Eight

Things calmed down.

Christine had long since cried herself out and was staring with sightless eyes at the tabletop when she heard a sound from the great room. Taking a deep breath, she stumbled to her feet and steadied herself for a moment on the back of the chair, composing herself.

Then she made her way to the main room.

Erik sat at the organ, his fingers poised once more. It had been some time since he left, and the tear-tracks that had traced their way down the visible portion of his face were fading out, rubbed into oblivion by his fingers. Christine spared a glance at the grate that still covered the entrance.

What did it matter now?

Her mind was made up, and she no longer belonged to the world on the surface.

All that was worth living for was seated at the organ, stretching his arms and smiling strangely to himself.

Erik stroked the organ's worn keys— he took comfort in the feel of them, in the hollows his fingers had worn in the ivory. This at least would never betray him—

He had ravaged the room when Christine left, and then the mob had finished the job he'd started. But the organ had remained mostly intact, somehow, by some miracle.

Until Nadir found him, curled in the hole like a rat, sweat-drenched and dirty, arms wrapped around himself as he slowly starved to death. He had emerged, washed himself, changed his clothes, put back on the facade of a well-groomed man that he had cultivated for so long— Nadir had left, satisfied of the return of Erik's sanity—

And then the long hour with the needle and thread and scissors, helped greatly by an unhealthy dose of morphine. He had giggled to himself as he stitched the mask on, his hands shaky, nearly poked himself in the eye with the needle— that would have been unlucky— he had enough wrong with him, he didn't need to be half blind as well.

And then to the organ while he waited for the blood to stop flowing and dry, the mask a new comfort on his face that could not be taken away, the pain so necessary and so beneficial that he reveled in it.

He stayed at the organ for two months. It was at the end of it that the great instrument started to lose its sound— it had lost its beautiful appearance long before— but then the sound went as well, and Erik became afraid—

Then Christine appeared and the sound returned.

Now, Erik smiled to himself. Nothing could go wrong while he played. Nothing was allowed to go wrong. In the world that his music created, he was all-powerful, he dictated and commanded and served, slaved, the music as his king.

His fingers itched to meet the keyboards. He held off a moment longer, to prove to himself the control that now seemed so vital—

He laid his fingers down.

Christine could not see anything that went on from where she stood just inside passage door. She could only see Erik's back, straight at first, then gradually growing more hunched— there was no sound in the great room. There was absolute silence.

Erik suddenly launched into a frenzy of movement, his arms flying about as he stabbed and pounded at the keys of the distraught organ—

There was still no sound.

Christine watched. She did not understand.

She didn't comprehend what Erik was doing—

He whirled on her angrily for the second time that day— this time his composure broke utterly and as he advanced, screaming, tears rolled unheeded down his face once more.

"You stole it— you stole it, give it back!"

Christine backed away nervously.

"What— Erik, I don't understand—"

"It was here! It was here before you came! Now you are here and it is gone! You stole it from me, give it back!"

"But Erik—"

He changed tone, suddenly wheedling, pleading— "Please, Christine, return it to me— I can't imagine what you think you are going to do with it—"

"Erik! Erik, I don't understand!"

She was frantic now, and he had slumped to his knees at her feet, crying helplessly like a small child, reaching his hands towards her in supplication.

"Give it back," he sobbed.

"I don't understand!" she screamed.

"My music, Christine— you stole my music— give it back!"

Then, she knew.

The organ had given up the ghost at last, and Erik was left barren and bereft. She cried for him as he crawled on the ground, weeping, tearing at his hair— this was the love of his life, then, his music— this held a place in his heart that she could never attain to—

She joined him on the ground, holding him in her arms; their tears ran together and she begged him to let it go.

They were both worn out with weeping, and covered in dust from the floor. Erik lay on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Christine's head lay on his chest, her arms about him— a position she never would have dared assume had she not known him to be half out of his mind with grief.

Erik's composure and a small measure of his sanity had returned to him. As he lay there, he felt Christine's hand begin stroking his neck, trying to get him to turn and look at her. He resisted. He firmed his muscles and tensed his body, letting her know by every way possible short of words that her presence, so close and near, was unwelcome.

The body can be made to lie

Christine, with uncharacteristic alacrity, took the hint.

She stood at once and brushed herself off, staring in ill-disguised disgust at the dust that clung to her.

