X. Let the Dream begin

Slowly but steadily, spring came to the land. The thick blanket of snow melted away, leaving the streets wet and muddy for a week, and instead the first shots of green appeared on the bushes and trees as the days grew warmer.

And slowly but steadily, the damage done to the auditorium and stage was repaired. Before long, the managers announced to the cheering singers, chorus, ballet and stagehands and all the many other workers that the preparations for a new production were about to begin. Christine knew what it was going to be, and she was not surprised when she was offered the female lead, the role of Senta. Neither was she surprised that Carlotta seemed to have disappeared on a long holiday. The offence Créon had obviously caused her, as by now everybody knew, had just been too much for her, combined with the loss of her long-time partner, Piangi.

Soon the Opera House was back to normal again, apart from the auditorium still being repaired. As always, the backstage area bustled like a beehive, and in the orchestra pit, Maestro Reyer fought to keep his still unsteady and rather erratic charges under control. Chorus and ballet practised just as hard as usual – Madame Giry was never seen without her slender cane these days – while the singers learned their parts. The workshops behind the stage were busy putting together a pair of vast ships, among other things, while the legion of seamstresses and wigmakers worked hard to finish the costumes in time.

This time, something was different, though: The Phantom was always there, and not invisible any longer. One time he was on stage, another time watching from the auditorium, and occasionally he would appear in Box Five, quite openly, and supervise the progressing work from there. Christine's colleagues watched him with unease, and whenever he came on stage, ballet and chorus scattered screaming, but slowly they seemed to be getting used to his presence. And once he came to play his part, the busy bustling suddenly died down, and all left what they had been doing to stand entranced and listen to his angelic voice.

Even the policemen did. The Opera House was full of them, and some trailed after the Phantom all day. Christine begged him to keep his temper, which he did, though she could feel his constant anger, and although she tried, it was practically impossible to soothe him.

Except when he went through her part with her. It was the only time when he seemed content, and when his annoyance diminished or sometimes faded away completely. After some discussion, the chief of police, who happened to be a close acquaintance of Raoul's father, had agreed to leave them alone at least during her lessons, as long as her fiancé was with them. Grumbling, the Phantom had admitted Raoul. He would have preferred to be alone with her, of course, but he rather accepted Raoul than the police. And Christine was glad he did, because after what had happened earlier on, after his attempts to make her his alone, she still was reluctant to be on her own with him. Maybe she could get used to him again, especially since he was as gentle and kind as he had never been before – even though he had never been harsh with her – but she was not ready yet to be alone with him when they were singing together. Not yet.

She was glad for his tuition, though, because her part was not easy at all. At least Senta did not appear throughout the first act, which was left to her father, Captain Daland, and the Dutchman himself, but what she had to learn for the other two acts was rather extensive. They began with her aria, then came the great duet with the Dutchman, and the Phantom angrily muttered about the Dutchman being a baritone. Otherwise, he would have played the lead himself, no doubt, and he would surely have done well as the dark, mysterious stranger of whom many sailor legends spoke.

This way, he was Erik. At first Christine had found this coincidence amusing, that he should share his name with the young hunter from Wagner's opera. But then Madame Giry had told her that this indeed was where he had gotten the name from, and at the same time Christine realized that it was no laughing matter at all. Erik was Senta's fiancé, and yet she left him to offer the Dutchman's tormented soul redemption, and with her sacrifice she lifted the cruel curse laid upon him and allowed him to pass into Heaven, leaving Erik behind alone.

The Phantom never spoke about it, and Christine did not dare to mention it, but from time to time, whenever they worked on her two duets with the hunter, she could feel the small, hard knot of bitterness at the back of her head, the bitterness that was his.

Raoul saw it too, but he did not comment on it. Altogether, he kept very quiet, and so did the dog, which he had brought along and which had grown considerably since he had first taken it in. Raoul had decided to call his new pet Senta. Strangely, the Phantom never objected to the animal's presence; quite the contrary, he seemed to appreciate it. Soon Senta developed the habit of sitting at his feet with her head laid back and listening while he sang, and he often rested his hand on her head.

