A/N: Phew. Sorry this took a while, but there were distractions this week (Easter and my birthday!) and this chapter has been the hardest so far - it's been written and re-written mercilessly, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, so there is probably more editing in store; I just wanted to finally put something up. This is one chapter for which I really, really need reviews.
It's hard because it's Christine's chapter - it's our first extended look inside her head. I think she's possibly even more difficult than Erik to write: at first, she was too crazy, then not crazy enough, then too likeable, then not likeable enough ... argh. I don't think I've made heran entirely sympathetic character, by which I mean she's not a Ms. Everywoman, with whom everyone will be able to connect immediately. She has to be someone who, as a teenager, could seriously have believed she was talking to an angel - but she can't be a plain idiot, because I've always thought there must be a reason Erik fell in love with her over all the other pretty ballerinas (we saw the beginnings of that in chapter10). Anyway, it all calls for her to be sensitive and perceptive (like Erik), perhaps have somewhat of an overactive imagination, and yet... be slightly off-balance (for the moment, at least).
Anyway, enough complaining. I'm anxious to know your thoughts and suggestions. One more Christine chapter to follow, then back to Erik.
13. Dreaming and Waking
Running. Her breath was a burning black stream, rasping against the lining of her throat, exploding out of her. Her legs were weak beneath her, they were just falling ahead now, one after the other, faster than she could keep track. Cold sweat on her brow. Just a little way more … it couldn't be far.
She knew it was somewhere here. Why couldn't she find it? Why? Tears of self-pity and frustration were dripping off her jaw, only to be caught by the wind. The powerful wind. It was blowing against her now, a solid wall of air which cushioned her and hampered her progress. She drew the hood lower down her forehead and leaned into the force, powering on as best she could; she cried out with the exertion, but the thick air filled her mouth and forced the sound back down her throat.
Then, suddenly, she was in a forest, a dark forest where the wind was still blowing, though now it came in gentle curving whirls and eddies between the trunks, broken up, allowing her passage. Ah, yes! She felt closer to it …it was hidden in the trees somewhere. She would have to keep her eyes peeled now. Hope kindled, she began running desperately from plant to plant, panting, checking each one, fully expecting to find it around the next corner. But after a few minutes she felt small spots of chilliness alight on her face … one … two … and soon it was snowing, feather-light motes dancing in the air. A sound of dismay escaped her lips. It was becoming harder and harder to see. The specks began coming a little faster. She couldn't see. No … no! It was gone, it would be lost forever.
She became still and sat on a stone, catching her breath, inhaling the white flakes. Her cold seat was unusually shaped – very smooth and angular … it was a tombstone, she realised, vaguely. But at that moment, she didn't care what it was, or who it belonged to. All she wanted to do was cry. Enormous pressure behind her eyes and her nose and in the bottom of her throat urged her to release it all. She was going to scream, scream until it hurt. She almost opened her mouth to do so … but just then, she became aware of some sounds floating towards her – curious sounds that were hard to identify and disentangle. She couldn't tell which direction they were coming from, they all seemed to be coming from different places.
There was … a violin playing a jolly tune … some indistinct shouting coming from somewhere …men shouting … an unpleasant old –lady cackle … the sound of the wind of course, moaning in the tops of the trees …some people clapping (strange, where would that be coming from?) … …and someone singing, a beautiful, strange, sad melody. It was His music, she remembered it, and it spiralled through her like golden smoke, filling her with light, taking all the painful knots away. As she focused on that one stream of sound among many, she found herself walking slowly, trying to find its source. Her footsteps were soft, but sure. Then another noise filtered into her consciousness … it was a ragged, repetitive, high-pitched sound … what was it? She had to think for a moment. She should know this one, it was familiar. Why did she not know? Suddenly it came to her – of course! How could it have taken so long to recognise? It was a baby crying.
Why was there a baby alone in the forest? She was filled with concern and turned around, searching for the child. Why was it crying so? Where was its mother? It must be so cold. A sense of urgency built within her, and she began running again, the music softly clinging to her and winding around her as she darted through the trees.
