The Hiding Places

To my readers: I have been neglectful! But please know that I have been working steadily on the story in my absence, working the story out so that I now know exactly where we are headed. I have a good three or four chapters finished so look for updates in the next few days. I will keep working and hope never to abandon everyone again – unless life interrupts again (boo!).

As always, tell me what you think so that I know if you're still along for the ride – or if you'd like us to head in a different direction.

EDIT I've changed Erik's abode in Bilbao to Madrid for the sake of the story.

Erik would only leave his home under the cover of night. It had been years since the Opera Populaire had burned to the ground and Christine had gone. But he still crept within his new city as if nothing had changed. Things had, of course; whereas, before, he had only left his underground dwelling to fetch supplies or follow Christine home (to make sure she arrived safely, he told himself) – now was different. He went out to covet.

As with before, it was his custom to, when discovering a new place, to find the exits, hidden crannies and escape routes, places to spy. He still went out in his finery, dressed immaculately and always in dark colours with the exception of his gleaming white mask. He could have had one fashioned of black leather, not unlike the mask he had worn for Don Juan Triumphant. The thought of replicating that night, however, filled him with anger and an undercurrent of sadness. So he went out, bedecked in a conspicuous white mask, and walked the streets when the sun set. The beauty of Madrid was that it was a city made for night. Very often, it was status quo for restaurants to open late and stay open until the first rays of dawn fell upon the city. He frequented a few places: lively restaurants with musical acts; the Teatro Real; the library; and the Parque del Retiro.

The expanse of land with the false lakes of the park, Estanque del Retiro was often his favourite spot as he could watch lovers taking gondolas out into the waters, looking black and endless in the incandescent moonlight. There, he was able to watch, listen to the swish of the water and the echoing voices that bounced off the diamond sky, hum to himself, if he wanted. Shielded by the rowed trees that surrounded the Estanque, he was rarely disturbed, and only then by a squawking gull. When much of the park was deserted, he would sometimes climb the watchful equestrian statue of King Alfonso XII, able to overlook the vast beauty of everything that lie before him. But he was never alone. There was always someone to watch, and Erik was nothing if not observant.

He was never harmful. He gained an interest in the beautiful, often choosing young, long-haired brunettes. He was aware of his fixation with Christine, after all these years, but he did not see his exploits at night as resembling her. At least, not as much as he could deny, but there was no one around to question him. So he went on, tailing the young Spanish women at a distance, following them to their homes and watching them through windows. He just wanted to see them, watch them in a natural state, unaware of anyone's presence. That, he reasoned, was when they were their most beautiful. Not unlike Christine who, on stage, became effervescent and fearless, as though no on was watching her at all.

He grew bored of the women quickly, however. He would follow one home, perhaps visit them the next night or two, but then he was alone once more until someone else struck his fancy. Despite the peace it gave him to watch these women and imagine what it would be like to be with one, he never gained any thrill from it. That is, it was not a sexual or violent urge. He simply watched them, stored them in his memory for a time when he could dream. Often, he gained inspiration and would pound away on his piano for hours, disregarding morning and the pleas from his servants to please eat something, senor.

He very rarely thought of the gypsy. The source of his torment and sexual humiliation was not something Erik was prepared to handle – or even understand. He felt it best to disregard the whole ordeal as nothing more than a foggy nightmare: disturbing, but its details were too vague to recall properly. He feared he could not keep it under control for long. So he played, irrationally long and arduously, obfuscating the details of his abuse into oblivion. Or so he hoped.

Something about the dark tonight was comforting, especially with the inevitable conversation that was to follow. It is so quiet, he thought. Is she asleep? Should I be sleeping? Do we speak? Fuck. In truth, Erik had no idea how to conduct himself. What he had known of sex before Christine had been rough, often drew blood and no words were ever spoken after. He had simply been alone. But having her in his arms stirred in him the memories of watching those girls, unbeknownst to his presence, and the gypsy. He imagined the gypsy fucking them, one at a time, their screams ringing in his ears as he watched and did not help.

"Erik?"

"Yes?" Relief that she had spoken first.

"I just wondered … if you were awake."

Silence.

Christine looked around the room in the absolute dark, saw the outlines of various furniture and furnishings. "This place is beautiful. How did you choose it?"

"It was … secluded. But still a part of the city." They both realized that Christine did not know where she was. Hurriedly, Erik continued, "Madrid has an economy that is swelling. It is a thriving metropolis, like Paris." He scoffed inwardly at that comment, as if he too was a part of that 'thriving metropolis.' "The culture is different. More carefree. Madrid is beautiful in the summer."

