The Make Believe

It was funny. Whenever dramatic moments occurred in her life, she did not register the same way as in a play or book. It was not theatrical. She did not fall to the ground helplessly and she never cried at the right moments. It was surreal, yes, but she accepted it as surely as it were a normal occurrence. Shock had worn off and now she had silence and racing thoughts.

When would Raoul be home? Did she have time to intercept the police? Oh, but she couldn't, she wasn't dressed right. Her hair was a mess and her clothing, her wrinkled dress thrown carelessly over her nude body without the confines of a corset, would not do.

She laughed at her thoughts. How ridiculous to worry about one's appearance at a time like this.

A time like this, she thought.

The foolish grin slipped from her face and was replaced with despondency. Tears threatened her eyelids and she squeezed them tight. She never cried at the right times.

She went to her room, conscious of every step but floating on as if in a daze. At her doorway, she peered in. Her room was still the same but unfamiliar. She stood in front of the mirror.

Her eyes were pink, rimmed in red and strangely bright. Her tussled hair wound around her shoulders in wild, unkempt tresses. The dress fell off her shoulders and she could clearly see her breasts, the outline of her nipples causing her to color. Her skin was still rosy. She looked like she had just made love and then cried because it had been so beautiful.

Ashamed and caught with a sudden fervor, she ripped the dress from her body, leaving scratches on her pale skin where she had been too rough. The red lines were not alone. Her hips bore purpled bruises and her stomach had splotches where Erik had gripped her waist as he thrust into her. She was still damp; he had stained her thighs.

Blindly, she ran downstairs, cursing that piping was only confined to the first floor. Luckily, the fire was still lit and she began to boil water. Oh, God, this was taking so long. She had to bathe. She stared into the flickering flames, becoming obsessed with the hypnotic flames. She could not register the heat and wondered absently why she could not feel.

She leaned forward the flame. It looked colorless to her, almost black. She drew back her fingers quickly. I am burned, she thought with the same cool acceptance.

The water had begun to boil, but Christine was restless. She would have to haul the water upstairs by herself because Brigitte was –

Christine bit her fingernails. Brigitte was not here. She had been arrested, Erik had her arrested. Her shoulders slumped and she was immediately aware of her nudity. She sat on the couch and pulled a quilt around her shivering frame. Pressing a hand to her pounding temple, she sighed a shuddering sigh that reverberated in her chest.

Why had he done it? Erik was always sickeningly cryptic in his dementia and tonight was no different. He had called himself Hephaestus, the god of fire and patron of craftsmanship, and she, Aphrodite. Yes, he resembled the damaged god as well as his legendary temper. He had been tossed from Olympus to Lemnos where he built his palace under a volcano.

Christine recalled that Hephaestus had been rejected by Hera and imprisoned her in his underground palace, just as Erik had captured her. That had been his revenge then.

But she was not married to Erik as Aphrodite had been to Hephaestus. Aphrodite had cheated on Hephaestus multiple times and Hephaestus had wanted to catch her in the act. To catch her being unfaithful, he fashioned an extraordinary chain-link net, so fine and strong no one could escape from it. Then he surprised Aphrodite and Ares as they lay together in bed. He threw his magic net over them and hauled them before the Olympian gods and exhibited them as they were, naked and wrapped in each others arms.

Perhaps Erik had meant to take Christine and Raoul, but Christine did not think so. He had not wanted to play Hephaestus any longer. The thought of what he did intend frightened her because he had wanted to take just her. Christine sobbed into her hands. I had wanted to be taken away.

The sound of the water bubbling drew Christine from her misery and she wrapped the quilt around her tightly. She was dimly aware of carrying the heavy pot upstairs and dispensing it in the tub. She barely recognized the sting of hot water as she plunged her washcloth into the shallow depths, and sponged herself with the scalding water. She stood outside the tub and scrubbed herself furiously, willing away the last few hours from her body but she could not get clean.

She scrubbed soap onto the rag in rabid strokes, punishing her skin with hot dampness and bubbling lavender. She had begun to cry again and washed her face with the cloth over and over, feeling her skin light on fire and knowing she would be red.

When she had finished she was exhausted, but her eyes were dry and now her body was red. She pulled on a chemise and sat on the bed. What could she do? If she went now in the night, surely she would encounter Jacques. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost ten, the time when he started his rounds. A lone rich woman riding about town was an easy target for pick-pocketing or, worse, gossip.

