Pars Duo

Raoul was exhausted from pacing for the last three quarters of an hour, but all fatigue was forgotten when Christine re-entered the hall. He so wanted to ask her what the doctor had said, he so wanted to know that she would recover soon from the Phantom's influence. If Christine believed Erik did not exist, then Erik would cease to exist. Raoul hoped that Christine would be able to give him up with the help of the psychiatrist, and perhaps some additional shock treatment, for she had been incapable of leaving the thought of Erik behind. The vicomte knew that this was cruel, that this was an underhanded trick worthy of the fiend himself, but Erik had not been playing by the conventional rules of Victorian courtship, and so neither would he. Christine's face was stone. Stone grey, stone cold, still as stone….

"Well," Raoul began, taking the hand of his troubled love, "Well." What else can I say? What else can I do?

The pair of young lovers returned to the Maison de Chagny and dined lightly on soup and wine. The long mahogany table which separated them seemed to explain the distance between their two minds: Raoul's was in the bedroom, Christine's was still in the office of Dr. Rubis. How thoroughly confused they all were! How frazzled and weary they were of the mysteries and twists! Raoul would have given everything down to his left hand to just live the end of his days with Christine, a simple life. Christine would have given everything down to her eyes to live alone by the sea. And Erik? Well, where was Erik?

Erik had removed himself from the charred remains of the Opera Populaire and now resided in a flat just above his office. Erik would have given his voice and his mind to bring Christine there, so she could sing and love him until the day they died together. Erik knew that was the way it must be in the end. Neither one of them could live without the other; even if that other were on the opposite side of the earth, their hearts could faintly beat, but death is a chasm unsurpassable even by time itself. Erik knew that if he had killed himself that day he left the Persian's room, Christine would have died with him and, though she may not have known it, her heart would have stopped beating just for him. Erik had given her a second chance.

Oh, how vile this furniture is. I should cry for shame had not Christine stolen all of my tears! He settled to change it at once, to use the greater part of his assets, money stolen from the owners of the very opera house he had destroyed, for the good of his new cage, his domain. True, it does not have the same allure of the cave, but at least it's dry. There was a slight dripping as rain crawled in through a thin crack in the ceiling. Well, mostly dry. Erik had not eaten in three days, but he was not hungry for sustenance. He was hungry for Christine's company, her smell, her voice, her soul… He had refrained from kissing her in the office, though how sorely he had desired to do so, his very heart whipping his insides with the insanity of lust, because by refraining he had put a hook on the line and was waiting to reel in his prey.

Christine awoke in the early morning to the sound of the sunlight sneaking beneath the window curtains. She was comfortably warm, though her throat felt heavy and strained. It was approaching summer in Paris, and she had again slept with her mouth open. Not good for a singer's voice, not good for any voice, really. She wrapped a cotton dressing gown, blooming with a rose and violet pattern, around her before gliding down the stairs for her morning cup of tea. Normally it would be considered most improper for a woman to live in her lover's house, but Christine's situation was a peculiar one. Mother dead since before she could remember, father gone for more than a decade, Christine had turned to the Opera House for shelter and guidance; but now her sanctuary had burned to the ground and all that was left there was a bad memory. Raoul had managed to disguise Christine's stay as a charity offered to a traumatized little girl, and with all that they had endured no one had the heart to gossip. Christine enjoyed the luxury, but she would have preferred to do things according to the etiquette books she had perused, but never actually bothered to read. At least, that was the petty excuse she raised to her husband to be when he offered her his house. Truth be told, she enjoyed being alone.

Raoul was already sitting at his end of the table. It is funny that the couple, who having just settled into the house after the death of Raoul's brother, had already tacitly decided which end of the table belonged to whom. Raoul's side was closer to the sideboard and the servant's bell, Christine's was directly in front of the fireplace. Both had a good view of the window which occupied the length of one wall. Raoul sometimes thought of rearranging the room so as to put Christine in front of the window, so that she would have nothing to look at except his face. Or the table. Christine was avoiding his eyes unintentionally, staring into the white linen tablecloth as she sipped her tea. Look at me. Look at me! He willed her eyes to meet his, but she only found his gaze for a second before staring again into her tea leaves. Goddammit! Look at me! Tell me what the doctor said, tell me what you're thinking about. Raoul ruffled his paper and turned the page, leaning away from his half eaten eggs and toast. She's thinking about him, isn't she. And there it was, a small article edging the far right side of the page with a thin headline: Opera Ghost Found Dead. Raoul looked up to see Christine's reaction but realized that she had not seen it yet. He skimmed it, catching on important words like 'hanged', 'alone', 'daroga', and 'no funeral'. He was relieved that at last it was over, that he would not have to carry on with the doctors for long. Christine would have to let go.

"Christine," he said, clearing his throat slightly, "Will you be ready to leave for your appointment at eleven o'clock. We can dine in town for lunch today."