Christine awoke with a start, gasping and coughing a little. Where was she? She sat up in bed and looked around frantically, but all that confronted her was the stillness of the dark bedroom. Raoul was still sleeping; his body lay heavily in the bed next to her, his warm back toward her, protecting her like a living wall. She laid her hand on him, feeling his lungs expand under the cloth and the muscle; it was reassuring. Gradually, her heart slowed its beating. She blinked, swallowed and slowly laid her head back on the pillow.
She stared into the darkness above her, listening to her husband's breathing, and her own – the sound of one was deep and calm, the other shallow. Moonlight blazed in through the window and the net curtains, casting bizarre shadows on the moulded ceiling above. She tried to make out the forms she knew were there … scrolls and cherubs and flowers … but they all seemed strange and distorted in the dappled blackness.
What had happened in the dream to scare her so? The images were already quickly fading in her memory. Something about trees, running, looking for something … she had been desperately looking for something, but she didn't know what.
She exhaled slowly. She truly thought she was losing her mind, and had been for years. Not just because of the nightmares, but also because of her 'spells', as Raoul and Mathilde called them. They couldn't be right, they couldn't be normal. They were just like the dreams, only she was awake … He was always there … strings of strange, hazy images, words memories would grip her for a time … few of which she remembered when she was herself again.
When she was herself again. Whatever that meant. It was a funny saying.
She supposed it meant when she was once again the Vicomtesse de Chagny, Raoul's wife, the servants' mistress, her friends' friend, and so on. Herself.
Anyway, she was sure she had pleased Raoul at the party tonight, and it was always nice when she could please him. Dear Raoul. Her part had been played well, as it unfailingly was – she was the blithe, young Vicomtesse, of course! The sweet and charming bride! The enchanting ex-opera girl who was a breath of fresh air! In her mind, the words were said with more than a hint of sarcasm and she sighed a little. Of course she enjoyed the company of their friends, and she had met some very lovely people tonight … but … sometimes … just sometimes … she just had the urge to throw a drink in somebody's obsequious face, or screech her head off as Carlotta used to. For no reason, just because.
She smirked as she imagined what Baroness Vilente would look like covered in wine. Scarlet wine.
The vindictiveness of the passing image surprised her. No … no. Why had she thought that? It was not fair – it was a downright evil thought, really, and she rebuked herself for it. She was just in a foul mood today, so the pressure to perform had been tiresome.
She in fact owed a great debt to this "delightful Christine de Chagny, Vicomtesse", as she was invariably called. How many times had the memory of this character, and all she was, brought her back from the edge? How many times had she turned to her when all else seemed confusing and she didn't know her own mind? Had Vicomtesse Christine not been there to guide her as to what to do, and how to act, and what to feel, she felt like she would have evaporated long ago, broken apart in a sea of things she didn't understand. Laughing the Vicomtesse's laugh calmed her, assuming her expressions comforted her, like slipping on a pair of worn-in old gloves. As much as possible, she lost herself in the role – in it she felt young, safe and adored … and sane. Every girl wanted to be the lucky Madame De Chagny, including her. The Vicomtesse's world was bliss … it was peace … it was what she had always dreamt of. In it, she was the princess living out her 'happily ever after'. She knew all that.
It was only that … sometimes … it didn't feel quite real. Sometimes it all felt like just another elaborate production at the Opera House. God, saying it like that sounded ridiculous and spoilt and ungrateful, didn't it? But it was just that at times, she felt like she was watching her life unspool itself – to some inevitable end – rather than living it. A storybook, but she wasn't the one turning the pages. Occasionally, during conversations at parties and such, she would find her consciousness floating up above the room and looking down on the scene from afar. A bird's eye view. Or a ghost's view. Or an angel's view. Anyway, the scene she observed from up there was always lovely – beautiful, graceful people, secure and comfortable in their stylish homes, talking about all the pretty little details of their oh-so-pleasant lives. It was picture perfect, and she was in the centre of the picture; the trouble was, it was all so lovely and glossy that it seemed like a scene one painted on a piece of china, not a real life.
She had to admit that now she had lived as one of them for four years, Christine held just a breath of contempt for some of the nobility she and Raoul had to associate with. They had never known a life without the comfort of their riches, they had never had to step outside the warm glow of their privilege. Often she would sit back and reflect on her days as simply one of many in the Opera House dorms, and even further back, to the less-than-luxurious life she had had with her father. None of them could understand what it was like to live only on bread and cheese, or dance for ten hours a day until your feet bled and your muscles turned to jelly.