But if she waited until tomorrow, she ran the risk of encountering Raoul. She would have to explain herself. She would have to tell him about Erik.

Would he know anyway? Would he take one look at her and know she had taken another to bed? Would he see the shame, the god awful betrayal that was in her eyes ?

She went to the dresser and pulled out a glass, poured brandy into it and took a deep swallow. She never drank outside of socials, and even then she would only sip precariously on wine or champagne. The brandy was Raoul's and he would take a pull from it when he was working by the desk. I only want to relax the body and mind, he had said.

She sputtered as the liquid burned her throat and settled deeply in her stomach. She could feel it warming her from the inside. Without hesitation, she took another swallow, this one deeper than the other. She only coughed once. By the third swallow, it had gone down much easier. To have something of his inside her filled her with some comfort.

As she kept drinking, she began to sway and was gripped with nausea. Unsteadily, she walked to the bed and collapsed, but still, her mind swirled.

It was not even the sex that disturbed her now. No, he had betrayed Raoul long before that. Every night she had visited him and in dreams she had held him, kissed him, made love to him. It was only now that she realized the gravity of what she had done. She could not rid Erik from her mind by refusing to speak of him. He was always there and always would be.

It was with cold calculation that she registered all this, almost as if she was hearing it from another. The man who had enamored her in adolescence could also steal her chains in adulthood. Would I always belong to him? Would I always want to?

Rolling over, she pressed her face into the pillow. She thought of her father then and wished for him to be there. Out loud, she whispered, "I've disappointed you, I've disappointed you." She repeated this over and over until her voice became rough and she felt she might cry once more.

Christine curled into a ball, resembling a newborn lamb sleeping by its mother's side. It began to grow dark and she fought against her weary lids. "Brigitte," she mumbled and tried to sit up. She had to get Brigitte now. The room began to spin and she fell back helplessly. Even in desperate times, Christine could never be counted on. She would never forgive herself for her selfish stupidity tonight. God forgive me, she thought as she was pulled under.

……………………………………………..

Erik exited the train many hours later and stepped into the streets of Paris. It was still dark but the lavender dawn was approaching. Erik quickened his pace slightly, glad that the train station was close to his destination.

Seeing it again, he thought he would be filled with anger, desperation, sadness, fondness – a strange combination of complicated emotions. But that was Erik; he was never simple.

The building was dilapidated, burnt, beyond repair. He felt a twinge of regret but it faded quickly as he remembered the reason for the Opera Populaire's demise. This place wreaked of her, of them. He would not stay long.

He entered at Rue Scribe and found everything relatively the same, if disordered and dusty. The winding caverns had been undisturbed in the four years of his absence and he found it relatively easy to find his way back. He boarded the gondola, surprised that the mob had not taken it with them. The familiarity of the bowels of the opera house chilled him and seeing his lair did not invoke the feeling of home he had anticipated. Unperturbed, Erik continued on. He was hard though and through again and nothing would disturb him from that.

Stepping out of the gondola, he looked around disinterestedly. The place had been ransacked. Everything lie in vicious dissemble. He strode forward to his organ and touched the keys gently. The sounds echoed around him loudly. He curled his fist and stepped back, staring at the instrument with – what? He did not know.

Turning to the right, he saw it. The mannequin he had created to look like Christine stared back at him blankly. He found that he had wandered over, was standing in front of it. He touched its hair softly. The doll only gazed at him with the same dead stare. She was everywhere. He gripped the mannequin's steely shoulders hard and tossed it back mercilessly. It clattered on the floor emptily. He could not stay here long.

He found his room relatively untouched with the exception of a few valuables he had kept. In his closet, he was relieved to see that the door to his safe had been undetected. Procuring a satchel, he touched the mechanism that released the door and stepped inside the secret room. He bent before the safe and twirled the lock until it clicked open. Inside, he counted the bills. He knew he had a few million francs inside.

Satisfied that it was still all there, he stuffed the wadded bills neatly into the satchel, returned to his bed and sat down. Exhaustion had gripped him hours before but he could not sleep yet. The next train would arrive in half an hour's time so he had to be efficient. He looked around the room for anything else he might need and found none.

Within fifteen minutes, Erik had garnered everything he needed from his former home including his coat, hat, and wig, all of which he put on hurriedly. He collected his music manuscripts, which had been blessedly spared, and put them tidily into his shiny, black leather suitcase along with clothes and an assortment of other necessities.