Of course, there was many a tiring interrogation with polite, yet rather persistent police officers to face, and Christine and Raoul spent hours answering all kinds of questions about the Phantom and the matter of the Lost Ones. To Christine's surprise, Raoul did not accuse the Phantom of murder or any other kind of crime, but testified instead that he must have acted under Créon's influence earlier on already, just as many witnesses could conform Créon had told them, because despite his sometimes rather rough nature he had never harmed him since he had thrown Créon out of his mind. Yet as she wanted to thank him for it, he waved it away, his expression suddenly pained, and asked her not to speak about it. Raoul's conscience was going through a serious conflict, that much she could easily recognize, but there was nothing she could do for him, apart from showing him love and affection, as she always did.

The Phantom was troubled by other things. He knew that he was forced to cooperate with the officers if he did not want to have to flee the city, if not the entire country, but all the same he hated it, and what he loathed most was to lay open his powers to them, and the way they stared at him like at a dangerous animal when he did so. At least the chief of police realized that soon enough, and from then on he mostly saw him alone, but the Phantom's mood was improved only very slightly by it. And in Christine's dreams the images of his own appeared, the cage of his nightmares. But he never spoke about it, and she did not dare to bring up the topic.

After one of these private interrogations, he returned to the Opera House in a towering temper. They all met in Madame Giry's little apartment, he and Christine and Meg and Raoul, as well as Meg's mother, and after some urging he at last told them that he had spent the last three hours being examined very thoroughly by one of the police's own physicians. "They finished examining all the bodies now," he said, "and do you have any idea what they found? Lionel's fangs were poisonous, and Ferox had some kind of additional joint in his arm or something, I'm not quite sure. All the city's scientists are in an uproar," he added grimly, "and they were only too eager to get one of those sensations still alive."

Immediately the image of the cage returned to Christine, and even if that examination had not been unfriendly, she understood his anger, his pain.

"What did they say about Créon's eye?" Raoul inquired eagerly.

The Phantom's lips thinned to a sharp line. "They say it must have been blind," he answered harshly, then turned away and walked over to the window, where he remained for some time.

And Christine knew how much he wished it truly had been so.

Late in the same evening, when Christine was about to leave the Opera House at last, ready to take the coach her fiancé had already had prepared, and when she passed the backstage area, she suddenly heard the gentle, haunting sound of his voice, and she stopped to listen.

"Dich frage ich, gepries'ner Engel Gottes,
Der meines Heils Bedingung mir gewann:
War ich Unsel'ger Spielwerk deines Spottes,
Als die Erlösung du mir zeigtest an?
Vergeb'ne Hoffnung! Furchtbar eitler Wahn!
Um ew'ge Treu' auf Erden – ist's getan!
"

Shivering involuntarily, Christine realized what he was singing there: It was part of the Flying Dutchman's aria from the first act, from his lonely monologue of black despair. And as she listened to his voice, she felt that her colleague who played the part, however talented he might be, never yet had managed to capture so much pain and bitterness in those lines.

Was this the reason why he had wanted this particular opera performed, she wondered, because he saw himself in the character of the phantom seaman, cursed for all of eternity unless he would find a woman ready to remain faithful to him until death?

He should have played the part himself, and all the audience would have understood the grief and despair of the character, as well as perhaps his own. But he could not. The part was written for low baritone, and he was a tenor.

What irony of a cruel fate that he had been given the heroes' and lovers' voice!

"Nur eine Hoffnung soll mir bleiben,
Nur eine unerschüttert steh'n:
So lang der Erde Keime treiben,
So muss sie doch zugrunde geh'n.
Tag des Gerichtes! Jüngster Tag!
Wann brichst du an in meine Nacht?
Wann dröhnt er, der Vernichtungsschlag,
Mit dem die Welt zusammenkracht?
Wann alle Toten aufersteh'n,
Dann werde ich im Nichts vergeh'n.
Ihr Welten, endet euren Lauf!
Ew'ge Vernichtung, nimm mich auf!
"

Christine stood transfixed as he fell silent, waiting for him to come towards her, for surely he could sense her, sense that she was near, but she felt his presence diminish and fade as he walked away towards his dark, lonely cellars, leaving her with a feeling of emptiness.

The next day found him jolly and playful again, fooling around with Meg after rehearsals, but still Christine could sense a shadow over him, a small seed of darkness lingering, ready to grow when it was fed once more.

He had not believed Créon, but did he believe Aeternus? She could not tell, and after last night, she did not dare to ask.

