Me: Here we are once more, my dear Phantom…
Erik: Don't call me that (broodingly)
Me: Call you what? Phantom?
Erik: Yes.
Me: Why?
Erik: Just don't do it. (continues brooding)
Me: (confused) o….k…..
Erik: (testily) Is this a new chapter or what?
Me: (cheerful) Yep!
Erik: No fop, right?
Me: Read and find out…(smiles)
Erik: (reads and broods all at once)
Chapter Six: Of Blossoming Beauties
Madam Giry rushed to the ballet rehearsal room, she was already five minutes late for the usual 2 PM routine. Dashing past a rather confused looking set designer, she quickly opened the door to her private quarters and unlocked the small linen closet where she knew she would find her cane. She did not use it for mobility's sake, but rather as an teaching aid, tapping the rhythm on the wooden floors, drilling the beat into the minds of the young ballerinas.
Locking the door, she turned to walk down the hall when her step was suddenly halted by the tall, striking figure of a man in full evening attire. His face was half hidden by a fine porcelain mask, crafted in the likeness of the left side of his face.
"My goodness, Erik," said the ballet mistress with a slight shaking of her hands, "you really should not be out in the open like this. Someone might see you." She furrowed her brow, little creases appearing around the corners of her eyes and forehead. She brought one hand up to the back of her neck, a gesture which often signaled distress on her part.
"I will not stay long. I have a letter for our dear managers," said the masked man darkly, the left brow lowered slightly, and Madame could have sworn she saw a tiny smile cross his lips, "Christine is to play Psyche in the upcoming production. See to it that those fools who run my theater heed my commands."
Giry massaged the back of her neck with her left palm, then extended her free hand to the envelope which the masked man held out to her. She bit the corner of her lip anxiously.
"Why Christine, Erik?"
The question had been on her mind ever since the man had chosen the little orphan as his student those eight years ago. She had always wondered what interest a surly fellow like the Opera Ghost might have in a naïve, somewhat plain child.
Giry had never dared oppose Erik's wishes, and when he had requested to become Christine's tutor, she had found it impossible to stand in his way, though the question had never faded from her subconscious mind. But now that Christine was becoming a young woman, Giry grew increasingly anxious about the Phantom's relationship with the girl. Gravely, she wondered how long it would take for Christine and the Ghost to cross the boundaries of morality.
Still, part of her wanted to believe that the shy, gentle young man she had rescued from the traveling fair was not completely lost. She wanted to trust Erik, but for too long he had shut her out of his life, isolated himself in that damned cellar. Years ago, she had come very close to falling in love with an unfortunate boy with a scarred face. Now with this single question she would try to resurrect whatever pieces of that boy remained within the Opera Ghost.
"What are you talking about, Madame?" returned the man with an irritated scowl.
It took all of Madame Giry's strength and self control to keep her voice from cracking as she spoke.
"You have done so much for Christine, Monsieur Erik. I cannot help but think—she grows more beautiful with each passing day, I wonder if your love for Christine has not grown into something else as well."
She saw something flare within his eyes, and for a moment she felt he would strike her down right where she stood. She closed her eyes, expecting the worst. After a couple of agonizing seconds, she realized he had not yet spoken a word.
She opened her eyes and Erik was gone. It was then that she grasped the true meaning of the words Opera Ghost. He was a creature of darkness, moving to and fro with the foremost ease. Giry's stomach lurched as she thought of how easy it would be for the Ghost to sneak into Christine's room, how perfectly helpless she was to stop him.
The ballet mistress sighed, she would have to trust him for now. She had no other choice.
Madame Giry's words had shaken Erik to the very core. Now, as he skulked past the entrance to his lair, his feet seemed to take him in an entirely different direction. Something inside of him needed to visit Christine's room. He worked his way through the dark, hidden passages of the Opera until he was once again facing the familiar mirror which worked as a gateway into Christine's room.
He looked into the mirror which separated his world from that of Christine. A piece of glass he had often dreamed of breaking into a thousand pieces—a silly little hunk of silicon which kept him from his lovely Christine.
But why did he want to cross that final threshold into Christine's world. Why could he not simply content himself to remain as her silent and caring benefactor? Why did he so ardently desire to have her eyes gaze into his? Did he expect anything but fear and loathing from them as they took in his hideous form?
Still, there was a way he could reveal himself to her without the risk of incurring her repulsion. If his intentions were truly those of a father, then his presence would only inspire and encourage the blossoming diva. But in order to plan for this disclosure, he needed to be completely sure that his feelings for Christine were entirely plutonic.
In truth, Madame Giry's words had angered him because they had stirred latent fears within his subconscious, and now an all too familiar voice taunted him.
"Do you love her as a father? No, not really. Fool! Puppet to your bestial urges! Now you shall lose the only thing of value in your wretched existence."
It was his ultimate fear, revealing himself to his child and having her repelled by his abhorrent face. He had hoped to overcome his physical deformity by offering Christine the most pure emotions of his soul, granting her what he knew was her greatest wish, the love and protection of a father. But if he allowed his lust to taint his affection for Christine, then all hope of building a real friendship with her were lost. There would be no future for them, not as lovers, he chided internally.
Then it was settled, he thought resolutely, furrowing his brow over eyes that seemed to glow in the dimly lit tunnel.