There were flashes of this in Raoul sometimes – not being able to understand the ways of those less privileged than himself … though it was only ever little things that caught her attention … because he tried. In the dark, she looked affectionately at his sleeping form. Once, they had been on a trip to the country and came across a street stall selling cheap bread and vegetables. On a nostalgic whim, she had Raoul buy some of the coarse, black rye bread – long ago, the stuff had been a staple for herself and her father when they were running low on funds, and the smell of it brought back memories of happy days in the sun. She smiled as she remembered how Raoul had chewed on it, pretending he liked it, doing his best to hide his distaste for the unfamiliar flavour. She had let it go on for some minutes, snickering into her sleeve, before she finally suggested that they go and get some "real food" – the look of relief on his face had been hilarious.
Oh, she loved him so. How could she not? He was so kind, so caring, worried about her so. So handsome, so warm, so funny. Haphazard images and memories filled her mind in quick succession, reminding her of why she loved him: the sly way in which he hid his gifts for her, the clear blue of his eyes, the way he teased her, the way they could collapse into hysterics over a silly game, the strong arms that bound her safely and warmly to him, the way he smelled of trees and fur and feathers when he came back from a day of shooting, the little dimple that appeared on his cheek, just a little too high, when he smiled, the way he let her curl up to him and lean against him while they sat in lazy silence, the way he stroked her cheek and kissed her forehead when she was sick in bed, the way he liked to curl her hair around his fingers when she had it loose. All of these things made her happy.
She was actually rather amazed at how loving he was – cynical friends had assured her that the 'honeymoon period' would last a year at most, and yet now, almost four years on, Raoul still seemed consistently adoring. It was all the more miraculous because in the upper echelons of Parisian society, she was constantly assaulted with gossip about husbands becoming drunkards and taking mistresses and engaging in all sorts of idleness and debauchery – she was immensely grateful that Raoul had never succumbed to such vices.
However, although he was tender, she did not fall into the trap of thinking he was simply a blind, lovesick fool. He was capable of harsh words too – sharp, incisive words that cut her to the quick – though these sentiments never lasted long and were soon drowned out in a flood of affection … no matter how admittedly strange or unreasonable she had been. She appreciated this, loved him for it, and did her best to be worthy of him. Worthy of his love, which was pure and childlike … and which, above all, seemed to some so easily to him. She meditated on this idea with a twinge of discomfort. Sometimes she envied him the apparent ease with which he loved her: he seemed to do it so naturally. All the conventions and unwritten laws of marriage had seemed to come to him by instinct, while she had had to learn them, laboriously, in the way one picks up a new task or dance routine: continually making mistakes and trying to learn from them. She thought that perhaps she had been put at a disadvantage early on in life, having no mother, and therefore no wife to model herself upon. Unlike Raoul, who had lived with both his parents, she had had no marriage to observe and learn from and no opportunity to analyse the intricacies of such a relationship.
At that moment Raoul shifted in his sleep and turned so that he was facing her – the soft eyelids fluttered for an instant, then settled down once more, accompanied by a small, contented sigh. She smiled. Powerless in sleep, his face was mellow and sweet and beautiful, like one of those unassuming princes of old, whose grace and nobility always saved the day. He belonged in fairy tales … in worlds where the good were always handsome and the bad always ugly … where everything bright and simple, because things were usually what they seemed – and when they were not, there was always a spell that could be broken to set everything right.
Gently, she pushed a golden lock of hair away from his face and trailed a finger down his smooth, unwrinkled cheek, from his brow to his handsome, cleft chin. The image of a prince was nice, but sometimes it was a little too accurate. Occasionally, it was almost as if he seemed too much like a story-book character, and not enough like a man … though it was only the tiniest, trifling things that gave this impression … and they were too silly to say out loud, really. For one, he would not dress and undress in front of her – he would enter and leave their bedroom in a robe, to perform the chore elsewhere. And she knew he liked snuff tobacco, but he would never take any in her presence, despite her protests that she had no objections whatsoever. Furthermore, he wouldn't blow his nose in front of her, or sneeze if he could help it, even when he was sick with a cold. In fact, it appeared that anything he considered ugly or awkward or ungentlemanly was hidden from her, as if she would be disgusted or tainted by his coarseness. Even though she did not like it, she thought that perhaps this was just another one of those things that was normal in a marriage – one of those secret rules Raoul was privy to, but not herself – so she never said anything.