There was so much between them left unspoken.

As the time of the Opera Populaire's reopening approached, the Phantom grew tense and restless more and more, as did the conductor, and once the fury of both of them was directed at Leclair, who was obviously playing wrong notes constantly. Luckily there were officers in the auditorium, or else the Phantom might well have gotten rid of his tension, a coiled-up spring at the back of Christine's head, by ripping the lazy violinist to shreds. This way, he only snarled at him. And at least Leclair possessed the politeness to be embarrassed at his own lack of working morale.

Christine was glad that Raoul's parents apparently had decided to visit relatives in La Rochelle, for confronting them right now, so short before the performance, would only have made her nervousness increase to unbearable heights. This way, the idea of having to introduce them to the concept of having her as a daughter-in-law was nothing but a distant feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach, easily swallowed by other worries, especially the one about making mistakes on the opening night.

The week before the great premiere, she almost wished she were back with her friends from the ballet, who were merrily swirling across the stage dressed as sailors and village girls, laughing and filled with happy excitement about the coming performance.

And then at last the Phantom's costume was finished. He was the last to get it, since the costume department had not been pleased at all to hear that they would need to equip him as well, unlike Carlotta and Piangi and other major cast members, who always brought their own, and most of the poor young girls working for the department had been too scared to come even close to the Phantom, but finally it was there too, and he could try it on, with half the chorus and ballet waiting nearby, cautious yet curious. And as he came strutting out all in green, in close-fitting coat and breeches and with a green cap with a red feather in it perched lopsided atop his head, dagger and quiver on his belt and with his bow over his shoulder, and only his white mask seeming a little out of place, there came some excited little giggles from the assembled girls, and for the first time in a while, Christine saw his little smirk again.

Meg said he looked dashing and gave him a delighted hug. Raoul said he looked like Robin Hood and nudged him in the ribs. Christine said nothing at all, but merely smiled at him. Yes, this could well be her fiancé, her childhood sweetheart. Somehow he reminded her very much of Raoul suddenly.

Senta the dog said nothing either, but she decided to accompany him onto the stage, and she refused to be removed from it again. Since she was surprisingly well-behaved, Raoul found that they might well let her. After all, a hunter needed a dog. But Christine had already agreed long before he had, because she was sure the Phantom had tampered with the dog's mind a little to make her follow him so quietly and obediently and play her part so well, and she saw nothing wrong with it. As the Phantom made his first appearance in the second act, the chorus and ballet girls still scattered and could not quite be persuaded to remain at their places, but when he came charging in with the dog, which raced straight towards Christine and greeted her with much prancing and wagging, but luckily – and certainly due to the Phantom's manipulative skills – no barking, the scattering even seemed realistic. And after all, the audience had always liked to see animals on stage.

And then the evening of the performance was there. Foyer and auditorium gleamed anew, and excitement flooded the corridors and backstage passages as everybody waited for the curtain to go up and the opera to begin. Xavier was even noisier than usual, and Leclair turned up to inform the Phantom that he had practised all afternoon. And then Meg came racing towards where they stood in a small group, panting and with her face flushed. "It's a full house!" she gasped between gulping down large mouthfuls of air. "A full house!"

"Well, seems all the recent rumours have made the people curious once again," Raoul stated, tugging at his cravat. With the Phantom's permission, he was going to sit in Box Five again tonight.

"The emperor is there!" Meg continued, bouncing up and down with delight like she had not done for quite a long time now. "And the empress! And a huge lot of fancy-looking nobility!"

"Now, now, don't get overexcited." Madame Giry had joined them, poking her daughter gently with her slender cane. "Everybody, take your places. Yes, vicomte, that includes you. Leclair, off to the pit, and mind what you're playing tonight, or else you'll have your ears boxed. Xavier, one more squeal and I'll have you wear a skirt. You're so pale, Christine, dear, wouldn't you like a glass of water? Oh, and somebody calm down that dog!"

As everybody hustled towards where they were supposed to be, she poked the Phantom in the chest and gave him a stern look. "And you, don't you even think of trying anything funny, with everybody watching, do you hear me?" But then her gaze softened, and suddenly she pulled him into a tight hug, heedless of half the ensemble watching. "I'm so proud of you, Erik," she whispered.