"Oh." Pause. "You – you saved money from the Opera Populaire?"

"Yes. In part." Small talk, damn. Compose yourself. But he could not, felt himself swelling, surging down into the undertow of shallow conversation. He was not ready to face the big questions.

Both lay in silence, doubly aware of the closeness of their bodies. Christine errantly slid her thigh across his leg; Erik's left arm twitched. As Christine lay in his bed, he felt the familiar twinge to get up, get out and creep. Somehow, with the curtains drawn and eclipsing the glow of the moon, he was disembodied. The pixelated dots crackled as the dying cells in his eyes worked to adjust to the sudden dark. He relished his relative blindness, his senses now accompanied only by sound and touch. His chest rose and he was keenly aware of Christine's small hand lying limply on his flesh. He felt so far away. But there was her breath on his neck and if he flexed his thigh he could feel it miles away from where he was. When he spoke, the rumble in his chest was foreign to him. His voice sounded different somehow, like it was arriving from someplace way below. If not for her body pressed intimately against him – her left leg hooked around his thigh, her arm slung across his chest, her head resting gently on his shoulder, breath tickling the crook of his neck – he would cease to exist. Simply voices in his head, breathing from some place far away, his body tired, relaxed, edging closer to death. He was far away; he could say anything. When the gypsy had been raping him, he had been far away then too – but not like this. He was right here with her, invested in what they had done with their bodies. He could say anything. So he did.

"Stay with me." He could not see her, could not judge what her reaction would be. The breath on his neck hitched a little, the pattern thrown off. He could feel the flutter of her eyelashes on his jaw. The woman beside him did not speak for a while.

Christine lay entangled with this man, a man she had bid adieu to a few days

before. It seemed so long ago now. They were different people then; they always were.

She could not deny what lie between them now – whatever it was. She had betrayed her husband in good conscience, not once, but twice. She had been his willing slave, found salvation in his cruel touch and pleading words. But when he crumbled – that's when she shone. She knew if she took him in her arms, whispered silly little words, that he would be alright. Christine had been strong all her life, with the exception of her marriage to Raoul. Oh, how wonderful it had been to be taken care of. So why was she here with a man that both terrified her and invoked such apathy?

"Stay with me." He said it again, and again the rhythmic breathing sputtered out.

"That … is a lot to ask." Hushed tones now; pillow talk had no place for vibrant conversation. Each word could be drawn out, slurred, or fade out into obscurity, the emphasis of each syllable impossible to miss in this silent dark.

"No. No, I ask very little." He felt her pull back and could no longer feel that warm breath on his neck. He held her a little tighter, faced her a little more.

"How can you say that?" In the dark, her eyes looked almost black.

"I don't know."

"Right, you don't know what you mean, so how can you ask anything of me?"

"I just know what is here, inside me. What I feel for you. I need you."

"I … But how do you know you need me?"

"Can you know something you've never felt?"

"No, no you can't." Pause. "But I suppose if it is a feeling that is foreign, you are aware that you are feeling it and therefore it must be real. But you must name it."

"I feel I have. I have never felt this thing that I have never felt. Needing someone. I've wanted, and taken but I've never …"

"Oh." Her simple exhalation cut short his train of thought. It was inexplicable, and suddenly she knew. Pictured him in the night of his labyrinthine dwelling, in the dark alone. Always alone.

"It is something we have in common," she said, far away now, eyes glazed over in thought.

"What is that?"

"Being alone. Having our needs become secondary. Then only wants exist – I only wanted my father back, or to know my mother. I wanted things so passionately, selfishly."

"And now?"

"And now …" she trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. This was new territory for her, lying in the arms of a stranger she had known her whole life. But it wasn't strange; it felt almost natural.

"I know I like this. This thing we have made; our pretend."

The head came closer, nestled in his shoulder and the comforting breathing returned. He listened.

"Do you ask forever?"

"Yes."

"Then I must think about it."

He said nothing, took her hand in his own. He picked it up, drawing her closer to his face as he studied their hands entwined. He marvelled at how small her hand was, but yet it fit into his perfectly. Gently, he pressed her fingers to his mouth and kissed her reverently. The breath was sucked in, and broke out in a quiet sob. He turned to her, saw the tears streaming silently down her face. Sure that he had offended her, he pulled away.

"I love you," he said to the pixelated dots dancing before his eyes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.

"Please." She grabbed for his hand and held it tight.