Besides, in a way, wasn't she doing the exact same thing he was – hiding the parts of herself she didn't want him to see? Hiding them deep and dark, behind the Vicomtesse's gentle face?
She sighed. Never mind. She didn't want to think about it all right now. Sometimes things were all just too complicated. She shifted on the mattress, turning away from him and curling up on her side, shoving her heavy chestnut hair behind her irritably. Right now, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep and dream – nice, calm dreams this time, if that was at all possible.
She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep to images of gardens and mountains and places from her childhood, but her mind wouldn't shut off, no matter how she tried. Finally, a little crossly, she rose, went to the window, sat on the window-seat and leant her forehead against the hard, icy pane. Her breath misted the window in front of her mouth and she looked into her own somewhat haggard reflection, watching the way every little twitch of her muscles could be seen in the dark glass. Her gaze moved beyond. All was moonlit and chequered outside, the world seemed like a dark, primal jungle, shifting and weaving mysteriously according to laws man had no comprehension of. She closed her eyes and listened. It was still raining, and that was an exciting, comforting sound. The drops came down gently and persistently, in arcane rhythms that always seemed on the verge of twisting into something familiar; the sounds bounced between coherence and chaos, never quite reaching either extremity, never settling down. It was fascinating.
She let the strange staccato rhythms run through her, and as they did they filled her with a thrilling and yet somehow familiar energy. In the back of her mind there eventually arose a tune – the muscles in her throat moved along accordingly, though no sound escaped her mouth. She knew the melody and recognised the image that had appeared with it, for they were the only clear things she could extract from her spells and her dreams. It was Him. The Phantom.
She continued to hum silently as she stood. Although the urge to sing was strong, she was still conscious of her sleeping husband, so instead she took a few ballet steps, her bare feet rolling across the plush carpet ... she began to dance to the music in her head. The charm of dancing in the dark, secretly, was not lost on her: she felt like a child indulging in some deliciously forbidden activity, or some pagan witch performing a solstice ritual. She knew she would have to scold herself for this later – for the ridiculousness of what she, the Vicomtesse, was now doing, for letting herself enter the utter madness of it, for thinking about things she should be trying to drive from her mind, for letting Him in where he wasn't welcome – but something compelled her. She kept wanting just a few moments more of this illicit abandon. So she danced.
She made her way across the room in clumsy ballet figures, limbs stretching under the flaring sea of her nightgown, twisting, whirling, writhing, until finally she began to lose her breath. The music began to fade, his image began to fade.With one final turn, her tiredness made her swing a little wide and she felt the back of her hand strike something ... however, the pain in her hand barely registered as she collapsed onto the floor and coughed, as quietly as possible, gasping, waiting for her breathing to settle. She should not have done that, it was bad for her lung.
A few minutes later, when she was calm, she picked herself up off the floor (self-reproaches already forming in her mind) and began to hobble back to bed. However, she felt something cold and hard under her foot – it was whatever she had knocked off the mantle with her hand. She bent down: now that she looked more closely, the moonlight revealed that there were a few pieces there, which she picked up. Apparently the object had broken on the stone of the hearth.
As recognition of the item dawned on her, she began to panic. No! She found that she was holding the remnants of a small figurine – it had been a crude clay depiction of a little girl, but was barely recognisable now, as the limbs had been broken and most of the skirt had cracked and fallen apart. Not this!
She sunk to her knees, squeezing the pieces tightly, as if that would mend the damage. She felt hot tears come to her eyes. Of all things …no … this was a bad omen. Why, why had she been so reckless? Crying quietly now, she sadly tried to rearrange the parts so that they fit together once more … but it was useless. She returned to her bed, still clutching the clay pieces, letting the tears fall silently. Tomorrow she must see Madame Rosa. There must be something she could do to fix it! She kept the largest piece safely in her hand and put the rest under her pillow, the way she used to leave her teeth for fairies to find and work their magic on. Perhaps one could work some magic for her now.
Eventually, Christine fell asleep again, but not to the nice, calm dreams she had been hoping for.