doubted they would perform the burial on a Sunday (unless the body was decaying very rapidly), but the idea of going home and coming back didn't really appeal to him. No, he would wait, as he had resolved to do in the first place. In fact, he was quite interested in watching what went on around him … it had been so long since he had had the chance to observe people … normal people. He looked at them going to and fro: families, men, women. An old man gave his grandchildren a cheerful scolding, a young man whispered to his sweetheart as they walked, making her blush. Nice clothes, easy smiles, light steps. With dull eyes he noted the thing that linked these people together and at the same time separated them from him. They were all happy.

There were a few gypsies and beggars around as well, hoping to catch church-goers in a generous mood. The wares the gypsy women sold were familiar to him … beads, amulets, herbal concoctions that were good for the health. If he went back far enough into his memory, he could remember how some of those things were made.

Eventually, the paths began to clear, as the service inside the church started. Soon, only the gypsies and beggars remained outside, counting their coins, waiting until the people emerged once again. Suddenly, hymns floated through the open windows of the building, startling Erik and stirring something within him. Music. He had not heard real music for a long time. He closed his eyes and visualised the notes the organist must have been playing, allowing the sounds to wash over him. It was beautiful. He imagined the pleasure the musician was feeling as his fingers caressed the keys, and his own fingertips began to tingle, as if remembering their former employment. Finally – too soon – it stopped, and the sounds of the service were replaced by indistinct murmurs, as people talked on their way out of the building. He watched as they began to trickle, then pour, out of the church again, the bustle of an hour ago repeated.

Suddenly, amidst the crowd, something caught his eye. A face.

Oh God, it was Her.

Christine herself was walking in front of the church, headed for the path that ran right past Erik's hiding place. She was on Raoul's arm, chatting to Meg and Madame Giry, who ambled alongside the couple.

Without moving, he simply watched them as they strolled along, her voice floating gently over to him as she spoke about people and places he didn't know. His reaction to seeing her was not what he expected – how many times had he imagined what he would do if he saw her again? A million fantasies had played out in his head in which he ended up with her in his arms, kissing her. A million more scenarios had been considered, in which he ended up on the ground a mess, writhing in agony and tears. He firmly believed that if he ever saw her again, it would be one or the other.

But he wasn't prepared for what he actually did feel … and that was merely coldness. An icy lump registered in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his body, evolving into numbness. There she was, before him, the girl who had filled his dreams for so many years. There she was … and she looked just like everybody else.

The four of them were indistinguishable from any other group of people he had seen that morning. Together they formed a set. And they were happy. He could see them, but they belonged to that other world – the world which all the other happy people belonged to, the world he was separated from, as if there was an unbreachable screen of gauze between him and them. He didn't feel sad that she was happy. He didn't feel happy that she was happy. He didn't feel anything. It was simply a fact, nothing more.

This reaction puzzled him, and after they had passed, he left his hiding place to shadow them for a while longer, ducking in between the statues and tombstones.

He examined her carefully: she was still as beautiful as ever – a trifle thinner, perhaps, but that was all. Her voice was the same as he remembered. But somehow, on the arm of her handsome husband, walking with that particular step all married women somehow acquire, chatting easily and animatedly with her friends about things he didn't know … she seemed … different. The ethereal glow he had always associated with her was gone, and her eyes, though still sparkling and bright, seemed … flatter.

She fit into their world of picnics and plays and dinners perfectly and Erik had absolutely no presence there, just as their ways were completely foreign to him. Perhaps, at one time, he and Christine had occupied the same space and their minds had met, but their paths had diverged and that was no longer so – whatever cord of connection had existed between them seemed to have snapped. He could tell that they would not understand one another anymore. She was not the open book she had once been to him.

Again, to his amazement, this didn't hurt him: he had no feelings about it. It was simply an acknowledgement of the way things were. It seemed natural. Natural that she should be with them, and that he should be alone.

He followed them and the party made a brief stop by Christine's father's grave. With her husband at her side, she faced the monument with a calm, sad smile – not the passionate desperation she used to. Madame Giry handed her a flower and Christine laid it on the ground. Hiding nearby, Erik searched her face for any sign that she could sense him – not with any hope, simply out of curiosity, for there had been a time when she could feel his presence even when he was invisible to her. He found nothing. It seemed fitting.

After a moment, they turned away and returned to the path, heading towards the exit.

On the way, an old gypsy woman accosted them, holding out charms and amulets tantalizingly.

"Would the ladies care for an amulet, Monsieur?" She dangled one in Raoul's face and the lovers looked at each other, smiling indulgently.

The old woman continued. "This one's good for protection. It will keep away evil spirits and ghosts." She chuckled toothlessly, and Raoul, Christine and Meg laughed politely in return.

"What do you say, ladies?" Raoul turned to his companions. "Do you find yourselves in need of some protection from ghosts?" They shook their heads, smiling. "Ah well," he spread his hands apologetically before the old woman. "It appears we have some brave girls here and we won't be needing any charms, thank you all the same."

"Very well. Good day, Monsieur," the woman curtsied and went in search of other prey.

As the group left through the gates, Erik smirked oddly. Ghosts. No, ghosts can't do anyone any harm. They're not real.