"Erik, I don't like to bother you, but I would dearly like to have a bath."

Erik refused to look at her.

"The lake," he said, pointing languidly, "is over there."

She stared at him, stared at the lake, stared at him again.

"Erik, I cannot bathe in the lake!"

"Why not? I have bathed in the lake for a great number of years."

"Which," she said tightly, "is a goodly part of the reason why I shouldn't."

He laughed and stood up.

"Christine, what would you have me do? Ascend to the surface and steal a tub with gold-plated taps? Even if I did, the water would still have to come from the lake. You must content yourself with it, then, my girl. I promise you nothing will harm you."

She eyed him warily. This sudden lightness of mood was unusual for him— especially after the weeping insanity she had witnessed not half an hour before. She supposed that insane people had an excuse, however—

Erik sensed her watching him and turned a scowl on her. She relaxed visibly, and started towards the lake.

"I shall— I shall have to undress."

"Naturally, my dear. I should not dream of taking a bath otherwise."

"Would you be so kind as to give me some privacy?" she said icily.

"Absolutely." He took her by the shoulders and steered her towards the left half of the bay that was enclosed by the grate. "You bathe over here, and I shall bathe— over here." He left her standing there and walked to the other side, quite calmly removing his jacket and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

She stared at him, and as he kept going, averted her eyes suddenly. "Erik, you cannot be serious!"

"Never more so, dearest."

"Erik, but—"

Erik's mind was working very quickly. Half of it was screaming what are you doing? at him, and the other half was feeling almost— normal. Sane. They were, after all, both need of a bath— and something inside told him that when you wanted to seduce a woman, you created circumstances where seduction would come as a natural result. He didn't want Christine, and yet he would give anything to have her, and he thought if he presented her with the possibilities, she would, perhaps, take over— so quickly, he had gone from being all-powerful to almost a child, looking for guidance. But in his mind it all made sense— this was logical, this was sane. He was not insane.

But he worried, oh yes, he worried.

To lie with Christine, temporary pleasure, end result a child born dead, almost undoubtedly, a little corpse baby like him.

Best not to think about it. Best to let things take their course.

His sanity was yawing wildly, released by the loss of his music, his obsession. Now there was only one obsession left— and he was attempting to trap it, to pin it down, to hold it in front of him and gaze at it with wide eyes and consume it with his body—

Christine let out an exasperated sigh.

"I am sorry, Erik, I don't know the rules to the game you are playing. You are not allowed to be a perfect gentleman one minute and then— undressing in front of me the next. This whole situation is highly improper. I will wait in my room until you are done."

She moved off to her room, wanting so badly to stay near him—

What are you doing, Christine? Where are you going, leaving him behind?

I refuse to play his game, she thought darkly. This is not a silly infatuation, and it will not benefit from being treated as such.

You say you refuse to play his game, yet you were trying to play your own last night. Isn't it true that you object, not to the game itself, but the manner in which it is played out?

Love should be taken seriously.

He is quite serious.

On the contrary, I suspect him of being— I don't know what he is being! But certainly he is not treating me with the respect I deserve—

Respect, said her subconscious wearily. There you go about respect again. Well, when you decide what you want, let me know, will you?

That was just the problem. What she wanted was on the other side of the door at this moment, stepping into the water, the liquid sliding up his legs to his waist as he immersed himself—

There was a great crash from the other room.

Christine started, then ran for the door. She was shocked at the scene she emerged into.

Erik stood, bare to the waist, his hair hanging ragged around his flushed face, a chair gripped tightly in his hands. He was smashing the organ to pieces with it, crashing it, bringing it at long last to utter ruin.

He hit it once more and stopped as he noticed her standing there, her eyes wide, her hand at her heart. He stood and stared at her, embarrassment and shame climbing into his eyes as he dropped the chair.

"I only wanted," he said, like a small child. "I only wanted."

She stepped into the room. "What, Erik?"

"I only wanted you here with me, Christine," he mumbled, as his chest heaved with his exertion, and he tried to keep her from noticing that his torso lacked clothing.

Christine had observed this at once and could not take her eyes from him. He could not be that old, after all— his skin was firm about his frame, he was so thin, so painfully, perfectly, unbelievably thin—

Her heart caught in her throat and she flew to him.