Whenever he paused in his activities, he felt her there. Everywhere, there was reminder of Christine.

He had paused at her bed, the black cherry wood dusty and red canvas rumpled. He recalled standing there once in the middle of the night, watching her. He drowned in remembrance of the night years ago.

She was sleeping fitfully, crying out at times, sighing joyfully at others. Her face in the candlelight was even more beautiful than he thought possible. For the thousandth time, he wished he could see her in the sunlight.

Suddenly, she awoke. Erik had not had time to retreat and stood stunned in the doorway, he sleepy eyes settling on his form and widening in surprise. She drew the blankets closer to her chest. "Oh," she said, the way one does when someone passes on a particularly scandalous piece of gossip.

Erik said nothing at first, so gripped was he by embarrassment and shock that he could not move, let alone speak. Coughing softly, he stumbled out, "I heard you crying out in your sleep and came to check that you were all right." Lies.

In her innocence, Christine believed him and she smiled gratefully. He felt even more despicable. "I am fine, thank you," she said quietly, as was her way upon waking. Erik knew this; he had seen her sleeping many times before.

Erik studied his feet wordlessly and Christine noticed his unease. He turned to leave and she called out, "I was dreaming of you."

Immediately, she regretted her words and felt her cheeks go pink. She was always saying things she should not say around him.

Erik stopped but did not turn to face her. It was his turn to say, "Oh."

"I, I – it's really silly," Christine stuttered, but she could not take it back now. She faced her hands in her lap, and shook her head. "I have just always had this dream as a little child, before – before you." She stopped, unsure of whether to go on. But then he was there, looming before her and she could not be silenced. Looking up at him in the dark, the candle playing against the smooth ivory of his mask and blazing green eyes that, even in the dark seemed to glow, she shuttered. His unmarked face was handsome in this light.

"My father often traveled Europe as a violinist, playing for this patron and that patron. I went with him everywhere, it was always our joke that our home was in hotels. In one place, he played for a prince in a great big Spanish palace. It was so beautiful, it moved me to tears."

She paused. "I was so young, but music still moved me." She chuckled a little. Erik felt his heart hammering.

"The dream is different than it once was. Now, I am there again but I have grown. And he's playing and I'm singing and he says, 'This is my daughter. Do not lose her.' And I am confused and suddenly, I am in a dark room and I cannot see him but he still plays. And I call out, 'Daddy I am here, they have lost me! They had lost me, I am here!' But he keeps playing and does not here me.

"But then you are there and you say, 'Spain waits for us.' And I laugh and you disappear and I disappear with you."

She smiled then, but it was a sad smile, the kind that softens Erik's eyes. She hugged her chest possessively. "I would like to go back there. I am still lost without him. Maybe then this waking nightmare would be laid to rest."

In these moments, he saw her duplicity and it always unraveled him. One moment, she was a child, only wishing for someone to hold her and tell her it would be all right. The next, she would say something so worldly and strong that he wanted to hold her as her child-self would like. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching out, holding her, kissing her, making love to her.

She looks up at him then with her wide brown eyes that have seen so much and so little. She is the child again as she asks, "Stay with me?" She touches his hand tentatively, and his ungloved palm sparks. "Just until I fall asleep."

Swallowing, he says "Yes" and sits on the edge of the bed.

Christine closes her eyes briefly, but then meets his gaze once again. It is only a second but it is enough. He sings quietly, a melody he wrote for her. Her breathing slows and a small smile curves her pink lips. He finishes and she is asleep. He rises slowly, not wanting to disturb her.

Timidly, he moves closer and reaches out a trembling hand. He grazes her lips with his fingers wonderingly. He had never known a woman's lips could be so soft. He touches his hand to his lips and exhales.

He went to bed that night but did not sleep. He thought of her lips and of making love to her.

Erik shook away his reverie and grasped his luggage firmly. He would think of her no more.

He boarded the gondola and moved through the murky, salacious waters with a deceptive silence belying his cargo. The slap of water on the small craft unsettled him inside, but he revealed naught.

He did not look back.

……………………………………………

Christine awoke to a loud banging on her door. Her head still ached and the room still whirled and she groaned, not understanding. It all rushed back within a few seconds and she gasped. Raoul!

The banging resumed and she scrambled out of the bed on unsteady legs. Whipping a dressing rob around her shaking frame, she stumbled downstairs, willing away the nausea that swept her. He braced herself with a few shuddering breaths and opened the door.

Christine's mouth fell open in shock.