He took her tears for disgust, relinquished her hand. Turning away, he said, "You would rather be in Paris." With Raoul. "I know I am unworthy –"

Consumed in her guilt, Christine could not speak, only cry quietly into his shoulder. "No, no, no," she whispered over and over between sobs. No to what, she wondered. But suddenly she was angry. How dare he make her feel bad about returning to her husband after taking her against her will!

"I am his wife," she choked out. "I did not ask to leave him."

She expected anger. Tears, maybe. Erik slumped under her, grew quiet. Christine strained to hear even his breath and, irrationally, feared that perhaps she had hurt him so much that he had ceased breathing.

"What I mean," she sputtered, "Is that you took me – away. And I ... I didn't plan it. It is not that I do not want to see you. Erik, if you only knew … " Caught herself, regained her composure. "You must know that what you do – the things, the way you go about things – they are not right. Some part of you must acknowledge that."

He stared back at her, his face a mask as much as the porcelain that lay on the floor.

You genuinely do not know? "You kidnapped me. Took me away! You drugged, me, Erik."

"I would never hurt you."

Yes, but you would hurt others. Instead, she just murmured, "I know, I know." She stroked his face, the barren, mottled flesh. Felt him flinch ever so slightly, then relax into her touch. He made a sound like purring, ever so briefly, that brought a smile to her face. She caught herself melting away and was once again amazed by his power over her. His power of forgetfulness, of proper conduct.

"But you took me away."

"I know."

"Against my will."

"I know."

Suddenly, Erik was filled with anger. He got up suddenly and walked to the window, staring out at the perfect night sky. Christine watched his naked form become tight with tension. She took in his hard, broad back and long legs, trim but not reedy, muscular but not buff. There was reason to stare. Christine blushed, despite her concern for his change of heart. She gathered the sheets around her, preparing to join him at the window but found herself immobile. She twitched slightly, her stomach coiling tightly and she found she was nervous, scared. Not for his reaction but because she feared she had offended him so, caused him to stop caring for her. Stop loving her …

It seemed like hours passed before he finally spoke.

"What was it about Raoul, Christine?" He began, his tone low, brittle – it frightened her. "And excuse my blunt character – I have no talent for acting." The intent of his words was not lost on her.

He could not stop himself now. The demons within him had reared their ugly heads and he found himself slipping quickly into madness. Abandon thought … it was much easier that way. He would hurt her, he knew, but he was past all that. This was what he knew. The words spilled forth like lava from a volcano, hot and acidic, likely to burn upon exposure.

"I will give you this and disregard the obvious – his stature, his money, his perfect face. Your Catholic prudence would not let appearance be the only judge of character – oh no, you would never shun the lepers.

"But what was it about him that made you turn away? You had everything any poor, mealy-mouthed wench scraping the ceiling of lower-class society could ever dream of." He continued in a slow, mocking sing-song. "Tell me, was it the tedious dinners with empty-headed nobility who gazed down their nose upon you just as they kissed your smooth hand? Was it the stares, the whisperings, the knowledge – theirs and yours – that you were just a Swedish rube, unspectacular if not for that small waist, that hair, that bountiful bosom?" His turned on her, eyes raked her without the prudence he spoke of. "And your voice – a shame. A bruise on the fair complexion of the de Chagny house. You could not even sing! What a goddamned waste.

"Did he not appreciate how you settled?" His eyes flared, his voice raised. "Yes, settled, Christine, you settled for a man who gave you everything you ever wanted. But you wanted all the wrong things.

"The chaste gatherings, the endless niceties and searingly boring politics, the congenial fucking …" He paused. "A slow-witted death. You welcomed it, no?"

Christine's eyes burned with unshed tears. Every word he spoke burned her, not because of his harsh tone or caustic manner. It was a truth she had long since hid. She had gotten good at it – the hiding – but he had refused to play with her. He had gone to seek her out. She took a deep breath, aware of the quiver in her chin and the shakiness of her hands.

Christine folding the sheet around her and rose with perceptible grace. She stood, eyes still glassy, as stone. "Very good, Monsieur. You are … perceptive. But tell me – why shouldn't I take what you have said and, in good conscience, walk out of that door?"

The change within Erik occurred almost instantly. He was suddenly acutely aware of his nudity. His face fell before he could hide it and he hoped she hadn't noticed, even with one side of him obscured in shadow. "Leave, then. But I doubt your guilt would carry your feet the distance it would take you to betray me. Or perhaps you have not changed at all."