He looked into Christine's room; it had not changed at all since her arrival at the Opera Populaire all those years ago. She was still meticulous and obsessively well organized. Her small vanity mirror was made out of a rough, grainy oak, bleached a pristine ivory color. Unlike most other Rococo style furniture, the dresser was not overly ornate; it was not gilded or rimmed with ivory as most of the furnishings within the opera house. But the piece still bore the seashell pattern of a truly delicate and masterful work of art. He remembered every stroke of the chisel, every swipe of the sandpaper that had gone into completing it. He recalled, with pride, the joyous expression on Christine's eleven-year-old face as Madame Giry had presented her with the piece as a gift from her mysterious patron and teacher.
The warm memory comforted Erik deeply, and he felt confident about being able to overcome his licentious desires and continue to see Christine as his adorable child. He had no choice, this was the only way he could remain by her side. After all, she had made it quite clear that she wanted an angel, not a deceitful, conniving demon.
He stirred from his musings when he saw Christine step through her door. She looked perfectly exhausted, and quickly discarded the headband she used to keep her long chocolate curls out of her eyes during ballet rehearsals. He took out a small, well-polished pocket-watch from inside his vest pocket, and was a bit surprised to see that it was already five thirty in the afternoon.
He knew Christine's daily routine by heart and, had it not been for the brief lapse in his internal clock, he would not have ventured to her mirror at this time. He knew she would be getting ready for her evening classes. The last thing he needed at the moment was to walk in while she was undressing. He would never forgive such a trespass on her privacy, he respected her too much for that. From the moment he had restored the passageway from her mirror to his lair, he had taken a personal vow never to abuse it.
The mirror was meant to allow him to speak with Christine, so that he may coach her voice. He couldn't very well show up at her door and offer to teach her in person. No, the mirror had the advantage of anonymity and, though intrusive, it was his only viable means of contacting her.
Christine was still fussing over her unruly curls when Erik turned to go back into his dark home. She topped suddenly, a reaction which caught Erik's eye immediately. She turned her head to face the mirror, Erik stood frozen by her piercing stare. For a moment, he could have sworn she had looked directly at him.
He dared not move for several minutes thereafter, helplessly lost inside her large brown eyes. He was like a deer in a meadow, listening intently for the snap of a twig, the rustling leaf that would signal the hunter's approach.
But why was he so worried? His logical side reasoned that it was impossible for Christine to have seen through the two way mirror. The glass was specifically crafted for that purpose; it had been the exact same material he had used in the secret passages of the Shah's Palace back in India. And yet, part of him actually relished the idea of her having felt his presence, even though she had clearly not seen him. He began to hope that theirs was an unspoken bond, a true connection which allowed one to sense the other's presence. He knew it was too wonderful and idea to be true, and so he pushed the thought out of his head as quickly as it had surfaced.
She let go of her half-finished braid, the defiant brown locks began to trickle down her back and over her shoulders. She did not seem to pay them much attention, however, instead taking a few wary steps toward the full length mirror.
Erik felt his heart begin to pound harshly within his chest. He noticed the lacy strap of her ballet outfit had broken; it hung carelessly over her corseted front. The sight of her bare shoulder caused an instant reaction from Erik's body. He rebuked himself internally for his weakness. He gritted his teeth and turned away from the mirror. Closing his eyes tightly he passed a trembling hand over the left side of his face. Later he placed it on the wall of the corridor, using it for balance, as it seemed even this faculty was beginning to fail him. He let out a barely audible groan as he stalked his way back toward the underground lake.
He reached the murky green waters, and searched the darkness for the familiar sight of the gondola which served as transportation to his lair. He spotted the boat and frowned slightly, the tide had pushed it further from the edge than he would have liked. He waded through the waist deep water, finding the coolness of the lake surprisingly refreshing. He would make it a point to take a second dip once he had arrived had at the lair.
Erik poled the boat through the glassy surface with surprising speed. He was thankful for the exercise, as this provided some outlet for the arousal Christine's bare shoulder had caused him. It was as if all his desire for Christine, awaked by that single stolen glance at her naked skin, was fueling his muscles, giving him near superhuman strength.
What he had not been ready to admit to himself was the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had felt truly fulfilled. His feelings for Christine stemmed not from mere animalistic hunger, but from a deeper, nobler, desire for love. He loved her and yet he could not bring himself to enjoy this affection. He feared that this emotion, like all other beautiful things, was beyond his reach.
His hand drifted towards his mask, his fingers tracing the line where his skin met the hard porcelain surface. The gondola finally hit dry land. He remained sitting at the edge of the prow. He buried his head in his hands; the tiny groan which had escaped his throat a few moments earlier as he had stood behind Christine's mirror now gained strength. It turned into an uncontrollable sob. He slammed his fist against the side of the boat, the unyielding wooden surface made a low, rumbling sound. It echoed throughout the cavernous opening which was his dark home.
Instantly, a rush of pain flooded his senses, and he was glad for the physical agony. It was a welcome respite from the pain of losing Christine.
"Come see the Devil's Child," he whispered, gasping for breath.
Then, after his lungs had filled with the damp, cold air of the haunted cellar, his whisper turned into a guilt-ridden scream.
"I am the Devil's Child!"
Me: So…whatcha think?
Erik: (a bit hot under the collar) Um…Christine….has…er….definitely…um…changed.
Me: (sick of talking about Christine) Oh do shut up about that girl! Just for that, next chapter's about Raoul!
Erik: (angrily) Vengeful woman you are!
Me: Right you are!