"Yes." Not 'yes, dear', not 'yes, love', not even 'yes, Raoul'. Just 'yes'.

Raoul paused.

"And before we go, you might want to look at the paper. It may help you sort through the… ordeal. It appears you were right after all." He handed her the paper. She skimmed it and left the room quietly, her tea lukewarm and unfinished on the table.

She was ready at ten. A ribbon encouraged her hair to withdraw from her face and a grey silk frock was buttoned up to her neck. She sat on the edge of her bed, digesting the information which she had imbibed with her tea this morning. Dead. I saw him yesterday and now he's dead? Dead. Perhaps I imagined that Erik was there in that office. Could I have dreamed up all that? Could I really be that hopeless? Dead. Dead…

An hour of pouring over the news did not further the clarity of her situation, and even when she stepped out of the chaise in front of Dr. Verain's office, she was still numb with shock. Raoul kissed her on the cheek before continuing on to run some errands, to talk to the minister and to the florists. Christine entered.

"Is Dr. Rubis in today?" she asked, begging for the answer she wanted to hear.

"We haven't heard from him all morning, mademoiselle, but I'm sure he will be in soon." The boy looked her over before leading her into the office. The door clicked, but this time it was overpowered by the sound of light classical music flowing in through the phonograph. She took a step in and sat on one of the under-stuffed leather armchairs, collapsing into it with her tears and her anger and her sorrow.

"Don't cry." A whisper behind her. His whisper.

She sat up and whirled around. "Erik? Erik, you're alive? But why the article, why the lie? Oh Erik!" She ran to him and hugged him about the waist, pressing her hot wet face upon his jacket.

"I'm afraid, Christine, that I can not quarry the blame for that article. The Persian, upon hearing of my suffering, offered to exchange his life for mine. I tried to stop him but… he hanged himself in that cave last night. There was nothing I could do." Erik unlatched Christine and removed his jacket. "I must confess that I delayed my return to the office so I could best observe your reaction upon my entrance. Forgive me this cheap trick."

"I'll forgive you anything, Erik. Anything at all." She was still crying in front of him, wringing her hands in the absence of his embrace.

Anything?

He returned to the space behind his desk. "Christine, I want you to tell me about everything you've been doing since you left me two months ago. Just details."

"But haven't you been watching me? Don't you know?" She was taken aback by his sudden withdrawal from omniscience.

"I'm sorry, dearest angel, but I have been arranging for a new life. I work here now, listen to people's problems during the day. At night, I work for the very newspaper which published that bit of fiction this morning. I am now an art critic."

"You were always an art critic." Christine smiled. Was this perhaps the first time she had smiled at him in such a friendly way? All of her smiles had been saved for Raoul, or for the uncontrolled pleasures she received when struck by Erik's voice. Erik had never asked for her smiles, and now seeing her pearled teeth sent a warm shiver up his spine and he smiled back.

"So," he said, raising his eyes to hers again.

"I have not been singing. The Opera Majestique has not reviewed my application for a position as a ballerina. I must be too much trouble." She looked at him again to see his reaction to this statement, but there was only a nod to answer her. "So, Raoul and I have kept to ourselves, mostly. He doesn't like me leaving the house often. I think he's afraid I might… I may try to…"

"Find me?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, Christine, why did Raoul bring you here?"

"He said you didn't exist." She seemed to skitter behind the desk, leaving him with no place for escape. "That I was alone the night the opera house burned down, he said… Why would Raoul lie to me? He was there! Why--"

"Hush, angel. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Are you really Erik? How do I know that you are really alive, that I have not invented you to ease my pain and calm my screaming soul?"

Taking advantage of his proximity to her, Erik took the ringed hand of his angel and twirled her about so her back was again pressed against his chest. He leaned over and kissed her waiting lips, just as they had done in his dreams, in the Phantom's Opera. And then he moved and kissed her neck, whispering to her "How could you ever doubt?" She wanted all of the buttons on her dress to fall off, she wanted to be that much closer to him. She wanted him to sing to her, she wanted, she wanted, she wanted his world…

But he was teasing her again. He twirled her away from him and returned to his desk. "Christine, if I asked you to sing for me, would you?" She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. "Not now Christine. Our music is for the stars to hear. Can you come to this office tomorrow night, at ten o'clock?"

"Yes." She wasn't sure if this was true. She wanted to be there, but how would she escape Raoul's house arrest? Ten o'clock was awfully late to be visiting her father's grave, much too late to be out alone. She'd have to find an excuse…Meg. "Yes," she repeated.

"Then you must leave. Your fiancé will be waiting for you," he said, not rising from his place behind the desk.

"Won't you--" she asked as she reached the door. She turned to see his face, the face which he had hidden again under stage make-up. Was he perhaps just performing for her again? Was this another little opera inside his mind? In hers? "Won't you kiss me before I leave?"

"No Christine. Don't you think you've had enough kissing for one day?" he spun his chair away from her and she left.