She approached him, the silence between them widening like the wings of an eagle, a long-reaching shadow. "Ahh, but now you have betrayed yourself, Erik," she replied, carefully wiping the edges of her eyes for the tears that had collected there against her will. "I see through you this time."

Erik watched her, saw the pity immerse her eyes. Angrily, he stalked across the room, wanting to hurt her, wanting to choke the god-awful apathy from her very soul. "You think me a freak."

"No," she shook her head. "I think of you as someone to hold, to care for, to parent."

"Leave me then," he repeated, his head whirling. "My mother could do no better. Why should you break the tradition?" His face had twisted into an ugly smile, one that frightened Christine in its strange sincerity. She grasped his face then, forcing him to look at her, but he ripped her hands away and turned on his heel. Striding to the window, he braced himself against its ledge and stared sightlessly out. The moon was glowing beatifically.

"Why do you do this? Why do you continue to retreat from me?" Christine begged. When he did not answer, she spoke, the words tumbling forth, unbidden and graceless. "Purity. Uncomplicated, passionless purity. Do you understand? Do you know what that means? He was guidance, he was shelter, and peace."

"What was I?"

"You think yourself peaceful?"

"I think myself capable."

"But you were not."

"No. You needed that more – more than anything I could give?" He faced her again and she saw what had caused her pity before. His anger had shed, leaving him with the fog of vulnerability. But now … This was not a man, not a man. It was the way he had looked when she had left him in darkness, just the way she came: gazing at one another as if from chasms past, years asunder and adulthood a distant dream. She had to be the strong one.

"But what did you show me, Erik, but passion and rage and insanity – things I neither understand nor could brook the force of at all."

"Music," he tried, hopeful. Grimacing, he gained resolve and offered his hands as he said, "I gave you music."

"Maybe," she began softly, "Maybe you do not need to give me anything."

Erik furrowed his brow and dropped his hands. "What do you mean?"

She knew she wanted to touch him, but felt they were too far apart. She came close, was within a hairsbreadth of reaching out, feeling the warmth of his skin radiate against her own. But the gesture seemed meagre. Once she was close to him, she lost the brevity between thought and speech. It seemed eons before she could find the words, and her voice seemed only a lacklustre echo of what she truly meant. Why can't you say it?

Swallowing, she tried. "If I stay," she began slowly, "Would every day be like summertime?"

"I – I do not understand …?"

"We – you spent your life in night. And this –" she spread her arms, encircling the curtained room, "Is cheating yourself – and me. Can I give you summertime; a chance at something more?"

"Do you love me?"

"Do not ask me that."

"I must know."

"I want to – I want to try."

"At what?"

"Summertime."

"Hmmm." He gazed off. "Summertime. But what happens when it ends?"

"I leave," she said quietly.

"To him?"

She did not answer for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "I made a choice a long time ago. I made a promise not long after. I cannot disregard all."

"Yes." He held her gaze, determined resolve making his features hard. "But you are too young and foolish to know better."

Christine dropped her gaze quickly. Was it true? His words made her uncomfortable, as if she stood naked before a judge and jury. Before she could reply, he was kissing her, that look in his eyes again that she could not resist. She didn't even try.

They made love again once more. After, he faced her and their eyes met. Erik was now used to the dark and saw her perfectly. She pawed at him, clutching him closer to her until he understood she wanted him to hold her. So he did until her breathing slowed and that familiar breathing rhythm returned, soft patter on his flesh. It seemed the time ticked by slowly and sleep eluded him, taunting him. Gradually, she grew soft in his grip.

"Will you stay?" The look in his eyes swelled her heart. He was once again vulnerable and she felt the intrinsic need to care for him, make things better and lull him to sleep with a pretty song.

"If you need me, I cannot turn away."

She felt his chest begin to tremble and was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that he was crying. He sobbed soundlessly, and she met his eyes with her own, touched his face. Grasping the hand that held his mottled face, he choked out, "How can you stand it?"

Tears welled in her eyes and she recalled the chant of the mob. "Down with this murderer, he must be found." Raoul's voice echoed in her head: "Monster." The salt of his tears tasted wet and comforting to her lips as she kissed his face. How could this man be a monster?

"Shhhh," she cooed, alternating between stroking his face and kissing it, uncaring of the tears that glimmered on her own cheeks. "I'm here. I'm here."

It was not 'I love you,' but it was enough. He quieted and his crushing grip of her body loosened. If nothing else, she was a witness to his life and his torment. He began to say he was sorry for what he had said to her earlier, but she quieted him with another impossibly soft kiss. It was many hours before he finally surrendered to the dark and slept.