"Papa, if…"
Erik sighed heavily and laid down the butter knife on his plate, steeling himself against whatever would come next. He had come to fear some of Gracie's questions, especially those that started with: "Papa, if. . .?" Those usually ended up in Gracie getting her own way, no matter how recalcitrant he'd been in pledging to her wishes: "Papa, if it was dark enough, would you come out to the balcony to watch the fireworks the Mairie has planned for the Bastille Day?" "Papa, if we had enough money to travel abroad during the summer, where would you like to go?" "Papa, if I promised to keep them in the sitting room, could I invite some friends over for the afternoon?" "Papa, if you remembered the date of your birthday, how would you like to celebrate it?"
He looked at his daughter, and couldn't stop smiling at the wide-eyed, sweet innocence that stared back at him.
"Yes?" He ventured, though he knew that word would prove his undoing.
"If. . ." she started, and hesitated again.
What she was about to ask had to be something particularly unpleasant, for she seemed to be treading more carefully than usual.
"If you could go to a concert again, Papa, what would you like to listen to?"
Erik's back straightened like a rod. So that was it. Music. It had been a sore subject among the two of them for some time now, since Gracie had started insisting on having him play 'serious' pieces as opposed to simple cheerful tunes, the folk ballads and lullabies or the musical exercises by more renowned composers that had been his permanent repertoire during the last eight years or so. He had played more 'serious' pieces for her, he had reminded her. The lighter pieces by Mozart and the piano studies by Bach had been part of their music lessons. But no, Gracie wanted something else now.
She had heard the name of Beethoven somewhere, and had asked him to play something by the German composer. Erik had refused, since Beethoven's music had always stirred the deepest emotions in him. She then had started complaining he wouldn't play real music for her, until he'd exploded and blurted out one of the crude facts about his past which he always regretted having mentioned. She was only a child, and he shouldn't burden her with the pain and the darkness that had seared him. After his outburst, she had not touched the subject in many months, and Erik had thought she had forgotten about it. He should have known better. His eyes darted towards the window, away from her.
"I don't think I would go to a concert even if I could, Gracie," he whispered.
Her question was as soft as his words.
"Why not?"
He couldn't do this. He couldn't explain to her, although he had vowed, from the start, to answer all of her questions with the truth. And then she grasped his hand. He stared at their hands on the table, her little one covering but a small portion of his, and yet offering comfort and reassurance. She often did that. She touched him and held him and kissed him as if. . . As if she had never seen what was behind the mask, as if she didn't know he was a hideous creature. And every time she did it, it was a miracle. Not in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined that repeated human touch could be so. . . warm, so caring, so reassuring.
Years ago, he had wondered if he would ever get accustomed to it, if the exhilarating joy of knowing she cared for him would wither with time. It had never faded, and he treasured that knowledge as his most precious possession. He was willing to do anything to keep her love. Even to face his inner demons. He struggled to find the words.
"Because music stirs feelings. It brings them alive, Gracie. Emotions like sadness, longing," he paused. "Love. . . They are expressed and strengthened through music. There was a time. . ."
Erik bit his lip and closed his eyes, angry at himself. He should have stopped after his third sentence, instead of trailing back to the past. The past was an area of heartache and despair.
"Papa?" Gracie's voice was soft, encouraging.
Erik drew a deep breath.
"There was a time when I couldn't. . ."
He grimaced and continued, trying to phrase it simply.
"There was no one, Gracie. So I listened to music and I played. . . and composed."
She squeezed his hand and tried to make him look at her, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. She then stood up and went round the table.
"May I sit on your lap, Papa?"
Erik had to smile at that. She knew that he would never deny her that. He pushed his chair back. She settled down on his lap, her head leaning on his shoulder. He caressed her curls.
"You're getting too big for this," he remarked softly.
She didn't answer. Instead, she put a hand on his chest, right over his heart.
"You should let yourself feel, Papa," she stated, very seriously. "You are alive."
A month later, on the day Gracie had appointed as his birthday, he found himself seated on his armchair, which had been positioned in such a way that his face remained in the shadows, in front of four serious gentlemen which he had never met before.
Erik fought hard the impulse to bolt out of the room, reminding himself that he had to relax and breathe evenly, for if Gracie had gone to such lengths to give him a special birthday present, he couldn't let his terrors rule over him. He told himself this would soon be over. It would last an hour or so, and afterwards there would come a special dinner with Gracie, Nadir and Louis, something he was accustomed to, something he had learned to enjoy, something he already looked forward to.
Besides, the four gentlemen, stiff in their evening suits and starched collars, squinting in the half-light and trying to accommodate themselves in the chairs from the dining room, seemed almost as uneasy and uncomfortable as Erik himself. When they finished tuning their instruments, the first violin turned to him and bowed his head. It took Erik a couple of seconds to understand that the man was asking him permission to start playing.
"Please, gentlemen," he said, when his politeness finally burst forth.
The first violin turned to his comrades. There was a moment's silence, and then the music started.
Erik heard his own sharp intake of breath as he recognized the first notes of Schubert's "Death and the Maiden". The music came as a shock, an overwhelming wave of beauty. The sounds flowed and stirred the very core of his being. They burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. How had he managed to survive without it for such a long time?
The first movement was over in the blink of an eye. When the four men stopped playing and one of them cleared his throat, Erik finally took in his surroundings. He cast a look at his left, where Gracie was sitting in a low stool. He met her warm brown eyes. She smiled at him, and extended her hand. He smiled in turn, and took it.
The musicians moved on to the next movement. He held her slight fingers for the rest of the concert, reassured with the touch, immersed in the sounds he had thought forever denied to him.
Author's notes: Thanks so much for the long, detailed reviews I got for chapter 25! It was great to know what you thought about the chapter, guys. This one was a short one... sorry. The next one will be longer.
